1: The Great Detective

Jon opened his eyes and stared into the soft darkness of his curtained four-poster. He mentally inventoried the things around him, to remind himself of where he was.

The bed curtains were woven from fibers found in the seed pods of a vine that grew in the tops of the enormous banian trees of West Palmurba. Thick yet light, they muffled sound but let fresh air pass through. They were faintly iridescent, and they smelled faintly of petrichor. They were fabulously expensive. Jon’s bed curtains were worth more than some houses in the sleepy town of Nordarosso, where his own house stood like a rose among boxwoods.

The pillows that cradled Jon’s head were… silk… of some kind. He couldn’t remember. He only remembered that the curtains were Palmurban because the flowers of that vine looked like little cat heads, and he thought they were funny. His mind’s eye roamed over the sheets, the counterpane, his robe, his slippers, the padded tester with its arabesque embroidery. All rare, all expensive, all beautiful, and all very, very soft. Being in his bed was liking being cradled by a warm cloud. Or a womb. One could not help but sleep there.

He could stay in that bed all day. He could stay in it for ten days. He could stay in it until he starved to death. No one would disturb him. As he lay in the dense comfort, he was tempted.

Jon opened the curtains and stepped out into a bedroom that was as stark as the bed was opulent. Aside from the bed, the room’s only furnishings were a minimalist wardrobe and a bureau, both cuboid, both stained white. Morning light came in through an unadorned round window. A bare lightbulb hung from a wire in the ceiling.

He stretched, touched his toes. Twelve hours in the bed had left him feeling completely refreshed, as it always did, as was its purpose. He put his palms on the floor, then lifted his feet and stood on his hands. He took a deep, slow breath, then pushed himself into the air and landed on his feet again.

A brass speaking tube protruded from the wall next to the door. Jon walked over and spoke into it.

“Bitali!” he called.

“Yes, sir?” the tube answered.

“Clothes. Outfit one.”

“Yes sir.”

Jon silently counted. He was not impatient, only curious about how long his servant would take to assemble the requested outfit from the hundreds of articles in the upstairs closet and bring it to the bedroom. He pulled a porcelain chamber pot out of the corner and peed in it. He had barely finished when a light knock sounded on the door. “One hundred five seconds,” Jon murmured to himself.  He pushed the now-filled pot back toward the corner, then opened the door.

Bitali was a big man, average height, but thick, his neck lost in blocky shoulders. His loose uwagi did little to hide his muscles, as his short beard did little to hide his scars. He stood in the hallway in a half bow, his meaty hands holding out a stack of folded garments, topped by a pair of suede slippers.

Wealthy men were typically dressed by their servants, and Bitali would doubtless have been happy to do this. But Jon always dressed himself. This was not because Jon was modest. Jon was not modest. It was because, while Bitali could do whatever he was explicitly taught to do, he had no intuition for aesthetics. He would only be able to dress Jon by following Jon’s specific instructions, and that seemed like a pointless complication.

Jon took the clothes.

“Thank you, Bitali,” Jon said. “Has Anna arrived yet?”

“Yes, sir.” 

“Good. Offer her breakfast.”

Bitali bowed. Jon closed the door.

Jon moved to the wardrobe and opened it. There were no clothes inside. Instead it contained shelves with an assortment of cosmetics, combs, oils, scents, and small weapons. Its entire back wall was a mirror, as were the inner surfaces of each door. These mirrors were bordered with small lights that switched on as the doors opened.

Jon dropped his robe to the floor and stood naked before the mirrors. Like everything else he owned, his body was an instrument tailored for specific uses. He examined it critically. There was not an ounce of fat on it, but neither was there an excess of muscle. It was a body trained for speed, for dodging blows rather than blocking them, for striking with precision rather than with force. He flexed and watched muscles flow under skin tanned by tropical sun. Jon dimly recalled a time when he had taken pride in his body, but now he regarded it with little more affection than the clothes he covered it with.

Outfit one was studiously neutral. It subtly communicated wealth, but no personality. Medium gray trousers with an uwagi of darker gray, a sky blue undergarment, and a black sash with complicated gold embroidery. The subdued hues of the rest of the outfit drew attention to the golden threads of the sash. One wondered if they were really gold, and how much an embroidery of golden threads might cost.

He put the clothes on, carefully, but not fussily. He combed his hair and bound it into a simple ponytail, neat, but not fashionable. He selected a single-shot breakaway pistol from the shelf of weapons and concealed it in his sash. If all went well, he would need it later in the day.

* * *

Anna en Koldom had not wanted breakfast, as Jon had known she would not. The vicarious offer had been a formality, as she knew, as he knew she knew, a reminder that their relationship was based on formalities, that they were not friends.

For Jon’s convenience, Anna had a small office on the ground floor of the house. Unlike the upstairs, the ground floor was decorated. When Jon had had the house built, he had hired a prestigious designer from Argintarbo to select the furniture, fixtures, wallpaper, and drapery according to the criterion “what will be fashionable among Royal scholars in fifteen years.” Jon found the result rather ugly–planes of chrome and bold paisley were the dominant elements–but it was unique, and that was the real point.

Anna’s office was just off the parlor. The door was open. Jon walked in.

Anna was a picture of secretarial professionalism. She sat primly behind her desk, a pencil in her hand, half a dozen ledgers open before her. Anna had auburn hair and jet black eyes, with pale skin that emphasized the color of both. Full lips complimented fullness below. She would have been a striking beauty if she had been tall. She was not tall. She wore her hair in a tight, uninteresting bun.

“Good morning, Anna,” Jon said

“Good morning, Mr. Alder. How was your vacation?”

“It was fine. How is your son?”

“Simon is fine.”

Jon nodded, concluding the ritual. He did not care how Simon was. Anna knew this. Jon knew that she knew.

Jon slouched into the single chair that stood before Anna’s desk. He had been looking forward to returning to work, but now that the moment of reentry had arrived he felt apathetic. Perhaps he had only been looking forward to the end of the vacation. He stared at the floor until Anna began shifting uncomfortably at the silence. He sighed.

“Well, to work!” he said. “What happened while I was gone?”

“To work!” Anna repeated. She drew one of the ledgers toward herself. “While you were gone there were a few non-routine items that you should know about. I’ll start with financial. You received the final payment for the Olafsen case. Thirty-three thousand gil. The Abrikota Corporation made their first royalty payment. That was twelve thousand four hundred gil. Those two payments were the only unscheduled income. Standing monthly payments were all received on time. Those totalled to twenty-seven thousand. For unscheduled expenses, the Orotarbo Mayor’s off–”

“Why does Abrikota pay me a royalty?” Jon interrupted.

Anna stared at him, her mouth frozen in the “f” from “office.” Why would he ask her that? Was this a test? Had she misheard?

“What was that, sir?” she asked.

“I said, why does Abrikota pay me a royalty?”

“Because… Because you solved a case for them. Three years ago. A competitor had stolen a prototype. It was for an agricultural machine. A wheat-harvester, I think. You located the prototype and proved who had stolen it. Instead of a fee, you demanded a percentage of whatever income Abrikota made from selling the machine. They brought it to market last year, so you started getting payments… well, now.” When Jon did not reply, she continued, “That’s what I remember. I can check the file if if–”

“No. Nevermind. What was that you were saying about Orotarbo?”

“Um, the Mayor of Orotarbo, he’s demanding his money back. Before you went on vacation, you took a case to discover who was leaking documents from his office. He paid five thousand gil up front. The deadline was three weeks ago. But, you weren’t here, so… I told him that you would reply as soon as you returned. If you dictate a reply now, I can send him a telegram at noon.”

Anna held her pencil over a blank notebook page, expecting Jon to speak at once.

“No,” Jon said.

Anna looked up at him, again wondering if she had misheard.

“No?” she asked, confusion blossoming on her brow.

“No, I will not dictate a reply.”

Anna began to say something, but stopped. Her expression hardened, confusion replaced by practiced indifference. She reminded herself that she did not really know Johannes Alder, that she was not meant to know him, that ignorance of him was intrinsic to their relationship.

“Understood,” she said. Then, “If you do not return the five thousand, then revenue for the month of Retoj is seventy-two thousand four hundred gil. Minus taxes, operating expenses, standing bribes, etc, net income is fifty-nine thousand seven hundred seventy.”

“How much is that, relatively?”

“How much is sixty thousand gil? Relatively? Uh… Well, relative to your typical monthly net, it’s about double. Relative to annual median income in the Empire, it’s about four times more.”

“So, a lot,” Jon said. Aware of how stupid he sounded, he added, “I guess I’ve gotten used to counting money in dakars.”

“Palmurban money? But you were only in Palmurba for five weeks.”

“It felt like longer.”

A moment’s silence, then Anna continued: “I’ve had the money deposited in the usual banks, using the usual couriers. I kept ten percent as gold, which I gave to Bitali. As usual, I forged your signature on all relevant documents. With those deposits, your total cash assets come to just over three million gil.”

“How much is three million gil, relatively speaking?”

“I’m not sure how to answer that. Enough to… to buy a small merchant fleet, probably. Enough to build a hundred or so houses like this one.”

“Rich, but not rich.”

“It seems rich considering that four years ago you had no cash assets at all.”

“You didn’t have any either. Four years ago, Simon was sleeping in a milk crate.”

“I’m not complaining, sir.”

“No, you never complain. You probably never complained to Eamon either.”

“Sir?”

“Never mind. Tell me about my appointments.”

Anna pushed one ledger to the side and pulled another forward.

“I’ve scheduled you three interviews for today,” she said.

“How many people applied for interviews?”

“While you were gone? More than two hundred. I narrowed them down. I had scheduled four interviews for today, but Alton de Lome had to cancel.”

“Why?”

“He was injured in a domestic accident. His message said that he is still interested in seeing you after he has recovered.”

“He can’t be hurt too bad, then. How do you think he hurt himself?”

“How would I know that?”

“Guess.”

Anna stared at him. Why was her employer behaving this way? Why was the man famed for his perspicacity bombarding her with stupid questions?

“If I had to guess the most likely way that Alton de Lome might have hurt himself,” Anna said. “I would guess that it was an automobile accident. He owns several automobiles. He has a reputation as an enthusiast.”

“A crash?”

“No. The message said that the accident happened on his own property, and the Lome estate is too small for racing. I would guess it happened in his garage, while he was tinkering with an engine, or a battery, or something. Something fell on him, or he crushed his hand in a gear. Something like that.”

“How do you know about Lome’s estate and hobbies?”

“I read the papers. And his correspondence with you.”

“You don’t have any inside information about him?”

“No, sir.”

“Tell me about the other three interviews.”

“The first is with Dutchess Klara en Harnow at ten o’clock. She’s traveled in from Argintarbo. She says that an item was stolen from a secure vault in the Harnow summer residence, which is part of the Royal Palace. Klara’s husband Anton de Harnow is heir apparent to the office of High Chamberlain. She says the stolen item is important to Anton’s succession. She wants you to locate it and determine who took it.”

“Next.”

“Mr. Tarvis de Claythun at one o’clock. He is an auditor with the Southern branch of the Royal Treasury, operating out of Tritictarbo. There have been a number of forgery cases in the Southern Province that he believes are the work of the same person or group. Mostly fraudulent transactions, but also at least one case where the forger obtained access to classified documents. Claythorne wants you to identify the forger.”

“Next.”

“Mr. Lowdous de Cynd at four. He is an industrialist from Norbus, owner of Cynd Ceramics. His wife disappeared six weeks ago. He wants you to find her.”

* * *

Jon walked down the old cattle road that marked the southern border of Nordarosso. It was a fine day, dry, cool, and sunny. The air had a crisp mineral scent, accented with pine sap, with a hint of dung from the ranch further south. Jon turned his face toward the sun and breathed deeply, feeling the light, the breeze, and stony ground beneath his feet.

It wasn’t working. He had gone on vacation to South Palmurba because work had become tedious. He had stayed in the paradisiacal archipelago until that was tedious, then returned to work hoping that the long break would have rejuvenated his interest in it. It had not. Already he could feel himself beginning to slip past events, like an eel slipping through muddy hands. He could not make himself care. He could not make himself feel. There was no friction between himself and the world.

The first two interviews had gone poorly. Harnow and Claythun had been disappointed by his sullen demeanor, his taciturn speech, and his lack of dazzling genius. That didn’t matter, of itself: it wasn’t important to impress the clients at this stage. But they had failed to impress him, and that was a problem.

Klara en Harnow’s case seemed interesting on the surface. An impenetrable vault, heavily guarded, constantly monitored, from which a priceless necklace had disappeared. No suspects. No leads. It would surely be a complex puzzle that would take him weeks or months to solve. It would also provide a reason to infiltrate the Royal Palace. Solving it would be excellent for his reputation, and Klara was offering a payment of one hundred thousand gil. The case had everything that he should have wanted, but he found himself uninterested.

Klara was convinced that the necklace had been stolen in order to humiliate her husband, Alton de Harnow. It was an ancient family heirloom that was traditionally worn by the High Chamberlain’s wife at Royal ceremonies. Its loss would make Alton look irresponsible, unworthy of the office of High Chamberlain. Klara believed some political rival had stolen it in order to disrupt the succession. But Jon was sure that she was wrong: it seemed much more likely to him that the necklace had been stolen simply for its monetary value. That was boring. A thief stealing for money was not an interesting story, no matter how complicated the theft. Jon was not curious to know who stole the necklace.

But if he didn’t care about the case itself, he ought to care about the fame it would bring him. Building a reputation as the smartest man alive had been one of his goals when he became a detective. But his fame must plateau soon. Prospective clients were contacting him hourly. A Duchess from the Palace was begging for his help. The newspapers were regularly reporting his exploits. How much more famous could he be? Global fame? The Emperor himself as a client? And then what?

And then what?

The forgery case was the same. From what Claythun had told him, he suspected that the forger’s motive was nothing more than personal profit. That wasn’t a story Jon was interested in unraveling. He didn’t care who the forger was, just like he hadn’t cared who was leaking documents in Orotarbo.

That worried Jon. It scared him. If solving impossible mysteries could no longer focus his attention, if universal celebrity was no longer an enticing goal, then what was he going to do? He needed reasons to care about the world, contexts to orient himself in it. He needed friction. When he had struck upon the idea of becoming a detective, he had hoped that it might be his solution, a durable context, an unending source of reasons to care. But it wasn’t working anymore. It wasn’t working, and Jon was scared.

* * *

Jon circled the little town before heading back to his house on the square in its center. Many people on the street greeted him, but he ignored them all. He ignored also the dozen tourists clustered around his front gate, although he noted with annoyance that their bodies obscured the sign there which read “Johannes Alder, Consulting Detective.” He ducked down the alley and into a side door before they could recognize him.

The door led into a narrow servants’ passage which ran the length of the house. There were many doors on one side, and a steep staircase at the end.

“Bitali!” Jon shouted.

After a few seconds, one of the doors opened, and the hulking servant peered out.

“Yes, sir?”

“What time is it?”

“Three thirty-four, sir.”

“Get rid of those gawkers by the gate. Lowdous de Cynd will be arriving any moment, and I don’t want his carriage blocked.”

“Yes, sir.”

Bitali hesitated to see if there would be further instructions, then left the way he had come. Jon was tempted to tell Bitali to remove the tourists forcefully, but he held his tongue. Venting his frustration now would only lead to more frustration later. He needed to get through this last interview, and bloodying the street just before the client arrived would get it off to an awkward start.

Jon shrugged his coat onto the floor, left it there. He went to the kitchen and poured himself a shot of vodka, gulped it down, poured another. He used the lavatory. He went to the mirror in the dining room and straightened his clothes. Three fifty-one.

Jon made his way to the parlor where he received prospective clients. This room had been decorated to be striking while at the same time ambiguous. An antique suit of armor stood in one corner, a beautiful construction of dark steel and brass, polished to gleaming. But it had been pierced through by a cannonball. A very large, very modern desk stood against one wall, but there was no chair to go with it, and the only thing on it was a chess board in mid-game. A cutting-edge telegraph receiver sat on the same table with an oversized hourglass that lay on its side, half the sand in each bulb. Everything in the parlor looked like it had some cryptic meaning. None of it did. But clients would think it did, and their comments on the objects would often provide useful insights into their personalities.

Jon sighed. Reading clients had seemed an interesting game once, but now he found himself hating the pretentiousness of it. He suddenly wished that he could clear the room out and leave only the two armchairs in the middle. But it was three fifty-five, and Lowdous de Cynd’s carriage was pulling up in front.

Cynd was an elderly man. His white hair complimented the vibrant colors of his suit, deep purple and burnt red. He wore a flowing robe over his uwagi, in the style of the old aristocrats. He carried a cane, but seemed to use it more for style than for support. He was accompanied by two servants who seemed similarly superficial.

As he and Jon bowed to one another in the foyer, Jon noticed a pistol protruding from his sash. It was an obsolete flintlock, the sort of gun that would have been popular in Cynd’s youth. One shot. Jon thought of his own one-shot pistol, concealed in his sash.

“This way, Mr. Cynd,” Jon said. He gestured vaguely for the servants to stay in the foyer, then guided the old man into the parlor. He closed the door, then indicated that Cynd should sit in one of the two armchairs. Jon took the one opposite.

“Change is an illusion,” Cynd said.

“What?”

Cynd pointed to the table with the hourglass and the telegraph receiver. “One generation’s new things are the next generation’s old things, and the new generation has the same problems as the old. The human condition remains the same. The sand does not flow.”

“Ah,” Jon said. “Indeed.”

Cynd seated himself, then looked at Jon expectantly. The great detective was supposed to say something brilliant now. Instead he spoke in a grudging tone, like a schoolboy being forced to recite a lesson.

“My secretary says your wife has gone missing,” Jon said. “Why don’t you tell me about that?”

“Your secretary? I believed I had been corresponding with you directly.”

“Yes, of course. Never mind.”

“The letter confirming this appointment was signed by you.” Cynd reached into his robe and drew out an envelope. He began to remove a letter from it.

“I misspoke!” Jon said. He felt an odd urgency not to see Anna’s forgery of his signature. “I don’t have a secretary.”

“None at all? You manage your whole business by yourself?”

“No. I… Look, you came here because you want me to find your missing wife, so why don’t we just talk about that?”

Cynd scowled at Jon. He looked like he was thinking of walking out. Then his face relaxed. He slid the letter back into the envelope and the envelope back into his pocket. The great detective was famously eccentric: perhaps a genius was entitled to act like a moron.

“My wife Beatrace,” Cynd said, “disappeared from our home six weeks ago yesterday, on the twentieth of Rikolto. There was no trace of her anywhere in the house. None of the servants saw her leave. There was no sign of a struggle. She went to bed on the evening of the nineteenth, and in the morning she was gone.”

“Did she sleep in the same bed with you?”

Cynd seemed to find this question impudent, but did not hesitate in answering.

“No,” he said. “We have separate bedrooms. But I was in her bedroom that evening, and I know that she went to bed at her usual time.”

“Why were you in her bedroom?”

“I don’t need a reason to be in a room of my own house.”

Suddenly, Jon was interested. Cynd was embarrassed to answer this question. Why? Cynd was a powerful man with a commanding presence: it was surely not out of mere shyness, and Jon could think of no answer that would be compromising or shameful. 

“Mr. Cynd,” Jon said, sitting forward. “It is not for you to decide what information is relevant. You have come to me because you need my judgments and my insights to solve this mystery. If you knew what information were relevant, you would not have come, so it is only sensible that you should tell me whatever I ask.”

Cynd considered this for a moment, then inclined his head in acknowledgement. “I did not have a particular reason for being in her room,” he said. Then, “Are you married, Mr. Alder?”

This question caught Jon off guard. He hesitated. Cynd noticed. The old man’s gaze grew keener.

“No,” Jon answered, sounding unsure. Then with more confidence: “I am not married.”

“No wife,” Cynd said, “and no secretary? Well, Mr. Alder, a wife’s company can be enjoyable in many ways. I was in her room to enjoy her company. That is our habit on Sunday evenings.”

“Did you quarrel that evening?”

“No.”

“Were you physically intimate that evening?”

“No. Not that evening. We talked. Not about anything in particular. She was always interested in hearing about my business, but there was nothing unusual to tell her that night. She did seem distracted. I asked her what was on her mind, and she said she was thinking about plans for a winter garden in the conservatory.”

“Were you satisfied with that explanation?”

“I was. I am.”

“Do you trust her?”

“Completely.”

“How long have you been married?”

“Three months. Well, seven weeks, at the time. We were married on Zero Day. Cliche, but Bernice was always sentimental.”

“Bernice?” Jon asked. “Is that the name you said before?”

“No. Bernice was my first wife. Fifty-one years together. She died last year, in early Malvarma. Cancer. She and Beatrace were… kindred spirits. Both sentimental. I married Bernice on a zero day too.”

“Bernice died in Malvarma? Then it was only… six months? Six months between her death and your marriage to Beatrace?”

“Yes, and I’ll answer your next few questions now. Yes, Beatrace is much younger than I am. I turn eighty this year. Beatrace is thirty-seven. I know what that looks like, but it isn’t. I am content to be celibate, and I have no need for a pretty bauble on my arm. I am very much in love with Beatrace. I trust her. I admire her. I love her like… well, like Bernice, and it doesn’t feel dishonoring to her memory to say that. I loved Bernice very much. I was happy with her for those fifty-one years, and when she died, I expected to spend the rest of my days alone. But then Beatrace came into my life. I met her in Glacio, just a few weeks after Bernice died. And we were made for each other. The way Bernice and I had been made for each other. It was… Are you a religious man, Mr. Alder?”

“No.”

“Well, it was miraculous. I don’t know a more fitting explanation.”

“How did your miraculous meeting occur?”

“She started working at a restaurant in Norbus that I frequent. Our eyes met, and… it sounds very cliche, but it’s what happened. There was a spark. I asked her for a casual meeting, just for a walk, and… And we were made for each other.”

“So,” Jon said, “your wife of many years dies, and almost immediately a much younger woman appears in a place you are known to frequent. You are instantly smitten, and you marry her having known her for only six months. Then just a few weeks into your marriage, she suddenly goes missing. Is that correct?”

“Yes,” Cynd said. He leaned back in his chair and put on a stony expression, as if challenging Jon to say what he was thinking.

What Jon was thinking was that this interview had become boring again. Beatrace was obviously a gold digger. She had married the aging Lowdous de Cynd with the expectation that he would die soon and leave her his money. She had “disappeared” either because she had found the marriage intolerable, or because she had been able to steal enough from her naive husband that the marriage was no longer necessary to her financial goals. As with Claythun and Harnow, the Cynd case would come down to determining how money was stolen. How boring. How useless.

“You say that there was no trace of your wife in the house,” Jon said. “I assume that means that nothing was stolen from the house?”

“Nothing was stolen from the house,” Cynd said.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“What about property not in the house? Did Beatrace have access to any bank accounts? Did she know the combinations to any safes? Keys to a warehouse?”

Cynd scoffed. “Do you think I’m stupid, Johannes de Alder?” he said. “Do you suppose it didn’t occur to me that Beatrace might be a thief? It was my first thought when I met her, and, to my shame, my first thought when she disappeared. No, nothing was stolen, from anywhere. And stealing from me would have been extremely easy for her. I had added her name to my general bank account, and she had full access to the house vault. If she had wanted to rob me, she could have taken a fourth of all I own without even needing to lie about her intentions. My wife is not a thief.”

“She had access to all of your money?”

“To all of my personal money. Business accounts are separate.”

“When did she gain that access?”

“The same day we were married. I trust her, with everything, just as I did Bernice. I would not give myself to a woman who I would not give my keys to.”

“She already had the money,” Jon mused. His voice fell to a whisper as he spoke to himself. “It was hers to spend. And then she left without taking any. Why would she do that?”

“She did not leave. She disappeared. Do not insult her with dishonorable insinuations.”

“Forgive me.”

“I will forgive you, Mr. Alder, but I am not sure that I will pay you. Your reputation led me to expect more from this interview. Thus far you have said nothing to convince me that you are more capable than any of the much less expensive detectives I have consulted. Or more capable than the police, for that matter.”

“Mr. Cynd, I promise you that if I take your case, I will not only discover how your wife disappeared and where she went, I will also bring her back to you. I have a few more questions, then I will decide if your case interests me enough to take it on.”

“If it interests you enough?” Cynd made a sound that started as a dismissive grunt and ended as a laugh. “You are extraordinarily arrogant. But if you can actually do what you say, then I suppose you deserve to be.”

“I can do what I say. Now, tell me the name and location of the restaurant where you met Beatrace.”

Cynd threw up his hands in theatrical exasperation, then said, “The Joyful Hart. ‘Hart’ like ‘deer.’ It’s on Archer Street in Norbus, two blocks south of the Plaza.”

“What food is the Joyful Hart known for?”

“What food? Why would you… They’re locally famous for venison. They smoke it then grill it. They’ve used the same recipe for a hundred years.”

“Are you religious?”

“Yes.”

“You believe in reincarnation?”

“I do.”

“Are you a member of a temple?”

“No. We–Bernice and I–never found one that suited us.”

“Usually when a man is religious but doesn’t join a temple, it’s because he objects to the Emperor being acknowledged as Chief Sage. Is that why you didn’t join one?”

Cynd stood up. He leaned on his cane, but his movement was fluid. He turned away from Jon and walked a few steps, stopping in front of a glass case that held the fossilized skull of an enormous turtle.

“These are very odd questions,” the old man said. “By law, I must answer ‘no,’ but you can tell by my hesitation that the answer must be ‘yes.’” He turned back to Jon. “So, yes. That is why. I do not believe that the Emperor is a Sage. Moreover, I do not believe that the temples believe it. Why should I submit myself to a teacher who does not believe his own teachings? But why do you care? You say you aren’t religious yourself, so the only reason you would care is if you were a Royal Inquisitor. But I am certain you are not.”

“I have two more questions,” Jon said.

“Go ahead.”

“How did you meet your first wife? Where did you meet Bernice?”

“I met Bernice at the Joyful Hart.”

“You met both of your wives in the same restaurant?”

“Ask your last question.”

“Why do you carry that old pistol?”

Cynd reached into his robe and drew the flintlock out. It was light, both in color and construction. Polished steel gleamed on graceful figured maple. It reminded Jon of a piccolo.

“Two reasons,” Cynd said. “One, to remind me that change is an illusion. People used to kill each other with rocks. Then someone invented the sword, and everything changed, or so we thought. But nothing really changed. People still killed each other for the same reasons–for greed, and envy, and fear–and they still formed the same kinds of alliances to do it more efficiently, or stop other people from doing it to them. The human condition remained the same, just with swords instead of rocks. Then these came along.” Cynd brandished the flintlock. “And everything changed again. But it didn’t. People still kept killing each other, for the same reasons, just from a greater distance. For a thousand years people used these, but now suddenly they’re obsolete, and guns have cartridges and magazines. But it doesn’t matter. People are still people. Nothing really changes.”

“What’s the second reason?”

“Because it is beautiful. This is the work of a craftsman. I assume you own guns?”

“Several.”

“Do you know who made them?”

Jon shook his head dismissively. “Various manufacturers.”

“Manufacturers! Factories. Not people. Not artists. This–” Cynd ran a finger down the slender barrel “–is the culmination of generations of knowledge and skill. Lifetimes of caring. The soul of the craftsman is in this. The guns they make now have as much soul as a can opener.”

“But you own factories yourself,” Jon said, “You’re in the ceramics business.”

“Yes.”

“Isn’t that hypocritical?”

Cynd smiled. A tiny smile. A smile of fond remembrance. “Beatrace said that to me. So did Bernice. Yes, I am a hypocrite, Mr. Alder. But who isn’t?”

“Is it loaded?” Jon asked.

“It is.”

“Could I see it for a moment?”

Cynd looked hard at Jon, like a man peering into darkness. Then, without changing his expression, he held the pistol out for Jon to take. At the same time he moved his robe back to reveal a second pistol–this one a modern automatic–holstered at his hip.

Jon took the antique gun. It was light, delicate, even. He fingered the engraving that covered the hammer–vines heavy with grapes. He imagined the gunsmith’s eye peering through magnifying lenses as his fingers carved the vines stroke by patient stroke.

“I have decided to take your case, Mr. Cynd,” Jon said.

“But I have not decided to give you my case, Mr. Alder,” Cynd replied. “I don’t think I trust you.”

“You will trust me,” Jon said. “Very soon.”

Then Jon cocked the pistol’s hammer, put the barrel in his mouth, and pulled the trigger.