“Julius Junior,” said Artemis.
They crested the Atlas mountain foothills, and Fez was revealed like the heart of the land, its arteries clogged with vehicles.
“Jayjay,” said Holly. “That’s his name. Now, let’s go get him.”
She switched on the shuttle’s shield and initiated their descent into Fez.
CHAPTER 11
PIGEON DROPPINGS
The Leather Souk, Fez Medina
Holly inflated a cham-pod and suckered it to the shadowy underside of the stone balcony overlooking Fez’s leather souk. When the coast was clear, she and Artemis climbed through the tiny access port, wiggling into the blow-up seats. Artemis’s knees knocked against his chin, clicking his teeth.
“Like I said, you’re getting tall,” said Holly.
Artemis blew a raven lock from his eye. “And hairy.”
“Your hair was the only thing that stopped little Arty from recognizing himself, so be glad of it.”
Holly had liberated the cham-pod duffel bag from the Tara lockup along with a single Neutrino handgun and suitable disguises. Artemis wore a knee-length brown shirt and thong sandals, while Holly’s fairy characteristics were hidden by an abaya and head scarf.
The cham-pod was an old portable model and was basically a ball with a transparent outer layer that was inflated by a tank of chromo-variable gas, which could change color to imitate the background. That was about as high-tech as it got. No directional equipment, no on-board weaponry, just a one-way touch screen and two cramped seats.
“No air filters?” wondered Artemis.
“Unfortunately not,” said Holly, pulling her scarf across her nose. “What is that smell?”
“Diluted pigeon droppings,” replied Artemis. “It’s highly acidic and, of course, plentiful. The tannery workers use it to soften the hides before dyeing them.”
The leather souk spread out below them was a spectacular sight. Huge stone vats were arranged across the courtyard in honeycomb patterns, each filled with either vegetable dyes such as saffron or henna, or acidic softeners. The leather workers stood in the dye vats, thoroughly soaking each skin, including their own, and when the hide had attained the desired hue, it was stretched on a nearby rooftop to dry.
“People say that Henry Ford invented the production line,” said Artemis. “This place has been going for six hundred years.”
The souk was enclosed by high walls painted white but mottled by dye and dust. Ocher stains spread across the ancient brick like the faded map of some exotic archipelago.
“Why did Kronski choose the souk?” wondered Holly. “The stink is almost unbearable, and I say that as a friend of Mulch Diggums.”
“Since birth Kronski has suffered from anosmia,” Artemis explained. “He has no sense of smell. It amuses him to conduct his business here, as whoever he happens to be meeting will be virtually assaulted by the smell from the acid vats. Their concentration is shattered and his is unaffected.”
“Clever.”
“Fiendishly. The area is a tourist attraction, so many people will pass through, but none hang around for too long.”
“So plenty of spectators but not many witnesses.”
“Apart from the locals, and Kronski doubtless has a dozen of those on his payroll who will see what he wants them to see.” Artemis leaned forward, his nose brushing the plastic portal. “And here is our fiendish Extinctionist now. Right on cue.”
The souk below was thronged with leather workers and merchants, long since inured to the sharp odor of the vats. Groups of die-hard tourists flitted through, determined to capture the scene on their cameras but unwilling to suffer the heat and smells for longer than a few shutter clicks.
And among them all, serene and smiling, strode Dr. Damon Kronski, dressed in a preposterous tailored camouflage suit, complete with a general’s peaked hat.
Holly was sickened by the man and how obviously he relished his surroundings.
“Look at him. He loves this.”
Artemis did not comment. He had sold the lemur and judged that to be a crime worse than Kronski’s. Instead he searched the souk for a smaller version of himself.
“There I am. West corner.”
Holly switched her gaze to locate young Artemis. He stood almost hidden by a huge tiled urn brimming with mint-green dye. The sinking sun was a chopped silver disk on its surface.
Artemis smiled. I remember standing in that exact spot so the glare would distract Kronski. It is the only vat touched by the sun at this time. A little payback for the smell. Childish, perhaps, but then, I was a child.
“It looks like your memory is accurate on this occasion,” said Holly.
Artemis couldn’t help but be relieved. His recollection had been hit-and-miss up to now.
He straightened suddenly. Hit-and-miss. How could I not have seen it? These memory malfunctions could only mean one thing.