by Gayle Greeno
Khar wrinkled her brow, nose twitching, not yet ready to transmit to her, so Doyce continued aloud and alone in her thoughts. “And since when has it become wrong for your father, the owner of the business, to take a share of what is his? Or is he usurping more than what belongs to him?”
“Of course he is entitled to what is his.” Ivor’s silky voice insinuated itself into the conversation, his high-browed face bland and seemingly open. Where Hollis Timor had been rough around the edges but canny, his elder son radiated sleek assurance, his shrewdness part of a careful education, not simple instinct. “But does it seem reasonable that this once vital man, once the cleverest and wealthiest of merchants, should wish to bleed his business dry, deny it life and growth, let it wither into less than when he bought it so many years ago?” He wrung his hands, then stilled them, as if he’d calculated the number of hand-wringings needed for proper emphasis. “Surely a generous fixed allowance is justified, right and honorable for a man in his dotage, but with my brother and I to have the right to make all business and financial decisions needful to carry our company forward.”
“Khar, what are you Seeking?” Doyce mindspoke again. For no reason she could fathom, a recurring vision of fish, fish, fish all over, schools and shoals of them, large striped fish, glittering tiny minnows, fishes of all shapes and sizes and colors finned and flickered through her mind.
Khar licked her chops with a nervous pink tongue, yawned so hard her ears pinned themselves flat for a moment. “Fish,” she responded. “Fish, fish, fish. They’re blocking. Everyone concentrating on fish! That’s all I can read!”
“What about the old man?”
“He’s blocking, too, but not with fish. He’s learned a few mind-shattering tricks since the last time we saw him here.”
She leaned to draw the sword another few centimeters from its sheath, the meaning obvious. “Well, Hollis Timor, how are you? And what do you have to say about all this?” Nothing to do but bluff and hope that Khar would finally break through.
“Certainly my sons have been loyal to my interests in my old age,” he commented, clasping beringed fingers over his ample belly, thumbs tapping a tattoo while the emerald on his right thumb winked back at her cheekily. “More loyal and concerned than most would be in their place.”
She caught an enticing hint of something hidden within that statement and wished with desperate intensity that the ghatta would hurry and clear a mindpath. She could almost touch the fish, the water lapping across her face as they swam before her eyes, and she pressed thumb and index finger against her eyelids to halt the vision. Khar must feel as if she were drowning in fish!
“But surely a man is entitled to what he has earned, what he has honestly earned.” A self-deprecating ghost of a smile over his emphasis of the word “honestly.” “It is his, my, right to do with it as I choose, especially after all these years, especially after having made provisions for the sons of the first wife to let them learn and strive and grow rich.”
“Fish, fish, fish! Even the women think fish!” The ghatta practically wailed in frustration, tail lashing.
“Khar, who is the young woman with Hollis, his nurse?”
Halting in mid-lash, Khar’s eyes widened. “Oh, no. His new wife. I caught that the moment we walked into the chamber, didn’t you? It’s so obvious you don’t need mindspeech.”
“Thank you, no, I did not.” She gave an exasperated snort. “So kind of you to happen to mention it. Now what? We’ll be here all night if I have to keep questioning. I’m not a mind-reader, you know!”
“I know. But I am. They block well, must have practiced it for octants ... such concentration.” Khar’s expression showed a certain admiration. Few people had such an ability, and fewer could sustain it for long. “I can touch Eustace ... but he won’t like it.”
Doyce thought on it. “Well, make it light, a compulsion to do something or to speak, no direct converse, he’s too green for that. But I don’t know what good it will do; Darl would have known how to handle this sort of situation, but I’m not sure this one will. He’s so innocent.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve got it!”
Completely unaware, Eustace began toying with the medallion around his neck, seesawing it back and forth on its chain, twisting it, playing with it as he looked worriedly from one party to the other. Things didn’t seem to be happening the way they were supposed to, and a burgeoning insecurity convinced him he was somehow to blame. With no warning the clasp gave and the medallion spun from his shocked fingers, clattering to the floor. Its jangle and skitter across the highly buffed, pegged oaken planking drew everyone’s startled attention.
“Got it!” the ghatta beamed triumphantly. “So easy, so silly!”
“So tell me quickly—before we both inhale fish stink again!”
“The sons are lazy, do nothing for the business beyond keeping it running. They take their shares and salt them away, not even for their wives to spend. They never invest them back into the business or into a new venture.”
“Ivor, Tybor, how have you invested the money you’ve earned from the business?” She molded the information into a question, striving to rattle them.
Tybor waved his hand for attention, eager to have his say. “The money’s ours to do anything we please with, that’s what Mama always told us. And you never know when you’re going to have a bad year, so it’s wise to accumulate savings ...”
“Oh, shut up!” Ivor mouthed from the other side, a crimson wave rising up across his forehead and swamping his receding hairline.
“Tybor’s wife is coming in, I’ve caught her pattern!” Khar chortled, white paws flexing with excitement. “Oh, she’s hopping mad at Ivor now for always bullying his brother! And she hates Hollis’s new wife, she’s livid that the woman has twice as many new things as she does even with all the money that Tybor’s hoarded.”
“Sometimes everything you have doesn’t seem enough, does it, Tybor?”
He nodded, relieved that someone had finally grasped his point of view. The old man made a derisive honking sound into a napkin.
“Hollis, you haven’t introduced me to your new wife.” She bounced the questions back and forth so that no one could prepare.
The old man turned baby-pink; she hadn’t thought he had it in him. “This is Luchette, who has done me the honor of gracing my final years with her presence.” The young woman reached for Hollis’s hand and kissed it, the gesture natural, unfeigned; she loved the old man. A faint jealousy twinged at Doyce.
Hollis rolled from side to side to gain momentum and shoved himself higher against his pillows, holding out his arms in mute appeal. “I’ve tried, my dear, tried as you begged me to do in honor of my dead wife. But this is too much, they’ve gone too far. Read me, pretty ghatta, you’ve done it before. Are those others thinking of fish? Ha! Primitive measures, it figures. I could almost smell your brain waves frying fish all the way over here!” He caressed his wife’s spice-red hair. “Clever little girl, her second cousin was a Seeker, she taught me a trick or two. Didn’t think the others would be smart enough to even come up with fish.”
The Seeking went more easily after that, although Ivor still remained stubborn about dropping his shield. At last Khar stalked over to him and stared him square in the eyes.
“Intimidating a witness,” he blustered, but the shield gradually sank away.
“And so,” Doyce concluded somewhat later, “Do we have this correct now? You, Ivor, and you, Tybor, are genuinely concerned about the business, especially with your father’s new habit of withdrawing such large sums?” They nodded, faces long and sheepish. “And yet you have money of your own to invest to take the place of what’s been withdrawn, money to risk the same as your father did so many years ago, and perhaps the challenge to reap the same or even greater profits than he did?” They nodded again.
“And you, Hollis Timor, feel that you are entitled to this money to spend as you choose?”
“By the Lady, I mos
t certainly do! I earned it! For years I poured back every copper I made. Now there are things I want to do for Luchette, things I want us to enjoy together while I can. And a few old promises I was less than zealous about honoring. Our Hospice needs a new hall, things of that sort.” He winked at Khar and Doyce.
Eustace spoke a fraction out of turn. “Then do you, Ivor Timor and Tybor Timor, care to drop this suit against your father to have him declared incompetent? With no ill will from either side?”
“That is correct.” Ivor bowed stiffly, but Tybor rose, ignoring the looks of annoyance on his wife’s and brother’s faces, and crossed to his father’s side.
“Sorry, Papa. Didn’t mean to cause a fuss. Sorry, Luchette.” Clearly the final two words came harder, but he spoke them and meant them. His smile flashed, and despite his weak chin there was no question that the smile paralleled Hollis’s—like father, like son. “We’re just going to have to tighten our belts as you and Mama did for so many years and plow back some of the money we’ve taken out. Should you care to invest some, we’d be honored.”
“At what interest rate?” A sparkle of inquisitive avarice animated Hollis’s face.
“Case dismissed without prejudice on either side,” Eustace announced. His chain of office again hung securely around his neck, but he patted it with grave caution now and then as if afraid it possessed a life of its own. “But what was all this about fish?”
As the Timor entourage readied themselves to leave, with the combined efforts of Luchette, Ivor, and Tybor necessary to lever Hollis to his feet, Doyce started to sheathe her sword. By the Lady, what a vexing, petty case, and damnably near an embarrassing one! One that she’d cringe over when writing up the records at Headquarters. And not a thing to do with Oriel’s death. The sword guard slammed home against the sheath harder than necessary. Pettiness, greed, envy still continued while Oriel was dead. None of this could help, nothing on this circuit would prove a thing. She would fail. She dusted her knees as she rose, tried to calm herself.
“Thank you, Khar,” she ’spoke. “You’re a clever old ghatta. ”
“Not old, but hungry ... all those fish....” She licked her whiskers, then stopped, angled her head at Doyce. “And we’re not done yet, we’ve leagues to go, plenty of places to seek the answers, the truth....”
A clangorous scuffle erupted in the outer waiting room. A child’s voice rang out, piercing and high, “Is the Seeker still here? We gotta have the Seeker now!”
They entered in a tangle, childish arms and legs writhing and flailing, voices pitched sharp and echoing off the walls. Doyce attempted to count the number involved, but the bronze-rose robes, the color of a mourning dove’s breast, swirled, rustled with iridescence, and the heads shifted too quickly. Five, she thought, four blond and one dark, his dun shirt and faded blue trews in dull contrast to the scholars’ plumage. Eustace waded into their midst and somehow created order, or at least partial order from the chaos. Good for him. Khar’s carriage was tense, her eyes huge, fascinated by the whole thing and faintly jittery. Ghatti seldom chose the company of small, rumpusing children on purpose.
The smallest blonde, an elfin child of perhaps five whose bronzed robe boasted pale blue bands at neck and elbow, looked the Conciliator up and down. “Is that the Seeker?” she asked, jerking a pointed chin over her shoulder in Doyce’s direction. The three other blonds, a boy of perhaps seven, a girl of eight, and larger boy of about twelve kept tight hold on the fifth child, a wiry, thin, dark-thatched boy. Perhaps older than the others, she judged, but not as big as the larger blond boy. Dark circles ringed his eyes, and he glared around, unable to move. Robe ruckled up to his waist, the smaller blond boy had wrapped arms and legs around his chest and lower limbs, while his larger brother and sister pinioned his arms behind his back. The girl’s scholar gown bore an edging of teal blue, and her older brother’s of peacock blue. Two Matinels, one Prime, and one Tierce Scholar. Doyce chuckled at herself for forgetting that scholars were children first and students second. Fine, elevated thoughts never precluded rough and tumble activity.
“Yes, that’s the Seeker. And what is this all about? This isn’t a game for children,” Eustace reproved as he stroked the little girl’s flyaway hair into order.
“S’not a game! He killed my kitty!” The child verged on the edge of tears, tiny droplets poised atremble in the big blue eyes. “My kitty!”
Eustace rolled his eyes in mute apology at Doyce and Khar as he scooped up the sturdy little girl and perched her on his shoulder, out of mischiefs way. Sandaled feet swung against his chest, leaving a smear of dust on the new white shirt. Doyce walked toward the quartet, standing like statues locked in their less-than-loving embraces.
“Let him go. By the order of the Seeker, you shall not do harm.”
The dark-haired boy looked dubious about the pronouncement as did the smaller blond boy, reluctant to release his death grip from the other’s waist. She put a hand on his shoulder, squeezed once to emphasize her words. “Let him go. Now, please.” The blond dropped into a boneless heap on the floor, rolled vigorously to wrap his robe around him and sat up, clutching its lappets.
The dark-haired boy took his time, straightening his ripped and dirty shirt, concentrating on tucking it into his too-short trews. A delaying tactic, but it allowed him time to regain composure, so she said nothing. He raised his head finally, looked her square in the face without flinching, and Doyce winced at the dark plum of a bruise puffing his cheekbone. The rest of him didn’t look any better served, come to that. “And you are named?”
The first try produced nothing. He moved his lips but no sound emerged. The second attempt succeeded, forcefully. “Claes.” His arms and legs resembled withy poles, thin and supple. Despite the dirt and bruises, the flush of anger under his deep tan gave him an attractive look. The eyes shone with wariness, watching, waiting for escape, a handout, a kick, for love, or whatever came his way—he’d not be caught off-guard, no missed opportunities. The way he hooded his gray eyes as he surveyed everything around him brought her stepson Vesey’s face into abrupt mental focus. He, too, had had such a trick, watching and waiting to catch you out. How many times had she seen that look? The boy spoke again more calmly, “Claes,” and stuck out a grubby hand with four parallel scratches across the back, scabbed over now but still puffy and sore-looking. Cat scratches from some days ago, unless she missed her guess. She returned the solemn handshake.
“And you others are?”
The response came from the imperious little girl still perched on Eustace’s shoulder. The youngest she might be, but the ringleader of this group. She counted them off. “Tomas, Tellese, Toland, and I’m, I’m Tamar. And he killed my kitty!” The pointed finger never wavered from Claes.
“A serious charge against you, Claes.” Eustace lifted the little girl down, brushed at his shirtfront. “And do your mum and dad know what’s going on with you four?” he added in the direction of the towheads. “You’re for straight home after lessons, and you know it, not for hooliganing around whilst wearing your scholar’s robes.” The four shook their heads, examined their feet. Khar walked over and sniffed delicately at the youngest boy, Toland; he tensed but held his ground, bare toes wriggling. Doyce suspected his shoes were tucked in a discarded satchel somewhere.
“All right. Claes, over here on this side, if you please. You others, to this side. Khar, come back, and let’s get this sorted out.” Doyce briskly indicated positions and the children obeyed, the four sitting cross-legged, their uniform robes and blond, well-fed looks barricading the dark-haired boy kneeling on the opposite side, poised to spring away at the slightest provocation.
“Tamar, you tell us your side of the story. Just as plainly and as accurately as your Edifiers in Matinels ask you to recite. Be true, be honest, for the ghatta will test your words and thoughts and know if you make up stories. She will do the same with Claes. The truth shouldn’t make you frightened, should it?” She nodded reassurance in Claes’s
direction. “Now, Tamar, what happened?”
“I tol’ you! He killed my kitty!” The little girl’s face crinkled in dismay at the evidence of such forgetfulness on the part of a Seeker.
“That’s what you’ve said, Tamar, but why and how?”
“The cat is dead,” Khar whispered. “The darkhair’s mind told me that.”
“He didn’t have a kitty of his own. He doesn’t have anything of his own, not a mum, not a dad, not nothing. Can’t even go to Tierce like Tomas.” She confided to Doyce, excluding her brothers and sister. “I used to let him play with Ballen sometimes, but only sometimes ’cuz I felt sorry for him. I don’t now!”
“Claes, is it true that you used to play with Ballen?”
“When I had time, when she’d let me, when she wasn’t dressing him up in baby clothes.” The boy’s words came grudgingly. “But I didn’t have that much time, gotta keep busy at the cooper’s.”
“And then what, Tamar?” Doyce pitched her voice low and dreamy, lulling.
“Then, one day, one, no, two days ago, I couldn’t find Ballen when I came home from lectures. He didn’t come for his milk, he didn’t come when I called, he didn’t come a’tall.” A tiny finger sought her mouth to soothe her at the enormity of this betrayal. “He always comed before.”
“She didn’t treat him badly, other than the baby clothes. Never pulled his tail or beat him. She knew he didn’t like the baby clothes, but she’s the youngest, and there was no one else to play dress-up with.”
“Why do you think he didn’t come this time?”
“ ’Cause he killed him.” Aware at last that more than the repetition of the charge was required, she continued. “Tomas found his body, buried down by the trash slope behind the cooper’s, down where his rackety ol’ hut is.”
Tomas, the eldest, interjected, “ ’Cause that’s where he buries anything he’s got he thinks is worth something. Usually it ’tisn’t—we’ve checked.”
