Parabolis (15 page)

“Yes,” said Remy. “The
Zaal’mavorte
.”

“They are here?” Omar asked.

“Yes. And if you will not tell me where Yusef Naskerazim is, they will come looking for you.” Remy then leaned forward and spoke in the ancient Emmainite language.
“Al Zaal’mavorte saf’ha sha mut’lark, sayif Omar. Mu’hana al avela. Ve avela sha hari’yarde
.”

The men standing around the cell leader looked at one another, their surprise written on their faces. Even they did not understand everything Remy had said. But Omar did:
the Samaeli deal in absolutes, Omar my friend. They are the shadows. The shadows are everywhere.

Omar gave deep thought to the demand. He looked at his men and found no help.

“You are dealing with demons,
afendi
,” he said in Standard. “Nothing good can come of this.”

“Then you understand why I cannot leave here without an answer.”

Omar folded his hands and bowed his head. He took a deep breath.

“Out,” he said. “All of you.”

When the backroom was cleared, Omar stood. He began as he paced, “
Afendi
, I do not concern myself in great matters or in things too difficult for me.” He stopped, licked his lips, and started again, “Yusef Naskerazim is here in Carnaval City. Yes. But no one knows where. No one has had any direct contact with him in years.”

“This is what you want me to relay to my clients?”

“This is the truth. I swear it. Who would dare withhold from the
Zaal’mavorte?”

“Yes. Who would dare?” Remy rose from his seat and buttoned his coat.

“Please,
afendi
,” Omar tried, “take the money.”

Remy smiled. “It is not money that my clients seek.”

As Remy turned to leave, Omar held his hands out to the side and pleaded, “Tell them I have withheld nothing.”

Remy glanced back, bowed, and said, “Thank you for your time, Omar,” just before stepping out through the partitioned curtain.

The week leading up to the Harvest Festival, Carnaval City was abuzz. The streets were decorated with lights and ribbons. Banners hung from light posts and streets signs. Colorful masks and costumes were showcased in various stores. The influx of tourists and pilgrims meant an infusion of money to the city, even trickling into the scrap business.

For weeks, Dale had been overseeing the disassembling of an old freighter. He used the money from the night of the transport to purchase salvage from expedition projects. The rest he used to hire a few temporary yard hands to help with the extra work. With the spike in scrap inventory, Dale attracted a number of new buyers. Even before Dale could spread the word, developers looking for raw materials began to show up at the breaker. Savvy businessmen knew raw materials outside the mining industry were both rare and sold at bargain prices—prices too good to pass up.

After securing a contract with one such buyer, Dale stopped by the Marketplace to pick up some winter pears for his uncle, auntie, and Mosaic. It was Cora Tess’ favorite, but an indulgence she seldom allowed herself. “It’s just too much for a mere piece of fruit,” she would say. “Why, if I were in the Hesperian Highlands, they would cost me near nothing.”

Imported winter pears ran somewhere between fox pelts and pearls. With business finally picking up, Dale felt like splurging on the family.

While he leaned in to look for the perfectly ripe ones, Dale felt a rustling in his coat pocket. When he glanced down, he saw a little hand slip out. Dale darted around and saw a freckle-faced boy with copper-colored hair. He looked about ten years old, skinny as a rail. In the boy’s hand was Dale’s leather coin purse.

“Hey!”

Wide-eyed, the boy spun and bolted. Dale gave chase.

The boy was quick and light on his feet, weaving through the crowded street. Rounding a corner, the boy looked back to see if he was still being chased. There was no one in pursuit. He took the corner briskly. He reached in his pocket, pulled out the coin purse, and checked its contents. There was more money in it than the boy had seen in his lifetime. He closed the purse, gripped it tight in his fist, and started to sprint again. He turned into an alley, then another, and as he burst out into a large plaza, the boy crashed into a passerby.

“Careful,” said the stranger.

The boy tore away and began to almost skip through the plaza. At the north end of the plaza was the Temple of the Benesanti. A number of clerics stood outside taking a mid-morning break. A few tended to a group of orphans playing in the courtyard. As the boy strode toward the temple, he was grabbed violently from behind.

“Got you, you little rat,” said Dale.

The boy curled up into a ball, tucked the purse back into his trousers, and started kicking and pulling.

“Hey! Calm down, kid.”

The boys and girls in the courtyard stopped their play and stared. One of the clerics approached.

“Excuse me, is there a problem?”

Dale looked up and saw the beautiful cleric that had so captivated him on the Groveland Express.

“Well?”

“Huh?”

“Is there a problem here?” Selah repeated.

“Uh, no. This kid just snatched my coin purse.”

The cleric knelt down beside the boy. She grabbed him by the shoulders. He looked down at his shoes.

“Give it back to him, Mouse.”

With a crestfallen gaze, he slowly pulled the coin purse from his pocket, and without looking at Dale, handed it to him.

“Now apologize,” Selah added.

He pounded his chest twice with a closed fist, then opened it and bowed his head.

“Hold on,” said Dale. Then he removed a few coins from his purse and handed it to the boy. “Here, kid. Your finder’s fee.”

“What do you say, Mouse?”

The boy pressed his hands together and bowed his head. He ran through the courtyard and into the temple.

“That was very gracious of you.”

“It’s nothing,” Dale replied. “I was a kid too, once.”

Selah looked at Dale. She appeared to him perfectly unaffected. “Unfortunately, this isn’t the first time with that one. Children in want of love will do foolish things. My apologies on his behalf. If you’d like to report the incident—”

“No, no, that’s not necessary,” Dale said with a scowl.

“Blessings to you then, good citizen.”

She turned to leave, but Dale was not about to let another opportunity pass. After failing to mount even an attempt in the aisle of the Groveland Express, Dale had sternly chastised himself. In the station, after some choice words, he had told himself something to the effect of,
If you ever get another chance
…

And here it was.

“You’re from Lumarion, aren’t you?” he asked.

Selah glossed him over with a curious expression before replying. “I’m sorry. Have we met?”

“No. Not really. I remember seeing you on the Groveland Express a few months ago. I was on my way back from Pharundelle when we stopped in Lumarion.”

“I see.”

“Your face is difficult to forget, Prioress.” Dale let the words hang in the air between them. He hoped to see something in her to direct a way forward—a lilt of an eyebrow, a light stroke of her hair, a blush or a sheepish grin. Something. Nothing. Not even disinterest. Wavering, but undaunted, he introduced himself. “I’m Dale Sunday.”

“Selah Evenford.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Prioress Evenford.”

“And you, Mister Sunday. Are you a member of our temple?”

“I…no, I’m not. I’m not very religious.”

“Compassion, justice, peace is our religion. If not these, then what are you?”

“Discontent. Mediocre. Hungry.”

“Is that an attempt at humor?”

“Yeah, but I guess it’d be funnier if it weren’t mostly true.”

“You sound like a troubled soul.”

“Don’t I?”

A templar approached the two. He was large like a castle tower, with glimmering armor and a plank-sized sword strapped to his back. Without acknowledging Dale, he spoke to Selah.

“Prioress Evenford, you should take the children back into the temple,” said Alaric.

Selah nodded. She turned to Dale as she walked away. “We have worship services every week. I hope you’ll join us at the temple, Mister Sunday.”

She returned to the courtyard. Dale watched as she herded the children together and led them into the temple. Alaric stood next to Dale, unnoticed. Once Selah was out of sight, Dale turned and looked up at Alaric, who was looking down at him. Neither of the men said anything. Dale offered a friendly grin. It was not reciprocated. Seeing he was not welcome, Dale left Alaric in front of the temple. Walking toward the south end of the plaza, a dumb grin plastered across his face, Dale thought of the merits of a religious life.

Back at the breaker, Dale was useless. He could not stop thinking about Selah. It was well past noon and he had done little more than file a few forms, shuffle some papers around. From his office, he watched the workers strip the freighter of its last salvageable pieces. Any other day, he would have been working right there alongside the men. This day, they were coming into the office every hour to get directives they would’ve gotten on the yard. Finally, Dale went out and put one of the men in charge. Then he gave the crew instructions on closing up the shop and took the rest of the day off. Having been a lieutenant in the Republican Guard with men under his command, what Dale lacked in administrative skills, he made up for with his ability to lead, to communicate and delegate responsibility.

With a bag of winter pears in hand, he started for the bakery. Just outside the gate, a well-dressed Azuric man stopped him. Dale recognized him as a Shen by the way he wore the long hair on the back of his head in a braided tail.

“Mister Sunday?”

“Yes?”

“Detective Graham Lei with the Metropolitan City Guards,” said the Shen, flashing a badge. “May I have a word with you?”

“What’s this regarding?”

“Did you recently loan out your breaker for use as a dock?”

“I’m sorry?” Dale’s stomach turned.

“On the night the Spegen was temporarily shutdown, was your breaker loaned out to the Carousel Rogues?”

Dale felt that numb emptying inside. His mind went into a swirl. Unable to give an answer, Dale did all he could to project a calm demeanor.

“You didn’t think we’d find out?”

“Am I being charged with something, Detective?”

“That can be arranged.”

“Well, unless you are going to charge me with something, I don’t have anything to say. Excuse me. I have some errands to run.”

As Dale turned to walk away, he grimaced, a pained scowl spreading across his face. The detective yelled out to him, “There’s something you should know, Dale. It’s about your friend, Arturo Lucien. We believe he may’ve been murdered.”

Dale stopped. He managed to restore a serene expression before turning around to face the detective. His thoughts went to his auntie, uncle, and Mosaic. They were in danger. The urgency swelled in his chest. He needed to get to the bakery.

“I thought that might get your attention,” the detective added, approaching Dale.

“Look, he’s a guy I knew as a kid,” Dale replied. “Ran into him a couple times since I’ve been back but that’s it. I’ll answer whatever questions you have, but right now, I need to be somewhere.”

“If it’s the Fat Fox you’re worried about, he’s dead too.”

A five-minute walk later, Dale was sitting across from the detective outside of a quiet café. Lei ordered himself a cup of coffee. Dale wasn’t much of a coffee drinker, but on occasion he ordered a specialty drink called “the teardrop.” It was three-fourths steamed milk and a fourth, or a “teardrop,” of coffee.

Taking a sip of his coffee, staring into the street, the detective started, “You know, I was the first Azuric in this city to make detective. Ever since I was young, ever since a local constable helped my father fend off a robbery attempt at our little store, I’d always dreamt of becoming a lawman. Never thought it possible being Azuric. But here I am. That’s what I love about this place. It doesn’t matter where you’re from because everyone is from somewhere else. This city was built on the backs of immigrants.”

“You from Shangzhou-Shen?” asked Dale.

“You know your Azurics. But don’t let the tail and eyes fool you. I’m only Shen in appearance. I was born and raised right here in Carnaval City. My family’s actually been here for three generations.” He took another sip. “You know what’s missing? A little spiced rum in this. I love rum.”

After a pause, he continued, “I met my great grandfather when I was a little boy. I don’t remember him but he lived a long time. My dad said he swore by baijiu. He drank a glass everyday. You ever try baijiu?”

“No,” Dale replied, deadpan.

“It’s a variant of rice liquor indigenous to Shangzhou-Shen. I don’t have much of a palate for it. It all tastes the same to me—baijiu, Goseonite soju, Omeijian shochu. Sort of like whiskey, scotch, and bourbon. Anyway, he’d be rolling in his grave if he knew my poison was rum. What do you drink?”

“Chocolate milk,” Dale replied.

The detective laughed. “You’re funny.”

“Detective, was there something you wanted to talk to me about?”

The detective set his cup down and leaned forward.

“I’m going to be frank with you, Dale. I’ve been contacted by the SSC. The Eagles. And they’re coming to town because they think what you got yourself mixed up in is a big harping deal. Now, I’m offering you a chance to come clean with me and I suggest you take it because I guarantee you’ll fare a lot better with me than you will with them.”

“What do you want to know?”

The detective sat back, studying Dale before he asked, “Do you know who Jan Vandermeer is?”

Dale shook his head.

“What about Baron Francis Koch?”

“No.”

“Victor Madhaven? The Chief of the International Banking Exchange?”

Dale held a blank expression.