The Sword-Edged blonde

by Alex Bledsoe

  I joined him to gaze at the map. He was right, the roads resembled some sailor’s arcane knot. “It would be somewhere they could discreetly have wild parties with the girls from the Dragonfly.”

  He made an inclusive gesture. “You could do that at any of ’em. These are the cream of C.Q. society. They invented decadence, and they’re able to pay to keep it quiet.”

  I pondered as much as my still-fogged brain allowed. It could take weeks to check each house; there had to be a way to narrow the search. “How old are these houses?”

  “Varies.”

  “Any of them built in, say, the last twenty years?”

  “I don’t think so. That hill had the defensive high ground over the harbor, so it was the first place settled. It has some of the oldest buildings in town. Big stone things, like castles that never grew all the way up.”

  “But they’ve changed hands over the years, right? They’re not still owned by the founding families.”

  “Some are. Most aren’t.”

  “So if you were rich and powerful enough to buy one of these, but also, let’s say, deformed, you might have your mansion modified to suit your disability.”

  He sighed. “Enough with the damn Dwarf, Eddie. Your little girlfriend might’ve been feeding you a line, you know.”

  “Somebody yanks Canino’s chain.”

  “Yeah, and you’re yanking mine.”

  I ignored his skepticism; I’d just had an idea. “Who’s the best mason in town?”

  “Like I’d know,” Bernie said. But I knew he’d find out.

  CAPE QUERNA’S TOP household design man, who’d turned his masonry skills to making sure rich people always felt rich at home, had a shop right on the edge of the Brillion Hill district, in a refurbished home that had probably once been as grand as those he now served. It was surrounded by a small landscaped yard and trees pruned to perfection. It advertised, without actually advertising, that gracious living was its prime commodity. Bernie and I tied our horses next to an expensive covered buggy with a liveryman and driver lounging beside it.

  A tasteful sign by the road identified the business as Tanko Interiors. Beneath it was the slogan: The best homes for the best people. A tall young man in ruffled cuffs opened the door before we could knock. He disdainfully regarded our attire. “Yes?”

  Bernie held up his identification pendant. “Civil Security. We need to speak with Mr. Tanko.”

  “He’s with an important client right now,” the ruffled guy said snottily. “Perhaps if you made an appointm—”

  I could’ve told him that wasn’t the attitude to take with my pal. Bernie punched him right in the center of his chest, so fast I barely saw his hand move. Ruffles made a tiny “oof!” sound, his eyes popped wide and he started to fall. Bernie stepped forward and caught him.

  “Hey! You got a fella in distress here!” Bernie yelled. He lowered the red-faced young man to the floor, where he wheezed as he tried to catch his breath. “Sorry, friend,” Bernie muttered as he undid the florid collar. “Next time try manners.”

  The foyer was huge, with well-chosen paintings on the salmon-colored walls. Luxurious chairs and couches were provided for waiting clients, and a decanter of wine stood open beside a tray of classy, jewel-crusted mugs. Overhead a huge chandelier hung like a diamond rose. At night, with all the candles lit, it would’ve been bright enough for ships to navigate by.

  A door slammed at the far end of the room, and a man walked rapidly toward us. He seemed to be enveloped in a swirl of colors, with a bright blue puff-sleeved shirt offset by a yellow scarf and his own frightfully red hair. “Oh, my God!” he cried in a high, twittering voice. “What’s happened to Cecil?”

  “Looks like some kind of seizure,” Bernie said. He stood to greet this newcomer. “Happens sometimes when folks don’t cooperate. You the owner?”

  “Good heavens, did you do this?” the yellow-scarfed man exclaimed. If possible, his voice grew even more shrill. “You rude wolverine, you! This man is an artist, he has a delicate constitution!”

  Again Bernie held out his identification. “He’ll be fine, and so will you if you just calm down. We’re looking for Robert Tanko. Is that you?”

  “Yes, yes, that’s me,” he said as he fell to his knees beside Cecil. “My little dove, can you hear me?”

  A woman with an enormous plumed hat appeared from the same door that had disgorged Tanko. She had a body that curved in all the right ways, and her clothes were cut to show it off. “Bobby,” she called impatiently, “they’re walk-ins, and I had an appointment.”

  “Reschedule it,” Bernie told her. “Civil Security business.”

  The woman’s eyes first opened in surprise, then contemptuously narrowed. She started to speak, but Bernie cut her off. “And don’t ask me if I ‘know who you are,’ because then I’d have to say I do. And yes, I know who your husband is. And I know about your little jaunts down to Lewis Beach with your herbalist, something I bet your husband doesn’t know.”

  Her mouth snapped shut, and she turned red even through her considerable make-up. She flounced past us out the door, stepping over Cecil as if he were something her dog left on the rug.

  Tanko glared at Bernie. “How dare you—”

  “The more you keep acting like a spoiled brat, the longer this’ll take,” Bernie said. “Your friend here will be good as new once he catches his breath, and we only have a couple of questions. Where can we talk?”

  Tanko started to protest further, then thought better of it. He helped Cecil, still woozy, into a padded chair, then we followed him into his private office. Like the foyer, it was classy and stylish, dominated by a huge table piled with drawings and designs. A floor-to-ceiling archway behind the desk opened onto a garden.

  Tanko shut the door and whirled on us. All traces of swish vanished. “Who the hell do you think you are?” he demanded, his voice a full octave lower. “You can’t just come in here and start beating on people, I don’t care what your badge says.”

  “We’re the guys with the questions,” Bernie said as he looked around, unruffled by Tanko’s complete change in demeanor. “My friend here,” he said with a nod at me, “will do the asking.” Bernie then leaned against the wall by the door, stuck his hands in his coat pockets and left me the floor.

  Unlike Bernie, I didn’t hide my surprise at Tanko’s personality reversal. Tanko saw my expression and laughed. “Oh, come on, nobody’s that much of a hummingbird. It’s what people expect from a man in this profession. Rich old men have to be able to trust me alone with their trophy wives; you think I’d get any business if I didn’t flutter around in this kind of get-up?”

  “Must be tough on your wife,” I said, noting the band on his finger.

  “I never said I liked girls. Just that I wasn’t a hummingbird.” He winked at me, sat on the edge of his desk and folded his arms. “So what’s so important that Cape Querna’s finest have to hassle someone like me? Are you finally going to redo those hideous uniforms?”

  “Somebody on Brillion Hill has modified a house to accommodate their handicap,” I said. “A guy with arms and legs that don’t work right, that look like they’ve been pushed up into his body. He’d have money, so he’d come to you, the top man in your field. And even if he went to someone else, I’m betting you know about it. All I need is an address.”

  Tanko’s eyes narrowed. “And just who are you again? I haven’t seen your badge.”

  “Mine’s big enough for us both,” Bernie said.

  “Not from where I’m sitting, tough stuff. What happens if I say I have no idea what you’re talking about?”

  I looked around until I spotted a large wooden cabinet. “Bet you keep very neat records. Be a shame if they got all mixed up from us looking through ’em.”

  “That’s illegal,” Tanko protested, but clearly he knew such niceties weren’t a consideration.

  “Then tell me the address,” I said.

  He sighed and undid the scarf as if it c
hoked him. “Some of my clients won’t take it too well that I’m giving out that kind of information. They like to think their dealings with me are confidential. I’ve been known to make changes for them that facilitate certain, ah . . . illegal intimate activities.”

  “Oh, come on, Tanko,” Bernie snapped impatiently. “Otherwise I get a dozen of my clumsiest and least aesthetic officers down here and we turn your tidy little business into a rummage sale.”

  Tanko swallowed hard. He looked at me for sympathy, but I kept my expression neutral. He paced to the arch that overlooked the garden. “Okay, fellows, we’ll play your game. How much,” he asked quietly, “to make you two go away?”

  “I can’t hear you,” Bernie said; he’d heard him just fine.

  Resigned, Tanko nodded. “Yeah,” he said softly. “I’m sorry, then, gentlemen. I’m not telling you a thing.”

  Before either of us could respond, he held up a hand. “That’s right. You came in here with threats and scare tactics.” He found a quill, dipped it into an inkwell on his desk and began to write. “But I didn’t tell you anything. If you’re honorable men, you’ll pass that information along. Bob Tanko told you nothing.”

  He handed the parchment to me. On it was a street address. “If you tell anyone any different, I won’t see the next sunrise,” Tanko added with fatalistic calm. “I’ve always liked the dawn. I’d hate to miss it.”

  I blew on the ink to dry it, then put the parchment in my pocket. “He’s too tough for us, Bernie. He won’t crack.”

  Bernie nodded and dislodged himself from the wall. “Yeah. Damn near wore myself out trying to shake him loose.”

  Tanko nodded gratefully. As we left his office, Bernie paused and kicked over a large potted plant. The dirt and water spilled onto the carpet. When he saw Tanko’s aghast expression he said, “Just to make it look authentic.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Bernie didn’t take it very well when I told him he couldn’t tag along. He took it even less well when I wouldn’t share the address with him. If Canino was involved, he pointed out, then likely some major illegalities took place in and around my destination. I sympathized, but I also knew I had to do this alone. Bernie was both my friend and the long arm of the law in Cape Querna, and I might have to break a few statutes to resolve things for Phil, Rhiannon and myself. I couldn’t risk either implicating or confronting Bernie in a pinch.

  Back in the boarding house I tried to catch up on some lost sleep, but I was too anxious to relax. I risked a drink, not knowing how it might mix with the dregs of the Dragonfly’s joy juice still in my system. It had no effect of any kind.

  I stood on the balcony and watched night approach over the ocean as the sun set. From dark blue to purple to black, the sky darkened like a bruise forming over Cape Querna. Beneath it roamed the people who hated the light, whose furtive acts needed to be hidden from decent, daytime eyes. Tonight, I would be one of them.

  My strategy was simple. Go to the address Tanko gave me, sneak into the place and see if, as I suspected, the Dwarf was also Andrew Reese. After that, I’d have to improvise.

  My sad little plan was based entirely on my only real clue, the note I’d found at Epona’s old hut. I lit one of the balcony’s torches, unfolded the faded piece of parchment and looked it over one final time. Translated, it read:

  I KNEW YOU WOULD COME BACK. AND YOU KNEW I’D FIND YOU.

  I read no hidden meaning, no inside joke or inadvertent irony that might give something away. I saw only the bitter cackle of triumph from an old enemy. The rest of my chain of reasoning was so insubstantial it might have been made from fairies’ hair.

  It wouldn’t have been so bad if people hadn’t been counting on me to be brilliant. I imagined Queen Rhiannon, now scruffy and despondent in her cage beside the city gate. Each morning the same work traffic would pass her, and she would endure their jeers and stares knowing she was innocent. Was she allowed to speak to any of them? Would she eventually form relationships with her tormentors the way all prisoners do? Or was she kept silent, in public isolation, overhearing but not participating in the city life around her? Would her guards abuse or coddle her? Would Phil demand daily reports, or try to pretend she wasn’t there? And would all this finally convince her to admit she did know who she was, and why someone hated her so much? Or had she told the truth all along?

  Completely out of the blue, I had a vivid flash of my hand on Epona Gray’s inner thigh, sliding toward the horseshoe scar. A cushion of sweat smoothed my palm’s progress along her fever-cooked skin. She had been real, I was absolutely sure. She had been a genuine, tangible woman. But I’d never touched Rhiannon; she told me about the scar, but I never saw it. So how could I know if she truly was Epona Gray with blond hair and blue eyes?

  That was my basic dilemma. I just wasn’t sure of anything. I couldn’t believe Epona Gray had been a goddess; that was just goofy. And I didn’t believe Rhiannon was an amnesiac. Yet I was sure that, somehow, they were the same person. How could that be true? Rhiannon could not still be so young and unchanged after ten years unless she really was supernatural. Epona had been deathly ill, so she couldn’t have been supernatural. One, or both, had lied. Because nothing made sense if both had told the truth.

  I packed all my belongings and left the bag on the bed. If I returned to claim it, I wouldn’t be staying long, and if I didn’t, the housekeeper shouldn’t have to bother on my account. I wore dark clothes that, I hoped, would seem like formal evening wear at a distance, but would allow me to hide in the shadows if needed.

  I slipped through the crowded, smoky tavern without being noticed and went into the stables. The boys had finished feeding and grooming the guests’ horses for the evening and gone off to do whatever stable hands do after work.

  My stolen ride stood patiently in her stall. The dim light from scattered oil lamps turned her a deep chocolate color. She tossed her head slightly when I put the saddle on her back, but made no protest when I cinched it tight. I pulled the bridle over her head, and she accepted the bit without complaint.

  I looked into her eyes. For the first time with any horse, I didn’t get that frisson of alien, vaguely malicious intelligence. “You’re a pretty good girl, aren’t you?” I said as I stroked her face. “Hope you like being with me, because I don’t think you’ll ever find your way back to those border raiders in Pema. I guess if we’re going to keep working together, I really should give you a name.”

  She gently tossed her head in what truly seemed like agreement.

  “I’ve never named a horse before. Let’s see . . . I guess I should base it on some quality you have. You’re patient, you’re smart, you’re loyal . . . hm, ‘Loyola’?”

  The horse just looked at me as if I was an idiot.

  “You’re right. What if we shortened it to ‘Lola’?”

  I swear the animal cocked her head as if thinking about it, then whinnied and stepped forward to rub her snout against my cheek.

  “Lola it is, then,” I said as I swung my leg over her back. “Hope I’m still around tomorrow to introduce you to people.”

  I’d memorized the route from the map in Bernie’s office. I rode Lola though the dark streets toward Brillion Hill, doubling back several times to make sure I wasn’t trailed by either Bernie or someone connected with Canino. Foot traffic thinned out as I neared the mansion district, and once I reached it I passed only closed buggies delivering the scions of these wealthy families to ritzy galas. I heard music and crowds behind some of the massive privacy walls, while others remained mysterious and silent.

  The small castles and newer houses on Brillion Hill reflected the world of my own childhood. I’d been one of those decked-out rich kids living from party to party. I could dance, use the right fork at a lavish dinner, negotiate a wine list and play a passable piano. My partner in crime had been the ultimate cool dude, Crown Prince Phil. And for a while, my girlfriend had been the delectable Princess Janet. At that moment, though, it seemed no more
real than some book I’d once read.

  I passed numerous huge, ancient gates before I reached the one that bore the number Tanko had written down. Through the heavy iron bars I saw a three-story house, newer but not really new, behind the tall trees. The grounds grew thick with flowering bushes, and I recalled Spike’s comment that Canino always brought back fresh flowers from his visits to the boss. Only a single light gleamed in one window; no galas tonight for the Dwarf, apparently. The gate looked solid, and its lock mechanism appeared in good shape. There was a gatehouse, but it was unmanned.

  Only after I’d absorbed all this did the gate’s design register. The bars were decorated in the shape of a giant horseshoe, upside down so the luck wouldn’t spill. I almost laughed.

  A buggy approached as I took in the sight. I rode on as if still searching for the right address. Lola’s hooves clopped on the cobblestone road as we passed two other homes. When the traffic finally disappeared and I had the street to myself for a moment, I stopped and slid quietly to the ground. I led Lola into the shadows beneath a thick, ancient oak branch that stretched over an estate wall and almost across the entire street. I tied her to the lowest limb, and if she stayed still and quiet, she’d be invisible until dawn.

  I pulled the brand-new Edgemaster Series 3 dark-steel sword from the saddle and strapped the scabbard across my back. The trusty Fireblade had served me well, but its blade was far too shiny for night work. I’d picked up the new sword earlier that day, and although taking an untried weapon into combat was a beginner’s mistake, there’d been no time to break it in. I waited while more buggies passed. Then, ducking from shadow to shadow, I returned to the gate.

  I lingered in the dark beside the gatehouse for a long time, listening for any movement on the grounds behind the wall. Crickets and mosquitoes, uncaring of social status, went about their business here just as they did among the common folk at the bottom of the hill. Two carriages passed on the street, one silent and one full of giggling debutantes. I heard nothing from the house or the surroundings.