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Twenty-Two

Having been caught robbing his mother's money crock, Karrlis Billbis had been persona non grata at home for more than a year. Since then he'd lived in a small room with an entrance on a six-foot-wide alleyway, with a single window looking out at a featureless brick wall. The sole amenity was an outside stairway to the roof, where in a tub-like pot a tree grew, root-bound and puny, too small to cast meaningful shade. The view of sky and harbor were quite nice however.

Occasionally he had a guest; tonight it was Tirros Hanorissio. They sat on stools on the roof, watching a late thunderstorm pulse with lightning off the mouth of the firth. Tirros emptied his wine glass and Karrlis handed him the bottle.

"She said she didn't have to be an adept to see how shocked the little norp was," Karrlis said. "She was tempted to seduce him on the spot."

Tirros grunted. He was depressed this evening; it seemed to him that things weren't developing well at all.

"I told her it was a good thing she didn't," Karrlis continued. "Your only handle on him is, he considers himself more moral than his master."

Tirros got abruptly to his feet and stood stiff and silent, still facing seaward. Karrlis couldn't see his face, but the smoldering anger in his mind was more unequivocal than any scowl. After a long moment, Tirros spoke. "I don't need a handle on him."

His voice was like a rasp. Karrlis kept quiet.

"We'll kill Brokols," Tirros went on. "Then the little man will have no choice. He'll have to be ambassador. We'll set Lerrlia on him and he'll do whatever she says. Which'll be whatever we tell her to."

"He's already fucking someone," Karrlis ventured. "A big strong woman."

Tirros shrugged it off. "Let Lerrlia put half a pinch of passion dust in his satta. That'll break him. Or we can get rid of the woman he's already seeing."

Abruptly he turned hissing on Karrlis. "Hrum's name! I don't want to hear about problems! We'll kill Brokols first; then we'll decide what to do next!"

* * *

Before he slept that night, Karrlis went and hired a boy for Tirros, to watch Brokols building next morning. When the ambassador came out, the boy followed him half a block behind, till he saw him cross the square into the Fortress. Then he ran and told Karrlis.

Tirros met Karrlis at noon, at the usual satta shop. The mirj had rented a small, two-wheeled carriage with a luggage box as the seat. After lunch, he drove to the main street above Brokols' building. Their hired boy was playing on the sidewalk near the corner, spinning his top on a chalked matrix of numbers and waiting for Brokols to come past. "No," the boy said, "the foreign lord hasn't come back yet."

Tirros gave him a second silver coin and ran him off. "Can we trust him to keep quiet?" he asked Karrlis. "Or do we need to get rid of him too?"

"He'll keep quiet. I told him we're with a secret group spying on the Almite enemy, and if he tells, we'll kill him."

Tirros grunted, then chucked to the kaabor and turned down the sidestreet to barely past Brokols' place, where they could watch for him in the rearview mirrors without being visible to him. After an hour or so, Tirros got sleepy and told Karrlis to watch, then slouched down and closed his eyes.

Karrlis had no trouble with boredom. His eyes watched the street, but mentally he eavesdropped on Tirros's dreams, which, if uninformative, were interesting. He'd waken Tirros when Brokols turned the corner, and they'd call to him when he arrived. Assuming no one else was in sight. Each of the two had a short, lead-weighted club on the seat beside him. When Brokols came over, they'd cosh him, pull him into the carriage, strangle him, stuff him in the luggage box, and take him to a place Tirros knew, out of town. There they'd tie a rock to him—they had the rope—and sink him out past low tide.

Karrlis had suggested leaving the carriage and waiting in an alleyway between buildings. An attack would have been easier from there. But Tirros hadn't wanted to wait on his feet.

It wasn't necessary to waken Tirros. He woke up on his own, needing to relieve himself. Before he could get out of the carriage though, a rikksha rounded the corner and moved briskly down the sidestreet. They listened as, only a dozen feet behind them, Brokols paid the runner, then went upstairs.

Tirros swore, then chucked again to the kaabor, stopping at a nearby alleyway where he hopped down and ducked out of sight for a minute to urinate.

"What now?" Karrlis asked when he got back.

Tirros didn't answer at once, simply drove around the block and stopped just past Brokols' stairway again. "We wait here till he comes back out. Then we grab him."

Karrlis was skeptical. Tirros was not very good at waiting. Half an hour later Brokols came out. With Stilfos, the two of them talking in their own language. The ambushers watched the Almites walk up the street to the corner, where they separated, going in opposite directions.

As soon as they were out of sight, Tirros jumped from the carriage. Karrlis, after a moment's hesitation, followed. Up the stairs they went, to Brokols' door.

"Open it," Tirros said.

Karrlis tried the handle to no avail, then took a small metal hook from a pocket and, after several tries, got the door open. Once inside, Karrlis looked questioningly at the mirj. Tirros led out onto the roof garden, where they waited around the corner of the garden door.

Tirros took a half-dried sourdrupe from his belt pouch, popped it in his mouth, and a few seconds later spit out the pit. "If the ambassador comes back first," he said, "we take him. If the little man comes first, we'll . . ." Tirros groped mentally, then abandoned the problem. "He won't have to know we're here. He probably won't come out here, and we'll still wait. When the ambassador comes back, we'll tell him—something; it'll come to me—and we go out with him."

Karrlis began to wish they hadn't come here: Tirros wasn't making much sense. After a quarter hour, Tirros decided he wanted a cup of satta, and went inside to make some.

That's when Stilfos came home. Karrlis heard the bolt turn, heard footsteps down the hall, and Stilfos's exclamation when he reached the kitchen door.

"What?! What're you doing here? You've got no business in here!"

Karrlis went in too.

"I'm making a cup of satta," Tirros said. "I talked to your master a few minutes ago, and he told me to come up and wait for him."

"That's not so! I told him you came up and talked with me, and he said I was to have nothing to do with you. So be off now, or I'll report you to the police."

Tirros tried to cosh him but he dodged, and they grappled. Karrlis stepped in to help. To them the Almite was small, but his father had been a stone mason, and Stilfos had worked with him throughout his adolescence; he was a lot stronger than either of the two Hrummeans expected. When the brief struggle was over, Stilfos was unconscious, strangled by a throatlock. Both Hrummean youths had marks where they could be seen—Karrlis a split lip and Tirros a scratch on his forehead.

Neither of them said anything just then. Supporting Stilfos between them like a drunk, they went down the several flights of stairs to the street, then loaded him into the carriage. Not till they had him in the luggage box did they look around. There was no one in sight.

Karrlis jumped back out. "Drive around the block," he said, and disappeared back up the stairs. Tirros stared angrily after him, then did as he'd said. When he got back, Karrlis came out of a nearby alleyway and climbed in.

"There's no blood up there," he said. "I put the rolls and sausage away, and the wine—the things he had in the sack. Then I scanned off the pictures and emotions we left there, him and us. If the police sent a scanner up, he could easily have seen who did it—seen the whole thing. I scanned off what little there was on the roof garden too, and the stairwell."

He'd thought Tirros would be impressed with his foresight, but the mirj said nothing, simply started the kaabor with a slap of the reins. All Karrlis could read in him was bitterness, as if somehow he'd been cheated.

* * *

Brokols came home with his new guide and watchdog, Reeno Venreeno. Who was also an adept, though of course Brokols didn't know it. As soon as they came in the door, they smelled scorched metal, and Brokols hurried to the kitchen. The kettle, boiled dry and blackened, sat on the stove.

"Huh! I wonder . . ." He passed his hand close over the stove, which was no longer more than warm, then gingerly touched the kettle. "Strange. Stilfos should be here, but apparently he hasn't been for some while. And it's very unlike him to leave the kettle on when he goes out, except on the sideburner."

By that time Reeno had scanned the kitchen and found nothing. Not even the normal, mixed and blurred residuum of daily life. Nothing. Which told him that someone had scanned the place clean. It also told him that something had happened here which someone didn't want known. And why would anyone do that unless they anticipated an investigation?

While violence was rare in Almeon, there were those anti-Almaeic speeches to consider.

His eyes went to Brokols, who looked troubled, uncertain. Maybe, Brokols was thinking, maybe he's at the Bostelli's downstairs. Maybe he'll be back soon.

He led Reeno out onto the roof garden, where they sat down to watch the sunset. Reeno felt uneasy. After two or three minutes, Brokols turned to him.

"I have a bad feeling about my man. Stilfos. As if something's happened to him."

"I have the same feeling," Reeno said.

"Do you think we should call in the authorities, with nothing really to tell them? They might very well consider me overwrought. Which in fact I may be. But it occurs to me . . . there's growing sentiment against Almeon, you know."

"I suggest we do bring in the police," Reeno said. "We have some very good men on our force."

"Well then." Brokols got up. "I'll . . ." He stopped and bent over, then straightened. "I stepped on something," he said, and went inside. The adept followed. In the light, Brokols looked at what he'd stepped on. The adept felt a quick pulse of excitement—his own, not Brokols'.

"What is it?" he asked, knowing.

Brokols handed it to him. "It looks like a sourdrupe pit. See the wrinkles on it?"

Reeno nodded. "A sourdrupe, without a doubt." He looked questioningly at Brokols.

"It's not mine; I'd never discard a pit on the floor. Stilfos wouldn't either, and he doesn't like sourdrupes anyway."

"Then someone's been here. Come with me."

Locking the door behind them, Brokols went with the Hrummean down the stairs and up the street to the thoroughfare, where they soon found rikkshas and rode to the Fortress. There Reeno took him to the central police offices. At his insistence, the duty sergeant sent a man to fetch the inspector of detectives, an adept.

While they waited, Brokols and Venreeno went up on the wall to watch the sunset. They didn't talk much. Surprisingly soon, the inspector came up.

"Ambassador Brokols," Reeno said, "this is Inspector Travvos Disotto. Inspector, Ambassador Brokols."

"I'm very glad to meet you," Brokols said as they shook hands.

"My pleasure." The inspector turned to Reeno. "What have you called me for?"

"Actually," Brokols put in, "the problem is mine," then went on to describe what they'd found and hadn't found. When Brokols was done, Disotto stood looking thoughtful. Actually he was examining the thoughts and mental pictures that Reeno displayed for him.

Brokols' apartment had been scanned off: kitchen, garden, hall, stairwell. Conceivably it could have been done by other than an adept, but hardly so thoroughly. There was also the information that Brokols knew nothing of the adept powers, and was not to learn of them.

Brokols interrupted. "Something just occurred to me. It must have been someone Stilfos knew; he'd never let a stranger in. An emergency could have come up downstairs, at the Bostelli's; he could have gone there. He's—been keeping company with their cook."

Disotto nodded, though not in agreement. "Take me there. I need to examine the site."

Before they left, the inspector belted on a shortsword, which didn't soothe Brokols' nerves. Some minutes later a police carriage let them out across the street from the apartment house. "I'm on the top floor," Brokols said.

They were crossing the narrow stone pavement when the inspector stopped, his attention on something there. On minor streets like this one there were no raised concrete sidewalks, but paving blocks set on end formed a low curb four feet from the buildings, setting off a narrow walkway for pedestrians. Disotto walked a few feet along it, intent, then stood frowning. Reeno relaxed his attention till he picked it up too. A carriage had been parked here. Two . . . two men, youths, had . . . his scalp crawled, and gooseflesh spread over his body.

"Lord Brokols," said Disotto, "have you had any visitors at your apartment lately?"

"Why, yes. Yes, I have."

"Who were they?"

"The mirj. And a friend of his he called Karrlis."

Disotto nodded, a decisive headjerk. "Mr. Venreeno, I have something to check on. I recommend you spend the night with Lord Brokols." He started across the narrow street to the carriage. "Constable, leave your saber with Mr. Venreeno. I want him armed tonight."

Venreeno had followed Disotto, a troubled Brokols a stride behind. The ambassador watched, sober-faced, as Venreeno accepted the constable's weapon. Then Disotto removed his shortsword from his belt and handed it sheathed to Brokols. "You'd best have one too," he said. "And I'll send some men to watch from outside." He climbed into the carriage then and it drove off.

As Brokols and Venreeno went up the stairs, Venreeno was re-examining the impression he'd gotten of two youths carrying/dragging what seemed to be a dead man. The impression was too vague to make identifications from, for him at any rate. No doubt one of them liked sourdrupes though, and very probably one was an adept.

Brokols was thinking that Disotto was certainly decisive, but he wondered about the man's competence. He'd behaved strangely in the street, almost seeming to sniff the air, then seemed to come to some conclusion out of nothing.

* * *

Later, while drinking satta with Venreeno on the roof, Brokols found himself listening for Stilfos to come in with a perfectly good reason for having been gone, and outside of the kettle and a little embarrassment, there'd been no harm done. But after a bit he could find no good reason to sit up longer, and went to bed disappointed, to worry for an hour or more before he found a restless sleep.

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