Cabal: Johannes Cabal, the Detective Part 17

He made his way into the railway station, enjoying the day, the blue skies-although clouds were beginning to drift in from the southeast-and the delicious sense of liberty born of shedding a heavy responsibility. Soon he would be free and clear of the whole mess, and he could get back to work.

The station was a neat, unfussy building clad in sandstone slabs, the mica, quartz, and feldspar it contained lightening its colour and creating the occasional spark of reflected light from the beaming sun. In the ticket hall, Cabal found time to admire its simple but elegant architecture as he surrept.i.tiously glanced around the s.p.a.ce for any signs of surveillance on departing pa.s.sengers, suspicious figures, or a dangerous level of police presence. To his immense satisfaction, he saw nothing of the sort, but for a single bored policeman looking at a poster for weekend breaks.

Cabal's inner contentment deepened. He was still a long way from home, but he saw grounds for quiet optimism that he would actually reach there. He was looking at the large mosaic rail map picked out on the wall for a likely station in Senza's western marches to head for when, most unwelcome of things, a voice sounded over his shoulder. "Ah ha, ha, ha!" said a man's voice in a tone usually reserved for the detection of unauthorised hands in biscuit barrels. "I knew it! I just knew it! 'Civil servant,' my maiden aunt's a.r.s.e!"

Cabal turned to discover a man with large red sideburns, a rubicund complexion, and a strange little hat with a feather sticking out of it, regarding him as if they were long-lost cousins. But the eyes ... Cabal knew those eyes, though it took him a stunned moment to remember where, exactly. "Ach mein Gott!" he said finally. "Herr Harlmann?"

Harlmann shushed him melodramatically with a lot of finger-waving, and steered him by the elbow to a cafe that occupied a corner of the ticket hall by a newsvendor's stall. He found a table, attracted the attention of the waiter with a few imperious snaps of his fingers, and ordered two coffees, in-Cabal was astonished and perturbed to hear-a perfect Senzan accent.

Wonderful, he concluded. Now I'm in the hands of Senzan Intelligence. So much for quiet optimism. His hopes of showing a clean pair of heels vaporised like a martyr's spit upon a bonfire, and he gloomily reconciled himself to spending the foreseeable future in a cell somewhere. At least, he consoled himself, the food would be better this time.

"Well, Herr Harlmann," said Cabal, as he fitfully considered escape plans without any great enthusiasm. The whole concourse was surely dense with a.s.sorted secret policemen just itching for an excuse to kick his spleen into sausage meat. The fact that he was being treated to coffee rather than being bundled into the back of an unmarked van by several burly servants of the state armed with overactive thyroids and lengths of rubber hose implied that the covert machinations of Senza were handled with rather more civility than those of its neighbours, as well as subtlety. He could barely believe that he had so utterly failed to spot the trap. Therefore, he decided, he would wait for the scale of the operation he had wandered into to become apparent before giving any bright ideas for escape serious consideration. "What happens now?"

Harlmann shushed him with the same unnecessary finger-wigglage as the waiter returned with their order. He waited until the waiter had gone again before whispering to Cabal, "I'd appreciate it if you would call me Signor Moretti, old man."

Cabal looked at him curiously, and took a sip of his coffee to hide his surprise. "Moretti?"

"Guido Moretti. Guido means 'wide one.'" He smirked at some private joke and started on his own drink.

When dealing with devils, demons, and the ungrateful undead, hiding one's emotions is a survival skill. Cabal-being a well-practised necromancer of several years' experience and still alive to boot-had long since nailed that particular talent down, and so gave no hint of his inner bewilderment. He had been expecting Harlmann, or Moretti, or whatever his name was, to be in control of their little tete-a-tete, secure in the knowledge that he had any number of goons within easy call to jump on Cabal should he prove intransigent. Instead, he was behaving as if he were on equally thin ice. Guido means "wide one," he thought. What's that supposed to mean? Wide one. Wide. A morsel of slang occurred to Cabal, and then he understood. Wide boy.

With calculated nonchalance, he tested the water. "Profitable trip?"

Moretti (as Cabal decided to consider him, given that Harlmann was no truer a name) grimaced over his cup, and shook his head slightly as answer until he had swallowed his coffee. "No. Utter disaster. I was getting somewhere with Miss Ambersleigh on the first evening out, so the old girl could give me an in with her ladys.h.i.+p. Rolling in it, she is, the stuck-up little baggage. I had such plans." He sighed regretfully. "But then that Digger fella throws himself out of the window, and then somebody has a go at you, and suddenly everybody suspects everybody. Utter, utter disaster. Just getting aboard that flying hotel cost me a fair wad of seed money, I don't mind telling you. Well," he added with a conspiratorial wink, "I don't have to tell you, do I? Setting up as a civil servant, though. I have to hand it to you, that takes some neck. The Mirkies treat the civil service like the state religion. Is it true you can get executed for impersonating a pen pusher?"

It sounded like the kind of thing the Mirkarvians would do, so Cabal affected additional sangfroid on top of his nonchalance, and nodded. To think, he had been an ice-cold master criminal all along and hadn't noticed. "I believe so."

"You're a cool one, Meissner," said Moretti, chuckling. "So, what's your real name?"

"I haven't decided yet," replied Cabal. His instinct was towards evasiveness, but when he realised that this had furnished him with the sort of bon mot that real master criminals sit up all night devising, he was not displeased.

It certainly had the desired effect on Moretti. He grinned appreciatively and tapped the side of his nose. "I hear what you're saying, mio amico. I don't know what game you were playing, but I'm sure it was something big. Hey," he leaned forward, "so did you have that English girl?"

"I beg your pardon?" said Cabal, honestly perplexed.

"That sweet blonde," Moretti insisted. "C'mon, you must have, the amount of time you two spent together. What was she like?"

Something slipped inside Cabal's mind, like a gear slipping in a transmission, or a plate slipping from a shelf. It felt intrinsically wrong, and profoundly unpleasant. Here he was, pretending to be a criminal, which was all very well and good, but he was pretending to be a criminal to a criminal, and he was being all too convincing. Cabal knew that, technically, it was no more than the truth; he broke laws with such monotonous regularity that he no longer even noticed himself doing it. He stole books, he disinterred fresh corpses, and, when necessary, he killed people. He committed misdemeanours with the ease of breathing, and felonies were barely more challenging. In the strict legal sense-i.e., that committing crimes is the act of a criminal-yes, he was a criminal. He was good at it, too. He was very rarely caught, and never successfully punished, which was just as well, since most of the punishments for his acts involved nooses, axes, or immolation. All this, it was reasonable to suppose, made him a master criminal.

Yet here he was with a real criminal, a career confidence trickster, and the man made him sick. Every law Cabal broke, every crime he committed was dedicated to one, single, s.h.i.+ning, glorious goal: to defeat death. That was all he desired. Money didn't matter to him. Power didn't matter to him. All he wanted was to be humanity's champion against its first, its last, and its greatest foe.

Money mattered to Moretti. Power mattered to Moretti. He would gorge and bloat himself as a parasite on humanity's flank, one of hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions of similar parasites in the world. Cabal saw a sea of filthy sucking things like Moretti, the unconscionable tide, and he saw himself there, too, drowning and indistinguishable.

Moretti was waiting for him to speak through the long silence. "That good, eh?" he said cheerfully.

Cabal ignored him. "Who lies with dogs, shall rise with fleas," he said in an undertone. Sometimes he wished he still lacked a soul. It hurt so much.

"What?" said Moretti, mystified by the muttering.

"I have to go, Signor Moretti," said Cabal, rising abruptly and gathering his things.

"On to greater things, eh? Look, old man, if it's a game you've got in mind, I'm a reliable partner. Ask anyone."

Cabal paused and glared down at him. Moretti suddenly had a distinct sense that his offer had been rash. "My game, Moretti, is not for the likes of you. In the next few hours, I intend to lie and steal for no material gain. Then, I have little doubt, I shall kill some people for no better reason than that they dismay me with their activities and I have decided to prevent them ever doing anything similar again. In my experience, death is an excellent prophylactic measure."

Moretti, who had only ever heard the term "prophylactic" used in a single context, blanched. "My G.o.d," he exclaimed.

"Your G.o.d, Signor Moretti, is of no use whatsoever." Cabal touched the rim of his hat in mocking salute. "Good day, sir."

He marched out of the railway station and down the main road in the direction of the aeroport. He had purpose and he had a plan, and his soul sang within him. Well, I'm glad one of us is happy, he thought.

To anyone with the slightest sense of self-preservation, there is something unnerving about being in the presence of an entomopter that makes one think that going by train might be a better idea. Or perhaps a narrow boat. Or walking. Or staying at home. Perhaps it's the lightweight construction, or the whirling wings that cut twin figures of eight on either side of the skeletal fuselage. It may even be the frequent and appalling accidents. In fact, it probably is the frequent and appalling accidents that put all but the most suicidal of thrill-seekers (and military pilots, which is to say much the same thing) off even standing near one at rest.

It should be no surprise, therefore, that finding students for an entomopter flying school was a very hard sell. Signor Bruno, of Bruno's Aviation College, was a man of lean and hungry aspect, at least financially. To show the slightest interest in the aircraft was to find Signor Bruno-a small muscular man with a thousand-yard stare-making himself at home in one's personal s.p.a.ce and employing one of his many tried, tested, and usually futile sales spiels. He would appeal to potential students' sense of adventure, the possibilities of employment that a flying licence offered, their pride, their poetical spirit, their vanity, their patriotism, and, as a last resort, telling them that they were a big girl's blouse if they didn't sign up right this minute.

When the tall pale man in the black suit strolled up to him where he knelt by his entomopter, checking the oil levels in the port-wing clutch a.s.sembly, and asked to be taught to fly without so much as a "h.e.l.lo" or a "That's a fine machine you have there," Signor Bruno was momentarily nonplussed; where was all the foreplay? But, being a manly sort of man, he had a low opinion of foreplay, in any case, and warmed quickly to the forthright Herr Meissner. He didn't even care that the man was Mirkarvian. There were no actual embargoes in place on training Mirkarvians, not least because they were quite capable of getting the same training in their own country. That the valuable Herr Meissner had decided to get his training here rather than there was of no import except to Signor Bruno and his thin-lipped bank manager.

They went through the necessary paperwork beforehand, and if Herr Meissner hesitated on some pieces of information that should have been at his fingertips, then Signor Bruno saw no reason to mention it. Indeed, he was otherwise engaged in counting the wad of notes that the estimable Meissner had paid him with, so how could he notice any such momentary indecisions?

Herr Meissner did not care to remove his jacket, but that was of no matter; Signor Bruno had a set of flying overalls that easily fitted over it. Besides, as Signor Bruno pointed out, it gets cold up there. Herr Meissner strapped on his flying helmet, and they were ready to go.

The entomopter that they were using-indeed, the only entomopter Signor Bruno had-was a two-seat Symphony trainer. Not the fastest machine, but stable and relatively forgiving, at least compared with its nimble if fractious military brethren, which would whirl into a hillside at the slightest inattention. Signor Bruno took the rear pilot's seat, while Herr Meissner obediently took the forward co-pilot's position.

Signor Bruno had a good feeling about Herr Meissner; he had listened intently to the technical lecture Signor Bruno had given him in the hangar on the principles of insect-like flight, asking rare but trenchant questions. The man was undoubtedly a scientist, by inclination if not actual profession, and Signor Bruno was able to finish the lecture in record time without resorting to training aids like Dino the Dragonfly or Bambalina the b.u.mblebee.

A quick run-through of the controls did nothing to diminish the good feeling. Herr Meissner needed to be told anything only once. Helmet intercom, loud and clear. Cyclic, check. Throttle, check. Collective, check. Torque pedals, check. Electrical systems on, check. Fuel and oil levels, check. Ignition.

There was a loud crack at the rear of the entomopter as the ignition cartridge in the Coffman starter fired. Signor Bruno was impressed that Herr Meissner did not jump with surprise. The radial engine turned over and quickly caught, barely spluttering at all before producing a powerful throaty roar. Signor Bruno smiled and patted his c.o.c.kpit edge as he would a favoured dog or horse. Good girl. A quick check of the oil pressure, and he told Herr Meissner they were ready to go. His student nodded, and laid hands on his controls. With more confidence than was usual at this stage, Signor Bruno slid forward the lever that deactivated his own controls and enabled the co-pilot's.

The man had the touch of a surgeon or a virtuoso. He gently engaged the drive shaft, until the entomopter's wings started moving in sluggish horizontal figures of eight, carving infinities into the air. He opened the throttle steadily without jerking, and then simultaneously increased the collective to angle the whirling wings, making them bite. The suspension springs in the landing struts creaked, audible even above the engine, as the aircraft started to lift. A few seconds later, they were airborne, holding their alt.i.tude at about ten metres in a hover.

Signor Bruno was delighted. Such a fine student! Bravo! Meraviglioso! But he did not remove his hand from the control s.h.i.+ft, because even prodigies make mistakes. From there, Herr Meissner brought her down to a gentle landing. Then up again, with translation into forward flight, to a halt, to another landing. Signor Bruno was full of happiness, although, regretfully, he knew that Herr Meissner would not be requiring very many lessons before he would qualify for his solo license.

They flew up and down the field, Herr Meissner bringing the Symphony to gentle hovers and briefly experimenting with backwards, and even, to Signor Bruno's mild alarm and a tightening of his hand on the control s.h.i.+ft, sideways flight.

After an hour, the lesson was over, and Herr Meissner landed the entomopter with great precision from where he had first lifted off. They unstrapped and climbed out, Signor Bruno extolling his student's natural ability to the heavens. Herr Meissner said it was nothing, nothing but a good understanding of the principles at play and a calculated degree of handling with the controls, neither tremulous nor violent. Signor Bruno said such a balance was a rare thing in itself. Herr Meissner replied that it was the secret to how he lived his life.

They parted then, Herr Meissner bidding Signor Bruno a polite farewell and the promise of another lesson the following day, if Signor Bruno was available. Signor Bruno mentally reviewed his empty appointments book and replied that he was sure he would be able to squeeze another lesson in somehow. He watched Herr Meissner walk away towards the administrative block with pleasure and a distinct sense of financial relief. Things were definitely looking up. He set off for the field exit, intent on having something nice for lunch.

A quarter of an hour later, Herr Meissner returned from the administrative block, where he had occupied his time by locking himself into a toilet cubicle and reviewing what he had learned. He wandered around Signor Bruno's hangar, as if looking for him, until he was sure he was alone. Then, pausing only to put on the same flying suit and helmet that he had so recently doffed, and to take a handful of cordite cartridges for the Coffman starter, he walked out to where the Symphony trainer sat patiently.

Then he stole it.

Chapter 16.

IN WHICH MUCH IS EXPLAINED AND DERRING IS DONE.

"So now you're an ace entomopter pilot?" remarked Count Marechal with mannered incredulity. He lit his fourth cigarette in a row and puffed smoke up into the thickening air of the salon.

"I wouldn't presume to such a thing," said Cabal. "Not least because I'm not sure what const.i.tutes an 'ace.' I can take off, fly, manoeuvre a little, and land. I doubt that marks me out as a daring aeronaut, but if you say so."

"And you managed a landing on a moving aeros.h.i.+p on your first attempt, did you?"

"In truth, I almost didn't," Cabal admitted. "I was very short of fuel on the final approach, and I doubt that I would have been able to make a second attempt. The lines across the roof-"

"The arrestor cables on the flight deck," Marechal corrected him with the testiness of the jargon martinet.

"Quite so. The lines on the roof were a nice innovation, but I think one really needs some sort of a hook on one's entomopter to make the best use of them. The trainer I borrowed was not thus equipped. Or, if it was, I didn't know which lever to pull to extend it. Not to worry. I set down fairly lightly, and the distinct possibility of falling off the front was happily curtailed by another entomopter that was parked up there. That would be yours, I a.s.sume?" Marechal paused in mid-drag, his cigarette quivering in his lips, which gave Cabal all the answer he needed. "I'd have them take a look at it before you use it again. I gave it a rather stiff wallop when I drove into it."

"Oh, I've had enough of you, Cabal," said Marechal, less languidly than he'd planned. He reached for his revolver.

"Don't do that," said Cabal in light reproof. "I haven't got up to the point of all this, including why I came back."

"We already know that. To play the hero," said Marechal, although his hand paused, the fleshy base of his thumb resting on the revolver's b.u.t.t.

"I doubt that," said Miss Barrow, and then looked uncomfortable when everybody stared at her.

"Miss Barrow is correct. Unflattering, but correct," said Cabal, once again becoming the centre of attention. "I do almost everything for reasons that might be characterised as selfish. I regard my life as a vital thread in the ongoing march of humanity from protoplasm to-I don't know, to be honest. Something slightly better than protoplasm would be a start. Therefore, anything that threatens my life now or later has to be dealt with. Paradoxically, that often means risking my life to secure my safety. The difference is that I risk it on my own terms."

Marechal looked at him as if he'd delivered his little speech via a sock puppet called Mr. Mimsy. "Dear G.o.d, Cabal. Just how mad are you?"

"It really isn't in your interests to kill me, Count, for reasons that will become apparent. That is, if I may be allowed to continue?" He took his pocket watch out and checked the time. Marechal interpreted the gesture to be a melodramatic expression of impatience, and waved him on to finish his story with an air of disgust.

"Thank you," said Cabal. "Now, let me explain my understanding of the events that have occurred during this voyage. To be brief-"

"That would be delightful," muttered the count.

"To be brief ... any crime is definable by the cla.s.sic trio of motive, method, and opportunity. The recent occurrences are no different, but-to my chagrin-I concentrated on the most mechanistic of the three: the method. I thought if I could penetrate the mystery of how M. DeGarre was murdered in a locked room, then the other details would become apparent and the murderer unmasked. Well, I worked out how it was done, and it didn't unmask anybody at all. The corollaries that it presented were suggestive, but I still could not focus on the members of the conspiracy."

"A cabal, in fact," said the count, much to his own amus.e.m.e.nt.

Cabal ignored him. "Opportunity is a difficult thing to make much of. With a police force to gather detailed statements and a timeline, perhaps something could be shaken out, but I doubt it. A large vessel with very few pa.s.sengers, rattling around like peas in a coffee can. The periods that people are out of sight of one another are too great; any attempt to cross-reference alibis would be frustrated by the great blank areas.

"This leaves us with motive, and motive is critical here. Once I started to understand a few of the peculiarities of this journey, the reasons behind them weren't far away." He started pacing up and down: four steps one way, four steps back. "I had all manner of strange theories. The s.h.i.+p had Senzan agents aboard. No, it had Mirkarvian agents. Perhaps it had Katamenian agents. No, it had Senzan and Mirkarvian agents involved in some sort of shadowed battle aboard this s.h.i.+p. It became more and more ludicrous, and eventually I discarded these ideas. That was a mistake, because I was just one variant away from the truth.

"I s.h.i.+ed away from such ideas because they continued to s...o...b..ll in scale, and there comes a point where reasonable suspicion tends to paranoia. That was where I drew my figurative line in the sand, beyond which I would not go. What is paranoia to the rest of the world, however, is business as usual in this grubby little pressure cooker of penny-ante countries with overarching dreams."

Colonel Konstantin sat upright, breathing heavily through his nose, but he said nothing.

"It was the silliest thing that made me realise it," said Cabal. "A marionette show on a street in Parila. It was a little play that wouldn't appeal to you, as it made light of the Mirkarvian fetish for matters military. It made me think of something I saw almost the first minute I set foot upon this vessel, and that made all else plain. Specifically, why DeGarre had to die."

Miss Ambersleigh, who had read any number of novels involving the solving of nefarious crimes by sundry Walloons and landed gentry, was on the edge of her seat in bright-eyed excitement. "Because he was a Senzan spy?" she blurted out, and quickly covered her mouth with her hand.

Cabal ceased his pacing long enough to look directly at her. "No. No, Miss Ambersleigh. There is a Senzan spy involved in all this, but it wasn't DeGarre. No, DeGarre died for being DeGarre. For being exactly what he appeared to be-a respected and world-famous designer of aeros.h.i.+ps."

Now it was Miss Barrow's turn to be confused. "What? He was going to build a s.h.i.+p for the Senzans?"

"No, he was inadvertently going to prevent the Katamenians taking receipt of a dreadful weapon of war from the Mirkarvians."

"But they searched the s.h.i.+p?"

"Yes, they did, and that was a masterly stroke of misdirection. All those tons of potatoes and turnips and other root vegetables too grimy to enumerate. Was that your idea, Count?"

Count Marechal smiled, and wafted his fifth cigarette in a casual salute of mocking acquiescence. In fact, the idea had come from a member of his junior staff, but it is the role of junior staff to make senior staff look good and take the blame for anything that might make the senior staff look bad.

"It was so obviously an attempt to hide something that the Senzans were all over those wretched piles of vegetables in a second," continued Cabal. "They were so focussed on them that they gave the rest of the s.h.i.+p only a cursory inspection. Even if they hadn't been otherwise engaged in bayoneting carrots, they probably wouldn't have noticed anyway. Not like DeGarre; as soon as he was on the engineering deck, he would have been asking awkward questions. Why are the engines so overpowered? Why are the bulkheads so thick? Why is the flight deck-thank you for the correct term, Count-capable of holding so many entomopters?"

Konstantin was looking around himself with growing realisation and astonishment. "Ach, du lieber Himmel!" he muttered, having just managed to suppress saying something a great deal stronger.

"What is it?" demanded Miss Ambersleigh of anyone handy. "I don't understand all this engineering talk. What is he talking about?"

"He's saying," answered Miss Barrow quietly, "that this s.h.i.+p is not a pa.s.senger vessel. It's a wars.h.i.+p." Now she understood the delicacy of their position. DeGarre had been a nuisance, and had been eliminated with rapid efficiency. The fact that he was a foreigner and a man of some standing had not stayed the killer's hand for a second.

"A wars.h.i.+p? You sent me on a trip in a wars.h.i.+p, Daddy?" Lady Ninuka was scandalised. "You told me the Princess Hortense was the finest s.h.i.+p in the skies!"

"And so she is. Just not a pa.s.senger s.h.i.+p. Princess Hortense-" Count Marechal cogitated upon the name for a moment. "That name's going, I can tell you. The Katamenians will give it a proper name, something you can be proud to go to war in. The Invincible, or something. Or the Stormcloud!" He warmed to the name immediately. "Raining death upon our enemies!"

Cabal raised an index finger in mild admonition. "Pardon me," he said. "I was in mid-exposition." Marechal made an exasperated face, but waved him on. Cabal checked his watch again, and continued. "It was supposed to look like suicide, but mistakes were made and, from there on in, they multiplied. The attack on me was made in a panic-it would have been far wiser just to leave me to my own devices. I didn't actually find anything in the ventilation ducting; I was all set to go back to my cabin and forget about it. A murder attempt spoilt all that, and-more important-emphasised that DeGarre's disappearance was certainly not due to suicide. Now they needed a scapegoat, which Zoruk, with his unseemly display at dinner, was perfectly suited to be."

"I still don't understand," said Miss Ambersleigh, quite bewildered by so much naughtiness in the world. "Who are they? You cannot be referring to this gentleman?" She gestured at the count, although, being a lady by breeding if not ent.i.tlement, she was careful not to point. "He has only recently joined us."

"They?" Cabal looked at her with mild surprise. "I'm very sorry, Miss Ambersleigh. I thought that was evident. They are very nearly everybody on this vessel. All the crew, and several of the pa.s.sengers. They have all conspired in three murders. They also intend to kill, let's see, Miss Barrow, myself, and, I'm afraid, you."

Miss Ambersleigh seemed to shrink into her chair, her eyes wide and her mouth open with shock. This could not be. Ladies need fear only ruffians. Not gentlemen. Never gentlemen. She looked beseechingly at Schten. "Captain?" she said in wavering tones, but he could only look at the floor, his shame apparent.

"You can't blame the captain," said Cabal. "Or not completely. The first two killings were carried out under his orders, which is why such a hash was made of them. The captain is not a natural murderer; all this cloak-and-dagger nonsense does not come easily to a military man, does it?"

Captain Schten managed to look Miss Ambersleigh in the eye. "I'm sorry, ma'am. I didn't want any of this."

"He was just obeying orders, you see."

Miss Barrow looked at Count Marechal, but couldn't bear to speak to him directly. "His orders?" she asked Cabal.

"Yes, but not directly. Marechal here had his cat's-paw aboard-the s.h.i.+p's very own Mirkarvian intelligence officer-here to make sure smuggling the Princess Hortense through Senzan skies went according to plan. She was also the one who grew suspicious that Cacon and, I think, myself were not what we seemed. Cacon was the Senzan spy I alluded to earlier. She shadowed me in Parila, was spotted by Cacon, who shadowed her, I shadowed Cacon, and-after a bracing round of 'Here we go round the mulberry bush'-she ducked out. Unhappily for Cacon, she took refuge in the very alleyway that led to the safe house where he was supposed to wait to be debriefed. He walked right into her, and she murdered him."

Lady Ninuka became aware that a lot of eyes were on her. "Me? I've never heard such slander!"

"No?" said Cabal, all innocence. "There are probably men's toilets in Mirkarvia where slanderous comments about you are commonly aired. If you pause to read the walls, you will likely find much that is libellous, too. You remember the difference, yes? Oh, sit down," he said to the count, who had risen from his barstool to defend his daughter's honour, such as it was. "You will get your chance to kill me anon. In the meantime"-he turned his attention back to Lady Ninuka-"yes, it would be slander, if I were talking about you. I have had brief but unpleasant dealings with Mirkarvian security. I understand that security and intelligence all fall under the same organisational heading in Mirkarvia-which is unusual-and go by the name of 'Section A.' Marechal here is the de facto head of it, but will the Section A field agent please stand up?" n.o.body moved. Cabal tutted impatiently. "Oh, come along, Frau Roborovski. We haven't got all day."

Frau Roborovski folded her hands in her lap, but she said nothing. Nor did she need to; her lack of surprise and calm demeanour were all the reaction necessary.