“I am here to withdraw funds for my employer,” said Zeah.
“Follow me.”
The Short Man led him through the great hall to a desk about halfway back, on the right hand side, two desks away from the center aisle. This desk, like every other one in the room, was huge and would easily have served as a small boat, had it been dropped into the River Thiss accidentally. There were two chairs in front of the desk, and when Zeah sat down in one of them, the great desk was as high as his shoulders, and he sat looking at its mammoth and completely empty surface, as the banker walked around to take a seat behind it. The butler would have expected the Short Man to disappear behind the far side, had he not had the experience of visiting the bank on many previous occasions. But of course, the banker’s chair was much higher than his own, leaving the Short Man to look down upon the tall man from at least as high an advantage sitting down as Zeah had enjoyed when they were both standing up.
“The name on the account?”
“Miss Iolanthe Dechantagne.”
“And your name?”
“Zeah Korlann,”
“That is a Zaeri name, isn’t it?” the Short Man said. There was no sneer, nor even the slightest change in inflection to indicate that he thought less of a Zaeri than anyone else, but Zeah knew that the thought lay somewhere under the words and the lack of facial expression. And there was something particularly infuriating about being looked down upon by someone who was almost a foot and a half shorter than you. But then, in some ways, Zeah was more separated from the rest of mankind by his religion, than the Short Man was by his difference in race.
It hadn’t always been so difficult to be a Zaeri. At times, in history, ancient history yes, it had been an advantage. Two thousand years ago, Zur had been a flowering ancient civilization, one of many, like Argrathia or Ballar or Donnata. Then a single dynasty of kings, culminating in Magnus the Great himself, had conquered the rest of the known world, and taken Zur civilization with them. Then everyone was a Zaeri, or at least everyone looked like one. Zur architecture had become the dominant architecture. Zur dress had become the dominant dress. Zur custom had become the dominant custom. And yes, Zaeri, the Zur religion, with its belief in one god, had replaced the pagan religions of the civilizations that Magnus and his forebears had conquered. Even when Magnus’s empire had splintered into many successor kingdoms, the world had remained one where being a Zaeri meant that you were one of the elite.
Then a generation later, no not even a generation after the restructuring of the empire, a Zaeri prophet named Kafira had begun teaching a strange variation of the religion in the land that had been, and would one day again be called, Xygia. Kafira had preached the importance of the afterlife, an adherence to a code of conduct that she said would lead one to this paradisiacal existence, and a general disregard for temporal affairs. The last of these three tenets of Kafira’s teaching had put her at odds with the Zaeri High Priests and the Xygian King, for supporting the priesthood and paying the King’s taxes were, for them, priorities. They taught her the error of her ways by giving her an ignoble death, crucifying her on the cross, thereby from Zeah’s point of view, turning her from the leader of an obscure sect into a martyr. She had then, again from Zeah’s point of view, been elevated by her followers from martyr to savior, as the events of her life and the miracles attributed to her, both before and after her death, formed the basis of a new religion. This religion spread quickly to engulf all that had been the Zur civilization. In the following millennia, the Kafirites had converted the remaining pagans to the creed of their holy savior, thereby making it the only religion in the world of man—the only religion in the world of man, save those few ethnic Zur, like Zeah and his family, who held onto the ancient Zaeri belief.
“Yes,” he replied. “It is a Zaeri name.”
The Short Man nodded.
“How much is your withdrawal?”
“Twenty-five thousand marks.”
The Short Man raised an eyebrow, but didn’t say anything. Several minutes later, Zeah had signed the appropriate forms and had left the bank, his pocket thick with fifty, five hundred mark banknotes—a small enough denomination to pay off Miss Dechantagne’s accounts, but large enough that it would be extremely difficult to make change should anyone try to do anything else other than pay off Miss Dechantagne’s accounts.
The head butler’s first stop was the shipping agent. Miss Dechantagne had been shipping a great many goods and supplies, as well as people, into the city in the past several weeks, and she would be shipping even more. Then entire contents of the Dechantagne country estate, that portion which had not been sold, would be arriving in just a few days. The staff from the estate would arrive a few days later. Train tickets would also be needed for an entire company of soldiers as well.
Miss Dechantagne’s solicitor was the second stop. It would be he who would pay off the smaller bills—the telegraph office, the grocer, the baker, Café Carlo. The only individual store in which Zeah’s employer had garnered a debt large enough to warrant an individual visit by him was the dress shop. That would be his third stop. In fact, the bill here was larger than that of the shipping agent.
It was nearing sundown when Zeah made this third stop. Paying off Miss Dechantagne’s bill himself, rather than having the solicitor do so, was necessitated both by its amount and by his own need to purchase a gift for Yuah’s birthday. He carefully chose a white silk scarf with small yellow flowers around its finished seam for his daughter. He found a pair of white lace gloves that matched the scarf and purchased the pair as a gift for Yuah from the Dechantagnes. He knew the gloves would be the perfect gift in Miss Dechantagne’s eyes because they were just expensive enough to be beyond his own budget, so she wouldn’t feel miserly, which she considered beneath her. On the other hand, had they been any more expensive, she would have felt munificent with a servant, which she considered beneath her.
When Zeah stepped outside, it was already dark. The lamplighters were running slightly behind in their duties. Two of them were making their way up the street, one on either side, lighting the gas streetlights with their long-handled wicks. The trolleys were already shutting down for the night, so Zeah had to walk several blocks until he found a cab still on duty. This particular one was a shabby old carriage, with an unhappy and probably flea-bitten horse, not long for the glue factory, if his speed was any indication. The head butler gave orders to be taken to the docks, and sat back to ponder the fact that in the servant quarters at home at that exact moment, Yuah and the others would be finishing their evening meal and would be looking forward to one of Mrs. Colbshallow’s carefully crafted cakes.
The docks were located in the geographic center of city as it now stood. Hundreds of years ago, when the Old City was the entire city, the river had been a short distance to the south. The great city now continued to grow on both sides of the river, but the mighty River Thiss (pronounced tiss) had not been domesticated. It was still the awe-inspiring waterway it always had been. No bridge could span it, at least not anywhere near the city. It was wide and deep enough for the greatest of ships to sail in from the sea and make their way up more than a hundred miles to dock here. In the center of the Thiss, on Isle de Fortann, was Fort Tharbin, bristling with cannons, to insure that any ship that did so, would be a friendly one.
Zeah directed the cabby to dock zed four, where the ship chartered by Miss Dechantagne was moored. The ship was the H.M.S. Minotaur, impressive at more than four hundred thirty feet long, with a beam of seventy-five feet, and a draft of twenty-six feet. Zeah knew, having studied these facts, that at 13,200 tons, it had been one of the largest ships in the Royal Brechalon Navy. Yet, while it still flew the red, white, and blue Accord Banner of Greater Brechalon, it was now operating under the authority of the Dechantagne family. Zeah had to marvel at the behind the scenes political maneuvering necessary to make this happen. The cabby shook the horse’s reigns and the old nag clopped away down the cobblestone pavement, once t
he butler had climbed down from the carriage and paid his fare. Unfortunately it was at this point that Zeah realized he should have had the cabbie wait for him.
It was quite dark now, and Zeah was beginning to feel the chill air creep into his bones. A single gaslight on the dockside, fifty or sixty feet away, cast a scant glow. Zeah walked over to the Minotaur’s gangplank, which was guarded by a single sailor wearing a pistol and leaning on one of the railing posts. Hanging from this post was an oil-lantern, casting just enough light to reveal the seaman’s unshaven face. Fog, rolling in off the river, rose up from the ground like a foul smoke from hell.
“What do you want?” asked the sailor, the emphasis on the word “you”.
“I’m here to see the Captain.”
“What makes you think he wants to see you?”
“I’m here on the official business of Miss Iolanthe Dechantagne. Either let me come aboard, or notify Captain Gurrman that I am here. He should be expecting me.”
“Well, he ain’t expecting you,” said the sailor. “If he was expecting you, he would be onboard, which he ain’t.”
“Then to whom may I speak?” asked Zeah.
“Nobody.”
“What’s going on here, Gervis?” said a man coming down the gangplank through the fog. When he neared the dock, Zeah could see he was an officer.
“My name is Zeah Korlann. I was sent by Miss Dechantagne to speak to the Captain.”
“I see,” said the officer. “Officer of the watch, Lieutenant Staff, at your service sir. However, I really think it would be best if you return tomorrow. Captain Gurrman and Lieutenant Commander Frigeffresson have gone ashore and won’t be back this evening, from what I understand.”
“Bother,” said Zeah.
“Sorry, sir,” said Staff. “I could send an escort to see you home.”
“That won’t be necessary. If you can just tell me which direction I need to go to find a cab.”
“Turn around and walk straight back that way, sir. When you pass beyond the warehouses up ahead, you’ll find yourself on Avenue Pike. If you can’t find a cab there, make a right. A half mile up the street is a pub called the Mermaid’s Ankle. They have their own carriage for delivering patrons who become, um, indisposed.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant.” said Zeah. He didn’t deign to look at Gervis, the rude sailor, but turned with his usual stiff-backed polish and began swiftly walking away from the dockside, through the fog, toward several huge, looming warehouses. They seemed to grow larger like some monstrous beasts, as he approached, and the fog grew thicker and thicker.
Zeah had almost reached the corner of the closer warehouse, when from ahead, somewhere in the darkness, he heard a scream. It sounded like a woman’s scream. The butler was not armed, nor was he unarmed particularly dangerous or imposing in any physical way, but no one had ever accused any member of the Korlann family of cowardice, especially in a moment of crisis. He ran forward, toward the scream. There was no second scream, so he had to make his best guess at the origin of the one. He hurried past the large warehouse and on instinct, turned right down a narrow path between it and another, smaller warehouse just beyond it. This led to a narrow alley in what had become a maze of warehouses and dock buildings. The butler stopped for a moment to listen. He didn’t hear anything, but moved forward, now a little more cautious, as the adrenaline in his body began to wane. Even so, he came upon the two figures in the fog so quickly, that he nearly tripped over them.
Lying still in the swirling mists, and illuminated only by an oil lantern that sat upon the ground nearby, was a woman’s body. Her eyes were open, staring lifelessly up at the dark night sky, as if looking for the moon, which wouldn’t come up over the horizon for another few hours. She had in life, no doubt been pretty, in an average sort of way, with shoulder length blond hair and pleasant features. She had worn, perhaps a bit too much make-up. She had been stabbed repeatedly and her once blue, once decorated with pink flowers, once un-tattered dress, was drenched with her blood. Leaning over her, his hands stained with her blood, was a man wearing khaki pants, a khaki shirt, digger’s boots, and a wide-brimmed khaki hat. At first the man’s attention was totally transfixed upon the woman’s body, but as Zeah approached, he looked up. The butler stopped in his tracks.
“Zeah?” said the man.
“Master Augie.” said Zeah, looking down into the wide-eyed face of Augustus Dechantagne.
The butler was forced to wait almost four hours for the police inspectors to arrive. He had tried to ask Master Augie what had happened, but before they could hold a conversation, Lieutenant Staff and a squad of sailors had arrived, having heard the scream themselves. One of the sailors had been sent to summon a policeman, who in turn, had sent a message from the closest police-box telegraph, for the inspectors. By the time the two inspectors had arrived, the moon was high enough in the sky to reveal quite a crowd of onlookers: the sailors, several policemen now, more than a few dockworkers, and Master Augie and Zeah.
One of the police inspectors was a priest. This priest was a sandy-haired young man, who wore a long white robe with a blue collar, indicating that he was fairly low in the church hierarchy, not that Zeah was an expert in the organizational chart of the Church of Kafira. The priest had a large patch above his heart, with a shield containing both a cross and a star, indicating that while his first devotion was to his Savior, his work was primarily for the police ministry. A smaller version of the patch was on the front of his small blue skufia, or clerical hat. The second man was a little older. He wore a brown tweed suit and a brown tweed cloak. He also wore a brown tweed deerstalker hat, with a bill both in the front and back. He was puffing from a large, curved, briarwood pipe. He was a wizard. It was somewhat unusual, though not completely unheard of for two such specialized inspectors to arrive together at a crime scene. In most cases, at least one of them would have been a more traditional career policeman.
The wizard looked at everyone in the group, his left eyebrow cocked, as the first policeman on the scene, recounted to the two inspectors what he had learned of the murder scene. The priest seemed less interested in the living than he did in the young woman’s body, and when the policeman had finished telling what small bit he knew, the cleric knelt down and examined her carefully, looking in her hair, in her hands, and even her mouth. He carefully examined her clothing and her wounds. At last, he removed a small vial from a pocket in his robe, and opening it, he poured out a small pool of oil into his left hand. Then, dabbing the tip of his right index finger into the oil, he carefully drew a cross, in oil, on the dead woman’s forehead.
“In the name of the Holy Father, I anoint thee.”
The small crowd was carefully watching him.
“In the name of the Holy Savior, I command you to speak.”
The alleyway was completely silent.
“Who killed you?” asked the priest.
No life returned to the woman’s eyes, which neither the priest, nor anyone else, had closed. Her body lay in the same crumpled position. But then a kind of crackling groan escaped her and her dead mouth moved to form words that came breathlessly from her.
“I…don’t…know.”
“Why were you killed?”
“I…don’t…know.”
“What is your name?” asked the priest.
“Abelena… Gelford,” came the dead reply.
“Can you tell me anything else?” asked the priest.
“He… took… my… locket.”
The priest paused thoughtfully. Then he crossed himself and said. “Rest in peace.”
The woman’s body moved no more. Reaching down, the priest closed her eyes and began a prayer in Zurian. Then it was the wizard’s turn. He pulled the pipe from his mouth, and holding it by the bowl, began to trace symbols in the air with the mouthpiece. A tiny trail of smoke created characters, which hung in the mist for a moment before spreading apart to join the fog, which filled the rest of the air.
“Uuthanum,�
� said the wizard. “The truth alone will be spoken here.”
Once the truth spell was cast, the two inspectors began asking everyone in the alley questions. They were finishing with Lieutenant Staff and his sailors when the coroner arrived to take the body away. The policemen went on their way, as did the seamen. The crowd of onlookers, no longer having anything of interest to view, dissipated as well. Until at last, it was only the priest, the wizard, Master Augie, and Zeah and the oppressive, thickening fog remaining in the alley. The two inspectors asked a number of questions to determine the identities of the two men.
“So, how did you find the woman?” the wizard finally asked.
“I heard a scream,” said Zeah. “I came to see if I could be of assistance.”
“Yes, me too.” said Master Augie. “Zeah and I arrived about the same time.”
The butler glance quickly over to young Lieutenant Dechantagne to see what type of effect the truth spell would create to illuminate this obvious lie. Nothing happened. The wizard just nodded and continued on.
“Did either of you know the woman, Miss Gelford?”
“No,” said Master Augie and Zeah just shook his head.
“I think that’s about it,” said the priest. “We will contact you if there are any other questions.”
“One more thing.” said the wizard, again tracing symbols in the air with the mouthpiece of his pipe. “Uuthanum. Reveal the presence of magic.”
An area twenty feet around where the body of the dead woman had lain began to glow with an unearthly pale yellow light. Smaller patches of yellow were on the walls of the warehouse and dock building on either side of the alley, and a pale yellow trail led off from the crime scene, in the direction away from the river.
“Someone has been busy here,” said the priest. “Have you ever seen this much magical residue at the scene of a crime?”
“Yes,” said the wizard. “At the last two murders.”
“Well, I think it’s time that Zeah and I were getting home,” said Master Augie.
The Voyage of the Minotaur Page 5
