“I understand, freeman,” Liem vez Steries assured him. “But because she did, her account of what happened is important.”
The militiaman had just finished recording the last statement when another helo landed outside the lodge. The instant its dust storm subsided, four men came in. The Hereditary Tyrant’s Eyes and Ears looked more like prosperous merchants than soldiers: their caps had patent — leather brims, they closed their robes with silver chains, and they sported rings on each index finger.
“I am Peggol vez Menk,” one of them announced. He was short and, by Tarteshan standards, slim; he wore his cap at a dapper angle. His eyes were extraordinarily shrewd, as if he were waiting for someone around him to make a mistake. He spotted Liem vez Steries at once, and asked, “What’s been done thus far, Subleader?”
“What you’d expect,” the militiaman answered: “Statements from all present, and our circumstances man, Senior Trooper vez Sofana there, has taken some pictures. We didn’t disturb the body.”
“Fair enough,” the Eye and Ear said. One of his men was flashing more photos. Another set a recorder beside the one already on the table. “We’ll get a copy of your wire, and we’ll make one for ourselves — maybe we’ll find questions you missed. You haven’t searched belongings yet?”
“No, freeman.” Liem vez Steries’ voice went wooden. Radnal wouldn’t have wanted someone to steal and duplicate his work, either. Eyes and Ears, though, did as they pleased. Why not? They watched Tartesh, but who watched them?
“We’ll take care of it.” Peggol vez Menk sat down at the table. The photographer stuck in a fresh clip of film, then followed the two remaining Eyes and Ears into the sleeping cubicle nearest the entrance.
It was Golobol’s. “Be careful, oh please I beg you,” the physician exclaimed. “Some of my equipment is delicate.”
Peggol said, “I’ll hear the tale of the woman who discovered the body.” He pulled out a notepad, glanced at it.
“Evillia.” A little calmer now, Evillia retold her story using, so far as Radnal could tell, the same words she had before. If Peggol found any new questions, he didn’t ask them.
After about a tenth of a daytenth, it was Radnal’s turn. Peggol did remember his name without needing to remind himself. Again, his questions were like the ones Liem vez Steries had used. When he asked the last one, Radnal had a question of his own: “Freeman, while the investigation continues, may I take my group out into the Bottomlands?” He explained how Benter vez Maprab had threatened to sue, and why he thought even a guilty tourist unlikely to escape.
The Eye and Ear pulled at his lower lip. He let the hair beneath it grow out in a tuft, which made him seem to have a protruding chin like a Highhead’s. When he released the lip, it went back with a liquid plop. Under his tilted cap, he looked wise and cynical. Radnal’s hopes plunged. He waited for Peggol to laugh at him for raising the matter.
Peggol said, “Freeman, I know you technically enjoy military rank, but suppose you discover who the killer is, or he strikes again. Do you reckon yourself up to catching him and bringing him back for trial and decapitation?”
“I-” Radnal stopped before he went any further. The ironic question reminded him this wasn’t a game. Dokhnor of Kellef might have been a spy, he was dead now, and whoever had killed him might kill again — might kill me, if I find out who he is, he thought. He said, “I don’t know. I’d like to think so, but I’ve never had to do that sort of thing.”
Something like approval came into Peggol vez Menk’s eyes. “You’re honest with yourself. Not everyone can say that. Hmm — it wouldn’t be just your silver involved in a suit, would it? No, of course not; it would be Trench Park’s, too, which means the Hereditary Tyrant’s.”
“Just what I was thinking,” Radnal said, with luck patriotically. His own silver came first with him. He was honest enough with himself to be sure of that — but he didn’t have to tell it to Peggol.
“I’m sure you were,” the Eye and Ear said, his tone dry. “The Tyrant’s silver really does come first with me. How’s this, then? Suppose you take the tourists out, as you’ve contracted to do. But suppose I come with you to investigate while my comrades keep working here? Does that seem reasonable?”
“Yes, freeman; thank you,” Radnal exclaimed.
“Good,” Peggol said. “My concubine has been nagging me to bring her here. Now I’ll see if I want to do that.” He grinned knowingly. “You see, I also keep my own interests in mind.”
The other Eyes and Ears had methodically gone from one sleeping cubicle to the next, examining the tourists’ belongings. One of them brought a codex out of Lofosa’s cubicle, dropped it on the table in front of Peggol vez Menk. The cover was a color photo of two good-looking Highheads fornicating. Peggol flipped through it. Variations on the same theme filled every page.
“Amusing,” he said, “even if it should have been seized when its owner entered our domains.”
“I like that!” Lofosa sounded indignant. “You sanctimonious Strongbrows, pretending you don’t do the same things — and enjoy them, too. I ought to know.”
Radnal hoped Peggol would not ask how she knew. He was certain she would tell him, in detail; she and Evillia might have been many things, but not shy. But Peggol said, “We did not come here to search for filth. She might have worn out Dokhnor with that volume, but she didn’t kill him with it. Let her keep it, if she enjoys telling the world what should be kept private.”
“Oh, rubbish!” Lofosa scooped up the codex and carried it back to her cubicle, rolling her hips at every step as if to contradict Peggol without another word.
The Eyes and Ears brought out nothing more from her sleep cubicle or Evillia’s for their chief to inspect. That surprised Radnal; the two women had carried in everything but the donkey they’d ridden. He shrugged — they’d probably filled their saddlebags with feminine fripperies and junk that could have stayed behind in their Tarteshan hostel if not in Krepalga.
Then he stopped thinking about them — the Eye and Ear who’d gone into Dokhnor’s cubicle whistled. Peggol vez Menk dashed in there. He came out with his fist tightly closed around something. He opened it. Radnal saw two six-pointed gold stars: Morgaffo rank badges.
“So he was a spy,” Fer vez Canthal exclaimed.
“He may have been,” Peggol said. But when he got on the radiophone to Tarteshem, he found Dokhnor of Kellef had declared his battalion leader’s rank when he entered the Tyranny. The Eye and Ear scowled. “A soldier, yes, but not a spy after all, it would appear.”
Benter vez Maprab broke in: “I wish you’d finish your pawing and let us get on with our tour. I haven’t that many days left, so I hate to squander one.”
“Peace, freeman,” Peggol said. “A man is dead.”
“Which means he’ll not complain if I see the much-talked-about wonders of Trench Park.” Benter glared as if he were the Hereditary Tyrant dressing down some churlish underling.
Radnal, seeing how Benter reacted when thwarted, wondered if he’d broken Dokhnor’s neck for no better reason than losing a game of war. Benter might be old, but he wasn’t feeble. And he was sure to be a veteran of the last war with Morgaf, or the one before that against Morgaf and the Krepalgan Unity both. He would know how to kill.
Radnal shook his head. If things kept on like this, he’d start suspecting Fer and Zosel next, or his own shadow. He wished he hadn’t lost the tour guides’ draw. He would sooner have been studying the metabolism of the fat sand rat than trying to figure out which of his charges had just committed murder.
Peggol vez Menk said, “We shall have to search the outbuildings before we begin. Freeman vez Krobir already told you we’d go out tomorrow. My professional opinion is that no court would sustain a suit over one day’s delay when compensational time is guaranteed.”