Michael Flynn - Up Jim River

Méarana tuned a few strings. “They went ‘round the Staircase in opposite directions. After they parted on Thistlewaite, Mother came home to do her research. When she returned to Thistlewaite and learned that Sofwari had not waited for her, she went to Harpaloon to intercept him. But he had not gotten there yet. She lost patience and went down the Staircase to Dancing Vrouw.”

Donovan grunted. “And likely, passed Sofwari, who was coming up at the same time. You do understand.”

Méarana strummed a chord, frowned, twisted a key a quarter turn. “I don’t understand any of it. Why did Mother come all the way back to Dangchao to do her research? She could have done most of it from Thistlewaite and left with Sofwari. Why did Sofwari not wait for her on Thistlewaite? Why did it take him longer to reach Harpaloon than Mother allowed for?”

The scarred man showed his teeth. “Oil and water, girl. A Hound is relentless on the scent; but science-wallahs move in fits and starts. How could Sofwari abide on Thistlewaite, while the tissue banks of the Hanse beckoned? But once there, he could linger weeks in study at each depository. There is an unworldliness about his sort that more efficient folk like your mother cannot grasp. It never occurred to her that he would dawdle.” A grunt of laughter was pulled from him and he muttered softly, “Yes, Pedant. I was sure you would understand.”

“But why did Mother ‘dawdle?’ Why did she spend two weeks at home on research she could have done almost anywhere? Ourobouros Thistlewaite was back in-circuit. At worst, she need have gone up the Silk Road no farther than High Tara.”

“Ah.” The scarred man’s smile was like a knife wound. “There was one thing she wanted to access that she could only do on Dangchao.”

“And what was that?”

“You.”

The harper struck a false note, and looked to the scarred man with a surprise that she quickly suppressed. She tucked her head to the harp. “I doubt that,” she murmured, addressing the strings and pretending to tune them.

Donovan nodded to his servant. “What do you think of all this, Billy?”

The khitmutgar flipped his hands ulta-pulta. “No savvy alla runaround. Go here. Go there. Romance, I think.”

“Romance!” said Méarana; and the scarred man cocked his head with interest.

“Why you say that, boy?”

“Sahb! Man chase woman; woman chase man. What other reason ever?”

Donovan barked laughter. “Oh, that would be a fine joke! What weight honor and duty when Kam’deev the Bodyless looses the arrows of love!”

Méarana played a discord. “I’m not certain I like that.”

The scarred man shook himself and pointed at Billy. “Before I forget… That brain I gave you has the dibby that Sofwari left for Bridget ban. It’s nothing but columns of numbers. Actuaries work with statistics and data bases. See if you can parse it.”

Billy studied the brain in his hand, and a shy smile stole across his features. “Oh yes, sahb. Child of Wonder shows much faith in poor Billy Chins. I work this no long time, you see.”

Donovan grunted. “See me when you get back and we’ll discuss it.”

Billy hurried off to do his duty and Méarana said, “Do you think he can do it?”

Donovan spread his hands. “He claims to be good with that sort of thing. Don’t let his dialect fool you.”

Reading and harping then claimed them, and for a time a soft melody floated in the suite’s air. “The Hunt for Bridget ban.” It was a variation on a melody of hers that her mother had especially liked and, playing it, she felt as if the music drew her mother toward her. But she plucked it from the third mode; and Méarana was quite aware of what that signified. Even in its gentler chords the third smacked of anger—more fire, and the yellow bile. She had chosen it without thinking. Yet, until she knew who had wrought her mother’s fate, against whom might the anger be directed?

A few minutes later, Donovan rasped in his throat. Grateful for an excuse to break off a strain that had grown too labored, Méarana stilled her strings with the flat of her hand. “What is it?” she asked him.

Donovan struck the reading screen with his knuckles. “This is an abridged edition of Commonwealth Days —compiled on Ladelthorp eighty metric years ago. The publishing history cites an original edition three hundred and fifty years earlier on Friesing’s World.”

The harper nodded. “And?”

“And which edition did your mother read?”

“Ah.”

Donovan tossed the reader screen aside. “Send another message to your pal, Tenbottles, and ask him to find out. And while he’s at it, check the editions and revs for all the other books as well. Meanwhile, I have to write a summary report for Greystroke and Hugh and drop it on them when we pass through Yubeq.”

Méarana raised her brows. “We’re not holding things back anymore?”

“Of course, we’re holding things back. Only not the same things.”

Mèarana bent over her harp and plucked out a small, cheerful melody to hide her smile. “You ought to become friends again.”

Donovan grunted. “Call it gratitude, for want of something better.”

The harper laughed. “Fudir might be grateful for the Harpaloon sacred books. I doubt Donovan is.”

“It wasn’t that. Or not just that. Greystroke… Never mind what Greystroke did. Using the Hounds is the logical thing to do. The Kennel can better track Sofwari. He cannot have covered his tracks so well as a Hound.”

“And if we find Sofwari, we find Mother!”

“Or we’ll find where she’s buried.”

It wasn’t a fair shot. Donovan had dug deep and pulled the dart from some dark quiver of his mind. She hadn’t been expecting it, and the point sank deep into her. She turned and fled from the common room. Donovan looked away. “But more than likely,” he told the now empty room, “he’s gone missing, too.”

Fifty metric minutes passed before Billy returned, and Donovan had begun to wonder at his absence. When he reappeared, he clutched a message packet in his hand.

“This come for sahb!” he said in a voice as shaky as the hand.

Donovan took the packet and saw that it was addressed only to “the man with the scars upon his head.” And who in the Spiral Arm knew that such a man was aboard Gerthru van Ij?bwode? He grabbed Billy by the blouse. “Where did you get this?” Inner Child gibbered: «The courier! On board!»

“Please, sahb! Message, he find me at concierge. Signal-man not savvy ‘the man with scars’; but he knew you wear him, the skullcap. I say, too, Where you get this? Sahb! He come in upsquirt from Nee Stoggome during the fly-by. How this man send him know you here?”

Donovan studied the packet seal more closely. An external receipt stamp from the signal room. Place of origin, Dancing Vrouw, forwarded via the Circuit, confidential. That meant that the message had been decrypted automatically from a standard “blindside” commercial code. Anxiety drained suddenly from him. He clapped Billy on the shoulder. “Simple, boy! He sent the same message to every ship that left Dancing Vrouw. Place a bet on every number and you win every time!” The scarred man broke the seal and extracted the slip.

DONOVAN, the slip read, TWO HUNDRED THOUSAND IN GLADIOLA BILLS OF EXCHANGE TO YOUR ACCOUNT AT JEHOVAH’S TRUST WHEN YOU ABANDON YOUR USELESS SEARCH.

It was not signed, of course. Its mere existence was signature enough.

“What message say, sahb?”

Donovan shook his head. “It says, ‘Don’t throw me in the briar patch, Bre’er Fox.’” He smiled at Billy and crumpled the message in his fist. “Someone wants to pay me to do something I’ve been aching to do.”