Parabolis (22 page)

“What?”

“In keeping vigilance against the threat of radicalism, heresy, cultism, cabals, and all other subversive elements, all groups disseminating their agenda or doctrine in secrecy, or without recognition of the Benesanti, or in violation of international laws, are considered threats to the peace in accordance with the Mizraheen Treaty, section four, article nine. And all affiliates of said groups are deemed ‘
saboteurs
of the peace.’ Thus, you will not be granted Sanctuary.”

“But I’m not affiliated with anyone.”

“The Samaeli would fall under the definition of ‘subversive elements.’ Your friendship with one of its assassins is something of an affiliation. You also assisted a criminal organization in smuggling the Samaeli into this very city.”

Dale thought,
I must have sung like a bird under that serum.

“Nevertheless, you will be free to go after our verdict is forwarded to the State Security Command.”

“When will that be?”

“Tomorrow.”

“That’s too late,” Dale blurted.

The templar did not acknowledge Dale. He stepped aside. Selah stepped forward into the cell holding a wooden bucket, some cotton wraps, and a lidded wooden cup.

“Mister Sunday.”

“Prioress.”

“When I extended an invitation to the temple, this isn’t what I had in mind.”

“Me neither.”

“Lay on your stomach, please.” When Dale hesitated, Selah explained, “I’m here to treat your wounds.”

Dale did as he was told. Selah slowly peeled the cotton cloth from his back and reached down into the bucket to draw from it a sponge soaked in calamine soap. As she did, she whispered in his ear, “Is it true?”

“Is what true?

“What you said about the Balean invasion—is it true?”

“Uh, what did I say?”

Then in her speaking voice, she added, “This may sting a bit.”

It burned like ice. Despite the gentle touch, Dale flinched and clenched his teeth.

“Bear with me.” Selah blew on his back with little effect. Once she finished washing his back, she applied some aloe ointment and redressed the wounds with a blanket of gauze. “Drink this.” She held up the wooden cup. “It’s water from the seed of a tropical drupe. It’ll restore your spirit.”

Dale sat up and took the cup, the contents of which were a clear liquid, sweet and nutty. He paused, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He turned to Selah. She was the only person to whom he could make an appeal.

“I need to warn my brother,” he tried. “He’s at the Ancile. And I—”

Selah put her hand toward his mouth. “I believe you. I’ll be back,” she whispered.

Then she took up the bucket and left the cell. Thomas shut the door after her, locked all the latches into place, and shouted, “Lights out!”

On command, the lights went out. Dale sat staring at the door through which Selah had left.
Could it be true?
he wondered.
Why would she believe me? What did she know?
Based on the templar’s pronouncement, it was clear Dale had divulged much during the inquisition. There was no way of knowing what he had said. Like the fleeting memory of a dream, the bits and pieces of the inquisition continued to fade away until there was nothing. The only things left in Dale’s mind were the lashes to his back and the name
Fairchild
.

Dale got up and washed his hands and his face by the soft glow of a burning oil lamp left hanging just outside his door. The warm light seeped in between the cracks of his cell door. As he gently laid himself down on his stomach, he allowed himself to hope. With time running out, everything depended on Selah’s promise.

“Zaal’mavorte
,” Valkyrie said into the silence.

“What?” asked Dale.

“Zaal’mavorte.
‘Shadows of Death.’ Or what you call in Standard ‘the Samaeli.’ Is it true? You got a friend in the group?”

“I’d rather not talk about it.”

“Probably for the best. But if it’s true, I must say, it’s a wonder you’re still alive.”

Valkyrie’s words simmered in the silence. Dale considered how dangerous Sparrow had become—how precarious his reunion with him had been.

“What do you know about them?”

“I can’t say I’ve ever had any contact with them,” Valkyrie replied. “At least, not that I’m aware of. But when I was younger, I remember a man came crawling into our village one day. I grew up on the outskirts of the Saracen and the nearest village from ours was more than five thousand strides away. We didn’t know how long the man had been traveling, but he was delirious, dehydrated, on the brink of death. And he was covered in dried blood. He kept whispering, ‘
bezazu.
’ Means devil in our ancient tongue. He didn’t survive the night. But from what he’d apparently told our chieftain, the Shaldean Riders had met with the
Zaal’mavorte
in his village. A few days later, he woke up covered in blood. All of the horses had been slaughtered. And his entire village was gone. His family. Everyone.”

“You mean dead?”

“I mean gone. Vanished. Without a trace. Like they were never there.”

It had the makings of a legend. But the uneasiness in his neighbor’s voice told Dale it was true.

“Like I said, kid,” Valkyrie added, “it’s a wonder you’re still alive.”

Count Enlil Fairchild was a private man. Only a few people knew what the head of the Parallel Mining Corporation looked like. Even fewer saw the old man on a regular basis. However, the name
Fairchild
was known in every corner of the developed world. He was, after all, one of the wealthiest men in one of the wealthiest cities in Groveland.

His primary place of residence was the largest estate in the exclusive gated community called the Foothills. It was located far above Carnaval City on its upper westside. A private enclave of the wealthy elite, the community had a twelve-foot wall along its entire perimeter. There was only one gate in. Most in Carnaval City only heard what was behind that wall. Though a small fraction of the city’s population lived in the Foothills, it represented more than half of the world’s wealth.

Each year, there was also a ball held at his estate on the eve of the Harvest Festival—a ball to which an invitation was considered somewhat of a measure of one’s position in society. Count Fairchild himself rarely made an appearance at his own events. This year, his estate was eerily quiet. Parallel Mining Corporation had just completed a move of their base of operations to Brookhaven in the South. It was an administrative nightmare that yielded Fairchild hardly enough time to attend a luncheon celebrating an old associate’s retirement. Even then, Fairchild excused himself early from the small gathering citing exhaustion, and he was home before sundown.

Aside from the servants who knew to stay out of sight, at home Fairchild would, at last, be alone. Over the years, he had grown increasingly weary of company. In fact, the exhaustion he was experiencing had little to do with the relocation of Parallel Mining. It was the mingling with people he found tedious. As he grew in stature, all of his relationships were with those who could gain something from the association with him. His friends had become panderers. All he saw around him was the pretentiousness brought on by competition. All he heard was gossip and empty flattery. There wasn’t an honest person among them. Their company had grown worse than isolation until isolation became his only reprieve—an escape from the loveless network. He was glad he would soon be free of them for good.

The majordomo greeted him at the door.

“Good evening, Master Fairchild,” he said, taking his coat and hat.

“Evening, Nicolas.”

Around him was his personal security team, a hand-selected group of men from a private security firm known for attracting mercenaries looking for easy work. Once Fairchild was at the door of the house, the security team broke formation. Two went to man the gates, six to patrol the grounds, and three to enter before Enlil and inspect every room.

Thunder rumbled in the distant gray.

“A storm is coming.”

“That it is.”

Nicolas then handed Fairchild an envelope. It was sealed with the crest of the Bene-seneschal.

“Ah!” Fairchild took it with enthusiasm, broke the wax seal, and ripped the envelope open. Then he adjusted his glasses and read the note:
Thank you for your faithful service. May the Maker’s blessing go with you. Bg2.

“Shall I run the bath, sir?” asked Nicolas.

“No.”

“And what of supper?”

“I’ll take a late meal on the train. Which reminds me, have Philippe ready the carriage by six. Departure’s at eight.”

“Very good, sir.”

The majordomo disappeared down the gilded hallway into the east wing where the servants’ quarters were.

Fairchild sat in the foyer as always until the head of security returned from his personal bedchambers.

“You’re all clear, sir.”

“Thank you, Quintus.”

Fairchild climbed the grand staircase that stopped at a landing before curving up on either side to the second story. On the landing wall overlooking the foyer was a large, oil-on-canvas painting of himself, a rendering of his younger self. He posed with a victor’s stance—the chin cocked up, looking out into the distance, his right foot set on a conquered stone, fist over chest. The painting was commissioned by his sons and presented to him on his fiftieth birthday. He stopped at the top of the stairs to take a last look. It was something he never did. Looking at the gallant figure, he was reminded of how fleeting time was. The painting would remain with most of his furniture and his other less valuable possessions for the looting that would surely ensue. Even his servants—trusted servants—would be abandoned. The company relocation was a logistical nightmare but a necessary one. His estate and staff, however, were deemed expendable.

He had to consider that a move would have raised questions. There were already questions about the move of Parallel Mining. Had he moved out of his private residence, there were bound to be more questions. Fairchild had been warned of the Balean invasion by a trusted source. And the less evidence of foreknowledge, the better.

Fairchild passed the ambassador’s suite on his way to his bedchamber. In his room, he switched on the lamp beside his bed, casting a soft drowsy glow into the darkening dusk. He made his way over to the chessboard beside his work desk and studied it. Referencing the note, he then moved the white bishop accordingly.

“Bishop to g-two. A
fianchetto
is it?” he muttered to himself. He flipped the note over, grabbed a pen, and jotted down the piece placements. “We’ll have to continue this in Brookhaven.”

Then he unbuttoned his shirt, poured himself a glass from his nightcap decanter. He took a seat in his leather chair and sipped on his brandy. His thoughts went to all that would ensue in Carnaval City in the first hours of the Harvest Festival. In the silence, alone with his drink, the gravity of war descended on him. He thought about the children of the city. The coming death and destruction. Just as dread began to fill him, the bell from the front gate rang.

Fairchild set his glass down on top of the note beside the chessboard and went back out into the corridor. He buttoned his shirt while standing against the rails overlooking the foyer. Quintus was there to ask, “Are you expecting anyone, sir?”

“No.”

Nicolas was already at the door.

“Is Mister Fairchild in?”

“May I ask who’s inquiring?”

“Sentinel Walsh and Sentinel Helell of the State Security Command. We’d like a word with him.”

“And what is this regarding?”

Immediately, Fairchild thought of his ledger. His lies.

When frequently asked by his colleagues for the secret of his success, he had always proudly answered, “I understand that a business thrives only if the community around it thrives with it. Do you know why terrorists haven’t attacked my mines? I build schools and wells in Emmainite villages.”

The lie wasn’t in his philosophy of mutual prosperity. It was in the talk of schools and wells. Fairchild’s mines were no less guilty of exploitation. But they were left unmolested by the Shaldea only because he had entered an agreement with them—to be a funding vehicle for their cell groups within the Republic. A trained eye would have easily been able to detect the discrepancy in his accounts—the large sums of untraceable monies laundered through Parallel Mining prior to its eventual integration into Shaldean hands.

Remembering he had already destroyed the ledger just days earlier along with other incriminating evidence, he descended the stairs with aplomb.

“It’s okay, Nicolas. Show them in.”

“Sorry to disturb you,” said Sentinel Walsh, flashing his badge. “Sentinel Norman Walsh of the SSC. This is my partner, Sentinel Gabriel Helell.”

“This way, please.”

Fairchild showed them into his study just beyond the foyer. Quintus and his comrades stood guard just outside.

“Care for a drink?”

“No, thank you.”

They all took a seat around the coffee table on the leather sofa set.

“Again, our apologies for dropping in unexpected,” Sentinel Walsh began. “I’m sure you’re very busy, but we believe you may be in danger.”

“Danger?” It wasn’t what he was expecting.

“We believe the deaths of the investors in the Machina Group is part of a larger plot. We believe they were, in fact, assassinated by members of a highly sophisticated subversive group known as the Samaeli. We recently interrogated a suspected affiliate and your name came up.”

Fairchild’s expression changed. “Why would my name come up?”

“We were hoping you could help us answer that.”

“Excuse me a moment.” Fairchild rose from his seat, opened the door and invited Quintus into the study. “I’d like my head of security to hear this.”

“Of course.”

“Sentinel, no one believed the official reports,” Fairchild added, as he returned to his seat. “You’d be a fool to think every lead investor of Machina fell ill or died in an accident in a span of mere months. But what does this have to do with me?”