by K. J. Parker
At Kunessin’s insistence, Straton held a formal trial, or the closest approximation possible in the circumstances. Kunessin was the chief prosecution witness. He gave evidence that the ringleaders of the conspiracy to steal Straton’s ship had approached him for support, which he’d naturally refused; then, at the earliest opportunity, he’d told Straton all about it. He also accused Aechmaloten and his men of stealing all the gold that had so far been dug out of the river; a considerable sum, he pointed out, which properly speaking belonged to himself and the other four proprietors, though he was realistic enough to realise that it would inevitably be claimed by the government, a claim which he did not intend to contest. The gold, he went on, had been kept in a large clay storage jar - maybe the commissioner recalled seeing it in the main house, before the fire. It had since disappeared, along with the crane built by Major Proiapsen to lift the rafters for the barn roof. Presumably the plan had been to load it on board the ship, once Aechmaloten and his gang had murdered the soldiers, himself and his fellow proprietors with the weapons stolen from the stores by the three men captured by the guards. Compared with the murder plot, Kunessin said, the theft of the gold was relatively unimportant, though if it was now government property, it was clearly Straton’s duty to take all possible steps to find where the conspirators had hidden it - he asked, no, he insisted that the island be thoroughly searched until the hiding place was found, and of course the proprietors would help with the investigation in any way they could.
There was one last thing, Kunessin said. Ever since the fire, he’d been asking himself how it could have started. There had been a disastrous fire a few months earlier; it had nearly led to all of them dying of starvation, and after that they’d taken great pains to make sure nothing of the sort ever happened again. He briefly listed the fire precautions they’d been taking, and concluded that it was highly unlikely that a fire could have started accidentally. Of course, he had no proof to back up such a serious charge; but he felt it was his duty to ask the commissioner to consider whether the conspirators might have set the fire deliberately, intending either to kill the commissioner, his soldiers and the proprietors, or as a way of getting the gold away from the house, or both. Kunessin repeated that he had no direct proof to offer; but since two soldiers and his own dear wife had died in the blaze . . .
At this point, he broke down and was unable to testify further. Commissioner Straton excused the witness, asking that the record should show that General Kunessin had personally rescued him from the said fire. He then called on Aechmaloten to testify on behalf of the accused. Aechmaloten’s evidence, which was barely coherent, consisted mostly of wild accusations against General Kunessin and his men; he didn’t deny the conspiracy, but claimed that it had been Kunessin’s idea, and that if the gold had been stolen, Kunessin and his men must have stolen it.
Commissioner Straton was clearly unimpressed. In his summing-up, he pointed out the glaring inconsistencies and downright impossibilities in Aechmaloten’s claims; in particular, he poured scorn on the notion that five men could have spirited away a ton and a quarter of gold, unassisted and unnoticed, in the course of a single night, after an exhausting day’s work roofing and thatching the barn. It simply wasn’t possible, he said; and if that was the best the prisoners could do, he had no hesitation in finding them guilty as charged. He also believed that they were guilty of arson and the murder of two soldiers and Kunessin’s wife, but was forced to rule that there was insufficient evidence to support a conviction. His inclination, he went on, had been to order their summary execution; however, General Kunessin had most generously and eloquently interceded on their behalf, and therefore (against his better judgement) he was prepared to commute their sentence to life imprisonment in a penal colony. Given the difficulty of holding the prisoners on Sphoe, he and his men would evacuate them to the mainland at once, where they would be handed over to the garrison commander at Haematoenta; given the urgency of the situation, he proposed sailing first thing in the morning. As for the search for the stolen gold, that could wait until his return. By revealing the existence of the gold, which he needn’t have done, General Kunessin had displayed great integrity, and could therefore be trusted. Furthermore, Straton pointed out with a smile, there was no way the gold could be taken off Sphoe in his absence, since Kunessin had no ship.
Kunessin watched the ship fade into the horizon, then turned to the others. Muri and Alces were grinning; Aidi looked thoughtful. Kudei had one of his unreadable faces.
“Well,” Kunessin said, “that’s that. It’s just us now.”
Chapter Fifteen
Out loud they said they weren’t expecting a hero’s welcome, and didn’t want one. Faralia’s not like that, they said: either nobody would have noticed that they’d been gone, or else they’d be shunned for swanning off to foreign parts and leaving honest men to do their work at home. If anybody was pleased to see them, it’d only be because they had money to spend. Not that they gave a damn, they said, one way or the other.
It was raining hard when the ship docked. The quay was deserted apart from two very sad customs men, strangers, who tried to charge them duty on various small, valuable items tucked away at the bottom of their kitbags. Kudei treated it as a joke, but Aidi couldn’t see the funny side.
“Do you know who we are?” he said.
One of the customs men looked up at him from under the curtain of water dripping from his hood. “Should we?”
“Yes.”
Shrug. “Well, we don’t.”
“Leave it, Aidi,” said Fly. “Give them their money, and let’s get out of this bloody rain.”
Wasting his time; he recognised Aidi’s matter-of-principle look. Never a good sign. “I’m not paying excise on legitimate spoils of war. They’re specifically exempt, under article sixteen of the revenue charter, paragraph eight, subsection—”
“Army boys, are you?” one of the customs men said.
“That’s right,” Fly said politely. “Just got our demob, and we’re anxious to get home. You know how it is.”
Apparently, the customs man didn’t. He was already soaked to the skin, for which he blamed them, and it was fairly obvious he didn’t like soldiers. “In that case,” he said, “I’m going to have to do a full body search. If you’d care to follow me to the customs house.”
“Hold on,” Aidi said, and the low rumble in his voice made Kudei stop grinning. “What’s all that about?”
“Got to search all returning service personnel for weapons,” the customs man said. “Things have changed since you’ve been away. Civilians aren’t allowed to carry weapons any more.” He grinned. “You boys haven’t got anything like that on you, I don’t suppose.”
Before Aidi could say anything, Fly stepped in front of him. “As a matter of fact,” he said, and with a flick of his wrist he shook off the length of old blanket wrapped round the bundle he’d been carrying and, in a continuation of the same movement, gently rested the flat of the blade on the customs officer’s shoulder. “You said civilians,” he went on pleasantly. “Right?”
The customs man had gone completely rigid, like a corpse. His colleague nodded quickly.
“That’s all right, then,” Kudei said, stretching past Aidi to lift the blade off the man’s shoulder. “Doesn’t apply to us. Reservists,” he explained. “Still on the active list for the next twelve months. Which, I fancy, exempts us from excise duty as well,” he added. “Is that right?”
The customs man knew perfectly well that it wasn’t. “That’s right,” he said. “You boys get along now. Sorry you were bothered.”
They’d walked halfway into town by the time Kudei spoke. “They hadn’t got a clue who we are,” he said.
“What did you expect,” Fly grunted back, “a brass band?”
“They’re new in town,” Muri said doubtfully. “Drafted in from somewhere, I guess. Can’t be expected to know us from a hole in the ground.”
“Let’s go to my place,�
� Aidi said angrily. “It’s nearest.”
They went to the Proiapsen house by way of the bank, where they presented their cash warrants to the boy clerk sitting in the front office. He took one look at them, slid awkwardly off his stool, mumbled something about getting somebody, and fled up the stairs, stumbling twice and nearly doing himself an injury.
“Hero’s welcome,” Fly muttered.
They could hear doors banging, and heavy footsteps in a hurry; then a short, fat man came bounding down the stairs, barefoot, with a napkin round his neck and soap covering one cheek. There was a slight cut on the other.
The fat man introduced himself as Acherunte Brotoenta, the branch’s partner in residence. He was so very sorry to have kept them waiting, and would they please take a seat, and would they care for some mulled wine and biscuits?
Aidi scowled at him. “Is there a problem?” he said.
Brotoenta caught sight of the warrants, lying on the desk where the boy had left them. “May I?”
“Sure,” Aidi said. “But look sharp about it, could you? We’re in a hurry.”
Brotoenta glanced at the warrants and his face went wooden. “I’m terribly sorry,” he said. “I can’t cash these.”
“Now just a moment—” Aidi started to say, but Brotoenta spoke quietly over him. “I do apologise,” he said, “but we simply don’t hold this much cash on the premises. Now, I can open accounts for you and credit these to them, or I can write you letters of credit, which you can present at one of our larger branches, Boirea, say, or Csiphon City. They’d probably be able to raise the money if you let them have a week or so. Otherwise . . .” He lifted his shoulders in a heartbreaking shrug. “I really do apologise most sincerely.”
Aidi looked at him. “I don’t know you,” he said. “What happened to Diosuios Hemin? He used to be the resident here.”
Brotoenta looked mildly startled. “He died,” he replied. “Six years ago. You’re from around here, then?”
In the end, they opened accounts. Brotoenta liked them a whole lot better after that. They had, he explained happily, doubled the funds controlled by his branch, which meant he now had the liquidity to lend to the many exciting new enterprises starting up in Faralia now that the war was over. It would be, he said, the dawn of a glorious new day for Faralia, and they could quite justifiably consider themselves public benefactors. They had every right to feel very proud.
“Which means,” Fly said, as they splashed through the puddles in Broad Street, “we can’t have our money, but every halfwit who wants some can come along with a wheelbarrow and help himself. Not quite sure I follow that.”
“Nice to know we’ve done something right,” Aidi replied grimly. “Apparently killing the enemy gets you arrested at the dockside, but thieving from the dead makes you a public benefactor. I think it’s called peace.”
Muri grinned. “Hero’s welcome,” he said.
No building looks at its best in the rain, but the Proiapsen house looked different, somehow. The shutters were up, their paint cracked and peeling; the gilding had worn off the raised points of the carved frieze over the lintel, and the brasswork on the door was plum brown. “Odd,” Aidi said, as they waited for someone to answer the bell. “Dad’s always so fussy about things being neat and shiny. Used to drive me mad when I was a kid. Of course, it was always my job to—”
He broke off. He’d noticed a discoloured patch on the door frame, where the brass plate proudly announcing that this was the Proiapsen house had been removed. It occurred to him that it had been a long time since he’d had news from home; reasonably enough, since they hadn’t been in the sort of places where letters could easily reach. Also, none of his family had ever liked him very much.
“Doesn’t seem like there’s anyone home,” Muri said.
“The hell with this,” Aidi said. “Let’s go round the back.”
To do so, they had to thread their way through a complex system of alleys, entries and snickets, which eventually ended, to Aidi’s complete surprise, in a brick wall.
“This shouldn’t be here,” he said.
Fly looked at him. “Looks like they’ve been redecorating while you’ve been away,” he said. “Muri, give me a leg up.”
He cleared the wall easily and perched on the top. “Aidi,” he said, “this is somebody’s garden.”
“It can’t be,” Aidi replied. “There’s our store on the corner, and a passage that leads into our yard.”
Fly looked down at him. “See for yourself,” he said.
So Aidi scrambled up and sat straddling the wall, like a boy about to steal apples. He saw a pleasant formal garden, with a raised lawn edged with lavender and box, framed by herb and flower beds, with ornamental fountains at each corner. A row of cherry trees screened the side where the back of the Proiapsen house should have been. Aidi didn’t know much about gardening, but he guessed the trees were about six years old.
“You sure it’s the right house?”
“Piss off, Muri,” Aidi snapped, and dropped down off the wall. “Come on,” he said, and marched across the flower bed. The others followed at a slight distance.
Behind the cherry trees was a trellised fence. No gate, but Aidi solved that problem by kicking a hole in the fence and ducking through. He found himself opposite the familiar back door. No porch, and the door was boarded shut.
“Let’s go to my place,” Muri said awkwardly. “Assuming it’s still there, of course. I mean, it’s not much, but at least it’s in the dry.”
Aidi launched a ferocious kick at the door, but it was rather more solid than the fence, and he hurt his foot. “Fine,” he snapped. “Let’s all go round to Muri’s.”
The forge was at the bottom of Well Street: a heavy gate opening on to the street, wedged between two long, blank walls. The stink of coal smoke reassured them that someone was at home, at any rate.
“Morning, gentlemen,” someone called out to them as they entered the yard. “What can I do for you?”
A short, solid, bald man in a leather apron was standing in the doorway of one of the many sheds. Muri pushed past the others. “Who the hell are you?” he said.
The smith raised his eyebrows but didn’t move. “I’m Ouden Menei,” he said. “This is my place.”
Muri opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Fly edged in front of him and said, “We’re looking for the Achaiois family,” he said. “I take it—”
“Ah.” The smith nodded. “Got you.” He turned to Muri and said, “You’ll be Muri Achaiois, then. Just back from the war, are you?”
Muri nodded. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It was a surprise, that’s all.”
“Of course.” The smith’s voice was dense with sympathy. “I get the impression you haven’t heard.” He hesitated, then added, “You’d better come inside. No point standing round getting drenched.”
The forge had changed. It was tidy. There were racks for all the tools on the walls, with outlines drawn in charcoal to show where everything should go. The iron and steel billets were piled up neatly against the far wall, sorted by width and profile. Within living memory, someone had swept the floor. Aidi and Muri sat on the workbench, while Fly perched on the edge of the anvil. Muri stayed stranded in the middle of the floor, as though unable to move; as though constrained by the memory of his father’s clutter, which would have prevented him going further.
“I’m sorry to have to tell you,” the smith said, “your parents are both dead.”
Muri frowned. “Oh,” he said.
The smith looked away. “Your father died about five years ago,” he said. “Your mother sold me the business, but she died about six months later. I don’t know where your brother is now. Last I heard, he’d gone to Csiphon, but that was some time ago. I’m sorry,” he added. “This must come as a nasty shock to you. I assumed . . .”
“It’s all right,” Muri said quietly. “Thank you,” he added. “Sorry we burst in on you like that. Come on, Aidi, we’d better be going.”
The smith looked as though he was about to say something, but changed his mind. Muri started towards the door, but Aidi cleared his throat and asked, “You wouldn’t happen to know what’s become of the Proiapsens?”
The smith turned his head and looked at him. “Are you Aidi Proiapsen?”
“Friend of his,” Aidi said. “I’ve got a letter from him to deliver, but the house is all closed up.”
“That’s right,” the smith said. “They moved out, couple of years ago. Old man Proiapsen made a heap of money in war salvage.”
Aidi frowned. “War salvage?”
“Loot.” The smith grinned. “He bought cheap from the military - boots, shirts, socks, belts, armour, you name it; all the stuff they take off the dead bodies after a battle - then he sold it back to them at five hundred per cent mark-up. Shortages, see. Don’t ask me how it works, but Proiapsen had it all figured out, did very nicely, thank you very much. Bought a fine estate a way down the coast - the Di’Ambrosies place, don’t know if you’ve heard of them. They sold up when their son got killed in the war. Last I heard, old Proiapsen’s retired, having a high old time playing the fine gentleman. Presumably his son’s coming home soon. Well, you’d know all about that.”
Aidi shook his head. “He won’t be back for a while,” he said. “What about the town house? Any idea what they figure on doing with it?”
The smith shrugged. “For sale, I guess,” he said. “Trouble is, what with the war and everything, there’s not many in Faralia as can afford a big old place like that, even with prices as low as they are. I seem to remember hearing they sold off some of the land - the yard, some of the buildings. If you ask around, I expect there’s someone who knows the details.”
“Thanks,” Aidi said. “I might just put in an offer myself. I always fancied living there.”