I got dressed, and went downstairs. On the way, I checked on Tarl. He was profoundly asleep, curled on his bed. Crezia had made sure he was alright, given him a secondary, mild opiate to reduce his trauma and covered him with a blanket. He'd been out for the best part of fourteen hours. Crezia had almost flipped out with fear when she discovered the captive in her box room was a Vessorine janissary.
I checked Tarl's bindings, and he groaned softly as 1 disturbed the blanket.
Aemos was already up. Drinking caffeine he had brewed himself, he sat in Crezia's study, listening to the early morning vox broadcasts.
'Couldn't you sleep?' I asked.
'I slept fine, Gregor. But I never sleep for long.'
I fetched another cup and poured caffeine from his pot.
'There's nothing about us/ he said, gesturing to the vox.
'Nothing?'
'It's most perturbatory. Not a word, not even on the arbites band.'
'Someone managed to hire eight hundred Vessorine killers, Uber. They have clout. The news has been withheld. Or censored.'
The others will know.'
'How do you mean?'
'Fischig, Nayl. The moment they don't get a response from Spaeton House, they'll know something is up.'
'I hope so. What did you make of our friend's tattoos?'
'Base Futu, just as I supposed. I cross-checked it using the doctor's cogi-tator.' He took out a note-slate and adjusted his eye-glasses. This mark bears witness that Vammeko Tarl, a janissary, is owned by the Clan Etrik, and a bond often thousand zkell will be paid for his repatriation. He is of flesh made and his flesh speaks for him.'
Aemos looked up at me. 'Strange practice.'
Totally in keeping with the Vessorine mindset. Janissaries are objects. Material items. You might as well keep a cannon or a tank as a prisoner of war. They have no political affiliation, no loyalties within the particular frame of whatever conflict they're involved with. No use as a hostage. Putting that little incentive on each one makes dungs clear and simple. Puts a simple price on the matter and dissuades a captor from simply killing them.'
'How much is ten thousand zkell, then?'
'Enough, I should dunk'
What do we do with him when we leave?'
Now there was a question.
I went into the kitchen to brew more caffeine and hunt for bread, and found Crezia juicing ploins and mountain tarberries in a chrome press. Her hair was loose and she was wearing a short, cream silk houserobe.
'Oh!' she said as I walked in.
'I'm sorry,' I said, retreating.
'Oh, don't bother, Gregor. You've seen me in a lot less.'
Yes, I have.'