The Lot of a Lichnik/2
+ + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
The Houndmaster of the Novodolorsk Kennel had a very special talent; that of consistently calling me into his office at the least convenient moments.
At this particular moment I'd just arrived at the Kennel, handcuffed to a local breather of ostensibly decent standing who'd over-indulged himself with the lich gravy at a soirée in the centre of the city. To the shock of the respectable undead who were present, he'd begun loudly uttering progressively more erroneous assertions about the Shrubly wisdom of Novodolor's Lichgravial administration. He was no less enthusiastic after he was quietly taken aside by an arriving pair of Reapers, and by the time they'd contacted the Lichnik Kennel they reported he was on the brink of slandering the name of the Shrubbery itself. The Reapers had observed - quite correctly - that the words of a drunk man originate in his secret thoughts while sober, and that their subject might require a long-term adjustment of his dysfunctional sentiment that was beyond the Reapers' ordinary oeuvre of operations.
It's easy work for us - a night in the cells for the subject to stew with worry, then a morning of gentle chatter and readings from 'The Phylactery of State': that tome of universal wisdom from the hand of our Jolly sovereign, which the subject may have missed during his initial education. Physical incentives on our part are generally unnecessary; indeed the supine suggestibility induced by this man's painful lich gravy hangover the following morning would have sufficed quite nicely. I was looking forward to the occasion as I booked the prisoner into the Kennel's custody suite; alas when a Courier appeared with a summons to the Houndmaster's office, I had to leave the man in the care of the duty Ragdoller and make my way upstairs.
"Hrm, Harkavin..." rasped the Houndmaster, his face a kaleidoscope of shadows cast from a single piercing light overhead. "I was beginning to think you would never arrive."
"...and it's a pleasure to be here Sir," I said as I closed the door. I'd long since discovered that for all his miserable countenance, the boss seemed to tolerate my sarcasm - or else was blissfully unaware of it.
The Houndmaster's chair squeaked as he leaned forward to examine some papers on his desk, before squinting back up at me. "An important job has come in." he said.
"Aren't all jobs equally important, Sir?" I said.
"Quite," growled the Houndmaster, "but some are more equally important than others. This one concerns a Royal personage."
"I thought the Sansabury Kennel took those jobs, Sir."
"As did I, but they have chosen instead to lean rather hard on my shoulders. It happens to concern Novodolor, and a great many eyes are looking at me to resolve it."
"I'm positively bursting with anticipation, Sir," I said. "Do tell."
The Houndmaster leaned back in his chair. "A plot has been discovered for the kidnap of Princess Octavia of Highpass, who will shortly be transiting Novodolor on the way from Sasnabury to a villa she has recently acquired in Highbloom. We understand an attempt will be made on her motorcade."
"Octavia's hard as nails, Sir," I said. "They'll get their arses kicked."
"Quite possibly," said the Houndmaster, "But it is never Shrubly to cause an ugly scene. I have passed a quiet word to her entourage, who have altered the motorcade's route to go through Whisperwood. The Princess is unaware of this, of course. It is best not to encourage her more... combative tendencies, if we can help it."
"Where do I come in, Sir?"
"Although the safety of the Princess is assured, there remains somebody at large within Novodolor who has ill intent toward Royal personages. They cannot be permitted to remain so. You will locate them and apprehend them, along with any accomplices. If they cannot be apprehended, you will liquidate them. Understood?"
"Yes, Sir."
The Houndmaster opened a desk drawer and produced a binder full of papers, which he threw into my lap. "The particulars are all in there," he said. "You leave in one hour."
"May I ask who'll be assisting, Sir?"
"You will be working with Inquisitor Shepilov... in case you find it necessary to knock certain heads together. I gather he has a talent for such things."
"Excellent choice, Sir," I said - for once, without sarcasm.
One of the perks of the Lichnik profession is a radio transmitter located in the neural centre of our zombot drivers. When it gets within two hundred metres of an urban intersection its signal is received by the traffic zombot on duty which, with a flourish of its baton, immediately prioritises the traffic containing the Lichnik car and waves it through with a salute. Such favours performed, we made it out of Novodolorsk quickly. Our first destination was Schlepogora, a small town about a dozen kilometres past Karymovka. A scenic enough drive, especially with the bot doing the work.
"Here we go again, eh Shep?" I said to Shepilov. "What wonders await us today?"
In the back Shepilov sifted through the briefing papers, which he'd spread all over the seat. "Looks like the tipoff came from the Church in Schlepogora," he said.
"Shrub be praised," I said with a grin.
"...the Church of the Iridescent Foliage," continued Shepilov. "The Irrigator took confession from one of his congregation. The penitent said he's part of the plot but he doubts the leader's sanity."
"Not a bad start," I said. "Do we have the name of the leader?"
"The penitent wouldn't give it."
"The name of the penitent?"
"The Church wouldn't give it."
"They're happy to tell us what he said, though."
"Only just. They held a meeting of Cultors about it. In the end they decided it wasn't in the Garden's interests to keep it to themselves."
"But it is in the Garden's interests to protect an enemy of the Queen?"
"They said he repented in full."
"I'll be the judge of that."
The Church of the Iridescent Foliage was a shining example - quite literally - of the Church of Minarbor's architectural prowess. Even a hardened lich eye was momentarily arrested by the unapologetic beauty of its half-dozen slender little towers, each opening into petals of polished gold at the top. On the highest tower was a bronze figure of a bee with actual buzzing wings, driven by the wind. From innumerable carved stalks and rosettes shone the rainbow leaves of differentially-tempered steel which gave the church its name.
Our entry through its main door was momentarily halted by an exodus of worshippers coming out - a service had just ended. The Irrigator was the last of them, a Singer with four nostrils engaged in deep conversation with en elderly breather man; presumably imploring him to cross into Singerdom before it was too late. On seeing us, the Irrigator exchanged final pleasantries with the old man and his robed figure glided serenely toward us.
"Good day, my gentlemen!" he said. "Your kind are always welcome, but it would have been more convenient if you had used the side door. Some of my congregation are of a nervous disposition and might be upset around Lichniks."
"Forgive me Irrigator," I said, looking at the edifice of the building. "I'm sure one of those holes is a side door but I'd be all day finding it." I produced my warrant card. "Inquisitor Harkavin. And this is my assistant, Inquistor Shepilov. I trust you're aware of our business here."
"But of course," said the Irrigator, flaring his four nostrils and appearing to savour our scent in thought. "I am Irrigator Philiel. You'd better come inside, you'll scare people away stood out here."
The inside of the Church was no less impressive than the outside. A thousand small stained glass windows flooded the place in shades of green and gold, reflected and refracted around fixtures of gold, crystal and even more iridescent steel. The putrefact in its recess was piled high with assorted scraps; business was good here.
The church was arranged in a ring of pews with the altar in the middle; an altar which presumably had more functional than sacramental value, as Philiel unhesistantly hopped up and sat on it while he directed us to the pews. "Of course I was quite troubled by the words of my penitent...", he said.
"You took the confession?" said Shepilov.
"Yes," said Philiel. "We try to discourage the practice. It has too much of the old Temple in it. Penitence to the Garden is not achieved by lying down... you get out there and work your sins away. But sometimes people just need a sympathetic ear, so I'll take confession if they ask. My penitent was quite insistent. His secret was tearing him up inside and his distress was obvious."
"I understand your Cultors have ordered his identity witheld," I said. "Do you intend to comply with the order?"
"But of course," said Philiel. "I cannot in good conscience expose one of my congregation to danger if it does not benefit the Garden. You have the information you need to remedy the situation without extending your reach to my penitent."
"What makes you think we're a danger to him?" I said. "And I must inform you that the penalties for obstruction of Lichnik business are substantial."
"Come on, Inquisitor," said Philiel, visibly irritated. "Involvement in a treasonous plot is never going to inspire the mercy of a Lichnik. I will gladly accept whatever fate befalls me for keeping my penitent's confidence."
"You misinterpret our methods," said Shepilov. "Severely. We could grant your penitent even greater safety than you can... if he's willing to be straight with us. And why wouldn't he? He was straight with you."
"A Lichnik is hardly the first recourse for a soul in distress. There's no guarantee he'd tell you even the slightest..."
I rose to my feet, cutting Philiel off. "Do you dare to defy the will of the Bride of Minarbor Himself, Irrigator? To defy her Jolly agents? To desecrate the robe on your own shoulders? Do you think you have the monopoly on His Shrubly will?"
"I would never claim such a thing!" cried Philiel. "But as a Singer of the cloth I do have a lifelong understanding of that Shrubly will, and it demands that..."
"Minarbor never demands!" roared Shepilov who jumped up, ran to Philiel and grabbed the bewildered Singer by the collar. "MINARBOR POLITELY REQUESTS!"
I laid a hand on Shepilov's shoulder and pulled him gently away, replacing his presence an inch from Philiel's trembling face with my own.
"And so do we," I smiled.
After Shepilov's little intervention, Philiel had suddenly become quite co-operative - even amiable. As cringeworthy as it was to see an Irrigator get roughed up in his own church, it got us the information. By way of my own penitence, I donated the last lichcookie in my pocket to the putrefact on the way out.
Irrigator Philiel's penitent was one Valis N'Or; a fellow Singer and one of the more frequent attendees to Philiel's services. According to Philiel, N'Or appeared to live the lifetyle of many Singers outside the social comforts of Whisperwood; that of the adventurous drifter who frequently switched occupations, meandering toward a final role that was properly "grounded and centred" to their satisfaction. In this receptive state N'Or had somehow encountered the plot leader who had recruited him, on the grounds that his ability to alter the hue of his skin at will would be useful.
Philiel had never learned the exact utility of N'Or's chameleon-like ability to the plotters; only that N'Or had been recruited with promises of "special service to the Garden." Over time, N'Or had resolved that his mysterious employer was actually doing no service at all to Shrubdom, and that his plans were in fact the product of a dangerously disordered mind. By that point, however, N'Or had become unable to extract himself from his employer's influence without compromising his immediate physical safety. Moreover he'd been absent from the Philiel's last two Church services; the first time he'd missed them since he began attending.
A quick visit to the Schlepogora Reapers provided N'Or's address on the town's eastern fringes. It was an exceedingly small and simple abode built half-underground, possibly by the hand of N'Or himself - certainly by a Singer of some kind. The inherent cosiness of Singer abodes outdid even the Froyalanish 'hygge' in sheer attention to detail, right down to humidity and smell.
That's how we knew something was amiss as we approached; the hatch-like front door hung slightly open, the crack of darkness beyond emitting such a foul stench that it offended even our withered lich noses. Accompanied by a robust presence of blowflies buzzing to and fro, Shepilov and I exchanged knowing glances and proceeded indoors without bothering to knock.
The house consisted of three small rooms - one small lobby, one combined kitchen and ablutionary room, and one living room. N'Or - or what remained of him - lay crumpled in a corner of the latter, the farthest point to which he could retreat. His skin had adopted a buttery white hue in his final moments and bore a series of wounds, now oozing with maggots, that suggested he'd made an admirable effort to defend himself. He might even have been revivable by the Geneshapers of Stonetree if not for one thing - his head was entirely missing.
"I don't think even you could get any words out of this one," I said to Shepilov. "Poor bastard."
"He might have given us some already," said Shepilov, picking up a small grey box from a side table. It had a speaker, some buttons and a cartridge of some kind - a dictation machine. He looked at it and shrugged. "You know how to work this thing?" he said.
"I can try," I said as he threw the device into my hands. In truth I was unaccustomed to dictating to anything smaller than a zombot, but the buttons on this machine were conveniently labelled. I pressed the one labelled 'Play From Beginning' and waited. Over the incessant hum of the blowflies which continued to feast on the headless corpse in the corner, the pre-mortem words of the rotting Singer crackled out:
"My name is Valis N'Or. I'm making this tape as a sort of precaution, I guess. In case something should happen to me. I've recently gotten in with a few... unsavoury characters. And I'm in deep. I thought it was a legit gig at first... just research work for some ex-military types. Security work, they told me. The thing is, these guys are deranged. Spouting off about 'the greater good' all the time. Except they don't seem to be interested in any other definition of the greater good than their own. There's a couple of sane ones, folks like me who didn't realise what this business was about until it was too late. But we can't just walk out. The boss is making... threats. He says this isn't the kind of outfit that one simply 'leaves'.
I tried to speak to him. Begged him to let me go. He lost his shit, called me a traitor to the Kingdom, a poison to the Garden, all kinds of things. He did have me on a recon assignment... for my camouflage ability and all. But once I made my doubts known, he pulled me off the job and sent me home. I asked what would happen next but he didn't give me a straight answer. Said he'd think about it.
The thing is, he's got something big planned. Princess Octavia's visiting Minarboria soon, and he wants her captured. We're going to attack her motorcade and take her prisoner. For the greater good, the boss says. Always for the greater frickin' good. The guy's a nut. He's making me crazy myself. I went and confessed to the Irrigator at Church the other day, just to get things off my chest, but I can't say I felt any better afterwards. How I'd love to blow this whole operation into public knowledge, but they'd know who did it. They'd come for me in an instant. They know where I live.
But... if I'm already dead, I have nothing to lose. That's why I'm making this recording. So whoever finds me will know what went down and who's responsible. The whackjob in charge is a fallen lich, I guess you could say. His name..."
At this point in the recording, N'Or's words were interrupted by the sound of a hollow triple-tap in the background. A knock on the door. There was a frustrated sigh and the sound of a creaking chair released of its occupant's weight, followed by a sharp click as the recording was terminated.
Shepilov and I contemplated the dead Singer's words for a silent moment, permeated only by the hum of the flies around his present half-liquified form. At length, I went to the door. "I'm going to take a look around," I said. "Get on the car radio for me, will you? Tell the Reapers we've got a nice cleanup job for them."
Ultimately my search of the house turned up nothing special, except for the details of a few next of kin in Whisperwood which I passed to the Reapers. There was a military-grade rucksack and a belt kit too - both empty. Whatever Mr. N'Or was doing involved very little equipment, or else he was issued things that his boss didn't let him take home. As for said boss, aside from a military background, undead status and a severely misguided patriotic motive, we'd learned very little about him. Nor were we inclined to question too many locals in case we tipped him off. There was a better way. A more effective way.
"Raven Six, Raven Six, this is Poodle One."
"Raven Six receiving."
"Poodle Pack are on walkies. Repeat, Poodle Pack are on walkies. Stand by for rendezvous."
"Roger Poodle One," said Shepilov, craning his neck from the car window to examine the growing dust cloud in the distance. "We have visual. We will merge from the wooded track on your right at three hundred metres. Fingers off triggers."
"Copy that Raven Six, proceed."
Another perk of the Lichnik Inquisitor is the amount of personnel and materiel one can requisition for a given operation, provided one promises to wrap it up quickly enough. The Houndmaster had been fairly receptive to the idea of rounding up four limousines and a few staff cars, sending them from Novodolorsk to Sansabury under cover of night, and driving them back into Novodolor during the day. Now, as they crossed the border into our jurisdiction again, the zombot driver beside me floored the accelerator pedal. We bounced onto the main road and merged into the speeding motorcade as it swept past in a cloud of dust, resplendent in its chrome trim and flying little Highpassian banners from its various fixtures.
Our fake motorcade moved broadly in parallel with the real one, which had secretly diverted through Whisperwood. Where that motorcade contained Princess Octavia and a veritable army of fussing minions, the various limousines and staff cars of our own effort concealed a series of heavily armed Lichnik assault teams behind tinted windows. If we couldn't find our nefarious target, he was going to have to make himself known to us. We weren't expecting a gentle reception, which is why we'd flanked the entire formation with zombot outriders on motorcycles. With any luck they'd be the only major casualties.
As we drove on toward the Highbloom border the terrain became ever more mountainous. There was no sign of any ambush, apart from the occasional flag-waving school classes and village dignitaries who lined the road on the erroneous assumption that this was Octavia's real motorcade. We broke the back of the steepest inclines near Toastytop and were soon descending toward flatter ground.
"Raven Six, this is Poodle One. ETA six minutes for the Highbloom border. Please advise."
I shook my head. We'd expected some some action by now. "Who would've tipped them off...?" wondered Shepilov aloud.
I got on the radio. "Poodle One, acknowledged. Continue walkies to the 'Welcome to Highbloom' sign. The cheesy one with the flowers on it. Pull up there."
"Copy that Raven Six," came the reply. "Will terminate walkies at..."
The lead limousine was prevented from completing its reply on account of its sudden disappearance in a cloud of fire, smoke and shrapnel. A half second later, the shockwave of the blast jolted me out of my seat and smashed my head against my car's roof. The zombot driver slammed on the brakes with just enough gentleness to avoid me being propelled through the windshield. Shepilov drew his pistol and bailed out of the car before a burst of automatic gunfire drive him back inside. Through the now-cracked glass of the window I could see muzzle flashes from embankments on both sides of the road. The smoky trail of a rocket zipped over us and blew the second limousine in front of us to smithereens. All around, the surviving Lichniks had dismounted and taken up defensive positions in the roadside ditches. Their progress was impeded in some places by the zombot outriders, who had not been reprogrammed for the occasion and assumed the Lichniks to be dignitaries that needed bodily shielding. They swarmed annoyingly around the Lichnik fireteams, occasionally exploding from incoming rockets and high-calibre bullets.
Another rocket whizzed overhead, missing our car by inches. "We won't last long here," I said. "We'd better get moving."
With Shepilov at my heels, I dived out of the car and sprinted toward a cluster of Lichniks who were variously returning fire on our attackers, or wrestling the fussing zombots out of the way to get a clear shot. For my trouble I received a jolt of red hot lead through my left elbow, and said arm flopped around uselessly as I made it to the cover of the fireteam. I looked around to see my staff car engulfed in flames, zombot and all. In the heat of the firefight I was already reciting my apology to the Houndmaster. He'd loaned me all this stuff on the assumption that he'd get it back in once piece.
The battle, for all its chaotic beginnings, was turning in our favour. Our attackers had unified from their dispersed ambush positions into two tight formations advancing down either side of the roadside embankment, and were attempting to force their way through to the few undestroyed limousines; presumably in search of the absent Princess. They were mostly breathers, thus easily incapacitated by a well-aimed bullet or fragmentation grenade. Having got halfway down to the road embankment, one formation was wiped out by sustained volleys of Lichnik fire and the other began to retreat back up the slope. They disappeared into the thick black smoke, and a large Lichnik fireteam charged up the hill after them.
I peeped out from a ditch on the edge of the road. Burning wreckage and bodies everywhere. I had to get the job finished now; nothing less would justify this kind of unshrubly waste. With my one good hand, I tore a functioning earpiece from the remains of a mangled zombot and began listening to the action on the embankment:
"Visibility minimal Sir."
"Spread it out. Contact! Automatic weapons, quarter right! Give fire!"
"Grenade!"
"Lich down! Lich down!"
"Call up the medbot! Stand your ground! Schnauzer and Boxer teams, left and right flank on my mark! Labradors in the centre! Woof woof?"
"WOOF WOOF!"
"GO!!!"
A furious eruption of gunfire echoed beyond the crest of the slope, and the percussive explosions of a dozen grenades produced plumes of smoke from whatever had combusted in their wake. Then silence. The radio was also silent, and I'd just begun to think it was broken when it crackled back into life:
"Six dead, two injured. No wait, Five dead and three injured. Get the medbot. Schnauzers, secure a perimeter."
"One more injured here, Sir. One of theirs. Traumatic amputation of the thigh."
"He'll never make it. See to the others first."
"But he's a lich, Sir. Conscious and talking. Says he's in charge."
"Alright, take him down the hill. The Inquisitors can have him."
I surveyed the prisoner through a one-way mirror. He sat alone in a wheelchair on account of his missing leg, his grey face almost blending in with the grimy tiles of the interrogation room wall. I'd got my lich and avoided the wrath of the Houndmaster - or so I thought. In penance for wrecking a large part of the Novodolorsk Lichnik motor pool, I'd been tasked with subjecting the legless captive to an interrogation and preparing a full report on his motives. Not to please a jury of any kind - no Lichnik ever had to worry about that kind of thing - but certain heurists at the Kennel were eager for data to use in identifying future terrorists.
Once captured, he hadn't been shy about his identity. He gave his name as Timothy Koshkin, a senior enlisted soldier of the Black Rangers who'd achieved a late entry commission as a Lieutenant and only recently received his discharge papers. A search of the relevant records revealed him to be telling the truth. The records also told us something he hadn't revealed; his discharge was on medical psychiatric grounds. "Delusional disorder of sociopathic character incompatible with service as an officer of Her Jolliness' Armed Forces."
"Hm... plenty of fun to be had with this one," muttered Shepilov as he leafed through a copy of the military psychiatrist's report. "The self-absorbed shit doesn't think he's done anything wrong."
"So you want to be Bad Cop again, I take it?" I said. "Suits me. Come on, let's go." We stepped into the corridor and I tapped in the keycode to enter the interrogation room.
Koshkin immediately eyed my bandaged elbow as I walked in. "Ah, we've met before I see," he said in a well-spoken lich rasp. "I trust my boys' bullets didn't tear you up too badly. You fought a good fight out there, I must say."
I was about to regale Koshkin with a tribute to the surgeon-adepts who had reconstructed my elbow some hours before, but decided to refrain from dignifying his glib utterances with any kind of response. Instead I motioned to Shepilov, who flung the psychiatrist's report across the table at him. We glared and waited.
"Hmph," muttered Koshkin as he read the front page of the report and pushed it back at us. "That's just the cover story."
"For what?" I said.
Koshkin cackled. "I thought Lichniks of all people would know an op when they saw one," he said. "Instead you've got me slammed up in here without so much as a lichsurgeon to restore my leg. Listen, I've played your game for quite long enough but both of your careers will be on the line if you don't let me out of here by the end of today."
"And why should we just... let you go?" said Shepilov. "Why would we do that?"
"Because my... superior... neglected to give you orders to leave me alone."
"And who is this superior of yours?" I said.
"Your boss' boss' boss' boss, or something of that order," said Koshkin, folding his arms like a victorious gladiator. "The Queen herself."
Shepilov and I restrained chuckles of amusement with some difficulty. "Let me give you a little hint, Mr. Koshkin..." said Shepilov.
"Lieutenant Koshkin," snapped Koshkin.
"Let me tell you that treasonous slander," continued Shepilov regardless, "is not going to impress us at all. If you were gainfully employed on black ops at the Queen's behest, you'd be working for us."
"Hah! The vanity," said Koshkin. "She doesn't have you do all her skivvy work. Sometimes she calls up a few reliable old soldiers like myself, for the most secret jobs. And taking Princess Octavia prisoner is a very secret job. Simply put, she's a threat to the Minarborian throne. Too big for her dusty Highpassian boots. The Queen wants her out of the way. Done discreetly, of course. And it would have been, if you tin lichcops hadn't showed up. Now you'll have your Queen to answer to!"
"I must admit, Mr. Koshkin..." I began.
"Lieutenant Koshkin," interjected Koshkin again.
"...that you are one of the most enthusiastic liars I've ever heard," I said. "It's a shame the Black Rangers didn't put you in their amateur dramatics squad to entertain your comrades."
"So my word isn't good enough?" said Koshkin. "I can prove it. Contact the First State Arbor. Ask for Captain Antidius, the Palace Mandarin-at-Arms. Ask him the colour of the carpets in the Queen's quaternary perfumery. They're viridian green. Very few people know that."
"So you were briefed in the palace itself?" I said.
"Yes," nodded Koshkin.
"In the perfumery, for Minarbor's sake?" said Shepilov, shaking his head. "And not even the primary one!"
"We had to keep a low profile." said Koshkin.
"Before this gets any more absurd, I think we should take a break," I said. "To contact this Mandarin Captain Antidius, should such a duck exist..."
All the best lies, it is said, contain a grain of truth. It transpired that Captain Antidius did exist, and was quite perturbed by my knowledge of his name when I telephoned him; his identity was apparently restricted information beyond the Shrubbery. He also confirmed an acquaintance with Mr. Koshkin who, toward the end of his service with the Black Rangers, had visited the Mandarin Guards on a two-week secondment as fourth deputy minion to Antidius' second adjutant. And the carpets of the quaternary perfumery of the Queen's palace were indeed viridian green, which was also classified. Even if Koshkin wasn't doing the Queen's occluded bidding, he'd been in the right place. I refrained from discussing Koshkin's exact claims with Captain Antidius; inferring a royal plot of sororial kidnap to somebody within Her Jolliness' household may have had adverse consequences on just about every aspect of my existence if it hadn't been true. I had to thrash this one out by myself.
"Told you, didn't I?" said Koshkin as I re-entered the interrogation room with Shepilov. He rocked a little in his wheelchair, his shrapnel-blemished lich face bearing a confident grin.
"It seems you are familar with the Queen's perfumery," I said. "One wouldn't think it by the smell of you."
"So when will I be released?" said Koshkin.
"He said you're familiar with the Queen's perfumery," grumbled Shepilov. "The part about assisting the Queen to imprison her own daughter remains to be proven."
"You mean you didn't ask about it?" said Koshkin.
"Of course not," said Shepilov, leaning over the table. "And you knew it, you lizard-eyed psychopath."
Koshkin tried to jump to his feet, but the imbalance of his recent amputation toppled him over the table instead. Shepilov grabbed him by the earlobe and attempting to fling him upright, succeeding only in ripping the earlobe off. He threw it against the chipped tile wall with a diminutive splat, then repeated the attempt with Koshkin's collar. This time he was able to wrench Koshkin back into the spartan comfort of his wheelchair, which momentarily tipped backwards with the force.
"I advise you not to provoke my fellow inquisitor, Mr. Koshkin," I said as I browsed through my notes. "He has yet to polish his Shrubly virtues."
"I am Lieutena..." Koshkin croaked, but his voice faltered as Shepilov squared his shoulders. Having reached something of a conclusion during the two liches' flailings, I decided to bring things to a close before Shepilov got too excited.
"Mr. Koshkin," I said, "the thing you fail to understand is that your exact justification for attacking Princess Octavia's motorcade is irrelevant. If you were not acting on legitimate orders then you stand guilty of the most heinous high treason. If, on the other hand, you were acting on the Queen's orders, you have not only disgraced her Jolly name by failing to maintain the operational security of the mission, you have also recklessly divulged two classified secrets from the First State Arbor in your conversations with us."
"That is to say," said Shepilov with a visceral growl, "if you ever had the personal favour of Her Jolliness, you have forfeited the privilege now. Nor can you expect it from us, her Jolly agents."
"But you can't do this!" cried Koshkin.
"Yet here we are," said Shepilov. "Doing it."
"During my conversation with your well-placed friend Captain Antidius," I said, "he made no special comment at all when I mentioned your name, beyond the answers he gave to my queries. So even if the Royal household did issue the orders for your attack, it's obviously in no rush to protect you from the consequences of your failure."
Koshkin said nothing and stared blankly at me for a moment, his dull claret eyes appearing to glaze over.
"This 'Royal favour' idea being dispensed with," said Shepilov, "maybe now you can drop the mask and tell us your real reasons for this little adventure?"
"I... I already told you!" said Koshkin. "Octavia's a threat to the throne! Look at all the monarchs throughout history usurped by their own impatient children! And now she waddles over from Lichbrook and gets herself a cosy little villa in Highbloom? It's clear what she's up to, Shrub damn it! Why doesn't anybody else see it?"
"Our Jolly Queen sees it," I said, "if you're to be believed."
"But you don't believe me," said Koshkin. "Or... do you?" He said with a mischievous grin.
I rose to my feet and gathered my papers. "That's for me to know and you to guess," I said with a smile of my own. "Because in the end it doesn't actually matter. Whether I've foiled a treasonous plot or merely removed an incompetent henchman, the interest of Her Jolliness prevails either way. And that interest, Mr. Koshkin, is where my job begins and ends."
Again, Koshkin had no reply.
"Moriat Regina," I said. "Take him away, Shep."
