“What happens to a Manager who can’t get a job done?”
“That depends on the client, but they won’t make any money that way.”
“So do you think he was killed because of a job, or because he couldn’t finish a job and a client wanted him to, um, pay for his failure in a really bad way?”
Marc sighed. “Both have a chance of being true. He took a lot of hard jobs. I never knew what he spent the money on because he always had me buy the drinks, even when he won.” His voice trailed off at the last, and I let the conversation drop.
We trudged up the incline and eventually reached a plateau. The flat spot was occupied by a huge cemetery, better kept than the one at Rynek and with more impressive headstones. Large statues of people and even horses stood proudly over their buried occupants. Epitaphs sang the praise of the dead, while flowers, both living and dead, showed the affection from the living. Green, cut grass covered the ground, and there were even a few tables at path intersections where one could sit and enjoy the view.
And what a view. There was no wonder it was called Highview Cemetery, from the magnificent, unobstructed scenery that stretched out before us. Dark water surrounded the port piers and drifted lazily against the white beach that stood out like a pearl necklace. The sands curled along the front of the city, and the shadows stretched backward to envelope the metropolis in a soft blanket, interrupted randomly by the dancing light of lamps and lanterns. House roofs were like rolling waves themselves, blending with the dark sea, and the chimneys dotted the skyline just like the towers of stone off the coast dotted the ocean. I squinted my eyes to see if I could spot the place where the Tempest was anchored.
“You shouldn’t be able to see her, or Fidel’s slacking on his duties,” Marc spoke up.
I sheepishly smiled at him. “I just thought I’d try.”
He jerked his head toward the cemetery. “Let’s go find an old friend.”
The melancholy in his voice was unmistakable. Marc guided me down the neat dirt paths that separated the burial sections, leading us ever toward the northwest corner. Trees stretched their branches over our heads, and more than one creaked as a faint breeze passed us.
We reached the far northwestern section, and Marc headed toward one tree in particular, ignoring many other candidates. He stopped at the foot in front of a grave with a simple headstone. There were only a few words.
* * *
Ostrovsky. Perished in duty. Forever faithful.
* * *
We stood there in silence for a long moment. Even Ramaro bowed his head in solemn prayer.
A few whispered words came from Marc. “You old goat. I never thought you’d sail the low seas this soon.”
I set a hand on his shoulder and felt how stiff he was. “I’m sorry.”
Marc reached into his pocket and drew out a flimsy and worn bronze coin. He flicked the coin in the air, and it landed with a soft thud in the short grass that occupied the top of the grave. “This beer’s on me, too.” He straightened and turned to me with a smile, but the expression didn’t reflect in his eye. “I promised you a good meal, didn’t I? And we still have a pen to find for Pen’s message.”
He was hurting. I could feel it. “You want to talk about it?”
“Not as much as I want you to be my date,” he countered as he offered me his arm.
I instead took his hand in both of mine and stared him straight in the eye. “I’ll go with you on one condition.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “What’s that?”
I nodded at the headstone. “That you tell me more about him.”
His smile faltered, only to slip back on as a crooked grin. “That would be my pleasure.”
“Do I get any say in this?” Ramaro spoke up as he grasped both flaps of my open coat. “And when do I eat?”
“When we can sit you on a windowsill,” Marc told him as he guided me down the dirt path. “One far away from where we’re sitting.”
Chapter 17
“That office should be somewhere around here.”
We had wandered down the hill and across several streets. The atmosphere was more lively, as people strolled and rolled past us on their way to a gay time in the bars and restaurants that popped up here and there. Lanterns and signs advertised their open doors, and women milled about the less modest businesses, soliciting their wares to any man who gave them even the slightest hint of attention.
“Cathair seems to have a lot of, um, interesting trade,” I mused as I watched two voluptuous women stroll up to an oogling man.
