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funeral. You'll have to ask the authorities." And—like a lecturer stressing a point of clarification—he specified: "The Dokharan authorities."
"Dokharan?"
"Yes. His body is being shipped home for burial. The same makeeva that absorbed his father awaits him. I haven't decided if I'll be present. I'd rather not, but perhaps I owe it to him. Yes—perhaps I do. Is one friendly face among the onlookers too much to ask?"
5.
Danzoni was the Odenga of the shokiku—a title roughly equivalent to Prefect of Police. It wasn't exactly the same because Izmir had no civilian constabulary. The shokiku belonged to a branch of the military, were naval officers whose duties would have been performed by police officers elsewhere. On Izmir, martial law was never undeclared. The Izmirites were acquainted with no other kind of law.
Danzoni prided himself on his command of Terran Standard, seized every opportunity to speak it and did so with great gusto, but—like so many people striving to master a second language—he doubted himself, was never wholly confident that he was getting his meaning across. Was he hitting the target? Instead of attempting to improve his marksmanship, he resorted to scattergun tactics, firing barrages of synonyms, one of which would hopefully be a bullseye.
When Baldwin was admitted to his office, Danzoni offered him a chair and said, "Be seated, Mr. Baldwin. Please. Sit down. Make yourself comfortable."
"Thank you."
"By no means. Not at all. Think nothing of it." Danzoni took his own advice and relaxed into the plush of an overstuffed armchair. "What can I do for you, Mr. Baldwin? How can I be of service?"
"You are investigating the murder of Escoli."
Danzoni's cheerful expression vanished as though wiped from his face by a dustcloth. "A great shame. Her death, I mean—not our investigation. A tragedy. Very sad. Most unfortunate."
"I'm told she was killed by a kojuma dart."
Danzoni confirmed the truth of this with a dart-casting gesture. "She was. Yes. A poisoned dart. That is correct."
"Not the sort of weapon you'd expect an ordinary Bukkaran to carry."
"No. Certainly not. Throwing a kojuma dart is a specialized skill. Throwing it
accurately,
that is. With precision. On target. Lots of practice is required.
Lots
of practice. Years."
Baldwin nodded. "It is, in fact, the weapon of a professional assassin, isn't it?"
"Just so. Yes. Indeed it is. A professional. An expert."
Baldwin opened the folder he was carrying and extracted seven photographic prints. "You returned Escoli's camera to us. These were among the pictures that were stored in its memory. They were taken over a period of three days as she and Tumanzu went from place to place."
"Sightseeing. That is the term, is it not? Taking in the sights?"
"Yes. 'Sightseeing' is the word, and these were some of the sights they saw." Baldwin spread them out on the surface of Danzoni's desk. He might have been a merchant inviting Danzoni to inspect his wares. "My colleague, David Collins, examined the images that the camera had captured and noticed that these seven have something in common."
"Usiga."
Baldwin queried him with upraked eyebrows. "I beg your pardon?"
Danzoni hadn't bothered to scrutinize the pix. "The same person appears in all seven. Usiga. That is his name. Always in the background. Part of the scenery. Inconspicuous. Unobtrusive. We see him leaning against a tree. Or peeling a karei. Or entering a restaurant. Or hailing a watertaxi. But we recognize him, do we not?" Danzoni made a tent of his fingers. "Usiga. He is a paid killer. A professional assassin. A murderer for hire."
"Do you have him in custody?"
"We do not. No. Sad to say. Sorry."
"Why not?"
"He escaped. He got away. He eluded us." Danzoni searched his vocabulary, decided that his Terran Standard was inadequate, and lapsed into Menduli. "It was very well planned," he said. "He was gone—no longer on Izmir and no longer in our jurisdiction— before we understood that a
"Dokharan?"
"Yes. His body is being shipped home for burial. The same makeeva that absorbed his father awaits him. I haven't decided if I'll be present. I'd rather not, but perhaps I owe it to him. Yes—perhaps I do. Is one friendly face among the onlookers too much to ask?"
5.
Danzoni was the Odenga of the shokiku—a title roughly equivalent to Prefect of Police. It wasn't exactly the same because Izmir had no civilian constabulary. The shokiku belonged to a branch of the military, were naval officers whose duties would have been performed by police officers elsewhere. On Izmir, martial law was never undeclared. The Izmirites were acquainted with no other kind of law.
Danzoni prided himself on his command of Terran Standard, seized every opportunity to speak it and did so with great gusto, but—like so many people striving to master a second language—he doubted himself, was never wholly confident that he was getting his meaning across. Was he hitting the target? Instead of attempting to improve his marksmanship, he resorted to scattergun tactics, firing barrages of synonyms, one of which would hopefully be a bullseye.
When Baldwin was admitted to his office, Danzoni offered him a chair and said, "Be seated, Mr. Baldwin. Please. Sit down. Make yourself comfortable."
"Thank you."
"By no means. Not at all. Think nothing of it." Danzoni took his own advice and relaxed into the plush of an overstuffed armchair. "What can I do for you, Mr. Baldwin? How can I be of service?"
"You are investigating the murder of Escoli."
Danzoni's cheerful expression vanished as though wiped from his face by a dustcloth. "A great shame. Her death, I mean—not our investigation. A tragedy. Very sad. Most unfortunate."
"I'm told she was killed by a kojuma dart."
Danzoni confirmed the truth of this with a dart-casting gesture. "She was. Yes. A poisoned dart. That is correct."
"Not the sort of weapon you'd expect an ordinary Bukkaran to carry."
"No. Certainly not. Throwing a kojuma dart is a specialized skill. Throwing it
accurately,
that is. With precision. On target. Lots of practice is required.
Lots
of practice. Years."
Baldwin nodded. "It is, in fact, the weapon of a professional assassin, isn't it?"
"Just so. Yes. Indeed it is. A professional. An expert."
Baldwin opened the folder he was carrying and extracted seven photographic prints. "You returned Escoli's camera to us. These were among the pictures that were stored in its memory. They were taken over a period of three days as she and Tumanzu went from place to place."
"Sightseeing. That is the term, is it not? Taking in the sights?"
"Yes. 'Sightseeing' is the word, and these were some of the sights they saw." Baldwin spread them out on the surface of Danzoni's desk. He might have been a merchant inviting Danzoni to inspect his wares. "My colleague, David Collins, examined the images that the camera had captured and noticed that these seven have something in common."
"Usiga."
Baldwin queried him with upraked eyebrows. "I beg your pardon?"
Danzoni hadn't bothered to scrutinize the pix. "The same person appears in all seven. Usiga. That is his name. Always in the background. Part of the scenery. Inconspicuous. Unobtrusive. We see him leaning against a tree. Or peeling a karei. Or entering a restaurant. Or hailing a watertaxi. But we recognize him, do we not?" Danzoni made a tent of his fingers. "Usiga. He is a paid killer. A professional assassin. A murderer for hire."
"Do you have him in custody?"
"We do not. No. Sad to say. Sorry."
"Why not?"
"He escaped. He got away. He eluded us." Danzoni searched his vocabulary, decided that his Terran Standard was inadequate, and lapsed into Menduli. "It was very well planned," he said. "He was gone—no longer on Izmir and no longer in our jurisdiction— before we understood that a
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