“I’m sure Takka wanted more than that.”
She laughed. The sound was like a sword being dragged over a grindstone.
“Anyway, Takka might not be dead.”
“Ah, the body wasn’t his.” Hestia frowned, her face contorting with the effort, like steel that had been heated white hot. “But I’m sure it won’t be too long now.”
“Not attempting to prove it wasn’t under your orders, then?” Sethlon didn’t seem the least bit surprised by Hestia’s confession to wanting her husband dead.
“Of course it wasn’t me.” She smiled, a thin sliver of cold steel, which looked as if it could cut a man in two. Pouchii watched her face intensely. “If it was, you would have found the body by now, and I would be free to remarry.”
“I suppose so.”
“Who’s your gawking friend, then? Manservant?” Hestia didn’t even turn her metallic eyes on the DCI. They stayed fixed, rather haughtily, on her brother.
“No, this is DCI Pouchii. He’s with the police.” Sethlon explained.
“Ah, yes.” She smiled at her brother, that same, sharpened smile. “And how much does he charge to halt investigations into certain individuals?”
“I do not accept bribes, Lady Masala.” Pouchii spoke for the first time, his voice clear and almost as icy as Hestia’s.
“My dear DCI,” Her face turned to him, at last, her voice and eyes cutting like swords. “I would appreciate it if you did not call me by that hateful title. I do not wish to be associated with my late husband.”
“And I would appreciate it if you did not associate me with bribes.” He matched her glare with easy coolness.
“Deal, Malcolm.” She spoke more warmly now, but the edge still hovered in her mannerism. “Find my husband’s body; that is all I ask.”
“And if he isn’t dead?”
“Then remedy it.” She turned, and her body sliced a path through air and crowds alike, creating a small backwash as she did so.
“I should have warned you about my sister.” Sethlon didn’t speak until a good few minutes had passed as she swept away.
“No need.” Pouchii tore his eyes away from the crowd she had disappeared into, and turned back to the lord. “So, Erodium?”
“Yep,” Sethlon nodded. “We need to get on our jumpcraft.”
“When’s it leave?”
“It’s the Sethlon private jumpcraft. It leaves when I say.”
“I hope that couldn’t be misconstrued as a bribe?”
“I’m sure it couldn’t. Anyway, you’ve already done accepted loads of free carriage rides and my services as an interviewer, so if I was the murderer, then you’d already be guilty of being bribed. Another trip can’t hurt.”
“Is that meant to reassure me?” Pouchii grinned, and followed Sethlon across the arrivals hall, and through a second marble gateway, onto the tarmac of the landing strip. Planes taxied around, propellers spinning, and canvas sides creaking.
A steward in a reflective jacket led them over the surface without saying a word. One look at a Sethlon was enough to ensure obedience from practically anyone. They headed over to a large shed, filled with complex machinery and a spectacularly rust-free jumpcraft, formed of a sleek, sword-like design, so that it would cut through space with ease. Even as they approached, men were filling it with fuel grade obsidite from great tanks nearby, using winding black tubing with extreme care – any leakage would be a catastrophe, not just financially, as the corrosive liquid could eat through flesh as easily as butter.
A man stood by, checking connections, and rapping the body work to ensure it was safe – it rung like a bell as he did so. As Pouchii and Sethlon approached, he turned to meet them.
“My lord,” He bowed slightly before Sethlon. “I hear you wish to fly to Erodium at once.”
“That is correct, pilot.” The lord nodded, imperiously. “You will launch as soon as tests have confirmed that the craft is ready.”
“It is ready now, my lord. If you would kindly board, I will commence flight at once.”
“Good.” Sethlon passed him, with Pouchii in his wake, and climbed a small set of steps to the main body of the craft, passing two giant pipes on the back. The engine exhausts. Soon the air coming out of them would be hot enough to vaporise anything that dared to stand behind them.
They finished the short climb, and entered through a doorway which was at least four foot thick. Nothing was getting through that. At least, not in a hurry.
The interior was plush, with black and gold fabrics lining it, and adorning the seats. The Sethlon colours, Pouchii thought. This clearly was a Sethlon private jumpcraft. No-one else would dare to be quite so bold with their colour scheme.
They were followed on by two Sethlon guards, bedecked in tabards of black and gold, and with swords of the finest quality hanging from their belts. They wore lightweight metal caps on their heads, and had hard expressions engraved on their faces.
“Sir Cralton, and Sir Marquel. Both very loyal retainers of the Sethlon household. I trust them with my life.” Sethlon introduced them with a wave of his hand. “Sirs, this is DCI Pouchii. I trust him as I trust you.”
They both nodded their heads in way of greeting. Not too vigorously, though.
“Well, I suppose we should belt ourselves in.” Sethlon sat and, with his hands trembling slightly, did up the large strap restraints that stopped people being smashed against the walls of the jumpcraft when it flew. Pouchii did the same, with a cool indifference, and Sir Cralton and Sir Marquel sat behind them, placing their swords to the side from their belts, to avoid them being caught on the straps in flight, before strapping themselves in.
Sethlon pressed himself up against the very back of the seat. It wasn’t the thought of being fired at several billion miles an hour that scared him. It wasn’t the thought that the craft might just disintegrate in outer space, and they would never be seen again. It wasn’t even the thought that the obsidite fuelled engines might explode and burn them all to hell. It was more the unnatural jumping, juddering sensation which pounded through the brain, the heart, even his sword arm – usually so steady.
Next to him, Pouchii leant his head back and relaxed. He was aware of the multitude of ills which might blast the craft and its inhabitants on to the next life, but he had always been of the opinion that there was little point in living life in constant terror. Pouchii knew he would die one day. If it was this one, at the very least he wasn’t going to die trembling in fear.
The intercom blared open, with the voice of the pilot.
“This is your captain speaking. You are instructed to remain seated at all times during flight, and to only remove your safety belts if instructed. Please obey closely any commands quickly and without question. If we do hit a spot of trouble, there is very little I can do about it, so please remain calm and do not panic if I tell you we have hit fatal turbulence. I for one don’t want to die with you lot screaming in the back.”
Sethlon closed his eyes tightly.
“Right then, without further delay, we shall commence launch.”
Beneath them, the jumpcraft started to rumble forwards, slowly and sedately. Then, it must have reached the runway, because the vast obsidite engines opened up to half throttle, and the craft was sent howling forwards, slowly being forced upwards towards the sky. It twisted in mid-air, and the inhabitants of the shuttle were blasted backwards in their seats, hearts racing, as the craft tilted to become horizontal. Sethlon’s fingertips dug into the leather armrests, nearly tearing them to shreds.
In a few seconds they had reached the atmosphere. With a final push on the accelerator, the craft burst the confines of earth and burst out into the four universes.
The effect on the inhabitants was instant. The safety belts squealed in protest as they became weightless, and both knights behind Sethlon and Pouchii reached to steady their swords, as they threatened to float away.
Now the craft stabilised, and swayed slightly as the course was set Mach
ines bleeped, and they spun like the needle in a compass as the computers pointed them towards Erodium.
And then they jumped. All were thrown bodily back in their seats, as the roar filled their very being. The ship swayed as it blasted forwards at minutely close to impossible speeds. Sethlon groaned. It seemed to last a lifetime, as they smashed through nothing, with nothing to stop them crashing straight into something, nothing to stop them bursting out of the realms of the living.
And then it stopped. They were thrown forwards now, the belts almost snapping in protest. And they were still, as if in the eye of a storm.
“How many more jumps have we got?” Sethlon moaned, his eyes so tightly shut not even a single photon of light could reach them.
“Forty jumps to Erodium.” The pilot sounded strangely chirpy. “That was one. Work it out for yourself.”
Sethlon moaned again, and then they were roaring again, blasting forwards, howling through nothingness, breaking every barrier there was.
Forty jumps took them just over half an hour. A short trip, to Pouchii. Hell, Lord Sethlon. When they were slowing down for one last time, Pouchii turned to the lord.
“You can open your eyes again, my lord. We’re here.”
“Really? I thought we’d been jumping far too long. You mean we haven’t reached some godforsaken planet in the middle of nowhere that no-one in all the four universes wants to visit?”
Pouchii paused before speaking.
“You did want to go to Erodium, didn’t you?”
“Fair point. I suppose it is a little out of the way.”
Then the craft was descending, crashing through the atmosphere, going into a dead drop, and then, even as Sethlon started to panic that they’d never pull up in time to miss the ground, the craft levelled out, clunking down onto tarmac and skidding into a final halt.
Pouchii calmly undid his belt and stood, stretching, enjoying the feeling of being stationary. He saw Sir Cralton, and Sir Marquel Standing behind him, both buckling on their swords, and sliding black robes over their black and gold tabards. Marquel approached the DCI and gave him a robe, in turn.
“We can’t have you walking the streets of Erodium in your police uniform. You wouldn’t last five minutes.”
“And in this I will?”
“You’ll last ten minutes, if you’re lucky.” He handed Pouchii a sword. “With this belted on, hopefully any assassin will think you’re a little difficult to kill for fun and leave you be.”
Behind them, Sethlon stood, pulling a cowled cloak over his shoulders and head, and belting his great sword over the top. The four looked very conspicuous in Pouchii’s view – what sort of person wears a black hooded cloak on the street? But he knew full well that he had no choice but to trust Sethlon. After all, the lord was nearing fifty, which was impressive for a Saliman aristocrat. Most got assassinated before thirty.
And then the side door to the compartment swung open, and the sights, smells and sounds of Erodium filled their every orifice.
Pouchii retched.
The howling, acidic winds lashed the dampened streets of hunchback houses, plaster hanging from the walls and mud clustering like lice in the gutters.
And the smell. Pouchii had never sensed anything like it. It seemed strangely like that in a morgue, crossed with the stench of wet marshes. At present it was slightly masked by the fumes of burnt obsidite wafting around the jumpcrafts exhausts, so it seemed likely that it would get worse. Pouchii didn’t relish that moment.
“The sights and smells of Erodium,” Sethlon glanced at Pouchii’s expression. “Nothing quite compares, they say. Except death row.”
“This is what death row smells like?” Pouchii wrinkled his nose. “Thank Rosium Saliman’s given up the death penalty.”
“Quite.”
“So where are we going?”
“I think we should try to start by asking around my contacts, to see if any of them have heard anything about our friend the viscount.”
“So…”
“Down into the city.” Sethlon gestured. “Towards the assassin’s district.”
Pouchii’s eyes followed his pointed finger. His sight soared over the entirety of the city, over its squalid slums and graveyards, past the occasional spire which rose from the rooftops, all crooked and warped, over rotting gardens and into a small pocket of nowhere, to where a turret rose from the ruin of a factory, a sick parody of the white spire that shone from Salimans heart.
“And that is…”
“The Assassin’s Palace.” Sethlon spat the words. “Only one man would dare to live there. The Assassin King, who stands proudly in his decomposing home, his vile breath tainting all around him.”
“You know him then?”
“Of course. I’ve sold him the odd sword or two.” Sethlon grinned. “You’ve got to take the profits where they come.”
“You’ve got no morals, have you?”
“Of course we have,” Sethlon descended the steps onto the fading tarmac. “The Sethlons left politics years ago. Since then we’ve been almost saint like, compared to most aristocrats.”
“And before then?”
“It was us ordering the murders, not selling the weapons for the murders. Big difference.” Sethlon turned as his two knights and Pouchii gathered at the bottom of the steps. “Right, a few rules about Erodium. If I say run, we run. But don’t split up. If you leave me, you’re as good as dead. Ignore anyone who tries to talk to you. They’re either suicidal, or assassins. And don’t say a word to anyone, not even each other. Leave the talking to me. It’s a darn sight safer. Clear?”
All three nodded their heads carefully, without saying a word. Sethlon laughed, and led them off the runway into an arrivals hall bedecked in marble. It was completely empty, with not a soul in sight apart from a little man in an official looking uniform.
“Sirs, can I guide you around our bounteous city?” He had a clipped Windian accent, which sounded as if a good gust would blow it away.
Sethlon walked straight passed him without saying a word. He knew an assassin’s trick when he saw one. The little man would walk them straight into a dark alleyway, before scampering off, leaving them to a hail of crossbow bolts. It was one the citizens of Erodium had been doing for centuries. Which was why so few tourists passed through the glass gates between the airport and the city.
“Are you sure, sirs? I am very cheap.” The little blighter was persistent, Sethlon gave him that.
“Heftun off.” Short and to the point. Something even someone as thick as the guide should understand. He accompanied it with a little loosening of his sword in its scabbard. The man got the message and scampered out of the way.
They stepped out of the glass doors, out into the half-light of Erodiums dim sun. The Central Way stretched before them, the cobbles glistening with the rainfall. The water made Pouchii’s eyes sting, and he pulled up the hood on his cloak. The two knights and Sethlon followed suit. Sethlon walked quickly but firmly, and the others followed.
On their left, the palace of the governors of Erodium reared above the houses. It glimmered slightly, its proud turrets and thick walls concealing a cowering ruler. They strolled on with haste, past other people walking, all with the black hooded robe that seemed to be some sort of national dress. All hid their faces as they passed, and Sethlon didn’t give them a second glance. Only by the time the fifth figure had dashed past them in the rain did he speak.
“There are far too many people out on the streets today.” He frowned. Then realisation struck him. “It’s a Saturday, isn’t it? Market day.”
“Markets? Here?” Pouchii snorted.
“Quiet.” Sethlon didn’t even glance at Pouchii. “Yes, there are markets here. It’s just they’re not exactly the usual sort.”
Out of the rain came a battered collection of stalls, each covered with a striped covering. Striped black and white, that was. People milled around talking, money was changing hands, but there didn’t seem to be any goods on
offer.
“This market,” Sethlon seemed to have read his mind as he spoke. “Deals in goods of an altogether different sort. Welcome to the Market of Death.”
Pouchii could see it now. Swords and daggers glittered at every hip, and the hissing Windian accents competed for trade in slithering shouts.
“Two deaths for one! Get rid of the whole family in one easy payment! Only with Caltro Funeral Advisors!”
“Want a stylish end? There’s only one place you can go. The Establishment!”
“Want death at the peak of life? The Mountaineers are the assassination centre for you!”
Sethlon led them straight into the market. They passed stall after stall, each with a smiling manager, and a few with an example of their work slumped on the stall table. Pouchii shuddered.
The Viscount Connection Page 5
