The dish was like nothing Minox had seen before. It was primarily a mass of transparent strips that he could not identify on sight—looking almost like worms, were they made of glass. The strips rested in a broth, but not quite enough broth that it could properly be called a soup, with chunks of mushrooms, root vegetables, and a meat that Minox’s nose told him was fish.
Minox picked up the eating utensil—which was neither spoon nor winescrew, but made Minox think of both—and prodded at the strips. They felt tender, easy enough to eat. Even still, despite his usual lack of discerning palate, he paused.
“Is this a traditional dish in Lyrana?”
Taiz held his utensil just away from his mouth—Minox noticed he was able to scoop up broth and fish while wrapping the strips around it—and thought for a moment. “It is a close approximation. The fish of your river and the fish of our ocean are not the same, but we adapt.” He then took the bite. The other two waited for him to eat before starting.
Watching the three Lyranans carefully, Minox was disturbed by how hard it was to read them. They spoke in similar ways, with that tonal quality, and their faces had nearly no expression, at least none that Minox could properly understand. The only thing he could get out of it was haughtiness, but that might just be his own biases. Even the graceful, fluid way they moved their hands was odd, almost inhuman. More disturbing was the difficulty he had in identifying their differences. There was no sense of age he could place on any of them—the universal hairlessness was throwing off his skill at determining that. He wanted to say that Nengtaj was the youngest, but even that was based only instinct. Little more than random guess.
He was understanding why Rainey had been annoyed with the Lyranans from the moment they received the letter.
Rainey started on her own food, and knowing that she was far more unwilling to eat something she found distasteful, he went in. He was unable to get everything onto the utensil with the same deftness as the Lyranans, but he believed he managed to not embarrass himself.
The flavor was unique. Fishy, certainly, with a rich earthy sense, complimented by the tender slickness of the strips—the texture of which was not unlike the outer layer of the Fuergan dumplings. Minox idly wondered if they were made with a similar process.
He continued to eat at the pace the Lyranans set, and when Taiz had several bites, he put his utensil down.
“Specialist, proceed with the briefing.”
Yikenj put her own utensil down, in a sharp manner that demonstrated a certain degree of precision was second nature to her. “We are aware that the Fuergan man, Hieljam ab Wefi Loriz, has been murdered at the Rev Tak Mel, and that he was to meet two Kierans to discuss business, and that the weapon used to kill him is indigenous to one of the Imach countries.”
“You’re very well informed,” Rainey said.
“We are aware that there was writing in a script that you believe to be Lyranan. Logically this would lead you to see the connections that our people may have with the deceased and the crime. To facilitate your investigation, we are prepared to disclose this information.”
“That would be very helpful,” Minox said. Though the straightforward nature of their offer made him immediately suspect they were using their openness as a cover for something else they wished to hide.
Yikenj gave a nod to Nengtaj. “How familiar are you with the Eastern waters?” he asked.
“It’s not something I’m versed in,” Minox said. He looked to Rainey.
“Not particularly,” she said, though he wasn’t sure if she was telling the truth. Something in her had turned hard and unreadable.
“It is an area overwhelmed with chaos,” Nengtaj said. “Piracy, smuggling, slave raids on the Xonocan or Ch’omik coasts, petty wars that spread to the seas. The turmoil caused by the fall of the empire never ceased.”
“The empire?” Minox asked.
Rainey supplied the answer, though Minox wondered if she did not realize she knew it until this moment. Her revelations had disturbed him, and it made it hard for him to fully focus on the current task. “The Tyzanian Empire, which collapsed four hundred years ago.”
“Most of what you think of as ‘the East’ was controlled or touched by the empire,” Yikenj said.
“The Lyranan government is the only power in the region attempting to assert the authority of order on the seas. Which is where my department is involved.”
“Trade Notary,” Minox said.
“We are designing a system for ships of legitimate purpose—cargo trade, naval defense, and so forth—to be registered and easily acknowledged. Lyranan ships patrol those waters that, for example, Fuergan ships, such as the Hieljam family’s ships, pass through on their way south around the Imach cape.”
“And so you had dealings with Hieljam.” Minox led Nengtaj.
“Permits were to be issued to the Hieljam, pending certain details that the factors in Maradaine were unable to provide. We were awaiting a meeting with Hieljam ab Wefi Loriz, but it never came.”
“He refused to take a meeting with you?” Minox asked.
“Refuse is a strong word,” Yikenj said coolly.
Taiz spoke up. “We left word that we were open to a meeting and could schedule one at his convenience. We never received a response.”
“Why do you suppose that is?” Rainey asked. Her question seemed almost aimed at Yikenj, who answered directly.
“There are several potential reasons. He may have had more pressing business while here, for one. While we take this registration matter seriously, for Hieljam and the other Fuergans, it would simply be a minor bit of administrative duty. The sort of thing I would imagine many people commonly put off until it is absolutely necessary.”
“I would imagine,” Rainey said.
Taiz finished the last bite of his dish and pushed the bowl to his left. “If there is nothing else, Inspectors, I would be gratified if we could take our leave.”
“There is the matter of the text,” Minox said. “Text written at the crime scene, which we’ve identified as Lyranan.”
“So we’ve heard,” Yikenj said.
Minox pulled the piece of paper that Leppin had copied the text on out of his coat pocket. “Given that it may provide key information about the murderer, or at least their motivation, we would like to know what it says.”
“Of course you would,” Taiz said.
Yikenj also added, “Though it is likely another, how do you say, ‘dead end’?”
Rainey drew a sharp breath, as did Taiz. Taiz looked at his aide and made a strange whistling sound. She bowed her head to him and focused on the last bites of her meal.
Taiz turned again to Minox. “If I may see it?”
“Of course.” Minox slid the paper over to Taiz.
Taiz glanced at the sheet, his face first maintaining its haughty expression, as if the mere act of translation was well beneath him. Then that expression melted away. He turned the sheet upside down.
“Is it relevant?” Minox asked.
“No,” Taiz said quietly. He turned the paper again, and then once more. Tears started to well in his eyes. “I’m sorry, it’s . . .” He slid the sheet over to Yikenj, who reacted in the same way, and then passed it to Nengtaj. While their reactions were highly emotional, Minox still couldn’t read if they were overcome with grief, joy, or horror.
“What?” Inspector Rainey asked, though she kept her focus trained on the woman. “Is it a confession?”
“It is . . .” Nengtaj said, his own voice trembling. He took a moment to compose himself, as he was also overcome with emotion. “Let me explain. Our language is written with several symbols, but each symbol takes a different meaning depending on its orientation.” He slid the sheet back over to Minox, pointing to one of the symbols. “Ejai.” He turned the sheet on its side, and pointed to the same symbol. “Heza.”
“I think I understand,” Minox said. “How does that mean anything?”
Taiz spoke up again. “There is an art form, called eizhein. A kind of poetry, done in a block of twelve symbols arranged like this. To be a ‘perfect’ eizhein, it must make sense when viewed in all four directions, and the symbols themselves must retain a certain aesthetic balance.”
“And this is an eizhein?” Rainey asked. “A perfect one?”
“This . . . this is possibly one of the most elegant examples of the form I’ve ever seen.”
“So is it a famous eizhein? One of the great masterworks?”
“Not at all,” Yikenj said. “I’ve never read it before.”
“But it could stand with them,” Taiz said.
“So what does it say?” Minox asked, looking to any of them.
“You have to understand it will lose its poetry in translation.”
“Granted,” Rainey said.
“In this orientation, it says, ‘Vines choke the earth, and nothing blooms’.”
Taiz turned it on its side. “The fires must be deprived of fuel, or we burn.”
Another turn. “The air cries with smoke, no breath.”
Last turn. “Hold it under the water while it can still drown.”
Pra Yikenj raised an eyebrow. “Yes, it was quite lacking in Trade. It should not be repeated.”
“I don’t think that will be a problem.” Rainey took the sheet away from Taiz, her eyes still locked on Pra Yikenj. “It’s poetic nonsense in any language.”
“I presume that it means very little in terms of your investigation,” Taiz said to Minox.
Minox definitely couldn’t draw sense out of it. Not yet. But that didn’t mean it was meaningless; it just meant nothing to him, yet. For all he knew, translating it into Trade ruined its purpose as a message. Perhaps it gave a direct clue being translated into Fuergan or Tsouljan.
“There is still much to contemplate.” He got to his feet. “If there’s nothing else?”
The Lyranans all rose. “I believe that is all for the moment,” Taiz said. “If you need further consultation, you are aware where my offices are. Specialist Yikenj can make arrangements if you need.”
Rainey stood up. “I’m sure she can.”
The Lyranans bowed, and stepped away from the table, as if they expected Minox and Rainey to be the ones to actually leave first. Minox returned the bow and walked out. Rainey was with him, but walked with one eye on the Lyranans until they reached the door.
“Blazes,” she said once they were in the street. Her hands started trembling. “It’s clear now who the real suspect here is.”
Minox was surprised. “Did we just come from the same meeting?”
Rainey stopped, glanced back to the public house, and after a moment, grabbed Minox by his vest and pulled him into the alley. “I’m talking about Pra Yikenj.”
“You were oddly fixated on her during the entire exchange.”
“Fixated, right.” She looked back out the alleyway, and even glanced up to the sky. “That woman is a spy and an assassin.”
“You know this, Inspector?” Minox asked.
“I know it. Fifteen years ago she nearly killed me.”
Chapter 9
“YOU’RE CERTAIN?” Welling asked. He must have noticed the change on her face that came with him questioning her word. She thought they were past him doubting her. “I’m simply saying, frankly, I found telling the Lyranans apart challenging at best. Add in fifteen years of memory . . .”
Satrine shook her head. She knew all too well. “It was Yikenj. I wasn’t entirely sure on her face, but I knew her voice.”
“And she tried to kill you?” He glanced about behind him. “This is when you were in Intelligence?”
“The end of my time in Intelligence, shortly after I left Waisholm.”
Welling looked at her as if he expected a further story to unfold.
“The details aren’t relevant, Welling.”
“You say that, but I’ve already learned many disturbing things that have altered my worldview.”
There was just a hint to his voice that made her think he was joking. It wasn’t something he did very often.
“My point is, as an agent, I had a run-in with her in which I barely escaped with my life. And shortly after that I was cashiered out, met my husband . . . and thanked the saints that I survived.”
“So you think she may be involved.”
“Since we’re apparently looking for someone who could get in and out of the compound without being noticed, and kill Hieljam without leaving another mark on him. A known spy and assassin is a good place to be looking.”
“Your argument is quite valid, but it’s on a shaky firmament.”
Satrine felt her blood boil. “I know it’s the same woman.”
“I’m not doubting you, Inspector. But the same woman is fifteen years older. Are you as physically capable as you were back then?”
“No,” she said.
“Let alone motivation. We’re completely lacking for that on all fronts.”
Satrine had to agree to that. “Everyone we’ve looked at seems unhappy that he’s dead.”
“Precisely.” Welling took out his pipe and lit it up. He was now in serious thinking mode. “We’ve been led around by the nose to visit various parties, none of whom benefit from the victim’s death. We know more about his business, but little meaningful toward solving his murder. We’ve heard contradictory stories from several parties, and, I must confess, I’m at a loss to determine who, specifically, is being dishonest.”
That was unusual for Welling. Most of the time he could spot a liar before ten words got out of their mouth. “What’s messing you up?”
“Body language isn’t the same for any of these people. The cues I usually notice are all wrong.”
“We’ll have to just figure it out the normal way,” Satrine said. “So who benefits from his death?”
“At this point, I might think Assan Jabiudal, but I have absolutely no basis for that.” He took a few more puffs of the pipe. Satrine glanced around at the business in the streets. They were in the part of the Little East where Lyranan holdings—gray with elegant squares—abutted with the Tsouljan ones—golden colors and curves. The street was crowded, but there was a visible gap—just wide enough for a pedalcart—between the two peoples. They didn’t look at each other, they didn’t acknowledge or shout. The only ones who crossed the street were from other countries. Druth, Kieran, Fuergan mostly.
“I think we should go back to the Tsouljan compound,” Satrine said. “I think there’s more there than Mirrell and Kellman shook up.”
“That is quite likely,” Welling said. He glanced back and forth and at the separation between the Lyranans and the Tsouljans. “There is something to this neighborhood, a pattern I haven’t quite put my finger on.”
He was twitching and talking about patterns. Satrine had learned that was when he was starting to get too deep into the waters of his thoughts. Time to pull his nets in. “Is it within the scope of this investigation?”
He shook his head. “Most likely not. I just. . . .” He snuffed out his pipe. “Let’s go to the compound.”
They made their way around the block to the compound entrance, where the two footpatrolmen stationed at the gates were being screamed at by Hieljam ab Tishai, who was dressed entirely in white furs. Satrine couldn’t quite make out what she was saying, as her accent seemed magnified by her shouting.
At least four other Fuergans were at Hieljam ab Tishai’s side, large men who looked like they might be carrying weapons. They also wore white fur, but only as bands around their heads. They also looked like they were willing to engage the footpatrol officers at a moment’s notice.
One of the two footpatrol glanced in their direction as Satrine and Welling ap
proached. “Ma’am, here they are. I’m sure they can help you.”
Hieljam ab Tishai responded in a string of Fuergan words that sounded like insults to Satrine’s ear.
“Heina-jai Hieljam,” Satrine said, putting herself in between the Fuergan woman and the duty officers. A respectful use of formal title should help bring this woman back to the ground. “Is there something we can help you with?”
She narrowed her dark, angular eyes at Satrine. “Yes, Inspector, there is something you can help me with. The two of you people are exactly who I was looking for. Your underlings were utterly useless in locating you.”
One of the footpatrol cleared his throat cautiously. “Inspector, ma’am, I was trying to . . .”
Hieljam ab Tishai launched into further expletives at him.
“Heina-jai,” Satrine said firmly. “Let my officer speak.”
Hieljam ab Tishai pursed her lips, like she was physically holding back a further torrent of Fuergan profanities.
“What is it?” Satrine asked the footpatrol.
“She was trying to bribe us, ma’am,” he said.
“What is this word you keep using?” Hieljam ab Tishai asked.
“We really could put charges, Inspector,” the footpatrol said. “I was trying to be reasonable, but she was . . . insistent.”
Satrine understood what the difficulty was. “Heina-jai Hieljam, you don’t need to hire our footpatrol. They aren’t—they cannot be—paid directly by you.”
Hieljam ab Tishai scowled. “That is a terrible way to ensure proper service.”
“Perhaps so, Heina-jai. You were looking for us? We’re here now.”
“Indeed I was. I require the body of my isahresa.”
“His body? It’s at our stationhouse, in the examinarium.”
“In the what?”
Welling stepped in. “In murder cases it is necessary for our experts to examine the body in detail, with specialized tools, in order to determine as much possible information that could yield resolution.”
Hieljam ab Tishai’s face turned crimson. “You took his body and desecrated it?”
An Import of Intrigue Page 12
