“Where?”
“Ibis Square. The Othmani house.”
“Of course it is.” Syfax grimaced. Only one of the wealthiest families in the whole damned country.
It took more than half an hour to find Ibis Square and Syfax saw the coach heading back to the well long before he got there. Another curbside interrogation of a weary pedestrian pointed him to the massive colonnaded estate house. The courtyard gate was open.
The major pounded on the door and wiggled his muddy toes on the doormat. The girl who answered the door wore a white apron over her gray dress and a weary expression on her young face. She winced at the sight of his feet. “Yes, sir?”
“I’m here to see Ambassador Barika Chaou. Older gal, about so tall.” He held out his hand palm-down. “Probably just arrived.” He peered over the girl’s head into the foyer and the hall beyond it.
“Yes, sir. If you will please wait here, I will speak to the lady of the house.” The maid started to close the door.
Syfax planted a dusty hand against the polished wood. “Nah, I think I’m going to claim a little probable cause and just invite myself in.” He padded across the threshold, across the cold tile floor, across the plush Persian carpets. Each sensation was ten thousand times better than the ten thousand steps that had carried him there from the wall of the canal. “Nice place. Where is she? In here?” He stomped through the dining room past a twenty-foot table beneath a three-tiered chandelier, past the entrance to the kitchen and into a warmly lit sitting room with half a dozen armchairs and lounges arranged around a massive iron fireplace decorated with dancing dragons breathing iron flames into wreathes of iron flowers. The fire was roaring and Syfax slowed as he plunged into the wave of dry hot air.
A rather young woman sat by the fire in a richly upholstered chair, a leathery old thing, massive and padded, that creaked just enough to declare it an antique but not enough to be intrusive. The table at her elbow was hand- carved teak with a marble disk inlaid in its top. A brass lamp adorned with endless filigrees and scrollwork glowed warmly on it. The woman wore a silk robe and slippers woven somewhere in the far east, and a heavy silver necklace of pagan knot-work from some barbarous place to the north, and on the bridge of her nose perched her gold-rimmed spectacles, undoubtedly crafted by the most skilled optometrist in Marrakesh.
“Can I help you, officer?” she said.
Syfax glanced down at the empty chair in front of him. “So are you hiding her, or did she slip out the back? Because I gotta tell ya, I just walked most of the way from Chellah this afternoon and I’m really tired of chasing people.”
“I don’t know who you mean, officer.” She frowned at his feet. “I’m Dona Fariza Othmani, president of the Othmani Mills Corporation. I’m sorry, what service are you with? Ordinarily I might recognize your uniform, but ordinarily our public servants are properly attired, I believe.”
Dona, eh? I guess if you can’t inherit a title, you can always buy one from Espana. He said, “Major Zidane, marshal. And yeah, the smarmy-rich-lady act isn’t going to impress me. Barika Chaou sat in this chair less than a quarter of an hour ago.” He pointed at the dusty seat and dirty scuff marks on the rug in front of it. “So is she still in the house or not?”
Dona Othmani turned her head ever so slightly to the side and called out, “Cyrus? Would you come in here, please?”
Syfax watched the huge man enter at the far end of the room. Cyrus wore a dark gray suit and a pair of dark tinted glasses, and a set of brass knuckles on each hand. The major grinned. “Well, I have to hand it to you, miss, you’re a heck of a decorator. Persian carpets with a matching Persian bodyguard? Classy.” He yanked his broad knife from his belt and let the thick-necked bruiser close the distance.
Cyrus jogged the last few feet and swung a brass-plated fist at the major’s face. Syfax dashed inside his reach so they were almost chest to chest and he slammed his palm up into the Persian’s chin as he buried his knee in the man’s groin. Cyrus fell forward, sliding off Syfax’s shoulder on his way to the floor. The major backhanded the man in the ear as he fell for good measure. Then Syfax knelt, slashed the man’s belt in half, and helped himself to the Persian’s tinted glasses and one of the brass knuckles. “Nice party favors. And as long as I’m here, I think I’ll take a little look around.” He stood up, blinking at the dark blue world through his new glasses.
The young woman stood up sharply from her chair. “Major, this is a private residence. If you do not leave immediately, I assure you that you will be stripped of your rank and thrown in a military prison by the end of the week.”
“Coming from you, that’s actually a fair threat. But I’ve got a killer to catch and the worst thing the brass will do to me is toss me back in the army. Last chance. Where’d you stash her? Upstairs in a bedroom? Out back in the shed? Wine cellar? I’m happy to go room to room myself.” He stepped over the Persian, who had vomited a little on the carpet and was now rising to all fours. “Down, boy.” Syfax kicked the man’s arm out and his face crashed into the leg of the table beside Othmani’s chair. Her tea sloshed in its porcelain cup.
Dona Othmani huffed. “Yes, major, Barika Chaou was here. Briefly. As you observed, she was filthy and I did not allow her to stay here more than a few minutes. She left by the kitchen door just before you arrived and I have no idea where she might be going.”
“What did you talk about?” Syfax wandered over to a tall vase displayed on the mantel above the crackling fire. The heat was blistering to his skin but soothing to his aching back. He placed one finger on the lip of the vase and gently began tipping it forward.
“She was babbling, clearly in some sort of distress. Whatever it was, it was none of my concern and I did nothing to warrant any damage to that antique vase, major.”
Syfax held the vase at a precarious angle above the stone ledge at the base of the fireplace. If Chaou really did slip out, she could be anywhere, but if she’s still in the house then I can wrap this up right here. “What did she say, exactly?”
Cyrus picked himself up off the floor, his legs spread a little too wide, and one hand clutching his jaw. He needed his other hand to hold up his trousers, which had slipped down to his knees as the two halves of his belt flopped out from his belt loops. The Persian looked at his mistress and indicated the marshal with a sharp nod, but she waved him back with a pained frown as she said, “Barika said there had been some trouble in Tingis. I can only imagine she meant the explosion at the train station. I cut her off. I told her I did not wish to know her affairs and would not render her any assistance.”
“Tough break for her. Funny that she thought she might get some help from you, though. How do you know Barika Chaou, exactly?”
“I saw her regularly at various state dinners, festivals, and conferences among people of means and influence. But we had no particular relationship. I was, as I said, quite shocked to learn of the allegations against her regarding the Tingis matter, and I was equally shocked when she appeared in my home here this evening. I take it she is in fact guilty?”
“Yeah.”
“Ah.” Dona Othmani looked genuinely concerned for a moment. “A tragedy for all involved, without question.”
“Mostly for the people she killed, and their families.” Syfax kept both eyes on the Persian hulking behind her. “So you run Othmani Mills from here? Aren’t your factories all in Arafez?”
“Technically, I’ve retired. As president, I’m really just a figurehead for the company.”
“Aren’t you a little young to be retired?”
Dona Othmani smiled. “Yes, but I’m already the wealthiest woman in the province. I have taken residence here permanently. More time for the children and my reading. It’s quite nice not to be squinting at balance sheets and ledger books, inspecting factories, arguing with foremen, and breathing in their stink. Ikelan trash.”
“My grandmother was Ikelan,” Syfax said as he took his finger away and let the vase shatter on the brick hearth. “Oops.”
The lady glanced at the hand-painted shards on the floor and sniffed. “Then I’m sure you appreciate the dissolution of the caste system much more than I do. This country has changed too much, too quickly.”
“Funny. Your friend Chaou said something just like that to me today.”
“Whatever fringe political views I express are reflections of my birth, major, not my aspirations. Barika Chaou is a grasping little woman who thinks that running errands to the Silver Prince makes her someone of importance,” said Dona Othmani, her eyes narrowing and voice falling to a lower register. “If you really want to find her, just find
