“We ran into the school, but the fire burned itself out very quickly.”
“What is going on here?” a voice said.
They turned to see Prince Regent Teu strolling merrily down the road to the school. He took a look at the building and then at them. “A burnt building, and an inspector arresting someone. I can only assume an arson occurred.” The Prince Regent walked up to Nora. “Are you safe?”
“Yes, I wasn’t here when the fire started,” Nora said.
“These children are part of our future.” Prince Regent Teu glared at Chelavye. “It is outrageous that a foreigner tried to harm them on the pretense of establishing a school. Treaty with Ilysveil or not, you won’t escape justice.”
Lyn stepped between the Prince Regent and Chelavye Sensei. “Sensei is innocent.”
“Are you calling the inspector a liar?”
“No, I think he did what anyone would have done given the evidence that was presented to him, and I do mean presented.”
“What are you saying?”
“I finally realized it after hearing the night guard’s exact words. ‘We ran into the school.’ Why would he say ‘we’ when there’s only one guard? Yinam said he didn’t witness any of it, and that this happened right when the guard shift changed. This means that not only is security lax, but also that Ken would have expected another soldier to show up at that time. Someone other than the night and day shift guards was here.”
Inspector Gang tipped his hat. “I must say, I feel thoroughly embarrassed for not having seen that. That may explain how the oil was planted, but what of the black hair? It seems unlikely that someone else plucked it from Chelavye.”
“I thought about that. Even if someone planted a hair, hair burns easily, so there was no guarantee it would survive the fire, even if it burned out quickly. So I ask, was that really hair?”
“I think so. It was a bit charred, but it certainly smelled like hair,” Inspector Gang said.
Lyn grabbed Nora’s sleeve.
“Hey, what are you doing?”
“Silk, Nora. Silk, when it burns, smells like hair, but it only burns while the fire burns. Unlike hair, it won’t continue to burn after the fire goes out. Silk would be black from charring, smell like hair and also survive a fire that went out quickly.”
The Prince Regent was sweating. “The Ilysveilans have technology we don’t know about. It’s obvious the culprit is her. Don’t fall for her subterfuge, inspector.”
Graceful footsteps approached. Empress Narsha, in beautiful blue-green robes, walked toward them. “This is quite unseemly behavior, Father. I heard that Eva Academy had burned down and rushed over, but it seems my concern was unnecessary. Everyone seems to be safe, and Lyn has masterfully presented her case.”
“Then who did it?”
“I don’t know, Your Lordship.” That was a lie. Lyn wanted to accuse the Prince Regent of framing her teacher to his face, but doing so without proof would only result in her head rolling. “However, it’s clear that Sensei has been framed.”
“Well, inspector?” Empress Narsha said.
Inspector Gang tapped his finger on the glowing shackle. It shattered and disappeared. “You’re free to go, Lady Chelavye. I will be continuing my investigation to find the true culprit, and I do apologize for my grave error.” He went down on all fours and bowed to Chelavye.
“Ah, please, get up. That makes me feel so embarrassed. I’m free now, so you don’t have to worry about it.”
Sensei was good natured to a fault. She hoped Sir Corvus was a nice person, and clever too. Sensei needed someone like that by her side.
Prince Regent Teu cleared his throat. “Good luck on your investigation, Inspector.”
Later, at the Imperial Palace, Lyn poured oolong tea for Empress Narsha after having explained everything.
“Solradia, huh? To think my father-in-law would go so low as to partner with the foxborns who are out to devour this nation.”
“I don’t understand why the Prince Regent would go so far to destroy a school though,” Lyn said.
“Oh, that’s simple. I kicked him out of office, and I’m the proponent of Westernization. How do you think it would look for me if a Western teacher I brought in was convicted for arson?”
Court politics left a bitter taste in her mouth. Thinking back, the Prince Regent and whatever goons he hired probably weren’t alone. “This is just my speculation, but I think Countess Yun was involved in this too.”
“Explain.”
“His Lordship looked impatient as he was questioning Yun Aria. Why did he pick her to question? Countess Yun was asking the same questions to Aria, but more nicely. Aria either didn’t want to answer or didn’t fully understand the question, because she answered vaguely like ‘it was fun.’ The Prince Regent may have convinced Countess Yun to send Aria in as a spy, but was frustrated at the lack of concrete information.”
Empress Narsha sighed. “That seems likely. I fear there is a significant faction on Teu’s side, which has now become Solradia’s side. They’ve modernized far more quickly than I expected. I fear not much time remains for Radiaurora.”
“Your Majesty?”
“This nation is still living in 1477 when it’s 1877. To protect this nation, we need people like you to become educated. No matter what happens to me or to Radiaurora, keep your head down and build your strength until you are ready.”
“What are you saying?” Lyn’s heart pounded. It almost sounded like Her Majesty’s last words, even though she was sitting perfectly healthy in front of her.
“The Solradian Minister of State, Saizo Takanaga, came by this morning with a ridiculous treaty. Kojo signed it despite my efforts, saying our nation was too weak to say no. I can only do so much. Twilight is coming to this land of radiant dawn. I will likely be the last empress of Radiaurora. So, when the time comes, you must be its new dawn.”
Empress Narsha had just handed Lyn an impossible burden, one even heavier than the royal seal, but Her Majesty had given her everything, and so, Lyn decided she would be willing to repay that debt for the rest of her life. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
THE WORLD OF HARRY OVERTON
by Jamie McNabb
On Harry Overton’s seventy-fifth birthday, he drove in to the lovely and gracious coastal town of Innocent, Oregon, for breakfast. The town had been good to him over the years, but he was especially fond of the fact that it had taken its name from a ship, the Innocent. The Innocent had been a four-masted lumber schooner that had come to grief on Lovejoy Rock during a winter gale in 1905.
Harry knew better than anyone else that the Innocent wasn’t the only thing that had come to grief on that damn rock.
He did his best to ignore the rock as he stepped into the Drowning Tourist, the cozy little café where he ate when he was in town. As he waited for Imogene, the owner, to seat him, Harry took in the aromas of frying bacon and freshly brewed coffee.
The café’s décor was early garage sale: tables and wooden chairs from at least a dozen defunct restaurants; dishes, bowls, cups, and saucers Imogene had bought at countless garage sales, estate sales, and going-out-of-business sales. Ditto the flatware. Ditto the table clothes and napkins. Harry could almost pick out the eras: the 70s, 80s, and 90’s. Nothing was newer than that, not that he could tell.
Which was fine with Harry. To him, new seemed pretentious, and matched sets of anything made him feel queasy. His pickup was twenty years old and had seen better days. The driver’s-side door had come out of a wrecking yard down in Newport; the tailgate had come from another wrecking yard over in Salem.
Imogene Blanchet was a stick-figure of a woman in her late fifties. She had dyed black hair, sunken eyes, and papery skin. She greeted Harry at the door and led him over to a window table while they caught up on trivialities.
Harry hadn’t wanted a window table. He hadn’t wanted to take a chance on looking out at that rock. He would of course, but he didn’t want to, not even by accident.
“Phil was in looking for you earlier,” Imogene commented.
Harry snorted. As far as he was concerned, Phillip Alger Duzermann was thirty-something going on fifteen, all talk and no brains. His one claim to fame was that—thanks to a loan from his mother—he was the proud owner of the Puffing Puffin, Innocent’s one and only legal marijuana dispensary.
“Did he say what he wanted?” Harry asked.
“A cord of firewood?” Imogene asked. She was a master of deadpan humor.
“Well, I got lots,” Harry said.
Imogene left him a menu and went back to whatever she’d been doing when he’d walked in. Harry studied the menu for a moment and then somehow found himself looking out the window, staring directly at Lovejoy Rock.
For hundreds of years the surf had hammered away at the coastline, eroding away the soft material and leaving behind a basalt sea stack more stubborn than Harry and twice as ornery. It was two hundred and ten feet high, which made it shorter than Cannon Beach’s Haystack Rock, but Lovejoy Rock was twice as wide at its base. It sat a couple of hundred yards off the vegetation line, but was connected to the shore by a natural causeway.
The tourists loved it.
Harry despised it.
It was the site of a train wreck, one of his own making, a maelstrom that had turned him into a murderer. And from that there had been no coming back.
Yes, it had been his own doing, but he’d also had help, lots of it.
Damn Jason Burke. Damn him for the greedy little bastard—
Harry startled as a coffee cup and a small bowl of half-and-half creamers slid in front of him. He glanced up at the waitress. This morning, it was Ashley Northrup. Nice kid. She had a runner’s build and big teeth. They gave her what Harry had heard described as the English horsey look.
Horsey, hell. Harry liked big teeth. Come to think of it, he liked horses, too.
Ashley poured his coffee, laughed at his stupid jokes, took his order, and schlepped it off to the kitchen.
Harry sipped his coffee.
Phil Duzermann barged into the café. Without waiting to be invited, he hurried over and plopped down opposite Harry.
Duzermann was dressed in jeans and a red-plaid jacket. He looked like a wannabe logger and smelled like a pile of fine-cut marijuana.
He was not welcome.
“Imogene said you were looking for me,” Harry said without preamble. “What about?”
“What do you think? I’m looking for a reliable supplier.”
“I own a farm. I grow cattle feed. I have a woodlot. I do not grow pot.”
Phil slumped. He looked like a party balloon that’s had most of the air let out of it. “Look, I understand, I really do, but my supplier turned out to be a world-class flake. I’ve got customers, but I got no supply.”
“Have you tried over in the Willamette Valley?”
“Yeah, as a matter of fact, I have. They want to charge me an arm and a leg just for floor sweepings.”
“I could haul out my violin,” Harry suggested helpfully.
Phil leaned forward over the table. “You’re supplying my mom,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
In a flash, Harry had the kid by the neck of his jacket.
Phil’s eyes went wide in terror.
Harry jerked him forward viciously. They were nose to nose. Phil’s face was pale with shock, and up close he smelled like drugstore aftershave.
“One more time,” Harry said. “I do not grow pot. Now go away and leave me alone.” Harry let go, shoving Phil backwards.
“All right, Harry. No need to get rough.”
“Look,” Harry said, “if you’re a little short, you could come work for me. I could use a hand with the woodlot.”
“No, thanks. I’ve got my own business to run.”
No doubt these days Phil’s business amounted to selling bongs, pipes, papers, electronic cigarettes, Bob Marley T-shirts, and 420 costume jewelry.
Harry noticed Ashley politely waiting a few feet away. She had a coffee pot in one hand and Harry’s breakfast in the other.
Harry leaned forward. “Go run your business. My food’s getting cold.”
“Sure thing,” Phil said, and hurried out.
Harry ate and tried to forget about Phil Duzermann and the price of Willamette Valley marijuana.
And he was successful at it, too. In a way.
Instead of thinking about Phil and Phil’s problems, Harry wound up thinking about Jason William Burke.
Again.
This time, however, the memories didn’t follow their usual run. No, sir. This time they began with the end of Harry’s academic career and his first day on his farm.
* * *
After finishing a stint in the cold-war Navy, Harry had enrolled in the University of Washington.
Four years later, he graduated, packed his VW bus, and headed south on the I-5 freeway. It was just getting dark.
The year was 1966.
Seven hours later, he pulled onto a farm in the hills above Innocent, Oregon, close to the county line but still in Dewey County.
The farm had thirty acres of workable land and forty-seven acres of timber, and it was all his. He’d bought and paid for it a month ago, sight unseen, from a friend of a friend.
Some of the money Harry had used had come from a loan from his father. Harry had pulled the rest of it out of his cash reserves.
Harry never discussed his cash reserves, not with anyone.
He never discussed them because he’d made them dealing marijuana on the UW campus.
A few feet away from the bus, just beyond the reach of its anemic headlights, stood a boarded-up two-story house. It looked as though one of the farm’s early owners had ordered it out of an 1890s Sears catalogue.
Using the glow from the dashboard lights, Harry checked the house against the snapshot the seller had sent him.
They matched right down to the angle of the boards nailed across the front door.
Harry killed the bus’s engine and climbed out.
The air was cold and smelled of fir trees and ocean salt. He liked the way the air smelled.
Harry pissed on the ground. He did not like the smell of his piss. Not that there was anything wrong with it, he just didn’t like it.
He climbed back into his bus. He locked the doors and switched off the headlights.
Staying in the driver’s seat, he covered himself with a blanket, tucked a loaded .45 caliber semiauto, a 1911A1, into his waistband, and tried to go to sleep.
His mind raced, refusing to let go of his situation—not that it was much of a situation. Far from it.
The farm itself was a dilapidated mess, but Harry hadn’t bought it because he wanted to work a farm. No, he’d bought it because of the marijuana-grow operation the previous owner had established on those forty-seven acres of timberland.
The plants were hidden from any road and scattered among the trees so as to be virtually invisible from the air.
So there Harry was—a drug dealer with a bachelor’s in physics, a farm, and enough cash to get things going.
Not too shabby…
* * *
Harry awoke in the morning to a cold, clinging fog. It felt more like the dead of winter than the dead of summer.
He decided to take a walk around his new place.
The foundation of the house consisted of posts on cement pads—a renovation done in the late 1940s. The roof ought to have been replaced ten years ago, and the siding hadn’t seen a fresh coat of paint in fifteen.
As it turned out, the grow operation amounted to a few dozen self-seeded plants situated in four tiny clearings. It wasn’t exactly what he’d been told it was, and it certainly wasn’t worth what he’d paid for it.
He’d been had. On the other hand, he�
��d expected to be had and had beaten the price down accordingly. Sort of. As much as he could. Which hadn’t been half as much as he ought to have.
Still, the farm was only a few miles outside of Innocent and Innocent was one of Oregon’s better-known seaside playgrounds. Which meant that his overpriced farm was a potential goldmine…if he kept a tight asshole and didn’t get greedy.
* * *
A few months later, Harry found a guy camping in the trees, a few yards away from one of Harry’s newly-planted patches of marijuana.
The guy was in his early twenties. He was dressed in jeans, a denim jacket, cowboy boots, and a blue stocking cap. He had a small tent and a large backpack. A roll of toilet paper sat on a log a few yards farther back in the trees. He was making a pot of coffee, having trouble with the fire, with the wet wood.
“Who in hell are you?” Harry asked.
The guy looked up and smiled. “Good question. Who in hell are you?”
The guy had the sort of straight, evenly spaced teeth that only orthodontists can make happen. But there was more to it. The denim was good quality, but worn. The boots and the cap weren’t bargain-basement, either, but they were showing their age. The boots needed soles and heels.
All in all, he looked like someone who’d grown up in a professional family, who’d gone to college on their dime, but who’d left that family far, far behind.
Druggie?
Draft dodger?
A philosophy major examining his previously unexamined life?
“I asked first,” Harry said.
“Fair enough,” the guy said. “I’m Jason Burke.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Camping,” Burke said. “And you are…?”
“I own the place.”
“Oh,“ Burke said, and stood up. “I’ll be on my way, then.”
Just then, it began to rain. It was only a drizzle, but it was cold, right off the ocean. The droplets drifted down through the trees. They clung to Harry jacket. Soon they’d soak in, and then they’d soak through.
Harry knew he ought to finish running the guy off, but instead Harry said, “No, that’s okay. No need to rush. Just don’t overstay your welcome. And leave the plants alone.” Harry didn’t think he had to explain which plants he was talking about.
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