At Empire's Edge (29 page)

Cato didn’t know the agents by sight, but he recognized their emotional signatures as they hurried by, and knew it was safe to turn and walk in the other direction. It took about three minutes to reach Market Street, merge with the fleshy flow, and resume his journey. Contact had been broken.

 

 

Lucia Ovidius was seated at what had been her husband’s desk, sipping a tiny cup of very strong caf, when a man wearing a skullcap and a voluminous robe entered through the front door. He nodded politely. “My name is Cato, and I’m looking for Citizen Ovidius. Is he here?”

It wasn’t the first time that someone had come through the door looking for Hason since his death, there had been dozens of them, but Lucia still had difficulty dealing with it. There was something familiar about the name Cato, but she couldn’t place it. “No,” Lucia answered, as she battled to keep her voice steady. “My name is Lucia Ovidius. . . . And I’m sorry to inform you that my husband was murdered four days ago.”

The surprise was clear to see on the man’s face. “Murdered?” he exclaimed. “That’s terrible! Please accept my deepest condolences. Your husband was a fine man. And the only one who was willing to help me when I was in trouble.”

There was something different about the man and the way he spoke. An off-planet accent? Yes, Lucia thought so. Was he a customer? Come to talk about a furniture order? Or one of Hason’s political contacts? Either was of interest to her. “Please,” Lucia said, “have a seat. Perhaps
I
can help you.”

The man looked doubtful, but accepted both her invitation, and a cup of caf from the thermos on the desk. “So,” Lucia said, once the man named Cato had been served, “what can I do for you?”

 

 

Cato had an instinctive liking for the woman with the intelligent eyes, just as he’d had for her husband, but could she offer the type of help he was looking for? And, even if she could, would it be wise to trust her? Cato resolved to go slowly and break the conversation off if she said anything that made him uncomfortable. “I am a member of the Xeno Corps,” Cato said levelly, “and I need some help.”

Lucia’s eyes widened slightly. “Now I remember. . . . Hason told me about you. There was an attack on Station 3, the rest of your team was killed, and you went back to bury them.”

“That’s correct,” Cato agreed. “And now, having obtained additional information, I have two suspects. Both of whom may be hiding in Solace.”

“And you were going to ask my husband to help find them?”

“Yes,” Cato answered, as he drained the tiny cup dry and put it down on the table beside him.

Lucia had enough problems already now that she had a business to run while simultaneously providing support to Legate Usurlus and those who wanted to remove Nalomy from power. So the last thing Lucia needed was another issue to deal with. But, before she said “No,” it seemed prudent to gather whatever information she could. “It’s true that Hason knew all sorts of people,” Lucia said cautiously. “But Solace is the largest city on Dantha. So the chances of locating the people you seek are rather slim.”

“Granted,” Cato conceded. “It would be difficult to find two Umans if that was the only thing I had to go on. However, the individuals I’m looking for are Lir bandits! And it’s my guess there aren’t that many Lir living in Solace.”

“It’s hard to say for sure,” Lucia replied carefully. “But you’re probably correct.”

“Which means the fugitives I’m after will be all the more visible,” Cato pointed out. “And that’s all I need from you—a sighting that will put me on the right trail. I can handle the rest. I can pay if that will help. . . . And Procurator Nalomy will provide support if I request it.”

The mention of Nalomy’s name brought a frown to Lucia’s face. If the Procurator was involved, Usurlus would want to know about it. “Perhaps I could be of at least limited assistance,” the businesswoman allowed. “Please tell me everything that occurred, starting with your trip to Station 3.”

Police work was all about details, so Cato knew how important they could be, and having put his trust in the woman’s husband, he was inclined to trust her as well. It took the better part of fifteen minutes, and once he was done, Lucia nodded sagely. “You’re correct. The warriors you seek could be back in the mountains by now. But, if they’re in Solace, the first place to look is the Xeno Quarter. That’s where most of the non-Umans live—and where the Lir would naturally hide.”

That made perfect sense to Cato and was the sort of information he’d been looking for. “Good!” Cato said enthusiastically. “But if my friends and I barge in there, everyone will take notice, and the people I’m after might hear about it. . . . Do you have contacts in the Xeno Quarter? People who could help us zero in on the bandits?”

Lucia was about to answer when the front door opened and a Kelf waddled in. A six-foot-tall android was right behind him. “Don’t tell me, let me guess,” the businesswoman said dryly. “These are your friends.”

“That’s right,” Cato confirmed. “Belok, Phelonious, meet Citizen Ovidius. She’s going to help us.”

Lucia hadn’t agreed to that, not really, but couldn’t see a way to steer clear of it. Not if she wanted to know what was going on. “That’s right,” the spy lied smoothly. “It would be my pleasure to help.”

 

 

Rather than return to the palace for the night, and be forced to shake Nalomy’s surveillance team the following day, Cato decided to find a hotel where he and his companions could stay. The problem was that not only had prices soared over the last few days, but most of the better hotels were filled with people in town for Founder’s Day. This forced latecomers such as himself to book rooms in the flophouses down by the docks.

It was early afternoon by then, and secure in the knowledge that Ovidius was hard at work searching for the Lir bandits, Cato took the opportunity to look for Verafti. Because so long as the Sagathi was on the loose, no one was safe. But how to find the shape shifter among hundreds of sentient beings?

Having given the matter some thought, Cato came up with the only possibility that stood any chance of success short of getting Nalomy’s people involved. That was something he was hesitant to do, fearing that the militiamen would unintentionally spook the Lir bandits and cause them to flee if they hadn’t done so already.

The solution, or so it seemed to Cato, was to look for Verafti’s victims rather than the shape shifter himself. Because there were bound to be some, given the passage of time plus the Sagathi’s irrepressible hunger. And if Cato could identify the killer’s victims, and group them in a meaningful way, that could provide valuable information regarding Verafti’s whereabouts.

So with Belok and Phelonious in tow, Cato left the hotel and made his way toward the aptly named Bone Yard. It was easy to find thanks to the streams of white smoke issuing from the facility’s brick chimneys. Because of religious tradition, the scarcity of land in and around Solace, and the so-called Death Tax levied on entombments, the vast majority of the city’s dead were cremated in one of the Bone Yard’s glowing furnaces.

Some of the bodies were a bit ripe by the time they arrived at the Bone Yard, which accounted for the nauseating odor that Cato and Belok detected while still a block away. Phelonious, who lacked a sense of smell but could “see” the heat coming off the smoke stacks, was completely unaffected. Fortunately, the predominant winds blew west to east, thereby pushing the worst of the stomach-churning odor out over Lake Imperium. But every now and then the breezes blew the
other
way, adding to the misery of those who lived in The Warrens.

The area immediately around the Bone Yard was dominated by the commercial enterprises that depended on a constant flow of dead people to make their various livings. Because once the bodies were incinerated, the resulting ash was bagged and delivered to the next of kin, who were expected to buy a respectable urn from one of the local potters. However, that was just the beginning. Once a container for the departed’s remains was secured, it was time to sign up for a Farewell Cruise aboard a dreary-looking death barge, and purchase flowers to scatter on the lake once the urn had been committed to the deep.

Now, as the threesome neared the front gate, it was necessary to force their way through a mini-traffic jam comprised of sobbing relatives, some of whom were following behind a professional body collector. Others, lacking the money to hire such a person, were bringing a body to the Bone Yard on their own. Often in carts or wheelbarrows, but sometimes on homemade stretchers, carried by grieving family members.

And, making the situation that much worse, was the presence of often raucous hucksters. They were selling everything from incense intended to neutralize the surrounding stench to religious medals guaranteed to open the gates of heaven to even the worst of sinners.

Being unencumbered by a body, Cato and his companions were able to bypass the check-in stations and enter the Bone Yard without delay. But they hadn’t gone far when a burly man attired in a black rubber apron and matching boots came forward to challenge them. “No relatives or body collectors beyond this point,” he said officiously. “If you’re here to collect cremated remains, you should report to the south gate.”

“I’m an Imperial law officer,” Cato announced, and flashed his badge. “These individuals are with me. Please take me to the person in charge.”

The Bone Yard worker took a second look at the glowing badge, concluded that it was real, and waved the threesome forward. “Follow me. . . . I’ll take you to the Director.”

In order to cross the yard, it was first necessary to wait for a break in the steady flow of carts that were being trundled back toward the furnaces beyond. Most of the bodies were covered, but Cato could see that many were those of children, which said a great deal about life in The Warrens.

Once the carts had passed, the man in the black apron led the visitors up a flight of wooden stairs to a second-floor reception area. There, Cato and his friends were invited to wait under a secretary’s watchful gaze while their guide disappeared into the office beyond. Then, after a minute or two, he was back. “Citizen Breus will see you now,” the man announced formally, as his dust-reddened eyes met Cato’s. “But only
you
. Your associates must remain here until you return.”

Cato nodded, and directed stern looks to both Belok and Phelonious, before allowing himself to be ushered into the office. It was pleasant, or would have been, had it not been for the slight odor of corruption that continually seeped into the space from the Bone Yard below. Beams of diluted sunlight streamed in via a row of dirty windows, all of which were securely closed, and nicely framed photos of previous Bone Yard managers hung in orderly rows on the walls. The furniture matched, and though a bit worn, was still in good shape. The woman who rose to greet Cato had black hair streaked with white, a kindly face, and was dressed in a loose-fitting toga. It was yellow. As if to brighten the otherwise-dreary atmosphere with a bright splash of color. “Hello!” the woman said cheerfully. “I’m Olivia Breus. And you are?”

“Xeno Corps Officer Jak Cato,” the variant replied, as he offered a formal bow.

“My goodness!” Breus exclaimed. “I hope we aren’t in any trouble. Please take a seat.”

“No, ma’am, you aren’t in any trouble,” Cato assured her as he sat down. “I’m looking for a killer. A serial killer. . . . Who likes to
eat
his victims. So, if you and your staff have taken delivery on partially eaten or dismembered bodies, I’d like to know about it.”

Breus was clearly shocked, and after asking all of the predictable questions, sent for her foreman, who turned out to be the same man who’d brought Cato up to the office in the first place. He listened to what Cato had to say and shook his head. “No, we haven’t taken delivery on any dismembered bodies. Not since the air-car crash a month ago.”

Cato felt his spirits plummet. The inquiry had been a long shot, he knew that, but the results were disappointing nevertheless. So, after another five minutes of fruitless questioning, Cato left, taking Belok and Phelonious with him. The sun had dropped behind the mountains by that time, but the dead continued to arrive, and the furnaces were ready to receive them. It was the one service that the citizens of Solace could really count on.

THE SKY WAS GRAY, AND IT WAS RAINING, WHICH WAS
sure to put a damper on the series of lesser events that traditionally led up to Founder’s Day. And Cato, who had been forced to share a hotel room with his companions due to the shortage thereof, was in a foul mood as Lucia Ovidius led the three of them through the rain-slicked early-morning streets. Very few people were up and around, but some of the more-enterprising vendors were open for business, and Cato insisted that the group stop at one of them.

Ten minutes later, having filled his belly with a hearty breakfast wrap and two cups of hot caf, the policeman was in much better spirits as Lucia led the threesome into the Xeno Quarter. In spite of the early hour, a few non-Umans were out on the street, and Cato noticed that while many of the signs were in standard, many bore other forms of writing including Kelf swift script, Tekan dot text, and Lir pictographs. This seemed to suggest that while the majority of Dantha’s winged humanoids lived in mountain aeries like High Hold Meor, some, perhaps a couple of hundred, were permanent residents of Solace. That meant Nassali and Lood could move around the Xeno Quarter without exciting comment.

They would need a place to stay, however, and by putting out the word to her contacts, Lucia had been able to identify what could be a Lir safe house, meaning an informal hostelry mountain bandits could stay in while buying supplies with their loot. And when the group rounded a corner and Lucia said, “There it is,” Cato had to agree that the strange-looking tower certainly
looked
the part.