by John Dalmas
Reeno nodded. "A sourdrupe, without a doubt." He looked questioningly at Brokols.
"It's not mine; I'd never discard a pit on the floor. Stilfos wouldn't either, and he doesn't like sourdrupes anyway."
"Then someone's been here. Come with me."
Locking the door behind them, Brokols went with the Hrummean down the stairs and up the street to the thoroughfare, where they soon found rikkshas and rode to the Fortress. There Reeno took him to the central police offices. At his insistence, the duty sergeant sent a man to fetch the inspector of detectives, an adept.
While they waited, Brokols and Venreeno went up on the wall to watch the sunset. They didn't talk much. Surprisingly soon, the inspector came up.
"Ambassador Brokols," Reeno said, "this is Inspector Travvos Disotto. Inspector, Ambassador Brokols."
"I'm very glad to meet you," Brokols said as they shook hands.
"My pleasure." The inspector turned to Reeno. "What have you called me for?"
"Actually," Brokols put in, "the problem is mine," then went on to describe what they'd found and hadn't found. When Brokols was done, Disotto stood looking thoughtful. Actually he was examining the thoughts and mental pictures that Reeno displayed for him.
Brokols' apartment had been scanned off: kitchen, garden, hall, stairwell. Conceivably it could have been done by other than an adept, but hardly so thoroughly. There was also the information that Brokols knew nothing of the adept powers, and was not to learn of them.
Brokols interrupted. "Something just occurred to me. It must have been someone Stilfos knew; he'd never let a stranger in. An emergency could have come up downstairs, at the Bostelli's; he could have gone there. He's—been keeping company with their cook."
Disotto nodded, though not in agreement. "Take me there. I need to examine the site."
Before they left, the inspector belted on a shortsword, which didn't soothe Brokols' nerves. Some minutes later a police carriage let them out across the street from the apartment house. "I'm on the top floor," Brokols said.
They were crossing the narrow stone pavement when the inspector stopped, his attention on something there. On minor streets like this one there were no raised concrete sidewalks, but paving blocks set on end formed a low curb four feet from the buildings, setting off a narrow walkway for pedestrians. Disotto walked a few feet along it, intent, then stood frowning. Reeno relaxed his attention till he picked it up too. A carriage had been parked here. Two . . . two men, youths, had . . . his scalp crawled, and gooseflesh spread over his body.
"Lord Brokols," said Disotto, "have you had any visitors at your apartment lately?"
"Why, yes. Yes, I have."
"Who were they?"
"The mirj. And a friend of his he called Karrlis."
Disotto nodded, a decisive headjerk. "Mr. Venreeno, I have something to check on. I recommend you spend the night with Lord Brokols." He started across the narrow street to the carriage. "Constable, leave your saber with Mr. Venreeno. I want him armed tonight."
Venreeno had followed Disotto, a troubled Brokols a stride behind. The ambassador watched, sober-faced, as Venreeno accepted the constable's weapon. Then Disotto removed his shortsword from his belt and handed it sheathed to Brokols. "You'd best have one too," he said. "And I'll send some men to watch from outside." He climbed into the carriage then and it drove off.
As Brokols and Venreeno went up the stairs, Venreeno was re-examining the impression he'd gotten of two youths carrying/dragging what seemed to be a dead man. The impression was too vague to make identifications from, for him at any rate. No doubt one of them liked sourdrupes though, and very probably one was an adept.
Brokols was thinking that Disotto was certainly decisive, but he wondered about the man's competence. He'd behaved strangely in the street, almost seeming to sniff the air, then seemed to come to some conclusion out of nothing.
* * *
Later, while drinking satta with Venreeno on the roof, Brokols found himself listening for Stilfos to come in with a perfectly good reason for having been gone, and outside of the kettle and a little embarrassment, there'd been no harm done. But after a bit he could find no good reason to sit up longer, and went to bed disappointed, to worry for an hour or more before he found a restless sleep.
Twenty-Three
In the morning there still was no Stilfos, only a messenger from Inspector Disotto, with a request that Brokols meet with him at police headquarters. When they got there, the inspector was waiting, and after telling Venreeno to wait outside, questioned Brokols in his office over satta.
"You mentioned having been visited at your apartment by the mirj. When was that, and for what purpose?"
Frowning, Brokols thought back. "The first time was within a few days of my arrival here. Supposedly to inform me of the reception to be given in my honor at the palace. Actually, it seemed more a matter of trying to impress me with his importance; he grossly overstated his function in the affair.
"Then, several days ago he—um—came by to ask . . ." Brokols paused for several seconds, set his jaw for a moment, then went on. "Frankly, he believes the rumors that my emperor plans an invasion of Hrumma, and believes that I'm here to somehow assist in it. He offered me his services. He told me that after the conquest, he hoped to serve as the emperor's regent here."
Brokols was prepared for disbelief, but Travvos Disotto merely met his gaze and nodded slightly in acknowledgement; he'd learned a lot from Brokols' words and more from what lay beneath them in his mind. And deeper still, something more moved, something that hadn't quite shown itself.
"Have you had any other traffic with the mirj?"
This time Brokols hesitated long before answering, while Disotto watched what boiled up from underneath.
"Yes. Yes there is."
The words came slowly at first, the story of their meeting at the reception, of what clearly had to have been his drugging, of the night on the pleasure boat and his sickness the next day. When he started, he couldn't have said why he was telling it. In a way, telling it was the most difficult thing he'd ever done, partly because of the content, so utterly criminal in his own culture, and partly because—because he'd enjoyed it so! The telling may have been cathartic, a little, but when he was done, he was still tense, muscles twitching in his torso.
Disotto's eyes had never left him, nor shown the faintest censure, amusement, or embarrassment. "Thank you, Your Excellency," he said. "Your frankness has been most helpful. Unless you have something to ask, my business with you is over, at least for now." He paused, giving Brokols a chance to comment or question, then walked him to the door, and Brokols left.
When the door had closed, the inspector went at once into an adjacent room. His secretary looked up. "Corporal," Disotto said, "I want you to prepare an affidavit of arrest for me." He waited while the man laid out paper, took up his pen and dipped it. "The accused is Tirros Hanorissio. The charges . . ."
* * *
The accused being who he was, the inspector himself went to make the arrest, accompanied by two officers dressed inconspicuously in plain clothes. Had the amirr been at home, he'd have presented the certificate to him. As it was, he had the doorman call the steward.
"How may I help you, milord?" the steward asked.
"Come aside," Disotto said. "I wish to speak privately." He showed him the certificate. "I've come to arrest the mirj. Please take me to him."
The steward didn't entirely manage to conceal his satisfaction. "Of course. He did not breakfast with the family, so he may not be at home. Or he may simply have slept late. Would you care to be taken to his apartment?"
"If you please."
The steward led the inspector and his men down a sidehall, up a staircase, and along an upper hall. "This is his," he said, gesturing at a door.
"Is there another exit?"
"The next door down."
Disotto turned to one of his men. "Jianni, if you please."
The man nodded and went to it.
"Baarto, you wait here."
Then he struck the door sharply with its knocker. When no one answered, he tried turning the handle; somewhat to his surprise, the door opened. The apartment was empty, the bed either undisturbed or remade.
Next the steward questioned the housekeeper, who queried a maid: Tirros's bed had been used sometime during the night.
The inspector left with both his men. He couldn't stay himself, and arrest by a constable or sergeant would have offended protocol. He'd send a lieutenant to wait for the mirj's return.
Meanwhile he decided not to trouble the amirr with the situation until he was in a position to make the arrest.
* * *
Brokols had declined to have Reeno stay with him another night. Police watching the place from outside would do, would have to do. Meanwhile he needed to let Kryger know what had happened, and didn't wait till the hour set for reporting. After supper, which tonight he ate with the Bostelli's on the ground floor, he went to the wireless room and sent a signal the 300 miles to Haipoor l'Djezzer, then waited for a response. A response that might not come; no one might hear the signal at that hour.
In less than a minute though, he had one:
* * *
KRYGER HERE STOP END
* * *
Brokols' middle finger tapped an irregular staccato with the key: "Stilfos kidnapped last night. Stop. Fate unknown. Stop. Kidnappers unknown. Stop. Local police investigating suspects. Stop. End."
He picked up a pencil and waited. After a moment, a reply arrived.
* * *
LOCAL POLICE WILL NOT SOLVE ANYTHING STOP THEY ARE PROBABLY RESPONSIBLE FOR IT STOP IF YOU HAD HAD CONTROL OF YOUR MOUTH IT WOULD NOT HAVE HAPPENED STOP END COMMUNICATION.
* * *
Brokols stared dismayed at the neat letters which had formed beneath his pencil. If he had had control of his mouth! What did that mean? His hand went to the key again in protest, but didn't touch it. "End communication!" Kryger wanted to hear no more from him tonight and probably wouldn't acknowledge.
Dismay turned first to hurt, then to the resentment of someone wrongly accused and not allowed to ask why or to argue their case. Why was this being done to him?
He knew though, when he thought about it: Someone had leaked information to the Hrummeans, and from Kryger's point of view he'd be a far more likely candidate than Stilfos, who presumably had had little opportunity to say the wrong thing in front of the wrong people. Or even to know the wrong thing.
But it hadn't been himself. He'd let nothing slip, said nothing about an invasion or any imperial intent to rule. Or 200 ships . . .
He rolled the whole miserable situation over and over in his mind, and the only explanation that presented itself to him was that Stilfos had told Gerrla and that Gerrla had told . . . but somehow Brokols didn't believe it. For one thing, there was the matter of how Stilfos could have known the size of the fleet.
But it had not been himself! He'd let nothing slip, not even drugged on the pleasure boat. Whatever it had done, the drug hadn't curtailed his memory or loosened his tongue. Talking had been the least of his activities that night. But then, Stilfos had hardly . . .
Brokols became aware that he'd been standing in the wireless room for ten minutes or longer, his mind going in circles, stuck in a mystery loop. Leaving, he went to his sitting room and picked up the history again. Reading didn't help though. When his eyes reached the bottom of the page, he realized he knew nothing it said; just beneath the surface, his mind was still turning the question over and over.
So he'd gone back to the top and had just started rereading when someone knocked.
He went to the door assuming it was one of the guards, or possibly Reeno or Inspector Disotto. No one else was likely to have been allowed. "Who is it?" he asked.
"My name is Panni Vempravvo."
It took a moment before the name clicked with him. The sage! He'd never imagined a visit from the man, and doubted it was him. There was a peekhole in the door—he'd forgotten it—and he pushed aside the little cover to peer through. He'd never before seen the person who stood there, but somehow he drew the bolt back and opened the door. Panni waited to be asked in; it took a moment before Brokols got his mind in gear.
"Well. Come in, Mr. Vempravvo." He stepped aside, and when the sage had entered, closed the door behind him, bolting it. Apparently if an acknowledged sage wanted to go somewhere, no one, not even the police, were likely to refuse him. "Uh, I—shall we sit in the roof garden? Would you like wine? Or satta?"
Panni Vempravvo smiled at him. "The roof garden would be fine. And satta."
Brokols took him out into the thin moonlight and offered a chair, then hurried in to make satta from water in the new kettle, hot on the sideburner. When satta steamed in both their cups, Brokols sat down facing his guest.
"To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?" he asked.
Panni sipped, then grinned at him with teeth surprising in their even whiteness. "Hrum directed me here. Hrum-In-Me." His dark brown eyes looked black in the night. "Are you troubled?"
"If I am, I would hardly discuss it."
"Ah." The eyes did not probe, did not impose in any way. Brokols was scarcely aware of them now, but their attention was total. "There are policemen protecting you," Panni went on.
"Yes. My assistant has disappeared. The police are concerned that someone may try to harm me."
"I see. What does—" Panni paused for just a moment. "What does your superior make of all this?"
To Brokols, the question was like a cup of ice water thrown in his face. If he'd been standing, he might have staggered backward. To his surprise he heard himself saying, "He seems to think it was my fault."
"Ah. How did that make you feel?"
"Hurt. Wronged . . . threatened."
"I see. And was it your fault?"
"Of course not!" Careful now, Brokols told himself. It would be too easy to say something that would verify the claims Vessto Cadriio was making.
The calm eyes hadn't left him for a moment. "What could your superior do to you, if he decided to punish you?"
Brokols found himself talking almost without volition. "He—he could expel me from my position! He could lie about me to Almeon, disgrace me there, ruin my future!"
"All that! And what could you do if he did those things?"
"I could . . ." Brokols stared at the sage. "I could . . . I could stay here! I could become a Hrummean! It's all I'd have left to me if I was expelled."
"M-m-m. Would the people of Hrumma accept you, do you suppose?"
"I—I think so, yes."
"Could you be happy as a Hrummean?"
Brokols felt almost dizzy, and for whatever reason, his vision went foggy. "I—I don't know."
"Well." The sage put his hands on the arms of his chair and got up. Smiling. "I, for one, would welcome you. Should you ever make such a decision. As nations go, as humankind goes, we are quite happy in Hrumma.
"But I am here without invitation, and you have things to do. I believe you were reading when I knocked." He went to Brokols' front door, his host trailing behind. "If I can be of assistance in anything . . ."
Brokols shook his head, confused.
"Meanwhile may Hrum be with you."
Then the tall sage opened the door and left, closing it carefully behind him. Brokols stared at it for a moment, then bolted it and walked slowly to his study. And his book; it lay there where he'd left it. He hadn't taken it to the door with him. Gooseflesh crawled.
When the gooseflesh was gone, he sat down and opened the book again. Unthinkable, he told himself. I'm a Brokols. An Almaeic noble. I represent the emperor himself. And it occurred to him that there could be no lasting refuge for him here. The emperor would own Hrumma soon enough.
His eyes went again to the chapter heading, and he began to read. But it didn't go well, even with the mystery loop banished from his attention. Suddenly he was desperately sleepy; he got undressed and went
to bed. His night would be full of dreams.
* * *
On his mountain, Panni Vempravvo sat himself down on folded legs in the thin light of Little Firtollio. Insects chirped and chrilled. The still air was rich with the fragrances of grass, meadow flowers, rich moist loam. Silently and very lightly, not insistently at all, he contacted Hrum-In-Him, then slowed his breathing to a regular, measured cadence. His eyes were open but he ceased to see with them. Briefly his attention was on his breathing; then it ceased for a bit to be on anything. His body sat within the reality matrix, but he himself slipped into the boundary layer, to the outside that is at the center, from where, like everyone, he had open channels to the universal data base.