by Alma Boykin
“If they must be sold, please let me know when and where, Mistress Leesarae, so I can bid on them.” Seelah would probably make him sleep in the shootee pens, but if Prince Kalaki was going to be so foolish as to sell irreplaceable pieces of the woodworker’s art, Tartai was more than willing to help him.
“You like them, my lord?”
He swirled his tail in an affirmative. “You rarely see painting of this style and quality, and the joinery is magnificent. See how tightly the leg fits into the corner? And I wager that this is all peg work, not tacked or nailed. Excellent talon work, Leesarae, and very hard to find. A master made this piece.” Tartai turned it back upright and set it down with the respect it deserved.
“My lord, ah,” she glanced around, then stepped a little closer and lowered her voice. “Look at the furnishings in the dining chamber and governor’s reception rooms. If you like them I can arrange for you to meet the craftsman. He might be someone you wish to speak with,” and she made a curious forefoot gesture, one very much like the Imperials’ forefoot sign for ‘person of interest.’
Interesting. Aloud he replied, “Thank you, Mistress Leesarae. These rooms are sufficient, and I will keep your recommendation in mind.”
She bowed. “If you will call up a general map on your data display,” and she pointed to the panel in the wall with her tail, “You will see a diagram appear with directions to the governor’s chambers.”
“Very good. You may go.”
Leesarae bowed again and departed. Tartai rinsed off a little of the day’s dirt and put on his formal robe. Kalaki struck him as one who hunted by sight, not scent, and the more noble Tartai looked, the more respect Kalaki would accord him. Refreshed and properly clad, Tartai memorized the map and set out.
He found Dak-lee a few turns later and fell in at the crown prince’s shoulder. They walked in silence, both of them studying the palace and its contents. Tartai noticed that the closer they got to Kalaki’s reception chamber, the plainer and more severe the furnishings became. “His Highness the royal governor seems to prefer classic designs,” Tartai observed.
Dak-lee swirled his tail. “That he does. And he seems to have removed all the wall hangings and ornaments that should be here. I feel as if I’m in a fortress on Sidara and not in the governor’s palace on Pokara.” He looked up at the empty rods and display frames still affixed to the walls.
“I see your point, Your Highness. Literally.”
Dak-lee led the way into the governor’s main reception room and stopped short, blinking. He barely caught himself before he blurted, “What have you done!” Because the room looked nothing like what he’d been expecting. Instead of the lush, painted, warm room shown in the briefing slides, he beheld a cold, bare chamber with stark white walls. No floor covers interrupted the gray stone tiles, and only a few simple benches remained where once multiple padded seats had provided comfortable waiting spots for petitioners and guests. The governor’s worktable stood in solitary dark splendor at the head of the room. Kalaki stood up from his bench behind the table. “Welcome, Your Highness.”
“Thank you, honored uncle,” Dak-lee replied. Behind him, Tartai bowed. They advanced a few steps into the room, and Dak-lee said, “This looks quite different than the images I’ve seen.”
“Thank you. My predecessors had an excessive preference for ostentation at the expense of quality, I fear. I was quite disappointed in what I found, as you probably read in some of my reports.” Kalaki sat back on his hind legs and made a sweeping, expansive gesture with his forefeet. “This better presents the governorship.”
Miserable, cold, uncomfortable, and cheap? But there’s nothing to hide behind, either. Dak-lee was not certain quite what to make of the proclamation.
Behind him, Tartai coughed. “Your Highness, pardon my boldness, but might I look at your desk? The craftsmanship appears quite sophisticated.”
“Certainly, Lord Tarkeela, and it is. It was one of the first new pieces I acquired after my arrival.” Kalaki backed up and Tartai advanced, giving the table a very careful inspection. He even twisted his head and shoulders around so he could look at the underside of the long, heavy work surface. It made Dak-lee’s neck hurt to watch.
“You have an excellent eye, Your Highness,” Tartai said when he emerged. “This is truly the work of master.”
“Thank you.” Kalaki puffed a little and Dak-lee wanted to roll his eyes at the display. What was Tartai thinking, greasing his uncle up like that? And what had become of the furnishings that were supposed to be in the reception hall? Instead of reflecting the generosity and care the King-Emperor had for his Pack, they reminded Dak-lee of the barracks of the Defenders, except the barracks had more warmth and life to them. Kalaki returned to all fours and asked, “Would you object to combining business with the evening meal?”
“No, not at all,” Dak-lee replied.
Kalaki gestured to the side door. “This way, please.” The younger males followed him down a short passage, through two doors, and into another sternly appointed room. The food smelled good, Dak-lee had to admit, even if the setting took him aback. Tartai as well, if Dak-lee read the other male’s body language correctly.
After the meal, Dak-lee and Tartai returned to their rooms. They’d already agreed to meet at dawn the next morning to begin their investigation. As they parted company, Tartai flashed Dak-lee the forefoot sign for caution and had pointed his tail back toward Kalaki’s domain. Dak-lee replied with a quick affirmative. He’d already started wondering about his uncle’s management of Pokara, and the changes to the palace did nothing to allay his suspicions. The governor, as the King-Emperor’s proxy, should be magnificent but still warm, the wise and just Pack leader, head of all Lineages. He should lead through skill and wisdom, not brutal power. Instead, the reception room and halls suggested that the governor, and the King-Emperor he represented, ruled with steel talons.
Speaking of talons, and Dak-lee closed his eyes as he removed his robe, wondering if his uncle ever thought about how others saw him. He’d explained the half-gauntlets as protecting his cracked talons. But that’s not what the crowd had seen, and after Tartai reported what he’d heard from the crowd, Dak-lee wondered why Kalaki had not spared a thought for the impression he was giving to the gathered Azdhagi. It’s almost as if he’s close to the prey’s track, but not on it. And the dimmer the tracks and scent become, the faster and faster he runs in the wrong direction. Dak-lee turned out the light and fell asleep, wondering how best to proceed.
The next morning he and Tartai went to the Peacekeepers office and read over the accounts of the museum blast. Dak-lee focused on the witnesses’ accounts and recorded data, while Tartai read through the technical reports. He’d worked with explosives and had experience in construction, as it turned out, because of having to sort wood for structural uses. Tartai made notes and asked the supervising engineering officer a number of questions about the structure of the museum building and the work that hand been going on there.
Dak-lee rubbed one steel-tipped talon under his muzzle and stared out the window, tapping the floor with his tail tip. Most of the witness inside the museum recalled smelling a bad, “fusty” smell. A few of those outside had reported the same thing, especially close to the building. Now, Dak-lee well knew that they could be repeating what one person had said, or running the scent of the fire after the explosion in the wrong place in their accounts. Azdhag memory tended to be scent-based, and people recalled scents far better than anything else. But the smell fit in with the work orders for testing and refitting the building’s heating system. And the gas pipes ran directly over the places that suffered the most blast damage, and under where the fires had been.
And no one had claimed responsibility for the explosion. Dak-lee had asked Kalaki, and the older reptile admitted that the lack of a claim colored his own opinion, but he’d refused to say what that opinion was. “I do not wish to prejudice the investigation,” he’d explained. Dak-lee still wasn’t
certain what to make of that declaration, although he’d seen abundant evidence of what the reptile-on-the-walkway thought about such protestations. Well, no individual or organization had claimed responsibility for any bombing, or wrecking disguised as repair work, and as far as Dak-lee knew any group that used terror bombs as a tool claimed them, either before or after the incident, usually within hours to days. Unless this is related to the Morinci? No, that’s too complicated. Start with the simplest, most logical possibility, the plainest prey, and only if that doesn’t work do you start chasing whiffs and shadows.
He joined Tartai in the Peacekeepers’ meeting room. “What did you find?” Dak-lee asked.
Tartai rumpled his tail and called up a projection of a diagram of the museum building. “I found out why the local code enforcement specialist has stress-related drop-scale disease.” Dak-lee failed to get the joke and Tartai sighed quietly. “Here. Your Highness, do you see how the red-colored gas supply line runs from the metering valves here,” and he pointed to the spot on the diagram, “through the building and across the doorway of the exhibition hall, before turning back along the other wall?”
Dak-lee peered at the diagram. “Um, yeah.”
“This joint right here is where the blast happened, right where they were testing some old repairs and over-pressure fittings. Old, as in early days of the colony,” Tartai sniffed. “Should have been replaced during your grandsire’s reign, if not before. I’d have replaced everything with electric heat, myself, but no one did. As it is, this area here, below the pipe and over-pressure relief valve, should have been reinforced and strengthened in case the overpressure valve activated.”
Dak-lee found where the symbol for the main door on the plans. “So when the gas leaked and exploded, the force went down and to the side, which caused the broken wall and damage to the exhibition hall. And the flames went up?”
“The gas went up, and stayed lit, because the blast had blown the wood and other combustibles away from the lower hole. The gas that went down flowed into the open plaza and diluted out, or so the reports say.” Tartai rumpled his tail. “I know a little about structures and construction, Your Highness, but this is all that I know. I’ll trust the experts for the rest of it.”
Dak-lee sat back. “That makes sense, and it fits what the witnesses remembered.” He tapped two talons on the thick, clear protective surface of the long meeting table. “So workers did something, letting the gas out. The gas collected just enough to make one boom when the vapors ignited, but without wood and other things to feed on, the flames stayed in the offices instead of burning the exhibit hall. The broken glass and falling rocks hurt people outside the building, the blast killed two inside the building and injured two more, and that’s it.”
“That’s my surmise, Imperial Highness. And it matches the draft of the final findings, which we both now have access to. The Peacekeepers will release it the day after tomorrow.” Tartai approved of the small delay, in this case.
Dak-lee grunted and made a non-committal forefoot gesture. The finding of “accident” relieved him, but also worried him. He had not wanted to find a bomb, because that meant Azdhagi killing other Azdhagi and summoned memories of the lectures he’d endured about the days of the Pack Wars. But on the weak-side forefoot, he still had to deal with his uncle, and now that his uncle’s actions appeared to have been the proper ones, more or less, Kalaki would be insufferable. And given the tension Kalaki reported, Dak-lee suspected that some people would not agree with the findings.
Dak-lee had a mental picture of Pokara as the giant display of treats that the palace cooks made for the yearly festival of blessing the juniors. The juniors nibbled and nipped bits off here and there until one nip too many brought the confection crashing down, spilling out meatballs and other delights in a glorious mess. Prince Kalaki appeared to be doing most of the nipping, or so Dak-lee was beginning to think. And it wasn’t going to be treats that flowed out.
Meanwhile, Tartai wondered how he could find out more about the so-called independence faction. He also wanted to read the full reports and transcriptions of the prince-governor’s meetings for himself, since the governor couldn’t be any more one-sided if someone ran him through a log saw nose to tail. Tartai entertained the mental image for a moment, imagining Kalaki’s two halves picking themselves up and running around, issuing conflicting orders. Well, that’s not going to sort out the Pokara problem, which I suppose we need to do now that his Imperial Majesty has dumped us here.
Tartai asked, “Now that we’ve answered one of his Imperial Majesty’s questions, Imperial Highness, what do you propose we do next?”
“Um?” Dak-lee returned from cloud stalking. “Oh, yes. Write up our reports, and then I want to get a better sense of just how serious this problem of internal governance is. I’m beginning to change some of my earlier impressions, but given, um,” he flashed the single-talon-circling forefoot sign for “listeners.” Dak-lee frowned, “Given the potential coincidence of local and imported ideas, and of external interests.”
He watched Tartai trying to make sense of the jumbled, half-spoken tracks. “An excellent thought, Your Highness, and one that most certainly should be kept in mind, no matter what other prey happens to trot across our trail.”
They logged out of the Peacekeepers computer system and after a brief discussion parted ways. Dak-lee wanted to write his report for the king-emperor and get it sent immediately. Tartai needed a beer and information—although he preferred the beer. Dak-lee snorted and hissed something under his breath about “commoners” before lumbering off back to the governor’s palace.
Tartai watched the crown prince go and resisted the urge to slice Dak-lee’s tail tip off. That approach, your high-and-stupidness, is precisely why our tails are caught in this log pile. He did not care to be around when reality decided to teach Dak-lee a lesson. Tartai strolled off, away from the palace. He wasn’t too worried about trouble, given his size and the earliness of the hour. Besides, he had yet to meet city dwellers who could have lasted more than two rounds when the loggers decided to settle “philosophical differences” at the Burnt Stump after knocking back a few. Tartai usually lasted at least nine rounds.
It took about an hour of walking before Tartai found what he wanted. He’d also gained an appreciation for the size and complexity of the city around the governor’s palace. The streets reminded him of some of the brush tangles in the northern woods, all twisted branches and winding vines that could conceal anything from hide nippers to a full-grown shardi. Like the brush tangles, this area had just grown without plan or purpose. Or had it? Hmm, this could have been defensive? There are no straight lines of fire or approach, he mused. The lack of pattern would make getting to the palace tricky, and explains why all the defenses seem to be on the opposite side of the palace from here. Not that it mattered at the moment. Tartai looked over the list of brews and the rules posted outside the door, and went in.
The establishment looked and smelled like the Burnt Stump. The same claw-scarred floors, interrupted here and there by patches and repairs, supported once-matching tables and benches. The serving bar filled the back half of the room, and sported similar warnings about the dire fate of those who tried to serve themselves or who offended the tap keeper. Tartai noticed a few people either getting an early start or just doing their part to keep the floor from floating away. He walked up to the bar and waited for the male on tap duty to finish reloading one of the dispensers.
“What’cha want?”
“Seasonal on tap. Light if you’ve got one.”
The mottled green male grunted and pulled a short glass for Tartai. He took it, looked at the brew, gave it a sniff, and drank. “Perfect. Full and large, please.”
“Four tsus,” and he began pulling a full, heavy-looking mug.
Tartai handed over the coins, plus two extra. “Thanks.”
As he slid the beer to Tartai, the barkeep asked, “You got chem bleach in your family? ‘Cuz we�
�ve got some regulars don’t care for bleachers.”
“Nope. Northern born. Story says my dam’s sire’s sire was solid grey. Dam’s pale tan, sire was grey brown.” Tartai wondered how long it would take for people to stop thinking that every pale reptile had been caught in the Great Disasters. Most of those didn’t live long enough to have offspring, and of those that did, three-fourths of their juniors died before their first growth phase. Not that most people would know that, especially here, he reminded himself.
“Good to know.” The male slid the empty tasting glass into the sanitizer. “You from the Throneworld?”
“Yes. Got sent here on business,” Tartai growled. “No offense. I’d rather be with my mate and junior, but the boss had a bright idea and,” he rumpled his tail. A couple of the regulars had drifted out of the corner and one made a sympathetic noise.
“What’s your work line?” the stranger inquired.
“Timber and wood sales from Schree’s Rest.” Tartai made up a story on the trot. “Boss wanted to see ‘bout importing some of the native woods from here, but didn’t trust the sales team. I rolled the low bone to come and see what the wood’s like. Paneling, furniture, that sort of thing, not heavy construction timbers.”
“You need to talk to Sheenaki, then,” the barkeep grunted. “Makes furniture, knows the different wholesalers and which ones lay down a good trail.”
A second stranger made an affirming gesture with his tail. “Yup, and if you’re from Schree’s Rest, he may see about getting your people contacts for the good stuff.”
Hmm, I wonder why he’d do that? Family there? Tartai made an interested noise. “Sheenaki the furniture maker,” he repeated. “Thanks. Can I stand you a chase?”
That seemed to be the proper reply, and the four took him up on the offer. He answered some general questions about goings on, and filled them in on the latest sports gossip and some things from the Free Towns. “Is Kirlin still alive? Old Kirlin’s son,” the barkeep asked.