by Alma Boykin
The next morning Tartai emerged to find a rather upset servant standing in the hall. The smaller male seemed confused, and Tartai asked, “Is there a problem?”
“Ah, my apologies my lord. I’m supposed to see to his Imperial Highness, but he refuses to allow anyone to enter his chamber.”
Tartai waved his tail in a sympathetic gesture. “His Highness may need a little while to collect himself this morning.”
“Should I return later, my lord?”
“Perhaps an hour after the nooning?” Tartai glanced at the prince’s door. “And he may call for red mallow tea, or the equivalent.”
“I’ll let the other serving staff know, my lord. Thank you,” and he bowed. Tartai sauntered down the hall to the small dining area, knowing that the entire staff would hear the tale within an hour. As drunk as he acted last night, he should have a pounding hangover. First he’d have to get through the muscle weakness, then the headache and excess salivation, then the other effects of a memorable night. Tartai helped himself to bread and meat paste and tea, waving off the attendant. “Nothing heavy this morning, thank you.”
After eating, Tartai checked the news feeds—just the general public access ones. He assumed that Kalaki had a way to trace every data check that he and Dak-lee ran. After the weather report, and an update on the regional wrestling tournament standings, the coverage turned to an account of the Imperial Agricultural Station and the loss of four fields of test crops. Tartai’s jaw sagged open at the images on the screen. At least twenty-five square kliqs of standing crop had been burned, if he read the crop map correctly. The picture of so much blackened food crop made him both queasy and angry. “Although no one has claimed responsibility for the act, it should be noted that this facility has been cited recently by Governor Kalaki for failing to follow proper protocol in cross breeding and testing containment,” the news-reader reported.
A yellow male with an oddly thick tail appeared on screen. “The burned fields were only a sixt away from harvest. They contained only an approved cross-breed of thick-stemmed kurstem that we developed two years ago for use in high-saline areas. This was to be the seed for commercial development on Drakon IV.”
A scrawny male with a data pad asked, “Manager Reesh, what about the rumors that some of the crop may have had unauthorized genetic manipulations performed on them?”
Reesh made such a hard negation that he almost lost his balance and fell over. “No. All the scientists in this facility know and follow the Imperial protocols. If you mean did the wind carry some pollen among these plants, it is always possible, but,” and the feed cut back to a spokesmale from the local Peacekeepers who began droning on about the investigation. Tartai turned off the news feed. He almost wished that he was the one with the hangover, because then he’d have an excuse for the headache and nasty-tasting mouth that he seemed to have developed while watching the broadcast.
Tartai left a message for Dak-lee, saying that he’d go to the Peacekeepers and see if they’d had any trouble reports since the release of the museum fire investigation results. It also gave him an excuse to go back. Tartai wanted more information about several things, including the fire at the research center.
Lt. Breekhar proved to be most cooperative. “Whatever I can do, Lord Tarkeela. You see, I’m Kirlin by Great Lord Kirlin’s half brother, who served as governor here during Seetoh’s reign.”
I am not Lord Tarkeela, Tartai groaned inwardly yet again. “Thank you. What I need is information on a male named Sheenaki, his work address, and whatever you can find about the fire at the research station.”
“Sheenaki’s place is at 439 Fifth Street East, Fourth Street West, in Lone Tree division. He lives a block from his shop, and his local is the Curled Talon,” and Breekhar mimicked a beckoning gesture. “As for the other, my lord, just let me log in, here . . .” and he tapped away for a moment. “Here, my lord, browse away. I need to go meet with some patrol leaders about this afternoon’s news surge.”
Tartai did as invited. It did not take long to find out that the Imperials were in charge of protecting (and containing) the lab and it’s surrounding fields. The sergeant in charge of the Imperials had been away on extended leave, visiting relatives and acting as chief witness at a relative’s mate-taking. Sometime during the night someone or something had managed to set the five fields on fire, apparently using a sprayed accelerant. The light winds helped keep the fire away from the buildings, and no one had been injured, but by the time the fire fighters reached the scene, they could only salvage small corners of two fields. Indeed, as Manager Reesh had reported, the crops belonged to an approved commercial-grade strain of seed for buyers on Drakon IV, including Lords Daesarae, Neekare, and Shu, and two Royal farms. Tartai read further, then stopped and backed up.
He ran a talon around the text that interested him, enlarging it. He read it again. Now what terror group or irate farmer has access to aerial spraying equipment quiet enough to operate without anyone noticing? He wondered how much had been sprayed, and how it had been ignited. It couldn’t have been one of the small commercial spy-eye remotes with a spray tank attached, unless those had grown a great deal more powerful and stealthy since the loggers had bought a pair two year-turns ago. Tartai logged out of the file and returned to the main search screen.
Lt. Breekhar returned not long after. “Was your hunt successful, my lord?”
“Very much, and thank you. Do you think Sheenaki would be at work right now?”
Breekhar made an affirmation. “Up to his spines in it, my lord. He has a large commission he’s trying to finish.”
“Thank you, Lt. Breekhar. I appreciate your assistance. Please let me know if there is anything I can do for you.”
“You are most welcome, my lord, and I’ll do that.”
Tartai suspected that Breekhar would, too. Oh well. Tartai sent a quick message to Dak-lee, letting him know that he’d be out a little longer and reminding him to revise the report, “So your honored sire can receive confirmation of his orders as promptly as possible, Imperial Highness.” Let Kalaki think I’m trying to get Dak-lee moving so we can leave.
Sheenaki’s workshop proved easier to find than Tartai anticipated. He smelled the finish several doors away, which explained the temporary barrier on the walkway outside the shop. Sheenaki really was old style, if Tartai’s nose was accurate. He approached as close as he dared and peeked in the show window.
Very old style, because the dark-brown reptile relied on purely mechanical tools. Tartai didn’t see any anti-grav lifts or industrial cutters, just the most basic of equipment, including real finish brushes. Sheenaki appeared to be close to finishing the trim painting currently in progress, so Tartai studied the chest and table now on display. Sheenaki had left the finish very plain, allowing the wood’s grain to show, and Tartai whistled at the quality of the work. He couldn’t see any joints with metal fittings, and very few of the diamond cuts and tenons he associated with talon-cut woodwork. The lines on the table flowed so well that Tartai would have been willing to swear that the piece had been grown rather than carved. He wondered what Sheenaki could do with blackwood.
The reptile in question appeared at Tartai’s shoulder. “Can I help you?”
“I was just wondering what you could do with blackwood. I’m Tartai of Schree’s Rest,” he introduced himself. “We’re harvesting blackwood, or were when I lost the roll to come here.”
Sheenaki made a warding off gesture. “Hurl it as far as I could. By the time it cures enough to be workable, it’s too hard for the work I do. I’ll buy pre-cut pieces and veneer, but I tried working a few scraps and swore never again.”
“If you don’t mind my asking, what do you like to work with, that’s native to Pokara? My boss is looking to start importing some Pokaran woods for furniture and panel making, and several people told me that you wouldn’t send me down a bad trail.”
“The table there is yellowheart. I’d start with that, especially if you are not pla
nning on using heavy finishes. Needle leaf is the carcass of the chest,” Sheenaki explained. “Bloodwood trim and curl-scale-bark veneer.”
Tartai looked from the craftsman to the chest and back. “Bloodwood trim?” He all but smashed his muzzle against the glass of the window trying to get a better look at the chest. “What in the name of the Great Swamp did you use for finish? I’ve never seen that color in bloodwood.”
Sheenaki grinned. “My secret, and I’m not selling it.”
Tartai drooped. “Fair’s fair. I don’t tell where we find cream curl trees.”
“You know wood, then.”
“Logger in season, accounting and log watcher off-season.”
“I’ll make you a deal,” Sheenaki offered. “You help me get these pieces turned and the edges finished, and after I clean up I’ll give you some contact names. But no varnish recipes,” he warned.
“Deal,” and Tartai stuck out a forefoot. They pressed, and Tartai stripped off his robe as he followed Sheenaki into the shop. He tucked the fabric into the protected area Sheenaki showed him, then put on the carpenter’s spare breathing mask. Tartai moved the pieces, holding them steady as Sheenaki ran tiny brushes along the edges of the panels. He worked smoothly but with meticulous care, and Tartai wondered just how much the craftsman’s pieces cost. More than he could ever afford, that was certain. No wonder Governor Kalaki insisted on paying for them out of his own funds: Tahdahk would kill him for spending the planet’s entire budget, otherwise!
After they finished with the last piece and set it on the rack to dry, Tartai decided that he needed a beer. Sheenaki seemed of the same mind, and as they cleaned up, he offered, “How about I give you those names over beer and something crunchy?”
“No argument here.” Tartai swirled his tail tip. “You have the steadiest forefeet I’ve ever seen outside of a panel trimmer’s meeting.”
Sheenaki shivered. “You’ll never see me running one of those knife cutters. Those males are insane.” He moved the barricades inside, locked up, and led Tartai to the Curled Talon. “Leekah, two large golds and something crunchy.”
They’d barely sat down when a dark-green-and-yellow-blotched male hurried up with two enormous mugs and a platter of something that smelled wonderful. “Here ya’ go, Sheenaki. Fresh batch, so be careful. Who’s your friend?”
“Tartai from Schree’s Rest,” Tartai told him. “Looking for wood.”
“He’s good. Schree’s Rest’s a free town,” Sheenaki added.
Leekah made a grunting noise and hurried back to the bar as someone waved an empty mug. Sheenaki sighed. “See the grey male with the mug? Stay out of his way,” and he tapped a talon against the side of his head.
“I track you.” Tartai sipped the gold colored beer and decided that instead of wood, he needed to start importing Pokaran brewers. After Sheenaki had eaten some of the food and drunk some of the beer, Tartai began, “So, is there anything I need to beware of? I’m looking for furniture and paneling wood, not heavy timbers.”
By the time he’d gotten back to the governor’s palace, Tartai had quite a list of people to see, those to avoid, and beers to try, and knew far more about the planetary political situation than he’d ever wanted to know. He found Dak-lee in the outside weapons practice area, deep in training combat with one of the guard sergeants. The two males seemed intent on beating the stuffing out of each other, and Tartai wondered how much was frustration and how much was the prince’s basic technique. He could easily imagine Dak-lee wading into the middle of a bar fight just for the fun of it.
“Care for a bout, my lord?” one of the watchers asked.
Tartai made a negation. “No, thanks, unless you’ve got a forefoot fighter instructor.”
The soldiers muttered among themselves. “No, my lord, that we don’t have. You’re a forefoot fighter?”
“Forefoot and blaster.” And polearm and talon knife into tender places, but Tartai kept those little talents to himself. The males at Mountain’s Edge and Schree’s Rest had made certain that Tartai could fight with anything that came within reach if need be, from logging tools to table legs and beer.
He caught the motion just in time. A corporal dove onto him, and Tartai took the blow and rolled with it, sinking his hind talons into the soldier’s leg guards. Then he rolled forward, pinning the surprised male under him. Tartai swept the back of his forefoot talons across the soldier’s eyes, pressing the side of his other forefoot against the male’s throat until he slapped the ground with his tail in surrender. Tartai let go and sprang away from the flat trooper. He spun around to face the others and rose onto his hind legs, talons and spines at full extension. “Next.”
No one took up the offer, and several exchanged nervous looks. Dak-lee and his sparring partner bellowed their approval. Tartai wasn’t even breathing heavily, Dak-lee noticed with pride. So much for rumors that he’s a peace-seeker, the prince snorted. Just because he’s common-reared doesn’t mean he can’t flight with the nobles when he needs to. “Good bout,” Dak-lee told his partner.
“Thank you, Imperial Highness,” the other reptile panted.
As Dak-lee got cleaned up, Tartai inquired about his day. “Productive. The report has been revised. Remind me to speak with the governor about his system security, Tartai. There appear to a be a few holes in the outgoing codes.”
“Remind you to speak with the governor, yes, Imperial Highness,” Tartai murmured, flashing a forefoot sign for “understood.”
“And you?”
“Followed up on the royal governor’s suggestion from last night, Your Highness, and confirmed that the craftsman your honored uncle patronizes is probably the best I’ve ever seen.”
Dak-lee dried off, pulled his day robe on and cinched the belt tight. “Indeed?”
“Yes, Imperial Highness, I had the opportunity to watch him at work. I do not believe that anyone on Drakon IV can match his eye for finishes or his skill with talon-cut work.”
Dak-lee filed the information away for future reference. After the terse message he’d managed to get out around the governor’s cyber-security system, his honored sire might need a soothing gift. And patronizing Shizara’s brother might make her more amenable to his thought of bringing her back to Drakon IV as his concubine. “Anything else?”
“I believe that I need to go look at the wood produced by TarKili Woodworks, Your Highness.”
What in the name of the four hells? Dak-lee blinked. “Oh?” He gestured for Tartai to follow him to their rooms.
“Yes. They have a harvesting and growing operation on the Rolling Plains. It’s a few kliqs from the Imperial research Station, as it turns out, because they have done a little work for the Imperials and got a small harvest grant in exchange.” Tartai sounded as if he were trying to hint about something.
Dak-lee realized what Tartai was saying a few minutes later. He stopped short and went muzzle to muzzle with the noble. “You are actually going to do business while we are supposed to be following my honored sire’s orders?” Dak-lee did his best to sound like Lord Peitak. “I should forbid it, you realize? Especially going to the back-side of Pokara just to look at plants?”
“Imperial Highness, I’m looking at timber stands and economic indicators, not just plants,” Tartai protested. “And you’ve made your report, Your Highness, so we are not truly needed here, are we?” He flashed the sign for “watcher.”
“Bah,” Dak-lee snorted with disgust. “Go look at your precious trees. I need to look at the readiness of the Imperials on Pokara, and you’d just be under feet.”
Tartai cringed back and did his obsequious best, reminding Dak-lee of a palace servant the crown prince especially detested. “Thank you, Imperial Highness, I’ll do my best to be back so we can catch the next transport and return to Drakon IV without any difficulties. I truly appreciate your most gracious . . .”
Dak-lee cut him off. “Enough. Are you coming to supper?”
“Ah, no, Imperial Highness, unless th
e governor requires it? I, ah, rather overindulged on pub crunchies this afternoon.” Dak-lee sniffed, smelling beer and fried bits on the other male’s breath.
“You certainly did. Keep in touch so I know where you are in case I have to come rescue you,” Dak-lee ordered.
Kalaki heard Soarsa’s report and almost danced with glee. With Lord Tarkeela away, it would be easy to gain enough information on Dak-lee to have him disqualified from the succession. They thought they’d been discreet, but Kalaki knew where they’d gone the night before, and he intended to encourage his nephew’s interests that way. And he doubted that Tarkeela would look much farther than his business interests, although Kalaki made a note to have the noble watched in case he tried to send a message without approval.
The more Kalaki saw of Tarkeela, the less impressed he was. Oh, the young male possessed more manners and thought in one talon than Dak-lee did in his entire body, but the unseemly interest in business disappointed the governor. Nobles should rule, should govern and lead their Packs. The Lone God made managers for a reason, and that reason was to free the Lineage Heads for more important tasks. And to express interest in bringing modified colonial products back to the Throneworld, well, Kalaki could stop that easily enough with words in the proper places. Oh well, Kalaki sighed. At least the little matter of the illegal crops has been dealt with. It would have been better to be public about it, but there’s no point inflaming the easily upset if I can avoid it. The Imperial troopers had been very unhappy but had obeyed his commands.
“Thank you, Soarsa. Have the evening meal sent to my quarters please, and then you may go.”
“The evening meal to your quarters, Your Highness, thank you,” Soarsa bowed, backed a pace, and departed, leaving the governor to his work.
The trip to the TarKili facility confirmed Tartai’s thoughts about flying across planetary equators, especially over large bodies of warm water. If Azdhagi were meant to fly, we’d have wings like some True-Dragons do, he grumbled yet again as the transport dropped at least a million meters. The pilot swore they’d only clipped the edge of the massive storm, but Tartai and his fellow passengers expressed some doubts. Rudely. One male used descriptors of a quality and intricacy Tartai had not heard since he’d left the militia, which was saying something. Tartai dug his talons into the holding blocks and wondered if anyone had ever ripped part of the fuselage loose from inside during turbulence.
