Jonathan Howard - Johannes Cabal the Detective

“Herr Meissner here used to be a cavalryman,” said Miss Barrow. Cabal’s fork stopped en route to his mouth.

“Really?” Konstantin regarded Cabal with a neutral stare. Then he smiled. “You would have broken your lances on one of my squares, sir, let me assure you.”

Cabal smiled, too, a purely technical exercise. “I do not doubt it, Colonel,” he replied without the faintest idea what Konstantin was talking about.

Next to the colonel was a floppy-haired youth, which is to say, he was perhaps five or so years younger than Cabal. Cabal had, however, worked hard to cram such grotesque quantities of responsibility, activity, and learning, both theoretical and practical, into every one of his days, that his years became akin to dog years. This youth, whom — after muttering into his chest when questioned by the colonel — Cabal had finally been able to name as one Gabriel Zoruk, swung from moodiness to airs of unwarranted moral superiority, depending upon how out of his conversational depth he found himself. Cabal disliked him instinctively, having identified him as a man still prey to his hormones while his intellect puttered around in the background like an embarrassed parent. He was dressed simply, but not cheaply, judging by the tailoring, and it seemed safe to assume that somewhere along the line he had decided to be a political activist without regard for his painfully apparent lack of competence, knowledge, or acuity. It seemed that nice hair and the eyes of a cherub had gained him attentions that he had construed as somehow inspired by his political thoughts. In this he was mistaken, an error of the sort commonly found among millionaires who believe that they are charismatic.

Beyond Zoruk was Frau Roborovski, sitting apart from her husband presumably as part of the etiquette of “mixing.” He was to Cabal’s right, two places beyond Cacon, and apparently not enjoying his liberty to chat with strangers. This may well have been because of the proprietary glances she would occasionally shoot him if he showed any sign of coming out of his shell. Marriage, it seemed, was truly an institution; in this case, something along the lines of a prison or an asylum. Cabal avoided any eye contact with Frau Roborovski that might result in conversation and moved on.

Captain Schten had managed to settle into a far more interesting conversation with the next man along — a gentleman in his sixties, whose taste in clothing was a trifle fusty but whose eyes and manner were bright. “It’s a fascinating vessel, Captain,” he said, a piece of fish falling unnoticed from his fork back to the plate. “A fascinating vessel. I’ve been out of the job for a while, but you always keep your interest.”

“This isn’t your first trip aboard an aeroship, then?” said Schten, helping himself to more potatoes.

“Oh, good heavens, no.” The man laughed in the indulgent manner of one about to make a revelation. “I used to design the things.”

“Really? You astonish me, Herr DeGarre.”

“Ah, please, Monsieur DeGarre, if you would. ‘Herr DeGarre’ sounds a little too much like ‘hurdy-gurdy.’”

“Hurdy —?”

“One of those ghastly boxes that the English imagine is a musical instrument. Yes, I retired from aeronaval architecture, cah, it must be seven years ago. You’ve heard of the Destrier class? That was one of mine.”

“ Destrier ?” Schten looked uncertain. “But that was a warship, was it not, m’sieur?”

“It was.” DeGarre took a sip of wine. “Three were built. The Bucephalus was sold off for scrap about five years ago, the Marengo is now the entire aerial navy for some little republic in the tropics, and the Destrier herself ploughed into a mountainside in bad weather.” A few people listening in on the conversation showed mild signs of discomfort; nobody likes to hear tales of aeroship disaster while travelling in one. “I told them not to use that type of altimeter, but you know military contractors — anything to save a few francs.” He shook his head and picked up the piece of fish again. This time there was no escape for it.

“And all three were used in the Desolée Suppression, were they not, m’sieur?” said a clear voice, cutting across all other conversations. Heads turned to look at the interjector. It was Gabriel Zoruk, all dark-haired, clean-jawed, handsome, and probably riding for a fall. He looked, Cabal thought on further consideration, like the sort of man who does all the wrong things for all the right reasons.

Cabal leaned back in his seat and, inclining his head towards her, asked Miss Barrow quietly, “What is the ‘Desolée Suppression’?”

She looked at him, suspicious with disbelief. “You’re joking?”

“Not at this exact moment, no.”

“You’ve never heard of the Desolée Suppression?”

Cabal bit his lip and sought patience. “If I knew, I’d hardly be asking, would I?”

He received no useful reply. She was no longer listening to him but to the exchange between DeGarre and Zoruk. “I’ll tell you later,” she said offhandedly to Cabal, leaving him to stew.

“Yes,” said DeGarre, evenly and without rancour. “They were used in the Suppression.”

“Your gleaming death machines,” said the young man, showing an entirely unconscious attachment to the melodramatic turn of phrase. Another mark of his breed, Cabal observed. “Against women and children. Does that make you proud?”

“ Mein herr ,” began the captain, beginning to heat at this discourtesy. DeGarre interrupted him.

“Monsieur, you are a romantic, non ?”

Zoruk frowned, uncertain.

“I was young once, too,” continued DeGarre. “Things are pleasantly blanc et noir , are they not? All morality is a matter of certainty.”

Cabal glanced significantly at Miss Barrow, but she was listening attentively to the exchange.

“The ships I built were intended for aerial warfare. Their every line proclaims it. Warship against warship. That was my brief and that was my design. The Suppression, as has been repeatedly shown and famously proclaimed, was the decision of an aeroflotilla commodore straying far, far beyond his orders. When he took those ships into a low-level attack against the villages of the Guasoir Valley, he did so out of a rage of frustration. He had been sent to fight the partisans. They, awkwardly, did not wear uniforms. They did not simply vanish among the villagers. They were the villagers. They slaughtered patrols and then vanished amongst their kindred. It was an impossible situation and should never have been given to an aeroship flotilla to resolve. A case for the infantry. Von Falks should have deployed his marines to prove as much and then reported it to his superiors. As we all know, he did not. It was regrettable.”

“Regrettable?” spat Zoruk, but DeGarre hadn’t finished.

“The Destrier and her sisters were built to fight a good war, by the rules of war, to the honour of war. Commodore Von Falks sullied those rules, his family, and, to my chagrin, the reputation of my ships. Direct your ire elsewhere, monsieur. It is wasted here.” He reached for his wineglass and took a calm sip amidst a light patter of applause from other passengers who preferred that war crimes not be discussed at dinner. Zoruk glared at him, picked up his cutlery, and made as if to start eating again but, after a moment’s wavering, slammed them onto his plate, stood up, and walked out with less dignity than he supposed. Cabal watched him go with approval: anything that distracted attention away from, say, a fugitive necromancer travelling abroad under the alias of a comatose civil servant, was to be encouraged.

“Stone the crows, what a berk,” observed Cacon. “Things were different when I was a boy. Respect for your elders, oh yes. Always the same, though, isn’t it? When you’re young, you had to show respect for your elders or you’d get a right lathering. Now I am an elder, you have to treat the youth of today with kid gloves or they’ll give you a right lathering. Doesn’t matter which side of the generation gap I’m on, it’s the wrong side.” He breathed a deep breath so that he could sigh a deep sigh. “Typical. Abso-lutely flipping typical.” He shoved his plate of disrupted fish away from him. “Oi, garkon! Give this to the cat. What’s for pudding?”