The Seer (20 page)

“My gut says he didn’t do it,” Scoth said. “I’m sure he’s responsible for horrible things, I
know
he’s responsible for horrible things from looking at his company’s history, and that’s why he panicked to find out what you are. But this one . . . I don’t think Jibb’s murder is his. I’ll still contact the people at Fyllyn and see if I can get confirmation that he was there.”

“I don’t believe him,” Jesco said. “The part where he said that he told Quay to go away and Quay did.”

“No, I didn’t believe that either. Tallo Quay was too obsessed.”

“But Quay just falls off the map at that point. He didn’t go back to Merlie, or to his father’s house. Where did he go? He didn’t like to be an escort, so would he return to it? He had only what money he’d gotten from Merlie, and I doubt it was much. Did he pawn the timepiece then, since it wasn’t of any use to him? Was it stolen from him? The case was opened somewhere, a finger tapping on it, and above was a chandelier.”

“If it was in a pawnshop, you would have seen people taking it out of the case for a look-see,” Scoth said thoughtfully. “Stolen and you would have seen someone grabbing it, wearing it or giving it away. But you didn’t see anything of the sort. It went from Merlie’s room to the room with the chandelier, and then it was in someone’s pocket at the crime scene.”

This case was becoming a headache to Jesco. “Say Quay gave Torrus Kodolli the timepiece to prove the veracity of his information. Now Kodolli has it, but what does he do with it? Even if he were young and hale enough to drag that body into the alley, why in the world would he be wearing her timepiece? He loathes her. That was plain to see. If I happened to have a timepiece of a person I disliked that much, I wouldn’t be putting it on. I’d get rid of it. And did you see the jewels on his cane? His rings? That timepiece is too modest for his taste.”

“He could have given it to one of his bodyguards. Then it got dragged from the fellow’s pocket when dumping Jibb’s corpse. Yet if it’s true that he was in Fyllyn . . .” Scoth rubbed at his eyes. “We should go back to Ragano & Wemill, take a look at more of the jobs that Jibb worked.”

“To see if there’s a connection to Kodolli?”

“I don’t know what else to do at this point.” Scoth frowned and looked out the back window. The carriage had just gone around a curve of a hill, and all that showed were green leaves shaking in the wind beneath a purple sky.

“What is it?” Jesco asked.

“I thought I heard-”

“Yah! Yah!” Six hooded men on horseback charged around the curve. They pulled to the side of the road to go around the carriage. But when the first of them drew level with the autohorse, he slowed and moved in, making Horse go closer to the edge. There was a long drop off it. The others bunched up behind him and ran alongside the carriage, shouting wordlessly in male voices.

“They’re going to force us off the road!” Jesco exclaimed. Kodolli had been more than upset about their interview; he was trying to kill them to stop the investigation!

Scoth ripped down the panel and jammed a button, crying, “Faster!” The autohorse picked up speed, outpacing the real horses, and the men kicked them to catch up. Reaching up to the ceiling of the carriage, Scoth dug his finger into a gap and pulled. The entire panel came down and he shoved it under their feet. Packed onto every inch of the ceiling was intricate machinery, which began to spin and click as Scoth flipped switches, tugged latches, and shouted instructions. “Glass, dim! Horse, combat!”

A man cried out as he lost sight of Jesco and Scoth within the carriage. Jesco turned to the horse. Its skin was separating along its seams, and scaled sheets of gray were coming out to wrap the body. They connected everywhere but in a circle in the mid-back. The long barrel of a shooter rose from the circle and pivoted upon a metal arm. Scoth yelled, “Fire!”

The projectile struck none of the riders, but the tremendous blast of it spooked the horses. They screamed and jerked away from the carriage, the riders shouting as they jerked on the reins. One panicked horse bolted into the trees but found the grade there too steep to mount. It fell, throwing the rider off. As the horse staggered upright, it stepped upon the rider’s abdomen. He shrieked with pain.

The other mounted riders caught back up with the carriage. Taking clubs from their belts, they beat at the windows. The glass did not shatter and the metal arm of the shooter pivoted to them. Scoth shouted, “Fire!” This time, a projectile struck home in a man’s upper arm. He cried out and fell back, another man riding up and bashing at the shooter with his club. Just as Scoth yelled to fire again, the blow of the club broke a piece of the metal arm propping up the shooter and allowing it to pivot. The blast went wild and the shooter slumped down to bounce along the autohorse’s scaled back.

The carriage was hurtling toward a curve. A blade appeared and a rider pulled alongside the autohorse to slash at the traces. Scoth grabbed Jesco roughly and forced him hard into his seat, shouting, “Brace the front seat!”

There was little for Jesco to hold onto, but Scoth had not been speaking to him. Wooden struts snapped out from the space between the top of the seat and the window. They clicked rapidly and curled down Jesco’s shoulders as another strut went around his upper legs, pinning him down.

The carriage fishtailed as it broke free of the autohorse and threw Scoth. Scrabbling for purchase, he crawled away and heaved himself into the seat. “Brace the back seat!”

Then they were airborne. The world tumbled outside the windows, the deepening purple of the sky becoming the trees shaking in the wind and with another half-revolution it was back to the sky. The carriage struck the rocky hillside with a crack, caught air from the impact and cracked down again. Spinning and cracking and spinning . . .

The wheelchair was being thrown all around the inside of the carriage, into the ceiling, into the walls, and into them upon the seats. There was nothing they could do to hold it steady. Jesco was holding the struts around his shoulders in a death-grip; Scoth was doing the same. The lower band had failed to activate over him. His legs were jouncing with each blow onto the rocks.

Everything was happening much too fast, yet every second of it lasted an eternity. They were going to plummet to the center of the world, Jesco thought, and then in another spin, he saw the dry riverbed. The carriage revolved and hit it with an enormous blast.

They were upside-down, the wheelchair landing upon the ceiling. Then the carriage overturned one more time and skidded. Striking Jesco’s leg as it rolled past, the wheelchair hit the window and fell onto its side. Finally, everything went still.

“Don’t move,” Scoth whispered. Jesco let his head slump to the side and closed his eyes to slits. The door was now above him, and attached to the carriage only by the bottom hinge. A triangular jag of purple light came down where the door sagged from the frame.

Coming from high above them was the sound of voices. It was hard to make out most of the words at the distance, but one had a booming pitch that carried. They were discussing whether or not to climb down and look into the carriage. The prevailing opinion was to not attempt such an endeavor when night was dropping fast, and the slope so steep. “No one could have survived that!” exclaimed the loud-voiced one twice.

Don’t come down
, Jesco pleaded.
Don’t come down.

They talked up there for some time. And then, convinced that no one had survived the plunge, they rode away. The purple faded to black as Jesco listened for any sounds that someone was returning. All he heard was crickets. The machinery along the ceiling had gone quiet. Blood was dripping from his forehead. The wheelchair must have struck him in the head on the way down, though he did not remember it.

Fumbling behind his head, Scoth made the struts over his shoulders release. He staggered to a crouching position beside the wheelchair. “I’ll see what’s going on,” he whispered, and slid the broken door aside. Hoisting himself up, he exited the carriage. It sounded like he was opening the lower compartment. Jesco looked up to starlight as Scoth thumped around. Then the carriage rocked. The detective had jumped down and landed heavily in the riverbed.

There was a crack in the carriage along the side pressed to the rocky ground. A little water trickled in steadily and made a pool around the wheelchair. Footsteps went here and there for several minutes, Jesco curious but dazed.

Scoth returned to the door above and rested a blazing lantern beside it. “Still got your senses?” he called in.

“More or less,” Jesco said.

“See if you can’t reach behind you. There should be a lever behind the seat. Flick it to the side and the shoulder bands will come off.” Jesco did as he was told and the struts retracted. Scoth said, “Good. Now, hold out your hand to mine, and with your left foot, kick it back twice and hard.”

Jesco put his gloved hand in Scoth’s, and kicked. The leg band released and the lower half of his body slid to the bottom of the carriage. “All right,” Scoth said, letting go of him. “Lift out your wheelchair, and then we’ll get you out.”

Within minutes, they were standing outside in the moonlight and Jesco was holding a kerchief from his belongings to his cut. His bag was at his feet. Scoth was moving about with a limp from the wheelchair bashing into his knees twice on the fall. The road was invisible above them.

“Should we go back to Somentra?” Jesco asked. “We’re far closer to it than Cantercaster.”

“Those men came from Somentra,” Scoth said. “We need to get as far away from it as we can.”

They had passed a few towns between the two cities. In the morning, they could walk to the nearest one and rent a carriage ride back to Cantercaster. But it was going to be a difficult journey when they could not climb up this steep slope to the road to walk along it, and beyond the riverbed were woods.

The trees were tall and looming, and their leaves chattered in the breeze. At a strange sound, Scoth slipped a jackknife from his pocket. Foliage rustled and a large shape emerged, coming to them with plodding steps.

It was the autohorse. The poor contraption was a mess of hair and scales from the slashes of that rider, and exposed machinery where its tail had fallen off. Scoth put away his blade and cried out in a glad, raspy whisper, “Horse!”

“How did it find us?” Jesco asked, equally happy to see the autohorse.

“Same way my mother made that bird find me,” Scoth said. “I put in a lot of her old equipment. Good Horse, good Horse.”

Horse stood there as Scoth withdrew a hitch from the spot where the tail had been and attached the wheelchair to it. Leading the autohorse to a boulder in the dry bed, he had Jesco step onto it to mount. After passing up the bag, Scoth went to the chest flap to work with the destination cards.

“What are you doing?” Jesco asked.

“Making Horse take us straight to the station. Someone will spot that carriage down there tomorrow morning, send a crew to investigate and find no one inside. I won’t be hard to track down when they come looking for me at home, if they do, and you won’t be hard to track down either. We need a safe place to be.” He closed the flap, clambered up the boulder with a groan about his knees, and mounted the autohorse behind Jesco. At a kick, it walked obediently into the trees.

Everything grew closely together in this wooded area. Many of the trees to fall over time had not struck the ground but ended up at a tilt against a neighbor or two, their foliage enmeshed. It was eerie to travel amongst them with only the light of the lantern. The trees looked like soldiers in a frozen march, with some helping wounded compatriots along.

Leaves rasped against their legs and night creatures flickered in and out of the light. Owls hooted. Jesco’s head wound had stopped bleeding, but it ached. All of him ached from that crazed, whirling plunge down the hillside. Exhaustion made him sag into himself, and then an arm went around his waist to steady him and Scoth said, “All right?”

Jesco could not get himself upright. He leaned back and said, “I’ll live.”

“To someone’s regret, I would say. Next time, I’ll add a strut that binds the wheelchair to the wall.”

“That’s kind of you, but could there
not
be a next time that we go over a cliff, Scoth?”

Scoth rumbled with laughter. “It was my grandfather’s name. Laeric. Teachers at school would call me Larrie and I hated that. I’d get all puffed up at seven and eight and explain in indignation that it was
Laeric
, thank you very much. Even then, I was highly protective of my dignity. There was no dignity in being called Larrie.”

He was asking Jesco to call him Laeric, but without saying it directly. “Add the strut, Laeric, and I hope that we never have to use it,” Jesco replied. “Those were quite some additions you made to your autohorse and carriage.”

“I like to fiddle with things.”

“That was far more than fiddling.”

“It’s just fiddling to me, to take my mind away from the ugliness. And now that those riders showed me the weak spots, I’ve got plenty more fiddling to do.”

“Torrus Kodolli can never be accused of being a shrinking violet.”

As the horse steered around a solid wall of leaves dropping down from shaggy trees, Scoth said, “That was the most brazen thing I’ve ever seen, if he’s responsible.”