Johannes Cabal the Detective

The French Fancy turned to ashes in his mouth. The last thing he needed was some new complication in his life, a life that was already built almost entirely of complications. Quite apart from the necromancy, the assumed identity, the mysterious disappearance, the attempted murder, and the Mirkarvian noble after his neck, he now had another Mirkarvian noble after one or more other parts of his anatomy.

Or possibly not. While he knew he was presentable enough, his vanity was not physical, and he had never noticed women swooning in his path before. Perhaps she was just one of those strange souls who derived a sordid, vicarious excitement from crime and death. The sort of young woman he had observed attending public executions, while he himself had been there to spread bribes and so secure the cadaver as fresh experimental material. He found this thought a great relief. The idea that she might derive some perverse pleasure from tales of vile crime and ugly death, rather than something more amatory involving him, was deeply reassuring. It was one less complication to worry about, and for that he was very grateful.

For her part, Lady Ninuka was disappointed when Herr Meissner’s eyes widened with surprise when she finally dropped a hint broad enough for the insensitive nincompoop to detect, but then he seemed to relax and she knew that they had an understanding. She wasn’t sure what she found attractive about him; physically he was good enough, if not extraordinary. She thought it might be those eyes — those blue-grey, intelligent eyes, behind which an earnest if unenterprising mind whirled with whatever it was that civil servants found to dwell upon. Yet he had defied expectations by going around exploring in the middle of the night and, when attacked, had defended himself successfully. There was more to Herr Meissner than met the eye, and Lady Orfilia Ninuka intended to split him open like an oyster and so discover what lay within.

And so with the lines drawn, albeit on entirely different battlefields, the conversation continued.

“Is it true that somebody tried to kill you last night?” she asked, eyes wide and expectant.

Cabal winced inwardly. He knew it had probably been a vain hope that at least some facts of the case would remain confidential, especially after the general fussing over him that morning, but that hadn’t stopped him from hoping.

“Where did you hear that?”

“On a ship, with only a few people aboard? If I hadn’t heard about it, that would have been the marvel. So it is true, then?”

“Yes,” admitted Cabal, sensing that to squirm any further would be pointless as well as undignified, and told her the story excepting the detail of the assailant’s wounded wrist.

Lady Ninuka hung on his every word, and Cabal interpreted this as an unhealthy appetite for the lurid. At least, he did at first, but as the tale wound to its conclusion it occurred to him that the last person who had shown such a close interest in his little adventure — Captain Schten excluded, as it was his job to be interested — was Cacon. On that occasion, Cabal had been quick to suspect the irksome little man of being an agent of some hue. What, he wondered, was rationally preventing him from suspecting the same of Orfilia Ninuka? Nothing. Neither her sex nor her title precluded her in the slightest. Then again, he had only the most vague grounds to suspect Cacon, so was fearing the same of Ninuka merely rational caution or the shallows of paranoia?

Paranoia is an occupational hazard common amongst necromancers. When it is, in fact, true that the whole world is out to get you, one has to set the hurdle of unreasonable fears that much higher. Generally, necromancers discover quite early in their careers — at least, the ones that manage to last past “quite early in their careers” do — that all threats, no matter how nebulous, should be acted upon. In populated areas this is patently impractical, as every single person who comes within a mile of a necromancer may mean him harm. Thus, they move away from cities and towns and even villages, and set up on barren mountaintops, or reclaimed chthonic subterranean redoubts, or, as in Cabal’s case, a nice three-storey townhouse moved, by methods that do not concern us here, from the middle of a respectable suburban terrace and placed, front garden and backyard intact, on a grassy hillside miles from anyone. There he was pleased to conduct experiments that would have made Victor Frankenstein wrinkle his nose, safely away from prying eyes, and there he dearly wished he were now, feet up in front of an open fire, drinking tea and reading the Principia Necromantica. That he was doing none of these things, apart from drinking tea, distressed him. The realisation that his own sense of nurtured and measured paranoia was now so sensitive as to be useless distressed him, too.

He came to the end of his narrative and reached for the teapot. Lady Ninuka was positively aflutter.

“You brave man,” she said, her face full of hero worship. She leaned forward as she spoke, and Cabal was again struck by how very cleverly her wardrobe was cut. In this case, a short jacket offset the modish neckline of the dress to create an overall effect of virginal sensuality. He had no idea where he stood with her; their relative positions were entirely at her whim. It was all very confusing for a man who was much happier at a dissection slab than at a soiree.

“It was nothing, really.” He had meant it as a statement; there is nothing intrinsically brave about fighting for your life. It was only after he had said it that he realised how heroically modest it sounded, and the fact that he had said it without affectation had inadvertently served only to compound the effect.

“Of course it was,” said Ninuka. “In such a situation, I should have been frozen with fear. You are so much more capable than I, Herr Meissner.”

Cabal briefly considered telling her that it would have been the slipstream freezing her, but that snapped a vision of her dangling by one hand in Meissner’s dreadful silk gown — which looked a lot better on her — and then there was the detail of the gown falling open. The surface effect of these thoughts was to make the opening of the sentence he was about to make dribble to an untidy halt and leave him gawping, as if he had just remembered something important.

“Have you remembered something important?” she asked.

He felt vaguely ashamed, as if she’d read his mind. “No. No, I was just … reliving the events of last night. It was — ”

“Exciting?”

“Traumatic, I was going to say, but exciting? Yes, it was that, I suppose.”

Lady Ninuka leaned back in her chair and regarded him. She didn’t quite fling herself around in abandon and pant animalistically, but a sense of flinging and panting still pervaded her far more conservative posture and attitude. In fact, to an uninvolved bystander she would have seemed the very model of decorum and respectability. Cabal wasn’t sure how she was doing it, but he was sure she was doing something. This was an entirely new field of human endeavour for which he had no familiarity and no understanding.

He did, however, have the distinct impression that he was enjoying it. It made him feel warm and important in a way that had never especially occurred or seemed pertinent to him before. He was just going to explain, in the most roundabout and circumspect way, that he had actually been very brave and it had actually been very exciting, when Leonie Barrow appeared at his elbow and said, “Lady Ninuka! How delightful!”

She sat down with them without being invited, and started talking about the theatre in Krenz. Considering that he’d been doing most of the talking until then, Lady Ninuka seemed unaccountably put off her stride. She smiled politely but barely responded to the new subject of conversation at all, and the polite smile quickly became forced, as if masking some other emotion that was trying to rear its head. Finally, she feigned surprise at the time, made her apologies, and left the salon with the wretched Miss Ambersleigh scurrying along in her wake.

As soon as she had gone, Leonie stopped her monologue and smiled, broadly and not without some malevolence.

“What,” said Cabal, somewhat testily, “is going on? What was all that about?”

“Did she ask you about what happened last night?”

“Yes, but she’s hardly the first one to do that.”

“Ah, but did she ask any questions, or just listen very closely?”

“She just listened. What are you getting at?”

“Did she congratulate you on how you handled things?”

Cabal nodded, still confused.

“Did she lean forward a lot? Like this?” She demonstrated, and Cabal had to admit that it was a good impersonation. “Did she touch you lightly on the knee at any point? No? Well, she was certainly working up to it.”

Cabal looked at her, his bafflement lifting. “A witch?” he said, lowering his voice. It wasn’t too surprising, now he stopped to consider it. The upper classes were the embodiment of discretion, and he had certainly heard of