by Jordan Reece
“And Morgan?”
“Morgan Kodolli is a vice-president of Agrea. Married and with two children, both of who are now in their twenties. It makes sense that this family would be mentioned in the papers for attending performances. I looked into their charitable contributions and there are several playhouses that benefit from them. Then I pulled up the papers in the cities where they’re located and yes, the Kodolli name comes up here and there, especially on Benefactors’ Nights, where a special dinner and performance is thrown in honor of the people who donate large amounts of money. Torrus Kodolli attends often. Not every one, of course, since he’s constantly traveling between his offices. It’s not evidence of anything, but it’s reasonable to assume this could be the man that Tallo Quay was chasing.” Scoth dribbled the melted drops at the bottom of the bowl onto his spoon to consume those as well.
“Kodolli could be very bitter at Kyrad Naphates still,” Jesco said, stringing it together as he spoke. “And Tallo Quay could have known that from living in her home as an escort. He could have heard her talking about Kodolli, and other mine owners who were angry with her for how the industry changed. And when she angered Tallo, he went snooping and found out who in Parliament was secretly helping her business along. Would that information be valuable to Kodolli?”
“They get voted in,” Scoth said. “Know your enemies and then pull every dirty political trick you can to get them voted out. Or simply go to the press and accuse them of slipping her favors on the sly. Ruin reputations, start investigations . . . yes, I can see how Quay would think he was holding the jackpot in those names. And what did he want for himself? He wanted an acting career. Ivan Camso has no connection to the theater, but Kodolli! Who better to approach than Torrus Kodolli, married to a former actress, the father of a current actress, and with a possible grudge against Naphates? Sadly for Quay, Kodolli is a very hard man to track down.”
“Did you look up what play it could be?”
“I searched for tragedies that don’t get put on very often. I wish Merlie Jonkins could have been more specific. But I did find, at Luthen Playhouse, a run of Scarred Crest. That fits the bill, if you pardon the pun. It’s a famous play, but it’s run only twice in the last ten years. It was playing in autumn three years ago. Merlie said Quay took his coat and gloves because it was getting cold. I thought she meant the showing was at night, but perhaps she meant the time of year. It was mentioned in the Cantercaster-Oftow News that Torrus Kodolli would be attending the Benefactors’ Night. There was a long list of benefactors printed on the back page of the community section. His wife wasn’t mentioned, but I learned from another source that she is an invalid. Her health is poor, and she stays in their island home. The warmth does her well.”
The dining hall had cleared out considerably while they talked. Only two women were left at a far table, one casting admiring glances to Scoth. “Do you know where Torrus Kodolli is now?” Jesco asked.
“I do, in fact. He’s in Somentra currently, up in the hills miles away where he rents space in Cable Holding. We’ll be going to his office tomorrow, unless you have somewhere else to be.”
“Still, nothing in this connects to Hasten Jibb. Anyone could have lost a timepiece there. We’re only assuming it has something to do with the body.”
“What are the odds that not one but two people went down that alley in Poisoners’ Lane, and at roughly the same time?”
“Does Torrus Kodolli own a home in Melekei? Or anywhere on the route that Jibb would have taken that day to get home?”
Deflating a little, Scoth said, “No. But this is the only lead we have. The only other piece that’s new to this is what a courier saw on the road Jibb was taking home.”
“You didn’t tell me about that.”
“I had flyers put up around Melekei and in the streets around his home, asking the public for information. A response came in just this morning. I stopped at the station before I went to research and found a letter on my desk. A courier from another company, Stanley Moss of Post on Wings, claims that he saw Hasten Jibb in late afternoon picking up his bicycle off the side of the road in that stretch of farm country outside Melekei. He slowed and asked if Jibb was all right, and Jibb said that he’d hit a rock going too fast on his way to Chussup and went flying. But the bicycle was undamaged, and Jibb wasn’t hurt. Landed in tall, thick grass and that cushioned it. Moss rode on and left him behind, picking up the packages that had fallen out of his satchel.” Scoth shrugged. “Nothing queer about that, and there wasn’t even a bruise from it on Jibb’s body the next day. Moss said there’s a sharp, pebbly turn there that he’s taken too fast himself, and nothing was amiss about the scene, so he’d forgotten all about it until he saw the flyer. Maybe Jibb was embarrassed about the fall, so he wasn’t in good spirits when he got home.”
“But what were the packages?” Jesco wondered. “He had already taken the whirly-gigs to that old woman and that was his last delivery of the day.”
Scoth’s mouth flapped wordlessly. As a kitchen worker came out to wipe down the tables, Gavon returned and said, “Do you want a roll to your room?”
“I’ll roll him!” Scoth said almost in a yell, ripping the pad of paper from his pocket and flipping through the pages rapidly. “Why the hell did Jibb have packages at that point? He had taken the lord’s jewels to the bank hours before and Mrs. Cussling didn’t mention giving him anything to deliver.” He came to the page where he had copied down the letter from the courier. “‘He was unharmed, not even a tear to his trousers at the knees, from landing in that river grass. There’s no river there but the grass grows thick and soft as a pillow.’”
“Because they have to clean the tables now,” Gavon said obliviously.
“‘I left him collecting the little packages that had fallen out of his satchel and rode on,’” Scoth concluded. Stuffing the pad away, he stood up and came around the table for Jesco’s chair. At the last moment he remembered his hands, and swiped two napkins from another table to cover them. He pulled Jesco away and rolled him to the doorway.
“He was doing courier work on the side,” Jesco guessed, motioning to the hallway that led to his room. “Wassel said something about that. The company doesn’t approve of its couriers taking side jobs, but it’s hard to prevent. Jibb must have picked up those packages somewhere in his day.”
Scoth opened the door to his room and pushed him inside. Standing with care, Jesco used the desk and chair for support and made his way to the bed. He sat down and pulled up his legs one after another. Scoth rolled the chair to the wall and parked it there, saying, “You would have made a fine detective.”
“Thank you,” Jesco said.
“Are these all yours?” Scoth asked about the whirly-gigs.
“Yes. I love to collect them.”
Scoth bent down to take a look at one. “A sunner? I’ve never seen one of these up close. Is this the kind that gives you a dose of sunlight on cloudy days or winter months?” Jesco nodded. He didn’t fall into a slump with the reduced winter light like others did, but it had been enjoyable to take apart. Keeping his hands covered with the napkins, Scoth picked it up to inspect it. He bumped the controls on the side and the golden disc grew brighter.
“Just leave it,” Jesco said when the detective tried to turn it off. “It’ll go off on its own.”
Scoth set down the sunner, which was filling the room with an intense golden light. “There’s an annual whirly-gig convention over in Sprogue. Have you ever been to it?”
“No. I’ve never even heard about it.”
“Companies bring out their newest. So do individual inventors, most hoping to get picked up by a big funder. There are marvels, there’s junk, and everything in between. Contests and demonstrations and little tent shops, too. It takes place at the end of next month and lasts for a weekend. I was just about to send away for my ticket of admission.”
“That sounds like wonderful fun.”
“If I can get away, that is.”
“You can’t work all the time, Scoth. They walk with you, that’s true, but they can wait for a weekend to let you rest and recuperate.”
Scoth was looking directly into the sunner. The light radiated upon his handsome face and illuminated paler strands in his dark hair. Though it was not winter, something in the blaze was relaxing the detective, and he did not look away from it. “These cases,” he said ruefully. “These are the ones that get to me the most. People like Hasten Jibb. No one cared much when they were alive. No one cares much now that they’re dead. Someone should care. Someone should give them a little respect by finding out what happened. I’m the last stop for someone to care, and I’m just a stranger. If the captain had his way, Hasten Jibb would vanish into the cold files and no one would spare him another thought. When the captain’s got relatives weeping and wailing in his office, then the victim is important because other people deemed him so. But if the victim didn’t count to anyone, then he doesn’t count to Whennoth either.”
Scoth closed his eyes but kept his face turned to the sunner, letting the light beat through his lids. “It wasn’t a brother or cousin but a friend,” he said. “Back when we were boys. He was part of a frivolity circuit that went up and down the Razille in boats. They rarely went back to Lotaire. We got to be friends, he and I. They always stopped in Korval where there are fairgrounds. One of those people that you could not see for almost a year, and then pick up exactly where you left off. He was murdered when we were ten. And they never caught who did it. They never wrote to an asylum or a proper police station to see if they had a seer around. He was just another dark-haired Asqui brat on the circuit, and it was sad but . . .” He shrugged to show the lack of interest in pursuing the case.
“But he was much more than that to you,” Jesco said.
After a long, drawn-out breath within the beam of the sunner, Scoth said, “We just got on well, the two of us. Such good friends that we could finish each other’s sentences. His parents were dead, and he’d been taken in by the gamma. Usually circuits have a gamma or a gappa, an older person who minds the orphans. The gamma had eight or nine children to look after, too many to pay much attention to any one in particular. He had me, his summer buddy that he went swimming and fishing with, and I’d say I was the only one broken up about his murder. So sometimes it’s hard for me to see you do your work. Not you in a personal way, but any seer, that’s how I mean it. You could have given him some respect after he died, but none of you were there. No one sent for you. He didn’t count for enough. He wasn’t a businessman, or someone who lived in a big city where a seer is right at hand. He just vanished in pretty much every mind but mine.”
“What was his name?” Jesco asked.
The intensity of the light was fading, and Scoth glanced at him. “You would be the only one to ask that in the few times I’ve told the story. His name was Ramono, but he went by Ono. The Asqui word for zero. Even his name showed how he counted for nothing.”
“There were no leads on his case? Nothing at all?”
“I was supposed to meet up with him that day, but my mother had kept me behind for shirking my chores. I couldn’t leave until I finished them. A woman who’d gone to fish found Ono at the riverside, his upper body pushed into the water. It looked like he’d gotten into a fight, and someone held him under until he drowned. Towns like Korval don’t have official police like they do here. I’ve told you that. It’s just a bunch of privileged fools who like to wave clubs and homemade badges around to feel important. No witnesses, no motive, no interest, so no case. Now that I’m older, I have a better idea of what happened. There are different kinds of frivolity circuits. Some are a carnival of wonder, gymnasts flying through the air, wild animals jumping through burning hoops, and some are a carnival of contests. That was the kind Ono was on. Testing strength, speed, smarts, agility, luck, talents at singing and spelling and such. And some are racier. Do you know about those?”
“I’ve heard about them in passing.”
“They’re banned in most places. Sexual feats, orgies, there aren’t too many of those types of frivolity circuits and they’re smaller than the other kinds. But some people think every circuit is that sort, and that every Asqui there is going to entertain that way. All of them carry knives as a precaution, even the children. You might go the length of a carnival and never get propositioned, but you’ll never go the length of your life in a frivolity circuit and never have it happen to you. Ono was bothered for the first time when he was eight.”
“That’s terrible.”
“It’s disgusting, that’s what it is. I can’t stand when we’ve got someone in a cell at the station with those proclivities. Usually men, occasionally a woman, all of them waiting for trial and thinking it’s just fine and dandy to have an attraction to a child. Ono got propositioned at eight, and the summer he was ten, he’d had it happen by two men at different times. I remember him telling me about it. They were asking him how much for his body, showing coins and promising more, and getting mad when he said no. The first man was seventeen, which seemed quite old to two ten-year-old boys, and Ono said that his head was misshapen and he reeked. Some fellow out of the backwoods who had come to the carnival, that one, and he was going after all the boys and girls until a pair of Asqui men got him by the arms and threw him out of the fairgrounds. He sneaked back in days later, scooped up a little Asqui girl playing with her wooden animals, and tried to take her away. She was three years old.”
“Angels save us,” Jesco said, revolted.
“She screamed like the dickens in his arms and her grandmother, her mother, her aunts, and her older sisters came running. All of the women in that family worked the Ladies’ Strong-Arm contest, and Ono and I laughed and laughed about that. Nothing but muscle, the whole lot of them. They beat him bloody, dragged him out of the fairgrounds, and told him never to come back or they’d kill him. And I believe they would have. So he was the first man that summer going after Asqui children, and the second was a man we called The Marble for his shape. He was old enough to be balding and he took a real shine to Ono. Offering flowers like they were beaux, dice and toys, he came every day to the carnival with a new gift and pleaded with Ono to take a carriage ride with him, have a picnic somewhere. He was getting pushy, and frustrated when Ono kept saying no. Ono had taken to hiding from him.”
“You suspect that one of those two men followed him to the river on the day he died,” Jesco said.
“All Asqui children are taught to hold their own. I think there’s a fair chance that that’s what happened. A man followed him over there, Ono said no again, and they fought. But he was a child against a grown man, and he died in that fight. All a seer would have had to do was touch his clothing to know. But there was no seer, or anyone with the sense to save Ono’s clothing and write for one. There was just the mayor as the chief of police and his friends’ adult children for officers, and they let a murderer slip through their fingers since the person he killed was insignificant. Maybe . . . I always thought that maybe if I’d just done those chores when I was supposed to, I would have been there. One to one, Ono didn’t stand a chance. One to two, however . . . it might have ended differently.”
“It might have ended in both of you dying,” Jesco said as the sunner dimmed and turned off.
Scoth did not debate that with him. They had seen enough, both of them and in different ways, to know that that possibility was true. Bending down to the whirly-gigs, Scoth checked the weather-catcher. He said off-handedly, “I could get two tickets.”
“Two tickets?” Jesco repeated, lost in the change of subject.
“To the convention. If you’d have any interest.”
Astounded, Jesco tried to keep his voice even and equally off-handed. No man had ever asked him anywhere. “I might like that.”
“You’ll have to bring your sheets and spoons and things for the stay.”
Jesco gave up on his efforts at nonchalance and smiled, feeling as radiant as
the light from the sunner. “I can do that.”
“And don’t touch anything without your gloves on!” Scoth growled at him. “There’s going to be a side-hall on the second day for Science’s Greatest Failures. I want to see that one. I might enter my shoulder shooter in it sometime. And, just so you’re on alert, there are always protestors outside from the Church dressed up like angels to hand out tracts against science and call everybody demons for going in. They throw things now and then, eggs mostly, and last year it was their haloes.”
“I’m inured to being called a demon,” Jesco said. “It’s happened too many times before.”
A perturbed expression came over Scoth’s face, and he barked, “I’ll see you tomorrow.” He walked out the door and closed it behind him, leaving Jesco in a state of surprise and happiness upon his bed.
Chapter Nine
The city of Somentra was tucked away out of sight in the quiet green hills to the west. There was a lot of traffic on the main road from Cantercaster, and it only grew worse when they reached the foot of the hills. Scoth rerouted the autohorse to another road that wound through the trees. It was narrow and unpaved, at times running alongside deep slopes that ran down to a riverbed that was nearly dry. The river itself had been redirected. Now only trickles of water slipped between the rocks in the bed’s lowest point. Bright yellow birds splashed in the little puddles far below the road.
With the fall of industry in Wattling, some of it had moved to Somentra. Plumes of smoke rose into the air from the factories, dissipating in the wind. Those plumes were all the evidence of civilization that Jesco had until the road suddenly emerged from its green cover. Down in a valley was a sprawling city. The factories formed a necklace around the many lines of homes and shops, and the air was hazy from the swells of smoke. Chemical scents seeped into the carriage.
“I would not want to live here,” Jesco said.
“Nor I,” Scoth said. It had been a friendly ride between them, although most of what they spoke about was the case. “They don’t ever stop. Three shifts a day, each eight hours long. The factory doors never close and they breathe that smoke night and day.”
