Taziri said, “Chaou got off, but the major didn’t. I guess we have to trust that the major is still following her. The only alternative is that he’s lost or dead.”
“Dead? Him? That seems pretty unlikely.”
They began walking back toward the field where the Halcyon waited. Taziri said, “I think we need to stop playing cat-and-mouse with the ambassador. We’re just wasting time now. We’ll go to Arafez so Kenan can turn Hamuy over to the marshals and organize a proper search party.”
“What about the Espani doctor?” Ghanima glanced at her. “Are you turning that over to the marshals too?”
Taziri wiggled her numb fingers. “No. That’s something I have to see to myself.”
“It’s not your fault, you know,” Ghanima said. “Other people took your idea and did bad things with it. That makes them the bad guys, not you.”
“Yeah, I know but…after all those other articles shot down my battery design, I decided to put my notes in the university archive anyway. I figured that someone else might want to see my work. Maybe they could come up with something better.” Taziri squeezed her left hand into a fist. “And I wanted the copy fees. It’s only ten percent, but it’s better than nothing. I had this fantasy that hundreds of other students would buy the copies and fix my battery design and I’d make enough to buy a bigger house.” She shook her head. “I was so stupid. Only one person ever bought the notes. I guess now we know who.”
Ghanima shrugged. “It’s still not your fault that bad people are doing bad things. You need to get over it.”
Taziri nodded to herself. “I’ll try.”
Chapter 20. Syfax
Cicadas creaked on both sides of the canal, filling the forest with a soft white noise that throbbed like an arboreal heart beat. Syfax jogged along the canal wall, never slowing, never stumbling, just putting one foot in front of the other and waiting for something to appear around the next bend. The first lock appeared in the distance and he approached it cautiously, waving to catch the attention of the two older women in the control house. They said the ferry had passed by more than half an hour ago, so Syfax wobbled across the top of the lock gates to the north side of the canal and jogged on.
The second lock appeared suddenly around a sharp bend as the major pushed through some thick branches that tried to shove him back into the dark water below. The lock operators were a young man and a young woman who exchanged nervous smiles a little too often, and Syfax was about to hurry on after they reported the ferry was over an hour ahead of him when the woman said, “You know, you’re probably better off taking the road.”
Syfax glanced around at the thick forest pressing close along the sides of the canal. “What road? A road to Nahiz?”
“Oh no, the road to Khemisset. I mean, there’s nothing in Nahiz. You’re not actually trying to go to Nahiz, are you?”
“No, I’m trying to catch up to someone on the ferry.”
“Oh?” A momentary frown of confusion darkened her smile. “That’s…different.” She suppressed a giggle. “You couldn’t get a horse?”
“I fell off the damn ferry,” he barked.
She flinched and her young man glared at him. “Hey, she was just trying to help. Unless your friend is actually going to Nahiz, then he’ll probably be in Khem long before you catch the ferry. You should just take the path up to the road.” He pointed roughly at the dirt track running perpendicular to the canal up into the trees. “It’s an easy hike. An old lady went up it earlier.”
“What old lady?” Syfax glanced at the path as though expecting to see someone on it.
“Some old lady got off the ferry and took the path up to the road. I told her she was crazy, but she said she would catch the stage coach from Chellah, and I said whatever, and she hasn’t come back yet so I guess she caught the coach. Or she’s walking to Khem.” The young man scowled and went back into the lock operator’s house.
“What did this lady look like?”
The woman shrugged. “Old. Short. Fancy shoes. Little earrings.” She shrugged again and followed her friend inside.
Syfax clenched his fist as his mind raced back to the Phoenician tomb, and the warehouse, and the ferry. Yes, Chaou had worn fancy shoes. “Thanks.” He resettled his bundled coat over his shoulder and plunged into the forest, scrambling up the winding track and hoping that he didn’t plant a naked foot on anything meaner than an acorn.
After twenty minutes of crashing about in the shadows of the trees, he stumbled out into the sunlight at the edge of a grassy field and just a stone’s throw away he saw the broad dirt road running west to east up into the hills.
“How the hell did I end up barefoot in the middle of nowhere?” he muttered. Not seeing anything or anyone on the road, he turned right and set off for Khemisset. “And where’s that damn airship when I need it? There’s plenty of room for it to land out here.”
As the afternoon descended into evening and the major climbed into the hill country outside Khemisset, he saw the grape and olive arbors in the distance. By the time he arrived in the outskirts of the city, the sun was a crimson glimmer on the edge of the world and a sharp chill rode the westerly wind. Syfax trudged straight down the main thoroughfare, ignoring the occasional stares of the people sitting outside their front doors or shuffling home from the factories. He had only been to Khemisset twice before, and briefly each time. Everything looked the same, like every other town in the hills. Frowning, Syfax grabbed the arm of a passing man and asked, “Where does the stage coach from Chellah usually drop folks off?”
The man flinched and jerked his arm away. “Over there.” He pointed up the street at a small square around an old stone well. A single horse was tied to the post there.
“Thanks.” Syfax pulled the stiff bundle of cloth off his aching shoulder, slipped his belt back around his waist, and shook out his damp coat before pulling it on. It weighed twice what it should and stank slightly, but still looked like a marshal’s uniform and that was all that mattered. He marched up to the horse by the well. “Who’s running this operation?”
A middle-aged woman leaning over the well straightened up and nodded. “That’s me. You looking for the coach? It’ll be back in half an hour or so, and then we’ll be doing the evening trip to Port Chellah. You can wait here if you want.”
“I don’t care about the coach. I’m looking for the old lady you picked up on the road.”
The woman’s expression soured. “You a marshal?”
“Major Zidane. Where’s the woman?”
The woman shrugged. “Siman’s dropping her off in town.”
“Where?”
“Ibis Square. The Othmani house.”
“Of course it is.” Syfax grimaced. Only one of the wealthiest families in the whole damned country.
It took more than half an hour to find Ibis Square and Syfax saw the coach heading back to the well long before he got there. Another curbside interrogation of a weary pedestrian pointed him to the massive colonnaded estate house. The courtyard gate was open.
The major pounded on the door and wiggled his muddy toes on the doormat. The girl who answered the door wore a white apron over her gray dress and a weary expression on her young face. She winced at the sight of his feet. “Yes, sir?”
“I’m here to see Ambassador Barika Chaou. Older gal, about so tall.” He held out his hand palm-down. “Probably just arrived.” He peered over the girl’s head into the foyer and the hall beyond it.
“Yes, sir. If you will please wait here, I will speak to the lady of the house.” The maid started to close the door.
Syfax planted a dusty hand against the polished wood. “Nah, I think I’m going to claim a little probable cause and just invite myself in.” He padded across the threshold, across the cold tile floor, across the plush Persian carpets. Each sensation was ten thousand times better than the ten thousand steps that had carried him there from the wall of the canal. “Nice place. Where is she? In here?” He stomped through the di
ning room past a twenty-foot table beneath a three-tiered chandelier, past the entrance to the kitchen and into a warmly lit sitting room with half a dozen armchairs and lounges arranged around a massive iron fireplace decorated with dancing dragons breathing iron flames into wreathes of iron flowers. The fire was roaring and Syfax slowed as he plunged into the wave of dry hot air.
A rather young woman sat by the fire in a richly upholstered chair, a leathery old thing, massive and padded, that creaked just enough to declare it an antique but not enough to be intrusive. The table at her elbow was hand-carved teak with a marble disk inlaid in its top. A brass lamp adorned with endless filigrees and scrollwork glowed warmly on it. The woman wore a silk robe and slippers woven somewhere in the far east, and a heavy silver necklace of pagan knot-work from some barbarous place to the north, and on the bridge of her nose perched her gold-rimmed spectacles, undoubtedly crafted by the most skilled optometrist in Marrakesh.
“Can I help you, officer?” she said.
Syfax glanced down at the empty chair in front of him. “So are you hiding her, or did she slip out the back? Because I gotta tell ya, I just walked most of the way from Chellah this afternoon and I’m really tired of chasing people.”
“I don’t know who you mean, officer.” She frowned at his feet. “I’m Dona Fariza Othmani, president of the Othmani Mills Corporation. I’m sorry, what service are you with? Ordinarily I might recognize your uniform, but ordinarily our public servants are properly attired, I believe.”
Dona, eh? I guess if you can’t inherit a title, you can always buy one from España. He said, “Major Zidane, marshal. And yeah, the smarmy-rich-lady act isn’t going to impress me. Barika Chaou sat in this chair less than a quarter of an hour ago.” He pointed at the dusty seat and dirty scuff marks on the rug in front of it. “So is she still in the house or not?”
Dona Othmani turned her head ever so slightly to the side and called out, “Cyrus? Would you come in here, please?”
Syfax watched the huge man enter at the far end of the room. Cyrus wore a dark gray suit and a pair of dark tinted glasses, and a set of brass knuckles on each hand. The major grinned. “Well, I have to hand it to you, miss, you’re a heck of a decorator. Persian carpets with a matching Persian bodyguard? Classy.” He yanked his broad knife from his belt and let the thick-necked bruiser close the distance.
Cyrus jogged the last few feet and swung a brass-plated fist at the major’s face. Syfax dashed inside his reach so they were almost chest to chest and he slammed his palm up into the Persian’s chin as he buried his knee in the man’s groin. Cyrus fell forward, sliding off Syfax’s shoulder on his way to the floor. The major backhanded the man in the ear as he fell for good measure. Then Syfax knelt, slashed the man’s belt in half, and helped himself to the Persian’s tinted glasses and one of the brass knuckles. “Nice party favors. And as long as I’m here, I think I’ll take a little look around.” He stood up, blinking at the dark blue world through his new glasses.
The young woman stood up sharply from her chair. “Major, this is a private residence. If you do not leave immediately, I assure you that you will be stripped of your rank and thrown in a military prison by the end of the week.”
“Coming from you, that’s actually a fair threat. But I’ve got a killer to catch and the worst thing the brass will do to me is toss me back in the army. Last chance. Where’d you stash her? Upstairs in a bedroom? Out back in the shed? Wine cellar? I’m happy to go room to room myself.” He stepped over the Persian, who had vomited a little on the carpet and was now rising to all fours. “Down, boy.” Syfax kicked the man’s arm out and his face crashed into the leg of the table beside Othmani’s chair. Her tea sloshed in its porcelain cup.
Dona Othmani huffed. “Yes, major, Barika Chaou was here. Briefly. As you observed, she was filthy and I did not allow her to stay here more than a few minutes. She left by the kitchen door just before you arrived and I have no idea where she might be going.”
“What did you talk about?” Syfax wandered over to a tall vase displayed on the mantel above the crackling fire. The heat was blistering to his skin but soothing to his aching back. He placed one finger on the lip of the vase and gently began tipping it forward.
“She was babbling, clearly in some sort of distress. Whatever it was, it was none of my concern and I did nothing to warrant any damage to that antique vase, major.”
Syfax held the vase at a precarious angle above the stone ledge at the base of the fireplace. If Chaou really did slip out, she could be anywhere, but if she’s still in the house then I can wrap this up right here. “What did she say, exactly?”
Cyrus picked himself up off the floor, his legs spread a little too wide, and one hand clutching his jaw. He needed his other hand to hold up his trousers, which had slipped down to his knees as the two halves of his belt flopped out from his belt loops. The Persian looked at his mistress and indicated the marshal with a sharp nod, but she waved him back with a pained frown as she said, “Barika said there had been some trouble in Tingis. I can only imagine she meant the explosion at the train station. I cut her off. I told her I did not wish to know her affairs and would not render her any assistance.”
“Tough break for her. Funny that she thought she might get some help from you, though. How do you know Barika Chaou, exactly?”
“I saw her regularly at various state dinners, festivals, and conferences among people of means and influence. But we had no particular relationship. I was, as I said, quite shocked to learn of the allegations against her regarding the Tingis matter, and I was equally shocked when she appeared in my home here this evening. I take it she is in fact guilty?”
“Yeah.”
“Ah.” Dona Othmani looked genuinely concerned for a moment. “A tragedy for all involved, without question.”
“Mostly for the people she killed, and their families.” Syfax kept both eyes on the Persian hulking behind her. “So you run Othmani Mills from here? Aren’t your factories all in Arafez?”
“Technically, I’ve retired. As president, I’m really just a figurehead for the company.”
“Aren’t you a little young to be retired?”
Dona Othmani smiled. “Yes, but I’m already the wealthiest woman in the province. I have taken residence here permanently. More time for the children and my reading. It’s quite nice not to be squinting at balance sheets and ledger books, inspecting factories, arguing with foremen, and breathing in their stink. Ikelan trash.”
“My grandmother was Ikelan,” Syfax said as he took his finger away and let the vase shatter on the brick hearth. “Oops.”
The lady glanced at the hand-painted shards on the floor and sniffed. “Then I’m sure you appreciate the dissolution of the caste system much more than I do. This country has changed too much, too quickly.”
“Funny. Your friend Chaou said something just like that to me today.”
“Whatever fringe political views I express are reflections of my birth, major, not my aspirations. Barika Chaou is a grasping little woman who thinks that running errands to the Silver Prince makes her someone of importance,” said Dona Othmani, her eyes narrowing and voice falling to a lower register. “If you really want to find her, just find the governor of Arafez. If Barika is in some sort of trouble, she’ll go scampering back to her mistress for help sooner rather than later. I don’t know what Lady Sade sees in her, but I’ve seen Barika at more than a few suppers at her estate. Are we finished now, major?”
Syfax studied the Persian’s drooping pants and the broken vase at his feet. I’ve probably pushed my luck about as far as it will go here. “Yeah, we’re done. Thanks for your time. I’ll see myself out.”
Outside, the small city of Khemisset was settling down for the evening as the streetlamps sputtered to life and the streets emptied. Down every lane, the smells of supper crept out from the homes of thousands of exhausted men and women. Syfax shuffled back to the well on his aching, raw feet and found the middle-aged woman he
had spoken to just swinging up into the saddle of her horse. She told him he had missed the coach back to Port Chellah, but also that the only passengers had been men. She also pointed him across town to another well where the stage coach to Meknes and Arafez usually parked.
By the time he found the other well, the night sky stretched overhead in full black and silver bloom. Their suppers finished, the locals began appearing on the front steps outside their homes to talk to their neighbors. A few men sang an old love song as the marshal trudged by, and later he passed a woman playing a lullaby on her flute. There was no one at the other well, but an elderly man sitting nearby confirmed that the stage coach to Meknes had indeed left around sunset.
“Passengers?” Syfax asked.
“Four or five, it seemed.”
“An older woman in black, gold, and green?”
“Yes,” he said. “I believe there was.”
Syfax trudged into the nearest teahouse and spent the next half hour eating with his dirty, bloody feet propped up on the chair across from him and demanding to know where he could get a horse and a pair of boots so late in the evening.
Chapter 21. Taziri
As the sun sank into the ocean, the Halcyon hovered above the flickering lights of the Arafez airfield. Unlike the field in Tingis with its massive hangars by the shore, here the landing area was an open space ringed with a towering brick wall that not only kept the wild street winds of the city at bay but ensured that a runaway airship would never go farther than the edge of the field. It also cast an impressive shadow, making nighttime landings even more challenging. Taziri thumped her thumbs on the throttles, peering down at the dark landing zone and the tiny figure of the field master waving her lanterns. “We’re cleared to land.”
After a slow descent through a few rough gusts, Taziri planted the ship safely within the field walls and began shutting everything down. Everyone else was stretching and groaning and muttering about food and bed, but Taziri had to meet with the field master, finish her paperwork, and watch the sleepy-eyed ground crew fumbling with the Halcyon’s moorings.
Halcyon (The Complete Trilogy) Page 16
