by Jordan Reece
Cable Holding was a business center at the very heart of the city. It had two wings connected by a second floor walkway suspended over a garden and fountain. Carriages swung by the curb to release well-dressed men and women, all of them carrying briefcases and making beelines to the doors at either wing. A trolley full of window washers with brushes and buckets lifted into the air on one side, and when it reached the second floor, they got to work with swift, even strokes.
The directory guided them to the right wing and up a flight of stairs to a closed door labeled AGREA. Flowers in vases were everywhere, their sweet scents warring with the pungent chemical odors. Entering the office, they stopped at the secretary where Scoth requested an audience with Torrus Kodolli. The flabbergasted woman went through a door behind her desk and soon returned, saying coldly, “You must make an appointment. He has an opening next week.”
“That will not do,” Scoth said, keeping his badge out. “He can meet with us now, or I can involve a judge.”
She went away again and was gone for fifteen minutes. Then she beckoned them through to a hallway. They walked past many offices with people hard at work inside. A courier burst from one office and almost ran into them, his satchel overflowing with ledgers and letters. Spinning aside at the last second, he raced away.
When they passed the office that was marked T. Kodolli, President, Scoth said, “Where are you taking us?”
“Mr. Kodolli will be meeting you in the conference room,” the secretary said frostily.
That was the last room in the long hallway. It was wood-paneled, and three-quarters of it taken up by a massive oak table. Maroon drapes had been drawn back and tied with heavy bows, but sheer curtains still obscured the view of the street. The sunlight filtered in red through them. Although there were no flowers, the air was heavy with the scent of perfume.
There was not one man in the room but four. The oldest had to be Torrus Kodolli himself. Seated at the table and a jeweled cane beside him, he stared at Scoth and Jesco with affront. Age had wizened him. His suit was slightly too big on his frail frame but elegantly cut. Gems glittered within rings on two of his fingers.
Beside him was a starched and pressed fellow with thick spectacles, and the last two men were much younger, extremely muscled, and standing in the corners of the room. Their faces were expressionless, but their eyes were trained upon Scoth and Jesco. Then a fifth man with a graying comb-over entered the room and pushed past them to join Kodolli on the far side of the table. “Will this take long?” the new arrival asked querulously. “I’ve got to drive out to Carrin.” Something about his tone made Jesco think that the man had only said it to show off how important he was.
“Now, now, Morgan,” the old man chided. The younger man was his son. “Apparently, these detectives here have something very serious to question us about.” His tone was polite but mocking.
“I am Torrus Kodolli’s solicitor, Aveth Eemes,” said the man with thick glasses. The two in the corners were bodyguards, Jesco presumed. Kodolli was a very rich man, and required protection. The name Eemes had been on the directory, explaining how the solicitor had arrived so quickly to sit in upon the interview.
Scoth dispensed with the pleasantries and pushed the photograph of Hasten Jibb across the table. “Do you recognize this man?”
Lifting a little from his chair to reach it, Torrus Kodolli gave it a casual glance. “No.”
“He was found murdered in Poisoners’ Lane roughly two weeks ago,” Scoth said. “Have you been in Somentra long?”
“My client does not have to answer that question-” the lawyer started.
Kodolli waved him off and smiled meanly. “I’m sorry to disappoint, Detective, but I’ve only just arrived in Somentra five days ago. I have spent the last month south in Fyllyn, as an entire office of employees and my home staff can attest, as well as various friends, shopkeepers, and acquaintances. But why would you think that I had information about this murder?”
“Have you ever met a man named Tallo Quay?” Scoth asked.
“I asked you a question,” Kodolli said with another mean smile.
“And I am the one investigating this case,” Scoth responded. “Have you ever met a man named Tallo Quay?”
“I can’t recall. Do you have a photograph?”
“I have a picture.” Scoth pushed that across the table and Kodolli took it. The bodyguards watched, their eyes all that moved. The solicitor was stiff in his seat; the son looked at the picture with a furrowed brow. It was hard to see Torrus and Morgan as father and son: Torrus had sharp features and gleaming eyes while Morgan’s face had all the definition of a bowl of pudding.
Torrus Kodolli turned the picture from side to side like he was taking it very seriously, and then he laid it down. “He doesn’t stand out.”
“You’re saying that you don’t know him,” Scoth said.
“I didn’t say that. I employ thousands of people. Is he one of them?”
“He spent two years trying to get in contact with you, and finally made your acquaintance at Luthen Playhouse. It was a showing of Scarred Crest.” It was a bluff since they had no proof of the two men meeting there.
However, it appeared to work. The older Kodolli took another glance at the picture as the solicitor repeated that he didn’t have to answer. Again, his advice was dismissed. “Do you know how many people want to speak to me, Detective . . . Scoth, is it?” Kodolli mispronounced it, and probably on purpose. “I run a large company, a very large company. Journalists always want a word. Societies chase after me for donations. Members of Parliament plead with me to fund their reelection campaigns and give them endorsements. Total strangers approach me for jobs and favors; those idiot protestors hike their union signs in the air and picket outside my mines and a few of my homes and offices. Maybe this man did approach me at the intermission, come to think of it.”
“What did he want of you?” Scoth asked.
“He said he had something of value to me. How many times have we heard that?” The old man looked at his son, who snorted with derision. His comb-over wafted in the breeze of the movement. “Just some gossip, it turned out.”
“Which was?”
“I never got the specifics. He was playing cagey, and I didn’t care enough to prize it from him. It was late. I’m an old man who wanted to enjoy my show, and go home to my bed and hot water bottle. I told him to go off and he did. I never saw him again.”
Tallo Quay had dedicated years of his life to chasing down this man; Jesco could not believe that being told to leave would have succeeded in dissuading him so easily. Scoth said, “Do you know Mrs. Kyrad Naphates?”
Kodolli’s lips puckered like he was sucking upon a lemon. “I have had the misfortune of meeting that jewel-swathed strumpet.”
“Your relationship isn’t a pleasant one.”
“Relationship? Hardly a relationship. We met at her wedding very long ago and have seen each other sporadically at social events since then.”
“Were you friendly with her late husband?”
“He was a business competitor, but we were pleasant. I would have absorbed his company into mine had he sold it, as he should have. He had no heirs, nor would he name some vice-president of the company his successor. He refused to consider that one day he might die.”
Kodolli laughed. It was as dry a sound as sandpaper, and like his smile, full of mockery. “That was why he took such a young wife, young enough to be his great-granddaughter, to make him feel young as well. And it was why he did not have his papers in order so it all went to her upon his inevitable demise. Weeks after the wedding and that filthy trollop from a penny-pinching family became the head of a multi-million dollar business when she could barely read and still spoke in miners’ brogue. I was embarrassed for old Cluven at the wedding, since he did not have the sense to be embarrassed for himself.” Kodolli shook his head, his lips still pursed. “I’m afraid, gentlemen, that I fail to see any connection between a dead man, a man who inte
rrupted my dessert at the intermission years ago, and myself. Would you care to enlighten me, or will you continue to waste my time?”
“Did Tallo Quay give you anything?” Scoth asked.
“Give me anything? I told you: he wished to give me information, and I did not wish to receive it. That happens from time to time, people thinking that I’m going to be fascinated to learn the peccadilloes of my competitors and that I’ll line their palms to hear everything. From what I recall, his information had something to do with Naphates. I didn’t want it. I didn’t need it. I try to do as little dealings with her as possible. These companies are our legacies from our parents, and we pass them down to our children or loyal staff favorites should there be none. Cluven’s blindness and denial led to his company going to a veritable stranger. Someone who did not understand how business is run, who feels no loyalty to our circle, who did nothing but lift her skirts to get where she is today!” The old man’s voice was rising in fury. “What was this man going to tell me about her? That she was covertly helping my miners to unionize? That she sleeps around when rich ground is discovered to make sure it’s sold to her, or plies a man or woman with escorts should her body not be to the seller’s liking? I know what that whore of a woman does and I want no part of it! She’s cost me hundreds of thousands of dollars since Cluven died with her shenanigans! Perhaps it’s in the millions now; I would not be surprised!”
“It’s all right, Father,” Morgan Kodolli said.
“Be quiet, boy!” his father roared like his son was five years old and not five plus fifty. Morgan fell into a meek silence. “If you have nothing else, detectives-”
The solicitor gasped. He was looking straight at Jesco, and cried out, “This isn’t a detective but a seer! That’s why he is wearing those gloves. You do not have permission to touch anything in this room, or in the entirety of this office! This is an invasion of privacy!”
“A seer!” Already irate when the topic was Naphates, Torrus Kodolli came utterly unglued to realize a seer was in the conference room. He snatched his hands off the table, taking the photograph of Hasten Jibb and the drawing of Tallo Quay with him. Thrusting them at the solicitor, he shouted, “Have these destroyed! You! You!” He had turned to his bodyguards. “Get them out of this office! If they resist, call more guards to help!” The pair of men stepped menacingly from their corners and started around the table.
“Put your hands on either of us and I will see all of you arrested!” Scoth bellowed. “We will see ourselves out, and return if we have more questions.”
The guards followed them out of the building, and all the way to the carriage. As Scoth and Jesco entered it, the two heavily muscled men retreated to stand at the doors of the wing. Jesco took his seat and said, “That went well.”
“They were afraid of you,” Scoth said. “Terrified. Involved in Jibb’s case or not, there are memories in that room that they don’t want you to pick up upon.”
“What did you think?”
Scoth directed the autohorse to take them to the nearest place that sold food and sat back as the carriage began to move. “If that old man killed Jibb for whatever reason, he can’t be the one to have put him in that alley. Torrus Kodolli couldn’t lift a sack of wet sand, let alone the body of a grown man.”
“The bodyguards could have done it.”
“But what we’re still missing is why. And if Kodolli was telling the truth about where he was, all the way in Fyllyn, and when, then he couldn’t have killed Jibb. Fyllyn is hundreds of miles to the southwest.”
They stopped at a busy restaurant, Jesco pulling out his own utensils to eat and Scoth wolfing down two entire meals. It was difficult to talk with the racket all around them, and it took so long for the check to arrive that Scoth estimated the cost and put the money on the table. Evening had fallen outside and they wanted to return to Cantercaster. But the main road was even more throttled with traffic than before, so Scoth sent the autohorse back to the quieter route through the trees.
“My gut says he didn’t do it,” Scoth said. “I’m sure he’s responsible for horrible things, I know he’s responsible for horrible things from looking at his company’s history, and that’s why he panicked to find out what you are. But this one . . . I don’t think Jibb’s murder is his. I’ll still contact the people at Fyllyn and see if I can get confirmation that he was there.”
“I don’t believe him,” Jesco said. “The part where he said that he told Quay to go away and Quay did.”
“No, I didn’t believe that either. Tallo Quay was too obsessed.”
“But Quay just falls off the map at that point. He didn’t go back to Merlie, or to his father’s house. Where did he go? He didn’t like to be an escort, so would he return to it? He had only what money he’d gotten from Merlie, and I doubt it was much. Did he pawn the timepiece then, since it wasn’t of any use to him? Was it stolen from him? The case was opened somewhere, a finger tapping on it, and above was a chandelier.”
“If it was in a pawnshop, you would have seen people taking it out of the case for a look-see,” Scoth said thoughtfully. “Stolen and you would have seen someone grabbing it, wearing it or giving it away. But you didn’t see anything of the sort. It went from Merlie’s room to the room with the chandelier, and then it was in someone’s pocket at the crime scene.”
This case was becoming a headache to Jesco. “Say Quay gave Torrus Kodolli the timepiece to prove the veracity of his information. Now Kodolli has it, but what does he do with it? Even if he were young and hale enough to drag that body into the alley, why in the world would he be wearing her timepiece? He loathes her. That was plain to see. If I happened to have a timepiece of a person I disliked that much, I wouldn’t be putting it on. I’d get rid of it. And did you see the jewels on his cane? His rings? That timepiece is too modest for his taste.”
“He could have given it to one of his bodyguards. Then it got dragged from the fellow’s pocket when dumping Jibb’s corpse. Yet if it’s true that he was in Fyllyn . . .” Scoth rubbed at his eyes. “We should go back to Ragano & Wemill, take a look at more of the jobs that Jibb worked.”
“To see if there’s a connection to Kodolli?”
“I don’t know what else to do at this point.” Scoth frowned and looked out the back window. The carriage had just gone around a curve of a hill, and all that showed were green leaves shaking in the wind beneath a purple sky.
“What is it?” Jesco asked.
“I thought I heard-”
“Yah! Yah!” Six hooded men on horseback charged around the curve. They pulled to the side of the road to go around the carriage. But when the first of them drew level with the autohorse, he slowed and moved in, making Horse go closer to the edge. There was a long drop off it. The others bunched up behind him and ran alongside the carriage, shouting wordlessly in male voices.
“They’re going to force us off the road!” Jesco exclaimed. Kodolli had been more than upset about their interview; he was trying to kill them to stop the investigation!
Scoth ripped open a side panel and jammed a button, crying, “Faster!” The autohorse picked up speed, outpacing the real horses, and the men kicked them to catch up. Reaching up to the ceiling of the carriage, Scoth dug his finger into a gap and pulled. The entire panel up there came down and he shoved it under their feet. Packed onto every inch of the ceiling was intricate machinery, which began to spin and click as Scoth flipped switches, tugged latches, and shouted instructions. “Glass, dim! Horse, combat!”
A man cried out as he lost sight of Jesco and Scoth within the carriage. Jesco turned to the horse. Its skin was separating along its seams, and scaled sheets of gray were coming out to wrap the body. They connected everywhere but in a circle in the mid-back. The long barrel of a shooter rose from the circle and pivoted upon a metal arm. Scoth yelled, “Fire!”
The projectile struck none of the riders, but the tremendous blast of it spooked the horses. They screamed and jerked away from the carriage, the
riders shouting as they jerked on the reins. One panicked horse bolted into the trees but found the grade there too steep to mount. It fell, throwing the rider off. As the horse staggered upright, it stepped upon the rider’s abdomen. He shrieked with pain.
The mounted riders caught back up with the carriage. Taking clubs from their belts, they beat at the windows. The glass did not shatter and the metal arm of the shooter pivoted to them. Scoth shouted, “Fire!” This time, a projectile struck home in a man’s upper arm. He cried out and fell back, another man riding up and bashing at the shooter with his club. Just as Scoth yelled to fire again, the blow of the club broke a piece of the metal arm propping up the shooter and allowing it to pivot. The blast went wild and the shooter slumped down to bounce along the autohorse’s scaled back.
The carriage was hurtling toward a curve. A blade appeared and a rider pulled alongside the autohorse to slash at the traces. Scoth grabbed Jesco roughly and forced him hard into his seat, shouting, “Brace the front seat!”
There was little for Jesco to hold onto, but Scoth had not been speaking to him. Wooden struts snapped out from the space between the top of the seat and the window. Clicking, they curled rapidly down Jesco’s shoulders as another strut went around his upper legs, pinning him.
The carriage fishtailed as it broke free of the autohorse and threw Scoth. Scrabbling for purchase, he crawled away and heaved himself into the seat. “Brace the back seat!”
Then they were airborne. The world tumbled outside the windows, the deepening purple of the sky becoming the trees shaking in the wind and with another half-revolution it was back to the sky. The carriage struck the rocky hillside with a crack, caught air from the impact and cracked down again. Spinning and cracking and spinning . . .
The wheelchair was being thrown all around the inside of the carriage, into the ceiling, into the walls, and into them upon the seats. There was nothing they could do to hold it steady. Jesco was holding the struts around his shoulders in a death-grip; Scoth was doing the same. The lower band had failed to activate over him. His legs were jouncing with each blow onto the rocks.