“What will happen to him?” I asked.
He sat back and folded his arms. “It’s not yet clear whether what he did was illegal or not,” said Emtezu. “It will cost him his political position, of course, and probably a lot of money, not least of which will be in refurbishing the state residence for his successor. It seems there was a fire there after I left.”
He said it carefully; a statement, not a question.
“Apparently so,” I said, considering the competing images on the front page, a formal portrait of Sohwetti and a rushed, blurry image of the burning villa. “I was lucky to get away unhurt.”
His eyes held mine for a moment, then he nodded. “So yes,” he said. “Sohwetti is finished, and rightly so, though his fall will please some a good deal more than the Mahweni he represented, and that is less good. He was not a great man. He had his weaknesses, but he served my people as well as himself, and his disgrace reflects badly upon us.”
“He will be replaced,” I said.
“Yes. In time. And after a good deal of squabbling, all of which will allow our political enemies to regroup and consolidate. Until then, the unrest will build. Bloodily. If we are forced into a war with the Grappoli over the stolen Beacon, men like me will have to play riot policeman to thousands of my people who do not want to fight and die for a mineral they could never afford to buy and are not allowed to touch. Then I will have to decide which way to turn my rifle, and that is not a day I look forward to. I am glad to see you well, Miss Sutonga, and I mean you no harm, but your appearance has not been good for me or my people.”
“I understand that,” I said.
Emtezu’s wife pushed a ceramic mug across the table toward me, then returned to the sink. The baby she was cradling in one hand was asleep. I sampled the drink. It was cool and fragrant, a sweet wine made from flowers.
“So what can I do for you, Miss Sutonga?” asked her husband. “I assumed matters were concluded, but your presence here suggests otherwise.”
“The missing Beacon has not yet been recovered,” I said. “And I don’t think the Grappoli have it.”
Emtezu just sat there, head tipped slightly on one side. When I matched his silence, he eventually shrugged. “I’m sorry,” he said, “are you accusing me of something?”
“No,” I said. “I’m trying to make a connection.”
“Between what?”
“Between the disappearance of the world’s largest piece of luxorite and the death of an old Mahweni in the Red Fort.”
He waited for more, then just shook his head. “I can’t help you,” he concluded.
“What do you know about Archibald Mandel?” I asked.
He sighed, then shrugged. “Not much more than you, I imagine,” he said. “His command was only nominal, particularly since he became a politician. I barely saw him.”
“So the running of the fort fell to…?”
“Sergeant Major Gritt,” he said.
He spoke the words carefully, without inflection, but I felt the sudden stillness of Emtezu’s wife. It was as if a cloud had crept across the sun.
“That’s the man with the cane,” I said. “The sword stick.”
He said nothing, but looked away for a second. His wife had still not moved a muscle.
“What are you driving at, Miss Sutonga?” he asked, unfolding his arms. “You come into my house with no authority—”
“Exactly,” I said. “I have no authority. Nothing you say to me has any legal weight. Everything is off the record.”
He stared at me, and there was doubt in his eyes.
“Have you heard the term ‘Tchanka’?” I asked.
The static charge in the room seemed to leap. Emtezu’s eyes widened, but he shook his head.
A lie.
“Tell her.”
His wife had not turned around. Not yet. But then she said it again, and this time she did.
“Tell her, Tsanwe,” she said.
“I don’t know what you—” the Corporal began.
“If you don’t, I will,” she cut in. “He is a monster. A tyrant to our people. A killer, and not only in war.”
“Hearsay,” said Emtezu. “Hearsay that could cost me a dishonorable discharge at very least.”
“This will not go to the papers,” I said. “Or, if I can help it, the police. I am a private investigator exploring a separate crime.”
There was a moment of silence, and the walls of the kitchen, so different from the extravagant opulence of the Sohwetti estate, felt like they were closing in like the jaws of a vise.
“What do you want to know?” asked Emtezu.
“Several days ago you went to a luxorite dealer’s shop on Crommerty Street,” I said.
Whatever he had been steeling himself for, it was not this. He looked utterly baffled. “Yes,” he said. “So? Gritt said he had something to collect.”
“His cane.”
“Yes.”