Parrish interrupted: “What is the point of the spell?”
Bosh stared. “The point?”
“The woman and the test galago—they’re dying as a result of this scrip. What good is it?”
“The galago’s lived longer than it would have; it had parasites. They died first.”
“It extends life?”
“If you’re seriously ill, it can. The intention was never meant to be sustained for weeks on end.” Bosh said.
Gale said: “The spell is medical?”
“Yes. It’s for patients with mysterious illnesses … ailments that resist identification. When you scrip someone glassine, it allows doctors to look within, to determine what’s wrong. Aetherists and aura readers find this useful.”
“Spot the problem, destroy the spell, and treat the patient?”
“On my home nation, we see seventy patients a year. With the technique Fleet-certified now, we might help a lot more. But this … fuss…” He flapped a hand. “Who’ll risk it?”
Parrish said: “There are other diagnosis spells.”
“Most require radium, which is rare and dangerous to work with. This is safer and less expensive.”
“What does the inscription look like?” Gale asked.
“It’s etched on the inside of a flask of blown glass. The etching crystal is affixed to—”
“A flask, you say?” Gale interrupted before he could get into components, inks and ingredients. Scribes were tiresomely detail-oriented. “Empty or full?”
Bosh produced a corked bottle, filled with black sand and sealed with an amber plug. The mystical letters etched inside had a white-hot glow.
“This is for the galago. The bottle for the patents tester is bigger—”
Parrish plucked it out of his hand.
“Tell me,” Gale said, before Bosh could object to the appropriation. “Is it your sense that any of this is about you, or your homeland? Someone looking for revenge?”
“No. I’m just a convenient scapegoat.”
“You seem very sure,” Parrish said.
Bosh rubbed his eyes. “They had to pick something that would kill the tester, didn’t they?”
“Slowly lethal,” Gale agreed. “And it’s very dramatic, isn’t it? A woman made of glass.”
“I’ll never forgive myself for what she’s suffering,” Bosh said. “We meant to open a clinic here in the Wake. I promised my people I wouldn’t mishandle this.”
“Then take action, Kir.” Parrish looked almost surprised to find himself speaking. “The reporter from Foghorn would listen. Talk to someone about the people you’ve helped. Your silence merely makes it easier to blame you.”
Bosh looked startled. “I’ll consider it. Thank you.”
Gale gave him her best approximation of a motherly pat and they said their goodbyes.
As they walked away, she said to Parrish: “You thought he was making monstrosities, didn’t you? For fun?”
“I—”
They both sensed something wrong at the same time.
The three sailors from the dinner ferry were following them.
Gale could imagine what was meant to happen next. The trio would harass Parrish, presumably about the dead Convenor that reporter had mentioned. He’d crawl into his shell, forcing them to throw the first punch. All they wanted was to leave him lumped up and moaning on the deck and then scamper away when the Watch turned up.
“Is your pride going to be wounded if we skip the brawl?”
He brightened. “Should we run for it?”
Her respect for him went up another notch. “Never set off the chase instinct.”
“Meaning?”
Letting out a shriek that could’ve cut bone, she clutched at her chest. The three kids jumped, as if she’d appeared from thin air.
“Somebody—somebody—” she staggered to the rail, dry-heaved, and collapsed.
For a breath, nobody moved. Then Parrish caught on. “Oh no! Someone call a medic! Help!”
He was a terrible actor, but they had been drinking.
One of their would-be attackers took off at a run, calling for the ship’s medical officer. A second wavered, indecisive.
The septer, Birch, stepped forward. “I’m a medic,” she said. She bent to loosen Gale’s collar.
Gale heaved a couple times, hoping to slow her down by threatening to regurgitate warm stew all over her. “Arrrgh.”
No good.
“Faking…?” Birch said, under her breath. Then, louder: “She’s faking.”
Too late. She was crouching over Gale, making it an easy matter to snap a knee into her guts. Gale bunted her just hard enough to knock the wind out.
The remaining sailor charged, but Parrish tripped him, slinging him around as he plunged off-balance, then pinning him against the rail.
Gale pushed the gasping sailor off her, climbing to her feet. By now the third guy was returning, but he had a Watchman and a medic in tow. No chance of a fight now.
“Here she is,” Gale said cheerily, and the medic pounced on the winded septer.
Gale tucked her arm into Parrish’s and sauntered off.
“You’re a coward, Garland Parrish!” one of the men yelled. “Hiding behind an old lady—coward!”
If Parrish was bothered by the rebuke, of course, it didn’t show on his face.
“Well. I reckon that saved us twenty minutes, anyway.”
“Only ten, given that you fight dirty.”
“It’s how I got to be such an upright old lady.”
A page trotted up. “Kir Feliachild? You’re wanted on Constitution.”
“Come on, kid. Convene must be taking a break.”
“Shall we taxi back?”
She hesitated: flying at night bothered her a little. Then she climbed aboard. As they lofted upward, she said, “You think we’ll be scrapping with your former mates whenever we visit the Fleet?”
“It interferes with your operating quietly, doesn’t it?” he said. “I’m sorry for that.”
“You puzzle me, Parrish.”
“Mmm?”
“The effort you make to be unflappable. People fling offal in your face. I’ve seen it three or four times now. You vanish into silken courtesy.”
“I suppose I take pleasure in denying them a reaction.” He clucked. “It’s pride.”
“Those monks who raised you would disapprove?”
A nod. “Pride is a sign of immaturity.”
“Then I can stop worrying that you’re wise beyond your years?”
“Little fear of that.” And that was a note of regret.
“What’s say you let me do something about this mess?”
He shook his head.
“Refusing to accept help when it’s offered, that’s a sign of pride too.”
He didn’t answer.
* * *
Annela was six feet tall and built like a statue of Bounty—full breasted and round-hipped, with huge hands. The two women were cousins, though nobody would guess it to see them. Gale was unmistakably Verdanii, pale and knotted like a wind-blasted tree. Annela was a rare throwback to the copper-skinned, slate-haired islanders their foremothers had invaded and displaced on Verdan, centuries earlier.
She collapsed on a chair that looked barely big enough to hold her. “How far have you gotten?”
“Talked to the spellscribe, the girl, and a pro snoop from Foghorn.”
“A reporter—you? How’d that happen?”
“Irrelevant. She didn’t tell me anything useful.”
“Did the Patents girl let you in?”
“No, she showed us the door. Could she be in on it?”
Annela nodded. “I’ve been thinking she might. It’d be the easy way to get that flask from her safe.”
“If so,” Parrish said, “She could have given it to any of the Convenors pushing for increased regulation.”
“Too risky.” Annela examined him minutely. “No Convenor would get caught holding the thi
ng.”
Gale said: “Someone close to Rasa will have the flask. It is, literally, her life.”
“Who could she ask to hazard her that way?” Parrish looked sceptical. “It’s too much to ask.”
“It’s an expression of trust,” Gale countered. “Asking someone to let her suffer, perhaps die. It shows she has faith in their connection.”
He gave her a too-canny look. “I was raised by monks, remember? I know a sermon when I hear it.”
“Someone Rasa trusts to hurt her,” Annela rolled ice in her glass.
“Can’t be many people like that around.”
“Her parents aren’t in Fleet,” Annela said. “Her child’s father?”
They went into her sanctum. Parrish—seas, was he in a huff?—remained in the outer office, seeking out the galago cage. Asleep, the creature was a lonely-looking bundle of glass fluff, aglow with color. Parrish took out the flask, rolling it in his hands.
“Is that boy who I think he is?” Annela murmured.
“Sloot hired him. He’s to be the new captain of Nightjar.”
“Why’re you dragging him around with you?”
“He’s useful, Annela.”
“Have you told him about Erstwhile?”
“I’ve told him I’m courier to a strange and little-known place; he thinks I mean a minor islands in the outlands.”
Anella shook her head. “Then you’re not yet certain of him. Cut him loose.”
“Teeth, not you, too! He hasn’t killed anyone, Nella.”
“You remember Ramjo Fells?”
“No … wait. Bull-headed man, from Grimreef?”
“A good man, Gale. Stubborn, yes, but smart. He didn’t believe in using the Convene to wring wealth from the weak nations. And, incidentally, widely beloved.”
An ally of hers, then. “He killed himself, that reporter said. While Parrish was on guard duty.”
“Niner Parrish, as he was back then and Fells had an unscheduled meeting that evening, a long one. Afterward, Fells sent a messenger to Constitution. Parrish said it was meant to be a request for a Watch investigator. His story was that Fells had taken bribes and was going to confess.”
“What did the message actually say?”
“The sheet was blank. Fells locked himself in his cabin–to await arrest, or so Parrish seemed to believe. He destroyed his papers, killed his secretary and took a lethal dose of maddenflur.”
“Then he was into something rotten.”
“The Watch took your pretty boy into custody for six weeks,” Annela said. “During that time, two of Fells’ favourite officers drowned under mysterious circumstances.”
“If he was corrupt, you’re better off without him.”
“Ramjo was loved, Gale. The storm of hysteria that blew up over his death … I know you can’t be bothered to interest yourself in the news, but Parrish was vilified. They said he seduced Ramjo and drove him mad, that he killed him with his own hands, that he framed him in some scheme of his own making.”
“He was a criminal mastermind at seventeen?”
“Fell’s friends and allies have been tainted by association. All of us on the starboard side of the government have lost face. The Watch has been poking into our affairs in the most insidious way. Fire the boy, Gale.”
“Pish. I’m not getting rid of someone because he’s a political embarrassment to you.”
“He’s a target! You’re going to be killed sooner or later. With people chasing him, you could be the one struck.”
It occurred to Gale that this might be why Parrish had been so ready to run from the brawl. He preferred being seen a coward by his former friends to possibly triggering the events leading to her prophesied death. “I’m sure that my long-promised murder, when and if it happens—”
“Don’t bait the goddess, Gale.”
“—will be equally ignominious whether I’m the intended target or not.”
“Fire him for me, then.” Annela poured herself a second drink. “You were just lecturing him on the virtue of imposing on your friends, weren’t you? Of testing one’s bonds?”
She bit back an immediate refusal. She’d known Parrish a month; she and Annela went back a lifetime. “For you, I’ll consider it.”
In the outer office, they saw Parrish make his choice, wrapping the glass inscription flask in a scrap of fabric–to contain the shards–and crushing it against the desk.
There was a faint hum, and the flames in all the lanterns flickered to umber. The hair on Gale’s arms stirred; for a second, her teeth ached.
The galago shimmered and darkened. It was like seeing paint poured into a vase. It cheeped at Parrish as he opened the cage, clambering into his lap as the glass turned to flesh and fur. He dabbed at the blood where the cracks in its glass skin had formed.
“On Erstwhile, in a nation called South Africa, they call those things bushbabies,” Gale said absently.
“I guess it fits,” Annela said. “Ah—here’s the information on the girl’s lover.”
* * *
They spent the night poring over the girl’s history, checking lest there might be other suspects. The best prospect remained the father of Rasa’s child. A Convene clerk, he attended government debates, which meant he’d be able to keep track of how things were going.
“How do we prove he has the flask, if he does?” Annela said.
“Scare him,” Gale said.
Convenors were always getting lavish gifts: she had Bettona assemble a basket, innumerable glass flasks, and a silky pillow. She took the sack Parrish had used for the glass shards of the inscription and a paperweight and set to crushing the flasks into an impressive pile of mostly-clear glass shards, though she threw in bits of a red bottle, too. She put the pillow in the basket, piled the shards atop, and pulled the eyes off a hand-carved ceremonial doll. Then she soaked a bunch of the revolting dates in a mixture of water and leftover soup, pouring the resulting brown mixture through the pile, leaving it glistening, putrid, and soaking into the pillow.
“All right, Parrish, I want you to take this to the disposal pile for the trash barge,” she said, holding it out. “If anyone asks, it isn’t the galago.”
“It isn’t the galago.”
“Exactly. So you won’t be lying, will you?”
His lip twitched. “Understood.”
“Try not to get beat up on the way,” she hollered after him.
“I’ll give you this: he’s pretty,” Annela said. “The view as he goes is almost as good as—”
“Stop that,” Gale said.
“You think a pile of broken glass and a bit of stink will make someone panic?”
“They’ll think it’s the galago’s body. If you deny it emphatically enough—”
“Everyone will think I’m lying?”
“Including the clerk. He’ll figure Rasa is at death’s door.”
The reporter from Foghorn was the first to grab at the rumor, chasing Parrish to the garbage heap, then following him back to demand answers from Annela. The galago was dead, wasn’t it? Not at all, Annela replied, it was still in her office. Could she produce it? No, it was sick.
It worked well enough: the Convene was in hue and cry by the time the opening bell rang. Someone demanded Rasa be brought in for examination. Annela weighed anchor on that: was it safe to move her?
Whipping the Convene into a state of hysteria, with everyone overtired and the prospect that if they didn’t do something, soon, the girl might die, wasn’t that hard.
Gale took a seat up in the gallery, watching Rasa’s clerk. He fidgeted as he took notes. As the whole of the Convene edged into a frenzy, tensions rose:
“The girl might shatter at any minute?”
“How did the creature come to break?”
“The galago is alive,” Annela protested.
“Then produce it!”
“It’s not in my possession anymore…”
He stood it for an hour and a half before asking a fellow cler
k to take over. Gale followed him across the ship, deep belowdecks.
He had secreted the flask within the cabinets of the wine cellar, tucked in with all the other bottles. The glass of the inscription was dark: its letters glowed faintly, until he wrapped it.
Sommelier’s gonna catch hell over that little lapse in security, Gale thought.
The clerk led her back up to the deck, staring at the bottle, miserable.
“So Rasa asked you to let her die?”
He turned, startled. She saw a struggle play out on his face: he didn’t know her, she was nobody, maybe she just wanted blackmail money. Perhaps she should suggest it; it might be interesting to see who he’d contact, how much they’d pay. Smoke out a conspirator.
Then he whirled. Parrish had faded out of the shadows, trapping him between them.
The clerk held the bottle out over the rail. “I’ll drop it.”
“And doom the mother of your child to a slow, painful end?”
“I swore…” he said.
“You swore to help her interfere with official debate,” Parrish said. “But you serve the Convene, don’t you? Took an oath? This isn’t some minor infraction. The principle you’ve violated—”
“Principle?” he sputtered. “Day in, day out, our exalted leaders … it’s all my island this and our economic interests that. They don’t govern for the common good.”
“Admirable speech,” Gale said, “Except you and Rasa were paid to rig this game.”
He shook the bottle. “I’m a whore among whores, so what?”
“Rasa may have asked you to let her die,” Gale said gently. “You don’t have to do it. You can decide the price is too high. You can change your mind.”
“Her suffering serves no further purpose,” Parrish agreed. “She’s been exposed.”
The clerk’s face was wet with tears. “Nobody knows anything.”
He flung the flask overboard.
Parrish moved with the slick grace of a dolphin. He was over the rail, diving into the black waters, almost before the bottle had begun its fall. It will sink like a stone, Gale thought, it’s full of sand.
“Man overboard!” she roared. The clerk was staring in amazement at Parrish’s abandoned doublet. The galago sat atop it, right next to his boots.
The Glass Galago Page 2