Parabolis (16 page)

“Grayson Ur? Senator Arlen Prescott?”

“I’ve heard of Senator Prescott,” Dale finally chimed. “He’s the one that recently committed suicide.”

“Right. Suicide. Now, do you know what all these men have in common?”

Dale shrugged.

“They’re all dead. All within a six month period. They also happened to represent a constituency of shareholders in a little investment group called Machina. Now, it doesn’t take a genius to see this and begin to wonder. The SSC believes there’s a conspiracy—coordinated assassinations. And they’re coming here to look for possible suspects.”

“Okay. What’s that got to do with me?”

“Days after the senator was found dead, Felix Eglon’s body turned up in the canals.”

“And?”

“Come on, Dale. Let’s dispense with all this nonsense. You helped him smuggle some shady characters into the city. Arturo told us everything. He told us about how he made the arrangements with you and the Fat Fox. About the night of the transport. Everything. The men you smuggled in. He said that they were some special breed of assassins.”

Dale shook his head in disgust. It was just like Arturo to roll over—whatever would work to his own advantage. Few standards, even fewer morals. But Dale realized immediately there was nothing to be gained by ire directed toward the dead.

“And that’s why they killed him? Because he talked too much?”

“He got spooked once he found out about the Fat Fox and told us he’d get back to us with more details. We let him go and that was the last we’d heard from him. We haven’t found a body yet.”

“Wait. Then how do you know he’s dead?”

“Look, Arturo isn’t a hard guy to find. We’ve worked all of his contacts. The casino regulars. They’re all saying the same thing—haven’t seen or heard from him in a week. That’s not a good sign.”

“What about his family?”

“What family?”

“His ex-wife and kids.”

“Is that what he told you?”

Dale had never considered Arturo’s shifty business methods would include fleecing sympathy.
That rat bastard
.

“The only family he had was a widowed mother that passed away three years ago,” the detective added. He sat back and took a sip of his coffee. “Not to sound grim, but it’s only a matter of time before his body turns up.”

“Yeah. And then mine.”

The detective’s expression hardened. He leaned forward, “On the contrary. I’m trying to keep you from getting killed. You see, you can avoid the gallows by helping us catch some very dangerous people.”

“The gallows? Are you kidding me?”

“Smuggling alone gets you at least three years. Add conspiracy, conspiring with a known criminal organization, and accessory to murder, the way I see it, your life’s over either way.”

“Okay, look. Yes. I opened the breaker. Okay? I told Arturo that I wanted nothing to do with this whole thing when he first approached me. But then I got dragged out to see the Fox, and he threatened my family. So, I opened the breaker. I had no idea what was coming in.”

“How do we know that, Dale?”

“They assured me that none of it was illegal. That no one would get hurt. I’m a victim here, Detective.”

“And how much did you make as a victim?”

“I didn’t have a choice.”

“You always have a choice.”

They were familiar words. But unlike Arturo, the threat to Dale’s family was real.

“I told you, the Fat Fox threatened to kill my relatives. And when a man like that makes threats, you listen.”

“I know you were a Republican Guard. I want to believe you. But it doesn’t buy you a free pass.”

“I’m not looking for a pass. I was trying to protect my family. You want to get to the bottom of this? So do I. If you’re right, and Arturo is dead, then my family is still in danger.”

“Okay, suppose I believe you. You need to give me some more information. What kind of assassins were they?”

The anxiety returned. The relief that poured over Dale at the news of the Fat Fox’s death was now being dispelled by the growing belief that he was mixed up with something far more menacing than the Carousel Rogues. He recalled what he saw step off the submarine that night. What the pirates had said. And he felt again the urgency to get to the bakery.

“I don’t know. There were only two of them. Detective, can we do this later? I really need to be somewhere right now. I promise to come by your office. You tell me when, I’ll be there,” he replied.

The detective pulled out a notepad and pen from his coat pocket. Without looking at Dale, he denied him. “No. We’re doing this now. What did they look like?”

Dale thought about running. He lit a smoke instead and determined to answer the questions as fast as he could.

“They both had their faces covered. One of them with a white porcelain mask, like in a masquerade. And the other one was wearing blackish gray camouflage with a matching balaclava. I didn’t see any faces.”

“What else?”

“The one with the white mask did all the talking,” he continued. “He had a slight accent. Northern.”

“Balean or Silven?”

“Not Balean. I don’t know. I’m not the best with accents. But he was definitely foreign.”

“Foreign,” the detective dictated to himself as he scribbled into his notebook. “And what about the other one?”

“He didn’t say anything. I don’t even know if he was human.”

“What do you mean?”

“He moved quick and quiet. Like a shadow. Literally. It was like nothing I’d ever seen.”

“Were they armed?”

“The shadow guy was. A blade.”

“Anything particular about it?”

“One of those Omeijian types. Single-edged.”

“Did Arturo mention anything like why they were here, or what they wanted, or who they worked for, who they were?”

“The pirates who smuggled them in, they called them ‘the Samaeli.’”

“‘The Samaeli?’”

“Yeah. They—the pirates—were really nervous about these guys.”

“That seems to be the trend.”

The detective sipped from his cup while reviewing his notes, his mind trying in vain to wrap around all the peculiarities of the case.

Dale finished his smoke and put it out. He noticed another man had settled into a nearby seat with his face hidden behind the paper, spread open before him like a map. The headline read:
Carnaval City, a haven for immigrants or criminals?
He was dressed in suit and tie.
A professional
, thought Dale. Not being able to see his face, Dale grew suspicious.
Why with all these empty tables, did he take a seat near us? There aren’t very many people in suit and tie in this part of town.

The detective asked for the check. The waiter returned with the bill on a saucer. All the while, Dale kept his eye on the stranger. The man with the paper briefly set it down to check his watch. Then he glanced up at Dale. They locked eyes. The man smiled and picked up his paper again.

The detective threw some coins on the bill and got up. Dale got up with him, eager to leave. Putting the notebook back in his pocket the detective said, “That’s it for now. Hopefully there’s enough here to keep the SSC off your back. I’ll be in touch. Don’t go anywhere.”

Dale gave a nod. He was taking steps away even as the detective was speaking. Just as he turned in earnest for the bakery, the detective called, “Dale, one more thing. Be careful.”

“Yeah, thanks. And thanks for the teardrop.”

Balean soldiers dangled off the highest turret of Castle Verona. They were harnessed to ropes, one for every crenel along the parapet. The ropes fell deep into the chasm below the crag on which the castle was built. At the rappelling instructor’s command, they each loosened their grip and zipped down the line into the void. The rappel was an important part of their air assault strategy. The training had gone on for weeks to ensure precise timing.

Duke Merrick Thalian and Eli were standing along the wall of the castle watching the exercise. A herald approached on the run. He came to a halt before the duke, snapped his heels and saluted smartly.

“The guests are waiting in the Great Hall, m’lord,” he said.

“How many?”

“More than twenty riders strong.”

“Their horses?” asked Eli.

“The stable master has taken them under his care.”

“Good. These men, they love their horses more than they do their wives. Have their
Rajeth
meet us in the War Room.”

“Yes, m’lord.”

The herald snapped his heels again and disappeared. Eli peered over the ledge.

“General? We’re waiting on you.”

“Don’t rush me!”

General Arun Kilbremmer was among those rappelling. He was still hanging over the side of the turret. Below him, a blanket of mist covered the chasm floor.

“What’s the matter, Arun?” asked the duke. “You afraid of heights?”

“I’m afraid of nothing.”

“On your way then.”

“Easy to bark with sure footing beneath you.”

“Thank the Maker, yes. In return for your troubles, you will bask in the glory of leading the Royal Army to victory.”

Arun scoffed. “Hell of a price to pay for glory.”

“That’s why you wear the stripes and I hold the scepter, old man.”

Arun looked down past his dangling feet—should his rope fail—into certain death. Then he looked up at the duke, fear masked in umbrage. “Curse you and your war,
m’lord
.”

He opened his grip and rapidly descended down the face of the castle and into the mist. Near the bottom of the chasm, he slowed and came to a complete stop, just a standing man’s height from the ground where other rappelling instructors were waiting for him.

“Ah-hoon-da!”
they shouted.

The instructor’s counterpart at the top turned to the duke. “He’s fine, Your Highness.”

“Of course he is. Have him meet us in the War Room.”

“Yes, m’lord.”

Duke Thalian and Eli returned to the warmth of the castle walls and started down the spiraling staircase.

“I could never do that,” said Eli. “I’m terrified of heights.”

The duke smiled. “Yes. It takes a special breed of man to mimic a bird, doesn’t it?”

“It seems the general still questions our undertaking.”

“That’s because Arun is of another age,” Duke Thalian replied. “He was once the king’s most trusted knight. He believes in using military might judiciously. For protecting the crown.”

“Yes, it’s all very noble. But so impractical.”

The duke gave Eli a look of disapproval. “It does make one wonder. Perhaps we’ve been too hasty in moving off this old way.”

“Are you beginning to share his doubts?”

Duke Thalian stopped and turned to Eli. “And if I were?”

Eli shrugged. “You are the regent, Your Highness. Only say the word and we will turn back.”

“There is no turning back. Not since the day your Ciphers made ships fly in Brakker Gorge.” As they rounded the last flight of stairs into the halls of the keep, the duke continued, “Eli, do you know the legacy of King Leawen?”

Eli gave no reply.

“Justice. It’s what drove him to take his own life.”

“I always thought it was depression,” said Eli.

“It was. But the depression was caused by the demands of justice. The death of the queen. Ordering her execution was the beginning of his own end. Never did I question the king’s love for her. Imagine then the torment he endured to do it. King Leawen, high ruler of the Kingdom of Bale. He could have simply waved his hand and the charges against her would have been dismissed. He had absolute power. No one would have challenged it. But he chose eternal grief over tyranny. It inspired in me both reverence and dread. Now look at us. Do we carry his legacy forward? Is this just, Eli? To aggress war undeclared, unprovoked?”

“The Ancile was provocation enough.”

“Was it?”

Eli gave it some thought. “Our opposition always compares the monarchal rule to that of a despotic regime,” he then began. “What they fail to understand, however, is that there can be no justice without a ruthless, uncompromising fealty to the letter of the law. Under the banner of freedom, the Meredians eat from golden bowls, willfully turning a blind eye to the degradation of their own society. If not blind, they’re stupid. And if not stupid, depraved beyond what is tolerable.”

“What man, Meredian or Balean, is above reproach?”

“There are degrees to reproach, Your Highness. I read not long ago that the daughter of some magistrate in Feymont, unable to bear the shame, took her own life after it came to light that her father had forced himself on her. If that were the most horrific thing I’d read, I’d consider morality in the Republic something yet salvageable. In Carnaval City, an abandoned wife became so agitated with the cries of her nursing babe that she dashed his head against the wall.”

The duke scowled as Eli continued, “And in Pharundelle, just last year, a deranged man was found guilty of kidnapping children, cooking them alive, and feeding on them. When questioned for a motive, he replied, ‘Because it’s cheaper than bread.’ Forgive me, Your Highness, for relaying such horrors. If only they were mere stories from the imagination of a twisted mind. They are not. This is the state of Meredine. We must see it as it is—a nation that has forfeited its humanity in the name of limitless self-indulgence. A disease. We attempt only to be a cure.”

“By the Lords, Eli. You’re starting to sound like the Shaldea.”

“The Shaldea hate the Republic out of passion. They seek its end out of vengeance.”

“And us?”

“By our king, our legacy is justice. And what greater justice is there than ridding the land of such corruption and wickedness?”

Duke Thalian smiled. “You and your silver tongue, Eli. Oh, that the princess would return to claim her family’s crown and relieve me of this burden.”

“Perhaps she will when Bale is the whole of Groveland.”

“We’ll have to find her, you know.”

“Yes, but will she want to be found?”

Four flights of stairs and a long corridor’s walk later, they entered the War Room. Waiting by the hearth was a Shaldean Rider. Like all Shaldean Riders, his skin was dark and weathered. He wore a fur blanket over his shoulders and the look of misery on his face.