Blightcross: A Novel (7 page)

Capra blinked for a moment. “Maybe we are not the types of people to offer you these... services, as you call them.”

“Word gets around. Your little eviction of a certain korganum addicted magic wielder did impress your client.”

That? It had been nothing to gloat about. And they had nearly been killed.

“Go on,” Dannac said.

This time, she didn't want this woman's first impression to be that of a subservient female. “Yes, please do.”

“At the north end of Orvis Dunes, there is a book shop. I think we ought to go there if we are to discuss business.”

Capra exchanged a glance with Dannac and said, “Can you at least tell us the nature of your problem?”

The woman invited herself to sit beside Dannac in their booth. “My name is Irea. I am a patroness around here.”

Dannac grunted and raised an eyebrow.

“I support many of the artists here in Orvis Dunes. I am a collector, you see.”

The woman must have been around Capra's age, yet sported dense curls and a diagonally-cut dress of rich colours Capra had only seen old royalty wear on the continent.

“Artists? Is that what this street is?” Dannac asked. “The corner of the room where all of the workers have shoved the artists to keep them out of the way?” He chuckled.

Irea made a condescending nod and looked to Capra. “You are one of those war resisters I heard about.”

Capra suddenly felt naked, and snapped her hands to her neck. It was too late, but she still didn't want anyone to see her tattoo. “I...”

“I am not going to call you a coward and turn you in. This is Orvis Dunes, after all.”

“I think I have misunderstood you...”

Irea gestured to the quiet young men sitting in the other booths. “On this street, you would be hard put to find someone who didn't support your choice.”

“Oh. Is that so?”

“Yes. And that is why I speak to you and not your boorish friend. We love what your country has done for women. I am sure it will spread in a few generations, even to a place like this.”

“Wait, you love that they're forcing us to fight?”

“No, we like that your country has destroyed the gender barrier.”

Capra shrugged. To her it was just an historical afterthought. It had always been that way.

She heard Dannac sigh and guzzle his stein of small beer. “What do you need? I won't take any more evictions. Not in this place, anyway.”

“No, of course not. I actually am doing this on behalf of a friend of mine. A brilliant man...” Irea gazed into the dimness beyond their booth.

Capra waited a few seconds, and when Irea failed to continue, she cleared her throat.

“Yes. Well, his name is Noro Helverliss. Perhaps you have heard of him.”

Both shook their heads.

“One of the greatest minds produced in this century. He is on the leading edge of all things—the sciences, the arts—to the point of becoming the enemy of the oligarchy in both the government and academic circles.”

Dannac yawned and pushed around the remaining food on his plate, but Capra became absorbed in the woman's passionate tone. She leaned forward on her elbows, instantly reminded of tales from the Little Nations, of persecuted genius and doomed romance, escapes by sailing ship to unknown islands...

“He is depressed, you see.”

Like a bottle of fine wine dumped into a drain, Capra's excitement became a confusion.

“So,” Dannac said. “You want us to help him not be sad?” He laughed, shook his head, and stood.

Capra clapped her hand on his shoulder, and he sat once more.

“If you would let me finish,” Irea said, and from this point on acted as though there were a wall separating herself from Dannac. “Till Sevari has finally snapped the last of what few strings of sanity kept his mind together. He has stolen one of Noro's paintings. The finest work of art ever created... all because it threatens this order he has created.”

“What order? This is chaos.”

“Come with me to meet the artist, at least. He is the most intelligent man you will ever meet.”

The man sounded fascinating, but Capra still had to think of Alim and the army she had deserted, and the officials she needed to bribe for her freedom. “We won't continue until you give us an idea of what you can afford.”

It was as if Capra had lapsed into an obscure Valoii dialect nobody had heard in three centuries. Irea cocked her head and watched them with blank eyes. Finally, she said, “Money? Of course. Helverliss can afford any price you name.”

Dannac looked sceptical. “Yet he somehow finds himself in need of this kind of help? Are all the rich here not involved in the oligarchy?”

“Not all, sir. Helverliss has much support in certain continental circles. Most of his work sells well over there.”

“But,” Capra said, “why does he stay here? If the continent is more accepting of his ideas, I hardly see why he should live in Naartland.”

“That is another problem entirely. I am sure he will tell you these things if he believes them to be necessary. Would you at least come meet him? Why don't I give you each some kind of... token to show my honesty.”

“Such as?”

Irea glanced at Capra's chest. “Well, I was going to give you this amulet of mine—it is a one of a kind piece, but I see you already wear a much more unique piece and that my gift would only insult it.”

“A hand-cannon.”

Both women fell silent. Dannac was eased back on the bench, arms folded.

“Get me one of these new devices, and we will talk.”

Here he goes again.
Another of his impossible conditions reserved for clients he wanted to exclude.

Capra shot him a stern look. “No, I think that's too much to ask. Some better lodging, or a new set of clothes would be more than—”

Irea stood. “A hand-cannon? I had thought you would be more imaginative, my friend. I shall return in three-quarters of an hour with one hand-cannon, and appropriate attire for the lady.” With that, she flashed them a self-satisfied smirk and cantered out of the bistro.

“I want to see what this is about,” Capra said, once Irea was gone. “Don't discount it just yet.”

“If you want to waste time, fine. But this woman is not going to find a hand-cannon. At least not in less than an hour.”

He was right—even her former regiment had barely started to phase in the new weapons. The woman was rich, sure, but could Irea really find such a valuable and rare weapon on an hour's notice?

It didn't matter. Whatever happened, Capra intended to pursue it. Dannac could do what he wanted—it wouldn't be the first time they had split for a job or two. When later they met up and he brought more bruises than money with him, she'd have a good laugh at him.

A half-hour passed. For the next fifteen minutes, Capra nursed another small beer. She slammed it on the table, empty, just as the clock on the wall struck the hour. There was still no sign of Irea.

Dannac rose. “There are better jobs in a city like this. I'll go find one.”

“Suit yourself. I'm going to wait a bit longer.”

He strode to the exit, but collided with a patron who was on the way in. It was Irea, and in her hand she held a large rosewood box, and clothes hung from her shoulder.

“Sorry. I believe this is yours,” Irea said, and thrust the box into Dannac's chest.

Dannac gazed at the box incredulously. Capra just sat back and smiled.

He returned to the table with the box.

“Go ahead, open it,” Capra said.

He slowly pried open the lid. Inside, lying on a bed of red velvet and smelling of new oil, was a peculiar contraption consisting of a wooden handle and precision-machined barrel, complete with etchings of elaborate vines.

A hand-cannon.

At last, Alim stood at the call of the receptionist. He flattened his hair and tugged out the wrinkles in his clothes. It had been a long two days.

A guard, dressed in a blue double-breasted tunic with a wide leather strap across his shoulder, tapped a stud on the wall. The heavy, riveted metal doors creaked open. “Sevari will see you now.”

Alim saluted the guard and strode in. Facing the window, Sevari stood behind a grey steel desk. There was a single green gas lamp on the desk. Strange symbols decorated the office, and Alim had the strange feeling of having walked into an Ehzeri's tent.

“Mr. Sevari,” Alim said.

“How goes it in Mizkov?” Sevari continued to stare out the window.

What was the protocol concerning this man? Alim didn't even know Sevari's official title. “It is going well. Your... eminence.”

Sevari chuckled. “The people just call me their leader. I am not born into this, or appointed, after all. I do not deserve that kind of pedestal.”

Somewhat disarmed by Sevari's candour, Alim edged closer. “I need your help in apprehending a wanted enemy of the state.”

“And an enemy of Mizkov is an enemy of mine. You will have my full cooperation.”

“If you could just alert your police force—”

Sevari spun around to face him. His face was hollow and bony, and a trail of dark spots dotted his receding hairline. “Police force? My good man, this is Blightcross. We have no police force.”

“No police force? But I saw uniformed men guarding your public transit stations.”

“Those are real soldiers, Alim. I've cut out the middlemen. Blightcross is going to be impenetrable, you just wait. No more will we need to rely on Tamarck for protection...”

That, Alim remembered, had been one of Sevari's strengths in gaining popular support. It reminded him of his own country, although something seemed different about this place. “Good. Then you will alert your army to my situation?”

“Of course. In fact, I am going to give you a squad of your own to command in your search. I cannot just sit back while some agitator threatens production. These things must be dealt with swiftly.”

Alim nodded.

“The world will become envious of Blightcross very soon, friend. If word somehow gets out that my district harbours dissenters like this Capra Jorassian and her terrorist companion, it would ruin us.” Sevari dropped into his chair, and motioned for Alim to do the same. “The Combined Fuel Corporation of Blightcross sent me a dire warning against that kind of thing. The Industry Corporation is uneasy as well.”

“I am not sure I understand, Leader.”

“Oh, yes. You Valoii have not yet made the change to my system. Well, they are the cartels, you see. I have men from my government in each, and it makes for a harmonious economy and society. But it is these artists, you see. They keep spreading dangerous ideas. I have had to silence a few of them. Some... some are much too popular for me to deal with swiftly. And, with all of the immigration going on, the corporations are increasingly nervous that we might be importing dangerous ideas. Accidentally, of course. But one does need workers.”

Alim's eyes began to glaze. None of this mattered, and all he wanted was to rush back into the streets to find Jorassian.

“But this is a good thing, my friend. I will put in a request to run a series of articles in the weekly about this brave Valoii soldier who has come to aid us in tracking down dangerous dissidents. The people will be very interested in the story. You Valoii soldiers have a certain reputation.”

He nodded and did not disagree with the portrayal. It was, after all, extremely important. Justice knew no boundaries, and he took pride in being sent to the underworld and back if need be to ensure that Jorassian would receive what she deserved. “I would like to resume my search as soon as possible.”

“Yes, yes.” He pressed a stud on his desk. Thirty seconds later, a uniformed man stepped in, saluted. “Colonel, please arrange a squad to go on loan to this Valoii representative. Give him your best.”

The Colonel's stance shifted. He did not even glance at Alim. “Leader?”

“This is important, Colonel. We have a rogue war resister loose in the city. This joint operation will engage the public. They will feel strong when they see us working together with the Valoii to protect this refinery.”

Is that where he was? He had assumed it was the palace, but, remembering another domed, more ornate structure a few blocks away, it now made more sense.
That
was the palace—the golden minarets, the intricate tiles. This was the refinery. When he had told the transport worker that he needed to see Till Sevari, the worker had just handed him a ticket and told him which train to take. The stop had practically led straight into the refinery's courtyard.

So Sevari's office was in the refinery clock tower, and not the palace.

Strange. But Sevari was proving to be far from the average leader.

Sevari turned his back to them. “War is terrible, Colonel. I think you can agree to this.”

The Colonel made a noncommittal gesture with his head.

Sevari faced them again. “And so, a war resister is the worst kind of criminal, see? We have only learned in the last three decades that refusing to fight only condemns the rest of society to more suffering. They lack a certain spirit you see? It is no wonder that our criminal is a woman. Only the male energies have the power for war and virtue.”

“Yes, Leader.”

“This will be the... the tone of this operation. Do you understand, Colonel?”

“Completely. I will send twelve of my highest trained soldiers to the clock tower within the hour. And I will make sure to dictate this story to a journalist. In the proper tone, of course.”

Sevari waved the man out. “It is all coming together. The spirits are with us, I can feel it.”

Alim's ears perked at the statement. “Sir?”

“The worldspirits, Alim.”

There was an uneasy silence.

“Come now, there is no need to be offended. I am not religious. But the worldspirits are moving us into our destiny. That is not religion, it is... science. It is philosophy. A buried knowledge of which only full disclosure will allow us to advance.”