I shake my head softly. “I’m perfectly well. And please, call me Gideon.”
She steps to me in a cloud of lavender and lemon and presses her lips to my cheek before snaking her arm through mine. “I’m elated you asked to see me so soon,” she beams at me, initiating a stroll.
“You’re my client,” I say with ineloquence, to which she laughs, a soft chime that perks me up.
I find myself looking over at her as she keeps steady pace with me, or rather, I keep steady pace with her. When she looks up at me, I quickly glance past her, to her cottage.
“Lovely,” I say, ambiguous as to what I refer.
She follows my gaze. “Thank you. It’s been years of work, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“Well, it makes my place look like a rusted-out bucket.”
“Nonsense!” She slaps my shoulder. “We all cultivate what we can, live how we choose. I like growing and tending to things, you like fixing and helping others. What you do, it takes more work and dedication to bear fruit.”
“I wouldn’t say that.” When she looks up at me, I admit, “I’ve killed more plants and flowers than a drought. Hence the patches of dirt in front of my place.”
“Maybe you just need a guiding hand.”
“Maybe.” I lean into her briefly and say, “Still, all that land, and only you to maintain it?”
She laughs and leans back into me. “If you are slyly asking if I have a certain someone in my life, the answer is no.”
I stammer, “I … that’s not—”
“It’s fine, Gideon. It’s fine. To be honest, I haven’t had anyone special in my life for quite a long while.”
There is a profound sadness in her voice that she can’t completely mask. I try lightening the mood by pointing out, “You had your grandfather.”
Only after the words came out do I realize my attempt to buoy her spirits center around the horrific murder of her only family member. I open my mouth to apologize but she replies before I can.
“Grandfather was a great man,” she says with a wistful tone.
“He was. Did you spend much time with him?”
“Yes, then no, then yes again.”
I make a questioning sound and she laughs.
“I’ll give you the quick of it,” she says, and draws a deep breath. “When I was a child, we all lived at Grandfather’s estate. Myself, Mother, Father. Then Mother passed when I was about nine, and soon after Father and Grandfather were at ends with each other. So, Father and I left, and came here to live.”
She waves a hand to the side. We’re just walking past the easternmost wall of her estate. Her neighbor has allowed the section of his land abutting hers to go to nature—scraggly trees, clinging vines, wild thorn bushes. Under any other circumstances, I would think nothing of the natural growth, but in stark comparison to Vayvanette’s cultivated land, it seems harsh and uninviting.
“What about your father?” I ask after a moment.
“He was killed during the Red Tide.”
The Red Tide. When the mind flayers and some of the local gangs went to war with each other. Many people died, most of them innocent bystanders. I played a role during Red Tide, a vital role. Something I try not to remember.
“That wasn’t a good time for anyone,” I say in weak consolation.
She asks what I dreaded she would. “You were around?”
I keep my tone guarded. “With the Watch, yes.”
“What happened? With the Watch, I mean. Why did you leave?”
I give her an honest answer while lying through my teeth. “On occasion, my partner and I didn’t see eye to eye. The Red Tide was the final hammer blow to our partnership.”
“Oh.” She hugs my arm tighter and whispers, “I’m sorry.”
I shrug to show her it’s gone and done. “And your grandfather?” I gently steer her back to the original conversation.
She snuggles closer around my arm. “After Father died, Grandfather reached out to me. Helped me keep the cottage afloat. I wasn’t much for knowing how to keep the orchards and vineyards as a business, so Grandfather taught me what he knew. He would even send Haurice over to ensure I knew how to keep the ledgers up to date. He is such a sweet man, that Haurice.”
Sweet is not how I would describe Haurice in one word. But, no need to let her know about that salted history; best to keep to the task at hand.
“It’s odd. Your grandfather never mentioned you. I never knew about you until the day you walked into my office.”
She takes a deep breath before answering. “I think he wanted to keep our relationship to himself. With all that our family went through, I don’t think either of us wanted to rush into trying to rebuild what we’d lost. It was kind of like starting anew, just Grandfather and I.”
There’s a small park up ahead with a public fountain and secluded paths through ancient oaks, and still arm-in-arm, we head that way.
After crossing the street, I ask, “What do you know of your grandfather’s work in his later years?”
“I don’t know, truly. He was always working on something.” Though I can’t see it, I can feel the smile on her face, hear it in her voice. “You do know he was the one who came up with the idea of telektrically sanitizing the water that’s stored belowground, under the College?”
I didn’t, actually. I know of the man-made aquifers deep underground, the biggest being under the College, but I’ve never even given thought about sanitizing the water. Water is water, right?
“The more I learn about Anderest, the greater he grows.”
“Yes,” she says, pride mixing with solemnity. “Grandfather did quite a lot for the people. Sometimes I wish … I wish he’d spent as much time and effort fixing the family as he spent on people he didn’t know.”
“That’s not entirely a bad thing,” I say. “His desire to help others.”
She surprises me by changing the beat and announcing, “That’s why I became a teacher.”
I swallow my confusion and ask, “Because of your grandfather?”
“Maybe it runs in the family,” she says. “Helping others. It’s in our blood, and there’s no denying something as strong as that.”
I cringe inside. I wish denying familial blood was a possibility. If it were, perhaps I wouldn’t have met Anderest, I wouldn’t have learned what I am. Then again, I wouldn’t be strolling along with a woman like Vayvanette Herchsten on my arm either.
You take the good with the bad, I suppose.
We reach the fountain and I offer her a seat on the weathered stones before joining her. A few children run about, playing a game with a stick and a rock, following rules that no doubt change by the minute. The soft murmur of the spilling water behinds us is punctuated by shrill chirps and chatters of birds and bushy-tailed rodents in the trees not too far off.
I glance at her, she catches me, and I quickly look down, to the small bandage on her arm.
“What happened?” I ask, trying to cover my embarrassment.
“This?” She lifts her arm and gives a self-deprecating laugh. “I was pruning the rose bushes. One of them fought back.”
“Ah,” I respond, never having had that problem. “Seems to me someone should find a way to breed a rose that doesn’t have thorns.”
“But a rose without thorns would not be as beautiful a flower, do you think? It just wouldn’t be a rose.”
“Then call it something else.”
She cants her eyes at me and smiles coyly.
I feel like I’ve got something stuck in my teeth. “What?” I ask.
“I take it you’re not much of a reader of the finer pieces of literature?”
“Unless it’s in the morning paper, then no.”
She pats my shoulder, folds her hands in her lap, and leans into me briefly before straightening back up to watch the children run about.
“Flowers,” I say after a few beats of confused silence.
Her face scrunches up. “Excuse me?”
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“Flowers,” I repeat. “You enjoy growing flowers.”
Her eyes become half-lidded and guarded. “Yes?”
I fear I’ve somehow offended her and explain, “That requires work. Hard work, doesn’t it?”
Her features lighten up. “Not all that much,” she says with humility.
“I noticed the irrigation system you have in place at your cottage. And near the barn, I saw what I could only assume was some sort of nursery. A nursery, but with shaded windows?”
She inclines her head. “Quite observant, Master Detective. Some plants and flowers will seed only in the dark.” She guides my eyes to the trees around us. “In the wild, they have generations of flowers and trees ahead of them, keeping them shaded and protected from the harsh sun until the day they mature and shoot toward the sky and begin to bloom.”
I look back at her. “And you nurture them until they are mature?”
“I do. Sometimes I think of them as my children. I spend all my time with them, hoping beyond hope that one day they will be strong enough to seek the sun and bloom for all to see.”
“Hoping?” I say. “They don’t always bloom?”
She gives a sad shake of her head. “Some of the flowers I grow are quite rare. My father, when he still traded with the ships that came in from around the world, would spend precious coin on seed and plants from faraway places. He’d bring them home and I would do my best to keep them thriving, to show him how much I appreciated his gifts.”
“And that’s why you always brought flowers to your grandfather every time you visited,” I say, seeing the connection.
As Anderest was gifted with flowers, I was gifted with something greater as Vayvanette smiles at me. “Your quick mind is something I forever will be jealous of.”
I don’t reply. I have no clue how to reply, contradicting her very statement, but reveling in the compliment nonetheless.
We enjoy the peace for a long while, watching the children run about, scraping knees and bruising elbows. I’m acutely aware of how close our thighs are as we sit there, only a finger’s breadth apart, and I take deep draws of her intoxicating scent. My arm aches to have her wrap herself up against it again.
“So,” she says, turning to me.
“So?” I say, turning to her.
“Your letter mentioned dinner of some sort. To talk about what you’ve found out about … about my grandfather’s murder.”
“Oh, yes.” I stand and offer a hand to her.
Pulling her up and back into my arm, I tell her, “We have a table at Julien Fareski’s early this evening.”
She stiffens, and justifiably so. “Are we taking a carriage? The neighborhood around Fareski’s is quite dangerous, is it not?”
“We’ll be fine,” I assure her. “That part of the Burroughs isn’t as lawless as many are led to believe. Julien Fareski has done well to keep his territory safe for any and all.”
The doubt shows on her face so I placate her further by adding, “Fareski’s place is neutral, Vayvanette. It’s why he can charge what he does for food and entertainment.”
She leans her cheek against my shoulder. “Very well. As long as you’re with me I guess I’ll be in good hands.”
I square my shoulders. “I promise, I’ll keep you out of trouble. No matter what.”
The way she melts into me nearly buckles my knees. Thank the gods that I manage to keep standing, let alone manage to start walking south.
12
DINNER … AND A SHOW
There’s more than one reason why I chose to walk through the Burroughs as opposed to hiring a coach. First off, the coin I’d spend on a reasonable horse-drawn carriage or turbine coach would be sorely missed, and dinner at Fareski’s is going to cost me plenty as it is. And secondly, with the sun still lingering about, I truly didn’t worry much for the worst of the ruffians to be a heavy presence.
Yet.
There was a third reason why I’d chosen to travel through the Burroughs in the open. One which I feel guilty about, but if I want to take the next step in this case, it’s a necessary action on my part. I just hope Vayvanette would see it my way if it my hopes are realized.
Like I told her, the northern section of the Burroughs isn’t as bad as people let on, provided that you know where you’re headed and don’t bandy about. Sure, many of the closely-built buildings are shells of their former selves. And yes, it could be said that a wrong turn down an unlit alley could leave a person lighter of coin or blood. The hourly ladies working the corners leave you well enough alone as long as you don’t linger in their territory and the mind flayers have a knack for knowing who’s who when looking for potential customers.
So all in all, nothing to be overly worried about. I do, though, make sure Vayvanette walks on my right side, keeping my left hip and six-spell unhindered.
We’re just passing under a byway, one of numerous wooden bridges common in the Burroughs that span the streets joining the second or third floors of the buildings to either side, little more than a scaffold held together more by roughly tied cloth than nails, when Vayvanette shivers in then encroaching chill.
I pull her in tighter. “One more block, and we’ll be able to see Fareski’s. They even have telektric lamps around the place.”
“I truly wish you had told me we were dining at Fareski’s before we had set out. I would have worn something much more suitable for the occasion. I don’t look half as good as I’d wish.”
“What you have on is fine. I mean, you look … You’re not …”
I shut my mouth when she pushes in tighter to me and whispers, “Thank you, kind sir. And you look dashing, as well.”
I cut my losses and don’t attempt to speak, lest I make myself out to be a blithering fool.
Our timing is nearly perfect, for as the sun begins to hide behind the buildings to our right we pass through the worst of the Burroughs and step into yellow pools spilling from telektric lamps. Unlike Fermenster Street, the lamps here are constantly charged, in large part due to the heavy influence Julien Fareski has with practically every walk of life in the Burroughs. The coin he brings in is more than most well-founded businesses can manage and he is free with that coin if it benefits himself or his outfit.
The people of the Burroughs look to Fareski as a land-striding god, and even the Watch will keep their distance from the man who, by all accounts, is nothing more than a gangster-turned-businessman. When business is good, the people of the Burroughs share. Fareski is known to have his men periodically hand out food to the neighborhoods around his establishment, earning him eager-to-please eyes and ears in the deepest and darkest of holes.
The man has turned racketeering and knee-breaking into a profitable venture, and his inn, the Far and Wide, is a testament to his prowess. Four stories tall, solid stone, and glass in every window, Fareski’s is a thriving cactus in a desert of decay. Every inch of the exterior is lit either by crystal or by flame, and dozens of his men and women stroll the entire city block that the inn occupies, nightsticks jouncing plainly at their hips in silent warning to those who don’t respect Fareski’s rules.
And prominent of those rules: Neutrality.
Here, a watchman can sit two tables down from a well-known smuggler, and both will do their best to keep their focus on their dinners and on the center stage. And, though uncommon, Fareski will at times even cater to rival gangs on the same evening. Their coin’s as solid as any other, and Fareski will take it just the same, provided they maintain the peace.
I lead Vayvanette to the front doors, which are wide enough to drive a cart through, and one of the doormen, a round-shouldered brute in a top hat I recognize but can’t put a name to, stops me with an outward facing palm.
“Knell,” he rumbles. “You here for business or pleasure?”
I flick my eyes to the beautiful woman at my side. “Pleasure, of course.”
The doorman is trained enough not to ogle my date, though he does stare me in the eye as he
turns his hand palm up in expectance.
I draw my wand and hand it over in exchange for a copper chit with a number. Before he hands it off to a runt to be stored for my duration inside, he turns my wand this way and that in admiration, his heavy brow lifting in appreciation.
“I expect it back,” I say.
He angles his broad chin at the chit in my hand. “Mister Fareski has never failed to return a guest’s stored goods as long as they have their chit.”
“Just making sure,” I say in a pleasant tone.
“Of course.” He turns his attention to Vayvanette, offers a slight bow, and says, “Enjoy the evening, Miss …?”
“Herchsten,” she smiles to him.
“Indeed?” His manner changes and he exaggerates his earlier bow. “I am sorry for your loss, Miss Herchsten.”
She reaches over and brushes his massive bicep. “That’s kind of you. Thank you.”
Her touch has about the same effect on him as it does on me, and the doorman steps aside with an almost boyish grin, waving us through the door.
The entry hall is lit by telektric lamps every two feet or so, spaced so that every small painting on the walls is well displayed, while overhead, cool, fresh air is circulated by wind crystals set deep inside bronze sconces designed to look like cornucopias. At the end of the hall, a robust woman of later years asks my name and then leads us to our specified table on the main floor. It’s not the largest table, nor is it the nearest to the stage, but, by gods, it’s a table at the Far and Wide.
As Vayvanette and I settle in on opposite sides of our small silk-draped table, the woman promises us a fine evening and returns to her post to gather the next guests.
“This place is amazing,” Vayvanette whispers to me over the tiny candle in its tin-punched holder. To each side of the candle are glass cups full of small rubies swimming in seas of marbles. The incant to each fire crystal is etched into the cups, allowing diners to call up a hint of warmth if they so choose.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t get us a table closer to the stage,” I say.
“What? Oh, no! This is perfect, Gideon. Just perfect.” She cranes her head to take in all the interior, and I smile.
The Amethyst Angle Page 12
