Chapter 5 - finale

 Colm passed a hand over his face. What had he gotten himself into?

This time when he put his hand over his face, it didn't smart as it had before. Must be the brandy taking the edge off...

He sat down before the magician.

“These women-folk!” Leni said, with a forced laugh.

Colm thought of his own wife; then he looked at the dismembered mermaid on his desk. Unfortunately, Leni hadn't worked any magic to make that whole again.

“Won't you tell me now your account of how you were implicated as your woman says you were, in the affair of the Abbey, and the scandal of the Salt.”

“It is not a very complicated story,” Leni said with another shrug. “Amos has already told you that her family has long been plagued by a most notorious Baron.”

“Rinz,” Colm said, remembering her story.

“The very same,” Leni said. “A loathsome man, a creature whose ambition is wide, but whose view is quite narrow. He is the sort you see stepping on ants for the pleasure of watching them pop under his heel. Most cannot fathom that he can be as conniving as he is; but lucky for me, I am a master of trickery myself, and so I'm not so easily duped.”

“You're saying he tried to frame you?”

“With a most shoddy construct, too. He placed some of my beakers and potions, which he had purloined from my workshop, about the broken buttress of the Salt Gate. By this, the investigators were were meant to deduce that I had blown up the foundation of the Gate with some type of chemical bomb. Honestly, I don't know what he'd been thinking. Either he doesn't give the honourable red-coats enough credit, and thinks them all idiots from the hindmost to the top of the Hive – or it could be that he is just extremely stupid himself.”

“Don't call us that!”

“What – idiots?”

“No, red-coats! We aren't insects, you know! This is no Hive where we slave away from some despotic Queen! We are the Guardians, and the Protectors! We are the ones who apprehend the villains, and we alone avert all atrocity!”

“Well, in this case, Commander, you did neither. The Salt Gate came down, and the real perpetrators got away clean. Despite all your labours, and the labour force at your command, you caught not a single man red-handed. Or in this case, white-handed.”

Colm felt shamed. Why had he erupted like that? The magician had been calling him a red-coat all afternoon – and while it surely bothered him, the Commander usually prided himself on his self-restraint. Was Leni pushing all of his buttons in all the right order?

He vowed not to let Leni get the better of him again, and to watch himself more closely.

Leni went on:

“I spoke with some of the Archers,” Leni stressed the word. “During a very brief investigation. I can give you their names, if you like. I was able to disprove any of the claims that I had anything to do with the Salt Gate coming down. It wasn't hard. All of those beakers that the bumbling Baron had taken had only mixtures for helping plants to grow – liquid fertilizer that I had been commissioned to create by the Society of High Horticulture, whose gardens were growing to include a most delicate shrubbery of Ispanian plants, which normally cannot flourish in temperatures such as these. Your men were convinced without a doubt of my innocence.”

“You didn't convince your man out there,” Colm blurted out. Why couldn't he keep his mouth shut? This was not the way to handle the magician!

“Indeed not,” Leni said with a sigh. “Veon has a good heart, but he also had blinders on. He is very much like a beast of burden, Commander. He takes the whip, and he plods on, carrying his sister as is his duty. Or at least, it used to be. He wishes to see me as a culprit, because that is how he perceives me. I am not only stealing his sister from him, you see; I am also taking away the crucial and critical part of his identity. And what beast that fears being put out to pasture will not fight for its survival?”

“He is a bit mindless,” Colm concurred. He was speaking now without any thought of censure, nor of censoring his words. He completed the story out loud: “You were able to prove also that these potions of yours had been stolen, but you found no evidence that led you to Rinz.”

“He is not entirely stupid, so it appears. I conducted a most thorough search, but I found no trace that could lead conclusively to his culpability. He were both let off the hook, although from that day I never took my eye off him. He is a small-minded man, but those can often be the most dangerous.”

“I suppose that is true,” Colm agreed rather amiably. He poured himself some more brandy, swirled it about the snifter, and tasted some. It now was much flatter, and this disappointed the Commander.

“Anyway,” Leni said in closing, “I think that even though I was not tried for that atrocity, Rinz was quite pleased with the result of his mischief.”

“What do you mean? Surely his aim was to have you arrested.”

“I think so, but since then I have reconsidered the matter many times. It's possible he simply wished to cast aspirsions on me. I don't think he expected to outwit me; but observe what has happened here today: Veon, who wants nothing more than to keep me from usurping him, planted the seed of doubt in your mind, and you already distrust me – is that not so, Commander?”

“Distrust you?” Colm said with a snort. “I wouldn't give you my gun to shoot a viper about to strike my beloved's bum!”

Leni snorted now, but in laughter. Colm's words were too ridiculous and unexpected. The Commander, feeling rather loopy, realized what he'd just said, and started laughing, himself.

“Where did that nonsense come from?” Colm chortled, laughing now harder and harder.

Leni, too, was bent over. Tears appeared in his eyes. The two men couldn't stop themselves.

“That-that's not even an expression!” Colm said breathlessly, between gasps and laughs. This just made them both laugh even more.

As he composed himself, Leni said to the Commander, “Won't you tell me something, now that I have shared with you my secret about the Salt Gate?”

“What is it?”

“What happened to your eye?”

“It met with somebody's fist.”

“But whose? And why?”

Colm passed his hand over his face, remembering the incident, but forgetting once again its result. He pulled his hand away from his face, expecting the same pain as before; but there was no more pain. He poked at the most sensitive parts of his bruised face, but it seemed as if the brandy had cut all discomfort.

“I was two nights ago in the Drift,” Colm began. “And as you know, there are only three reasons why any man goes there.” He waited for the magician to oblige him with the response; he did immediately:

“To drink, or to drive, or to take a dip.”

“Or all three, as it all too often happens!” Colm said with earnest regret.

“Lord Commander,” Leni said, using the man's official title for the first time, “are you telling me that the Paragon of the Law was presiding over illegal races?”

“I know it would thrill you to hear me say that it was so, but I'm afraid I'll have to disappoint you. I was there following a lead with several of my top investigators. I cannot tell you too many details-”

“I'm sure you can spare a few, Commander,” Leni said with a smirk. “No one goes Adrift without coming across an eyeful.”

Colm smiled at the memory, and said with real enthusiasm, “There was this one lassie – beautiful tits like you'd never believe! And an arse like two halves of moon-butter melon!”

Leni smiled and slapped the desk to encourage the Commander, who went on to talk at length about some of these other girls that he'd seen down in the seediest parts of Caza – but when Leni pressed to know if  the lawful Archer shot his arrow most faithlessly, he was assured once more that the answer would be most disappointing.

Colm became a bit more reserved after that; his eye fell once again on the decapitated mermaid and he remembered his wife – a woman he'd never cheated on, but who would still be shamed to hear her husband speak in such libidinous terms of the tarts and harlots of the Drift.

“So then you're a brawler,” Leni went on. “No doubt why you and Veon have such an affinity! You started a fight with some surly low-lives?”

“Once again-” Colm began.

“Disappointed, yes,” Leni cut him off. “But you misunderstand me, Commander. I would be disappointed only if you answered any differently than you have. I have a strict code which I keep, and I admire your adherence to your own covenant.”

Colm held up his glass, and Leni leaned forward to meet the toast. As their glasses touched, Leni flicked a gob of gray ooze into the Commander's glass. They both sipped from their respective cups, then set them down once more on the wooden desk.

“Will you tell me then, who gave you the black eye? If it wasn't a drunk, nor a driver, nor a drake – who then would have the nerve to assault the Lord Commander?”

“I'll tell you,” Colm said, “If you tell me what you've been putting into my drink. Don't think that you've concealed your movements as easily as that. That last move of yours was downright overt!”

Leni nodded. “It was meant to be,” he said. “Because, you see, you passed the test.”

“What test?”

“I wanted to see what kind of man you were, Commander. Whether we could see eye to eye.”

Colm reflected on this, and everything that had been going on since he returned from the latrine. “You mixed a serum for me,” he muttered. “A sooth-saying serum.”

“That is one of the effects,” Leni agreed. “Your mood has also improved noticeably. You'll remember that I imbibed just as much as you did.”

Colm looked at the magician with disdain, then glanced at his witch's pot with disgust. Its contents floated in a sludge on the surface of the water.

“I'm going to have you frogged for this offense.”

“You mean flogged, Lord Commander? Unless you plan to lash me with reptiles?”

“Amphibians,” Colm corrected. “Frogs aren't reptiles.”

“No, but you might find a good, sturdy asp would be far more apt to function as a whip. Just not on your beloved.”

Colm snickered at that, then felt guilty. He wanted to like Leni at this instant, but he knew what his duty was. He stood up, still laughing, and rang the bell for his assistant.

“It was the felon we were following,” Colm said at last. “We cornered him, under Drake Bridge, but he got the better of me, and got away.”

At that instant, the lanky lad came in to see to the Commander's bidding; but when he beheld Colm standing perfunctorily at his desk, the boy's jaw dropped.

“Y-yes, sir?”

“What are you gaping at?” Colm barked.

“Your eye,” the lad said, flabbergasted.

Colm put a hand to his face, where his cheekbone had been fractured and all the skin around his eye had been bruised, black, and ugly. There was no more swelling, no pain, nothing.

Colm opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a hand-held mirror gilded in gold and pearl. He saw then that his face was unmarred; the bruising was healed; by some devilry, the black eye had vanished. 

Chapter 5 - part the first

A knock came at the door to Colm's grand office, and even before he could respond, the broken doors swung open. It was the Commander's aide, returned at last with a laden tray which he brought directly over to a table near the desk. Thereafter, he began to transfer the requisitioned items before the magician, who nodded at each one.

“Larkswood; ground endrom nuts; capsia leaves; resquio salts – beg pardon, Sir, but aren't they poisonous?”

“Only if you plan to eat them,” the magician replied as he surveyed the goods brought before him. “I shall be using them as an acidic base only. My rituals are quite involved, as you can no doubt imagine. Did you manage to get the – oh there they are!”

The assistant continued to lay down all the items he'd spent the last few hours collecting, naming each one as he did, and mispronouncing more than a few of the stranger items.

“Iron filings; a stick of mancarrash root; hart's hoof tincture...” He went on. “And, of course – murmaly eggs!”

He took the silver cover off a plate of poached eggs. Leni leaned over the dish and wrinkled his nose.

“Is everything all right, Sir?” the assistant enquired nervously.

“I prefer them sunny side up,” the magician grumbled.

The assistant shifted from one foot to another, and glanced at Colm for direction. The Chief Commander waved the boy away impatiently.

The magician passed a cloth napkin to his bride, who placed it delicately in her lap; his own he stuffed down his shirt front. “Would you like to try some?” Leni asked the Commander, offering him some of the fried snails. “They're delicious with a bit of lemon!”

Colm was feeling a bit light-headed – probably from a tad too much brandy, he surmised, and considered that he should eat something, but everything in this bizarre luncheon made his stomach turn. He shook his head, declining the snails.

Amos started in on the more conventional items – the toast and jam – and Leni smacked his lips when he tried the mash of foal. It was all deliciously prepared. 

As he chewed, his hands were busy with some of the odder items that the lad had delivered: he lit the candles under the witch's pot he'd had brought, and began throwing things into the little iron pot that would serve as a cauldron boiling on top. Into it he put the iron filings, a few measured drops of the hart's hoof, the entirety of the mock-toad, and something that made a great stink when he uncorked the bottle.

The Chief Commander grimaced. “What on earth is that?” he murmured unhappily as he put his handkerchief to his nose.

“Extract of naullisium,” Leni replied, even as he administered a good portion into the pot, judging the measure with one eye closed. “It is a most potent agent.”

He was a genius – of that Colm had no doubt; but it remained quite unclear to what ends and purpose the magician put his formidable faculties to use. Just what, exactly, was he up to?

The Commander kept hoping to glean some answer to this in Amos' narrative, but it seemed as though there were merely further mysteries the farther she took him down the well of dreams, which was the place where all fairy tales came from, and most led to. Was it all just a wily fabrication? Were these two involved in some dastardly ploy against him? Such things had certainly transpired before, for there were always dozens of intrigues unfolding and dramas unfurling within the confines of Caza; but never before had Colm ever heard of such odd people involved as these. Most of the time a confidence man would try to put his mark at ease, to gain his trust, but everything about Leni inspired mistrust, uncertainty, and awe.

Colm decided it was time he got a little perspective on the matter.

“Would you excuse me?” he said, rising from his seat. “Nature calls.”

Leni gave him a little wave of goodbye, even as he stuffed some toasted nut-loaf into his mouth. He was masticating like some great lizard of prey that is slavering over its kill. Most of what had been on his list were his favourite foods; but there were particular items that most certainly fell under a rubric far more nefarious.

Even as Colm passed out into the corridor, Leni administered some powder to the mixture he had on the boil, producing a bright flash and a loud boom, like gunfire. Colm started and turned to look inward.

The magician, with jelly on his chin, waved again wholeheartedly.

Colm shut the doors, then when he saw that there was a hole for peeking in on them, he called his assistant over. In a hushed tone, he said, “Keep an eye on them. Watch his movements for anything out of the ordinary.”

“That would be nearly everything, for him, my Lord.”

“Indeed,” Colm agreed. “Well put. Watch for everything.”

The lad nodded, and then bent his eye to the hole with a little sigh.

Colm meanwhile, realized that since he stood he actually did have a pressing need to visit the latrine. He decided to go for it, and hurried back to have a quick word in secret with the burly brother, Veon.

As he headed down the corridor, however, the gladiator hailed him from the anteroom and hastened to join him. Colm thought again what a good man this Veon appeared to be. He would have made a superb Archer, perhaps, except that it was clear the man had no guile.

It's better that he keeps to fighting equal matches in the arenas, the Chief Commander reflected then. We in the Red Scarp end up all too often scapegoats of the citizenry when crime is rampant, or we end up embittered and cynical.

Of course, Colm's cynicism was precisely what made him such an excellent Archer. He could judge a man accurately within just a few minutes of speaking with him; and he was smart enough to know that if he ever found a man too tough to crack, it was best to canvas his mates.

“May I have a word?” Veon asked as he jogged up behind the Commander. “Have you finished interrogating my sister?”

“My snake is choking on its venom,” Colm replied. “If you want to talk with me, you'll have to do it on the way to the piss-pipes.”

Veon, who had been holding it in himself for the last half an hour, was glad to have a chance to relieve himself, as well as to have a guide to show him where. He fell into step alongside the Commander.

“Is Amos in danger?” he asked. “Do you know anything about the assassin?”

Colm inhaled sharply. He didn't like questions he had no answers to. “I should think that your sister should be used to danger by now – it seems to follow you both, from what she tells me,” the Commander replied a bit curtly. “And I can assume that we all know who sent the assassin; that is all that matters, after all, isn't it? The individual man is just a hired hand.”

With this masterful stroke, Colm was able to let Veon know that he was not only privy to his secrets, but sympathetic with them. The gladiator, much simpler in mind that either Amos or Leni, agreed unquestioningly with the Commander. He was trained like all the rest to respect the authority of the Archers.

Colm found it most pleasant to once again be dealing with regular folk, with whom he nearly always had the upper hand. “To be quite honest,” he went on, “I am far more concerned about the poor girl's imminent nuptials, which in my opinion should be nullified.”

Veon was quite shocked to hear that, and Colm knew that now the man would tell him anything, if it might mean he could separate his sister from the meddlesome magician. “Why do you say that?” the fighter demanded. “I mean, Commander – what reason do you have to disparage her selection?”

“Reason? I don't need any reason to know a liar when I see one, and Leni is exactly that, my good fellow – a liar!”

As though to punctuate his statement, Colm slapped his hand against the door to the latrine as they arrived, pushing it open. The two men entered the reeking little room and moved toward the urinals where they both stopped talking for a full minute. Colm noticed the big man standing next to him turn his head slightly to take a sidelong glance; he thought that the gladiator was most likely getting in a sly look at his bruised eye, but what interested Veon was actually what the Commander held in his hand.

Colm, looking down himself at his own business, noticed that his urine was a very unusual hue. It seemed almost blue; but there were only a few squirts left, and no time to take a sample.

Only once their britches were buttoned and they were back in the corridor did Veon ask the question he'd been holding in his mind.

“Did he tell you that he can see things? Leni, I mean?”

“Aye, he gave me notion that he'd like me to believe he receives premonitions. It seems rather unlikely, to me. I've seen swindlers of all sorts, and they all love nothing more than to pull the wool over the eyes of others, duping the rubes, as they call it. Leni is a performer, not a prognosticator.”

Veon felt his own fears being confirmed. “But then how could he predict when a killer would strike?”

“Only if he hired that man himself, or perhaps by proxy. It is an ugly thing to consider, but rather more likely to be the case.”

“How could you prove it?” Veon asked, now extremely enthused.

“It won't be an easy thing,” Colm replied. “He is very careful, and most meticulous. I doubt it would be easy to find any clues. He is so well-guarded in his demeanor; he gives nothing away! And Amos is entirely devoted to him. She would never speak any ill of him.”

“If it's ill you wish to hear of, then I will give you an earful!”

“Tell me the worst of it, and the most brief. I do not wish to leave him alone in my office too long.”

Veon considered what to say. He thought for a moment about telling the Commander that Leni had put something in his drink; but his own culpability made him hold back. He should have stopped it then; he should have spoken out immediately – but there was something about Leni, that smug bastard, which always seemed to prevent any action against him. That, more than anything, was what Veon hated the most. 

It was impossible, with someone who'd studied sleight of hand for so long, to ever get the upper hand. If ever he did – and it had happened to Veon more than once that he thought he had – it proved only to be illusion, crafted by the wily mastermind!

What Veon wanted most of all was for Leni to leave them alone, he and his sister both; but he did not have any desire to see the man incriminated, incarcerated, or worse.

In any case, there was only one incident in the past that Veon knew with enough certainty that Leni had acted most dishonourably, and it was certainly the worst. Before he could figure out whether or not this was a good move, he began telling the Commander in Chief all about it. Luckily, it took very few words to say it:

“He is solely responsible for the collapse of Salt Gate.”

Colm's eyes went wide for a second, then narrowed in a way that boded ill for the illusionist.

“Thank you,” said the Commander. “I will entreat you later to tell me further. For now, however, I must leave you here.”

They had reached the antechamber where Veon was to wait; here, the two men took their leave of one another, although Veon took a moment to watch the Commander walking away briskly, in his dashing red uniform.

As he returned to the broken doors, he found his assistant crouching there as he had left him, spying on the magician. The lad stood up immediately and Colm saw by the look on his face that he did not like what he'd been forced to watch.

“Well?” the Commander demanded: “Anything to report?”

The lad nodded, and swallowed. Then he said, stammering, “I-I can't be sure, my Lord, but just now, right before you got back – I believe I saw him bend forward and drop some of the potion he's been brewing into your glass of brandy.”

Once again, Colm's eyes narrowed. He nodded at the lad, and turned to the doors, which he thrust open with both hands quite dramatically.

Amos, startled by this, dropped her cup of tea, which shattered on the stone floor underfoot. No one caught it; this time, the Commander had truly caught the duo off-guard.

Colm strode forward, coming to his desk, and picking up his glass of brandy, all the while keeping his eye glued to Leni – his good eye, anyway; no one could tell what his other eye was up to. The Commander swirled the glass, and brought it up to his nose where he took a deep inhalation. It smelled normal, and he pretended to simply be invigorated by it.

“Ah!” he said with invented gusto. “Made by the wine-makers of Wexe, this is my favourite brandy. It has hints of vanilla and eckorio. Tell me, Leni – what do you taste when you drink it? Surely your palette must be even more discerning than mine!”

“I cannot speak for your palette, nor any other part of you,” the magician answered. “At least not yet. But I will certainly drink to your health.”

Colm offered the magician the snifter, who then took it, inhaled himself at the contents as if merely curious, then took a healthy quaff. He rolled it around in his mouth, tasting it, then swallowed and gave a hearty, “Ah!” of his own.

The Commander's eye narrowed yet again. What game was this that was afoot?

He took his glass back and, compelled by the magician's toast, gave his adversary a salute and threw back the rest of the contents. He did not know what fate he might suffer for it, but he knew one thing for certain: Leni would never imbibe any poison himself, if he didn't happen to also have the antidote near at hand.

Even as he swallowed the brandy – which tasted finer today than it ever had before – Colm wondered if it was a mistake. He was soon to find out, but only by making another blunder:

“Won't you now, before your dear Missus resumes her account, tell me my good man, just what was your involvement with the affair that went down at Sero Abbey, resulting in the destruction of the Salt Gate?”

“That is already well-known,” Leni replied easily. “I helped remake it.”

“Because you first unmade it?”

“I make things disappear, Commander, not destruct.”

Here Amos stood up, swaying a little bit. She was quite red in the face, and this time it was not from the drink – at least, not entirely.

“I can see that you've been speaking with my brother!” she said with great indignity. “As it is known only to him and a few others how Leni was implicated in that mess – a matter which he managed to clear up once and for all!”

“So the perpetrators remain at large?” Colm said, looking at the young girl who thought she could overtake him with a flurry of passion and anger. “That is truly a shame – for if I had here in my office the one who was responsible for that debacle, I would have a case closed that would make my career.”

“Banish the thought!” Amos argued with growing vehemence. Her devotion to her betrothed was truly impressive. “And while you're at it, banish my brother! I'm going to go and have a word with him!”

“Stay, Miss! I command you to!” Colm shouted after her, as Amos took off for the doors.

“Command this!” she answered, giving him the finger.

Amos slammed the door behind her; but the broken parts had no hitch or latch. At the very same instant that the boom and clatter of the doors came, a very unexpected clamour erupted on Colm's desk as the doorknob he had placed there apparently transmuted into a bewildered white dove, which flew away into the rafters with its white wings clapping.

Leni, when the Commander looked at him once the bird was lost to sight, gave him an innocent shrug and a little smile as if to say, There's no proof it was I.

Chapter 4 - finale

The day was wet, and there was a great, grey fog hanging over nearly everything west of the Prow; on its eastern flank, as always, the airs were churned up more by the falls. The Caza folk went about wearing capes and scarves against the autumn chill, and Amos carried with her a fine umbrella of treated salsku-hide, a gift from her dear Aunt Meer.

 

Amos found herself in the streets near the topmost section of the Diamond, after a dreadful luncheon in which Opho had droned on and on about the effects of industrialization on the economy; now he was escorting her to [where?] on Bolo Boulevard. As they walked north along the broad avenue built along the high bank of the canal, Amos could just make out the jutting abutments of Jury Gate through the shifting mists. The high arch, with the sculpted figures of wily Nano and watchful Hido, was entirely hidden. Much nearer were the gates to Peak Park, and these Amos could see only a few blocks down the Boulevard.

 

It was then that she spotted a man dressed in a grand, brown balmacaan, sporting also a matching, wide-brimmed hat. She recognized him instantly, and she knew, as he was coming down the busy street toward them, that he would soon spot her as well. Amos acted without thinking, and pulled the obnoxious Count Opho into a sheltered doorway. She hoped that her suitor didn't misconstrue her intent in doing so, but she was prepared at this point to accept the lesser of two evils.

 

“Whatever's got into you?” Opho asked, rather quite alarmed.

 

“It's that man!” Amos hissed. She made a discrete gesture toward the oncoming gentleman. Opho squinted to see who she meant.

 

“The tall bloke with the brown cap?”

 

“That's the one,” Amos said with true disdain. “His name is Rinz, and he is a vile, treacherous fellow.”

 

“I don't know him,” Opho said, taking another furtive look at the man who was now quite close. “But he looks like a gentleman.”

 

“He has closer kinship to a spider,” Amos answered, dreading to be discovered. “He is always weaving webs of deceit. He is very cunning-”

 

“Oh, come now!” Opho chided her in a way Amos truly detested, treating her like a child. “Don't be silly,” he said. “I'm sure no gentleman can be as bad as all that. Come out of hiding, dear girl – I'll protect you from all villainy!”

 

Before she could protest, Opho pulled her out of the doorway where she stumbled and nearly fell flat on her face, except that someone who seemed to have the foresight to be there, caught her and held her.

 

Amos turned her head to look into the devilish, grinning face of the abominable Rinz, Baron of Salo. “Lucky I was here,” he drawled, leering into her face so that Amos could smell the putrid stink of his cigar-breath. Rinz smoked these horrible Aphloti, hand-rolled things – not because they were any better than the locally grown stuff, but simply because they were exotic, and expensive.

 

He held her one moment too long, increasing her discomfort, letting her know that he had her; but to the rest of Caza it looked as though he really was her savior. Amos thought to herself that she would rather have rolled about in the mud, but to Rinz, she said through a forced smile:

 

“By the Five Waters, how right you are! My gallant Baron, I thank you most humbly!” Amos then turned to present her companion; but because she was still in the grip of the miscreant, she stumbled once more, or pretended to, and ended up bringing her sharp heel down directly on Rinz's right's foot. “Oh dear! How clumsy I am today!”

 

Rinz gave a yelp and withdrew his smarting foot, but quickly he regained his composure, even as Amos pulled herself free of him. She went to Opho's arm, and clung to it, although she wished only to spurn him for drawing her out. Of course, the fool had thought that he must show no lack of courage before her; skulking about in dank doorways was most unbecoming of the lofty Count Opho!

 

The poor man was now extending his hand to make his introduction. Rinz, quite red in the face, showed for just a moment a wild flash of hatred in his eyes, but Amos was quite sure that Opho missed it. “I have of course heard of you, Baron Rinx,” he said, mixing up the names.

 

“Rinx is my brother,” Rinz said dryly, taking Opho's proffered hand for just a moment. “I am Rinz.”

 

“Forgive me. Pleased to make your acquaintance. I am Opho, of the House Desacrio.”

 

“Yes, I know your father, the good Count Cort.”

 

“Indeed!” Opho said with gusto, for his father was his hero. “How do you know him?”

 

“We have had some dealings in the past,”Rinz uttered brusquely. “He is most shrewd. Don't they have a name for him – the Raccoon Tycoon?”

 

Opho blinked, surprised to hear such nonsense. “I believe you must be mistaken,” he said automatically; then, he thought to enquire, “Where did you hear such drivel?”

 

“From those I suppose who felt of him robbed.”

 

“My father is no bandit!”

 

“Well, it is only a nickname. I'm sure that all of Cort's business is above-board and according to the law.”

 

“I should think so!” Opho said, quite puffed up now with family pride. “And if I were you, I would think twice about repeating any words that would mar his reputation.”

 

Rinz shrugged. “I doubt that without the nickname your father would have any reputation at all. “But don't mistake me, comrade! I quite admire your father's acuity in business and politics. When next you see him, please give him my regards. In fact, do give him this for me!”

 

The scoundrel then produced from an inner pocket a sealed letter that had no name inscribed upon it.

 

“What's this?” Opho said, eying the envelope suspiciously.

 

“It is something I have owed him for some time now. I quite forgot I had it on me! How fortuitous our meeting today!”

 

Amos smirked at that, because she saw how Rinz was now favouring his left foot.

 

Opho took the envelope, still rather incredulous. “This is intended for my father?” he asked once more.

 

“Indeed! The sooner you deliver it, the better! I've already had it in my pocket for a week, and if it sits in yours for another, your father might be quite put out by the time he gets it!”

 

Opho's face paled visibly, for although he worshiped his father for his brilliance, he also feared him for his wrath.

 

“Well, I'm off!” Rinz said, doffing his brown hat. “I'm afraid I'm running late and I don't want to keep my people at Lo Bonquio waiting any longer than they have already! Count Opho, it was a pleasure; Miss Amos – I'll catch you later!”

 

Amos' eyes narrowed. Clearly the rascal was lusting for more of the unprecedented proximity he'd enjoyed. She watched him as he sauntered away, smug and self-satisfied, lighting up one of his foul-smelling cigarillos.

 

“How mysterious!” Opho said, puzzling over the envelope in his hands. “Do you really think this is meant for my father?”

 

Amos let out a little snort, which was exceptionally unladylike, but suited her perfectly. “He's such a braggart!” she said, scoffing. “Did you hear him? He just had to drop the name of the restaurant where he's dining today!”

 

Opho blinked, and then a sudden thought struck him. He glanced at the receding back of the brown-clad Baron, wondering if here was a rival for the affections of the lovely Amos. “You know, I can get us a table at La Bannaquiso anyday.”

 

Amos rolled her eyes as she turned away from Opho. She didn't have the spirit to say how there was a big difference between the two, and that the illustrious restaurant where Rinz was heading – or at least claimed to be – was twice as exclusive as the one Opho would now assuredly bring her to, if he ever managed to wrangle another date out of her.

 

Opho stuffed the envelope into his inner breast pocket, musing as he did so, “I wonder if I should open it to check its contents...”

 

Amos knew then the foolhardy Opho would do exactly that, and in so doing would somehow find himself enmeshed in one of Rinz's dastardly plots – which no doubt was all his intention in handing over the possibly incriminating envelope. For some reason, this made her laugh, and she felt herself floating above all this petty politicking, as though she were sitting in a little skiff on a deep, dark water in which many toothy fish all fought to consume one another.

 

As if reading her thoughts – or was it she who planted the idea in his? - Opho suddenly veered toward the canal, decidedly ending their constitutional by taking her down some wide stone steps to the dock where ferry-men stood about smoking and laughing, while their long, skinny gondolas bobbed in the dull, brackish water.

As they reached the last step, Amos put in the question: “Where are we off to in such a hurry?” She was but a little out of breath by now, but she embellished the halt in her rhetoric to indicate his haste was inappropriate.

Opho frowned, glancing from one ferry-man to another. He only wanted to deal with them at present, for they could be a tricky lot, and sometimes quite bold. One particular man with tinted glasses turned his head down so he could look over the frames and let his eyes be seen as he winked at Amos in her satin gown.

“I need to retire out of this clammy cold,” Opho said over his shoulder, in quick explanation. “I feel a dreadful rheumatism coming on.” Then he added a little cough, as though to back up this claim, making Amos roll her eyes again and wonder how such an educated Count could possibly be so daft.

In another few strides, they had reached the ferry-men. There were cabs and coaches, of course, that could take them back down through the Diamond to the Sala District, where Amos stayed with her cousin the physician; but as anyone knew in Caza, the swiftest way toward the city center was undeniably by aqueous navigation.

“I need a ride to Whitcomb Plains in Ab Sala,” Opho pronounced to the ferry-men. “Who will take me?”

“That depends, Sirrah,” replied one of the men on the long dock which was their only territory – for while they worked the canals and river within the city bounds, they did not think of it as under their yoke, but quite the reverse; and also they were obliged to share the waterways with tradesmen, tugs, and looters.

“Depends?” Opho repeated, obfuscated. “On what?”

“Whether you prefer shrimp, crab, or langostino.”

Opho's eyes narrowed. “I am allergic to all shellfish.”

That produced raucous laughter from all the ferry-men. One of them, a lanky man with big arms and a striped shirt, said once his mates had quieted down. “Then it'll be me as takes you, Sirrah. My vessel is called the Nymph.”

He looked at Amos when he said that, but Opho didn't notice. He was looking where the man was pointing, with his long pole: a figure of a full-bosomed water sprite reclining on a lily pad was painted on the side of the narrow river-cab. On the others moored at the dock, the flustered Count saw other figures painted: a great, blue crab with fierce pincers, a squid that seemed to be winking even as it squirted out a cloud of ink down along the side of the boat in long, indigo curlicues.

“Right,” Opho said, patting his the breast of his jacket where the envelope was stashed. “Let's shove off, then. I'm in a bit of a hurry.”

“Let's hope that the brick-makers barges aren't on the water yet,” the ferry-man replied as he stepped off the dock into the Nymph, which barely rocked under him, so good were his sea-legs. “Once they leave the Quarry, one can get stuck in their wake, which is a misnomer for such an obstruction, as being detained by their passage usually puts me right to sleep.”

Opho jumped in the boat, following the hired gondolier, and nearly sent them both into the swirling waters. Using his great pole, arms quivering and bulging, the driver deftly settled his craft by thrusting against the bottom of the canal.

“Step lively!” said one of the ferry-men to Amos, as he gave her his hand to help her down into the boat. It was the one with the tinted glasses. Amos looked at them in admiration.

“Where did you pick up such an unusual thing?” she asked. “I've seen dark lenses to keep out the sun, but never yellow glass set into frames.”

The ferry-man smiled at her and answered with a bit of an accent, marking him as a highlander, probably from one of the three river-towns: Elbo, Salo, or Alto. “These are very special, Miss. When the sun is hiding, they make the world brighter. They are very useful on the water, especially on days like this when the mists and murk can hide from the eye a great deal. Would you like to try them out?”

He took the glasses off and handed them to Amos, who slipped them on and saw how right he was! Through the tinted glass, everything jumped out in high relief and bright contrast. “How marvelous!” she said, looking all about her.

“Come along, Amos!” Opho called after her, as he sat himself down in the gondola.

Amos made to take the glasses off, but the Highlander stopped her. “Keep them on, Miss; they'll make your voyage more interesting. Give them to Muro there once he drops you off, and he'll give them back to me.”

“How kind!” Amos said, thrilled. “Thank you so much!” She leaned in and gave the ferry-man a kiss on his rough cheek – something which Opho was loth to see.

“Oh, and they're not yellow, Miss,” the Highlander added. “They're ochre.”

Amos clambered easily into the boat; she had been raised by the sea since the age of six. Smiling, she asked both Opho and Muro, “Do they suit me?”

“You look positively angelic,” Opho murmured.

Muro grinned and said, “We'll make a Nymph out of you yet – won't we boys?”

All the ferry-men clamoured and hollered at that, rapping their long poles against the wooden beams of the dock.

Down toward the Diamond the gondola shot, speeding even though they went against the current. Muro dug his long pole deep into the canal with even strokes and kept them flowing across the surface of the water. This quite made up for missing out on Peak Park, where Amos loved to go strolling through the tended gardens of paza-lilies, even if she had to tolerate the likes of Count Opho as her escort.

As they approached the great split-water, the Apex of the Diamond, Muro called out to them:

“East or West, Pyke or Dyke? We'll see mists in the mangroves to the right, and militant midgets to the left! Which is it to be?”

Opho didn't answer, as it made no difference: both routes were equidistant to their destination. Either way, they would come back to the conjoined canals, the Nadir, and the main waterway that would take them beneath the Great Bridge, where the waters of the great Apsiam River had first been diverted by the hands of man.

Looking up at their guide, Amos smiled and said, “What do you like to see most?”

“Me?” Muro said. “I like to see the girls bathing on the Shoals by the Blue Gate! But I don't think we'll make it as far as that! I think west is the best for you, my dear river pixie. Wearing those glasses you'll be able to spot some of the mezaca fish as we pass by; and I just happen to have some crumbs to lure them to the surface for your pleasure. They're stowed in yon hideaway hatch.”

Amos delighted to see the secrets of the river, and pulled out the little bag of fish food. She turned to her companion, filled with girlish glee, but it was clear that Opho did not like being in this position; the zeal of the gondolier, who was clearly more capable of charming his date, made the Count quite grim. He waved off the fish food wordlessly, leaving it to Amos, whose mood wasn't spoiled by his choice to sulk; but she did think briefly for a moment how nice it would be to share this river-ride with someone she truly loved.

She gave Muro a sly glance over the top of the tinted glasses. She liked his big arms, and wondered what they would feel like around her, holding her down.

I wonder if he's as good with his little stick as he is with his big one, she thought, with a deliciously wicked feeling of naughtiness.

Muro aimed them to the right, and they slid down the western canal, going under the old bridges of Caza: Rake Bridge, Lost Bridge, Late Bridge. The area about the Diamond was one of the most beautiful and prestigious in all the capital.

They passed by terraces of restaurants built alongside the canals, and there were many people walking along the streets, and over the bridges. It was a common practice in those days to fling or flick little silver pieces to any ferry-man passing by on the river; if he caught the coin you flung, it was considered good luck, for both parties involved. This was in line with the old traditions of giving sacrifices to the old river gods and water sprites.

Muro waved at all the people who called to him, crying,“Gondo! Gondo!”Whenever they tossed him a coin, he always managed to snag it out of the air with a single hand, if the person throwing it had aimed it well enough. A few of the ferry-men, Amos had seen, could collect all the coins thrown clear by connecting their poles with the change that would otherwise would be lost in the canal. The coins, like balls hit with a bat, would jump up into the air, and if the ferry-man was skilled at such an act, could catch all the coins that came his way. Some of them even had competitions on the water, to see how many they could put in their pockets during a limited time, with people throwing silver coins from both sides of the canal, and along the bridges.

The ferry-men who were the best at this unusual sport practiced on the docks between hires, using bottle caps, or rocks, or wooden nickels.

Muro made the occasional tip on this journey, but folks on foggy days were generally less inclined to linger about the water, where there was always more of a chill. One coin he missed – perhaps on purpose – struck Opho on the top of his head, and he erupted in sudden curses.

Mists rolled in as they reached the nadir, and so they were covered in a blanket of white, roiling airs all the way down to the Great Bridge.

“If the mists give you a chill, Miss,” Muro said, “You'll find a shawl lined with mudra-fur in the same little cubby-hole as where you found the fish food. I'm sorry to say, that the flakes won't be of much use to us, as this is where the fishies like to feed. You can give them some nevertheless, but with this fog, I doubt you'll spot any of them.”

Amos pursed her lips. Bad luck. She'd really wanted to see the fish; but after a moment's reflection she decided that they still deserved a treat, even if she was denied hers. She threw in a handful of the fish food.

Muro began to sing as he poled – a long, bellowing, ferry-man's song. This was heard all the time during fogs or white-outs, and it was very romantic to be walking in the city near the Apsiam or along one of the canals and hear in that ghostly echosome way that fogs distort sounds these songs of the river-workers. Some were dreary and long; others were more uplifting, but usually held the same, slow cadence. It was a trick of navigation; rather than fog-horns, the ferry-men sang, whereas the barges just rang their bells and the tugs blew their whistles.

Beneath the Great Bridge were built several break-currents, so that river-craft could manage to rejoin the Apsiam, which flowed much wider and much swifter than those water which went north along the excavated ways.

Muro expertly guided the gondola past the break-currents, which were just banks of great stones, cut out of Old Quarry long ago. Had his customers requested a route that went against the currents of the Apsiam, Muro here would have been obliged to fix to the end of his pole the little motorized propellers which he would then use to push against the great might of the combined waters of both the Chapsiam and Lapsiam Rivers. No man could row or pole against its push.

As it was, Whitcomb Plains lay downriver not very far, and so Muro was able to pole into the current, and let the river carry them, using now his long stave only to direct their course. They would float as far as Foal Bridge, where another dock stood, full of jolly ferry-men making their flagrant, rude comments.

Amos found it somewhat unfortunate that she was born into a class where proper manners always had to be observed. She envied these simple gondoliers, who drank and sang all night long, then went down to the docks before dawn where they engaged one another in challenges ridiculous or rude: drunken water-jousting on the vacant canals with their poles; standing on the balustrade of the bridges where they had pissing contests; pole vaulting off the bridges and trying to catch prizes (usually sodden panties, sometimes filled as a joke with caviar) that others hung from fishing lines along the banks to tempt them.

The whole lifestyle seemed romantic and free, raunchy and right for what a human was meant to be doing with their lives. It wouldn't be so bad, perhaps, if Amos elected to become their little nymph. They were all burly brawlers, just like the gladiators that she and Veon spent so much time with – real men, with real drives that they did not try to cover up with elegance and etiquette.

With an inward sigh, Amos thought to herself, I am not born into the right time. But it was hard for her to regret anything, as she was young and completely in love with the world.

As they neared Foal Bridge, Muro pointed out with his pole a long line of barges before them: the brick-makers, bringing in their daily shipment to the Heath and the Lathe – neighbourhoods of Caza that had been booming for over a decade.

“Ah, but there is a gap!” Muro pointed out. “We can sneak right through, if we are lucky!”

He aimed the gondola with grace and ease toward the gap between the barges, then quickly put the propeller attachment at the end of his pole so they could get past the slow steamers. As they shot through the gap, Amos watched the great water wheels built aft-wise on each of the barges, turning and dripping, shining fins in rotation.

As they cleared the barges, they saw Foal Bridge, and the ferry-man's dock to the left. They would have to cut across the water to reach it, but Muro was confident. He increased the speed of his little motor, which began to whine loudly.

It was at this instant that random happenstance came into play, changing Amos' course for good, and for the rest of her life.

A wind whipped across the water, and opened Opho's jacket. The envelope that had been safely tucked in his pocket came flying out suddenly; and without thinking about what he was doing, the doltish Count leapt from his seat, lunging for the paper that went aloft.

Muro caught the envelope against his wet pole as he thrust it upward in an arc. But with Opho upsetting his boat, he lost his balance and went overboard with a little cry and a loud splash.

Amos and Opho were now adrift, with no motor and no guidance; and she could see they were cutting right across the path of the nearest barge. The helmsman of the brick-maker's steam-ship blew his horn at them, but there was nothing they could do.

The barge, now on a collision course, veered hard toward the bank of the river to avoid crashing into the hapless couple. This action caused the cargo to shift, and fall: heaps of bricks laid upon pallets went over in a slide, breaking and sending up a fine smoke of clay dust. Several bags of sand that had been tied down also came down in a cascade, some of them ripping open so that their contents spilled from the deck of the ship directly into the river water, spreading out in a growing cloud of sable sediment hanging in an inky colloid.

Amos gasped. She remembered instantly the Stanzas she has learned as a girl:

“'When the sable sands retire, turn your eye to ochre fire'.”

She looked around for anything that might be on fire, but there was nothing. It was too early for any of the gas lamps to be burning. On either side of the canal, in all the windows, there was no flicker of any flame.

It was then that the clouds above parted for just a moment, and through the rift, a few rays of sunlight came streaming out; they bounced off a sign made of stained glass and played upon the waters beside the malingering gondola, where they appeared to flicker like ochre embers.

In a state of transfixed awe, ignoring Opho and his panicked, wails for aid – from river, bridge, or barge – Amos stood up and saw through the tinted glasses she wore the sign that hung from the theatre which had caught her eye. It was a stylized lamp-lighter, a lad of twelve perhaps, made out of stained glass, and he was swinging with one arm hooked around a lamp-post. In his other hand, he held his light. The words above and below him read:

 

Illuminati Odeum

 

“Well, slap my fanny and call me daffy,” Amos muttered.

Opho grabbed her by the arm at that point, and screamed in her face. “What are you doing? Who are you talking to?”

Amos snorted loudly. “The man on the pole,” she replied tersely, then pulled her arm free.