An Import of Intrigue

by Marshall Ryan Maresca

  “Of course it is. And it’s also only nine bells in the morning. Ravi will probably not show his face until after those obnoxious noon bells at Saint whatever-his-name-is ring. However, as I am his primary factor and counselor in all matters, financial and otherwise, you may discuss anything you must with me.”

  “Mister Iliari—” Satrine started. She was surprised to hear that Iliari was an underling of Kenorax’s. She had presumed, by the way that Hieljam ab Tishai had referred to Iliari, that he was a peer to Kenorax.

  “Your fruit, Inspector,” he said. “Do not offend our generosity.”

  Welling stabbed his fruit with his utensil and took a bite. His face betrayed no disgust, but as much as Satrine trusted him as her partner, she would never use him as a meter to gauge edibility. He ate that Fuergan slop quite happily, after all.

  “Intriguing,” he said.

  “Thank you, Inspector,” Iliari said, turning to Welling. “Now, given your office, I presume that you are here on some form of unpleasant business. Enforcers of law rarely stop by to deliver good news.”

  “We were hoping to speak with you and Mister Kenorax together,” Satrine said.

  “And I hope to wake each morning back in Oroba. We live with disappointment.”

  Welling put his utensil down. “We’re here about the death of Hieljam ab Wefi Loriz.”

  “Ah, yes, the great Lavark,” Iliari said. “I should not be surprised that you are here on that matter.”

  “You were aware of his murder?” Satrine asked.

  “Of course we were aware. We were to meet with the man in the afternoon, of course, but we were otherwise engaged in the moment of our appointment.”

  “Otherwise engaged?” Satrine asked.

  A Kieran woman of some years leaned over. “He means that Kenorax was busy here getting everything polished.” She made a show of whispering, but without actually lowering her voice. “He likes to take his own damn time with that.”

  “Hush, Resa,” Iliari said, though he sounded like he really didn’t care that she was telling them this. He stepped out of the pool, water dripping from his hairy body. “My point is, we arrived at Rev Tak Mel—”

  “That’s the name of the Tsouljan facility?” Welling confirmed.

  “Indeed, and a lovely name, though translated into Trade it becomes something frightfully mundane. ‘Place to Sit in Huts,’ I think. We arrived sometime and the place was already surrounded by your people. Listening to the murmurings of your common watchmen, we surmised that the Lavark was dead, and therefore the meeting was not to occur, and returned home.”

  “What was the meeting about?”

  “Hardly relevant,” Iliari said. “Since it never occurred.”

  Satrine sighed. “And you can confirm that you, or Mister Kenorax, or any of your people were not in the Tsouljan facility at the time of the Lavark’s death?”

  “Any of our people?” Iliari laughed, as did many of the folk in the pool. “My dear Inspector, we have quite a few people here, though I would hesitate to call them ‘mine.’ Friends from the empire, each with a retinue of servants. I could not possibly confirm the whereabouts of each and every one of them.” He took up his utensil and stabbed it into the untouched fruit on Satrine’s plate. “Nor am I inclined to.”

  He popped it into his mouth.

  “Now,” he said as he chewed the fruit, “I have allowed you in here out of courtesy and tradition. I recognize that you are officers with duty, and I will respect that and inform you that we—I speak for Mister Kenorax and his household in using the plural—have very little interest in these matters. We only were even engaged with the matter out of our regard for the Lavark’s standing. We wish no further involvement.”

  “That’s hardly something you get to decide, Mister Iliari,” Welling said. “This is our investigation, and we will . . .”

  “You will politely excuse yourselves and withdraw from these residences. And if you return, I will hope that you have an appropriate Writ of Search. And bear in mind that Mister Kenorax is a close associate of the ambassador when you put in such a request.”

  Satrine stood up from the table. There was nothing else to be gained here. “Thank you for your time, Mister Iliari.”

  “Think nothing of it,” he said.

  Welling stood up. “The fruit was . . . intriguing. But I doubt it is worth the expense of import.”

  “Likely correct, Inspector,” he said. As Satrine and Welling took two steps away, Iliari cleared his throat. “Oh, and one more thing, Inspector? I would appreciate if you made no more attempts to halt or impede activity on our docks. We have business to attend to.”

  “It shouldn’t be a further issue,” Welling said. “Good day to you all. Our regards to Mister Kenorax.”

  They were escorted back out to the street.

  “Well, that was useless,” Satrine said.

  “Not entirely,” Welling said. “Now we know that whatever trouble the victim was trying to repair, he was hoping for Kenorax to assist him.”

  Satrine chuckled. “Where did you get that from?”

  “As he said, ‘we only were even engaged with the matter out of regard for the Lavark’s standing.’ Kenorax was also making him wait. That means—”

  “Hieljam needed them, not the other way around,” Satrine concluded. “So you think they weren’t involved in his death.”

  “I doubt in any direct manner,” Welling said. “But they may have had involvement in the reasons behind it.”

  “So you want to dig a little deeper into what that was.”

  “Indeed.” They approached the two pages, and Welling turned to the page from Hilsom’s office. “I’m going to need Mister Hilsom to request documents.”

  “Sir,” the boy said. “What do you need?”

  “I’ll need records from the customhouses and tariff checks, for at least three months. Preferably six. Anything they have that was brought in by Kenorax or Hieljam. Also make Mister Hilsom aware that I will likely have further requests of a similar nature.”

  The boy looked like Welling tried to feed him a frog. “As you say, sir.”

  “Then be about it.”

  The boy ran off.

  “Anything for me, sir?” Phillen asked.

  Satrine interrupted. “We should see if Mirrell and Kellman have had any luck finding Hajan or Jabiudal.”

  “Indeed,” Welling said.

  Phillen nodded. “I’ll run ahead to Machie, see if I can find them. I’ll blow a two-squall if I get them.”

  “Well done,” Welling said, and the boy ran off.

  Satrine started walking in the same direction at a leisurely pace. “Did we learn anything else?”

  “Not sure,” Welling said. “Save one fact. That Napolic fruit is horrible.”

  A quick coordination of whistle bursts between the pages led Minox and Rainey to Kellman and Mirrell, who were waiting on one corner on the edge of Machie.

  “You’ve had luck?” Minox asked.

  “Looks like Hajan is in a place called the Alahs Innata,” Mirrell said. “At least, he spends a lot of his time there.”

  “It’s a little restaurant or something down that way,” Kellman said. “There’s a sign with a crane and a fish.”

  “What about Jabiudal?” Rainey asked.

  “Nothing yet,” Kellman said. He flexed his fingers a bit as he talked, and Minox noticed scrapes on his knuckles and a few spots of not-quite-dried blood on the cuff of his shirt. So that was how they went about finding Hajan. “We can keep looking.”

  “Don’t bother for now,” Minox said. Beating a few Imachs might yield brief results, but in the long term it just hampered their ability to effectively enforce the law in this neighborhood. “Get over to the Kierans. I want good eyes on Ravi Kenorax and a man named Estiani Iliari. Where they go, who
they talk to, what they do.”

  “Just eyes?” Mirrell asked.

  “For now,” Minox said. He had made a point of saying “good eyes” for the sake of Mirrell’s ego. Not that he should have to give the man any butter to do his job, but these two were already troublesome enough. “Keep a subtle distance. They’re already a bit sensitive about the dock lockdown.”

  “They are?” Mirrell said. “Well, we wouldn’t want to upset them.” His condescension could be spread like jam.

  “Eyes open,” Kellman said. Then he pointed to Rainey. “Watch your hair in these parts.” They both headed off.

  “Your hair?” Minox asked. It was an oddly specific warning.

  She thought about it for a moment, then chuckled. “It’s not a real thing.”

  “What’s not?”

  She sighed. “Come on.” They walked into the streets, which got decidedly narrower as table-stands and shop carts choked up every spot that they could squeeze into. There was no way to get a wagon, horse, or pedalcart through here. Minox and Rainey couldn’t even walk abreast as they worked their way through. He let her take the lead. “Imachs all have black hair, and the women traditionally wear theirs in very tight braids. So a woman with loose red hair—”

  “Would be shocking to them?”

  “Would be unusual,” Rainey corrected. Minox noticed that several people, especially the Imach men, were staring hard at her as they made their way through. “But the presumption—an accepted convention—is that Imach men are enflamed by fair-haired Druth women, and even more so by my coloring.”

  “Surely they wouldn’t attack you.”

  “Probably not.” She held up her wrist, showing her marriage bracelet. “Most know what this means, and tend to accept the idea that I’m a goodly woman rather than a prostitute.” Rainey’s tone was hard to read, but it seemed equal parts bemused and enraged.

  “So Kellman’s warning?”

  “The belief is, Imach women would see me as a threat, and they would attempt to chop my hair off.” She turned back to look at him over her shoulder. “I don’t think that’s based on anything real, though.”

  The passage through the street had forced them into tight proximity with several of the locals, and Minox was on alert that none of them touched him or reached in his pockets, or did the same to Rainey.

  “Over there,” she said, pointing to the crane-and-fish sign. “It’s a coffeehouse. Are you familiar with those?”

  “I’ve heard of it,” Minox said. Coffee was an Imach drink, he knew, but that was all.

  “I strongly recommend that you do not have coffee if offered,” she said. “It doesn’t sit well with . . . people like you.”

  Minox raised an eyebrow. “Do you mean that I’m—”

  She cut him off, almost putting her hand on his mouth. “Don’t even say the word. Not in this patch of streets. They really do not care for it.”

  “I’m used to it.” Attitudes toward mages, especially an Uncircled one like him, were far from cordial.

  “They will make Druths look downright indulgent.”

  “As you say, Inspector.”

  They entered the Alahs Innata—a dim establishment, with almost no windows and a few low-burning oil lamps. There was a smell throughout the air—rich and earthy, and almost intoxicating. Shirtless Imach men—russet-skinned with coarse, thick beards—were grouped at the tables, sipping from small porcelain cups and talking in low voices.

  Most of the talking ceased as Minox and Rainey stepped in. With all eyes on them, Minox decided to cut through all pretense.

  “We’re looking for a man named Nalassein Hajan. We’re given to understand he is here.”

  “I am here,” a melodious voice said from the far corner of the room. The men in that area shifted slightly to allow a clear view. Hajan was an elderly man, gray hair and beard, but that didn’t stop him from sitting there shirtless like the rest of the men in here. “Why are the Constabulary seeking me?”

  “We have some questions for you, sir,” Rainey said, lowering her head as she stepped forward. “About your business with Hieljam ab Wefi Loriz.”

  Hajan let out a large laugh and sipped at his coffee. “Is he in some sort of trouble?”

  “He’s been murdered, Mister Hajan,” Minox said.

  “Murder—he—” Hajan put his cup down and put two fingers over his lips, murmuring something. Minox could only presume it was some form of prayer. “Please forgive me. This table is yours.”

  Rainey gave Minox the slight gesture that he should sit first. He took a seat, and then she maneuvered her chair so she would be behind him. The various Imach men in this place—the ones near the table at least—eased back slightly, but still stood in tense proximity.

  “You were not aware he had been murdered?” Minox asked.

  “No, I . . . there were whispers amongst my friends here that the Fuergans in the neighborhood were making things difficult.” He spoke in rapid Imach dialect to one of the men by the table, who responded in kind. “Yes, two of his brothers were attacked. Most every man in here knows someone who was bothered or fought with last night. Or arrested.”

  “If someone was—” Minox started, ready to defend the actions of the night shift Constabulary.

  Hajan waved a stern finger at Minox. “I am not angry about that. Order must be maintained. Our people, their people, your people start fights, people end up in cells. I would like to help any of my friends, or friends of my friends, who find themselves currently in your custody. Through proper channels, respecting your ways.”

  “I appreciate that,” Minox said. “I’m given to understand most of those detained will be released today, likely with only fines and reports.”

  “Most,” Hajan said. “I imagine there are a few whose infractions were too damning, and true charges must be levied. This occurs. I cannot argue.”

  Rainey cleared her throat. “Your relationship with Hieljam.”

  “Yes, of course.” He sighed, and signaled to one of his men to bring more coffee. “Do you wish to sip with me?”

  “Thank you, no,” Rainey said, throwing a warning look at Minox. “We have found it doesn’t agree with our systems.”

  He nodded sagely. “Many Druth have this problem, I understand. If there is nothing I can offer you. . . .”

  “We are well, we are well, we are well,” Rainey said, as if it were a bit of ritual. Hajan seemed to recognize this and grinned.

  “Of course.” He folded his hands together. “Wefi Loriz is . . . was . . . a good associate. I would even call him dear to me.”

  “You were friends?” Minox asked.

  “That word is not lightly used. I cannot imagine a foreigner I would use that word for, but perhaps Wefi Loriz would come close. We did business together.”

  “We’ve gathered that, Mister Hajan,” Rainey said. “Could you be more specific?”

  “Of course. I represent a trust in Ghalad that imports products from there to western markets. The Hieljam have several ships that run goods from Fuerga to Druthal, and to accomplish that, they require friendly ports to resupply.”

  “Ports in Ghalad,” Rainey said.

  Minox asked the question that was probably foolish. “And Ghalad is?”

  “Southern Imachan,” Rainey answered. Hajan scoffed at this, but gave no further rebuke.

  “My people in Ghalad give the Hieljam the friendly ports, and the Hieljam transport our goods for minimal cost. It has been most equitable for both of us.”

  “So you’ve had no complaints?” Minox asked.

  “None! And to my knowledge, nor did the Hieljam.”

  “Hmm,” Minox said. That didn’t square with Hieljam ab Tishai’s claim of “difficulty squaring accounts.”

  “Would any other associates of yours? Or rivals?”

  Hajan peered
at Minox with dark, piercing eyes. “You are a very thin man, Inspector. Why have you come to talk to me?”

  “The murder weapon,” Minox said. “Perhaps you are familiar with it. It’s an Imach knife called a talveca.”

  “A talveca?” He laughed, and then said something to the rest of his crowd. They all laughed as well. Then his laughter stopped cold. “A talveca is not Ghaladi. That is a Kadabali weapon.” He spit to the ground when he said it, as did many others.

  “Kadabal is . . . another province in Imachan?” Minox asked.

  Hajan turned to Rainey. “You seem to be the smarter one here, dear lady. Your associate keeps referring to ‘Imachan’ like it is a place that means something to me and my friends. Ghaladina, iat?” The men around him repeated what he said. “We are all Ghaladi here.”

  “My apologies,” Minox said. “I didn’t understand.”

  “Most Druth do not.”

  Minox hit upon an idea. “Is the name Jabiudal a Kadabali one?”

  “Assan Jabiudal?” Hajan said, rising from his chair. “That . . .” Whatever his next thoughts were, they couldn’t be expressed in Trade, as he went into a tirade in his native tongue.

  “What about Assan Jabiudal?” Minox asked.

  “He is piss,” Hajan sneered. “He is a stain that deserves to be wiped off my shoe, is what he is.”

  “So, a business rival,” Rainey said dryly.

  “A rival? Hardly. I deal in coffee, sandalwoods, spices. Legitimate trade. Jabiudal only uses that as a front for his filth.”

  That triggered Minox’s interest. “What sort of filth? Smuggling? Drugs? Slaves?”

  “I will not sully myself with further talk of such things, Inspector. And I do not believe we have more to say. No one in my employ would use a talveca, and the death of Wefi Loriz brings me nothing but hardship. So I would hope I am not a suspect.”

  “We’re just gathering information at this juncture, Mister Hajan.”

  “Then do it elsewhere, I am done.” He waved them off, and other men rose up as if they were willing to make the matter more confrontational.

  “We’ll be in touch,” Rainey said, stepping away from the table. “Thank you for your time. Eht’shahala.”