Читать книгу Blindfold - Kevin J. Anderson, Брайан Герберт - Страница 24

Tharion called much earlier than Dokken had anticipated, even before Garien finished setting out a late-morning luncheon board of fresh bread, kippered salmon, and more strawberries. Dokken walked past the food to reach the viewplate alcove. Maximillian stayed out of range as Tharion’s image appeared, his pale skin flushed.

“Good morning, Tharion,” Dokken said, immediately trying to soothe the Guild Master.

Tharion groaned. “My head feels like it’s got a thunderstorm inside, Franz, and my stomach is upset. I think you poisoned me last night.”

“It’s called a hangover, Tharion. The unpleasant aftereffects of wine—an ancient Earth malady resulting from overindulgence.”

“Is there a cure?”

“Abstinence.”

The Guild Master grimaced. “I think I can manage that, especially with the way your wine tastes. But that isn’t the only headache I have this morning.” He lowered his voice.

Dokken drew himself taller, looking down into the image. “Hmm? What do you mean?”

“The sol-pols discovered your man Cialben murdered, just as you led me to expect. We also found enough evidence to know he was involved in the Veritas smuggling. Just as you said.”

Dokken tossed his blond mane and popped his knuckles again. “So what is the problem?”

Tharion leaned forward into the image area, distorting his expression. “I know you did this for me, to help the Guild—but I thought you said the murderer would never be caught! Now this poses plenty of problems.”

“He won’t be caught, no need to worry. It’ll be an unsolved crime. You may need to increase your sol-pol patrols yet again, train more elite guards—but you can weather that. Veritas smuggling will dwindle to nothing in the next several weeks. Your Guild is secure.”

Dokken sniffed and turned at a delectable aroma. Garien brought out a tureen of caramelized onion soup, and his mouth watered.

“Franz, they’ve already caught the murderer, red-handed,” Tharion snapped, then paused. “You mean you didn’t know?”

Dokken narrowed his sea-green eyes. “What are you talking about?”

The Guild Master’s words came out in a rush. “Name is Troy Boren, 23 years old, recently moved in from the Mining District of Koman Holding. Worked inventorying shipments from the Platform—we caught him in the middle of the night. By the body, in the empty warehouse, with blood on his hands. We’ve also found that he doctored some computer shipment records.”

Dokken took a moment to recover, flashed a glance over his shoulder at Maximillian, who shook his smooth head, perplexed. The manservant’s brows hooded his dark eyes.

“So what does this prisoner have to say for himself?” Dokken asked.

Tharion gave a dismissive wave of his pale, long-fingered hand. “Claims he’s innocent, of course. They all do. But when I bring him into the plaza and set him in front of one of my Truthsayers, will we find evidence linked to you? You really should have let me handle this whole thing, Franz—if there is evidence that ties you to the murder, I’ll be forced to prosecute. The law takes precedence over friendship, and you can’t keep a secret from the Guild.” His expression looked haunted. “I’m worried about what could happen to you, Franz. But there’s nothing I can do to help.”

Dokken wished the Guild Master could be there in front of him, so he could personally smooth his ruffled feathers. “Tharion, trust me. Listen to what I’m saying. I don’t know how this happened, but it’s just an accident, a coincidence. This man you’ve apprehended must have stumbled in at the wrong time, an innocent bystander. Bad luck, that’s all.”

“I don’t believe it. You should have seen him.”

Dokken shrugged. “Tharion, you’re creating problems where there aren’t any. Put the poor sod on trial, let one of your Truthsayers dig into his mind … just the way you’re supposed to. It’s every citizen’s right: a speedy and irrefutable trial by telepathy. If the man is innocent, he will be cleared, no doubt about it. And this man is innocent.” He jabbed a finger at the viewplate. “The Truthsayer won’t find anything in his head—because he knows nothing.” He kept his voice low and comforting, repeating himself. “Just a minor inconvenience. Don’t worry about it.”

Tharion slumped in grudging defeat, still looking uneasy. “This is the last time, Franz. Don’t ever put me in this position again. My loyalty is to the Guild—I’m the Guild Master, dammit!” He rubbed his temples. “Oh, my head hurts.”

“Tharion, a simple analgesic will help, and drink plenty of water,” Dokken said quickly. “It’ll pass.” The Guild Master snorted as he signed off.

Dokken slipped back out of the alcove. Maximillian stood behind him, saying nothing as Dokken tried to work through his own thoughts. The clumsy innocent bystander complicated the situation, but Dokken couldn’t decide if that might be an advantage or a disadvantage.

He took a plate from the luncheon board, piled it with food, and took a steaming mug of onion soup. He told Maximillian to have the chef bring him a cup of watery chicory coffee—the best they could yet manage—then took his food out to a shaded table in the courtyard by the mulberry bushes. He returned to the cold fireplace to retrieve his book from the mantel.

He sat outside, alone and untroubled, as he ate his lunch. Garien brought out a mug of bitter coffee; Dokken sipped it, winced, and tried to soothe his tastebuds by thinking about the coffee he used to drink as a young man, even the bad powdered substitute on the colony ship. Given enough time, it would get better. Everything did.

Picking at the salmon with a long-tined fork, Dokken spread the precious book on his lap. He had self-printed it on flecked kenaf paper and bound the volume in real horsehide, because reading a book like this was an experience, not just an information dump.

The treatise was many centuries old, but filled with wisdom that could be transferred from warring Italian city-states to the landholdings of Atlas. A thin, dense book—but Dokken gained more insight every time he studied it.

In the courtyard by the bushes, he began to reread his Machiavelli.