“I’ll make sure you eat oysters,” she responded.
Hours later they had met all the stated goals. The gentle breeze had become a roaring wind, carrying a storm down from the mountains. Lightning scarred the sky, flashing through the shutters, while thunder growled ominously. There was one final ear-splitting crash. Mercedes squeaked and clutched at Tracy as they lay in the swaying bed. The rain was being carried almost horizontally by the wind. It forced itself through the shutters and sprayed lightly across their sweat-glazed bodies. It broke the heat and shivering they pulled up the covers and held each other until the storm passed. Tracy fell asleep, but Mercedes found it elusive. She propped herself up on an elbow and studied his face. Time felt like it was fleeing past her like wind-blown fog.
“Two days,” she whispered to herself. “Two days and then I’ll be ready.” Tracy murmured in his sleep. She bent close trying to hear, but the barely audible words slipped into snores. She continued watching him until the sun sent golden rays through the slats on the shutters. “Or maybe three.”
* * *
Hissilek was gripped with the Christmas fever. Only fourteen days remained before the holiday and the streets were crowded with flitters and pedestrians all rushing to find that last gift or a particular delicacy for Christmas dinner. Boho’s flitter was nondescript and heavily armored, and he had two security flitters flanking him. He gazed out the window at the crowds below. Many people were on their ScoopRings or watching the live news feed on public screens. The headlines said it all—NO SIGN OF INFANTA. THE SEARCH CONTINUES AS HOPE WANES. Doubt shook him and Boho hoped he had been right to trust Anselmo. Boho had considered banning shore leave for the crew, and continuing the communication lockdown in an effort to control the news cycle, but Anselmo had convinced him that wasn’t the smartest move. There would be too many people who would know that the consort’s flagship had returned, and silence would allow the press and public to speculate. Which was never a good thing. Better to get out in front of it. The young man had drafted a press release that admitted the Infanta had not been found, but that the consort was following up leads with the League’s intelligence sources. He then seeded articles in the media about the consort’s grief but determination to find his beloved wife. His belief she still lived because he would sense it if he had lost his love.
The reason Boho was in a particularly nondescript part of the city was twofold. He wanted to avoid another contentious conversation with his father-in-law. He had barely kept his temper when Fernán had berated him as an inadequate loser for failing to find Mercedes. Boho had also decided that continuing his dainty gavotte with the del Campos had to end. He had called Arturo four times and had none of his calls returned, and a request to pay a call upon the del Campo ladies had been summarily refused. The del Campos obviously knew that Mercedes had not been found, a squadron had been lost, and had decided that Boho’s support was no longer needed. So, it was time to do what he could to thrust a spoke in their wheel. He was going to SEGU headquarters where the spies of the League kept tabs on the citizens of the far-flung empire.
Kemel’s office was in a large fortress-like government building on the outskirts of Hissilek that housed the League’s intelligence services. The area directly over the building was a designated no-fly zone, but even from his vantage Boho could see the array of antennae and satellite dishes on the roof, the weapons emplacements and the guards. Beyond the building the high chaparral rolled away toward distant rock-faced mountains. The flitter was directed to land in the inner courtyard. The security forces landed outside the building’s perimeter. The consort had no need for personal security at the headquarters of the Seguridad Imperial.
He was bowed through the front doors, outfitted with a security badge, run through a weapon detector, and then escorted by one of Kemel’s sleek and silent assistants to the old man’s office. Age seemed to have fallen on the man’s stooped shoulders and Boho thought his hair was even whiter than before.
“Anything?” Boho asked as Kemel waved him toward a chair.
“Nothing. Not a whisper. It’s like she’s been swallowed by a black hole,” Kemel said. His voice was hoarse with fatigue.
“It doesn’t make any sense. If someone had found her they’d have to know there would be a reward for getting her home. And why wouldn’t Mercedes contact us… me? Her father?”
“Perhaps she can’t. Coma or she’s fallen into the hands of rascals who have the intent to undermine the government.” The old man rested his hands on the desk and levered to his feet. “Or, worse thought and probably paranoid, but she might be in the hands of the Cara’ot.”
“Okay, that is way too out there. But as to destabilizing the government…” Boho dropped his voice. “Well, we might not have to look too far outside the government to find that. I was waiting to talk to you, gathering more information before I presented it, but I think it’s time. The del Campos have undertaken a sustained and targeted campaign to change the succession. Articles in the press, speeches from the well of parliament, sermons from the pulpit. All pushing the idea that Mercedes is unfit. The lack of an heir.” Boho held up a hand. “And I know I haven’t helped in that regard with my philandering—”
“And the bastards,” Kemel said dryly.
“Well, yes. I regret those, but we’re at a crisis point here. With Mercedes gone and the destruction of the squadron, they are going to make their move. I’m headed to parliament next to see what I can pick up from the members.” A cough to clear his throat and Boho resumed, “I should also tell you that the del Campos tried to suborn me by offering me a del Campo daughter in exchange for my support. Needless to say, I would never have acted on it. I wanted to string them along and see what I could learn.”
Kemel was nodding. “I was wondering when you would come and tell me this.”
For an instant the words didn’t register. When they did Boho felt as if he’d been dipped in ice. “You… you knew?”
Kemel keyed the intercom. “You can come in now.”
A door to the left of the old man’s desk opened and Sumiko waddled in followed by Paloma. Boho leaped to his feet and stared at Paloma. The timorous nymph was gone. Her face held all the mobility of a marble statue. The eyes that met his held no hint of adoration. Instead they calculated, measured and, it seemed, found him wanting. Sumiko was actively smirking at him.
“What the hell is this?” Boho demanded.
“Did you think all my agents were only bright young men trained in mayhem?” A thin smile touched Kemel’s lips. “Wives and daughters are so often overlooked, yet they hear and see so much. I even use a few select servants, though one can’t be too trusting of aliens. Still, I’ve known of your flirtation with the del Campos for weeks, Boho, thanks to Lady Flintoff and Paloma. They are true patriots.”
Two strides took him across the room to stare down into Sumiko’s broad, puffy face. “I don’t know if I’d use that word in conjunction with a woman who would pimp her own daughter.”
Sumiko shrugged. “I’ve got a number to spare.” Boho noted that Paloma flinched a bit at the unfeeling answer, but the mask was almost instantly back in place.
Boho whirled on the girl. “How do you feel about this?”
“Proud. I can’t attend the High Ground. I have a heart condition, so this is another way for me to serve.”
“So, you were just doing your duty with me? No, don’t answer that,” he added, hating himself for asking and hating himself for dreading the answer.
“I liked you pretty well. You may be old, but at least you aren’t gross.”
He had enough self-control not to respond. He turned to Kemel. “So, do you have a plan beyond tricking and humiliating me?”
“Not much of one unless we find Mercedes. And even then, it’s going to be touch and go. Whatever happened out there, it can’t be good. It’s going to unsettle the FFH and the military high command, and they are going to look to the del Campos.”
“What are our o
ptions?” Boho asked.
The old man sat on the corner of his desk. “We try to install one of the other eligible daughters.” A gnarled forefinger was raised. “We try to find a loophole and put you on the throne. Your family has a reasonable if somewhat attenuated claim.” The middle finger went up.
Sumiko interrupted. “At which point the del Campos lead a revolt in the House of Lords backed up by Mihalis and his control over the Gold. Make no mistake, old Kartirci is only a figurehead now. A number of the captains are loyal to Mihalis,” she said.
A third finger was lifted. “We acquiesce to the del Campos’ justifiable and superior claim.” The old man sighed. “At which point Fernán orders me and the military to arrest the del Campos and the League is plunged into civil war.”
“Why the hell does he hate Musa so much?” Boho asked.
“They were raised almost like brothers,” Kemel said. “What happened between them I couldn’t say, but whatever it was it has left them both with an abiding hatred.” Another sigh shook his thin frame. “And it’s worth remembering that Cain and Abel were also brothers.” His hand folded into a fist.
“So, what do you want me to do?” Boho asked.
“Find Mercedes and pray for something to change the conversation,” the intelligence chief said.
22
TIME IS RUSHING PAST
Lovemaking had been the start to the morning. Tracy had awakened with a soft erection and Mercedes had quickly brought him to aching hardness. When he had tried to roll on top she had placed a hand on his chest and held him down as she straddled his hips. Their hands touched as she guided him in and began to ride him. From this angle he could look up the length of her beautiful body, her breasts bouncing in time to her thrusts, the sweat trickling between them. He came with a fierceness that left him limp and slick with sweat. He started to close his eyes, but she tugged on his hair.
“Oh, no, no napping. I want to go exploring.”
“And I’m going to get that haircut so I stop offering you such a convenient handle,” he complained.
They had soon bathed and dressed, made their shuffling way across the bridges to the restaurant, and ordered breakfast. Tracy was pleased to see she liked the morning meal as much as he did. They both tucked into a full breakfast of bacon, eggs, toast, grilled mushrooms, and tomatoes.
The tram ride took thirty minutes. They travelled through human homes dotted through the forest, past lakes and across a river. The outer circles of the city looked like any other League world with human-style buildings and tall skyscrapers. Flitters filled the lanes overhead. They continued on to the old quarter, which meant tall old-growth trees, treehouses, and wood buildings tucked between them. It was foot traffic only in this part of the city. Or arboreal traffic if you were an Isanjo.
The streets were paved with cut flagstones in various colors. Arm in arm Tracy and Mercedes strolled through a crowded open-air market. Even the Isanjo seemed to be gripped with the Christmas buying spirit. The scent of spices, dried lemons, and roasting meat tickled his nose. Mercedes stopped to buy a skirt and several blouses to augment her skimpy wardrobe, and she often paused at the stalls that offered jewelry for sale. None of it was expensive, consisting as it did of bead work or polished stones. A few had semi-precious gems in the design. She seemed quite taken with a string of carnelian beads. Tracy bought it for her, and hooked it around her neck. He was unable to resist the rich cocoa of her skin. He dropped a kiss on the nape of her neck. She chuckled, turned to him, and twined her arms around his neck.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Merry Christmas a bit early.”
“Now let’s find a hair salon,” she said.
The shifting crowds moved in eddies like water being spun by an unseen hand. As the crowds parted briefly, Tracy caught a glimpse of a piquant face, pointed chin, upturned nose, pricked ears thrusting out of a tumble of red and white curls. Large neotenous eyes like an Isanjo, but Isanjo eyes were brown, black, or gold; these eyes, flicking nervously as she scanned the crowd, were the color of emeralds, an impossible green. She was talking with a Hajin who wore a jacket with a high collar that covered most of her mane. A small package was exchanged and slipped quickly into the pocket of the Hajin’s jacket.
The woman seemed to sense his gaze, and she quickly pulled up the hood on her jacket and was lost when another eddy sent a crowd past her. Memory raced him back in time and Tracy remembered a conversation in a run-down bar on Wasua where a drunk had spun a tale about a girl with red and cream hair, emerald eyes, and tufted cat ears who had stolen his identity and changed his very appearance. The man’s desperate voice, slurred with drink and fear, came back. “I tried to make them understand that the Cara’ot had placed an agent at the very heart of the government. Replaced me with an alien who could stand at the Emperor’s right hand.” Tracy’s arms stiffened around her. Mercedes pulled back and studied his face.
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
“I thought… no, it’s nothing.” He shook off the queasy feeling and followed her as she made inquiries about a good salon. They were directed to one, and Tracy keyed the address into his ring. Right after he finished his ring indicated an incoming call. It was Dalea.
“I didn’t want to disturb you too early. Where are you?”
“In the old quarter. Just leaving the market.”
“Oh, how lucky. I’m there too.”
Suspicion gnawed at him. “Really?”
Something in his tone had her adding, “I’m restocking the larder. And I want to check on Ximena.”
It took him a moment to realize she meant Mercedes. “She’s fine.”
“And you are a board-certified physician where?”
Tracy sighed. “All right. This won’t take long, will it?”
“No, just a few minutes. Where are you?”
“Over by the stand selling wind harps.”
“Oh, I see you.” Tracy spotted the Hajin weaving her way through the crowd. He studied her jacket. It was the same color, but the collar was folded down so her mane was showing.
“I’m sorry to interrupt your day,” Dalea said to Mercedes. “But I wanted to check on you.” The alien scanned the area. “There’s a restroom over there where we can be private.”
“I really do feel fine, but all right.”
The two females disappeared and Tracy leaned against a tree and scrolled through his newsfeed. A headline jumped out from one of the more scurrilous outlets that seemed to focus mostly on breathless reports of parliamentarians sleeping with aliens and drunken brawls by celebrities. Needless to say, it was widely read throughout the League. IMPERIAL COVER-UP? With a secondary headline—FOLDSTREAM SILENCE FROM THE INFANTA? SECRET MISSION OR MILITARY DISASTER? It went on to say that sources with ties to the palace reported that all contact had been lost with the Infanta’s squadron. The author went on to offer possible reasons, but the overall implication was that the Infanta had done something stupid or foolish or treasonous. Despite the bright sun and fresh air, it felt like walls were closing in around Tracy. He spotted Mercedes returning to him, and he quickly shut down the holo.
He dropped an arm over Mercedes’ shoulder. “So, everything okay?”
“Uh huh. Dalea was just being careful. She gave me a B-12 shot. She’s really very sweet. So, let’s go get you a haircut.”
The salon was owned by an elderly Hajin who had a bubbly Isanjo assistant who washed Tracy’s hair and delivered him into the hands of the old pony who wore a pork-pie hat balanced on the top of his elongated head. With the long ears hanging to either side, and the hat, he was a comical figure until he began to talk and a rolling bass emerged. The barber and Mercedes began a long conversation about cowlicks, natural parts, and the consistency of his hair before she allowed him to start cutting. Struggling between boredom and amusement Tracy asked if he could have a hot-towel shave while they dithered and debated. The Isanjo leaped into action and Tracy soon found himself relaxing whil
e the heat soaked into his skin and softened his beard. The towels were whisked away, his face lathered, and the straight razor expertly applied. After that the Hajin began to cut.
“The lady and I have agreed that the best way to deal with your cowlick is to give you bangs. And you do have a rather high forehead and a somewhat receding hairline so this will mitigate that.”
“I am not going bald,” Tracy said.
Mercedes’ eyes were dancing with amusement at his tone. “No, of course not, darling. Your hair is just regrouping and waiting for reinforcements.”
“Watch it, woman,” Tracy mock growled and gripped her hand while the Hajin clipped and snipped and combed.
The barber spun the chair around so Tracy could see himself in the mirror. The image looking back seemed younger. The bangs and the way the Hajin had trimmed his sideburns did soften the rather harsh planes of his face, but the touch of hair on his forehead felt strange.
“Perfect,” Mercedes said to the barber and neatly lifted Tracy’s credit spike out of his pocket and offered it to the alien. While he took the payment, Mercedes stroked a hand down Tracy’s cheek. “Very nice.” She leaned in and whispered in his ear, “But I did rather like the stubble. The way you rubbed your chin across my back last night. Made me tingle.” She nipped his earlobe.
The aliens bowed them out of the shop, and Mercedes took his arm. “Lunch?” she proposed.
They found a café at the edge of the river, and were escorted to an outdoor wooden deck that offered a view of the river and the small waterfall that was sending white spume into the air. The rumble of the falling water was hypnotic. Isanjo families were spreading blankets on the grass and opening picnic baskets. Kits ran, climbed and tussled, babies cried, a street musician strolled along the river walk playing the violin. They held hands and Mercedes enticed him into telling her about his life, his crew. Tracy was careful never to reveal the other Hidden Worlds where they traded. He might love her, but he wasn’t a fool. Unfortunately, neither was she.
The Hidden World Page 22
