The Turner Chronicles Box Set Edition

by Mark Eller

  Larns and Crowley looked worried and disgusted and weary all at the same time.

  "Great," Larns said. "We wanted a list of suspects, and you're not only going to give us the names of some of our most important industrialists, you're including most of the seated Liberal Party, too. Is there anything else you'd like to add? My day isn't quite bad enough."

  "There was a Mister Chatham at the meeting when the threats were made. He is Chairman of Sturm and Cory Pharmaceuticals. I got the impression he didn't fully agree with the assemblypeople. In fact, I thought his presence there was forced."

  "Was Chairman," Larns said.

  "Pardon?"

  "He was the Chairman of Sturm and Cory Pharmaceuticals. Mister Chatham was murdered eight days ago."

  "Oh." Amanda was young and not yet fully experienced in her specialty of business law, let alone in the convolutions of politics. She was, however, not stupid. She knew she was in way over her head. This was murder and arson with mass murder, and it all seemed to revolve around those who had dealings with Aaron Turner.

  "Yes," Crowley said. "Miss Bivins, I suggest you hire yourself some professional protection. I'd also like as complete a list as possible by tomorrow or the day after. Also, let us know when you next see Mister Turner. We're interested in where he might have been when his building burned."

  "Yes. I suppose you would be. As I said earlier, he's been gone for several weeks, maybe months, only I don't know where he went. Is there anything else?"

  "The second small body we found belonged to a male child," Larns said in a voice that was carefully opaque. "Do you think this fire might have some connection with the Turner Houses?"

  The question confused Amanda. "I don't see how. The houses are a simple charity, nothing more. Besides, Mister Turner has had minimal contact with them since shortly after their founding. His only present connection is that he sends them a contribution once a month. That's all." She shook her head. "Is there anything else you want to know?"

  "Not yet. We'll inform you if there is." Larns looked to her partner and then back to Amanda. Her gaze was suddenly more open and held a hint of compassion. "Hire yourself some protection. You need it."

  Crowley added. "Make that list as complete as you can and get it to us a soon as possible."

  "I will."

  They both rose from their seats.

  "One more thing," Crowley said. "During our little adventure Mistress Turner told her Mister that he should go get a gun. What exactly is a gun?"

  "You'll have to ask Mister Turner that," Amanda said. "I've never seen one so I'm not exactly sure."

  "I will if the answer seems important," Crowley answered.

  They left the office but did not close the door.

  Amanda shook her head. "Miss O'Malley, come in here please."

  Heidi stood in the doorway within moments.

  "You were listening."

  "Water glass to the door," Heidi admitted. "Worked pretty well when I spied on my sisters and their dates."

  "Well?"

  "I suppose this means you want me to do research, try to separate out the companies and people that might have it in for Mister Turner. I also suppose you're going to tell me that there's some danger in this."

  "There appears to be more than some danger," Amanda said.

  "I want a raise."

  "You have it."

  "I also want you to remember this when you start expanding. I want to move up in the firm."

  Amanda stared at her. "Miss O'Malley, you are already at the highest peak you can reach. You are secretary to the boss. How much higher can you go?"

  Heidi's smile was grim. "I can become a junior partner in the firm you're going to build. I can use the higher wage you're now paying me to take classes for a couple years, and then I can be a lawyer. I've already had more than half the classes I need."

  "That is possible," Amanda said thoughtfully. "If you can pull it off, I'll bring you in. I'll even pay for your classes if things ever get turned around. As for now, I'm close to desperate, and you are under-utilized so you might as well consider yourself a part-time research assistant, too."

  "Been waiting for you to ask." This time Heidi's smile was genuine. She pointed at the largest stack of unfinished work on Amanda's desk. "About the bottom two-thirds of that is finished. The work is in my files."

  "What!"

  Heidi shrugged. "Live by myself and there isn't much to do once I leave this place, so I decided to help out. The library came in handy, and any of your personal books you might be missing are probably sitting on my kitchen table."

  Amanda stared at the huge stack of papers she mostly did not have to deal with now. Several emotions ran through her, but the strongest was relief. She looked from the papers to Heidi O'Malley and then back at the papers.

  "Miss O'Malley," she said. "Your raise started last month. I'll give you the money as soon as I figure out where I can get it from."

  * * *

  "Miss! Hey, miss, help out an old Guardsman? A vet of the wars, I am."

  "Aw, shut yer yapper. Ya ain't never been close to a uniform cept when ya was behind bars."

  "Says who? HEY LADY!"

  Creee Creee

  "Sausage on a stick! Fresh hot sausage on a stick right here!"

  "HEY, LADY! Get back here, ya hag! I tell ya I'm a veteran! I lost my frigging legs protecting yer rights! Listen, bitch, I can find ya! I can fucking find ya! I will!"

  Stopping, Amanda's eyes narrowed, and she reversed course until she stood before the foul-mouthed man. He was propped up in a rattling homemade wheelchair that looked like a wooden box on wheels. His face showed signs of past hardness, but those traces were difficult to discern through the more recent signs of dissipation.

  "Show me your tags," Amanda demanded.

  "Sold them for a beer," the man said insolently, but he shifted in his chair, moving a full inch further from her. "Give me some money."

  "Your discharge papers?"

  "Sold them, too."

  Amanda studied him carefully. He stunk of stale beer and old sweat and older urine. A ripped and ragged green pant leg covered the remnants of his right leg. His empty left pant leg was sliced off short and tied into a knot.

  She looked around and saw that a N'Ark Guard stood no more than three hundred feet away. She called out.

  "Guard! Guard! Over here."

  The guard looked around, caught Amanda's wave, and strode over.

  "Look, lady, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be rude." The cripple put his hands on the wheels of his boxlike chair in preparation for leaving. Amanda raised her purse.

  "I have a two-pound brass rod in here. If you move an inch, I will hit you over the head with it."

  "Have a heart, will ya? I'm a cripple."

  "What seems to be the problem here?"

  The guard was an impressively big woman. The cut of her uniform added to the impression of her size, but even without the uniform she would have been larger than most.

  "This man directed profanity toward me. Not only did he cast it in my direction, but numerous children in the vicinity also heard it."

  The guard looked bored. "This ain't the backwaters, miss. We frown on vulgarity, but this is the city. It's hard to get away from it."

  "My name is Miss Amanda Bivins. I am licensed to practice law in this province so I know the laws. I am placing charges against this man, and I want you to arrest him."

  "Miss, he's a crippled veteran."

  "He is a fraud. The charges you can file are public profanity, criminal misrepresentation, pandering without a license. You may also charge him with impersonation. There are a great many crippled veterans in this city. I doubt any would want people to believe this man is among their number."

  The cripple laughed. "I'll admit I don't have a begging license, but I never cursed, and I'm a vet. I lost my legs because a savage stuck his spear right through the both of them. Ask any of these vendors. They know all about it."

 
The guard looked around.

  "Always thought he was a vet," the sausage seller said. He rubbed at the whisker stubble over his chin. "Don't know why though. Only had his word on the matter. As for vulgar language, he's always using it. I don't think he knows he's using it, though. We used to bring the matter up to him, and he could never remember saying a thing that was untoward."

  "Never believed a word he said," the woman shining shoes said. "Always told him so."

  The guard raised her hands in supplication to Amanda. "Listen, miss, the man served his country and lost by it. Don't you think--?"

  Amanda crouched, slid the fingers of both her hands beneath the front edge of the wheelchair, and jerked herself erect.

  "HEY!"

  The front of the wheelchair came up with her. The man in it shouted as his head reached a forty-five degree angle and continued arching backwards as the wheelchair fell in slow motion. The sausage seller reached for it as the guard grabbed Amanda. The seller missed. The chair back slammed into the brick walkway, and its occupant tumbled free.

  "Yes," Amanda said calmly, "I do think."

  The man now owned two legs and a flopping thing that was probably nothing more than rag-stuffed cloth that was attached to his pants. Only one of his legs was covered. The other was bare and pale. A large hole showed in the top of the wheelchair, the cavity where he had been hiding both of his supposedly missing appendages.

  "Not a cripple equals misrepresentation," Amanda said. "I believe his questionable veracity is now sufficient to justify an inquiry into his military service, and did any of you really believe that story of not being able to remember cursing?"

  "Said not," the shoe shiner replied. She looked over to the sausage seller. "Guess this proves which of us is less gullible. Always knew he was a fraud."

  "You damned bitch!" The panderer tried to rise, but the guard's carefully placed foot stopped him.

  "Looks like a good collar to me," the officer said. "Sorry, Miss Bivins. I shouldn't have doubted you."

  Amanda looked down at the angry man. "You shouldn't have pushed me," she told him. "When people push me, I always push back."

  * * *

  I always push back.

  She stopped at a cross street and waited for traffic to clear. The incident was less than thirty minutes behind her, but in some ways it seemed to have never happened. It should not have happened. She had shoved the wrong person. The man had been nothing more than a petty con. He should have been beneath her notice.

  I haven't been pushing back, she realized. I've been sitting in my office and waiting for their crap to land on me. I let myself become intimidated when I should have become angry.

  Isabella had not given Aaron citizenship, but he had been given all the rights of a citizen, and that was the government's mistake. Those rights left him with forces he could call on while it limited the possibility of legal moves against him.

  She had the original papers carefully stored in a Security Assured office safe located nowhere near anything she owned. The lawyer holding the papers did not know what he held and did not know they belonged to her. In other words, they were inviolate.

  The traffic cleared, allowing her to cross the street. By the time she reached the opposite walk, Amanda had decided to hire a few people, file her will, and then pursue a court order that just might make all hell break loose.

  She smiled humorlessly. Long odds, yes, and dangerous. The people against her might be political powers involved in murder, BUT SHE DID NOT CARE! By the Two Gods, they had pushed Amanda Bivins to the wall, and she was fucking well going to push back. That crippled man had been more right than he knew. She was a Bitch with a capital B, and the Bitch was about to strike because the only person allowed to threaten her client was herself.

  Chapter 20

  "Getting out of here in a few weeks," Beka said as she swung her legs over the edge of her bunk and planted her feet on the floor. Celine glanced at her before looking through the cell bars again, dreading the moment when the door would open, and she would be released to the sharks once more.

  "Might be tougher for you then," Beka said. "Don't know what sort you'll get for a roomy." She shook her head. "Don't know what they were thinking of, putting a wee thing like you in this place."

  "I won't be in here forever," Celine said quietly. "I'll find myself a way out. Somehow."

  Beka grunted noncommittally. She rose and stretched, raising her arms over her head and arching her back. Celine heard the woman's vertebrae pop from where she stood. The sound and the realization that Beka's back could have been hers made Celine slightly sick. If not for her Stone, she would be in much worse shape than Beka by now. She would be old and wrinkled and bent with age, crooked and aching, and slow.

  She smiled grimly. They pitied her, those ones who knew she possessed a Stone. They pitied her because she owned a childhood that seemed to go on forever. They thought her plight an unhappy one, something too horrible to contemplate. Some wanted to take her Stone away so she would age and grow old just like they did. Others wanted to remove her Stone because they were afraid she would use it to aid in her escape. Of the two groups, only the second had honest reasons. The others were driven by envy and spite.

  The fools. They couldn't hide their lies from her. She would use every wile and dirty trick her Talent provided when they told their lies to a judge. Nobody would take away her Stone without a fight.

  "Nothing for you to be afraid of until I'm gone," Beka said. "I'll protect you until then."

  "I'm not afraid," Celine snapped. She truly wasn't afraid, but she knew Beka wouldn't accept that. Beka would think her words nothing more than youthful braggadocio.

  "Of course, you aren't. Tell me, child, what are you going to do when I'm gone?" Beka's voice was only a little condescending.

  Celine released a small smile. "I'm going to sleep in the bottom bunk."

  Beka snorted. "Good luck. First person walks through that door after I leave will take it from you."

  "The hell they will."

  Beka shook her head sadly. "Fool."

  Chapter 21

  Aaron's pack held nothing he wanted to keep so he left it on the rushes that had been his bed. Patea would find it soon enough and would doubtless try to claim it as her own.

  "You are still not sure what you will do," Jerkak said. The old man was dressed in his priestly attire. By Isabellan standards, he was a scruffy sort of priest. By the standards of this land, he was magnificent.

  "I don't know," Aaron admitted. "All I can do is hope something comes to me. There must be some way to ease the blending of cultures without destroying either one. If there is, I'll find it." Hopefully.

  "If you do not," Jerkak warned, "there will be another war. This one will involve all the clans. It will not be a war of only a few nomads against your people. It will be nomads and villages. It will be bad for Clan and Isabellan alike."

  "I know," Aaron said. "I listened to Heralda. She said you people glory in war."

  Jerkak's smile was thin. "She is young. Only some of us glory in war, and only when we win. Still, we do not fear it, and we are very good at it, but we will lose. Isabella is too large for us to succeed against her, but we will fight."

  "That's a grim view," Aaron said. If war came again, it would be a total blood bath with no turning back. Gods, they--everybody--wanted the impossible from him.

  "We can be a grim people," Jerkak admitted. "I wish you well, Death. May the One God be with you."

  Jerkak left and Cathy took his place.

  "A heavy load," she said.

  "Too heavy," Aaron agreed. "I wish the shaman who claimed I was their savior were here. I'd like to throttle her."

  "I suppose you would." She looked thoughtful. "Mister Turner, Aaron, I'm leaving soon. There are Clan villages and towns where nobody has heard a word of Jut. I need to go there. I doubt we'll see each other again."

  "Cathy, I'm sorry. I'm--."

  "Don't say it," she demand
ed. "Don't even think it. I made my bed, and now I have to sleep in it. I had it all, Aaron. I had it all, and I threw it away because I was a silly girl who thought she knew enough, but I didn't know anything." She looked deep in his eyes. "No, that isn't true. In my ignorance, I did know something. I was wrong in thinking that I couldn't love you, but, Aaron, I could never have been your wife. I could have been your friend, your lover, your harlot, but not your wife. Being married to you would have ruined me."

  "But--." Aaron began.

  Her finger pressed against his lips, silencing him. "You shine, Aaron. You are tight and controlled, but you shine so bright I can hardly see you for the glare. I know who I am. I'm a good woman. I'm stronger than almost anyone I know--but I'm not strong enough to stand with you. You're so powerful and moral that the rest of us are diminished just by being nearby--only you don't see it. You don't see who you are."

  Removing her finger, she leaned forward. Her breath smelled of mint as her lips neared his mouth. Her hands tangled in his hair, pulled his head toward her as she pressed her body to his.

  Aaron hesitantly put his arms around her. He felt thrilled and scared and embarrassed because more than a hundred people looked on. Their kiss seemed to go on forever. Aaron's blood raced, his heart pounded, and his mind burned. He wanted to crush her, to hold her so tightly the contours of her body would permanently mold to his--but he did not. He could not forget that he was a married man, and Cathy had a husband of her own.

  She pulled away. "Oh, Aaron," she whispered, "you never did learn what to do with your hands." Her eyes were sad, moist as she stepped back and allowed Delmac and Heralda to take her place.

  Aaron closed his eyes, opened them again, and looked to his passengers. He gathered them in his thoughts, imaged his destination, and fired the unique section of his brain.

  Nothing.

  Frowning, he tried again.

  Again, nothing.

  He looked to Delmac, to Heralda. They watched him expectantly. He looked to Cathy.

  "You haven't left yet," she said pointedly.