“This is the man who threw the explosive,” Sicarius said.
“Is he the person you saw climbing outside the library window?” Tikaya asked. There was nothing white about the man’s clothing.
“No,” Sicarius said. “I chased that person onto the roof, but saw two other men, dragging guards into the bushes along the inside of the courtyard walls. I ran to capture them.”
Dak’s face flushed with anger or disappointment at this lapse. He was in charge of gathering intelligence, wasn’t he? Not running security. Still, he must take the failures of soldiers personally.
“This man was on the opposite side of the building,” Sicarius said. “I didn’t see him until after he had hurled the explosive and was running.”
“I should take him to a separate room for questioning,” Dak said, giving Tikaya and Mahliki a pointed looked.
Yes... no torturing people in front of the women. Tikaya trusted her pursed lips would express disapproval on all levels. But could she truly object to force being used on someone who had tried to kill her husband? And who had succeeded in blowing that young officer’s hand off? She massaged the back of her neck. What had made her think Turgonia would be a better—more peaceful and less violent—place if Rias took charge?
Time. This would take time. Entire cultures were not changed over night. She had promised him five years of love and support here. She could make it through.
“Agreed,” Rias said. “Take him to a room that hasn’t been damaged. I’ll follow shortly.” As soon as Dak had led the prisoner out, Rias took Sicarius aside. “I know you’re not under my employ, but would you go along and watch while Dak questions him? I don’t want to start this new nation off by torturing people, but that man doesn’t need to know about our new progressive policies, eh? Perhaps you could touch your knife from time to time and glare at him from the doorway and let your reputation do the rest.”
Sicarius glanced at Tikaya. Wondering if she was the one responsible for Rias’s un-Turgonian-like lenience? She lifted her chin and met his gaze.
“Menacingly,” Sicarius said.
“Pardon?” Rias asked.
“Glaring menacingly. That’s what Amaranthe calls it. She has similarly progressive policies.”
Rias gave him a tired half-smile. “Ah, yes, that will do.”
The exchange surprised Tikaya. It had almost been... a joke. She wouldn’t have believed the assassin possessed a sense of humor beneath all his somber black and those, yes, menacing glares.
Rias shooed away a few security men who had meandered into the room, their faces distressed as they regarded the hole in the wall, until he and Tikaya were alone, save for Mahliki digging gifts out from beneath a bookcase that had fallen over in the corner. Rias hugged Tikaya again, the gesture less about reassuring her and more about reassuring himself, she sensed. He would never admit to fear or uncertainty before his men, but with her, he had grown more open over the years. She doubted he feared for his own life, though he might regret passing before he had effected the changes he hoped for, but he must worry about having her and Mahliki here in the same building as he.
After a long moment, Rias stepped back, though he did not yet let go of her arms. “When you and those architects were judging the entries, you didn’t happen to notice if Sespian’s design had fewer windows, did you? In particular, I believe I would like an interior office at this point.”
“It actually seemed airy and open, though I did notice a few defensible additions, and there was a note about a new break-resistant glass being manufactured in the south end of the city.” Tikaya touched his soot-stained cheek, the day’s beard stubble rough against her fingers. “I also noticed that it had a dungeon. If nothing else, you could put your desk down there.”
“Sespian included a dungeon? I wouldn’t have expected that from him, though I suppose there’s a practical side beneath his idealism.”
“He called it the Holding and Questioning Station, but I’ve learned to decode those seemingly innocuous Turgonian terms.”
Rias squeezed her arms gently. “You were the cryptomancer.”
And what am I now? Tikaya thought bleakly. She kept the thought off her face and gave him the supportive smile he doubtlessly wanted.
Rias sighed and released her, heading for the door. Before leaving, he paused to say, “I gave the order a while ago to have the site for the new presidential building—someone will have to think up a name at some point—ready as soon as the contest winner was announced. I do believe I’ll order construction to start first thing tomorrow.”
“Already fantasizing about a dungeon office, Father?” Mahliki stood up, a dented box with leopard print wrapping paper in her hands.
“Something of that nature.” Rias pointed at the box. “Be careful opening that. I don’t think it’s more than a gift—or bribe—but after twenty years, I couldn’t claim to know the woman. I barely knew her when we were married.”
“Aren’t you, uhm...” Mahliki glanced at Tikaya.
“What?” Tikaya asked.
“Well, it sounded like they were still married, at least by Turgonian law.”
“What?” Tikaya repeated, her mouth dropping open.
Rias grimaced. “The attorney will get that straightened out soon enough. There’s nothing to worry about.” He waved, issued another, “Be careful,” and left them to their investigation.
Tikaya was still standing there, gaping at the door, when Mahliki set the box on the desk and started unwrapping it.
“How is he still married and how is it that I didn’t know about this?” Tikaya asked.
“Because you’ve been spending too much time poking around in dusty libraries and not enough time eavesdropping from behind people’s doors.” Mahliki dumped the black-and-white ribbon onto the floor where the trash bin would have been if it weren’t upended in a corner of the room. “Apparently things are a little murky because he was dead, as far as the empire was concerned, and now he’s not.”
Tikaya pulled a chair up to the desk, feeling the need to sit. “I hope there aren’t any obscure Turgonian laws about husbands being required to perform connubial acts at a wife’s behest.” She meant it as a joke, but it didn’t sound all that funny to her ear. As far as she knew, Turgonian law had been changed a couple hundred years ago to permit a man to have only one wife. What if some attorney decided Rias and Tikaya weren’t legitimately married in Turgonia? What if she were no longer recognized as his wife? Or was considered a mistress? The papers had already written articles on Tikaya, revealing that she had been the one who decrypted the secret imperial missives during the last major war. Yes, that was twenty years in the past, but she hadn’t felt as comfortable walking the streets alone since those articles came out. For all she knew, there were men like that awful Sergeant Ottotark from the expedition, men who had long memories and who would wish her ill for their past losses.
“Mother?”
Tikaya drew her focus back to the desk. “Yes, I’m ready.”
“I asked if you sensed anything. I seem to feel... I think there may be an artifact in here.” Mahliki had finished unwrapping the box, but hadn’t opened it yet. “Were you busy worrying about the first wife?”
“No, of course not. There’s nothing to worry about.”
Mahliki lifted her eyebrows.
“Though it would comfort me a little to hear that she’s bald, obese, wart-covered, and has a reputation for slaying puppies.”
Mahliki smirked. “Sorry, she’s pretty. For an old lady.”
Tikaya snorted. Anyone over thirty was “old” in her daughter’s eyes.
“I haven’t checked on puppies though. You can always hope. Did you want to see the note?” Mahliki held out a small card decorated with spots that matched the wrapping paper.
To my dearest Rias with love. I’ve missed you. ~Sauda
Tikaya couldn’t keep her lip from curling with displeasure.
“It makes me want to gag too,” Mahliki ann
ounced.
“Yes, well... Let’s see what she sent him. And to answer your earlier question...” Tikaya rested a hand on the top of the box. The faintest tingle of sensation ruffled the hairs on her arm. “I think you’re right. It’s nothing strong, but it might be Made.” Tikaya eyed the pile of gifts, wondering if there were other less-than-mundane items. “When Dak told me something might be affecting Rias, I should have checked in here first. Unfortunately, the door was locked when I came by this morning.” And she hadn’t wanted to come in when Rias had been working, for she would have had to admit to him that she was searching for a mind-altering artifact, thus implying something had been wrong with his mind of late...
“You wouldn’t think someone would be so obvious as to send a gift if he or she wanted to harm the president.” Mahliki held the box at arm’s length, turned the lid toward the destroyed window, and eased it open. Nothing happened.
“People here didn’t grow up around the Science,” Tikaya said, “so they’re not sensitive to being in its presence. This gift may appear innocent on the outside, yet have hidden power.”
“Innocent?” Mahliki prodded whatever lay inside the box with her finger. “How about odd?” When it didn’t zap her, she took it out and sat it on the table.
The six-inch-high jade figure crouched on four canine-like legs while two sets of insect-like arms were folded across a fat, round belly. Two vaguely lupine heads topped it off. The back of the statuette was flat, as if it had been designed to hang on a wall, though old runes were etched in the jade. Time had worn them down, and Tikaya would need to find good lighting and a magnifying glass to read them.
“Paperweight?” Mahliki rotated it. “Bookend?”
“A prayer statue, or maybe a luck statue,” Tikaya said. “From the Kitaven Empire—they were here long before the Turgonians and are responsible for that pyramid in the middle of the city. Although...” She rotated the statue a couple of times. “This is either a very early or very late version of the Magu, one of the gods. I haven’t seen it represented before with only two sets of arms.”
“Only two?”
“It usually has six. The parents of this god supposedly slept with animals, hoping to create offspring with the power and agility of the greatest predators in the kingdom.”
“The Kitaven—that was a few thousand years ago, wasn’t it? Did they have practitioners then?” Mahliki prodded the bulbous belly.
It didn’t glow or show any outward sign of being imbued with power, but Tikaya’s arm hairs hadn’t lain down yet. “I believe they had a few witchdoctors, but nothing sophisticated, nothing like we have today.”
“Something sophisticated enough to give Father headaches?” Mahliki toyed with the end of her braid. “Though I’m not feeling any mind-altering effects, are you? And we’re right next to it.”
“No, but maybe prolonged exposure is required,” Tikaya said. “Or maybe we just don’t know our minds are being effected right now. It was news to Rias.”
“True.”
“It could also be keyed to him,” Tikaya added.
Mahliki looked up. “You think it’s a plain old relic and that someone put a... taenuowa on it?” she asked, switching to Kyattese for the term. Turgonian was limited for discussing the Science.
“Well, it’s not plain. It’s quite old and quite valuable, but I don’t believe those ancient people knew how to create artifacts. They mostly specialized in controlling the elements.”
“So, maybe this Sauda had it sitting on a shelf and decided to find a shaman to give it some interesting new traits.”
“Or,” Tikaya said, “maybe someone approached her, knowing she used to be Rias’s wife and that she might be able to get this... gift past security and into his presence.”
“You think the wife is innocent then? And is being blackmailed? Or is someone’s dupe?”
“I’m not sure I’m ready to declare her innocent,” Tikaya said dryly. “But she may not be the mastermind behind this.”
“Too bad Agarik isn’t here. He could examine it more thoroughly. All I can tell is it does... something.”
“Me too.” Tikaya tapped on the figure’s bald head. “This will require old-fashioned investigating, using nothing but clues and logic to solve the mystery.”
“You sound excited at the prospect.”
“I have been looking for something to do around here.”
“Where will you start?”
“With the person who gave him the gift,” Tikaya said.
“Uh, don’t get yourself in trouble, Mother.”
“Of course not,” Tikaya said, though she was already debating the most likely place to research for Sauda’s address.
• • • • •
Sicarius stood beside the door, glaring at the prisoner, who knelt in the center of the bare basement room, his wrists handcuffed behind his back. Colonel Dak Starcrest leaned against a wall watching him, his arms folded across his chest. A sergeant walked the perimeter of the room, swords, daggers, and more handcuffs jangling on his utility belt. He slapped a baton against his palm and eyed the prisoner.
Sweat bathed the captive’s sooty face, and his labored breathing filled the room, rough and raspy. No one had struck him yet, nor had he received substantial injuries when throwing the explosive, but his eyes were bloodshot, his skin pale, and his black hair matted to his head from dampness.
“Nice outfit.” The colonel considered his fingernails. “A Nurian style, isn’t it? Are you a sympathizer?”
The prisoner’s rapid breathing suggested fear, but he didn’t answer.
“On someone’s payroll, perhaps?” Colonel Starcrest added. He sounded bored, as if he didn’t care whether the prisoner answered or not. “Or are you trying to fool us? Secret agents don’t usually bomb capital buildings while wearing their employer’s colors.”
It pleased Sicarius that President Starcrest had asked him to assist in this matter, but he felt he ought to be contributing more. He gave the prisoner his usual cold stare, but the man didn’t seem to notice. Sicarius wondered if the colonel would take a more physical approach to the questioning. Turgonian regulations approved the application of force.
“I will apply pressure on the prisoner if you wish it,” Sicarius said. The president may have specified glaring, but the glaring was proving ineffective. There were a number of ways to apply pain without permanently damaging a man.
The sergeant thumped his baton into his palm a few more times, standing a couple feet away from the prisoner’s ear as he did so. Perhaps he wished to perform the applying of pressure. Sicarius did not care either way, but in addition to finding out who was behind the assassination attempt, he wished to know if this man had something to do with the white-clad figure. It seemed unlikely that they would both be on the grounds at the same time without being connected in some manner.
Soft footsteps sounded in the basement corridor. Sicarius leaned out to see who approached. Amaranthe. He had left her and Sespian to detain the intruders in the bushes while he chased after the man who had thrown the explosives. He wondered if she would object to the application of force.
Gasps came from the center of the room. The prisoner pitched forward, his shoulders curling downward.
“I didn’t touch him yet,” the sergeant said.
“What’s going on?” Amaranthe murmured, stepping inside to join Sicarius. “This is the one who threw the bomb?”
“Yes,” Sicarius said. “He may be injured. Or...” He studied the man anew as a fresh thought came to him.
“Or?” the colonel asked.
The sweat... the labored breathing... Of course. “He may have been poisoned.”
“You captured him right after he threw the bomb, didn’t you?” the colonel asked.
“Approximately forty-two seconds passed between the time I heard the explosion and the time I raced around the building, spotted him, gave chase, and brought him down. It is possible that he was under orders to commit suicide i
f he failed or suspected he would be caught.”
The colonel cursed.
Sicarius did not react outwardly, though he wondered if the curses signified displeasure with his performance or displeasure with the situation as a whole. Though he had only met the colonel that day, his relation to President Starcrest elevated his stature in Sicarius’s eyes. He hoped to perform adequately for the man, especially since it might be reported.
“Should I get him some water?” Amaranthe was watching the prisoner with concern—odd how even criminals aroused that emotion in her. “Maybe we should lay him down, get him comfortable.”
“Lay him down?” the sergeant asked. “We were about to interrogate him.”
“That’ll be hard if he’s dead.” Amaranthe pointed at the captive’s face; it had grown noticeably redder, almost a purple, in the last minute or two. “Is there any chance of identifying the poison and finding an antidote?”
“A postmortem examination may reveal that information,” Sicarius said.
“Oh, good. An antidote will be really helpful then.” Amaranthe flung a hand toward him, or maybe everyone in the room, and said, “I’m going to find a doctor.”
She need not have bothered. The man died less than two minutes later.
The colonel sighed. “Search the body, Sergeant.”
Upon capturing the man, Sicarius had patted him down for weapons. He had removed a kit for making crude incendiary devices, but he hadn’t been thorough at the time. Perhaps further evidence would be revealed, including a link to the white-clad figure...
When Amaranthe returned with a doctor in a rumpled sleeping gown and slippers, the gray-haired man stared at the body the sergeant was poking and prodding. “Is that the patient you mentioned?” he asked Amaranthe.
“Yes,” she said. “I guess it won’t matter that I forgot the water.”
“I believe my services would have had to be rendered at an earlier stage.”
“A postmortem investigation is required,” Sicarius said. “To determine the type of poison employed. It may offer clues as to the origins and who he worked for.”
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