The Turner Chronicles Box Set Edition

by Mark Eller

  Let these jackrabbit pups laugh at him. They'd choke on those laughs once they saw him at the weights. He'd joined this club on Felicity Stromburg's recommendation. She said the place boasted one of the better weightlifting areas in the city.

  Armand stopped walking and decided to see if she had lied.

  An hour later, he put down a set of free weights when Faith made her way toward him. Armand smiled. Faith looked like what the cat drug in and the owner threw out, wringing sweat and just plain tuckered,

  "Hope you're satisfied," Faith said lifelessly.

  "Did you win?"

  "The first two points. Afterward, I mostly panted. The young lady tells me you flirted with her."

  Smiling, Armand studied the aqua green cinderblock wall in front of him. A few spots of chipped paint showed the wall had once been painted red.

  "Armand."

  "Maybe a little bit," he finally admitted.

  "You flirt with every unmarried female more than a little bit," Faith said archly, "but seldom so openly they tell me about it. So why her?"

  Armand mulled over his answer. Something about the woman had captured his attention, but what? She was not beautiful. Common pretty with a touch of hard would have been his kindest description. Trim but not skinny, and her figure wasn't unique. Still something in her eyes intrigued him.

  Faith bent to pick up his workout towel. They were alone in the smaller free weight room so Armand used the opportunity stare down the open v-neck of her shirt. He didn't see much cleavage since she wore a bra, but a man had to stay in practice.

  "Letch." Wiping her dripping face, Faith mock-glared.

  "Always."

  "There's something familiar about her," Faith said. She tossed him the towel, which he used to wipe his sweaty face. Armand thought about moving back to the bench press to impress his wife with his rippling muscles then dismissed the idea. Faith was more likely to laugh at his vanity than admire his form.

  Besides, she had a point. Something about the brown-haired woman had seemed familiar.

  "I don't believe I've met her personally," Faith said. "Might have seen her composite, or I might know one of her family, or maybe her name is familiar."

  "Does it matter?"

  "I'm just curious, is all. I'd like to know just who Brenda Montpass really is. I'd also like to know why she looked us up to ask if I knew how to find Aaron Turner."

  Armand stilled, turning entirely toward his wife.

  "Everyone who's ever read the papers knows where Turner is. He's the bloody Emperor of Chin."

  "But it's been a long while since anything mentioned Emperor Turner came from N'Ark or that we had a connection to him. There are a lot of Turners in the world, you know."

  "True," Armand said slowly. "Still, the fact our Mister Turner is the Mister Turner was pretty well covered by the papers for a year or so, up until they got tired of printing his name."

  Faith's eyes became hard, captured by an idea.

  "I'm well aware of that fact," she said in a dangerously even voice. "Why isn't she?"

  * * *

  Sighing, Armand rubbed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. Every passing year made him wonder more and more if it might be time to get glasses. His public persona insisted his eyesight was every bit as acute as it had been twenty years earlier, but private experience forced him to admit he just might need a little help every now and again.

  He looked out his window, taking in the N'Ark skyline, enjoying the sensation of living in one of the fastest growing cities in the world. By no means did N'Ark rival many of the other great cities. It did not have the sweeping history, the statuary, or the graceful columns of Parsee architecture. N'Ark lacked the sheer size of Constanpolis, and it had nothing to rival the pure elegance of the canalled, age-old mercantile city of Vinnie with its gondolier propelled boats and its aging yet magnificent warehouses and homes once belonging to the Merchant Kings of old.

  No, N'Ark had none of those things. As a relatively new city in comparison, and a practical and energetic one, N'Ark held burgeoning life and hope. Though not the home to which he had been born, the city was certainly the one he had grown to love. It had given him a career, a wife, and challenges that taxed his mind and body.

  He looked upon the panorama and was glad to see the skyline dotted with buildings ten stories tall, sharp and clear. Armand had no difficulty seeing things out there. Unfortunately, the ability to see things far off was a skill he no longer had much use for. What he needed now was the ability to read the damn reports piling up on his desk. He could deal with the need to adjust the distance between his nose and any paper he happened to be reading. It had become increasingly difficult to deal with constant headaches and burning eyes after a day's work.

  I, Armand Crowley admitted to himself, need glasses, but the thought tasted bitter. Nothing struck him as more pathetic than a balding, middle-aged, man wearing glasses. Faith would never stop laughing.

  A light knock at his open door interrupted his train of thought. Swinging his chair around, he saw his boss, Tap Angowski, leaning against the doorframe.

  "Another headache?" she asked as she strode into his office. Her ankle length, old-fashioned dress curled around her ankles as she walked. For a woman barely into her fifties, Tap looked sixty-five, but her emotionless blue eyes said she was tougher than an old bullwhip.

  Armand held up his hand, thumb and finger spread about a quarter inch apart. "A little one."

  Nodding, she sat in his spare chair. Armand found it interesting how she could sit in his "submissive" chair and still dominate the space around her. Tap's aura was so all inclusive it drowned out the influence of everybody else. She had a presence he would have been pleased to acquire.

  "Personally," she said, "I think you spend too much time in the office. You should get out more, live in the open air, and maybe take in a sea breeze. You were never a man for such cramped quarters."

  Raising one eyebrow, Armand wondered exactly where she was going.

  "Being in this office happens to be my job. I seem to recall you giving it to me."

  She nodded. "Forty-five though you look older, half-bald with eyes appearing slightly unfocused, not really tall, but certainly not short. You have a more than adequate supply of muscles and agility, but most is buried beneath the excess flesh you built up during these last few years. All in all, Mister Crowley, you present the perfect picture of a lackluster private citizen."

  A slight smile played about the corner of her mouth, but her eyes appeared serious. If Armand didn't know he was one of her best analysts, he would have worried about the longevity of his job. Instead, he waited for her to continue.

  "You'll do perfectly," she continued, "though I'm not so happy with your wife. Her appearance is far too athletic. Loose clothing and a pair of fake glasses might help. Yes, I think the two of you will do."

  She paused, looking thoughtful for a moment while her eyes continued to study him. "I should find out if Mistress Crowley is willing to take a temporary leave of absence from her job and if her department will release her."

  "Maybe you should tell me what you're considering," Armand said, hearing not one trace of emotion in his voice. Gratifying, since his heart thundered with wild hope.

  Reaching into a loose pocket sewn into her flower patterned dress, Tap pulled out a pamphlet and tossed it to him. "These have showed up all over. They've had almost no effect so far. Most people classify it as propagandist trash, but there's no telling what the fringe will do."

  Armand looked over the pamphlet carefully. The image of an evening sun dressed in hues of orange and reds embossed the front cover. The small fancy font printing inside required most of an arm's length from his nose to focus on the letters. After reading all four pages, he set it down and leaned back in his chair. Tap waited patiently while he thought.

  "It seems to me," he finally said, "somebody out there does not appreciate the recent fracturing of their religious doctrine. This surprises
me since I've not noticed any doctrine being fractured. As best I'm aware, the One God cult is still very small. Only the fringes of society, the Clans, and a few pseudo intellectuals pay it much attention."

  He carefully refrained from mentioning his own leanings. Armand was no One God freak, but he'd seen a few things to make him privately reorganize his own faith in the Lord and His Lady not so very long before Faith said "I do." Those events occurred a very long time ago. He had delegated them into the back of his mental filing cabinet but could not entirely forget them.

  "The One God heresy has gained attention from a few more people than those," Tap said wryly. "Still and all, you are mostly correct. The cult of the One God has made little progress except among backwards peoples and some of the very rich. As far as we know, outside of the Clans, it only has one priestess, and she hasn't been heard of on this side of the water for years. No, I'm not concerned with the cult nor even with these pathetic pamphlets. The thing worrying me is the man behind these pamphlets. He might not write well, but he is a very good speaker. Our sources say his following grows larger with every appearance. He has even gained the ear of a few heads of state."

  "I haven't heard anything about this," Armand noted. "Nothing's been in the papers."

  "Because he doesn't operate inside Isabella. This movement is based overseas, mostly around Halimut and Nefra."

  "So how does this concern Isabella?"

  Tap's frown grew thin and unhappy. "Because Isabella's future is still very dependent on Aaron Turner. The Chins have no formally recognized universal religion, but many lean heavily toward the One God heresy. Because of their leanings, this man declared Aaron Turner and his empire to be anathema. He calls on all true believers in the Lady and Her Lord to fall on the Chin Empire and destroy it. I want you and Faith to join his cause, infiltrate his inner circle, and discover exactly what his true goals are."

  "No problem," Armand told her, keeping his expression noncommittal, but his insides quivered with anticipation. Faith would leap at this chance. The task would not be tedious, and it would most likely be dangerous.

  Forget Faith. By the One God, he wanted it! He needed a challenge, and more importantly, he needed to discover who wanted to tear down not only his God, but also his friend.

  Tap waited patiently, but there was no need for her to do so. She already knew his answer.

  "I've arranged working passage for the two of you on a ship," she said.

  Armand was not surprised. "Have you ever heard of a woman named Brenda Montpass?"

  Tap Angowski's frown grew deeper, cutting new lines into her already seamed face. Her eyes grew distant for a moment before focusing on him once more. Rising to her feet, she headed toward the door. Pausing when she reached it, she turned her head to face him.

  "Name's familiar. Can't tell you anything more. Mister Crowley, think about getting glasses for yourself and your wife."

  "They'll make me look harmless," he admitted.

  Tap shook her head. "I watched you read. You're blind as a bat."

  * * *

  Faith was two hours late getting home, not a cause of undue concern. Neither of them kept strictly to schedule. Still, he was impatient to tell her they had a mission if she could pull free of IFBIS for a time. He wanted this. He needed fieldwork to remind him why he hated his desk, and he knew Faith ached for it too.

  Sighing, he stretched out on the couch, a congratulatory bottle of wine set on the coffee table, two empty glasses waiting to be filled.

  Minutes later, Faith walked through the front door, her key dangling from her mouth and packages filling her arms. When she saw him lying on the couch, she spat out the key. It struck the hardwood floor with a faint chime.

  "Why are you lying around? You're supposed to be working on our cover and arranging your wardrobe."

  Grabbing the bottle of Runeburg Gold, Armand raised it a few inches. He canted it slightly so the last rays of the day's sunlight flickering through their mostly closed blinds speared through the delicate amber liquid.

  Faith's frown grew deeper. "We don't have time for your foolishness. Our ship leaves in a week. We've a lot to do if we're to be ready." She heel clicked across the floor to the dining table. Setting her packages down, she turned her gaze back on him. One eyebrow cocked slightly.

  Sighing, Armand set the bottle down, one of two they received at their wedding. Neither had been touched yet. They were reserved for a special occasion since Runeburg Gold was very rare and very expensive.

  He really wanted to open one of those bottles tonight.

  Walking past him, Faith entered their bedroom. Armand heard rustling as she changed out of her everyday work suit and into the looser and more comfortable cotton clothing she preferred.

  "By the way," she called.

  "Hmmm."

  "I went through the IFBIS files and found out a little about our mysterious friend. Miss Montpass is less than three months out of prison. You might recall her better as The Black Widow."

  Armand searched his memory but came up with very little. "Vaguely, but it explains why her name sounded familiar."

  "She was convicted of killing her husband for his insurance money. There was no direct evidence against her. It turned out he had no insurance, but all four of her co-wives testified their husband seemed tremendously frightened of her. They said she threatened his life on several occasions and was so far out of cohesion with the family she refused to care for any of the children. She even refused to live with them or use her husband's last name."

  Gears clicked in Armand's head. "Something doesn't sound right."

  "Apparently somebody else didn't think so either," Faith called out. "She got twenty to life but only spent a few years behind bars before her her second lawyer managed to obtain a governor's pardon. Surprisingly, her original lawyer is now married to the other widows."

  "So they killed the man, not her?"

  "I don't know who killed him." Faith's voice sounded muffled. "I suspect her original representation was flawed and there's reason to doubt the circumstantial testimony. None of that matters now that she is free, if not exactly clear. What matters is why she's looking for our Mister Turner."

  Waring not a stich, Faith appeared in the doorway, casually leaning one arm against the doorframe.

  "Open the wine, darling," she said in a voice so low it barely carried. "It's time you had a bit of Faith."

  * * *

  Something was unsettlingly pathetic about a woman who was incapable of eating alone at night without getting maudlin about her lover.

  Must be love, Amanda admitted for the ten thousandth time. She smiled while stirring green beans with her fork. She hated finals week at the university. Karen usually stayed late in her office to grade papers, making for a lonely house. Matters would probably improve once Chase got some size and years on him. He would provide her with conversation then, even if the conversation seldom contained words with more than two syllables. Truthfully, he should have already reached that point; only he seemed to be one of those children who saw no reason to speak when pointing got him what he wanted.

  Maybe the kid was just lazy. Chase was both the sleepingest and the most energetic child she had ever seen. He would run on full tilt for three hours and then keel over in a dead sleep. He slept now, and the only reason she did not wake him to counter her ennui was the kid turned into a whiney grouch if he woke up before he was ready. Her son was an obstinate, stubborn little snit, not surprising since his father was much the same. One overriding truth about Aaron Turner was his impossible stubbornness. She had never before heard of a man so unwilling to jump into a willing bed. Amanda had put more effort into that little endeavor than in many of her business deals. Eventually, she won, and Chase was the result.

  Grimacing, Amanda stopped moving the green beans about and dutifully shoved a forkful into her mouth. Overdone, as usual. Karen was the real cook. The woman seemed endlessly accomplished and just as endlessly bossy. Karen was also,
Amanda admitted, Chase's real mother. Amanda liked to play at motherhood only every now and again. By training and nature, she had never been the world's most compassionate woman.

  Her smile turned wry. Okay, another character flaw and so what? She loved Chase. She just didn't feel comfortable around him. Hopefully, that would change when he reached the age of reason in ten or fifteen years. She might be poor at kids, but she had proven herself to be one hell of a mentor.

  And there she went, thinking of work again.

  Maybe Karen was correct. Maybe she really did need a vacation. Chase and Karen would get along fine for a few months.

  Swallowing, Amanda shifted her attention from her food to look at the envelope resting on the edge of the table. It was heavy white paper, almost cardboard. A gold border ran around its edges. Inside rested four tickets, Karen's gift. She had paid for the tickets with her own money, buying four so Amanda could have an entire suite, a situation Amanda knew would drive her crazy. She was used to being constantly on the go, of making deals and plans and being surrounded by people. A month's forced idleness with few distractions was more than her disposition could take. Karen had even put her on one of the newer ships, a steamer. When the wind was low or in the wrong direction, Amanda wouldn't be left sitting idle on a still sea.

  Now that was progress.

  Well, she had tickets. Refusing to go on vacation would hurt Karen, something Amanda would not do. It looked like she had no choice but to take time off, but perhaps not the way Karen expected. It had been a while since she'd seen her favorite client.