Someone knocked. “Luggage! I’ll leave it by the door.”
“Thank you,” Taya called back. “Our clothes are here, Cris.”
“You go first,” he said, still bent over his letter. “I’ll change as soon as I finish.”
“Then, if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen.” Taya stepped out and grabbed her case. Staff directed her to the nearest washroom, where she sent several buttons skittering across the floor before she managed to squirm her way free of her dress.
Its tight bodice had left creases in her skin, and she felt bruised where its buttons had dug into her back all night. She dropped the dress on the floor and swiftly pulled on her winter flight uniform and boots, reveling in the comfort of fresh underwear, thick socks, and the soft wool padding of her leather suit.
The only thing that would have made it better would have been a long, hot bath and several hours snuggled in a soft bed with her husband beforehand.
Taya retrieved the lost buttons, folded the dress back into her case with a touch of guilt, and returned to the waiting room.
About twenty minutes later Cristof finished his letters and gave them to her to post while he changed his own clothes. She glanced at the addresses— Inspector Gifford, Lord Pomeroy, and A. Gryngoth, the last c/o a bookstore in Grimaucourt. She took them outside and dropped them into a mailbag. On her way back, she checked on their delegation’s progress.
“We’re all through the identification checkpoint,” said Auguste Macerain, who sat on one of his trunks holding a peach from one of the fruit baskets. “Now we’re going through luggage search. Professor Dautry is being given the third degree.”
“Her paperwork should be in order.”
“Oh, I’m sure it is.” He gestured vaguely. “They’ll let her through once they’re sure she’s impressed by Ondinium’s security procedures.”
“You’re a cynic, Mercate.”
“I’ve been doing this for forty years, Icarus.”
Taya remembered him laughing with the Mazzolettis at the farewell reception and studied him afresh. “How well do you know the Alzanan ambassadors?”
“The new one?”
“Are they new?”
“Since about three years ago.” Macerain took another bite of the peach and chewed a moment, then swallowed and shrugged. “Lady Fosca’s the ambassador; her brother’s a military officer sent to Mareaux to suck up to the queen. Fosca’s powerful in her Family, but she’s new to the diplomatic game. Mareaux’s a good place for her to learn the ropes.”
“Do you get along with them?”
“I represent First Standard. It’s my job to get along with everybody.”
“Have you done business with the Mazzolettis?”
“With the Family, yes. Transportation and construction; all licensed by the Council.” He gave her an amused look. “Which didn’t stop Lady Fosca from plying me with food and wine in the hope that I’d slip up and tell her something important. She thinks I’m an idiot because I’m old, and it serves First Standard’s interests for me to play along. So I eat her food and drink her wine and tell her a little truth mixed in with a lot of lies. If I’m lucky, I’ll retire before she figures out how useless I’ve been.”
Taya nodded, trying not to let her reservations show. It seemed like an unpleasant way to live, putting on a false persona just to secure more business. She preferred things to be exactly the way they looked. Secrets and lies upset her.
“Do you think they were questioning the rest of the delegation, too?” she asked.
“Undoubtedly. I’m sure they invited all of us,” he nodded toward the two other mercates, who stood over their luggage as it was inspected, “to dinner at least once, and they probably had the professors over, too. It’s all part of the game, isn’t it?”
“I guess so.” She hoped the rest of the delegation had been as wise to the Mazzolettis’ tricks as Macerain.
One of the lictors shouted the mercate’s name. Macerain grabbed his cane and stood.
“Well, if you’ll excuse me, Icarus, it’s time to let security paw through my underwear.”
She waved goodbye and headed back.
“Looks like it may be another hour or so,” she announced when she returned, “although I think our people were moved to the front of the line.”
Cristof grunted. He’d stretched out in her spot on the sofa, his long legs dangling off one end. She perched next to him and pulled off his glasses.
“So, who’s a fan of Lictor Gryngoth?” she asked, her voice low. Amcathra, Rikard, and the rest were half-dozing in chairs of their own. Taya didn’t begrudge them a nap. They’d kept watch throughout the long train ride, and there could be few places safer than the middle of Terminal station.
Cristof opened his grey eyes and gave her one of his crooked smiles.
“When we were boys playing Last War, he always wanted to be Gryngoth,” he replied, just as softly. “And of course he always got his way.”
“Who did you play?”
“Imperate Viridinion, usually. That way I got to boss him around.”
“But the imperate dies in the end.”
“Our games weren’t exactly historical re-enactments. They were more like two gangs of neighborhood children trying to wrestle each other into the gutter.”
“So the imperate survived? I don’t think that would have been good for Ondinium.”
He took her hand and kissed it. “I promise I would have seen the error of my ways and become a strong and benevolent leader instead of a weak-willed hedonist.”
“Exalted!” Somebody pounded on the door, startling them. Amcathra grabbed his rifle and sprung to his feet as the other lictors fumbled for their weapons.
“What is it?” he asked, opening it. The lictor outside froze as she stared into the barrel of Amcathra’s weapon.
“There’s been an incident,” she said, voice tense. “One of your delegation died in security.”
“Was it the wine?” Cristof demanded. The lictor’s eyes flickered toward him and then hastily away. Her cheeks colored.
“We don’t know what happened, Exalted,” she said, keeping her eyes fixed on Amcathra’s rifle. “It seems to have been his heart.”
“Macerain?” Taya gasped. “Not Auguste Macerain— an old man? From First Standard?”
“I’m sorry, yes.”
“Oh, no.” A lump rose in her throat. “I was just talking to him.”
Cristof took her hand and squeezed it. She swallowed and stood, letting his fingers slip from hers.
“I’ll— I’ll go find out what happened,” she said, trying to collect her thoughts. “You stay here.”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” Her husband rose, frowning. “This is Ondinium.”
“Technically, the station is owned by both Mareaux and Ondinium,” Amcathra pointed out.
“Good enough.”
“As you wish.” The lictor lowered his rifle. “Rikard, come. The rest of you, guard the exalted’s luggage and the armature. Do not leave the room without securing them.”
“Sir.” Their lictors saluted as Amcathra slung his rifle over his shoulder and gestured for the station lictor to proceed.
Mareaux soldiers and Ondinium lictors had cordoned off the area around their delegation. Patrice Corundel and Maximilian Trichas hovered next to Macerain’s corpse, looking anxious, while the rest of the staff huddled together, whispering. Professor Dautry stood noticeably alone, her knuckles white as she clutched her identification papers.
A man with a dedicate’s castemark knelt next to Macerain, jotting notes. Macerain’s face was twisted with pain, and his hands were bent like claws as they clutched his heart. Taya looked away.
“What happened?” Cristof asked, at the same time as Amcathra. The lictor glanced at him and nodded, taking a step back.
“I thi
nk—” the dedicate looked up and faltered as he saw the wave-shaped castemarks on Cristof’s cheeks. He leaped to his feet and bowed. “E-exalted— Forlore?”
“Of course,” Cristof growled. “Now, tell us what happened!”
“Er, yes, Exalted.” The man couldn’t bring himself to look at Cristof’s bare face. “I’m a physician, sir. I was called to security as soon as this man began showing signs of distress. When I arrived, he was having difficulty breathing and was holding his chest. His heartbeat was rapid and he was sweating. I tried to give him an emetic, but— his death was very sudden.”
“A heart attack?”
“It might have been,” the physician said, hesitantly, “but his companions seem to think he was poisoned.”
“He was eating from one of those fruit baskets right before he died,” Trichas said, urgently. “He never had a heart problem in his life, but then he ate a peach and died— it had to have been poison, Exalted!”
“But the rest of us have been nibbling from the baskets, too, and we aren’t ill,” Corundel objected.
“Maybe it was just the one.”
“Or maybe it was just his time to pass.”
“He seemed fine when I was talking to him about twenty minutes ago,” Taya said, her eyes drifting back against her will to Macerain’s twisted face. “He was joking and alert.”
“Cardiac arrest can come on unexpectedly, but if you like, we can take him and the fruit back to the hospital and run some tests, Exalted.”
“Yes, I think you’d better.” Cristof glanced at Amcathra, who nodded.
“Take the rest of the fruit baskets with you, too,” Taya said, shuddering. “All of them. Just in case.”
“I will make arrangements.” Amcathra gestured to Rikard and pulled the physician aside. Trichas shrugged out of his expensive coat and laid it over Macerain’s body, covering his face.
“We weren’t close friends, but I respected him,” the young mercate murmured to Taya. “Auguste was a good negotiator, and he never let the competition between our companies blind him to the bigger picture. It was always Ondinium’s interest first, and then First Standard’s.”
“Do you think anyone would want to kill him?” Taya asked. Trichas shook his head.
“Any one of us could have eaten that peach,” Corundel said, looking angry. “What a stupid, haphazard way to kill someone!”
Taya nodded, not willing to voice her fears.
Cristof was fond of peaches; he’d eaten a number of them in Mareaux. And the fruit had been a gift to him. Had this been a last-ditch attempt to kill Cristof before they reached the safety of Ondinium’s borders? Maybe the would-be murderer hadn’t expected him to share his farewell gifts with the rest of his delegation.
Or could it have just been an old man’s heart giving out at last?
She turned. Cristof was speaking solemnly to Professor Dautry. Taya walked over and laid a hand on his arm.
“—do with you,” he was saying. Dautry nodded, still looking alarmed.
“Will this delay us any longer?” the professor asked. “Are we going to be interrogated again?”
“I’m afraid there will be delays.” Cristof turned to Taya. “Would you ask the remaining mercates to stay in Terminal until Macerain’s body is released? We’ll leave one of our lictors, too.” He laid a hand over hers, squeezing it. “The rest of the diplomatic delegation will travel back alone.”
Taya nodded, wondering what was on his mind. She walked back and delivered the request to Lieutenant Amcathra and the mercates.
“But we need to get back to our offices!” Patrice Corundel protested. “We have contracts to deliver!”
“I’ll carry them for you.” Taya tapped her feather pin. “Just put all your correspondence in a bundle.”
“Some of it—” the mercate stopped and pursed her lips with frustration.
“Of course we will, Icarus,” Trichas said. “I’m sure the examination won’t take more than a day or two. First Standard will appreciate the gesture, Patrice.”
“First Standard has representatives here who can take Macerain’s body back to Ondinium!”
“The exalted has made a request,” Taya said, making her voice hard and flat. “Mind your caste, Mercate Corundel.”
Corundel stiffened and bowed, her expression grim.
“Very well, Icarus,” she grated. “I hope you’ll give us time to write cover letters?”
“We can spare half an hour,” Lieutenant Amcathra said. He pointed to the benches by the wall. “Sit and write.”
Corundel’s growl was audible as she snatched up her leather dispatch case and called to her clerk.
“I don’t know why she’s so upset,” Trichas apologized. “I think Auguste’s death has shaken her.”
“I understand,” Taya said. “And speaking of Mercate Macerain, would it be possible for you to go through his documents and give me the contracts he signed in Mareaux, as well?”
“My employers would probably fire me if they knew I let an opportunity like this slide through my fingers, but I think you should ask his clerk to do it.”
“Oh, of course. Thank you.”
About forty minutes later, Taya had each mercate’s mail in her courier’s case and was snapping herself back into her armature. Despite the tragedy, her heart lifted at the familiar tug on her shoulders. It felt good to be a proper icarus again, even though the weather was too poor to go aloft.
As they left Terminal Station, Cristof’s naked face caused a flurry of averted eyes, hasty bows, and scandalized whispers. He grit his teeth and stared at the sleety snow that whipped and gusted across the busy road.
“Here.” Taya tugged up his woolen coat collar and untied the ribbon that held back his long hair. “That will help.”
“I hate being stared at.”
“You could wear your mask.”
“I hate the mask more.”
The wide thoroughfare outside Terminal Station was crowded and noisy, its surface churned up into black, muddy slush from the falling snow. Porters hurried back and forth, packing luggage onto wagons and coaches and trying not to slip on the icy puddles. The city beyond the main road looked comfortably crowded, even though its skies weren’t criss-crossed by wireferry cables or darkened by smoke-belching factories. Taya drew in a deep breath and slowly let it out, relaxing muscles she hadn’t known she’d been holding tight.
They were home again.
She hadn’t realized how good it would feel to be back in Ondinium. She reached out and twined her fingers through Cristof’s.
“Our coaches are coming,” Lieutenant Amcathra reported. “You two will take the lead coach to the junction lift and the rest will follow. Strap your armature to the roof, Icarus.”
“Thank you.” Taya glanced up at the steep, dark cliff in the distance, where the junction lift was located. MB-1 Junction was the beginning of the short-haul, narrow-gauge railroad that led from Ondinium’s side of M-O Terminal through the mountains to Safira. Safira, officially known as O-Base-0, was the end of the track and the beginning of the well-guarded periphery encircling the capital.
“So, what did Alister’s message say?” Taya asked, once they were alone in the coach.
“I’ll need help deciphering it.” Cristof removed his gloves and pulled out his leather wallet. From beneath his identification papers he drew a small, flat bundle of paper punch cards. “These were pasted under the endpapers of Dangerous Women.”
“Oh, Lady.” Each individual punch looked neat, but the cards had been numbered in ink, and the numbers were off-centered and scrawling. “He is programming, isn’t he?”
“Maybe. Or maybe it’s easier for him to send a lot of data this way, instead of punching it out in the substitution code he’s been using.”
“Do you have any idea what they say?”
&
nbsp; “They’re a record of payments from an Alzanan bank to a fake corporation in Mareaux that he thinks is a front for one of the Big Three. He says we can use the information to track down the shell corporation’s backers. He thinks one of our three mercates was doing some back-room dealing with the Alzanans during our visit.”
“Macerain?”
“Maybe. At any rate, I’ll ask Mr. Deuse to run the cards when we get back.”
“Good idea. So that explains why you wanted Trichas and Corundel to stay behind.”
“I thought it would be wise, under the circumstances. If they’re innocent, no harm has been done, and if they’re not, it keeps us a little safer.”
Taya looked out the dirty, sleet-crusted window, trying to put all the pieces in their mystery together. She sighed with frustration as the coach slowed. Voices demanded identification, and then iron hinges creaked as security gates were opened.
They’d arrived.
The junction lift was a steeply inclined cable rail on which a pair of trams ran on short tracks back and forth, each counterbalancing the other. Billows of steam rose from the chugging engine that drew the cables. Taya eased her wings out of the coach and into the lift car. Lictors stacked their luggage behind the wings. The lift operators leaned out to gaze curiously at Cristof after the wind whipped his hair off his face and revealed his castemarks.
Amcathra slid in beside the two of them at the last minute.
“We will ascend first,” he announced. “The others will follow.”
A bell rang and the car started to slide up the angled tracks. Sleet hammered the large front windows, turning them opaque.
“Janos, I’m told one of the Big Three may be selling illegal goods to the Alzanans,” Cristof said. “I don’t know who yet, but I was given enough information to start an investigation once we get back to the capital.”
Amcathra’s cool gaze rested on Cristof’s face a moment and then shifted to the back window.
“That is why you left the mercates behind.”
Clockwork Lies: Iron Wind (Clockwork Heart trilogy) Page 12