Hughes - Hespira: Tale of Henghis Hapthorn Series, Book 3

I was wrapping up the final steps in a case that hardly deserved to be called a discrimination; it involved a simple transaction that could have been handled just as well by a confidential courier. But the client, Irslan Chonder, occupied a place of such high standing among the second-tier social elite of Olkney that I had overcome my initial inclination to decline the assignment. I was also persuaded, I will admit, by the fact that, when he sensed my reluctance, he immediately doubled the already considerable fee he had first offered. A discriminator must make a living, after all.

Chonders need for my services arose from his passion for collecting soul boxes. These were relics of a Nineteenth-Aeon spiritual movement that had flourished in the Ar River country before the collapse of the Hurran hegemony. Adherents of the Retrospectance cult believed, not unreasonably, that the meaning of a life could only be understood in hindsight. But, as was all too common among those who opted to throw their lives under some passing philosophical system, a simple, logical analysis of the kinks and currents that marked out the course of ones passage from cradle to crypt would not satisfy.

Retrospectants took a more complex view, believing that life offered each of us a series of intimations. These took the form of seemingly random objects, perhaps a peculiar pebble or someones lost button, a fallen sparrow or an interesting twig, that came by chance to the believers notice. The items were scooped up and placed in a dedicated container known as a repository that occupied a place of reverence in the Retrospectants residence. The wealthier the believer, the more sublime the containerwhen the cult was at its acme in the Ar River country, the high and mighty of the region competed with each other to commission renowned artists from up and down The Spray to shape and ornament what were colloquially called their soul boxes. Even the simpler repositories of the poor and humble, worked on over the lifetime of a member of the congregation, could become striking examples of naive artistry.

The end of life rarely took a Retrospectant unawares. A date was set, refreshments ordered, and all of the candidates friends and family were invited. The repository was brought out to be admired, then its contents were arranged in a particular pattern that the soon-to-be deceased had deduced from contemplating the points in his life at which they had been found, and the events that had followed each finding.

The devotee would then explain the hidden meaning and structure of his existence, as revealed by the seemingly random milestones collected in his soul box. His fellow Retrospectants would utter appropriate gasps and well-I-nevers as the subtle architecture of existence was revealed. After the ultimate revelation, the adherent would then be quickly killed and cremated. His intimations were returned to their repository, to which were also added his still-warm ashes. Amid cheers and songs of enthusiasm, the whole congregation would form a procession and carry the container off to its final resting place: a continually expanding catacomb hollowed out in the hills that overlooked the Ar River.

Of course, the finality of any resting place was always subject to amendment by subsequent generations. The Retrospectant catacombs were rediscovered a decade or so ago by some boys looking for a quiet corner where they could escape parental supervision, and a vogue began for collecting and displaying soul boxes. Aficionados studied the relics and wrote appreciations of them. The finest specimens commanded high prices, and some truly spectacular collections were assembled. Irslan Chonders was one of the best.

Thus when some of his most prized pieces were lifted, despite his houses grievously expensive security apparatus, one would have thought that he would have gone straightaway to the Archonate Bureau of Scrutiny, to lay a complaint and await the outcome of the laws impartial machinations. Unhappily for Chonder, however, bringing in the scroots was not an option; the theft of his best pieces did not constitute the first time the items had been purloined. Put bluntly, he had acquired them that way in the first place. Indeed, it was quite possible that the thief who had originally stolen them for Chonder was responsible for this subsequent laying of the lift, as the expression went. In one sense, however, my client was in luck: the thief had not restolen the goods in order to pass them on to a newor even the previousowner; he was quite willing to return them to Chonder for a recovery fee.

Chonder had weighed his desire to recoup the soul boxes against the cost of the ransom, which was bearable to one of his wealth, and against the humiliation of being played for a noddy, which was a dryer swallow for a man who so cherished his own dignity. In the end, desire overcame chagrin, and he agreed to pay the thiefs demand. But rather than place the matter in the hands of a courier firmthere were several in Olkney that were well experienced in such transactionshe brought it to me.

Why me? I asked, when he stood in my workroom and explained his need. Surespeed can handle it for you. Or All Burdens Borne.

Because I want to know who has done this to me, he said, his leonine head jutting from his shoulders and the muscles of his heavy jaw bunching at the hinges. He turned steel-gray eyes my way and said, I do not take kindly to being flipped and fleeced. I am not some rustic rube gawping at his first sight of Endless Square while his pockets are picked.

I let my surprise show. You do not know who sold you the pieces in the first place?

It was all done through intermediariesI believe theyre called shims and cut-outs in the underworld.

And now you know why it is done that way, I said. My professional advice is to get your goods back and revisit your defensive arrangements. I can consult with you on that score.

I will have retribution, he said, and in the silence that followed I could actually hear his teeth grinding. Then he looked at me sideways. Are you telling me that you cant penetrate some thiefs camouflage?

I let the implied insult pass. I am telling you, I said, that launching a vendetta against a ranking member of Olkneys criminal substrata is always ill advised.

His eyes widened in surprise. I never thought that Henghis Hapthorn would fear retaliation from riffraff.

It is not I who would become the target of vengeance. My neutrality is accepted.

Irslan Chonder harrumphed. Usually when one described a harrumph, a certain degree of literary license came into play, the word representing only an approximation of the sound actually produced. But, in Chonders case, and on this occasion, the literary and the literal met on common ground. The man harrumphed and offered to double the fee.

As you like, I said. I told him to leave the matter with me. When he had stamped down the stairs and disappeared into the afternoon throngs on Shiplien Way, I said to my integrator, We will require a list of senior-ranked thieves specializing in collectible artworks and rarities.