Beneath an Opal Moon (21 page)

Chimmoku nodded silently and slipped out the door. Moichi now had to make an immediate decision: to stay here with the Senhora or to follow Chimmoku on his nocturnal errand. He chose the former not only because it had been his original plan but because circumstance had proved to be his ally, leaving him alone with the Senhora. To go against that now would be to court disaster.

The Senhora had bolted the door behind Chimmoku and was coming toward him. She began to ascend the stairs.

Moichi went quickly and silently back to the room from which he had gained entrance to the house and closed the door to a slit. Despite the lamp burning, he was quite certain this was not the Senhora's bedroom. In a moment, he heard her passing him and ventured a look. He saw her go through a door at the far end of the hallway. Over it, attached to the wall, was a polished brass ship's bell.

There was no help for it now, he thought. And any procrastination allowed that much more chance that he would still be here when Chimmoku returned. He wanted to avoid that.

Taking a deep breath, he opened the door, went out into the hallway and, without a sound, went into her room.

Chiisai had little difficulty in finding the mercado. It was an enormous one-story structure in the heart of Corruña divided into myriad stalls, each rented to a different merchant or trader. The proprietorship of these spaces could be permanent or quite fluid, changing hands many times within the space of several days as traders came and went with their seasonal wares.

At times, as now—that is, at night or during inclement weather—the entire mercado was covered. However, during the dazzling sundrenched Daluzan days, the separate stall roofs were taken away, giving the vast place a brilliantly dappled, endless feel.

Even now, after the day's selling had ceased, there continued to be much activity within the mercado, albeit of a different nature from that which went on during the daylight hours. The mercado of Corruña, it was said, never slept.

Here, during all the night, shifts of workers unloaded fresh produce, craftsmen toiled at their work in leather, silver, gold, precious and semiprecious stones, pearls, paintings, tapestries and sculpture in stone and clay; far in back, the sweating metalsmiths worked their red-hot forges, creating their weaponry. For the day was for selling only and, at night, the artisans populated the mercado like a mythic flock of nocturnal tribesmen who disappeared with the coming of dawn, replaced by the hard-bargaining merchants.

This was the real mercado, one which few people in Corruña ever saw, for this was not an all-night city as was Sha'angh'sei.

Chiisai stood on the mercado's threshold, entranced, as if she stood on the brink of the Promised Land. She was used to seeing artisans at work, for every Bujun was also an artisan of some sort—
What good is a Bujun
, her father had told her often,
with just the knowledge to kill?
But never had she seen so many at once, and the sight was dizzying.

Slowly, she strolled down the long aisles between the stalls, watching a man split an uncut diamond here, a woman spinning a cape of silver thread there and, further on, a man etching a delicate design onto a huge leather scabbard by dropping acid on it.

She paused, fascinated, to observe a woman carving what appeared to be an enormous ruby into the likeness of a human head. She waited until the woman put down her tools to rest to ask, “Will it be a man or a woman?”

The woman turned to look at her, wiping at her forehead with her arm. She was dark-haired and long-eyed with thick lips and an exquisite neck that Chiisai immediately envied. Her face had been molded by years of determination, or so it seemed to Chiisai.

“A woman,” she said. “Eventually.”

“Is it very difficult?”

“Darling,” the woman laughed, “it is very nearly impossible.”

“Then why do you do it?”

“Because it's there, for a start, and no one else around here would dare to attempt it, man or woman. This is my second attempt; the first one I consider a failure.” She put a hand out, her fingers long and delicate, questing like the feelers of some complex insect, stroking the coolness of the ruby's irregular side. “Here, come here, darling, and feel what I feel.” Chiisai put out her hand. “But I love the ruby for itself, you see,” the woman continued, “because it withholds from me its very essence.” She smiled. “Until the very end.”

“And that is important,” Chiisai said, not knowing whether she was asking a question.

“As important as drawing breath,” the woman said, “for me. For without mystery, life would be nothing and I should wish, when I put my head down on the pillow at night, never again to awake.”

Chiisai took her hand reluctantly from the ruby. “Do you have a finished piece of yours here? I'd like to see one.”

“I don't think—” The woman searched below the counter of the stall. “Wait. I've found one.” She lifted up a warrior carved out of tiger's-eye. “It is not so fine, I'm afraid. It's a very early piece. Still—” She set the figure down on the counter top and Chiisai picked it up. Something about it struck her.

“This warrior's face looks familiar to me.”

“It's a Tudescan,” the woman said. “Have you been to Rhein Tudesca? That is where I am from.”

Chiisai looked up. “You are Tudescan?”

The woman nodded. “My name is Martyne.” She offered her hand. “And you?”

“My name is Chiisai. I am Bujun.” She took the hand, found it cool and firm. “I hope you'll pardon my ignorance, Martyne, but I thought all Tudescans had light hair.”

“Most do, but only my mother was Tudescan, you see. I have her light eyes but my father's hair, I imagine.”

Chiisai returned her gaze to the figurine. It was marvelously carved. She could clearly see the cruelty of the man's visage. “We were attacked by Tudescans yesterday,” she said. “On the sea.” She waited a moment, then said, “You do not seem surprised.”

“Why should I be? They are evil people. That's why I am in Dalucia now.”

“But you made this,” Chiisai pointed out, indicating the warrior.

“Yes. I made that as a reminder.”

“Of what?”

“My father came from the sea. He was a freebooter who sailed into Rhein Tudesca one day. And there he met my mother. And now they are both dead.”

“I am sorry.”

“So am I. They were exceptional people, my parents. But my mother disobeyed the law and they were both slain for that transgression.”

“What could she have done that was so terrible to have warranted execution?”

“She married my father,” Martyne said simply.

She whirled as he closed the door behind him. It made a sound not unlike a sigh of resignation.

Her eyes flashed and he saw the earth-brown motes swimming in their jade depths. She wore a loose cream-colored silk blouse with a drawstring front, below which was an oval opening displaying the swell of the tops of her breasts, and a long skirt of a green so deep it appeared to be black.

“You!” she hissed. “How did you get in here?”

Not:
What do you want?

Her hands hung loosely at her sides.

“I came in through a second-story window.”

“Get out of here this instant!”

It was worrisome because there was no fear and even now her fingers were fully extended, not balled into fists of outrage.

“Not until I get some answers, senhora.”

Had to drag his eyes away from the sight of her heaving bosom. Not the way. He advanced. “Senhora—”

She stood her ground. “Get out!”

Felt his muscles tensing of their own volition and he began to worry in earnest because there was information trying to get through.

“Senhora, please. You must listen to me. Your daughter's life—”

“I will not debate with you.” Her voice was like ice.

Image of Cascaras, dead in the alley.

“I will not leave.”

She moved then and, just before he was borne backward by the full weight of her lightning attack, he knew what it was. As she leapt, he caught a glimpse of her fingers, together, fully extended. They tumbled to the floor, rolling over and over, for he knew now that any cessation of movement on his part and he was finished. The one word reverberated through his brain as the back of his head slammed against the wooden boards and he saw a shadow looming over him.

Koppo
.

“The folk of Rhein Tudesca live solely by laws,” Martyne said, as they sipped compaña. “It is how they are born and brought up. A network of laws. And that is how the country runs. Efficiently, effortlessly. Bloodlessly.” Her face was drained of all color in the telling of this. “A Tudescan may marry another Tudescan and no one else.”

Chiisai said nothing, staring into the depths of the golden liquid.

“The Tudescans hate outlanders,” Martyne continued. “Oh, they tolerate those with whom trade is vital, but visitors to Rhein Tudesca are strictly limited and the crews of the merchantmen bringing imports are never allowed shore leave. And any outlander in the country is escorted at all times.”

“You have not been back?”

“No,” Martyne said. “I would never return.”

“Do you know a Tudescan named Hellsturm?” Chiisai said abruptly.

“No. Should I?”

Chiisai shook her head. “Not really. There's no connection other than you're both Tudescan.”

“I have no interest in others from Rhein Tudesca, Chiisai.”

“Perhaps, then, you know of a Daluzan merchant named Cascaras.”

“Oh, yes. Certainly.” Martyne poured them both more wine. “But it has been many seasons since I have seen him. He was about to leave the city. He used to have a stall over there”—she waved a hand toward the vastness of the mercado—“but that was some time ago. We became friendly because he specialized in archaeological artifacts.”

“You knew him well, then?”

She shook her head, her dark hair a nimbus like the night. “Not really. He would have liked to—get to know me better. But I found out that a number of artifacts he had were stolen.”

“From collections?”

“Oh, no. He was a grave robber. He looted digs at night. Mostly to the northwest. He knew that region so well I often told him he ought to give up the thieving and become a cartographer.” She gave Chiisai a small smile. “He wouldn't hear of it, of course. He loved the excitement far too much—as well as the enormous profits.”

“Did Cascaras say anything to you when you last saw him? Anything at all?”

“Why are you so interested in him?”

“He was murdered, Martyne. In Sha'angh'sei.”

“Sha'angh'sei?” Her eyes opened wide. “Why would he go so far south?”

“He was being pursued by this man Hellsturm. He was tortured. We believe by Hellsturm.”

“If Hellsturm is Tudescan there is a sure way of finding out.”

“There is? What?”

Martyne turned away from Chiisai and her hands reached out, stroking the faceted ruby again, a touchstone, a talisman against bad memories. “The Tudescans are a remarkably savage people in many ways, despite the veneer of civilization they have cloaked themselves in.” She paused, took a deep breath, let it out as a shudder. “The day my parents died, it was my birthday. I saw them coming down the block because I was sitting in the open window, waiting for them. They were bringing home my presents. They were struck down as they were crossing the street. Two men had obviously been waiting for them. It took such little time, so little effort, and they were sliced open, lying there in their own blood, already dead. One moment there; the next, not. I don't really remember much of what happened after that. I must've hid because they were certain to search the house. Then I was out on the streets. How much time had passed I have no idea. I only knew that they would be looking for me and that I had to get to the border.

“I tried not to sleep but, of course, that was impossible after a while. I was in the back of an alley one night when a combination of sounds and movement woke me. I should have run then but something held me, a kind of odd paralysis. Lucky it was, too, because I would have run right into the three warriors; it was a cul-de-sac, you see.” She paused, her slender fingers exploring the ruby's contours as if reading the past, divining the future. “They were dragging a woman in from the streets. Perhaps she was a prostitute, perhaps not; there's no way of knowing. They raped her there in front of me, a kind of bloodless ritual without even the semblance of passion. And then, when they were finished with that, they sliced open her chest. There was something more they wanted from her; information, I imagine. They got it in the end.”

Chiisai felt a cold constriction fluttering around her own heart. “What did they do to her?”

Martyne's eyes were bright with the memory. “You really wish to know-all of it?”

Chiisai nodded her assent.

“In Rhein Tudesca torture is a high art. In a society of secrets, you see, it is believed imperative that those in power possess the means to obtain those secrets. You understand?”

Chiisai thought of what Moichi had told her about how Sha'angh'sei society operated, so full of secrecy yet open, too. “No,” she admitted, “I'm afraid I don't.”

Martyne shrugged. “Well, no matter. I suppose you'd actually have to go to Rhein Tudesca to understand fully. The Tudescans have perfected a way to expose the living heart and massage it artificially so that the victim's life-processes are slowed or speeded up from there. They can cause great pain in this fashion without the coming of death. No one can withstand this form of torture, but it is only one of a great many.”

“This was Cascaras' fate, I'm afraid.”

“Then I shall pray for the peace of his soul.”

Chiisai touched the other. “Please, Martyne. It is important that you try to remember if he said anything to you before he left.”