Phylus-Zant leaped from his desk and motioned for Ganto-Ba to come and start readying him for the dawn invocation. The little Highlander rushed to his appointed task with zeal.
“No, Baphor-Ta will not yet be in the Court, and I am weary of his putting off ways,” the merchant continued. “Take this directly to his residence.”
“But, master…” Alza-Lo fell silent under Phylus-Zant’s glare.
“You take this to his home, and you pound on his door just as hard as I will whip you if you don’t,” Phylus-Zant said.
Alza-Lo grimaced. If he hit the Chief Investigator’s door with as much force as his master could wield the cat-o-five when angered then he would surely knock the door off all three hinges, angering not only the powerful Baphor-Ta but his household gods as well.
“And you see that you give this directly to Baphor-Ta himself,” the merchant raged. “I better not hear you doffed it into the hands of one of his… Oww!” he exclaimed as a brooch used to secure the cape jabbed him in one of his many yellowish jowls. “Are you trying to murder me, you miserable little sand-worm?” He cuffed at Ganto-Ba but the little Martian was too quick for him, dodging the blow while fastening the brooch to the other edge of the cape, then scurrying around to grab the ceremonial coif. Phylus-Zant turned his attention back to Alza-Lo. “Where was…oh yes. You had better not put that into the hands of one of his slaves or I’ll…”
“Baphor-Ta has no slaves, master,” Alza-Lo sputtered, ducking as the meaty yellowish arm of Phylus-Zant passed over his head like the snapping limb of an ophidian-tree.
“Master, please!” Ganto-Ba cried as Phylus-Zant’s sudden movement nearly pitched him off the step-ladder on which he stood to reach his master’s head. He gripped the hat between his teeth, gripped Phylus-Zant’s smooth yellow head like a massive boulder, and yanked it around so he was facing front again. “Try not to move so much, master; we have only a few minutes till dawn.”
“No slaves, you say?” Phylus-Zant muttered in disbelief, then louder: “No slaves!”
“No, master,” Alza-Lo confirmed.
“Not a one?”
“No, master, none.”
“The man’s more of a radical than I realized, no slaves indeed!” Phylus-Zant ranted. “It’s the influence of the humans, I tell you, and the British are the worse of them. Their agents continually stir up the anti-slavery faction. It’s bad enough the human merchants and traders always poach on my…”
“Master, should I not be on my way?” Alza-Lo suggested. “I do not want to miss Baphor-Ta, then be forced to chase his exalted presence all over Syrtis Major and be late in returning when there is so much…”
“Yes, yes, yes, be off with you!” Phylus-Zant said dismissively.
Alza-Lo was out of the chamber before his master reach the third ‘yes’ of his dismissal. He well knew Phylus-Zant’s mercurial nature and wanted to be away before some other reason to harangue flashed through his mind. Better Ganto-Ba take the brunt of it than him, which was only proper…Alza-Lo was a commercial slave, not a personal one, and there were limits, whether Phylus-Zant liked it or not.
“No slaves!” Phylus-Zant continued without pause. “Have you ever heard of such a thing?”
“It is indeed shocking, master,” Ganto-Ba agreed, grabbing the edges of the cap and steadily pulling downward.
“Where is Baphor-Ta’s patriotic spirit?” Phylus-Zant demanded as the material stretched around his head. “Has the mimsett shrunk? You did not wash it in hot water, did you?”
“No, master, but it is…”
“That belonged to my father, you know!”
“Yes, master, but you must remember…”
“And his father before him!”
“Yes, master, but over time…”
“No one could invoke the gods better than Grandfather,” the merchant sighed wistfully. “That was before sacrifice was abolished you know.”
“Those were the days, master,” Ganto-Ba agreed, grunting as he pulled at the edges of the mimsett.
“It’s the damned British again,” the merchant grumbled. “The humans just can’t keep out of Martian affairs. I tell you, Ganto-Ba, it’s been a right royal mess since 1817, when they… Of course, that was not the year back then, was it? Now everyone, even the Royal Court, uses their damned calendar, so what else can I do?”
“It’s the times, master, got to keep up with the competition.”
“So true, Ganto-Ba,” Phylus-Zant agreed. He shook his head in consternation, nearly throwing his dresser off the ladder again. “No slaves! What has he against giving five years of training and free care to the unemployed? You appreciate it, do you not?”
“Oh yes, master!” Ganto-Ba agreed enthusiastically. “I dread the day of my lustrum.”
“Well, we shall have to talk about that before it comes, shan’t we?” Phylus-Zant muttered.
Ganto-Ba made a non-committal sound as he continued to pull. Just a bit more and the ear-arch of the hat would be low enough.
“If the mimsett has not shrunk, then why is it so blasted tight?” Phylus-Zant demanded. He squinted in discomfort.
“It is very old, master.”
“It’s a heirloom!”
“And you were much…younger when it came to you.”
“You think I’ve gotten fat!”
“No, master, not at all,” Ganto-Ba protested. “But you have been very…prosperous.”
“Yes, there is no denying that, as even my competitors would agree,” Phylus-Zant said after a moment of silence. “But I suppose it is getting a bit thready by now.”
“Yes, master.”
“And it’s definitely out of style.”
“Old-fashioned can be quaint, but when people look at a very successful merchant and see him wearing something so old…” The Highlander let his words trail to silence.
“Too right you are, Ganto-Ba, too right!” Phylus-Zant agreed.
Ganto-Ba sighed in relief, not only because he had escaped a tense moment, but because he had finally pulled the ceremonial coif down far enough for it to be called decent, more or less.
“When I come back from my trip, we shall go shopping, get a proper mimsett made, modern design and all,” Phylus-Zant said.
And properly sized, Ganto-Ba thought, but wisely kept the words to himself.
“How do I look?”
“Properly sanctimonious,” Ganto-Ba replied.
“Let’s get it over with.” He started out, then paused and sighed.
“Master?”
“I really miss the sacrifices.”
“You can’t buck the Court, master.”
“Truer words were never spoken,” Phylus-Zant agreed sadly.
Phylus-Zant fled the chamber, Ganto-Ba following behind to ensure the cape did not get snagged. It would not do Phylus-Zant’s pious bearing any good for him to be pulled back or to fall heavily on his gelatinous breech. They exited the villa, quickly crossed the courtyard, ran down a tangle of streets, and approached where the Flying Moons was berthed. The crew was, of course, already hard at work, but redoubled their efforts when their master hove into view. The three Martians, all Lowlanders, were all freemen, since good canal sailors never worried about unemployment.
“Places, all,” Phylus-Zant said. “Take your places for the dawn invocation. I’ll have no heathens on my boat.”
The three sailors fell to upon the stern, shifting uneasily as the darkness began to lift. It was an antiquated ceremony, rarely carried out anymore, but Phylus-Zant held their gold, for the moment, and thus their obedience.
The boarding plank groaned under Phylus-Zant, despite being double-boarded, and the craft listed a little shoreward till it righted itself in the indigo waters. He joined the crew at the stern, holding his hands out, palms upward, facing eastward as they waited for the Sun to crest the horizon.
“Quit moving about, you canal-skrils,” Phylus-Zant cautioned. “This is a moment that demands respect.”
The
sailors looked one to another in confusion. No one was moving about. They looked to Ganto-Ba, but he shook his head and made a helpless gesture, quite sure Phylus-Zant could not see behind him.
“Is the boiler heating, engineer?” Phylus-Zant demanded.
The eldest of the three answered: “No, ‘tis cold as the deeps.”
“What do I hear knocking about then?”
Ganto-Ba and the three sailors listened, then frowned, for they could hear the sound as well, a sort of soft and rhythmic knocking noise. Their feet were still, there was nothing upon deck rolling about, and all the cargo had been properly secured prior to duskfall the previous day. Yet, the sound did seem to follow the rhythm of the canal.
“Don’t just stand there like statues, find it and stop it,” Phylus-Zant ordered. “I can’t very well invoke the favor of the gods while something is banging away, can I? Hurry! Put a move on!”
The four Martians scurried this way and that, stopping now and then to wait for a reoccurrence of the sound so they could trace it to its source. Phylus-Zant scowled darkly, but there was nothing he could do but stand and wait. Sunrise was now seconds away, and if he did not say the ancient prayer at just the proper moment he could hardly hope for the gods’ benevolences.
The Sun flashed above the horizon. A wan light spread over the misty surface of the canal, lightening the dark water to turquoise.
“At the Sun’s rising, we invoke the ancient gods, the eternal gods, the benevolent gods,” Phylus-Zant intoned, trying to ignore both the sound and his witless crew. “We pray to you, O…”
“Found it, sir,” the engineer called, voice cracking midway.
“Blimey!” another sailor exclaimed.
“Crikey!” the third sailor cried.
“Oh my!” Ganto-Ba murmured.
Phylus-Zant whirled about, fuming, hands raised as if he wanted to throttle someone…or four. His face was flushed a deep ochre in anger, his breaths came like those of a maddened bull, and his eyes were filled with flame. Phylus-Zant was so angry he could not speak, but he did not know which filled him with more wrath, the fact that the invocation had been interrupted and that the gods would not smile upon him, or that his sailors had used the human slang that had become so ubiquitous in the streets of Syrtis Major.
His rage became tainted with confusion when he saw his four employees standing at the rail, looking down into the water, not paying any attention to him or his murderous mood. Even Ganto-Ba was not quailing, as he did so well.
“What are you fools looking at?” he demanded.
No one answered him.
No one looked at him.
They pointed into the water between boat and dock.
Phylus-Zant rushed forward, shoved his hands between them and pushed them sprawling aside. He gripped the railing, leaned a bit forward, and stared down into a face staring back at him with dead unblinking eyes. A human face.
It was too late to seek the favor of the gods, he realized, but it was not too late to get away. The boiler would take less than thirty minutes to charge. As soon as the Flying Moons left the dock, the current would take the body away, where it would become someone else’s problem. If only he could get the crew to smartly turn to, and perhaps develop amnesia, which would be money well spent. He looked away and his heart sank.
One of the sailors had already run ashore and found one of the canal watchmen. The shrill cry of his security whistle split the still morning air, and seemed to do the same thing to Phylus-Zant’s skull. He stepped back, inadvertently put his foot on a corner or his cape and fell heavily to the deck, cracking both the plank and his coccyx. Phylus-Zant’s howl of pain joined the security whistle.
“Master, are you all right?” Ganto-Ba asked as he futilely tried to assist Phylus-Zant to his feet.
“No, I’m not all right,” the injured merchant snapped.
“It’s horrible, master!” Ganto-Ba cried. “Horrible!”
“Yes,” Phylus-Zant agreed. “We’ll not get away before the security forces impound my ship and cargo.”
“But the dead man, master” the slave protested.
“It’s only a human!” Phylus-Zant agreed.
“It’s so horrible,” Ganto-Ba murmured, moving back to the rail and leaving his master to his own devices.
Phylus-Zant moaned loudly, hoping someone would help him, but the sailors were jabbering with the watchmen who had come running and that fool Ganto-Ba remained gawking at the rail. He yelled, but no one paid him any mind. Unable to do anything else, Phylus-Zant sat on the deck and felt sorry for himself. Even dead, humans were vexatious pests.
Ganto-Ba covertly glanced back, hid a furtive smirk. As far as he was concerned, his lustrum could not arrive too soon.
* * *
“You are enjoying this all too much, Chief Investigator Baphor-Ta,” Phylus-Zant charged. Three hours had elapsed since discovery of the body and they were still aboard the Flying Moons, but the merchant sat in a sturdy camp-chair brought by Ganto-Ba, upon a pillow that was not nearly soft enough. “You are purposely abusing me in a petty attempt at revenge.”
“Revenge?” Baphor-Ta looked up from his notes, an expression of mild surprise upon his dark face. “Have I not treated you with all the courtesy due a person of your exalted standing in the mercantile community? Have I not taken your slights and invectives with good grace, returning only civility and consideration?”
“You’ve kept me from setting out on my planed trade venture,” Phylus-Zant accused.
“This is a murder investigation.”
“But it’s only a human!”
“The peace of the Red Prince has been broken.”
“You’ve kept me captive aboard my own ship and prevented me from returning to my home or place of business.”
“You are a witness to the discovery of the murder.”
“But you let the others go hours ago, even sent my personal slave away,” Phylus-Zant complained. “You’re treating my inferiors better than you are your superior.”
“The others were most cooperative with the watchmen, my investigators and me, answering all questions without hesitation, evasion or complaint,” Baphor-Ta pointed out. “You on the other hand, Honorable Phylus-Zant, have not been quite as forthcoming.”
“I was gravely injured when my employees ran me down in their panic,” the Lowlander explained. “I have been in pain.”
“And I provided you a Court physician, who pronounced you merely bruised,” Baphor-Ta said.
“Charlatan,” the merchant grumbled. “And it was the coroner.”
“It was the Red Prince’s personal physician.”
“Must have got the job through connections.”
“He volunteers as coroner and works amongst the poor,” Baphor-Ta said. “He is well regarded and highly esteemed.”
“Humph!” Phylus-Zant snorted. “He give you that eye?”
Baphor-Ta, sitting opposite the merchant in a camp-chair, ignored the gibe at his crystal eye, but wondered what the man might make of his brass chest; both had been made by a British artificer. The body had been examined by the coroner, was covered by a tarpaulin, and only awaited transportation to the morgue. And he awaited cooperation from the disgruntled merchant. He took his time browsing through statements of the other witnesses.
“You’re doing this because I dare question your competency, is that not true?” Phylus-Zant snarled. “This is retribution for all the times I have pointed out your office’s shortcomings in dealing with humans, especially the double-damned British which you seem to love so much.”
“When you arrived at the quay at dawn, did you see anyone other than your crew?” Baphor-Ta asked.
“Is it true you have no slaves?” Phylus-Zant demanded. “What is your problem with slavery? Is it because the British are so set against it? Would you have the unemployed roam the streets and get into no end of mischief? Why do you deny care to those unable to care for themselves, vocational training to the uneducated? A
re you indifferent to the plight of the poor, or are you a radical? I’ve had my suspicions, you know.”
“Did you see anyone on the quay this morning?”
“I’ve suspected for quite awhile that your lack of action upon my many grievances has a sinister aspect,” Phylus-Zant mused. “I don’t trust a man who shirks his civic responsibilities.”
“Did you notice anyone at all?”
“Does the Red Prince know of your unnatural beliefs?” Phylus-Zant asked. “I am acquainted with his third cousin’s nephew.”
Baphor-Ta fought a sigh. He wanted to either bury his face in his hands or to slap the recalcitrant merchant across his enormous jowls, but he did neither. Either would be a show of weakness, and he was not about to allow Phylus-Zant that satisfaction.
“Have you seen the dead man before?” the Chief Investigator asked. “Is he familiar to you? At all? Even in the slightest?”
“Are you accusing me of consorting with humans?”
“I am just trying to…”
“The very idea!” the merchant huffed. “I don’t do business with outworlders at all, least of all humans. The House of Zant is a very respectable trade company. My family has been running merchant ships upon the canals for nearly…”
Baphor-Ta was saved from yet another recitation of the sterling qualities of the merchant’s lineage, which he flaunted when not trying to question Baphor-Ta’s competence, loyalty to the Court, social sensibilities, or physical infirmities. He heard a familiar voice and turned to see his friend Captain Robert Folkestone walking up the quay with an equally familiar form.
“What is the meaning of this, Baphor-Ta?” Phylus-Zant cried. “What is a human doing here on my private quay? Are you to blame for this outrage?”
“During this investigation—until I say otherwise—this quay is under the jurisdiction of the Court of the Red Prince,” Baphor-Ta explained. “Because the victim is a human, I have asked Captain Robert Folkestone, currently attached to the Admiralty, to assist.”
“And the…other?” Phylus-Zant asked, his voice dripping with disdain, his face scrunching up as if assailed by a foul odor.
Amidst Dark Satanic Mills (Folkestone & Hand Interplanetary Steampunk Adventures Book 2) Page 3