Beneath an Opal Moon (20 page)

“Not yet it doesn't. But at least we have a starting point.”

“You mean the Senhora?”

“That is exactly what I mean.”

“But she will tell us nothing.”

“Then we shall just have to find a way of making her talk, won't we?”

“On the other hand, if Rohja successfully finds out about where that other ship docked, we might not need the Senhora's help at all,” Chiisai pointed out.

Moichi was about to tell her that life never seemed to be that simple when he heard a hissing sound from within the shadows of the dense foliage and he turned, one hand on the hilt of his sword. Just above and to one side of the fountain, he saw the vague outline of a human head. He and Chiisai rose and went closer, standing beside the fountain. He saw the face clearly then and recognized those eyes as the ones regarding him from behind the sliding door in the Seguillas y Oriwara house.

“Senhor,” she breathed, and he nodded. “I could not help but overhear what you told Chimmoku. Do you know what has happened to Aufeya?”

“As I told the Senhora,” Moichi said. “She has been abducted.”

“Oh, Dihos!” The young woman's cry was choked off as he brought her hands across her mouth.

“What do you know of this?” Moichi demanded. The woman seemed to shrink back into the shadows, murmuring.

“Let me try,” Chiisai whispered to him and then, to the woman, “What is your name, senhora?”

“Tola, senhora. I am Aufeya's doncella.”

Chiisai turned her head. “Maid,” Moichi whispered.

“I am Chiisai,” she said. “And this is Moichi. We are friends of Aufeya.” She pointed for emphasis. “Moichi saved her life in Sha'angh'sei.”

Tola stared from Chiisai to Moichi. “Is this so?”

Moichi nodded.

“How—how does she look?” Tola asked.

Both Chiisai and Moichi looked bewildered. “She was fine,” Moichi said. “But you must have seen her before she left.”

“Yes.” Now it was Tola's turn to look puzzled. “But that was many seasons ago. No one here has seen her since she—she left with the Tudescan.”

“Who was that?” Chiisai asked. “What was his name?”

“Why, Hellsturm, of course.” She wrung her hands. “Oh, I knew that was an ill-omened day.”

Chiisai leaned forward, touched the doncella. “Are you certain, Tola? Aufeya
left
Corruña with this man Hellsturm.”

“Ay, yes, senhora. How could I forget? That day the Senhora told all of us, ‘As far as this house is concerned, my daughter is dead.'”

“What do you mean?” Chiisai asked.

“Dihos! I have been gone too long.
Perdóname
, I must go.”

“Wait!” Chiisai cried. But Tola was gone, darting into the trees and out the other side, using the shadows of the building to reach the far side of the plaza.

They found a smoky taverna of white adobe and blackened wood in between a barber shop and a building that was obviously a communal medical clinic; there was a long queue passing through the wide-open doors and out into the street. Inside, they could make out the shapes of several prone figures and smell the scent of various herbal-based medicaments.

The taverna was not as crowded as those in Sha'angh'sei. It was painted a brilliant white, its low ceiling banded by thick beams. One wall was taken up by an enormous stone hearth whose function was obviously ornamental, for the kitchen could be seen behind a wooden copper-topped counter.

They found an empty table. The only people near them were a pair of curas—Daluzan priests—garbed in the traditional black dresses and stiff square hats. One was quite young with rosy cheeks and a thick bulbous nose. The other, obviously older, with salt-and-pepper hair and a spade-shaped beard, was a cura of no little rank, Moichi observed, for around his neck swung the gold chain and heavy double-cross pendant, symbol of the Daluzan church.

As they sat down, a stunning waitress brought them a pot of compaña, the very fine local wine, golden in color. Moichi ordered for them while the woman poured the wine.

“Is it not interesting,” Chiisai said, after she had sipped at the cup, “that now the matter of Aufeya has been somewhat clarified and also made more complex?”

“Yes. We now know why the Senhora disavowed her to us.”

“At least it was not a lie.”

“In that sense, no. But, on the other hand, she made no attempt to aid us and I find that curious. After all, Aufeya is her daughter. Would she really prefer to see her dead rather than lift a hand to aid her?”

Chiisai shrugged. “We could debate that point all night and not reach a satisfactory conclusion.”

Moichi grinned at her as the food arrived. “You have a way of cutting right to the heart of the matter, Chiisai. I like that. Now this is what I propose. When we leave here, I will return to the Seguillas y Oriwara to find out what I can. As for you, there is yet another avenue that needs exploration. Cascaras, the Daluzan Hellsturm tortured, is from here also. Aufeya told me that he was once a trader of sorts. I would like you to follow that up.”

“But where shall I begin? I hardly know enough of Corruña yet.”

“There is a place in the center of the city, the mercado. It is a meeting place for the merchants and traders, not only of Corruña but of all Dalucia. I would suggest you start there. Perhaps someone knows where in Kintai he journeyed.”

“Hmph,” Chiisai exclaimed with mock hurt. “You just don't want me around when you interview the Senhora.”

“Whatever gave you such an extraordinary idea?”

“I saw the way you looked at her.”

“I didn't look at her in any special way,” he lied.

“I was joking, actually.” She smiled archly. “But now I wonder you've protested so vehemently.”

“On another subject,” Moichi said pointedly, “I want both of us there when we rendezvous with Rohja. So meet me at the top of Calle Córdel just before midnight.”

She nodded and began to eat.

As their conversation sputtered to a halt, Moichi was able to pick up some of what transpired between the two curas at the next table.

“—the money goes, Don Godé?” said the cura with the spade-shaped beard. “The entire western façade of the iglesia must be dismantled so that it can be enlarged. Do you suppose we can count on the Palliate for all the funds for this?” His tone was disdainful.

“But all that stained glass is so frightfully expensive,” said Don Godé, the young cura. “Surely, Don Hispete, we can devise a less expensive style in enlarging the iglesia. And the money saved could be used to help feed and clothe—”

“My dear Don Godé,” the other interrupted, heaving a great sigh as if the cares of the world were couched upon his shoulders, “have you any conception of the areas of Corruña our iglesia encompasses? These are monied parishioners, men and women of great prestige and honor. And our new iglesia must reflect this grandeur.”

“But we are taught—”

“Yes, yes. I know all that,” Don Hispete said irritably. “I was once in the Palliate seminario myself. Although, Dihos knows, it seems faraway to me now. But when you have been with us here a sufficient amount of time, you will begin to understand the complexities of running an iglesia in the Palliate.” He reached into a serving dish, plucking out a tiny boiled potato dripping with cream. He popped it into his mouth, said around it as he chewed, “What you must remember, Don Godé, out here in the field, as it were, is to forget everything you learned at the seminario.” He laughed uproariously, swallowing.

He plucked up another potato. “Come, come, my boy, surely you know I speak figuratively. But the hard truth is that life out here is much different. Books, after all, are no substitute for life, eh?” He lifted one fat forefinger. A thick gold ring gleamed, embedded in the pink flesh near its base. “Do you understand? No?” He brought a sliver of meat to his mouth, chewed on it. “I agree. It would be very nice to use the money we have so laboriously raised to aid those neediest. But reality dictates otherwise.” Grease glinted along his half-open lips. A bit of meat sat on his rounded chin, atop the curling black hairs of his thick beard. “However much our hearts tell us to do otherwise, we have a duty to the Palliate that must override such personal preferences.” He took a quick gulp of wine and belched. “We get our money from our parishioners, Don Godé. Let me tell you, it's quite a task making ends meet in these times. Oh, seasons ago it was much easier, but we have grown since then and times have changed, quite naturally. It is now a most complex business. Money makes the Palliate flourish, Don Godé, never forget that. Faith is all well and good. We serve that up and it has its place, surely. But faith will not cause the Palliate to survive and prosper. Only money can accomplish that feat.”

“But, begging your pardon, Don Hispete, our first duty is to bring solace to those in need; to show them the way toward salvation in this life. That is the miracle of the Palliate.”

“Uhm, yes.” Don Hispete broke off a haunch of seared meat at its white-and-pink socket. “But, it too is a miracle, Don Godé, what money can do for the Palliate. And without that, well”—he shrugged—“the Palliate would be able to reach no one.” He tore into the flesh with his white teeth. “Be of calm spirit, my boy,” he said. “Our work is all for the glory of Dihos.”

Fugue

The Plaza de la Pesquisa was deserted.

He stood deep within the shadows of the olive trees, having chosen a spot with excellent visibility to the east and west as well as to the north, where he could observe the Seguillas y Oriwara house undetected. He had been in this spot for some time now. No one had come in or out of the front door during that time. Four people had passed by without stopping.

He checked his other views, drew a blank and returned his attention to the big house. Doors were only one method of entrance.

With extraordinary quickness and silence, he flitted from shadow to shadow, out of the plaza. An old man went slowly past and, some time later, a young couple arm in arm, coming from the opposite direction. No one saw him.

At length, he gained the darkness of the small side street to the right of the house. The second tree in had the right configuration and he climbed it, moving out from the trunk onto a thick limb which arced inward toward the vine-covered side of the building.

He put the toe of one boot into a V notch where one vine became two and, ascertaining that it would indeed support his weight, launched himself upward. Hand over hand, his fingers grasping, tugging experimentally, he ascended.

High above the street, he became aware of the soft cries, as of thin wire whistling through the air, and, once, he felt the tentative brush of a leathery wing tip. He was not fond of bats and these seemed unusually large but, though they continued to dip near him, calling in their high-pitched peculiar speech, they posed little threat to his progress once he had acclimated himself to their swooping presence.

Along the wall he went, clinging like some nocturnal animal on a hunt, and soon he was at the corner of the house. There was some illumination here, mostly from the flickering lights around the plaza—he looked skyward: banks of stratus cloud obscured the rising moon—but he was reasonably certain he could navigate this last stretch of wall without being observed from below.

The immediate problem now, however, rose from another quarter. For the first hand- and foothold he was totally blind and would have to rely totally on touch.

Cautiously, he reached around the corner, extending his torso as far as he dared to give himself as wide a search area as possible. He felt his fingers close around a thick vine on the front of the house. He tugged. It held. He tightened his grip and let go with his feet.

Afterward, he would remember how absurdly lucky he was to have held on with his right hand, because the new vine ripped under his weight and he slammed against the side of the building, his face scraping against the ivy as he slid downward. He let go with his left hand and swung for a moment, supported by just one handhold. Gravity dragged at him, beckoning him down to the street below.

He used the toes of his boots to stop his swinging and, pressing his chest against the side of the house, searched for another vine along the front. Found it and used it. This time it held and, within breathless moments, he was swinging onto the right-hand balcony which framed the shuttered second-story window.

He crouched on the strips of wrought iron for a moment, feeling quite vulnerable in the light. In addition, he noted from this vantage point that the balcony was more decorative than functional. If it was not meant to hold this heavy a weight-He reached out a dirk and insinuated its point into the corner seam of the wooden shutter. Found the simple metal latch and flipped it upward.

Slipped into the room beyond, pulling the shutters to behind him.

He found himself in a smallish room with a high down bed and an ornately carved wooden dresser above which hung an outsized oval mirror framed in lacquered bamboo. A bamboo rocking chair stood immobile in one corner as if awaiting its master's return. The room was scented faintly and a lamp was lit on a small table at bedside. This in itself was peculiar, for the room had a deserted air, despite the obvious attempts to make it seem otherwise.

In three strides he had crossed the room and put his ear against the door. Too thick to hear anything. Cautiously, he opened it a centimeter at a time. Hallway with a curving balustrade overlooking what he took to be the first-floor hallway.

He went out, standing quite still. He could hear the murmur of voices, echoing slightly, and he knelt, peering through the wooden bars. The Senhora Seguillas y Oriwara was standing at the front door, talking to Chimmoku. Apparently he was about to depart, for he was wrapped in a dark cloak.

“—as quickly as possible.” He heard her voice drift up to him. “And for the sake of Dihos, make certain he does not follow you back.”