Decrypted (Encrypted #2)

by Lindsay Buroker

  “Lovely. My family members thought it important to collect the earliest forms of Kyattese pornography.” Regardless, she eyed them long enough to date them. Less than seventy years old. “Ugh,” she muttered at the thought that they might have belonged to Grandpa or one of his brothers.

  The find meant that section of the attic contained relatively recent memorabilia. She crawled deeper, passing everything from exotic art brought in from far off ports, to trunks containing wedding dresses, to a taxidermy octopus that fell off a wardrobe and onto her head, eliciting a startled squeal. Her outburst roused some bats, and they flapped past in a flurry, wings brushing her head, before disappearing through the vents.

  “Not a mission for the squeamish.” Tikaya checked a disassembled bed frame for the craftsman’s name and date. “547. Making progress.”

  When she reached a painting from a popular artist from the late 300s, she stopped. With the cessation of movement, the quietness of the attic grew noticeable. Tikaya wiped slick palms on her dress. It might have been the exertion causing her to sweat, the fact that there was little airflow in the warm attic, or the notion that she just might find a clue to her mystery up there. Surely, no government busybody with something to hide had thought to check in her family’s attic for books that needed to be removed.

  The corner of a cobweb-choked bookcase against the wall came into view. Hidden behind wooden pumping equipment from some long-retired well, it would have been easy to miss. Tikaya crawled over trunks and boxes—and clunked her head on the descending ceiling several more times—for a closer look. The books she pulled out were from the right era, with leather straps around the bindings to keep the parchment pages from warping and buckling from changes in humidity, but they were all by well-known authors. They were titles on religion and mythology for the most part, nothing that would shed light on conspiracies from 397. She needed the hand-written journal of some ancestor.

  “Ms. Komitopis?” came a muffled voice from the attic entrance. The policewoman.

  “Yes, I’m here.”

  “Ah, good. I feared you might be attempting to escape through some secret exit.”

  Tikaya glanced toward the nearest roof vent. “Unless I grow wings and shrink, I don’t think that’d be possible.”

  “An unlikely occurrence given how fond your mother is of proffering food.”

  “Quite.” Tikaya sought something to say that would convince the woman to leave her alone. Or maybe she ought to try to coerce her into helping search. A tempting thought, but the last thing she wanted was to make discoveries that someone might report back to the police headquarters. “I’ve been tasked with a time-consuming job.”

  “Can you take a break?” her mother asked, voice muffled by distance. She must be in the hallway underneath the trapdoor. “Your cousin wants to see you.”

  “Ell?” Tikaya guessed. “Can you have him come up here?” She didn’t know if that was wise, but she didn’t want to leave the attic now.

  “No, one of those sprites-cursed concoctions is dangling from his lips. I won’t have that smoke in my house.”

  Tikaya sighed. “Be down in a minute.”

  She looked around, making note of nearby objects, so she could come back to the same spot, and crawled away from the bookshelf. The hem of her dress snagged on something. She tried to twist her leg and pull it free, but the object held her fast. She reached down between trunks and found a pile of old whaling gear. She grabbed the hilt of the tool entrapping her hem and pulled it out, intending to toss it aside. But she froze and gaped at her find instead. It wasn’t a tool; it was a sword in a worn leather scabbard that had been nibbled by rats.

  Due to Kyatt’s relatively peaceful history, she hadn’t chanced across any weapons. This had to be a gift someone had received in trade or…

  Tikaya pulled the blade free, and her breath caught. Though dulled by time, the fine steel was unmistakably Turgonian. Other nations had been dabbling with steel during that time period, but the empire had mastered efficient production methods early on. Their old swords illustrated the fact, when one was lucky enough to find one. The Turgonians had always been secretive with their metallurgy technology, with laws forbidding the selling of weapons and tools across the borders. Something like this had probably come off a soldier who had fallen in an overseas skirmish. But there hadn’t been any battles on the Kyatt Islands back then. How had this weapon found its way into her family’s attic?

  Maybe some Nurian war hero had acquired it, then bartered it away, or given it as a gift. But her ancestors had largely been farmers, not traders or world explorers. She stuck her head down between a sofa and a wardrobe to dig deeper into the pile of fishing gear. Beneath the harpoons and hooks, she unearthed a leather messenger bag. Her heat sped up again. Though the history of clothing wasn’t her specialty, she had a colleague who studied military archaeology and maintained a small museum in his office. Tikaya had seen this very bag and knew it was Turgonian marine issue from the late 300s.

  She eased it out and unbuckled the straps. Mindful of the piece’s age, she tried to take care, but her fingers were shaking with the excitement of the find. It might be nothing, she told herself. But it could have to do with everything.

  “Tikaya?” Mother called.

  She twitched in surprise, and the flap came open, spilling its contents.

  “Elloil says it’s important and that he can’t stay long.”

  “Just a minute,” Tikaya called. “I… caught my dress. It’s more treacherous than a dig at an ancient Nurian battlefield back here.”

  An old cap had tumbled out of the bag as well as a leather journal and letters threatening to disintegrate with age. Horrified that she’d dumped them so carelessly, Tikaya feared that touching them would make matters worse. She picked up the cap. It didn’t look like part of a military uniform, but a bill designed to keep sun out of one’s eyes might make it a sailor’s garment. The straps on the leather journal were secured with a small lock. Someone’s private diary? She rifled through the bag, looking for a key, but nothing else remained inside.

  “Maybe I’ll get to put Rias’s lock-picking instructions to use, after all,” she said.

  “Ms. Komitopis?” That was the policewoman, a note of suspicion in her voice.

  “Yes, yes, coming.” Tikaya put the journal, cap, and letters back in the bag and carried it most of the way to the trapdoor. Before reaching the exit, she tucked the gear behind a painting where she could find it again later. She started toward the door, but changed her mind, went back, and pulled out the journal. She untied the sash belt of her dress, slipped the book into her undergarments, and arranged the material and belt so that others shouldn’t notice the bulge. It’d probably be fine if she left it, but who knew if that policewoman might come up and snoop around?

  “You’re becoming as paranoid as Rias,” she muttered, picking her way toward the trapdoor.

  When Tikaya climbed down, her mother was waiting, the policewoman not two feet away—and eyeing the attic opening suspiciously.

  “Ell’s on the back lanai,” Mother said.

  “What does he want?”

  Mother spread her arms. “He doesn’t talk to me, possibly because I so often let him know how disappointed his mother is in his career choice.”

  “I thought you two were sharing confidences now.”

  Mother blinked. “What do you mean?”

  Tikaya glanced at the policewoman, wishing she’d disappear. “He said you sent him off to keep an eye on me last night. Or maybe just in general,” she added when no hint of understanding entered her mother’s eyes. “To keep me out of trouble.”

  “No…” Mother sniffed. “As if I’d send that perennial teenager to keep someone out of trouble.” She strode down the hall, muttering about sloth and family underachievers.

  A bang sounded from downstairs—a door hitting the wall. “Tikaya, what’re you doing in there? I’ve got to get to the beach—giving some visiting foreigners
some lessons.”

  Tikaya hustled through the house, though Mother’s words had roused new suspicions in her mind. If Mother hadn’t sent Ell to follow her, who had?

  Ell was pacing on the back lanai, bluish smoke wafting from a cigarette. “Tikaya,” he blurted when she stepped outside. “I’ve got news for you. Rias is…” He trailed off when the policewoman stepped outside. “Oh, right. Forgot about that.”

  Forgetting her suspicions for a moment, Tikaya grabbed his arm. “What about Rias?”

  “He’s, uh…” Still eyeing the policewoman, Ell took out his tobacco tin. “Well, they let him go.”

  “They did? Did they… the telepaths, what did they do to him? Is he all right?”

  “I don’t know exactly, but he seemed the same as usual when I saw him.”

  “You saw him?” Tikaya barely resisted the urge to grab Ell by the collar of his oversized hibiscus-dyed shirt to shake more details from him.

  “Indeed so.” Ell must have sensed her urgency—her fingernails were digging into his arm after all—but he took his time rooting around in his tin, pulling out two already rolled cigarettes. “Smoke?”

  “You know I don’t…” She stopped, catching the slight widening of his eyes. “Fine, I’ll take one if it’ll get you to spill the news.”

  “Good, you know I hate to smoke alone.”

  Ell pressed two cigarettes into her hand. Tikaya recognized one as a fake, a tightly rolled paper with nothing in it. Keeping her back to the policewoman to hide the motion, she slipped the extra into her pocket. She held the real one up, so Ell could light it for her, then held the noxious thing to her lips, pretending to inhale.

  “Where’d you see him?” Tikaya asked.

  “He’s back at the shipyard.”

  “They’re going to let him return to work on his submarine?” Tikaya couldn’t believe it.

  “Not exactly. He didn’t say much about the telepaths, but I guess he’s been giving permission to finish building a ship, not a submarine, and to hurry up about it. Once it’s seaworthy, he’s to sail away from Kyatt and never return.”

  Tikaya rocked back on her heels. “He said that? It was his choice or…?”

  “Some high minister’s order, I gathered.”

  “And he agreed to it?” she whispered, gripping the railing.

  “I don’t figure he had a choice.” Ell put a hand on her shoulder. “Sorry, Coz. I know you were hoping for… I don’t know, marriage or something, I guess. I liked him a lot too. He treated me better than—” he glanced toward the house, “—lots.” He lowered his hand. “I need to grab some food to take with me. Don’t tell your mother, all right?”

  Ell hustled into the house. Tikaya, imagining Rias leaving forever, barely noticed him go. Would Rias ask her to leave with him? Was she ready to go if it meant forever? Or… what if he wasn’t planning to ask her? What if whatever he’d suffered at the telepaths’ hands had convinced him that she wasn’t worth it, that it was time to go home?

  The fake cigarette—before she formed premature conclusions, she needed to see if that was a note from Rias. She turned and headed for the house. The policewoman, who’d stood beside the door during the conversation with Ell, followed her inside. Tikaya thought about going back to the attic, but the lighting was poor, and her escort might decide to follow her up the ladder this time. She veered into the water closet, opened the window for light, and yanked out the rolled paper. She released a relieved breath when she recognized Rias’s handwriting. By now, she could decrypt the code quickly and read the words straight through.

  Tikaya–

  I know you are concerned, but I am well. The telepaths were debating over what to do with me (at the same time, I was debating whether to simply consent to their intrusions of my free will) when High Minister Jikaymar strode in, said nobody would be touching my head, and dragged me off to the side. He told me I could go where I wished, but that it’d better be to the docks. He wants me off Kyatt as quickly as possible, and he’s allowing me to build a ship, but bluntly stated that I’d be stopped, one way or another, if I attempted to create a submarine.

  I don’t have to tell you that these allowances are surprising, if not ideal. The paranoid, as you would call it, side of me wonders if it’s all part of some trap they hope to spring. If not, I must assume someone spoke to Jikaymar on my behalf. Is it possible your president has returned?

  With love,

  Rias

  Tikaya stuffed the note into her pocket and strode out of the water closet. She had to go see Rias, but she wanted to retrieve the rest of the items in the attic so they could examine everything together. As she turned into the hallway, she almost crashed into the policewoman. Oh, right. Tikaya couldn’t leave the house. How ironic that Rias was now free to walk about, and she was confined. She couldn’t count on him coming to visit her right away either, not when her family had made it clear that he wasn’t welcome. Did he even know she was confined to the house? He’d been pulled away before her sentence had been given, hadn’t he?

  “Is everything all right, dear?” Mother asked from the doorway to the kitchen, the kitchen that overlooked the back lanai. She held a spoon dripping batter in her hand, so she’d been working in there. Tikaya wondered how much of the conversation her mother had overheard.

  “I need to get a message to Rias,” Tikaya said. “Do you know if anyone is about who isn’t busy?” She didn’t know who that might be, as she hadn’t seen many people that day. The house was quiet due to planting time.

  “Where is he?” Mother asked.

  “He might be back at the Pernici—, er, Pragmatic Mate, but he’d more likely be eating, sleeping, and working at Shipyard 4.” Sleeping being questionable, Tikaya thought.

  Mother’s gray eyebrows twitched at the slip-up. She was well aware of the name of the hostel—and the dubious neighborhood it occupied. “That’s hardly a fit place for an upright young man.”

  “The hostel or the shipyard?” Tikaya asked with a smile. “If you’d seen the not-entirely-floating shipwreck he acquired, you might find the Mate a superior abode.”

  The pursed lips turned into a disapproving pucker. “I need to go to the market. I can relay your message.”

  Tikaya hadn’t meant to send her mother off on errands for her, but as long as she was offering… “I don’t suppose you could give a message to Parkonis’s mother, as well? As soon as it’s permitted—” she glanced at the policewoman, “—I need to go over and see her, but I’d hate to stop by unannounced.” Actually, it was more that she’d hate to find that Parkonis was living with his mother until he settled in somewhere again. Tikaya couldn’t stomach the thought of knocking on the door and coming face-to-face with two sets of disappointed stares.

  “Iweue?” Mother’s spoon drooped. “Are you sure she’ll want to see you right now? Or me?”

  “No, but Grandpa wouldn’t help, and she’s the only other person I know who could Make an energy source to power a big engine. And Rias needs one.” Tikaya realized that might not be true if he no longer intended to build a submarine. Perhaps a standard Turgonian boiler and furnace system would suffice. She needed to talk to him before making further plans.

  “I suppose it couldn’t last,” Mother said.

  “What’s that?”

  “You being the least needy and demanding of my children. Your brothers always craved attention, whereas you simply wanted to be left alone with your books and puzzles. Father and I worried now and then, you know.”

  “Oh.” Awareness of the policewoman standing by caused warmth to creep into Tikaya’s cheeks. She didn’t want to have her failings deconstructed in front of strangers. “There’s no need to worry about me. I’ll just wait here while you go talk to Rias. I appreciate it. Thank you.”

  “Parents always worry. We were relieved, though, when you started seeing Parkonis. I thought I’d finally get those grandchildren I’d pictured for so long. I used to tell your father that I feared you didn’t kn
ow one must plant a seed to grow a tree, and that suitably virile pips are scarce in the dusty archives of the Polytechnic.”

  Tikaya winced. How had her mother drifted onto this topic again? And was that a smirk on the policewoman’s face?

  “Yes, Mother. Would you like me to start the runabout for you? Bring it around front?”

  “Though you and Parkonis did always seem more like friends,” Mother went on, caught up in some memory as she gazed out the window. “You didn’t stare at him across the dinner table, as if you wished the family would disappear, so you could tear off his clothes and assume a horizontal plane.”

  “Mother!” Tikaya whispered. By now the policewoman’s smirk had turned into a hand-covering-her-mouth attempt to hold back laughter. Tikaya’s cheeks were no longer simply warm; they were being seared by a surge of molten lava. “I did not look at Rias like that. I was too busy being uncomfortable relaying our adventure to twenty pairs of judging eyes.”

  “Dear, if that’s true, I can’t imagine how you look at him when you’re alone and… comfortable.”

  Escape, Tikaya thought. She had to escape. “I’ll go get the runabout for you. The afternoon’s already growing long. You don’t want to delay. What if the market closes?” She headed for the front door, but her mother continued to muse.

  “Though, I can understand the feeling. Parkonis was—is—a nice lad, but a touch scrawny and scattered, don’t you think? Your new fellow is quite handsome, especially when he’s roaming about shirtless. Intriguing stories behind those scars, I imagine. That one on his eyebrow, it looks like someone must have been trying to kill him.”

  “I’m fairly certain someone was trying to kill him on all of the instances he received scars, Mother. And, shouldn’t you not be speculating on shirtless men when you’re married to Father?” Shouldn’t you not? Tikaya groaned to herself. How sad that a linguistics specialist could fumble her own language so.

  “Don’t be naive, dear. Of course a woman’s allowed to speculate. I’m certain that Akahe doesn’t judge us for what’s in our minds, and being married doesn’t mean we must suppress our fantasies. Why a good fantasy can enhance one’s intimate relations with one’s spouse. It’s all perfectly acceptable.”