Jumping to his feet, the constable saw his attacker disappearing into the darkness, running south. All of the other lizardmen were either running or were already gone. Saba reached into his reefer jacket to feel his shoulder and pulled out a hand with several streaks of blood upon it. His pulse was pounding in his ears. Professor Calliere stood with his mouth open. The ground was strewn with papers.
Saba reached down and picked up a fist full of the papers. They were white, 8 ½ x 11 inch papers, covered on one side with long strings of numbers. He kicked the damaged crate and it busted open completely, spilling out more of the number filled sheets.
“Papers? Just papers?”
Calliere looked unhappily at the ground.
“What the hell are these?”
“Just… just some calculations.”
“Are all these crates filled with these calculations?”
Calliere bit his lip.
“Professor, you’re going to need to come with me.”
Calliere’s eyes shifted but then he nodded.
The two men walked up the hill to the militia base and into the police station. Directing the other man to sit in one of the chairs in the office, Saba took off his jacket and then his shirt to examine his wounds. Though there were several punctures in his flesh, for the most part the damage was superficial. The lizardmen thankfully had cone-shaped grasping teeth, rather than the sharp, cutting teeth of velociraptors. Saba wrapped a linen bandage from his desk drawer around his shoulder then put his shirt back on.
“You’ll wait here, Professor?”
Saba didn’t wait for an answer, but headed out the door and across the yard to the office of Sergeant Amoz Croffut of the militia. Despite the late hour, the sergeant was at his desk and just as willing to aid the police as he usually was. Several soldiers were sent to gather the crates full of papers from the dock and others were sent as runners to summon the mayor and the governor. Saba returned to his office and asked Professor Calliere several questions, but he refused to answer or indeed to say anything at all. So they sat in silence, with the pile of crates that the soldiers had set against one wall. Mayor Korlann arrived within twenty minutes though Calliere showed no more willingness to talk with him there than he had shown before. It was almost two hours before Governor Dechantagne-Calliere arrived.
“What in Kafira’s name is going on?” she asked.
“That is precisely what I would like to know,” said Saba. He pulled out several of the papers from the stack on his desk. “The professor was having these loaded on the ship, but he won’t explain what they are or why he’s sending them.”
Mrs. Calliere looked at the paper covered with numbers.
“Who the hell cares? It’s a piece of paper.”
“It’s more than that, Governor Calliere.”
Everyone turned as one to see a man entering through the office door. Saba recognized him as the dark, mysterious man that had debarked the S.S. Majestic and been met by the professor more than two weeks before. He wore the same black rifle frock coat that he had worn on that day, though his lantern jaw now sported a growing beard flecked with grey.
“The wizard, I presume?” asked Governor Calliere.
“Yes. Smedley Bassington at your service. I’m here on behalf of the War Ministry.”
He reached into his pocket and withdrew a folded sheet of paper, which he handed to her. Mrs. Calliere looked over the paper, and then handed it to Mayor Korlann, who read it and in turn, handed it to Saba. It was an official looking document on the letterhead of the Royal Brechalon Ministry of War. It was a command for any officials coming into contact with Wizard Bassington to offer any and all aid he required.
“So what are these papers exactly?” asked Saba.
“Magic. They’re magic spells crafted with the aid of Professor Calliere’s machine, and they were on their way to Freedonia aboard the Acorn.”
“What?” The interrogative came from Zeah Korlann.
“Professor Calliere has been selling magic spells to the Freedonians. I gather he learned what information he needed to input, at least initially from the Mirsannan wizard Suvir Kesi. Then he began to take orders for more spells. The Freedonians would send the basic mathematical components and he would send back the spells in their final form.”
“But it’s just paper,” said Saba.
“There’s more firepower on those papers, at least in the hands of a few dozen skilled practitioners of magic, than you would find on a royal battleship.”
“So that’s why you’re here?” asked Saba.
“The War Ministry has known for some time that someone, either here or in Mallontah, was trading in secrets with the Freedonians, so I was sent to investigate. Quite honestly, Calliere had almost convinced me that he was too stupid to be a traitor. I suspected his assistant, Miss Lusk.”
Saba saw Mayor Korlann start and Professor Calliere sneer.
“A traitor?” said Mrs. Dechantagne-Calliere. She took one step forward and slapped her husband across the face—hard. “In my family?”
“What?” said the professor, turning back with a red handprint quite visible on his cheek. “No room among the drug addicts and adulteresses?”
For a moment, Saba thought the governor’s head was going to explode. Then she stomped across the office and out the door. Wizard Bassington watched her walk out and then caught Saba’s eye.
“The governor is apparently not ready to discuss Professor Calliere’s ultimate disposition, so I will need you to keep him in detention.”
The professor offered no resistance as Saba led him back to cell number six. When he returned to the front office, the constable found the wizard gone. Only Zeah Korlann remained. He had plopped himself into the same chair that had been vacated by the now imprisoned man, and sat looking weary.
“What do you think about that?” wondered Zeah.
“I don’t know what to think. Can we even trust this Bassington? Maybe he’s not who he says he is.”
“I don’t know. But I know that Mercy Calliere didn’t go to any pains to deny any of it.”
“No, he didn’t,” agreed Saba. “But he’s not going anywhere tonight. We have another problem too. There are lizzies in town using false identification.”
“I suspect they’ve been doing that for years,” replied the mayor. “I don’t think they really understand the concept.”
“Maybe, and maybe not,” said Saba. “Anyway, you should go home and get some sleep.”
The mayor nodded and got up.
“You should too. You look a bit on the pale side.”
“As soon as I put these under lock and key.” He pointed to the stack of crates that he now felt uneasy about touching.
Saba woke up the following morning to someone shaking him. For a moment he couldn’t remember where he was or how he had gotten there. He rolled his eyes around. He was on the cot in cell number one and Eamon was standing over him. He felt his fellow constable’s rough hand on his forehead.
“Kafira, what happened to you? You’re burning up and you look like hell on a biscuit.”
Saba relayed what had happened the previous night to Eamon, whose face grew more and more incredulous. He now vaguely remembered crawling into cell number one and lying down, after he had restacked the crates from the dock in the storage room. Eamon pulled back Saba’s shirt and looked beneath the bandage.
“Oh, bloody hell. You didn’t wash that bite out the way you should have. I’m going to have to get Sister Auni for you.”
“Don’t bother. There’s a healing draught in the bottom drawer of the desk.” Saba struggled to get up on one elbow, but the effort was just too much.
Eamon went out to the office and returned with a small brown bottle. He helped his friend remove his shirt and the poorly wrapped bandage, and then poured a small amount of the liquid from the bottle into each of the tooth-shaped puncture wounds. He then put the bottle to Saba’s lips.
“I think you had better drink the
rest.”
Saba swallowed the liquid, which was somehow at the same time both sweet and unpleasant.
“I need a Billingbow’s to wash that down.”
“Sorry mate, fresh out. Why don’t you sleep for a while longer? I’m going to check in with the mayor and make a quick tour round the docks. Then I’ll come back and wake you up.”
Saba was asleep before Eamon had left the room. And when Eamon again shook him awake, it seemed as if he had been asleep only a moment. His shoulder was a bit less painful.
“Feeling better?” asked Eamon.
“A bit.”
“Good. Then you should come out front.”
“What time is it?”
“Almost tea.”
Saba got out and made his way to the front office. Radley Staff and another man were seated there. They both looked tired and dirty. Staff had a clipboard on his lap and was busy filling out papers.
“You’re back, I see,” said Saba. “How long were you out?”
“Ten days,” replied Staff.
The other man stood up and offered his hand to Saba. Saba’s shoulder felt stiff but not really painful when he shook it.
“Ivo Kane.”
“PC Saba Colbshallow.”
“They had a fatality,” said Eamon.
“Oh?”
“Bloody nasty giant salamander,” explained Kane, whistling the first consonant of the last word. “It got Mouliets, one of our engineers.”
“Everyone else all right though?”
“We’ve got one more being seen to by Dr. Kelloran.”
“Another salamander?”
“No. It’s Miss Jindra, the sorceress. Just after we left she began to feel fatigued—seemed to fall asleep at the drop of a hat. Three days ago she just passed into a coma and wouldn’t wake up. Staff carried her all the way back.”
“Any signs of bites or rashes—something poisonous?”
“My wife examined her and couldn’t find anything. Of course we couldn’t check for ourselves, what with her being a woman and all.”
Staff stood up and handed the clipboard to Eamon.
“Here’s the report. Now, I’m going to go to the Dechantagne house and have a bath, some tea, and a very long nap—not necessarily in that order. Then I have to check back in on Miss Jindra.”
Saba thought about telling Staff that Professor Calliere was locked away in cell six, but it didn’t seem like the time. He nodded goodbye and let the former naval officer, followed by Ivo Kane, walk out the door.
“I think I still need to sleep,” Saba said.
“Yes,” agreed Eamon. “But you need something on your stomach too. You’re coming home with me. Dot will fix us tea. Then you can rest on our sofa, where I can keep an eye on you. Without me, you get into all sorts of trouble.”
Dot had a huge hug and kiss for her husband and seemed pleased to see his comrade, even though she had made no large preparation for the mid-afternoon meal. Her stomach was swelling with child just enough that she had ceased to wear a corset—a fact which changed her figure as much as pregnancy did. She seemed to have plenty of energy though and whipped up bread and honey, cheese and fruit, and a salad of winter vegetables. They ate and while Eamon explained to his wife, moving his lips without any sound whatsoever, about the adventures of the past seventeen hours, Saba drifted off to sleep on their couch.
Opening his eyes again, Saba looked up into Dot’s pretty face framed in copper hair. He took the cup of tea that she was holding out for him, and noticed that she was wearing a different dress than she had worn to tea.
“How long have I been asleep?”
Dot held up ten fingers and then six fingers.
“Sixteen minutes?”
“Hours,” she said, her nasal voice, the result of her deafness.
“So, it’s what… seven o’clock?”
“Eight.”
“Tomorrow at eight?”
“No, stupid. Today at eight.”
“I have to get up and get going then.” Saba rolled up into a sitting position. “And I have to use your W.C.”
“What?”
“Water closet.” He carefully enunciated.
“Oh.”
Dot didn’t bother to explain where the facilities were located. Saba knew. Like at his own home, it was just outside the back door. Unlike the W.C. in his home, it was decorated with pink… everything. The walls were painted pink. There was a shelf with pink figurines. The lid on the bowl of the modern flush toilet and the tank high up on the wall were both covered with frilly pink material—with pink bows. Finally there was a picture hanging on the wall in a pink frame. The picture was of a girl, holding a lolly-pop, wearing a pink dress, standing in front of a pink house, with pink shutters. The lolly-pop was blue. Saba found the experience a little unnerving. As he stepped out the door of the tiny pink room, he was practically knocked over as Dot pushed her way inside and immediately vomited into the toilet.
“Do you want me to hold your hair or anything?” he asked.
Dot didn’t answer and Saba realized after a moment that with her face pointed into the toilet bowl, there was no way for her to read his lips. Without knowing quite what the etiquette was concerning a vomiting wife of a friend, he hesitated, and then pulled the door closed as he stepped out. By the time he made sure that he had everything with him that he had arrived with, Dot was back to see him to the front door, glowing with the radiance of motherhood or at least the slight green tinge of nausea.
Heading toward the center part of town, Saba passed Zurfina’s tower. He almost missed Senta standing quietly near the gate. Her black rubber sheath dress did more to camouflage her than the bright green, blue, or yellow dresses that she usually preferred. He looked at her skinny figure wrapped in the stretchy, flat-black material.
“You don’t have a bustle on under that? That’s not very proper.”
“I don’t have to be proper. I’m a sorceress.”
“That again? Are you and I going to fight from now on?”
“I’m not fighting, you are. Boys are full of contention.”
“I’m a man.”
“Then escort me downtown,” she said.
Saba held out his elbow, which Senta took with her hand, and the two walked down the gravel street toward the Town Square. The snow was completely gone now. Even the dirty little patches of ice that had lingered in the shade for so long had disappeared. The rays of the sun were warming the morning air, but it was still quite chilly. The constable glanced sidelong down at the girl’s strange clothing.
“Yes. This dress is surprisingly warm,” she said.
Saba squinted, wondering if she had used magic to read his mind.
They reached the square. It was as busy as usual and the shops were all open. The smell of fresh baked bread from Mrs. Finkler’s filled the air, and a line of eight or ten lizzies were waiting to go inside. It would have seemed strange to Saba to see the reptilians outside a bakery, as they did not eat bread, had he not known that they were there to sell eggs, foraged from the surrounding countryside.
“I wonder if they get paid by weight of eggs or number of eggs.”
“Both,” said Senta. “They get one pfennig per egg for those smaller than a fist. Anything bigger than a fist, gets weighed.”
“Whose fist?”
“Mrs. Finkler’s. Or Aalwijn’s. I’ll bet they’re about the same size.”
“So where are you headed?” asked Saba.
“M&S Coal,” said Senta, pointing at the building just peaking over the top of Parnorsham’s Pfennig store. “I’m going to see Miss Jindra.”
“I’ll go with you then.”
The main office on the bottom floor of M&S Coal looked like a fully functioning business, despite the employees having only moved into the building a few weeks before. Five large desks were squeezed into the relatively small room on the ground floor. Three women and two men looked busy with paperwork. One of the women was Mrs. Fandice, Loana Hewison�
��s aunt, who looked up from her work and gave Saba a friendly wave. Another of the women was typing away on a mechanical typewriter, which filled the room with clacking. The third woman, the one seated closest to the front door looked up at them. She was quite pretty, with very dark eyes, full lips, and dark red hair cut very short.
“May I help you?”
“We’re here to see Miss Jindra,” said Saba.
“She’s on the second floor,” the receptionist said. “It’s getting crowded up there. Sister Auni and Dr. Kelloran are up there now, and so is Mr. Staff.”
Saba led the way up two flights of stairs, stopping about halfway up to look back and see how Senta was doing negotiating the stairs in her bizarre outfit. When he saw that she had hiked her dress up well past her knees, he quickly turned back around.
“You are more like Zurfina every day,” he said, shaking his head.
“I know.”
The top floor of the building was filled with several small rooms connected together by a hallway. All of the doors were closed except for one, from which Sister Auni, in her long black and white robes, was egressing.
“Saba. Senta. What a pleasant surprise.” Her face turned dark. “If you are here to see Miss Jindra, I’m afraid that… well, she’s not any better. Let me just say that.”
“I think I may be able to help her,” said Senta.
“You do? Well, you may as well give it a try. Nothing that Dr. Kelloran or I do seems to be helping at all.”
She led them both into the room beyond where a sunken, and dried caricature of the beautiful young Argrathian sorceress lay on a bed. Seated beside her, Dr. Kelloran was feeling her pulse. Mr. Staff was not in the room.
The Drache Girl Page 25