Moblay Sopsirk’s son, however, sought him out for a game of war. For politeness’ sake, Radnal agreed to play, though he had so much on his mind that he was sure the brown man from Lissonland would trounce him. Either Moblay had things on his mind, too, or he wasn’t the player he thought he was. The game was a comedy of errors which had the spectators biting their lips to keep from blurting out better moves. Radnal eventually won, in inartistic style.
Benter vez Maprab had been an onlooker. When the game ended, he delivered a two-sentence verdict which was also obituary: “A wasted murder. Had the Morgaffo seen that, he’d’ve died of embarrassment.” He stuck his nose in the air and stalked off to his sleeping cubicle.
“We’ll have to try again another time, when we’re thinking straighter,” Radnal told Moblay, who nodded ruefully. Radnal put away the war board and pieces. By then, Moblay was the only tourist left in the common room. Radnal sat down next to Liem vez Steries, not across the gaming table from the Lissonese. Moblay refused to take the hint. Finally Radnal grabbed the rhinoceros by the horn: “Forgive me, freeman, but we have a lot to discuss among ourselves.”
“Don’t mind me,” Moblay said cheerfully. “I’m not in your way, I hope. And I’d be interested to hear how you Tarteshans investigate. Maybe I can bring something useful back to my prince.”
Radnal exhaled through his nose. Biting off words one by one, he said, “Freeman vez Sopsirk, you are a subject of this investigation. To be blunt, we have matters to discuss which you shouldn’t hear.”
“We also have other, weightier, things to discuss,” Peggol vez Menk put in. “Remember, freeman, this is not your principality.”
“It never occurred to me that you might fear I was guilty,” Moblay said. “I know I’m not, so I assumed you did, too. Maybe I’ll try and screw the Krepalgan girls, since it doesn’t sound like Radnal will be using them tonight.”
Peggol raised an eyebrow. “Them?” He packed a world of question into one word.
Under their coat of down, Radnal’s ears went hot. Fortunately, he managed to answer a question with a question:
“What could be weightier than learning who killed Dokhnor of Kellef?”
Peggol glanced from one sleeping cubicle to the next, as if wondering who was feigning slumber. “Why don’t you walk with me in the cool night air? Subleader vez Steries can come with us; he was here all day, and can tell you what he saw himself — things I heard when I took my own evening walk, and which I might garble in reporting them to you.”
“Let’s walk, then,” Radnal said, though he wondered where Peggol vez Menk would find cool night air in Trench Park. Deserts above sea level cooled rapidly when the sun set, but that wasn’t true in the Bottomlands.
Getting out in the quiet dark made it seem cooler. Radnal, Peggol, and Liem walked without saying much for a couple of hundred cubits. Only when they were out of earshot of the lodge did the park militiaman announce, “Freeman vez Menk’s colleagues discovered a microprint reader among the Morgaffo’s effects.”
“Did they, by the gods?” Radnal said. “Where, Liem vez? What was it disguised as?”
“A stick of artist’s charcoal.” The militiaman shook his head. “I thought I knew every trick in the codex, but that’s a new one. Now we can rub the plenipo’s nose in it if he fusses about losing a Morgaffo citizen in Tartesh. But even that’s a small thing, next to what the reader held.”
Radnal stared. “Heading off a war with Morgaf is small?”
“It is, freeman vez Krobir,” Peggol vez Menk said. “You remember today’s earthquake-”
“Yes, and there was another one yesterday, a smaller one,” Radnal interrupted. “They happen all the time down here. No one except a tourist like Moblay Sopsirk’s son worries about them. You reinforce your buildings so they won’t fall down except in the worst shocks, then go on about your business.”
“Sensible,” Peggol said. “Sensible under most circumstances, anyway. Not here, not now.”
“Why not?” Radnal demanded.
“Because, if what was on Dokhnor of Kellef’s microprint reader is true — always a question when we’re dealing with Morgaffos — someone is trying to engineer a special earthquake.”
Radnal’s frown drew his heavy eyebrows together above his nose. “I still don’t know what you’re talking about.” Liem vez Steries inclined his head to Peggol vez Menk. “By your leave, freeman-?” When Peggol nodded, Liem went on, “Radnal vez, over the years somebody — has smuggled the parts for a starbomb into Trench Park.”
The tour guide gaped at his friend. “That’s insane. If somebody smuggled a starbomb into Tartesh, he’d put it by the Hereditary Tyrant’s palace, not here. What does he want, to blow up the last big herd of humpless camels in the world?”
“He has more in mind than that,” Liem answered. “You see, the bomb is underground, on one of the fault lines nearest the Barrier Mountains.” The militiaman’s head swiveled to look west toward the sawbacked young mountain range…
… the mountain range that held back the Western Ocean. The night was warm and dry, but cold sweat prickled on Radnal’s back and under his arms. “They want to try to knock the mountains down. I’m no geologist — can they?”
“The gods may know,” Liem answered. “I’m no geologist either, so I don’t. This I’ll tell you: the Morgaffos seem to think it would work.”
Peggol vez Menk cleared his throat. “The Hereditary Tyrant discourages research in this area, lest any positive answers fall into the wrong hands. Thus our studies have been limited. I gather, however, that such a result might be obtained.”
“The freeman’s colleagues radiophoned a geologist known to be reliable,” Liem amplified. “They put to him some of what was on the microprint reader, as a theoretical exercise. When they were through, he sounded ready to wet his robes.”
“I don’t blame him.” Radnal looked toward the Barrier Mountains, too. What had Moblay said? A wave as high as the Lion God’s mane. If the mountains fell at once, the wave might reach Krepalga before it halted. The deaths, the devastation, would be incalculable. His voice shook as he asked, “What do we do about it?”
“Good question,” Peggol said, astringent as usual. “We don’t know whether it’s really there, who planted it if it is, where it is, or if it’s ready. Other than that, we’re fine.”
Liem’s voice turned savage: “I wish all the tourists were Tarteshans. Then we could question them as thoroughly as we needed, until we got truth from them.”
Thoroughly, Radnal knew, was a euphemism for harshly. Tarteshan justice was more pragmatic than merciful, so much so that applying it to foreigners would strain diplomatic relations and might provoke war. The tour guide said, “We couldn’t even be properly thorough with our own people, not when one of them is Toglo zev Pamdal.”
“I’d forgotten.” Liem made a face. “But you can’t suspect her. Why would the Hereditary Tyrant’s relative want to destroy the country he’s Hereditary Tyrant of? It makes no sense.”
“I don’t suspect her,” Radnal said. “I meant we’ll have to use our heads here; we can’t rely on brute force.”
“I suspect everyone,” Peggol vez Menk said, matter-of-factly as if he’d said, It’s hot tonight. “For that matter, I also suspect the information we found among Dokhnor’s effects. It might have been planted there to provoke us to question several foreign tourists thoroughly and embroil us with their governments. Morgaffo duplicity knows no bounds.”
“As may be, freeman, but dare we take the chance that this is duplicity, not real danger?” Liem said.
“If you mean, dare we ignore the danger? — of course not,” Peggol said. “But it might be duplicity.”