Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine 11/01/12

by Dell Magazines

  "There you go again. You keep saying me."

  "Only because of that little stash of carvings you thought you'd hidden away. Daisies, roses, and what was that other thing, Captain? Lilies? Not that it matters," she continued airily. "Your attitude was that if you couldn't have Phoebe, nobody would, so you killed the first two families as a smoke screen—"

  "Like Hades I did!" Even now, believing the lie that the captain had actually found his cache of wooden flowers, Tibios was no less arrogant. "I wanted those bitches scared out of their skins. I wanted them to know they'd be next. To feel the fear in their veins and sit awake at night, worrying—and they were. Even though they'd barricaded themselves in, they couldn't sleep, couldn't eat. It wasn't just Phoebe. They ganged up against me, the whole bloody tribe, so they needed to know that you can't just toss me aside. That I had power over them, over you, over the whole bloody state." A smug grin spread over his face. "The smoke screen was the fourth family I intended to kill."

  He may have been motivated by vengeance at the beginning, but this boy enjoyed his work. He would not have stopped at four.

  "Exactly how did you get that message across to these women?" Iliona laid down the fan, and now there was a contemptuous edge to her voice. "They were unconscious when you crept out of the cellar. Unconscious when you slipped the noose round their necks, and unconscious when you hauled on the rope. That doesn't sound very powerful to me. In fact, it seems more like the hand of a coward."

  "No, no, I—"

  "The trial will probably be halted for laughter once the jury hears how this big, strong Champion of Vengeance spent three days hiding behind a sack and peeing in an olive jar."

  "It's no different from a hunter lying in wait," he protested. "Ouch!"

  "Ooh, did that hurt?" Iliona jabbed the inside of his nostril a second time with the sharpened quill of her pen. "That doesn't bode well, does it?" she asked the head of the Krypteia. "Remind me again what the punishment is for killing a citizen?"

  "First the guilty party is paraded naked through the streets," Lysander rumbled. "It draws a large crowd, so of course if someone should throw something nasty at him, or take a shot with their fists, there's little my men can do to protect him."

  "That's not fair," Tibios whined. "I'm entitled to civility at my execution!"

  "And you shall have it," Lysander assured him. "With great civility, you will be thrown into the Ravine of Redemption, where you can—with even more civility—contemplate your crimes as you lie bleeding."

  "That's for traitors! You can't do that to me! I'm no traitor—"

  "There will be no food, no drink, no comfort down there. Just you, your broken bones, and the wolves that circle closer each day."

  "Not forgetting the moon, so white and so bright overhead," Iliona said. "Which will wane, and then wax again, before you eventually join the Land of the Shades."

  "Don't think you can aid your own death either," Lysander rumbled. "Your hands will be tied behind your back when you're thrown. With the greatest civility, of course."

  Above the rugged peaks and fertile valleys, Night cast her web of dreams to the music of crickets and the nightingale's haunting song. Tomorrow, the countryside would ring with the drums and trumpets of the annual Corn Festival, as the first ears of wheat were offered to the goddess Demeter. How sad that the women who had worked so tirelessly to bring their crops to maturity were not here to lay their gifts on the altar.

  "I suppose you were hoping it was the general behind the killings?"

  The guards had long since dragged Tibios off to the dungeons, but Lysander showed no inclination to accompany them. Instead, he'd taken the chair vacated by the killer, folded his hands behind his neck, and closed his eyes. It was too much for Iliona to hope he'd nodded off. As she'd said before, the Krypteia don't sleep. Even in a cocoon of their own velvet wings.

  "I can't tell you the satisfaction that clapping him in irons would have given me after the things he wrote to the Council." A rumble sounded in the back of his throat. It was, she realized, the first time she'd heard Lysander laugh. "Unfortunately, as much as the general wants my job, I wasn't convinced he'd go to those lengths."

  "But you checked anyway."

  One eye opened. "I checked."

  Iliona poured herself a goblet of dark, fruity wine. Somehow, she thought she would need it. "What's that?" she asked, pointing to what looked like a squishy cushion wrapped in blue cotton under her desk.

  "Oh, didn't I say?" The eye closed. "It's a present."

  She drank her wine, all of it, before unwrapping the bundle. "A hunting net?"

  "I find it quite remarkable, don't you, how so many women who were previously considered barren have been blessed with a much-wanted child over the last four or five years?"

  Sickness rolled in the pit of her stomach.

  "Spartan justice is famed throughout the world," he continued levelly. "Not only done, it is also seen to be done, to quote the poet Terpander. But then—" Lysander stood up. Stretched. Rubbed the stiffness out of the back of his neck. "Terpander was an inexhaustible composer of drinking songs, who died choking on a fig during a musical performance."

  "What are you saying?"

  "I'm saying it's not a hunting net. It's a bird snare. If you look closely, you'll see the mesh is finer than the fishing net in which you currently catch your flying babies, yet strong." He didn't even pause. "It will dramatically reduce the time you spend on maintenance."

  "You're—not arresting me?"

  "Whilst a boy with a twisted leg might not make a good warrior, Iliona, I'm sure he can weave a fine cloak or engrave a good seal." He leaned over the desk and poured himself a goblet of wine from the bowl. "The same way that not every man can be a cold-blooded killing machine. Some need to break free."

  Iliona's legs were so weak with relief that she had to sit down. "Helping deserters is treachery in the eyes of the law."

  "The law can't afford to have men on the front line who cannot be relied on." He grinned. "And on a more personal level, the law prefers devoting its precious time and resources to rooting out real traitors, rather than track down weaklings who will only let their country down in battle." He refilled his goblet. "Of course, that's only my opinion, and I would prefer you didn't bandy it around."

  "Your secret's safe with me," she said, and for heaven's sake, was she actually laughing?

  Iliona opened the door and lifted her face to the constellations. The Lion, the Crab, and the Heavenly Twins. Far above the mulberries and vines, the paddocks and the barley fields, Night watched the High Priestess in the doorway. Guided by the stars and aided by the Fates, who measured, spun, and cut the thread of life, Night had long since dried the tears of the bereaved and wrapped them in the softness of her arms. Having called on her children, Pain, Misery, Nemesis, and Derision, to plague Tibios the acolyte, she was now ready to pass the baton of responsibility to her good friend, the Dawn.

  And when the sun rose over the jagged peaks of Mount Parnon, some still capped with snow, Iliona smelled the scent of daisies, roses, and, of course, white lilies. This time, their perfume was sweet.

  Copyright © 2012 by Marilyn Todd

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  FICTION

  MISCHIEF IN MESOPOTAMIA

  by Dana Cameron

  Dana Cameron has had an extraordinary string of successes with her short stories over the past couple of years, earning, most recently, the Agatha Award for her Anna Hoyt story "Disarming" (EQMM 6/11). Her previous Hoyt story, "Femme Sole," received nominations for the Edgar, Agatha, Anthony, and Macavity awards. The Massachusetts author rejoins us with an entry in her Emma Fielding archeology series. The lastest novel in that series is the Anthony Award-winning Ashes and Bones.

  I sat across from a row of decapitated kings, gods, and heroes waiting for them to speak to me. I didn't know a word of their language, and they'd b
een dead—their monuments erected, sanctified, and decaying—long before anyone speaking my language was born. Still, I waited, if not as patiently as they did.

  In the end, it wasn't the statues but my husband Brian who spoke first:

  "Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown/ And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command/ . . . and then something, something, something, then My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:/ Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"

  Brian was standing on the stone platform next to me, in what I assumed was meant to be a dramatic, declamatory posture, feet apart, arms raised. Several of the other members of our tour started clapping, and he bowed, then sat down, carefully holding his new, heavy, and very expensive camera to his chest as he did so.

  "Moved to poetry?" I said, a little surprised.

  "Nah." He shrugged, looking away, pretending disdain. "My tenth-grade English teacher always said memorizing poetry would be useful in later life. Now I can finally check it off the list." He turned back, smiling, and nudged my shoulder with his. "Worth the climb, huh?"

  "Amazing."

  We'd hiked the half-mile from the parking lot up to near the summit of Mount Nemrut. Two thousand meters above sea level is a lot when you live about a mile from the ocean, and the heat, exertion, and altitude had made the trek surprisingly tiring, given all the time we'd spent training at the dojo together. But when we reached the top, and saw the line of stone statues, their massive heads removed and placed in a row in front of them in an act of genuine iconoclasm, it was worth it. In fact, I realized the effort of climbing was probably something intended by the original builders, to leave the viewer of the tomb site breathless and stunned on arrival. After thirty minutes of huffing and puffing with your head down, trying not to slip on loose, sharp stones or the weeds growing around smoothed stone steps, sweating in the hundred-degree heat and avoiding evil-minded donkeys with no objection to kicking, the first view of the Eastern Terrace was an incredible moment. Positively sublime.

  "Who's that, Ozymandias?" Randy Ashmore asked. His pink face was almost beet-colored from the hike; his khaki hat was so large, it made him look like a mushroom with a bulbous nose and small eyes. "Was Ozymandias the king who built this?"

  Lale Mehmet, our Turkish guide, had just finished explaining that the tomb and statues had been erected by Antiochus I in 62 BCE. I bit my tongue, refusing to take the bait Randy had proffered. The didactic habits of a professor were not easily put aside, but sometimes I learned faster than others.

  Randy pushed past to get a better look. He stepped on Jack Boyle's foot.

  "Oww!" Jack limped a few steps. "No, it's another name for Ramses II, Nineteenth Dynasty in Egypt. A whole other time and place, my friend."

  "My friend" sounded more like "you jerk."

  "Well, you'd think whoever it was would have put a toilet up here too. I'm on the run with the Tehran trots."

  Once, I had, out of that professorial habit, pointed out that Tehran was in Iran, while we were in southeast Turkey. Undismayed by mere fact, Randy had made a series of attempts to find an alliterative expression that combined the local place and his illness. Now I just kept as far away from him as I could.

  The transcendent moment was now officially over. "There's one down at the base, Randy," Lale, our guide, said hurriedly. "We'll be stopping there on our way back, or you're welcome to start down now—"

  We all held our breath, hoping Randy would leave us to enjoy the rest of the site.

  Remarkably, he nodded, and having borrowed a lira, which he would not pay back, he left, calling loudly for his wife Rose to follow.

  "Best money I ever spent," Jack said, putting his wallet away. He wiped the sweat from his face and ran his hand through his dark hair before he replaced his baseball cap. He was a Mets fan, so I, a member of Red Sox Nation, had no beef with him. "But I'm grateful to Randy."

  We were a very polite group. It was only now, on the tenth day of the tour, that we had started tentatively expressing our true opinions about each other, to selected comrades, very cautiously.

  "Why on earth?" I whispered to Jack. "Grateful to Randy?"

  "Because of the old saying—if you're in a group and you look around and can't find the dickhead, you must be it. Randy reassures me."

  I couldn't smother a laugh, but when I caught Lale's eye, I clammed up. Despite years of habit, I'd tried very hard not to answer questions asked by the other tourists, and tried to be respectful of the tour leader when she lectured. She smiled and continued her talk. No harm done.

  As we carefully picked our way down the steep, scree-covered slope, the sun burning and glaring so the buff stone was nearly white, I asked, "How is Steve Osborne feeling? Has anyone seen him today?"

  Randy hadn't been the only one suffering from a change in water and diet.

  Jack shrugged. "I heard he was definitely happier after he decided to stay at the hotel today. I think he'll be okay by tomorrow. Shame he's missing all this." He held out a hand to indicate the vista, the brightly caparisoned donkeys, the sheer scale of it all.

  "But he's been on this tour before? I seem to recall he said so."

  "No, but he'd been on another tour with Lale, and they visited this region too. That's why he wanted to come back. She was a good guide, he fell in love with the country." He shrugged. "The country's pretty enough, and the sites too, but the food!" He raised his fingers to his lips and kissed them. "That's what brought me: cuisine."

  We walked over to the Western Terrace and viewed the rest of the statues, which seemed like a jumbled afterthought. When you've already carved a tomb out of a mountain, then covered it with a fifty-meter-high mound of buff-colored stone chips from sculpting a row of thirty-foot-tall sculptures, a collection of heads and reliefs lying around had to seem a bit of a letdown.

  It was hotter than body temperature. I was covered in sweat and a brand of ancient dust I'd never encountered in New England. I pretended all I could smell was sunblock, baking rock chips, and camel and donkey dung, instead of me.

  "So what do you think those big stone heads would go for?" Eugene Tollund asked me as we began our descent. "I mean, on the open market?" Eugene was the oldest member of our group, and I'd been impressed by his energy and enthusiasm. Eventually, however, I realized he seemed only to care about the monetary value of things, instead of their intellectual or artistic importance.

  "I honestly have no idea. Probably a lot, because it would have to be on the black market. You couldn't sell something like that legally."

  "I thought you said you were an archaeologist?" he said.

  "I am." I ignored the derisive tone of his words. "Doesn't mean I know how much everything I dig up is worth. Mostly it's small fragments of pottery and bone. I don't do a lot of work studying the antiquities trade, so—"

  But Eugene was already on to his next victim, posing questions no one knew the answers to, so he could prove his astuteness in asking.

  An hour later, we were visiting the caves and inscriptions at a nearby site. It was on our way back down yet another steep slope that I saw Rose Ashmore, Randy's wife, moving off the trail.

  I held my breath. It wasn't for me to say anything. I wasn't her teacher, I wasn't her mommy. But when she bent over, moved a rock aside, and picked something up, something that shone in the sunlight, I couldn't not speak up.

  "Um, Rose?"

  She waved at me as she clambered up the hill. A few dark, fly-away curls blew in the warm wind, and she brushed them from her face. If her husband was like a short, stubby mushroom, she was more like a stalk of asparagus, thin, tall, awkward. "I'm fine."

  I tried to find a nice way to put it, then finally didn't bother. "You found something? Picked it up?"

  "No." She shook her head, her brown eyes wide. She licked her lips.

  She was lying.

  "Well, I'm sure you know you should leave anything you see on the ground. These are protected sites."

  "Uh-huh."

  It was all
I could do. I didn't have any authority, just the obligation—and that self-imposed—of speaking up.

  But maybe my seeing her had nudged her conscience, or she was afraid I'd tell on her, because I saw Rose huddled with our guide Lale at the next rest stop. I sidled up, quite unabashedly, to observe while sipping my tea. Eugene and Jack were nearby too; Eugene's bald head was like a speckled brown egg and both he and Jack feigned inattention. But nothing goes with tea like scandal.

  Harold Campbell was smoking one of his innumerable cigars, though politely away from the main part of the group. A perennial loner, for once he was interacting with someone else on the tour: I was surprised to notice he made two of the younger tour members, Nicole Powell and Tiffany More, laugh. He'd made his lighter disappear with a practiced and elegant flourish.

  I turned back to the real drama. Lale's lips were compressed almost to invisibility as she asked precisely where Rose had found the object. I knew Lale's job could be endangered by something like this, and Rose might be in a great deal of trouble if the situation wasn't handled exactly correctly.

  It started to drizzle, and we all huddled under the rest stop's shelter.

  "The Storm God is upset now," Eugene announced. We'd been learning the Storm God or Weather God was the chief god among the Hittites, a powerful king and warrior in control of the elements.

  I winced. It was exactly the wrong thing to say, especially since we were all able to hear Lale rebuking Rose, however politely.

  "It's a good thing we are seeing Dr. Boran Saatchi today," she said. "We'll give it to him, with all the information you have about where you . . . found it. I don't need to tell you this is very serious. I'm glad you spoke to me, though."

  She held out her hand, waiting.

  Lale had been friendly and informative, all smiles the whole trip. Now her face was grave, and she was clearly angry, though suppressing it. Rose had the decency to look abashed as she handed over the object, which I could now see was a small white clay disc, the size of a quarter, with concentric ridges. It might have been a gaming piece. Whatever it was, it was culturally meaningful.