Johannes Cabal the Detective (7 page)

“There
is
a rebellion going on out there, old man. Our chaps are terribly, terribly busy crushing the proletariat. But fear not, the orders have been sent out. Just have to hope that he shows his face.”

B
usiness or pleasure?” asked the customs man.

“Pleasure,” replied Cabal. “The pure animal pleasure of presenting these government documents to my counterparts in Katamenia.” The officer looked at him blankly, and Cabal decided that this wasn’t going to be a meeting of minds. “A little joke. A very little joke. I’m on government business.”

“Oh? Pertaining to what?”

“Agricultural policy. I’m not permitted to say more.”

“Very fortuitous timing, if you don’t mind my saying so, sir,” said the officer, riffling through the stolen papers for the fourth time. Cabal wasn’t worried. The man obviously wasn’t reading them. “What, with all this trouble? You just
happen
to be leaving the country. Very fortuitous.”

“Yes,” said Cabal, pleasantly. The customs man was clearly trying to imply that Cabal was some sort of moral coward for abandoning his country in its hour of need. Cabal didn’t mind implying exactly the same thing back. Anything to annoy the hirelings. “Isn’t it? Aboard a beautiful new ship like the
Princess Hortense
, too. Lucky old me, hmm?”

“Yes. Very,
very
lucky.
Fortuitously
lucky.” The officer seemed to believe that it was possible to win some sort of implication prize if he kept it up long enough.

“You have it there in a nutshell. Are you finished with my hand baggage?”

The officer waggled his moustache and looked in Cabal’s Gladstone. “What’s this?” he asked when he found the roll of surgical tools.

Cabal quickly undid the knot and unrolled it. Sitting in a spare pocket, the switchblade looked like it belonged. “Surgical equipment. My job sometimes includes pathological examinations of sick animals.”

“You’re a veterinarian?” The officer was suddenly interested.

“In a manner—”

“Do you do parrots?”

“Not by choice.”

“What’s scales and falling feathers?”

Cabal paused. “Is this a riddle?”

“Great scales, like … sort of … dandruff.”

“Is this a test?”

“No, no.” The officer shook his head urgently. “My Liese’s got mange.”

“Liese being your parrot?”

“I thought I’d said that? Or at least as much?”

“So you did, eventually. I’m only licensed to dissect cows and sheep,” lied Cabal, having to use more inventiveness than seemed necessary or fair after all he’d been through. “I’m afraid I know nothing of”—he endeavoured to sound knowledgeable—“exotics.”

The customs officer looked at him askance and sniffed. “Well, that’s a shame. Thank you, Herr Meissner. I’m sorry to have troubled you.”

“Not at all. We do what we do for the good of the state, yes?”

“Of course. The good of the state. Enjoy your trip, sir.”

“Thank you.” As Cabal walked out of the customs building, he had the feeling that could have gone a lot better. Then he saw the
Princess Hortense
and forgot all about the customs officer.

The customs officer, however, hadn’t forgotten all about
him
.

L
ieutenant Hasso stamped into Marechal’s presence and performed a salute that was a lot of everything but brief. “He’s been spotted, sir! A customs officer at the port got suspicious and checked the wanted list.”

“Trying to leave the country, eh?” It always paid to state the obvious when dealing with men like Hasso—it would save a lot of explanation later. “We’ve got him now. I want a patrol of the household guard ready in five minutes, understood?”

U
naware of the excitement at the palace, Cabal took a long minute to gaze up in appreciative silence at the
Princess Hortense
. She sat in her cradle, a huge basket of pylons and girders that supported the hull where it was designed to bear this weight. Despite appearances when airborne, aeroships like the
Hortense
were not lighter-than-air dirigibles. Instead, they nullified their weight with banks of Laithwaite gyroscopic levitators and pulled themselves through the air using magneto-etheric line guides that located and attached the vessel to the earth’s own magnetic fields. The gyroscopes were out of sight within the aeroship’s upper hull, but the line guides—four massive aerodynamically smoothed nacelles twenty feet in length and ten square—were held at a distance from the ship’s skin by pylons jutting out just below the dorsal surface, fore and aft port, fore and aft starboard. Although these provided both propulsion and steering, there were also four great rudders set wide to aft, two thrusting downwards and two—bearing the MirkAir colours and the crest of the Imperial Warrant—up. Along her sides were the rectangular cabin portholes and, to aft, the wide picture windows of the salon. At her prow, the nose was constructed almost entirely of glass panels exposing the bridge, its command stations, control linkages, and aluminium mesh floor plates. From either side of the bridge thrust covered walkways, each ending in glass observation spheres that contained a crew station, reminding Cabal a little of the horns of a snail. These would be “flying bridges” analogous to those on a large oceangoing vessel, he guessed, there to give clear sight of the docking cradle during the approach. Members of the bridge crew were visible moving around the bridge and looking out at the field. Cabal nodded slightly with satisfaction; he respected good engineering for its purity of thought, and the
Princess Hortense
was clearly that.

Passengers were embarking from a balcony that extended directly from the side of the departure lounge, and he belatedly realised that he had come out of the wrong entrance. Rather than walk all the way back around again, he made for an iron spiral staircase within the cradle itself that seemed to be the crew’s entrance. Deciding not to stand on ceremony, he hefted his bag and started up the stairs. His footsteps clanged harshly as he stepped up the iron helix and the shadows the metalwork made in the low light of the dying day swept around and around him as he rose, spiralling twenty, thirty, forty feet above the field. He paused, as the gloom of the aeroship’s underside enveloped him, and looked back at the port buildings.

Past the sweep of the customs house, he thought he saw mounted soldiers, but a girder interrupted his view and he couldn’t be sure. He sniffed; there was no point getting paranoid at this juncture. He’d done what he could. Now he could only hope it had been enough.

H
asso had ridden his horse into the customs area, scattering nervous refugees. The horse, disappointed at not being allowed to ride down the common people—a favourite pastime of both rider and steed—was consoling itself by stepping surreptitiously on non-military feet. Muffled shrieks marked its progress.

Hasso stood up in the stirrups. “Where’s the cove who called the secret police?” he roared, before adding conversationally, “That’s us, y’know.”

Marechal, who had taken a moment to dismount, walked past him. “Have you ever heard of ‘discretion,’ Lieutenant?” he asked as he went by. Both Hasso and his horse looked equally bereft of a clue.

A hatchet-faced customs official, who looked as if he may have been turned down by the secret police at some point in an attempt to improve their image, strode up to Marechal, having instantly discriminated between the monkey and the organ-grinder. “One of my juniors became suspicious of the subject,” he said without preamble. “Passing himself off as an official. Didn’t look much like his passport photograph. Checked lists, called you.”

Marechal waited for a moment; the words the official’s statement seemed to be missing might be turning up late. They did not. “Good,” said Marechal finally. “Excellent work. Where is the man now?”

“Aboard. But the vessel will not get permission to leave until we are satisfied.”

Marechal’s nostrils flared. The savoury aroma of hot vengeance was wafting through the air. The Italians might prefer it cold, but they had girlie sabres, too, so what the hell did they know? “Excellent,” he said again. “Hold it until I’ve had a chance to talk to this
official
.” He turned his head to one side and barked, “Hasso! Come on! We’ve got him! Bring up the guards.” He waited for the inevitable clip-clopping to begin before adding, “And do it on foot, you bloody moron.”

C
abal saw the uniforms and stopped. Then he took a studied moment to recover his breath and reached the top of the spiral stairway. He’d entered the
Hortense
in a corner of the salon and the uniforms belonged to officers of the crew—civilian officers, not military. Even so, they
looked
very military. A man in his late forties with a lot of gold braid on the epaulettes of his white uniform—Cabal guessed he was the captain—was talking to a subordinate. The subordinate listened attentively and, when he was dismissed, threw a salute and clicked his heels before leaving. Cabal sighed. What was it about this country that bred toy soldiers both inside and outside the army? The captain turned, and was surprised to see Cabal there. His brow darkened momentarily and then cleared as he walked over.

“Forgive my astonishment, sir,” said the captain, thrusting out his hand. Cabal shook it politely and without grimacing as the captain ground his metacarpals together. “Passengers usually embark through the aft gangway. Those stairs you’ve just come up are intended for the crew, Herr … ?”

“Meissner,” said Cabal without hesitation, producing his stolen travel documents.

The captain smiled a little tautly and waved them away. “Not my job, sir. The purser deals with that end of things. If you were to go aft, I’m sure he’d be delighted to deal with you.”

Cabal wasn’t a man given to apologising, but he could see that he’d got off on the wrong foot here and was drawing attention to himself. He leafed quickly through his memory until he found an image of somebody smiling apologetically, and then mimicked it. “I’m terribly sorry,” he said, being nothing of the sort. “I’m making a dreadful nuisance of myself. I went out onto the edge of the field to get a breath of fresh air and then,
then
I saw the
Hortense
was boarding. I really couldn’t face going all the way back through the departure lounge.” He balled his hands together in what he sincerely believed to be a contrite posture and simpered slightly. Facial muscles that had never been used previously for anything other than stony implacability and the occasional sneer screamed under the strain. “I saw the steps and just thought it wouldn’t be any bother. I can see, however, that I’ve broken your routine. I’m in the government, so I know how important order and procedure are. Why, my whole job is about order and procedure. I’m carrying the documents for the forthcoming agricultural land-remittance discussions and, believe you me, what a sad shambles they would be without a sense of order and procedure. For example, if we look at the first programme—” Cabal reached for his case.

The glazed look that had been settling on the captain’s face was replaced by one of terror on the instant. Nobody wants to be buttonholed by an evangelising civil servant. It won’t last for the rest of one’s life, but it can certainly feel that way. “That won’t be necessary, Herr Meissner,” said the captain quickly, with a little too much emphasis on the first word. “No harm done, eh? Just see the purser and everything will be shipshape.”

Cabal pointed around the salon. “Shipshape? Oh, very good, Captain!” He knew damn well the captain hadn’t been making a joke, but it was too good an opportunity to miss. Cabal knew from past experience the peculiar horror that is the weak punster.

The captain looked blankly at him for a moment and then, finally spying the humour—such as it was—laughed faintly. Cabal hefted his bag and made to leave. “Well, thank you. You’ve been very kind. I’ll see you around no doubt, Captain … ?”

“Schten,” supplied the captain distantly, his mind filled with dreadful visions of being trapped in a confined space with Herr Meissner for the next few days. Cabal left the salon with a sense of achievement. His work here was done.

C
abal arrived in the salon to find that the process of boarding was already well under way. The
Hortense
was a large vessel, but it had been designed to carry relatively few passengers in the absolute lap of luxury. Extrapolating from the number of cabin doors he’d passed en route, it seemed unlikely she had more than twenty staterooms at most, with only about thirty passengers or so. Those less wealthy could travel in fat steerage ships like the
Bellerophon
, or take several days to do the trip on the winding and inefficient railways that spiralled up and down and around the mountains. Even so, he wondered at the economic viability of running a ship of the
Princess Hortense’s
size with so few passengers. There had to be some other source of revenue, perhaps transporting airmail or some such.

The lounge was already thinning as the passengers were shown to their cabins. The covered boarding bridge was still open but unoccupied, and it seemed likely—from the crewmen standing around the stern trying to look patient while checking their watches—that it would soon be disengaged. It couldn’t happen soon enough for Cabal.

He walked over to a man he assumed, from his air of harassed complication overlaid with a thin patina of unctuousness—and his clipboard—was the purser. “Good afternoon,” said Cabal, offering his papers.

The purser flicked carefully through them, tore off a couple of perforated sections, initialled a box, and ran a line through another before handing the majority of them back. “Good afternoon, Herr Meissner,” he said, smiling. The smile firmed up slightly when he looked around and realised that he’d just about finished. “If you’ll wait a moment, I’ll ask a steward to carry your bag to your stateroom.”

“That won’t be necessary,” replied Cabal, picking up his Gladstone and patting it with his wad of papers. “Government documents. I feel nervous when they’re out of my sight. I’ll find my own way there. S6? Starboard 6?”