Aetherium (Omnibus Edition)

by Joseph Robert Lewis

  The man flinched and jerked his arm away. “Over there.” He pointed up the street at a small square around an old stone well. A single horse was tied to the post there.

  “Thanks.” Syfax pulled the stiff bundle of cloth off his aching shoulder, slipped his belt back around his waist, and shook out his damp coat before pulling it on. It weighed twice what it should and stank slightly, but still looked like a marshal’s uniform and that was all that mattered. He marched up to the horse by the well. “Who’s running this operation?”

  A middle-aged woman leaning over the well straightened up and nodded. “That’s me. You looking for the coach? It’ll be back in half an hour or so, and then we’ll be doing the evening trip to Port Chellah. You can wait here if you want.”

  “I don’t care about the coach. I’m looking for the old lady you picked up on the road.”

  The woman’s expression soured. “You a marshal?”

  “Major Zidane. Where’s the woman?”

  The woman shrugged. “Siman’s dropping her off in town.”

  “Where?”

  “Ibis Square. The Othmani house.”

  “Of course it is.” Syfax grimaced. Only one of the wealthiest families in the whole damned country.

  It took more than half an hour to find Ibis Square and Syfax saw the coach heading back to the well long before he got there. Another curbside interrogation of a weary pedestrian pointed him to the massive colonnaded estate house. The courtyard gate was open.

  The major pounded on the door and wiggled his muddy toes on the doormat. The girl who answered the door wore a white apron over her gray dress and a weary expression on her young face. She winced at the sight of his feet. “Yes, sir?”

  “I’m here to see Ambassador Barika Chaou. Older gal, about so tall.” He held out his hand palm-down. “Probably just arrived.” He peered over the girl’s head into the foyer and the hall beyond it.

  “Yes, sir. If you will please wait here, I will speak to the lady of the house.” The maid started to close the door.

  Syfax planted a dusty hand against the polished wood. “Nah, I think I’m going to claim a little probable cause and just invite myself in.” He padded across the threshold, across the cold tile floor, across the plush Persian carpets. Each sensation was ten thousand times better than the ten thousand steps that had carried him there from the wall of the canal. “Nice place. Where is she? In here?” He stomped through the dining room past a twenty-foot table beneath a three-tiered chandelier, past the entrance to the kitchen and into a warmly lit sitting room with half a dozen armchairs and lounges arranged around a massive iron fireplace decorated with dancing dragons breathing iron flames into wreathes of iron flowers. The fire was roaring and Syfax slowed as he plunged into the wave of dry hot air.

  A rather young woman sat by the fire in a richly upholstered chair, a leathery old thing, massive and padded, that creaked just enough to declare it an antique but not enough to be intrusive. The table at her elbow was hand-carved teak with a marble disk inlaid in its top. A brass lamp adorned with endless filigrees and scrollwork glowed warmly on it. The woman wore a silk robe and slippers woven somewhere in the far east, and a heavy silver necklace of pagan knot-work from some barbarous place to the north, and on the bridge of her nose perched her gold-rimmed spectacles, undoubtedly crafted by the most skilled optometrist in Marrakesh.

  “Can I help you, officer?” she said.

  Syfax glanced down at the empty chair in front of him. “So are you hiding her, or did she slip out the back? Because I gotta tell ya, I just walked most of the way from Chellah this afternoon and I’m really tired of chasing people.”

  “I don’t know who you mean, officer.” She frowned at his feet. “I’m Dona Fariza Othmani, president of the Othmani Mills Corporation. I’m sorry, what service are you with? Ordinarily I might recognize your uniform, but ordinarily our public servants are properly attired, I believe.”

  Dona, eh? I guess if you can’t inherit a title, you can always buy one from España. He said, “Major Zidane, marshal. And yeah, the smarmy-rich-lady act isn’t going to impress me. Barika Chaou sat in this chair less than a quarter of an hour ago.” He pointed at the dusty seat and dirty scuff marks on the rug in front of it. “So is she still in the house or not?”

  Dona Othmani turned her head ever so slightly to the side and called out, “Cyrus? Would you come in here, please?”

  Syfax watched the huge man enter at the far end of the room. Cyrus wore a dark gray suit and a pair of dark tinted glasses, and a set of brass knuckles on each hand. The major grinned. “Well, I have to hand it to you, miss, you’re a heck of a decorator. Persian carpets with a matching Persian bodyguard? Classy.” He yanked his broad knife from his belt and let the thick-necked bruiser close the distance.

  Cyrus jogged the last few feet and swung a brass-plated fist at the major’s face. Syfax dashed inside his reach so they were almost chest to chest and he slammed his palm up into the Persian’s chin as he buried his knee in the man’s groin. Cyrus fell forward, sliding off Syfax’s shoulder on his way to the floor. The major backhanded the man in the ear as he fell for good measure. Then Syfax knelt, slashed the man’s belt in half, and helped himself to the Persian’s tinted glasses and one of the brass knuckles. “Nice party favors. And as long as I’m here, I think I’ll take a little look around.” He stood up, blinking at the dark blue world through his new glasses.

  The young woman stood up sharply from her chair. “Major, this is a private residence. If you do not leave immediately, I assure you that you will be stripped of your rank and thrown in a military prison by the end of the week.”

  “Coming from you, that’s actually a fair threat. But I’ve got a killer to catch and the worst thing the brass will do to me is toss me back in the army. Last chance. Where’d you stash her? Upstairs in a bedroom? Out back in the shed? Wine cellar? I’m happy to go room to room myself.” He stepped over the Persian, who had vomited a little on the carpet and was now rising to all fours. “Down, boy.” Syfax kicked the man’s arm out and his face crashed into the leg of the table beside Othmani’s chair. Her tea sloshed in its porcelain cup.

  Dona Othmani huffed. “Yes, major, Barika Chaou was here. Briefly. As you observed, she was filthy and I did not allow her to stay here more than a few minutes. She left by the kitchen door just before you arrived and I have no idea where she might be going.”

  “What did you talk about?” Syfax wandered over to a tall vase displayed on the mantel above the crackling fire. The heat was blistering to his skin but soothing to his aching back. He placed one finger on the lip of the vase and gently began tipping it forward.

  “She was babbling, clearly in some sort of distress. Whatever it was, it was none of my concern and I did nothing to warrant any damage to that antique vase, major.”

  Syfax held the vase at a precarious angle above the stone ledge at the base of the fireplace. If Chaou really did slip out, she could be anywhere, but if she’s still in the house then I can wrap this up right here. “What did she say, exactly?”

  Cyrus picked himself up off the floor, his legs spread a little too wide, and one hand clutching his jaw. He needed his other hand to hold up his trousers, which had slipped down to his knees as the two halves of his belt flopped out from his belt loops. The Persian looked at his mistress and indicated the marshal with a sharp nod, but she waved him back with a pained frown as she said, “Barika said there had been some trouble in Tingis. I can only imagine she meant the explosion at the train station. I cut her off. I told her I did not wish to know her affairs and would not render her any assistance.”

  “Tough break for her. Funny that she thought she might get some help from you, though. How do you know Barika Chaou, exactly?”

  “I saw her regularly at various state dinners, festivals, and conferences among people of means and influence. But we had no particular relationship. I was, as I said, quite shocked to learn of the allegations against her regarding the
Tingis matter, and I was equally shocked when she appeared in my home here this evening. I take it she is in fact guilty?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Ah.” Dona Othmani looked genuinely concerned for a moment. “A tragedy for all involved, without question.”

  “Mostly for the people she killed, and their families.” Syfax kept both eyes on the Persian hulking behind her. “So you run Othmani Mills from here? Aren’t your factories all in Arafez?”

  “Technically, I’ve retired. As president, I’m really just a figurehead for the company.”

  “Aren’t you a little young to be retired?”

  Dona Othmani smiled. “Yes, but I’m already the wealthiest woman in the province. I have taken residence here permanently. More time for the children and my reading. It’s quite nice not to be squinting at balance sheets and ledger books, inspecting factories, arguing with foremen, and breathing in their stink. Ikelan trash.”

  “My grandmother was Ikelan,” Syfax said as he took his finger away and let the vase shatter on the brick hearth. “Oops.”

  The lady glanced at the hand-painted shards on the floor and sniffed. “Then I’m sure you appreciate the dissolution of the caste system much more than I do. This country has changed too much, too quickly.”

  “Funny. Your friend Chaou said something just like that to me today.”

  “Whatever fringe political views I express are reflections of my birth, major, not my aspirations. Barika Chaou is a grasping little woman who thinks that running errands to the Silver Prince makes her someone of importance,” said Dona Othmani, her eyes narrowing and voice falling to a lower register. “If you really want to find her, just find the governor of Arafez. If Barika is in some sort of trouble, she’ll go scampering back to her mistress for help sooner rather than later. I don’t know what Lady Sade sees in her, but I’ve seen Barika at more than a few suppers at her estate. Are we finished now, major?”

  Syfax studied the Persian’s drooping pants and the broken vase at his feet. I’ve probably pushed my luck about as far as it will go here. “Yeah, we’re done. Thanks for your time. I’ll see myself out.”

  Outside, the small city of Khemisset was settling down for the evening as the streetlamps sputtered to life and the streets emptied. Down every lane, the smells of supper crept out from the homes of thousands of exhausted men and women. Syfax shuffled back to the well on his aching, raw feet and found the middle-aged woman he had spoken to just swinging up into the saddle of her horse. She told him he had missed the coach back to Port Chellah, but also that the only passengers had been men. She also pointed him across town to another well where the stage coach to Meknes and Arafez usually parked.

  By the time he found the other well, the night sky stretched overhead in full black and silver bloom. Their suppers finished, the locals began appearing on the front steps outside their homes to talk to their neighbors. A few men sang an old love song as the marshal trudged by, and later he passed a woman playing a lullaby on her flute. There was no one at the other well, but an elderly man sitting nearby confirmed that the stage coach to Meknes had indeed left around sunset.

  “Passengers?” Syfax asked.

  “Four or five, it seemed.”

  “An older woman in black, gold, and green?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I believe there was.”

  Syfax trudged into the nearest teahouse and spent the next half hour eating with his dirty, bloody feet propped up on the chair across from him and demanding to know where he could get a horse and a pair of boots so late in the evening.

  Chapter 21

  As the sun sank into the ocean, the Halcyon hovered above the flickering lights of the Arafez airfield. Unlike the field in Tingis with its massive hangars by the shore, here the landing area was an open space ringed with a towering brick wall that not only kept the wild street winds of the city at bay but ensured that a runaway airship would never go farther than the edge of the field. It also cast an impressive shadow, making nighttime landings even more challenging. Taziri thumped her thumbs on the throttles, peering down at the dark landing zone and the tiny figure of the field master waving her lanterns. “We’re cleared to land.”

  After a slow descent through a few rough gusts, Taziri planted the ship safely within the field walls and began shutting everything down. Everyone else was stretching and groaning and muttering about food and bed, but Taziri had to meet with the field master, finish her paperwork, and watch the sleepy-eyed ground crew fumbling with the Halcyon’s moorings.

  “Halcyon?” The field master frowned at her. “Oh, right. The one with the little boiler. We weren’t expecting you until later this month, I think. Where’s Captain Geroubi?”

  Taziri cleared her throat. Where is Isoke, really? In a bed or on a slab? “In the hospital. She was hurt in the fire in Tingis.”

  “And they let you take her boat up without her? Huh.” She scribbled something on her clipboard and then looked up again. “Ghanima! Good to see you. Looks like whatever happened yesterday scrambled the whole Northern Air Corps. What are you doing on Halcyon?”

  The pilot stepped down to the grass and offered a tired smile. “Just helping out some friends. The Crake isn’t exactly airworthy at the moment.”

  “I’ll bet. It’s all over the wire, everyone’s talking about it. They say the ambassador’s some sort of pastoralist. Wants to smash all the machines and go live in a cave or something. That true?” The field master had a way of shouting when she spoke and Taziri wondered how much hearing damage the blocky woman had suffered standing around idling airships year after year.

  “I don’t know.” Ghanima rolled her head to stretch her neck. “I mean, she never said anything like that around me.”

  Taziri stared through the tall gates of the airfield into the distant gas-lit haze of Arafez’s labyrinth of streets and alleys, squares and fountains, all traced and outlined with the flickering lamps. The other women continued with their small talk and gossip, neither one ever glancing at Taziri. Kenan and Evander emerged from the ship a moment later.

  “I tied Hamuy to the railings,” Kenan said. “Not that he’s going anywhere. The doc says he’s in pretty bad shape now. Not much time left. So I need to get down to the marshals’ office, report in, bring back some help to move Hamuy, and do whatever else needs doing.” He shook Taziri’s hand. “Thanks for all your help. I’ll be sure to put a good word for you, for both of you, in my report. And you too, doc.”

  Taziri nodded. “Good luck finding the major.”

  Kenan grinned sheepishly. “I’m sure he’s fine. It’s not the first time he’s disappeared in the middle of a case, actually. Good night, and thanks again.”

  They watched the young marshal jog across the field and out the gate.

  The doctor coughed and snorted impatiently.

  “All right, well, I think it’s time I got these two some food. I’ll see you later!” Ghanima patted the field master’s arm and turned to Taziri and Evander. “Ready to go?”

  They nodded as one and Taziri followed the young pilot across the field, through the gate, and into the city. The streets were quiet but not deserted. A small but steady stream of weary laborers and happy young couples made their way up and down every road, voices echoing down the narrow lanes above the rhythmic clacking of hard-soled shoes on the cobblestones. The distant rattle of wagons and carriages chased the clip-clop of hooves, always out of sight, but always within earshot. The neighborhood they found themselves crossing had once been a poor one, a crumbling array of shoddily made single-story homes, which no doubt explained why it had been so cost effective to level several blocks of them to make way for the walled airship enclosure. But now, scattered among the unfortunate remains of the residences there stood a variety of small shops peddling “exotic” foods and “genuine Arafez dresses” intended to entice visitors from distant lands. Taziri squinted through the windows at the shadowed wares within, frowning. More cheap garbage that no one needs.

 
For a quarter hour, they followed Ghanima as she continued to assure them that the best bed-and-breakfast was just up ahead, while Evander continued to complain about a certain pustule forming on his big toe that he insisted upon describing in clinical detail. But eventually they turned a corner and emerged from a dim street onto a bright little square, a patch of grass and flowering trees ringed by cafés and restaurants with foreign-sounding names, hotels large and small, and as Ghanima pointed out, the best bed-and-breakfast in the city, an unremarkable building bearing a sign that read, “The Brass.”

  They were just about to step inside when a soft patter of drums and the faint echo of a familiar song caught Taziri’s attention. She paused, straining to hear over the hundred pleasant conversations drifting across the square, and there it was. The song. A ballad, one her father had muttered under his breath while he worked, a song about a long journey and a happy homecoming. The melody took Taziri back to another time, a thousand worlds and years away, before fires and deaths, to a night just like this one, warm and clear, when she sang that same song to her new husband and life had been so much simpler and easier.

  “You go on.” She waved the others toward the door. “I’m just going to walk around a bit. I’ll be back in a little while.” They entered the inn and Taziri continued alone across the square and down another dim road following the sound of wistful voices and soft drums.