Fog Season

by Patrice Sarath

  Yvienne pushed her cheese and toast around on the plate. “Not necessarily. The Harrier’s mandate is to investigate the Great Fraud and Trune’s whereabouts. If we tell him that Trune’s back, then we let the Harrier get his man.”

  It was an appealing idea, but… “Can we trust him?” Tesara asked.

  “Maybe,” Yvienne said. She met her sister’s eyes. “That is, I don’t. I think he’s got ulterior motives and I think he suspects that we have secrets too. But yes, if we give him Trune, maybe he’ll leave us alone.”

  “And then we’ll be free of Trune, once and for all,” Tesara said. She hoped it was true, wished it to be true. With Trune in gaol, she could finally be free of the constant worry of being exposed.

  “In the meantime, we have to be careful. Trune will try again,” Yvienne said.

  “If he does, I don’t care who finds out what I can do,” Tesara replied.

  She expected her sister to object, but to her surprise and satisfaction, Yvienne just said, “It’s about time he was taught a lesson he didn’t forget.”

  Indeed, Tesara thought. It was entirely time for former Guildmaster Trune to stop underestimating the Mederos sisters.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Dear Mr Fresnel,

  I have information that will be of use to you in the matter of the Great Fraud and the disappearance of Guildmaster Trune. I will come see you at 11 o’clock on Saturnes day at the Hotel Bailet.

  Signed,

  Y. Mederos

  Abel scanned the letter from the elder Miss Mederos that the worshipful clerk brought to him that morning. The stationery, having been recently in her possession, yielded a few clews to her temperament, though not much could be gleaned. Abel received an overall impression of caution and distrust, but no dissembling. She wasn’t lying – she did have information. It also revealed something else.

  She thinks Trune had something to do with the attempted abduction. It was a guess, but Abel hadn’t spent years under the tender ministrations of Doc Farrissey only to make unsupported guesses. The younger Miss Mederos had already been abducted once by Trune. He knows about her powers, Abel thought. Trune was the other factor in the game.

  “Mr TreMondi will see you now, sir,” the nervous House TreMondi clerk said as he poked his head into the anteroom where Abel had cooled his heels for fifteen minutes. He followed the clerk into TreMondi’s office.

  Alve TreMondi looked up at Abel but didn’t bother to get to his feet. Where the office of House Mederos was sparse and functional, House TreMondi was simply magnificent, from the expensive desk with its gleaming inlays, the carved molding, even down to the baseboards. The paint was cream, the furnishings dark wood, the paintings pastoral, and the only indication that money was made on the premises were the clerks at their standing desks, studiously head down at their books, silent but for the scraping of their pens and the ticking of their adding mechanisms. The nervous clerk scurried away once he had deposited Abel into TreMondi’s clutches.

  As Abel made a swift analysis of the office, TreMondi made a wordless inspection of Abel, designed, the Harrier knew, to throw him off his guard.

  “Fresnel,” TreMondi acknowledged at last. He waved a hand at the chair in front of the desk. Abel sat. “I’m glad you asked to see me,” TreMondi went on. “I’ve been meaning to ask for an update.” He offered Abel a cigar, which the Harrier accepted, and with great ceremony TreMondi made a production of clipping the end and lighting it. Abel leaned over and touched TreMondi’s fingers as he took the cigar and puffed at it, the acrid smoke curling like a disembodied warm tongue inside his mouth. All the while the touch activated his extra sense, and he felt as if he could taste TreMondi himself, the way a snake scents its prey.

  Oblivious, TreMondi leaned back in his leather chair and luxuriated in his cigar, putting on a show of his fine sensibilities.

  TreMondi. Mid-thirties. Merchant with a Chahoki wife and three half-Chahoki children, and as a result he inhabited a sort of twilit position in the society of Port Saint Frey. The other men of his set spoke of him with admiration and some sexual envy – he had “tamed” a fierce Chahoki woman. And the man had a self-satisfied air, reflected by his office. Alve TreMondi liked to surround himself with fine, rare possessions.

  TreMondi had been in on the fraud from the start and had perjured himself in the official investigation after the whole thing was blown wide open by the Arabestus broadsheet. He had liked the idea of it, getting one over on one of his fellow merchants, and he liked being that sort of impish fellow who had won in an underhanded way, the more underhanded the better.

  It explained the Chahoki wife: a way to thumb his nose at the society in which he moved, because it would force the other merchant families to accept his unusual wife.

  He better watch his back, Abel thought. If her Chahoki family got wind of his motives, he’d be lucky he didn’t end up with his manhood cut off and stuffed down his throat. They were a prickly people and didn’t take kindly to jokesters.

  “I’m making progress,” Abel said. “It’s a sticky situation but we’ll un-stick it.”

  “We?” TreMondi said.

  “The Harrier organization. I may be solo on this job, but rest assured I have the full force of the company at my back.”

  TreMondi nodded. “Well, we hired you Harriers for a reason; we should get our money’s worth. And since you work for the Guild – and by extension, me – I’m disappointed in a report as vague as, making progress. You have to do better, Fresnel.”

  Abel refused to be baited. “To that end, Mr TreMondi, can you answer a few questions?”

  “Again?”

  “Different questions.”

  TreMondi gave a full, put-upon sigh. “Very well.”

  “What do you think Trune wanted with the younger Miss Mederos?” Abel asked.

  TreMondi snorted. “Really, Fresnel? Have you Harriers taken a vow of celibacy, too?”

  Of course that would be the first place TreMondi’s thoughts would go, Abel thought. But there was some underlay in TreMondi’s response that told him TreMondi himself didn’t believe it.

  “Bit out of character for the man, don’t you think?”

  TreMondi’s laugh was a bit too loud, too forced. “When it comes to pleasures of the flesh, it’s in every man’s character.” He leaned forward. “Even you, Fresnel.” He sounded pitying, as if to say that a man as poor and nondescript as Abel could only dream.

  “Any chance Trune wanted the girl for something else?”

  TreMondi snorted. “Can’t imagine what that could be. She’s a troublemaker, that one. Some females, they persist in tempting fate – and tempting men. Her fall from society was to be expected. It’s a shame. Her older sister is nothing like her.”

  “Yes, I understand the eldest Mederos girl worked in your house as a governess,” Abel said. “Why did you allow that?”

  “It was my wife’s idea. She wanted a governess for the girls rather than send them away to a seminary. My son goes to the Port Saint Frey Academy, of course. It’s traditional, and I wanted Dubre to have all the advantages that I had.” An emotion flickered over TreMondi’s face, and Abel identified it before even TreMondi was aware of what he was feeling. TreMondi had just had a moment of empathy for his son, a seal among the sharks, and some self-doubt as to whether he had done the right thing by forcing him to go to the school. Then the moment was gone, and the smirk was back.

  “Was she a good governess?”

  “Fresnel, even the smartest girl in Port Saint Frey can’t teach my middle daughter how to solve for x. But yes, as governesses go, she was a good governess.”

  Another flicker crossed his eyes – a sudden memory, an interesting thought about the suitability of Miss Yvienne Mederos. Abel called him on it.

  “What?”

  TreMondi hesitated, discretion warring with desire to tell.

  “She’s… got secrets.”

  You don’t
say, Abel thought with weary sarcasm. The whole family was a powderkeg of secrets.

  “What makes you think that?”

  “She would stay over some nights to teach the children astronomy. I let them use my telescope under strict orders not to break anything, and she knew how to use it – apparently she had one as a child. A good one too – we talked about lenses once and she knew enough to flaunt her knowledge.” Another flicker – annoyance at being shown up by the formidable Miss Mederos. “Anyway – one afternoon her uncle was jawing on and on about her down at the coffee house where he sponges off the Names, and he said she had taught astronomy the night before at our house. But she hadn’t. I would have known.” TreMondi laughed coarsely. “I hadn’t expected it of her. Her sister, yes. She’s out of control. But Miss Mederos is a good girl, or so I thought. I warned her about it. I told her that her tainted reputation would brand her as a soiled dove.”

  It was hardly likely that Yvienne Mederos’s pluck and backbone would drive her to the streets. Whatever she was using her cover as governess for, it was not to tarnish her virtue.

  TreMondi leaned forward suddenly in his chair. “I’ll tell you one more thing, and then I need to get on with running my business. Maybe, yes, maybe Trune got ahead of himself. Maybe he did some things that weren’t quite on the level. But he was a damn fine Guild liaison and magistrate, and he knew how to keep everything sailing smoothly. Maybe what happened to House Mederos is a small price to pay. I’m not saying it’s right, but I’m not saying it’s wrong, either. I’m just saying that since Trune disappeared and everyone got all up in arms about “legality” and what’s “right,” this city has been embroiled in trouble after trouble. Think on that, and when you find Trune you’ll find he has his own side of the story. It’s not all black and white, Fresnel.”

  “You said Trune was good at his job,” Abel said, ignoring TreMondi’s desire to get rid of him. “Were you friends?”

  TreMondi snorted. “He was the Guild liaison, Fresnel. Don’t be an idiot.”

  Abel gave him a level look, not speaking, and TreMondi flushed and looked away. After a moment, just so the man got the point, he said, “Just thought you might know where he is.” He allowed a hint of roughness, of untutored unsophistication, of street tough, in his voice. To save face TreMondi would chalk it up to a rude countryman who didn’t understand fine class distinctions between merchants and Guild liaisons but he wouldn’t discount the threat.

  “No,” TreMondi said, his voice tight. “I don’t know where he is.”

  He was lying. Abel waited. TreMondi broke first, one of those men who couldn’t bear the silence. “I mean – I don’t for sure. He might be in town, but as I said, we weren’t friends.”

  “If he might be in town, where might he be?”

  “Haven’t the foggiest,” TreMondi said, yet tenseness and anxiety shaped every syllable.

  Keep him talking. The longer TreMondi sweated, the more information Abel got. It had gone beyond touch. The truth exuded from his pores, manifested itself in the smallest of muscles around his eyes, the set of his shoulders. Sometimes Abel registered the information he received from his informants as words in his head; more often, it was an emotional click of rightness, as when he made an intuitive leap.

  “He’s in town under an assumed name, isn’t he?” Abel said, and TreMondi snorted elaborately and leaned back, and the truth screamed out at Abel.

  As suspected, Trune was back, had rented a house, was lying low. He could see the pillars and the brick siding, all of it revealed in TreMondi’s subverbal communications that had nothing to do with voice, and everything to do with language. Only humans think they talk just with their mouths, boy. You learn to read the rest of it, and you’ll always know what someone is saying.

  “This has been fun, Mr Fresnel, but I am a very busy man,” TreMondi said, no longer able to maintain eye contact. “I must ask you to leave.”

  Abel snubbed out his cigar on the tray, and stood, shrugging into his coat.

  “Thank you for your time, Mr TreMondi. I appreciate how forthcoming you’ve been.”

  TreMondi reacted with wide eyes and Abel didn’t elaborate. He let himself out, flipping up his collar against the drizzle.

  Find the house with a brick facade and pillars, a red roof and black shutters, and he would find Trune. Once he had Trune, the man would no longer be a threat to his second objective. Once Abel had Trune, he could concentrate on taking the girl.

  As Yvienne hurried down Chandler’s Row toward Alastra’s and her meeting with Inigho Demaris, she wondered again if she had done the right thing by writing a letter to the Harrier. Everything about the man screamed duplicity. He would ask all the right questions, she thought, and they would lead back to the sisters. On the other hand, he was here to investigate Trune, and the sooner he had his man, the sooner he would go back to where he came from. But I won’t underestimate him, she thought. If he ever nosed out Tesara’s secret, or her own, for that matter, they could not afford to be lenient. Yvienne thought back to her sister at Elenor Charvantes’s party. Tesara had been as tense and wound up as a hot-blooded thoroughbred before a race. All of those men had been present at Trune’s, who sat and ate and drank while she served them, no doubt lasciviously – Yvienne found that she herself was clenching her fists. She forced herself to unclench them. No, the Harrier would do well not to underestimate the Mederos sisters, and she welcomed a good fight.

  She turned the corner to cut across Emery Place. Across the plaza she could see Alastra’s, the warm, inviting, rain-streaked windows glowing with lamplight and hinting at the delights within.

  The world of the finest dining establishment in Port Saint Frey was a far cry from the world of kidnapping coachmen, nefarious Guild liaisons, and dangerous Harriers. Relax, she told herself. Enjoy this. This was important too. House business was as pressing a concern as revenge. If she focused on the latter, as she wanted, there would be no House left to avenge. However, Inigho Demaris had better not try anything underhanded, she thought. She was not in the mood for anyone else to try to take advantage of her family.

  Then she gave herself a mental shake. No need to frighten poor Inigho. The man only had trade on his mind.

  “Tea with friends, miss?” The host at Alastra’s gave Yvienne a polite smile as she entered the fine, quiet establishment. The host boy closed the door behind her, cutting off the weather, and held out his hand for her wet coat and umbrella. She shed them both along with her hat, and smoothed back her hair. She hoped she didn’t look like a drowned rat but suspected that she rather did.

  There was a table of young misses, many of whom had been at Elenor’s luncheon party the other day, enjoying Alastra’s famed tea and cakes and hot spiced wine on a miserable day. She could understand why the host had made the assumption.

  “No, I’ve an appointment. Under the name Inigho Demaris,” she said.

  He didn’t bat an eye. He ran his finger down his ledger and beckoned to the errand page. “Please show Miss Mederos to her table.”

  Yvienne followed the boy. She smiled at the shocked girls when she passed the table and she could feel their attention upon her as the page led her to an empty table in the corner of the restaurant. Inigho hadn’t arrived yet. She sat gracefully and thanked the page with a tip, and he beamed a gap-toothed smile at her.

  The tablecloth almost glowed in the low light, and the water goblets sparkled. When she had sent word to the Demaris office that she wanted to schedule a meeting with Inigho, she had expected to meet him at the Demaris House offices. Instead, the secretary sent an errand page with a message that directed her here.

  Matchmaking, she thought. She sipped from her water glass, sitting as erect and calm as could be. She hated being on display, she hated not knowing Inigho’s game, and she hated the gossip that the misses of Port Saint Frey were about to unleash regarding her. Once they told their mothers who they saw in Alastra’s, Alinesse’s wish that her
daughters live retiringly while she was away would be shot to smithereens.

  There was Inigho. He looked across the dining room at her, spoke briefly to the host, and then made his way alone through the sea of tables.

  The misses all goggled after him, turning their heads as one.

  He smiled when he reached her, and it was a smile of relief and pleasure. Of course, she scolded herself, standing to greet him. What did you expect – a nefarious snicker and a twirled moustache?

  “Miss Mederos,” he said, clasping her hand. “I’m so pleased you came out to see me on such a rotten day.”

  “Not at all, Mr Demaris. Life must go on, even in Fog Season.”

  There. The banalities were out of the way. He sat, chatting as she gave him a swift once over. His mother’s assessment was correct. He wasn’t pretty. He was about thirty, his hairline receding, and his face an oddly ungraceful mix of features as if the Great Maker hadn’t decided how to put this one together. This is just business, she reminded herself. Business she could handle.

  “I’ve not lunched yet and I’m famished. Got caught up in things at the office. You?”

  “I have not either, and breakfast seems so long ago.” Even Mrs Francini’s simple, hearty breakfast porridge could not keep her whole long past midday. “In this weather there is no end to my appetite.”

  Good God. Would he take that as a double meaning?

  He said only, “Oh, I well know. Choose something hearty from the menu and I’ll have the captain’s lunch.”

  Yvienne ended up choosing oyster chowder and biscuits.

  Alastra started them off with a complimentary beef broth to cut the chill, and they both sipped.

  “So, after meeting my mother, you still came to see me,” Inigho said. “I apologize; she has her motives, and they are all ulterior.”

  It was said with teasing affection.

  “I admit I was curious before I met Mrs Demaris,” Yvienne pointed out. She gave him an arched brow look over her cup of broth.