The Law's Delay

            Ana led the emissary to Harrick’s office door, between the desks in the bullpen. Mraxinar was forced to duck his head low, and had folded his legs in a way that the front two and back two each worked like a single leg. He bobbed back and forth as he walked, which might have looked awkward, but he performed the action with practiced grace.

            “There are not many passageways this narrow in Spire,” he said. Ana detected a note of embarrassment.

            “Spire? Is that back home?”

            Mraxinar nodded. “It is our capital, where I live. Actually, it was the capital of Vansa when the Bone King was among the living.”

            Harrick was in a meeting with some ship’s captain. Ana stood with the emissary in the small waiting area outside of the office. Mraxinar regarded her and then spoke. “Please, sit down if you’d like. I don’t really have the need to.”

            Ana remained standing. “It’s all right. What is Spire like?”

            “Oh, beautiful. The entire city surrounds the Royal Crest – a gigantic rock bluff in the middle of a vast plain. Over the centuries, the Vansans carved paths up around it, and that is where they built the Hall of the Elect, as well as the Great Library. My King has since enhanced it. Today, there truly exists a vast spire – a metal tower, reaching high up into the sky, made of steel and glass. It is a greater wonder than all the cities of the Djinni. From the top of the spire, you can look down and see the Great Wall, and even across the Narcian border. If it is a particularly clear day, you can see as far as Carathon.”

            Ana tried to imagine it. She had never been outside of the North East Colony. The biggest city she had ever been to was Port Sang, when she was a kid. Port Sang had a population of about 500,000.

            The captain, whose name was Garret, if she recalled correctly, walked out of Harrick’s office. She knocked on the doorframe.

            “Ana,” said Harrick, grumpily. “What does he want?”

            Mraxinar did not look directly into the office, but he was clearly listening. She stepped aside. “Mraxinar?” At this, the bone construct hopped toward the office door. He would not be able to fit through it, so he simply stood outside.

            “Detective Inspector, hello.”

            Harrick took a sip of coffee, but he did not stand up, choosing to remain inside the office. “Ambassador.”

            Mraxinar lowered himself slightly. “Technically just an emissary. I have not yet achieved that rank.”

            “Uh huh,” said Harrick. “What can I do for you?”

            “Well, Detective Inspector, I… I was hoping that I might find out if any progress has been made in the investigation regarding the bombing.”

            Harrick scratched his temple. “I’m afraid we don’t have much to say so far. But I promise that you will be the first to know when we find out who was behind it.”

            Mraxinar straightened up again, his posture somewhat more stately. “I look forward to the news. Several loyal subjects of the Bone King were murdered in your harbor. Justice demands that the perpetrator be found and… prevented from performing any other acts of violence.”

            Harrick grunted, skeptically. “I don’t know what to tell you, I’m sorry.”

            “I see. Well, thank you for your time, Detective Inspector.”

            Ana walked Mraxinar to the door. As he stepped out, he turned back to her. “Detective Sweeney, might I have a moment of your time? I’d like to talk.”

            She shrugged. Before the emissary had arrived, Yalton had called her to come check something out, but supposedly it wasn’t urgent. “What is it?”

            Mraxinar had spread his legs out and seemed to be walking more comfortably now. “It is bitter cold here, isn’t it?”

            Ana considered it. Yes, it was cold, but then, winter was always very cold in Port O’James. She’d grown up with it. “I suppose.”

            “The Wastes are hot. Almost arid, in fact. And it tends to be sunny. It is quite gloomy here. Still, I do find the maritime culture charming.” He looked down at her. “I hope that did not come off as condescending. It was not meant to be.”

            “No, it’s all right. We are proud of our naval tradition here.”

            “And yet your chief of enforcement does not seem all that worried about a ship destroyed in your harbor.” Mraxinar kept his gaze focused forward, as if what he had just said was mere fact.

            “We are investigating the bombing, Mraxinar. I assure you.”

            “Then can you tell me what you’ve discovered?”

            “No, it’s not my case. Edgars and Sydow are heading it up.”

            Mraxinar nodded. “And are they good detectives, those two?”

            Ana hesitated. Sydow was fairly good, if a bit linear in his thinking. Edgars… he was a good beat cop, the kind you’d want checking in on your neighborhood, but as an investigator… perhaps not the brightest. “They’ll find out who did it.”

            “If you say so,” replied Mraxinar.

            Ana stopped. “Now you do sound condescending.”

            Mraxinar turned around. “That was not my intention.”

            “Spare me,” replied Ana. “You think Harrick is trying to cover up the bombing? You think we’re all just out to get you, because we’re scared and looking for someone to blame for all the things that have been happening to us lately. You think we’re all just one close-minded mob who can’t tell the difference between you and the draugar.”

            Mraxinar put his hand up, signaling her to stop. “I did not say that.”

            “But you meant it.”

            Mraxinar broke his gaze, looking up along the gradual curve of rooftops on the buildings that overlooked the harbor. “I do not think that the Detective Inspector was part of the plot to kill my countrymen and strand me here. I am inclined to believe, however, that – perhaps subconsciously – he is disinclined to put his efforts into investigating the murder of beings that he believes were already dead to begin with.”

            “You just assume that. The investigation is ongoing. Perhaps they haven’t shared their progress because they don’t want to speak before they have something solid to tell you.”

            “Detective Sweeney, I have traveled the world for eighty seven years now. I’ve been from Sardok to Fealdoraga. I’ve walked through the Sarona Desert and drudged my way through the Rotweald. Humans do not trust my kind. It is not their fault, really, but it is true. If I had the opportunity, I would take the surviving members of my team and go home, but our ship was destroyed, so now we are stuck here. I continue to offer my assistance, but I’m afraid we can’t be much help if we aren’t afforded some degree of trust. Now, if you will excuse me, I have a meeting scheduled with the Ranger-Captain of your militia.”

            Mraxinar walked away. Ana stood there for a while, thinking about what was said. For what it was worth, she had never considered Mraxinar a threat to her. Perhaps that was stupid, suicidally naïve. Yet she clung to her trust. She knew that she, at least, was willing to give the visitors from the Wastes the benefit of the doubt.

            An office assistant – some teenager whose name she could never remember – ducked out of the enforcement station. “Detective Sweeney?” he called. He was not wearing a jacket, and had already begun to shiver.

            “Yeah?”

            “Officer Yalton. She said you were going to come see her?”

            “Oh yes. Tell her I’m on my way.”

            She walked about a mile south, toward the fish market. There were many big warehouses here, broken up by small commercial centers with restaurants and grocers. Most of the town came here to get their food, but today the market was closed for the holiday. Few people were all that religious in Port O’James, but the holiday called Sircatak was still given a passing observance.

            She found Yalton outside a restaurant called “The Marker Table,” ostensibly meant to look like an old-fashioned Retron pub. Yalton was talking with an old man with a bristly grey mustache – presumably the pub’s owner. Yalton was in her forties – an old-school beat cop. She knew the lay of the land, and Ana often felt awkward around her. Yalton never had ambitions to make detective, though, and seemed to prefer enforcement on the street level. Supposedly she and Harrick went way back.

            “Detective,” Yalton said. “You’re going to want to see this. Oh, this is Mr. Eddington, the proprietor. I was just getting his statement.”

            Ana shook the man’s hand. He seemed extraordinarily distraught. “I just… I had nothing to do with this, you understand. Horrible shock, walking in, finding… Bloody business, this is. Bloody awful.” He spoke with a Retron accent, perhaps slightly faded, but he was still clearly a native of the Misty Island.

            Yalton led Ana through the pub and back into the kitchen. The place was a mess. A large metal table had been shoved aside, and much of the cooking equipment was broken.

            On the floor, there was an intricate pattern in spray-paint. It depicted a large spiral, about four feet wide, in red. From the spiral, three blue lines – also in spray paint – extended in a triangular shape. Then, in what appeared to be in black felt paint-pen – a favorite among the more sophisticated graffiti artists – there was a script in one of the magic languages, forming a spiral going in the other direction that encircled the red one. In the center of the spiral, there was a big splash of dark brown – dried blood.

            “Bloody bastards ruined my floor!” explained Eddington.

            Ana found herself staring at the spiral. For a moment, the letters almost looked like something she could read, but it was as if they were moving, fading in and out of her comprehension before she could make sense of the words they spelled out.

            “Detective Sweeney?” It was Yalton. “What do you think it means?”

            Ana broke out of her trance. “Call Harrick. It means he’s right. The Icelord has a man in Port O’James.”

(Copyright Daniel Szolovits 2012)