The Pearl Crucible - A Dardana Fenek Mystery - EPILOGUE
and fin
On Onesday next, the repairs to my office were complete. The mess was cleaned up, my landlord was paid off, and our little cozy bedroom/kitchen/bathroom cleaned up. My terminal, which Caruano Gatto’s men had hurled out the window, was replaced at Caruano’s expense—he was apologetic—and a new ice-box put in the back room. All my trampled books were reshelved, and everything made as neat, straight, and orderly as two tank-girls, one lately manumitted, could ask for. Efan even returned my pepperbox to me for its hidden compartment (“A woman should have a secret,” he said), but he strictly forbade me from using it unless I had no other hope and could not reach him.
I did not plan on having any such cases. I was through with aristoi, with runaway-catching, and any of those sorts of things. Since I would eat at his table or in a restaurant with him (Ah, Sarangarel’s!) much of the time, I hardly had to make a fortune; he gets half my profits anyway, so I may as well consume them right back.
Barsina had organized all of my paper files and put them back in the desk, so I sat, enjoying a cigarette, as trim and proper a woman as I could be. Proper—there’s that word again, but it’s hard to shed and a hard city, as I’ve said, for a woman to earn a living in, especially when half her money goes to her patron.
So it’s best to look sharp.
I heard a voice in the little outer room, and Barsina’s as well, and she came in and she said, “There’s a woman to see you, Miss.”
“Well, show her in,” I said, poising my smoke on the edge of the ashtray.
“As Miss pleases.”
She ushered her in. “Miss,” Barsina addressed me, “Miss Natrona Zavadil.” She half-raised her left little finger and thumb prettily—our code for her class: Mercanter.
“Miss Zavadil,” I said, rising momentarily and indicating the client chair.
She was older, prosperous-looking, and stout with middle age. She did not come with an attending girl, so she probably wasn’t too wealthy, or her husband wasn’t. She didn’t have widow’s ribbons, but she had a red glass starburst brooch: draper’s guild.
She looked around, skeptical, and frowned at the silver twist of tobacco smoke. “You’re a private inspector, then, Miss Fenek?”
“Yes, Miss Zavadil.”
“Is this legal?”
I fingered my bee brooch. “I am a client of Efan Mardonios, the Ensign-Captain of the Night-Market commissariat,” I said archly. “I am entirely legal.”
“Ah. Well, I have an important case,” she said, “and I have heard you are recommended. You take important cases?”
I smiled, but Barsina, her notebook out and stylus ready, darted me a warning look.
“I do,” I said grandly.
“Are you good dealing with men?”
“I am.”
“Good, because he has a terrible temper.”
“Does he?”
“Yes,” she said, grim.
“So,” I said, trying not to imagine a man with a terrible temper, “what has he done?”
“Cheated me!”
“Oh?”
“Yes,” she said. “He is my butcher, and I begin to think he has been dishonest with his weights, and I wish someone to investigate.”
“I see! Deep waters. I think,” I said, settling back, “that I can assist. Don’t you imagine, Barsina?”
“Yes, Miss,” she said, relieved. “Miss is excellent with important cases such as these.”
( … This way to Chapter Forty-three part 3 … ) ( … This way to Chapter One part 1 … )
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