by Tara Omar
Just focus, she told herself again.
The ski-cart spun to a stop in front of a glass-walled building at the end of the tunnel, its thick panes and bright lights made it look like a glowing blue glacier in the middle of the sea. Four guards bearing onyx-handled blades were standing at attention near its entrance; two of them held the door open for her. A familiar receptionist waited behind her desk.
“Good day, Lady. This is a pleasant surprise. We were not expecting you today,” said the receptionist. As she stood, Imaan could see she was heavily pregnant. Imaan frowned.
“But you are expecting someone else, I see. Has it been so long since I’ve seen you, Ursula? You must tell me when the baby is born so I can make time to do the blessing.”
Ursula shifted.
“Oh, um… I… my husband… sort of asked Saladin if he would come. We already set a date.”
“I see,” said Imaan.
“Since he’s good friends with Saladin, and everything.”
“Well, I don’t know why you’d bother in the first place as he has no authority to bless. But if that is your wishing, may you have a safe final term,” said Imaan, staring. Ursula shrunk back, her arms on her stomach. Imaan could see Tristan hurrying down the hall, tucking in his shirt as he walked.
“Lady, it’s an honour to see you,” said Tristan. “Shall we go to my office?”
“Please,” said Imaan. She followed him through the winding hallways to a door at the very back of the Ibex headquarters. Tristan pressed his finger on the biometric scan and the door to his office unbolted. A heavy clicking sound popped through the silence.
“Were you able to do the background check I requested?” asked Imaan.
“The one for the Palace position?” asked Tristan, pushing open the door. “Yes, I ran it yesterday.”
“And?”
“There’s not a single report matching your description,” said Tristan, taking a thick bundle of paper from a nearby desk. “No record of a David Michelson among any of the tribes, no accounts of anyone murdered or missing that fit the details you gave me.”
“And with the mountain folk?” asked Imaan.
Tristan shrugged.
“Well, as you know they don’t give up information easily, but it appears everything is in order. You can check the results yourself, but this David of yours does not, according to the records, seem to exist.”
He handed Imaan the papers.
“And the borders? How are the borders?” asked Imaan.
“As hostile and impenetrable as usual,” said Tristan, “but nothing that’s a cause for worry.” He aimed a remote at a small, emerald egg set on a circular table. The egg broke open and a wobbly bubble rose from its centre, showing nothing but black water and the finest shadow of seaweed—the point where the waters of the Oceana met the deep Abyss.
“This is a live feed from the slope,” said Tristan, staring at the bubble of darkened water with disgust. “Don’t know what they think is so great about their place that they expect us to invade. I’d rather dive into my nana’s naughty drawer than go down into that dung hole. It’s another 6 000 down.”
Imaan looked back at the papers, frowning.
“Do you think this David character is a mer that slipped through?” asked Tristan. Imaan shook her head.
“He’s probably just a loner with a petty criminal record that took his chances,” said Imaan, standing to leave. “In any event thank you for your time; we’ll be in touch.”
Tristan clicked the remote and the bubble disappeared back inside the egg.
“On second thought,” said Imaan, turning. “I’d like you to get me a meeting with Petra, for today, if possible. The architect.”
“Yusuf’s widow?” asked Tristan.
“Yes.”
He stared at her.
“I know it’s risky, but I don’t have another option.”
“Alright,” said Tristan. “I’ll see what I can do.”
C H A P T E R 1 6
David sat near the window at the edge of the sapphire library, doodling fish onto a page of a pocket-sized notebook. Mountains of heavy books lay stacked around him; he glanced at their dull titles without interest. He looked to the colourful coral reef beyond the windowed wall, where a blue-girdled angelfish had begun to nibble on Fred. Before it could see what was coming, Patsy lunged, catching the angel’s bright orange tail in her mouth and flinging it backward. She pointed with her tail toward a food dish embedded in the nearby coral. The angelfish glared at her but swam off, while Patsy nodded and continued her patrol. She looked toward the book next to David as if to scold him to continue studying. David took the hint and read the first page. It was Notable Merish Crafts by Mervin Crump.
Chapter One
Never on Point: A Stitch-by-Stitch Account of Royal Tapestry Making
“Well this is sure to be a page-turner,” said David.
Just then a shadow crossed the title of his book. All the fish hurried out from their spots and huddled in the centre of the moat, bouncing with anticipation like happy puppies. Patsy hovered in the background, watching them with smug annoyance as Raphael floated down to the bottom of the moat. He was wearing a white, three-quarter-sleeved lab coat and pants as before, except the silken flares of skin had sealed into two long fins where the knee and calf should be. Gills had opened on the side of his neck, and the tips of his hair glowed as though they had been dipped in fluorescent paint. His coat hung open, exposing curious markings which covered much of his arms, neck and chest; they glowed purple in the water like luminous tattoos, matching the tips of his long, fibre-like hair. David watched as Raphael put the stethoscope to his ears, placing the other end below the gills of a clown triggerfish.
David touched the mark on the side of his neck, thinking. After a long moment, he dropped Crump’s book and headed for the back of the library. He pulled out a copy of the Sacred Memories and dropped to the ground, reading.
And at the end of the prescribed time when all was ready and perfect, Avinoam reached into the depths of the ground and formed from the clay of the ground Eve and Adam, the first humans of the land.
“Formed from the clay of the ground,” repeated David. He flipped through the pages. “I must have learned this, so why doesn’t any of it seem familiar?”
“David?” asked a voice from behind him. Raphael stood on the stairs in his usual human-like form, looking at David as though he had caught a naughty child. David flinched, fumbling to put the book back on the shelf.
“Forgive me, but I am curious as to why I find you perusing the human histories section when it is imperative that you know the mers. Have you perhaps finished the reading list?” asked Raphael.
“No, of course not—I—It’s just—”
David looked around, sighing. “I feel like I know things, Raphael.”
“An interesting claim for someone in your position,” said Raphael.
“I mean about the sea. Things humans in Aeroth don’t seem to know,” said David.
Raphael leaned against the golden banister and crossed his arms.
“I was reading the Sacred Memories, and thinking about what the Lady taught me before she left, about Avinoam and humans,” said David. “But the more I think about what I’m supposed to know as a human, the more it doesn’t seem to fit. And then, back when I first woke up, when we were talking in the spare room, you said something that sounded familiar—more familiar than anything else I’ve been told so far. You said that humans came from apes.”
“It was wrong of me to mention. It only sounds right because you heard it first,” said Raphael.
“Is that what the mers believe, that humans came from apes?”
“Does it matter?”
“I don’t know, maybe,” said David. He looked at his wrists.
“If you were born a human as you se
em to be, it cannot possibly be familiar. There is only one creation account believed by humans. There are no dissenting views on land,” said Raphael.
“Could it be the mark then, that makes it seem familiar?”
“It is your mind. You are simply imagining it,” said Raphael. He turned to continue up the spiral staircase. David passed the golden footbridge spanning the jellyfish pool, stopping at the foot of the stairs.
“I want to know how I came here, Raphael. There are so many things that don’t make sense. I want to know why.”
Raphael let out a heavy sigh.
“Very well,” he said as he came down the stairs.
Follow me, signed Raphael. He walked around to the back of the jellyfish pool, directly opposite the footbridge at the base of the staircase. David followed.
“I was hoping to spare you this, but as you leave me no option…”
He ran his hand over the ledge of the pool, which was engraved with detailed reliefs of sand dollars and sea stars. He turned three of the sea stars a quarter turn to the left and pressed the centre sand dollar. A silver railing popped up, encircling the area between the pool and the bookshelves. Raphael pressed the sand dollar again and the floor began pushing downward like an elevator. David fell back against the railing. The jellyfish pool grew into a long, cylindrical tank as they descended around it. It was filled with gargantuan specimens much larger than the ones seen from above, nearly twice the size of David. They drifted through the water in the tank at the elevator’s centre, glowing like giant ghosts of the sea. Raphael looked toward the cavern below, his expression solemn.
“I will show you something known to no human in Aeroth,” said Raphael, frowning as he stared down into the darkness. “It is time you learned another story of man.”
C H A P T E R 1 7
“Can I help you, Miss?” asked a stout, friendly-faced woman from behind the counter. She closed the drawer of an ancient-looking cash register; it chinged as the heavy, metal drawer slammed shut.
“Yes, I would like a kilogram of Aaronite shisha tobacco, please,” said Imaan, resisting the temptation to crinkle her nose. Heavily disguised under thick makeup, wig and prosthetic nose, she approached the counter with caution, watching the cashier’s eyes carefully through her plastic glasses. The cashier nodded absently.
“And which flavour would you like, Miss?”
“Apple.”
“One moment.” The cashier turned to the shelves full of shiny, foil packets behind her, rummaging through the piles of bulk bags near the floor. Imaan picked up the latest copy of the Rosy Herald lying on the counter. She read the headline.
King Saladin to Wed
“If you want to read the story, you’d best buy it now, Miss,” said the cashier, turning. “This paper has been flying off the shelf, it has.”
“Is this gossip, or has it been confirmed?” asked Imaan.
“No, it’s all true, Miss; the story came straight from the Royal House,” said the woman, grabbing a stapled burlap sack and placing it on the counter. “King Saladin is going to be marrying the Lady’s assistant. Lisa, I think her name is.”
“Well, that’s news to me,” said Imaan, clearing her throat. She brushed the hairs of her wig with her fingers, trying to stay composed. The woman smiled.
“Aw cheer up, Miss. There are plenty of flowers in the field, as I always say. The chances of us commoners marrying the King are always so slim to begin with, and probably just as well. The worst problems come in the prettiest packages, I always say. Better to find yourself a sensible man.”
“Indeed.”
“But then if you’re really set on getting a fancy man, Miss, Mr Gabe is still available and he’s also a good pick. Actually right near better than the King, I’d reckon. Saladin’s a good ruler but a bit rough around the edges with his ways, same like most Aaronites. That Gabe’s got a bit more class, he has.”
Imaan nodded, watching as the woman rang up her purchase.
“That’ll be 94,50 please,” said the woman.
“That price is incorrect,” said Imaan, “This is not a kilogram’s worth of tobacco.”
The woman picked up the bag and dropped it on a rusty scale nearby, waiting as the wavering needle settled into place. She pointed.
“But the scale says—”
“Never mind the scale,” said Imaan. “This is not a kilogram. I would like to speak with your manager.”
“But—”
“Your manager, please.”
“Well alright, alright. Just a minute,” said the woman. She picked up a grungy, plastic cone from the wall, eyeing Imaan suspiciously as she twiddled its cord.
“Marcus, I have a Lady here that would like to see you. She says the one k-g of tobacco isn’t one k-g,” said the cashier. She held the cone to her ear.
“Well of course it is one kilogram!” said a voice, loud enough so Imaan could hear. “Did you weigh it for her?”
“Yep, but she doesn’t believe me, and she’s asking to see you,” said the woman. “And she looks right scary angry, she does, so you’d better come.”
“Oh, alright,” said the man, “but Trudy, if you must run to me whenever there’s any little hiccup…”
A pot-bellied man emerged from behind a dirty, tulip-patterned curtain next to the register, smiling broadly. He offered a slight bow.
“And how may I assist you, my dear? Gertrude says you were asking to see me.”
“Yes, I would like to see this scale calibrated,” said Imaan, nodding toward the scale.
“Now, now, Miss, don’t you trust us?” laughed the man, patting his stomach.
“Indulge me, if you don’t mind,” said Imaan, “unless of course you do not want to do business.” She lowered her glasses slightly, staring intently at Marcus. Marcus’s eyes nearly popped as they met hers. He jumped.
“Oh, right. Very well,” said Marcus, shuffling. “Trudy, run to the other shop and get more copies of the Rosy Herald, please. I shall handle it from here.”
Trudy stared at her boss, looking confused. Then she looked at Imaan and gasped. Imaan held her breath.
“Mr Schweme!” said Trudy, her voice rising several octaves. “What did I tell you about allowing women of ill repute here to solicit their sins? It’s bad for business.”
“Don’t worry yourself, Trudy; it’s not what you think,” said Marcus, taking some money from his back pocket and handing it to Trudy. “It is all honest, I can assure you. We are simply going to balance the scale as the Miss requested.”
“And in broad daylight, too,” said Trudy, shaking her head.
“Goodbye, Gertrude,” said Marcus, ushering her to the door.
“The Lady would be crying many a tear to Avinoam on your behalf if she could see you now.”
“Trudy, goodbye.”
Marcus pushed her out and quickly shut the door, sighing heavily as he locked and leaned against it. Imaan lifted the bag from the rusty scale and dropped it to the counter.
“You’re getting cheap, Marcus,” said Imaan, pursing her lips. “Your idea of a kilogram has always been a law unto its own, but this is pathetic.”
Marcus wiped his forehead with a handkerchief.
“Lady, you’re going to right ruin my reputation, you are!”
“Hush. You know better than to call me that here,” said Imaan, looking around. Marcus pulled a cord near the door, releasing a folded screen from the eaves. It dropped to the ground outside the shop, covering the receded stone building with a full-size image of a vacant lot. From the outside a handwritten Closed sign seemed to float in mid-air among the gravel. A pigeon stared at it curiously. Marcus turned.
“Sorry, I keep forgetting your secret policy of utmost secrecy. I must say that’s a lovely disguise you have today. It right near fooled me and Trudy, but is it enough to fool the lenses?”
/>
“Of course,” said Imaan, waving her hand. “That’s one of the perks of being old and unpopular. No one bothers to follow your eccentricities too closely, not even the Rosy Herald.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I wouldn’t mind reading an article about you every now and again. You must have some passionate scandal lurking in that head of yours,” said Marcus, winking.
“Only the business I have to discuss with you. And as I am on a tight schedule, I would appreciate if we began our discussion right away.”
“Of course, of course,” said Marcus, holding open the tulip curtain. “This way.”
Imaan followed him into the side room, at the centre of which stood an imposing wooden desk and an executive’s chair. A paisley teapot sat on the desk next to a stack of cups and crossword puzzles; Marcus pushed them aside as he sat down. He offered Imaan a low stool in front of the desk.
“Please sit,” said Marcus. “I just made the tea so please help yourself. That’s my Granny’s teapot, it is. Nothing but the best for honoured guests such as yourself.”
“No thank you,” said Imaan. She grabbed some nearby magazines and stacked them on the stool before sitting down. Marcus shifted uncomfortably.
“So…”
“I would like you to purchase a dagger,” said Imaan, removing her glasses. “A simple, ordinary dagger with a unique handle. Must be about, I don’t know, twenty centimetres or so, and must have a sheath. I would like it by next week. Hiram would perhaps be your best bet.”
“Okay,” said Marcus, nodding.
Imaan pulled out a torn page from inside her shirt and handed it to Marcus.
“Also, this chemical must be worked into the metal, with an extra vial full on the side.”
Marcus took the page.
“But this is… this is poison,” said Marcus, stammering, “and a very dangerous poison at that. Poisoned daggers are highly illegal, Ma’am, especially the kind you’re asking for. Very ancient, this one is, and very dangerous, too. There must be less than five hundred mils of this in the whole of Aeroth, I’d reckon; right near impossible, this is.”
