Legrange jogged to a stop, turned, walked back to Sheila Thompson. Thompson’s face was stone. “Ma’am, that girl was jus’ walkin’ by. Didn’t see nuthin’, didn’t know nuthin’. I will swear that to a Magistrate.”

Legrange smiled wanly. “What girl was that, Sergeant Thompson?”

7

Forty Thieves

You follow the laws because they are your laws—not always, because you perhaps cheat on your tax forms, but normally you do. Nationalism encourages good behavior.

—Benedict Anderson

Bonneville, New Utah

They wound their way through the city center, working vaguely uphill, finally squeezing into streets so narrow that they must have dated to Foundation times. Individual buildings gave way to long, massive walls punctuated by small, massive doors. The streets became rougher, then narrower, then rougher again, until the street proper ended at a cul-de-sac broken by footpaths fanning off into the blackness. The lads were no longer grinning. As he dismounted, the driver rummaged under his feet—until Asach stopped him with one curt shake of the head.

“But—”

“We’ll be fine.”

“But this is—”

Asach smiled, and finished the sentence. “—my world, now. It is possible, you know, to leave the Ward, and leave the Stick, and live to tell the tale. Think of it as a Mission.”

The Lads nodded sheepishly, and fell in step behind Asach.

They wound down a short alley, turned a sharp left, and halted before a door barely visible in the black. Asach balled a fist and pounded three dull blows. They were swallowed up into what sounded like a vast cavern within.

They waited. The Lads fidgeted, standing back-to-back facing opposite ends of the alleyway. Asach smiled privately, without moving. Eventually, footsteps echoed within, a light snapped on above them, and a disembodied voice said, “Yes?”

“Is Michael in?”

“Who asks?”

At which point Asach pushed back the cloak hood and stared up into the button camera. “Quinn. Asach Quinn. And two friends. If he’s there, we’ll just go on back to—”

But the door burst open before the thought was finished, and a tiny man was already pulling Asach into the compound with one hand, waving the others to cross the threshold with the other, and shouting to two even tinier women across the courtyard.

“My dear friend! My dear friend! What brings you here! What brings you here! We did not think we would ever—Lena! Bring—Asach? What do you need? We will—Lena!—How came you to be here? How can we help you, my friend?—Lena, get the—”

“Sleep.”

“The cots! Lena, three cots!—I am sorry my friend, the rooms are all—”

“The roof is fine. Better, even.”

“Lena! Three cots! On the roof! And towels. And—are you refreshed? Do you desire—”

“We’ve eaten,” Asach lied.

“Just tea, then! Lena, hot towels, and tea!”

Much banging and clanking ensued just out of vision, as the little man finally turned full attention to the little entourage, one hand patting the center of Asach’s back to punctuate each sentence. For a moment, he looked downcast.

“You know there is trouble in the House?”

Asach scanned the immaculate courtyard, floors, square columns, walls washed white with gypsum. Lamplight flickered over the intricate lacework, carved from soapy rock, that covered each ground floor window. Stone steps, made from solid blocks stacked one above the other, led to the second story, where the pattern was repeated in carved wooden shutters, now thrown open to the nighttime air. In the opposite corner, a river of basalt, clad in green tracery, plunged from the roofline, through the balustrade, to the entry yard, as backdrop to a gentle spray and fall of water. The stone was cratered with fist-sized holes. Warm air gushed through, was cooled by passage through the mist, and made a gentle breeze as it sank into the courtyard. The Lads gaped, dumbfounded.

“Trouble? What trouble could there be, here in Heaven?”

The little man grunted. “As I love you, do not blaspheme.”

Asach smiled.

“Michael’s mother—”

“She has returned?”

“No.” He frowned. “No. She has withdrawn her share, and so Michael cannot—”

“But surely the major work is done?” Asach scanned the fresh plaster, restored shutters, rebuilt staircase, waterfall fountain. Even the cross, carved into the lintel beneath which they had passed as they entered, was carefully cleaned and repainted, with polished stones set into each of the trefoil tips that terminated the corners of each arm. Above it was inset a glazed tile depicting an eye: blue-green iris, black pupil, enclosed within a triangle overlaid on radial rays of aquamarine and white. The script enwrapping all was archaic, flowing, not at all Anglic. Asach made out: May His Eye be upon us.

“Ah, Excellency. It requires so much to run this household, and Michael—”

“Do not call me that. I work for a living.”

Asach’s voice had not risen one decibel. Nevertheless, all three men winced, but relaxed again under Asach’s jolly smile.

At which point, Lena arrived with tea, accompanied by a mountain of little cakes. They huddled together around a pretty stone table, dragged to the cool corner beside the waterfall. The Lads said nothing, and drank no tea, but finally removed their shades and wolfed their way through the mountain, pausing occasionally to cup a handful of water from the fountain.

The little man was Nejme Silelyan; Lena was his daughter. The tea-and-cake elf was his wife, Mena, who bubbled forth briefly, smothered the top of Asach’s head with kisses, then disappeared again, Lena in tow. The household was in a frenzy, preparing for a wealthy group expected the following evening. A small army, under Mena’s direction, was pressing linens; making beds; airing rooms; dressing suites. A group of what, the Lads could not quite make out: Asach and Nejme shifted among languages, none of them Anglic or Tok Pisin. The Lads did not ask. If they needed to know, they’d be told. If they did not need to know, it was best that they not find out.

“Michael of course resents having to—to—to—”

“To run a hotel?”

Nejme’s eyes sparkled. “For me, it is not so…it is only...it is a way, you know? but for Michael, it is—demeaning. Well, not demeaning, exactly, but—”

“Oh, I can imagine Michael’s views. Is that why he’s away?”

“Oh, no. Michael—”

But not wishing to tax Nejme’s hospitality, before the last cake was devoured, Asach rose, declined three offers to remain at table, and motioned The Lads to follow. They trudged up the stairs, then around a turning into an unrestored, ramshackle staircase that took them up to the flat, beaten-clay roof.

The view of the city was stunning. Up there, above the urban canyons, it was windy, and the night was turning cool. It was amazingly soothing to hear late evening traffic in the distance. Fireworks sparkled over some celebration or other further off in the hills. A wedding was going on down below, with attendant laughter, chatter, music, song, arrivals, departures, and fireworks of its own. Finally, a muezzin made the midnight call to prayer, the aching poetry of that timeless call to God washing over the sleeping Lads, who neither heard nor stirred. It was everything Asach remembered a wonderful time in New Utah to be: that easy-going mix of Mormon and Muslim; High Church and Himmist. Heaven, in fact.

What had happened?

Bonneville, New Utah

Next morning, after washing down nutty-flavored mush with hair-raising coffee (for Asach) and bright red tea (for the rest of the household), Asach sent The Lads on a payback mission. The house Stirling was acting up. It sucked up heat from a solar collector on the roof, and used it to pump water, power the house electrics, and run an air compressor for mechanical jobs. Or, it sucked up motion from the rooftop wind turbine, and used that to pump heat out of the house in the summer, and into the house in the winter. However, at the moment, it was doing none of these things with any great efficiency, providing The Lads with potential hours of fascination as they poured over house energetics diagrams.