by Patty Jansen
First she should read Daya's information before she asked anything else. She rubbed her face with her hands. Her eyes felt gritty with lack of sleep.
"Are we doing anything further today?" she asked Dashu.
"I'm running a few further scans. Tomorrow, we go and talk to the family and we'll start our regular checks. You're tired?"
Izramith shrugged. Admitting to being tired would be considered a personal weakness with the guards. You were never sick, or tired, or heartbroken, or excited. You came in and did your job. You didn't speak about personal matters. You made no excuses. You were expected to protect anonymity and that of your colleagues. If criminals knew who you were, they would use it against you.
Dashu said primly, "It's all right to say so. I rather work with someone who's rested. Judging by the state of your room, you would have had to be up for most of the night."
And was there a need for her to mention this in front of the rest of the team?
Izramith pointed at her shoulder. "You might have noticed that I need to get changed into another shirt."
Great. Now she was officially mega-annoyed.
Chapter 12
When Izramith arrived at the guesthouse, she remembered that of course that she had no other shirt, since the second shirt Dashu had brought was too small and she was not to wear her Hedron gear. And she sure as hell wasn't going back to remind Dashu of that fact.
She had in her bag in the guesthouse a sewing kit, but the only thread in the kit was dark purple. Even her neatest stitches contrasted horribly with the dainty yellow of the shirt, but, as she sat cross-legged in the middle of the room, she felt a calm vindication. If they didn't want her to stand out, they should supply her with clothes that fitted.
If they wanted her to do a good job, they should supply her with the information to do so, and until they did that, she would write up her own parameters.
She finished sewing, tried the shirt on and found that it restricted her movement even more.
Damn.
Well, that was unacceptable. Maybe it was time to go to the shops.
She rummaged in her bag for her waist strap, lifted her shirt and looped it around and did up the fastening, then she found her small gun and clipped it into the holder. The shirt went back over the assemblage. She wasn't happy with the way the shirt bulged at her waist, but there was no way she'd go without her trusted weapon, no matter how much Daya said she was supposed to use only what he supplied her.
She grabbed her reader and—
No, maybe she should try to look less like a guard.
In the bathroom, she undid the tie in her hair and let the locks tumble over her shoulders. Like that of many Hedron Coldi, her hair was not entirely straight and the light coming into the bathroom reflected it the metallic surface sheen to highlight the waves. She ran her fingers through it to tease out the I-lost-my-hair-tie kink, draping her hair over the fixed seam in her shoulder. She had never considered herself to be particularly attractive, but looking in the mirror with her face lit side-on, she was glad not to be cursed with the course skin and hideous nose of the keihu. Her nose was broad and quite flat and did not stick out like a glowing beacon.
But damn, that purple thread on her shoulder really did look ridiculous.
Ah well, it would have to do.
The street that ran past her guesthouse was called Market Street and it was quite busy at this time of day. The light had turned golden and many families strolled in relaxed fashion in the dappled shade of trees. Behind the trees, ornate walls lined both sides of the street. The occasional open metal work fence gave her a glimpse of the mansions beyond: huge two-storey affairs surrounded by delicate gardens with bushes clipped into shapes and burbling fountains.
While she walked, Izramith turned on her reader and finally opened up Daya's document: it was a map of the route of the parade, with names and notes superimposed over the top. At each house, it listed the owner and the owner's function. Almost all of them were councillors of Barresh. Wow, they had really big families here. And why were there so many adult women in each of these houses? Did they live with partners and partners' sisters, or were they servants? Or did the owners rent rooms to other families because the houses were so big and the island crowded?
She ran her finger along the length of Market Street, looking at the family names. Semisu, Semisu, Damaru, Emiru, Damaru… on so on. The houses in Market Street were owned by just a handful of families, and all of those had representatives on the council. In the other streets along the route of the parade, ownership was a bit more varied, but not a lot more.
While she walked, the mansions on both sides of the street made way for eating houses where people sat at table and chairs amongst the gnarled and rough tree trunks. Strings of lights that hung from tree branches dispelled the darkness, although there was still enough light for the glowing pinpricks to look feeble.
A couple of shops sold clothing, one of them sturdy gear with lots of pockets and straight, simple cuts. No frills. She liked that.
Except when the shop owner came to help her, it became clear that she lacked another very important item: money. He wouldn't take credits. Neither would other shops, judging from his rudimentary Coldi and hand signals.
Damn.
Most clothing at Hedron was free, and so was the food and other essential services. The few remaining services or personal items could be traded for vouchers or put on an account. No one had physical money at Hedron. There was no separate currency, no coins or similar clumsy things. The company had money, and it distributed wealth fairly across all workers.
Double damn. And she wasn't going to ask Dashu or Daya for help.
Time for a radical solution. An Izramith Solution her father would call it when she did these crazy things that sometimes got her into trouble, but sometimes worked.
From a rack at one of the shops, she selected the shirt she liked best—a plain and sturdy off-white number. Dust and a faded sign made her think that these shirts weren't exactly the most popular things in this shop. She asked the merchant if she could try it on.
It fitted well, and she made sure that she went out into the shop to look at herself from all angles in the mirror. A young man she presumed to be the merchant's son stood talking to another customer, but he ogled her arms and shoulders.
When she was certain that the merchant had seen her in his shirt, she changed back into the yellow shirt which was getting rather smelly with the heat and the tight fit.
"Is it not to your liking?" the merchant asked, nodding at the white shirt draped over her arm.
"Yes, it is, but—uhm—unless you take credits, I can't take it. I don't have any money on me right now."
"We don't. I'm sorry."
"Then I can't buy. I really like this, and would like to get two. Look, this is the only shirt I have." She turned so that the ripped shoulder faced his way. "Is there something I can do for you in exchange for the white shirt?"
He fingered his lip with a hand laden with rings. "Hmm, I don't think—"
His son said something in keihu, and his father stopped speaking. He replied to his son. The son nodded.
"You carry heavy things?" the merchant asked Izramith.
"Anything you want." Bricks, smuggled goods, dead bodies. Well, he probably wouldn't appreciate the humour in that. People at Indrahui never did. They were way too serious.
"Come." He preceded her into the shop, where it was too dark for her to see properly, so she stumbled between racks of clothing and tripped over something stacked in the aisle.
"These ones here," he said.
By the glow from a fitful light against the back wall Izramith could make out a pile of boxes.
"These go up stairs."
"Sure." Izramith picked up a box. Oof. Whatever was inside weighed a lot. That and gravity was stronger here than on Hedron.
"My son go with."
The young man gave her a coy smile. He preceded her out of the shop, across th
e street to a building taller than the surrounding shops.
It was an ugly rectangular thing, with three levels of balconies, each with rows of doors leading to businesses units. The areas in the shade of the balconies were starting to go dark, and lights burned in a couple of windows.
An open staircase led up the side, barred by a metal gate, a flimsy construction, which the merchant's son unlocked. It creaked when he pulled it open.
The windows in the first floor gallery were all dark, and so were those on the second floor. The top floor's layout was slightly different, with a partition blocking access to the far end of the balcony.
The merchant's son walked past offices with darkened windows. Some of them were dirty and the space beyond empty, the doors with peeling paint or scratches.
At the point where the partition stopped access further down the balcony, there was a breezeway, a tunnel-like passage—with alcoves for doors—that led to the other side of the building. Another balcony ran past the back of the building and the merchant's son opened a door here.
When he'd flicked on a light, the room turned out to contain stacks of boxes, huge crates containing rolls of fabric, a large table, many different types of sewing gear, thread and pieces of equipment that were probably sewing machines.
"Put here." He indicated an empty spot against the wall. "Get other boxes."
Izramith did, and shook numbness out of her arms.
She followed him back down to the shop and then back up with another box and this she repeated, under increasing darkness, until all boxes were gone from the shop.
Phew.
She wiped sweat from her face. The ridiculous yellow shirt stuck to her shoulders and arms. While carrying loads up the stairs, she had heard fabric ripping again. Now to go down and collect her reward.
She fumbled with the light to turn it off—you had to push a lever up that broke the contact between the light pearl and the metal holder—and walked along the gallery at the back of the building.
From up here, she could look into the yards of a number of the rich families' mansions. Light spilled out windows and the sound of chatter and children's voices drifted up to where she stood.
Oh, boy, those gardens must take some work. And why the heck would anyone want a glass room in climate as hot and sunny as this?
A couple of blocks down, a taller building protruded from the mix of roofs and trees. If she wasn't mistaken, that was the back of that infamous guesthouse. Hmm, that place was much bigger than it looked from the street.
She walked through the breezeway to the side of the building that faced the street. After passing a section where the dense foliage of a tree hid the street, she was rewarded with an excellent view of the shops, the eating houses, and a fair bit of the street in both directions.
She leaned on the balcony railing. This would be an excellent place to set up a sniper position. The townsfolk strolled down Market Street below her, well-lit by strings of lights strung in the tree branches. A fabrics merchant stood at a table piled high with rolls of fabric, showing various types to a Pengali customer. The black and white banded tail was never still while the man spoke. From up here, she could shoot both men and they'd never know what had hit them.
A skilled sniper would have a rope ladder at the back of the building to escape after firing the fatal shot.
Izramith was about to go back down when the sound of male voices came from somewhere close. Arguing voices. There was also the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs and then people walking along the balcony. Two men, arguing with each other in loud voices.
Izramith ran back into the breezeway and ducked into one of the alcoves, squeezing herself behind a rubbish bin.
The men had stopped at the entry to the breezeway and from where she sat, she could see their silhouettes backlit against the city lights. The argument was getting heated. One of them pushed the other against the wall, yelling in his face in keihu. The other man replied in a sneering voice and backed the other into the balcony railing. The man's back arched, amking him lurch dangerously over the side. He shouted, his voice no longer angry but a frightened squeal.
The attacker held him there for long moments. Izramith balled her fists, ready to intervene, but he slowly pulled the other man back to the safety of the balcony. The two continued into the breezeway in silence.
The man who had been dangled over the side was heavy-set. His hair was tied in a ponytail and he wore a loose robe similar to that worn by merchants. The attacker was taller, with shorter hair and he walked with a slight limp. They walked past Izramith to the back of the building and entered one of the doors further along the gallery. A glow of light spread from the door which they left open.
Izramith waited, but the men had settled in the room. Their voices drifted on the night air. She waited, but there were no more arguments and she had a shirt to collect, so she snuck back to the stairs and down to the street.
Back at the ground level, she returned to the shop to claim her shirt. The young merchants' son grinned when he gave her the soft package. Walking out of the shop, she noticed that he had given her two identical shirts. That was a bit odd, but oh well, it suited her. She had probably just done a job that would have been his.
Izramith sat on a bench under a tree and called up Daya's map that listed the tenants of the tall building. The unit where the men had gone was rented in the name of the Semisu family.
Jisson Semisu, who was one of Daya's trusted councillors she had met on her first day.
She was still sitting there when the two men came back down the stairs. The one with the limp was a golden-haired Mirani Nikala in a khaki-coloured tunic, the other man a keihu local in a merchant robe, quite young, she thought. She used her reader to capture the men's faces, but they were too far away and the lighting was too poor for the face recognition to get a fix on them. The two turned right to the residential and much less busy end of Market Street.
Izramith pushed herself off the bench and followed the two at a good distance. They stopped to talk at the gate to one of the houses. Izramith walked past, casually eying the two men. One was definitely a young keihu man, but she wasn't so sure about the other one being Mirani. He seemed tall for a Nikala, which were usually fairly short people, but most of all, his voice wasn't Mirani. As Hedron guard, voice was often all you had to go by so she had become accustomed to telling people apart by voice. She could tell if someone was Coldi, Kedrasi or Damarcian or other types not just by accent, but by tone of a voice and this man did not sound Mirani.
She couldn't linger to listen, of course, and couldn't understand the keihu the men spoke so she walked until she found a side street and stopped around the corner. A couple of townsfolk walked past, chatting and laughing and when they had passed, the two men were gone.
Damn.
She ran back to the dark shade underneath a large tree opposite the house. The gate stood open a fraction and through its bars, she had a clear view of a path with a fountain. A male voice drifted out of the house's open door.
She checked Daya's file: it belonged to a branch of the Semisu family, a brother of the councillor and the young man she had seen was likely the brother's son.
Where had the man with the golden curls gone?
Chapter 13
Izramith returned to the guesthouse not much later. By this time, she felt so sweaty that she had another bath. She sat enveloped by the soothing warmth of the water, breathing its faint scent of sulphur. A single glow bulb on a shelf cast a fitful light over the surface. Ethereal curls of steam rose and evaporated.
If she sat very still and held her breath, the water would go smooth as glass, with only occasional ripples from where the bath was constantly being replenished through the aqueduct that came into the room through a square opening in the wall.
If she held her breath, went under water, and stayed there long enough, the surface would forever be still, and her soul would be at rest in the depth where the light didn't reach. An
d Daya would simply write to the guards and hire someone else. Mother would shrug and say Well, she was never much good for anything and Thimayu would ask Can I have her room?
She stared at the water. A normal person would cry, but she just felt empty. Whether she cried or not, no one cared. They wanted her to kill people so they didn't have to do it themselves. They didn't want to hear the stories of the war. They wanted it neatly-packaged, out of the way. They wanted someone to use weapons so that the factories could go on making new weapons and employing people.
Nobody cared about people who fought.
Nobody cared about people who came back against the odds.
Nobody cared at all.
Izramith didn't know how long she sat in the bath, but the skin on her hands and feet had gone funny by the time she came out. She lay on the bed in the too-luxurious sheets, looking at one of Ceren's two little moons track through the sky.
This place was getting her down. She couldn't stand this hanging around doing nothing and going to fucking meetings.
With her reader on her lap, she sat in the oval bed. If Daya wasn't going to give her a task sheet, she'd make one. The mission's overall aim went at the top.
To make sure no one is harmed during the wedding parade.
That part was easy. The next one, likely source of hostile action, was not. Miran or the guesthouse would not do. She skipped that part. Maybe it would become clearer by the time they'd seen this Mirani family.
For feeder sources and outgoing information, she could only enter Daya's name. That was a problem. A good plan and work ethic had more than one contact, preferably two for incoming, two for outgoing, different people. What was more, as Daya was their financier, any information going to or coming from him wasn't external, and wasn't even attempting to be objective.
So she arrived at the real problems:
