“Not so stiff,” she chided. “Th’alum’s not sting you. Is mostly for cooking. Also for pickles and pricked fingers. You’re close your eyes.” She continued brushing his forehead and studying him.
The way she rolled her Rs and clipped off the end of “pricked” made him smile. He shouldn’t, but he did as she told him, letting his head fall back until it rested on the counter. His eyes slid closed. It felt dangerously good. She traced her finger over his unbroken eyebrow and down his nose. Then cool powder touched his skin. He felt her lower her head close to his, heard the soft sound of her breath as it stirred the air against his temple. She held him still a moment. He could imagine her lips near his brow, her eyes searching his face . . . Then she blew across his forehead and lifted him up again.
He came all the way to his feet, shaking himself out of the seductive floating feeling that had gripped him. “What was that for?”
“I’m blow away th’extra powder once the bleeding’s stopped.”
“Oh, I see.”
“You’re not see—had your eyes closed.”
It was a lame joke, but he chuckled anyway. He couldn’t think what else to do that wouldn’t be horrendously ill-advised. “You’ve been too kind.” This was a strange conversation and a bit disturbing. He almost felt dizzy and groped to steady himself against the counter.
The alum container tipped off the edge.
Aya snatched it from the air and turned to put the canister away. “You’re not remember me,” she said over her shoulder.
He scowled “Of course I do—from this morning.”
She shook her head and turned back, looking grave.
“I do remember you,” Matheson replied, his mind spinning through the possibilities of where or how they’d met before that morning.
She gave a dismissive little “huh” and turned aside again.
He took a step and touched her shoulder, then jerked his hand back, appalled at himself. “I do. You had come in the front door and stood aside as I walked out. It was hard to see your face with the light shining through the window. You were just a beautiful woman in the morning sun.”
“Not’s beautiful as Venn Robesh.”
Matheson stared, dumbstruck, at her. She couldn’t know what he had said about Robesh.
She looked directly at him, her eyes still holding a strange glitter and spark. “You’re had asked who I knew, asked about Gil Dohan, but . . . everyone’s know you’re gone to Velas, asking about Venn and Denny. Words’re fly quick here. I’m know how this,” she added pointing at his cut eyebrow and then running her finger along the side of her own nose. “You’re the police asks for Dohan tonight. You’re ask all day, though you’re say’s only work. The rest, they’re come, they’re go. You’re here. So.”
Something cold settled in the pit of his stomach. “You came looking for me?”
“Found you. Did not look.”
Outside, the clash of cymbals and the squeal of the pipes passed, accompanied by the too-loud laughter of the Suvilen and the calls of drunken tourists.
He dragged her closer to him, perhaps rougher than he’d meant to. She narrowed her eyes at him but didn’t pull back. He peered straight into that narrow gleam. “Tell me about Venn and Denny. Who did they know?”
There was a decent view of the Ice Parade route from high up the old theater steps—not much detail, but an overlook of moving torches and glittering explosions in between the buildings. Dillal stood on the landing with his arms crossed, leaning one shoulder into the wall as he watched the streets below. He was dressed like a tourist. No one had paid him any attention when he’d walked into the Dreihleat with his head down behind a gaggle of hoppers, nor as he’d made his way up the stairs. The door from the backstage opened and a middle-aged Dreihle man stepped out, dressed in work clothes. He was taller than the inspector and had a small tattoo, shaped like a lily, below his right eye.
“Zeno,” Dillal said, barely turning his head.
“Trahna . . . Cousin,” Zeno replied, hesitating.
Dillal gave a snort and continued in Dreihleen, but he didn’t clench his teeth around his words as Zeno did: “I’m ‘Cousin’ today, am I? Is that honor from them or from you?”
Zeno raised the barest of shrugs. “It’s I greet you, but them who speak. They ask if you’ve caught the red tars that did this thing.”
“No.”
Zeno continued quietly, “Why not? Why do you dawdle? It should be done.”
“You sound just like Pritchet, except you’ve made the culprits a different color. The trade societies presume that if a wrong of this magnitude is done, it must be the Ohba who did it, heh?”
“It is as ’tis.”
“No, it isn’t. We have no reason to suspect any Ohba were involved in what happened at Paz.”
“Then it goes unsolved.”
Dillal turned and glared at Zeno. The starlight slid across his face; Zeno twitched in shock and took a step back. “Why do you imagine I would let that happen?” the inspector demanded.
Zeno stared a moment before he turned his head a little aside and replied, “’Tis the trade fathers, not I. GISA has no care for us. They’ll not pursue hoppers or cits who harm Dreihleen.”
“If it were one death or two, the trade fathers might be right, but this is beyond what can be swept aside as a cost of doing business. And still they don’t say why they think I would let it go that way.”
“Why would it be otherwise, Cousin?”
“That you can imply two such contradictory things in the same breath astounds me. I am not ‘one of them.’ I haven’t become a monster in two years—though the trade fathers may think I’ve always been one. Yet you still call me ‘Cousin’ as if you remember that I was born less than two-hundred meters from this spot. Which is it, Zeno?”
“’Tis not for me to say.”
“Cat shit. I know what the societies think of me, but what of you? You were like an older brother when I was a small child—you stood beside my mother and my sister, then. You were a friend—or at least friendly—when I was a young ofiçe trying to deal fairly here. Now you keep your distance as if I could infect you, though by the reckoning of the societies, you’re not much better than I—useful only to carry messages to the unclean.”
Closing his eyes, Zeno sighed and hung his head. “Have pity, Djepe. I am not like you. I’ve no place but this.”
Dillal growled and turned back to look at the street, clutching the railing. “Say their piece.”
Zeno opened his eyes and took a long breath before he said, “If not the red tars, then find another, soon. Or we shall.”
The inspector’s eyes narrowed with a faint click. “I don’t intend to let the corporation or anyone else dictate the result of my investigation, nor to let the societies play into the corporation’s hands by allowing you to kill your own.”
“Intentions count for nothing.” The words sounded hollow in Zeno’s mouth.
“Mine do. I will find the parties who are guilty in fact, not merely those who are convenient. Not for the corporation and not for your society chiefs, either. I’ve seen the agitation, the riots, the deaths in the agricamps . . .” His voice didn’t rise as he spoke. “I know that if this isn’t closed soon it will be another cause for violence one way or another, and that only benefits the corporation—no matter what the rabble-rousers and park bench revolutionaries say. Gattis Corporation and Corporation House have divided us, turned us on each other, preyed on all of us—Dreihleen and Ohba—for more than two centuries. They created the Agria Corps for the sole purpose of crushing us faster and laying the blame on someone else. Anyone can read the history of it—if they’re allowed to learn to read. If they’re given access to the net instead of tucked away in blacked-out ghettos where they become their own prison guards and executioners out of fear and hate. We have lost our history. When the charter is reviewed, it will all come out, but it won’t matter what they’ve done to us if there aren’t any of us left.”
Zeno’s face pinched in misery as he stared at Dillal’s back. “I don’t know if ’tis true, Cousin—I can’t read your books—but I see us breaking apart: the trade from the free, those who will bow from those who will not . . . I listen to the speakers in the park. They’re just as bad as the rest. Some tell us to hold to our tradition, some to revolt, some tell us to withdraw, others tell us to speak . . . Only this terrible thing has drawn us back together, and I’m afraid. I do not want to see more of us die. And I don’t know what to do but carry messages and duck my head.”
Grim and weary, the inspector muttered, “Know a man by his ideals; but measure him by how he stands up to his friends.” He turned to study Zeno. “Tell the trade fathers that I will find who did this—whether it serves them or not. They needn’t worry that I’ll dance to the corporation’s tune either, since it’s as poisonous to me as it is to the Dreihleen and Ohba both. But warn them of this: I won’t tolerate any trade society justice, nor any further interference with my assistant. They should help me find who did this before the corporation uses it as an excuse to do here what they’ve done in the penal camps of Agria. And if they won’t, then be damned to them.”
He walked down the stairs with a deliberate tread. His shoulders were rigid and his grip on the railing was tight the whole way. The crowd in the street below the theater closed around him, hiding him from sight. He swayed, held up for a moment only by the press of other bodies. But he kept his feet and made his way out of the Dreihleat by the east gate, his stride slowing once he was several streets away.
Aya sent Matheson to the closest work table while she prepared a pot of tea. “Talk less well without tea,” she said.
He leaned against the table—he’d fall asleep if he sat. “Does it have to be a particular tea?” he asked, more to say something while she was turned away than because it was of any importance.
“Tea has moods. Not coffee. Coffee has personality—usually very loud, like tourists. May sweeten it, but can’t change its nature.”
She brought the pot of tea, small thick-sided bowls, and a plate of pastry, and set it all on the counter between them. Matheson eyed the small balls of flaky dough with suspicion.
She set her hip against the counter and chuckled. “Won’t hurt you.”
He gave the pastries a sour look. “They look like escudos.”
“I’m make them.”
“You made the escudos . . . Of course. Because Loni taught you to bake.”
Aya shrugged. “Make them when I can. Make everything, if I can. Even grow flowers for tea—sweet jasmine, mum, aminta, rose. Cost’s too high if I’m not.”
Aminta, that’s the spicy honey fragrance. “You own the shop—or your husband does?”
She shook her head. “Not married.” Marret.
“Oh. I . . . thought . . .”
“What you’re think? Women aren’t run businesses?”
“I was told business is a family thing among the Dreihleen.”
“’Tis, if I’m cleave to family. But I’m have too little left and I’m not bow to kind, so they’re leave me be. I’m have Minje—though I’m angry with him for giving th’escudos, but what I’m do? They’re not kill you.”
“Not quite,” he said.
The tilt of her head spoke volumes of irony as she looked him over. “Thought I’d not see you again. Just an ofiçe running errands.”
“But you said you knew it was me asking questions today and you knew I was the same clueless fool who wandered into your shop two days ago.”
“Word said a tall shashen—black hair, blue eyes.”
“Shashen?”
She hesitated, then said, “Foreigner.”
“System-hopper.”
She shook her head. “Hopper is temporary, is selfish, sees nothing but their own desire. Shashen is . . .” She looked straight at him. “Stranger.”
Her eyes still fascinated him. They were brown—ordinary brown, he reminded himself—but he kept being caught in them whenever she gazed directly at him. Most Dreihleen looked aside. Except Minje, and I don’t look into his eyes and watch for stars.
Matheson turned his head aside to break the spell. “Venn and Denny. Tell me about them.”
He did not watch her pour the tea.
“You’re want to write it down, what I’m say?”
He braved a glance and she made a gesture of scribbling in the air, lifting her eyebrows in question. He chuckled. “No. The mobile does that,” he added, looking at the device where it rested in the loops of his chest pocket. “Crap.” He’d forgotten to hash the incident, though it hadn’t been clear it was an interview when he’d found himself joining her for tea. He pressed the hash key and noted the flicker of the recording indicator.
She placed a cup by his elbow and looked at his pocket. “My name’s Aya Leyhan.” She gave her last name the harsh throaty sound he’d heard Dillal use in the morgue.
“Spell your last name,” he said, wondering . . .
“L-L-I-A-N.”
He’d guessed right. “Go on. Venn Robesh and Denenshe Leran.”
Aya shook her head. “Nine thousand of us in Dreihleat Ang’Das. Can’t know everyone, but Venn . . . She was Suvilen, was a festival dancer, was an admirable star in our sky. But still Dreihleen, and no future but house service, sweat labor, or sex. Denny Leran—petty, cruel boy—was best she could get. He’s got money, but she’s not like what he does.”
“What did he do?”
“Crime. Small things—thief, card cheat, mugger . . . I’m tell Minje I’m not like chancers in the shop. They’re make hoppers think Dreihleen’re low.” Chilly anger sharpened her expression and sent a shiver down Matheson’s spine.
“But Leran came anyhow?”
Aya growled under her breath. “Is hard t’keep all trash outside and Minje’s softer than I. But s’better for business he’s work the counter and I’m work here—or I’m sweep away the good with the dirt.”
“I see,” Matheson said. Her manner hinted she was capable of worse. He paused and redirected his questions. “So Venn and Denny were lovers. Did that change?”
Aya gave a derisive cough. “He’s never love her. He’s treat her as property. Then she’s become Beauty of Gattis and Denny’s no longer the cat that’s stalk the yard.”
Matheson scowled over the phrase. Aya made an endless circle with her finger against the tabletop. “He’s keep her frightened, keeps others away.”
Matheson nodded. “How often did they come here?” he asked. “Did she have other admirers?”
“Weekends, morning perhaps, they’re come separately. She’s listen to speakers in the park, come for coffee afterward, for talk it over. She’s not a fiery girl, very quiet. Always the men they’re want t’charm her, buy her coffees. They’re care nothing what she’s feel about speeches, only want t’be seen with her. But, Denny . . .” Disgust edged her voice. “Always his talk’s how pretty she is, how she’s his, then how she’s stay with him, how she’s help him. She’s never say yes, but she’s go with him from fear. The more she’s come t’listen in the park, the more she’s say no and Denny’s get angry. They’re fight and she’s break from him. Several times. Denny’s temper’s violent. He’s tell her she would be a whore. He’s tear her dress and say what he’s do t’her for the price of a coffee.”
Matheson’s stomach clenched. “What did he say he would do?”
Aya closed both her hands around her bowl of tea.
“Did he threaten to kill her?” Matheson asked.
She shook her head, glaring at the counter. “Is always sex. Violent. Degrading. Things a prostitute’s not do. Only someone much lower, someone broken.” Her voice quivered slightly and her fingers had clenched tight around her cup.
Matheson felt a shameful satisfaction that Denny Leran was dead. “None of those things happened to her.”
“Only murder.” The same rolling R and hard D that Minje had used on the word days ago: “mare’t.dair.” She reste
d her hands on the counter and the tea bowl chattered. The muscles at the corner of her jaw shifted.
“I suppose it’s not a consolation that Leran is also dead?” he asked.
Aya squeezed her eyes closed and the trembling turned to shaking, pale-lipped rage.
He wanted to tell her Denny had died for hurting Venn—shot in the head like a rabid animal—but then he’d have to tell her that they’d all died because of what Denny had done.
“There’s no—no consolation,” she started, her voice harsh and cracking. “No relief. In this. I’m not love them. They’re not mine. But when we’re killed like animals—And no one—Who’s not—who can’t—”
She broke off. Her cup dropped to the floor with a heavy thump, splashing the cooled tea across the sugar-white angelstone. She turned her head sharply away and down, pawing at her hair and drawing it over her face like a thick curtain as she bowed over her grief and fury. She didn’t tear her hair as Mrs. Vela had done, but her body shook with one high, choking shriek that seemed to go on continuously without breath drawn. The sound seemed to tear something out of her and cut through him as well.
He couldn’t see her face, but he knew from her posture that she must be burying it in her long-fingered hands, half smothering herself. I’m to wait . . . wait, don’t touch, don’t offer, don’t interfere until asked . . . But she wasn’t exactly a witness and her screaming made his own chest ache. Screw that!
He stretched his hand out toward her shoulder. “Aya . . .”
She collapsed into a crouch, tucking her head to her knees.
Matheson knelt down, reaching for her.
She wrenched around to face him, raising her head and hands. The look on her face made him recoil. Then she shut her glaring eyes and covered her mouth with her fingers. She drew a loud breath through her nose and slumped to sitting on the floor, her back against the counter’s footing.
Her tension escaped on long breaths and she wiped her face with the backs of her wrists. Then she glanced at him, eyes a little wide and wary.
Matheson put out one hand. “Are you all right?”
“I . . . am sorry,” she said, putting one of her hands in his and starting to pull herself up. “My anger’s not for you.”
Blood Orbit_A Gattis File Novel Page 15
