The Pearl Crucible - A Dardana Fenek Mystery - BRIGADIER DENIZ (Part 1)

(Chapter 41 Part One)

My wandering gaze found my wrist and his hand and a long gray iron spike, and a hammer caught in the sun’s light. It arched to the highest point before the downswing, and he looked like the smith at the estate forge in Helioshad. A wheel of birds rotated around it.

I wondered what would happen next.

“Stop!” I heard a voice roar. “Stop! Stop!” Three rolls of thunder, a gun discharged in the air. “Stop the executions!”

The man on me cursed and dropped his hammer, sitting back on his heels. I could see his mouth open, astonished. The birds scattered.

The crashing shots tore apart the golden haze across my mind, and I blinked, suddenly seeing milling human figures. The deep thrum and purr of the drug in me relaxed its claws. Somewhere beyond the sparkling roar in my ears, I heard people shouting, even screaming in surprise. Other men in green and khaki ran by, arms waving, but their words were gabble. Bailiffs, I thought, looking at their conical black leather headgear. Hello, bailiffs …

I relaxed, lying on my back, comfortable, waiting for whatever would happen next. Nothing seemed to matter, and I wasn’t going anywhere it didn’t seem.

What am I doing here? I suddenly realized that I didn’t know, and at a great remove, I felt my brow furrow as I pondered.

There was that Miss Thelumene again, screaming at the man next to me, striking at him and pointing at me, and I wondered what was wrong with her. Pale Alkimila stood behind: white dress, snow shawl, red nails, red sandals, black hair, very queenly. Another bailiff appeared from somewhere, pushed them back.

Then, flying through them all like a blue-eyed, brown-haired angel …

“Oh, Miss!”

Her hands were on either side of my face as she knelt by me.

“Barsnjo,” I said, pleased. “Where did you come from?”

I tried to touch her as she kissed me without stopping.

“Oh,” I said. “Wish I could hug you, but I’m tied to this thing, love.”

“Oh, Miss, what have they done to you?”

“I think they did things,” I said. “But they have me loaded with seda-t so I feel kind of funny … ”

Her fingers undid a brooch of brass, a hard-working bee, and then her shawl drifted down over me, cutting off the sun and breeze.

“Barsnjo,” I said. “Your shawl will get dirty.”

“Miss is naked,” she said. “Miss is hurt.”

“Am I?”

“Very.”

“Is that bad?” I wondered.

“It is here, Miss.”

Miss Thelumene was there again, and Miss Alkimila. “That one! That one too, execute her too!” Alkimila screamed. “She was in my house when my father was found!”

A bailiff held Barsina by the arm, pulling her from me, but then, ah then—

“Ensign-Captain,” I said. He knelt by me, his hand on my cheek. “Dardana,” he said, “are you all right?”

“Maybe?”

“She’s hurt, Sir,” Barsina said.

“I see that,” he said. He sounded angry. I wondered how bad it was.

His concern charmed me. “Oh, Sir—”

“Efan,” he said. “Efan.”

“Oh, look,” I said. “It’s the column-commander.—Hello, column-commander … ”

It was, and the chief prosecutor, a tall, thin man in epistarchal whites with a brown meandros pattern on the edges of his robes, the thin man flapping his hands at Barsina and peering at Efan.

Efan straightened, saluted the column-commander, and nodded at the prosecutor. “Sir.”

“What’s the meaning of this?” I tried to see his face, but it was like a face in dreams: you cannot make it clear no matter how you try.

“A citizen has come to make a denunciation,” Efan said. He still seemed very far.

So so so so so so tall, I thought, and then, “You’re pretty, Barsina. Have I ever told you?”

“Thank you, Miss. You’ve mentioned it.”

“A citizen’s denunciation that will show that the servants are not responsible for Petro Fortunato’s death,” Mardonios continued.

“Hello, column-commander,” I called again. The man glanced down at me with contempt, which wounded me. Since I had played cards with him, he should be friendlier. “Who?” he said to Efan.

The ringing in my ears was waning, Barsina had freed herself from the bailiff somehow … she struggled with the ropes on my arms.

“Barsnjo,” I said, “you shouldn’t … I think they want me tied to this.”

“No more today, Miss,” she said. “How much seda-t did they give you, Miss?”

“Ohhhh, I don’t know … ” I said. “Some? Lots?—Yes, lots. And wine, Barsnjo,” I laughed. “Lots of nice wine … Be a girl and ask if they can give me lots more.”

“No, Miss.”

I thought about that. Barsina had never said no before. Maybe I was rubbing off on her.

“Sir,” said Efan, “Miss Herme Scyros is here for the denunciation.”

Herme and her daughter seemed to swim out of the air from somewhere.

“Miss Scyros!” said the column-commander. “This is hardly a place for a woman. You should be watching from behind the ropes.”

“I appreciate your concern,” she said, touching him on the sleeve, “but I’m a professional, sir, and used to such things.”

I smiled at them and fluttered my fingers. “Thank you for coming, Miss!” I said.

Herme did not deign to look at me, but Orestia examined me with such a hungry look that it unsettled me … which was the first uncomfortable feeling I could remember having had … well … ever …? When did I get here?

It quickly led to more. I suddenly understood I was tied to the crucifix, and that I felt battered and ill.

“Barsina, I feel sick.”

She struggled harder with the ropes, then stopped and helped me as I vomited up red wine, wiping my face.

A girl nearby started crying, loudly, jagged.

“Jaegro, what is the meaning of this?”

I recognized him from the journals: Brigadier Deniz, Councilor and Director of the Ministry of Militia. He stepped over me with his midnight-colored boots as if I did not exist. He is a tall man, Deniz, as dark of face and hand as I, with thick, short coils of black and gray hair, and emerald eyes

Column-Commander Jaegro gestured at Efan, who saluted. “Sir, Miss Scyros has a complaint.”

“Does she,” he said. “And you interrupted an execution so she could complain?”

“Sir.”

And into my sight through the fading fogs and the sudden piercing of hot, clean morning light, the scarlet girdle and the white linen of Solene Zenithar. A girl held an umbrella over her—that Zenaja again. Solene looked like she wanted to come closer, but seemed reluctant. Alkimila and Thelumene were next to her, their girls clustered behind, and their eyes were filled with fury and another thing I had not seen before—fear.

This began to interest me. The crowd—there was a crowd—along the road was noisy and confused. The crying among the prisoners grew as the drug receded. Silly bints, I thought, but then realized that they had less idea than I did what was going on. For all they knew, the nailing was about to begin.

The nailing!

Memory swelled around me and I knew why I was there.

Oh, I thought. What if it does?

Fear returned, and I coughed and spat more wine.

We should have all been nailed up and the crosses in position by now. The screaming would have been—was going to be?—pitiful, even with the seda-t. I’ve never seen it done, but I’ve seen the results, and it takes days, and it isn’t pretty. Seda-t dulls the pain, so you live through it; the antishocks and antibiotics keep you going long enough to die of agonized exhaustion and slow suffocation a couple of days later.

“I’d prefer to get on with this,” Deniz said, checking his tablet. “Jaegro? Let’s begin.”

“Brigadier,” Scyros said smoothly, clasping his hand and putting her hand on his chest, “will you assist me? I’m only a woman, sir, and I wish justice.”

“Can it wait until afterward?” he said, reluctant, but she smiled prettily, which made me nauseous enough to vomit again.

“It cannot,” she said. “An attempt was made to ruin my ventures, Brigadier, and damage my reputation. I demand recompense.”

“What have these girls to do with that?”

“I wish them as the recompense.” Her eyes were as wide as any servant girl begging sweetmeats.

“Ensign-Captain?”

“There is evidence,” Efan said.

“Evidence of what? Of whom are we speaking?”

“Miss Alkimila Fortunato, Brigadier,” Herme Scyros said, gesturing languidly.

Alkmila leaped as though she’d been stung.

“I wish, no, need, recompense, and punishment for her behavior. I am,” Herme added demurely, putting her shawl over her hair and looking through it at the tall Brigadier, “of course, offended by the crimes that I have heard she has committed. I think you, sirs,” she murmured, lowering her deadly eyes, “should be as well.”

Dear Lady, she can almost use her voice on a man, I thought.

The Brigadier bristled and beckoned the column-commander and the prosecutor aside. They stood over Barsina and me as though I was so much meat strapped to a pole. “What is this, Jaegro?” Deniz said.

“The evidence is clear,” Jaegro said. “But socially undesirable. Prosecutor?”

“It is scandalous,” the prosecutor said, thin and nasal. “And to be kept silent.”

Deniz grunted. “I’m aware. What’s to be done?”

“I’m for execution,” Jaegro said.

“It would make sense. Prosecutor?”

I held my breath, and Barsina’s forehead and hands pressed the dirt and gravel at their feet in supplication.

“This is already becoming politics. Herme Scyros is influential,” the prosecutor said.

“So is Solene Zenithar,” Deniz said. “You buy contracts from one, rent from another, and Solene’s girls have wide eyes and ears. Who knows what they see and hear?”

“I’m aware,” Jaegro said. He lowered his voice. “Does anyone regret Fortunato’s murder?”

Deniz laughed coldly. “Efan!” he called.

“Sir?”

“How did you get involved in this?”

“Miss Scyros approached me this morning, sir.”

“Women’s theatrics.” Denis jammed his thumbs in his sash. “All right, damn it. Efan, Jaegro, clear this mob scene off the road.”

“And the prisoners?” Efan said.

“The bailiffs will take them back to the Palace of Justice. Odds they’ll end out here again in a couple of days anyway, I suppose. Damned waste of time.”

“Sir—”

“What, Efan?”

Mardonios pointed at me. “This one. I own her contract.”

“Then what the hell is she doing here?”

“There was an error, sir.” He was all innocence, my ensign-captain.

Deniz furrowed his brow. “An error?”

I thought I detected a certain amount of disbelief in his voice.

“Yes, sir.”

“And you didn’t bother to mention it before this morning?”

“Sir.” Efan straightened. “I have regard for militia’s reputation.” He saluted.

“Temes take it, that’s damned decent of you, lad—all right, have your bedgirl and, damn it, get this mob out of here!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Miss Scyros?”

“Brigadier?” she trilled.

“This will be decided at the syndex funeral.”

“Most kind, Brigadier,” she said. She committed a gesture I did not think possible for her: she curtseyed, and her daughter as well. She gave me a slow side look as she withdrew and a slight upturn of her lip, nowhere near a smile, but not unlike one. Orestia, contrariwise, looked me up and down with rapacious interest, then eyed frightened Alkmila and Thelumene significantly.

“You! You’re Fortunato’s daughter?” Beniz demanded.

Alkmila stuttered and looked around to discover Miss Thelumene trying to scuttle away and was being prevented by a militia officer I did not know. “I—I, sir—”

“Efan, ensure she’s detained if Miss Scyros has a large enough complaint to interrupt an execution. And the other one. I don’t want them slipping away. No errors, eh?”

“None, sir.”

“And I want to talk to Zenithar.”

“Very good, sir.”

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( … This way to Chapter Forty part 3 … ) … ( … This way to Chapter Forty-one part 2 … )

… ( … This way to Chapter One part 1 … )

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