Young Writers Society

CHAPTER I

Serge woke to a persistent nudging and a low nasal voice calling his name. He rolled over and moaned an incoherent protest. It wasn’t early for already the sun was laying warm slashes of light across his bed and the street four stories below his window was a crush of noise though blessedly muffled by the thick stone walls of Serge’s rooms.

“Serge, it’s nearly three bells.” The voice again, lilting in a slight accent. Serge flailed a hand and met thick warm animal fur and a muscled body that moved quickly out of his reach.

“Go make some ristretto or something.” Serge slurred sleepily, hoping to be left alone. There was a snort of derision followed by a low whistling growl. “Alright. I’m awake.” Serge sighed and opened his eyes. He should have seen the domed, white stone of his bedroom ceiling, the marbled floor scattered with ragged rugs from unknown lands; the warm sunlight lying in barred patterns across his bed; but Serge saw nothing. Waking was his most constant reminder of his blindness.

Serge sat up in bed and swung his legs to the floor. He rubbed his hands over his face and tried to recall what was significant about the time being nearly ten o’clock. He dropped his hands, frowning in thought. “Amaury, what’s at ten?”

“You’re meeting with Signore Havlat.” The voice came from the floor directly in front of Serge.

“Oh!” Serge sprang to his feet and crossed the room with a confidence born of time.

Monsieur Havlat was editor to The Benign Observer, the satirically chosen name for the twice weekly paper that screamed politics, berated the current economical situation of Lastera and disclosed corruption in high places. The fact that Monsieur Havlat was meeting with him did not bode well for his future with The Benign Observer.

Most of the writers for The Benign Observer would only meet Havlat once, if at all–unless Havlat was displeased with their work. Serge couldn’t believe that was the reason for this meeting though. His history with the Observer was not a long one. Serge had started as a war correspondent under unusual circumstances while still working for Dreygun and since the event of his blindness he’d been set to writing commentary on current events. He liked writing for the Observer and he knew his work was appreciated, if only because he wrote a well informed commentary on the Observer’s favorite subject, the current war with Alggazain . But Serge wasn’t fooled into thinking he was a necessity. No one had said anything to him about his work but he could think of no other reason for a meeting with Editor Havlat. The prospect had bothered him since he’d received Monsieur Havlat’s message yesterday evening. What could his editor want to see him about?

Serge wondered if he had time to bathe and decided not. Among those who followed the Lorenzo Perec movement it was no longer the norm to wash daily but he’d never gotten use to the custom of infrequent bathing and had followed the old way of daily washing despite the radical views of those around him. A ‘new’ Lasteran would say that constant bathing washed away your true self and showed a weak mind. Serge didn’t care.

Serge selected clothing by feel: a linen shirt and collar; a dark brown morning suit and Windsor tie. If one is to go out, why not do so in style? He knew Amaury would tell him if he were wrong in his guesses, but he rarely was. Before dressing Serge lathered and shaved by touch

“Have you eaten?” Serge ask a silent room.

“Hours ago.” There was a hint of reproach in Amaury’s voice and Serge wasn’t sure if it was because Amaury disapproved of his odd hours or because it was hard for the griffin to use his claws as hands.

“I’m sorry. I promise you a lunch to equal your appetite.” .

Serge left his room, already warm with late summer heat, and followed the hall to the kitchen, the coolest place in the flat. Like the bedroom it had a high domed ceiling making his footsteps echo in the gloomy light of the unlit room. Amaury followed him into the kitchen.

Serge found the coffee, very dear since the start of the war, and made ristretto. Amaury had to remind him to turn off the gas burner. There wasn’t time for breakfast.

“You needn’t come with me.” Serge knew his way well enough to change streetcars without trouble--his problem was not getting lost--but the traffic that filled the streets of Hastra was dangerous navigating. Amaury obstinately accompanied him at all times. Serge realized he’d never been more than two blocks from his rooms without the griffin. His offer was a mere formality and when he felt soft leather brush his hand he kneeled to fasten the harness over Amaury’s body. The griffin fluttered his wings and settled them comfortably.

“You’re afraid he’s going to fire you.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yes.” Serge didn’t bother hiding things from Amaury.

“And you’re the only one he’s got who doesn’t make a fool of himself writing war commentary.” the griffin sounded disgusted. Serge smiled at this oblique compliment. He locked his front door and put the key in his pocket. Amaury’s claws scratched on the stone steps as they descended. Neither of them spoke as it was their custom to avoid conversation in public. Talking griffin’s were not extremely rare but the law against keeping one had only just been overturned and it would only be a matter of time before it was reinstated. It had been lifted and reinstated three times since Serge had met Amaury and there were those who kept track of anyone who surfaced under the lifting of a law, waiting to report them when the law was reinstated. Amuary had much to say about laws that were passed to protect the freedom of talking griffin but in reality confined them.

The bells all across the city were tolling the third quarter of the hour as Serge crossed Lovers Court, a traffic roundabout. The center of the court was occupied by a fountain presided over by a statue of Marriz, the goddess of passion--of both hate and love.

Serge felt the people passing him–footsteps advancing and retreating–and heard the beat of pigeons wings as the birds were startled into flight. The sun was warm on his face.

There were many such roundabouts in Hastra and their center fountains were popular places to meet or stop and chat with someone. A girl laughed somewhere in the court and the sound carried. Serge found it hard to believe that Hastra, like the rest of the country, was feeling the pinch of a six year war. People still gave parties and bought new clothes. The young followed new ‘enlightenments’ and created society’s for their causes–fair treatment of talking griffin’s being a popular one. Somehow Serge felt he did not belong in Hastra.

A slight pull on the harness strap he held in his left hand guided him off the street and Amaury paused a moment. Serge felt for the stairs and they proceeded.

The heavy doors of the Observer building swung shut behind Serge, efficiently cutting the noise of the street in half. Serge did not cross the floor to where he knew the receptionist sat behind her heavy desk, the mail-boys still sorting the morning post at the other side of the room.

He proceed toward the stairs till the humming of long imperfect notes stopped abruptly and a cheery girlish voice, accompanied by the swish of skirts, called, “Oh, good morning Signore Lamote.” Serge had always wondered what Krea looked like, she sounded so young. But then he wasn’t used to the growing number of females who were filling the jobs left absent by men off to war.

“Thank you Krea. I’ve an appointment with Editor Havlat. Is he engaged, do you know?”

“Oh!” said Krea, sounding properly surprised. “I don’t know. I believe several people have gone up, other than the Observer’s people. I sent one up myself.” Krea stopped, waiting for further intelligence but Serge merely nodded and smiled. Krea was undoubtedly burning with curiosity. Serge had recognized a hint of sympathy in her voice and of course she assumed his meeting meant no good, Serge thought sourly. At least she hadn’t ask to pet Amaury as she had once. Griffin’s were not often seen as guide animals and of course Krea didn’t know Amaury was a talking griffin. Serge could well imagine her astonishment and horror that a talking griffin would fill such a station. Serge had felt the same way once, but than most people never met a talking griffin.

The second floor was the pressroom, records and offices for staff writers. Serge had his own carrel but rarely used it. The third floor housed a room for conference and the offices of the assistant editors and Editor Havlat. The printing presses were housed in the basement. The Benign Observer ran no advertisement like the small and scruffy daily news and was considered the voice of the radical controverts. The producers of the Observer scoffed at such idiocy. Popular opinion was too volatile and there were too many papers and leaflets screaming radical philosophy. The only reason the Observer survived is that it didn’t change. The high minded would find someone else to carry their flag when the time came.

Serge gained the third floor and followed the wide hall to the offices of Editor Havlet. He knocked and was bidden enter, which he did. Stepping inside Serge waited till there was a pause in the scratching of pen on paper and he knew Havlat’s secretary was studying him.

“Editor Havlat is expecting me,” he said.

“Oh. Yes. Lamote.” The man’s tone was bored and disdainful. Amaury twitched as he did when irritated and Serge knew the secretary was staring at him. He could imagine the griffin’s steely glare.

“Well.” The man had evidently overcome his interest in the creature. “Why Signore Havlat takes it upon himself to personally–” the man pretended he’d stopped himself just in time. “You might as well go in.” The man rose with a rustle of clothing and crossed to the door of Editor Havlet’s office, knocking once and calling, “Signore Lamote,” before opening the door and stepping back to his desk.

“Thank you,” Serge said coldly. Amaury guided him swiftly past the secretary’s desk and into Havlat’s office as the door swung closed behind them. Serge sourly wondered that the man hadn’t suggested Amaury remain outside or something equally absurd.

The offices of Editor Havlat opened to a large room with deep windows heavily curtained. A heavy desk and chair stood in front of one window with a second desk for Havlat’s secretary when the editor dictated material. Book shelves covered one wall, leather bound files dating back to the first issue of The Benign Observer taking up most of the space. A door lead into a second room, furnished comfortably and with a gas ring for making ristretto or tea. More book shelves, this time displaying the varied reading of Monsieur Havlat.

Serge saw none of this. He’d not seen it the one other time he’d been in the offices of Havlat, when the editor had hired him personally, in a very impersonal manner. Now he only felt the dim light of curtained windows and smelt ink and dust. The room felt empty. Amaury pulled gently on the harness and Serge let himself be guided further into the room.

Havlet must be in the library, Serge thought, and his suspicions were confirmed when Amaury stopped at the closed door. Serge knocked. There was no answer and after a moment he knocked again. He wondered if Havlat were the kind of man to ignore someone when he felt like it, though it sounded more like something his secretary would do. But then perhaps Editor Havlat had stepped out and the secretary hadn’t noticed. Or, more likely, known and deliberately not told Serge so.

Serge flushed with anger. Maybe Havlat’s secretary thought it was funny to toy with the blind man. He dropped Amaury’s harness and twisted the glass knob sharply, striding into the room.

Like the office outside, the library was cool and musty with the smell of books. “Signore Havlat?” Serge stopped suddenly in the middle of the room, acutely aware of the unfamiliarity of his surroundings. There was no response and he hesitated, unsure. Amaury brushed against his leg and Serge heard the click of his claws on the bare floor.

“That man has quite a sense of humor,” Serge Lamote said through his teeth.

“Serge.” The griffin’s voice was warning. Serge followed the sound of his voice, stretching out a hand to touch the back of a couch. “What, Amaury.”

“It’s Signore Havlat.”

Serge’s brow furrowed. “What...?” He knelt, touching Amaury’s head, feeling where the griffin was looking, stretching out his hand to feel–what he didn’t know. Amaury nudged his hand and Serge’s fingers came in contact with clothing and he jerked back. “Amaury...”

“He’s been stabbed.”

Serge ran his hands lightly over the body that lay face up on the floor, touching the neck to feel for a pulse. He ran his hand down till his fingers came in contact with wet cloth. The hilt of a knife protruded from the left side of the body. Serge stood and stepped back, swearing softly.

Serge’s first thought was to call somebody. There was undoubtedly a security agent of some kind outside on the street but this would not concern them. Such things were for the city constabulary. Serge turned for the door and felt Amaury against his leg, guiding him. He opened the door of the outer office and felt more than heard the secretary turn.

“There’s been a murder. Signore Havlat. ” He was surprised at his mundane delivery of the fact.

“Ah, ha–” the man begin in a cynical tone, but stopped suddenly. “What are you saying?”

“Havlat has been killed, man! Send someone for the city police!”

“You...you’re not joking!”

Serge could hear the man’s expression of horror. “Does this sound like a joke?” He wished he could see to grab the man by the shoulders and shake him.

The chair scraped back and the secretary passed Serge as he entered the offices of Editor Havlat. There was a pause in the muffled footsteps and a startled cry from the library. Serge stood and waited. The secretary returned, taking a shaky breath. “Should–no, never mind. I’ll get someone to...” He opened the door to the hall. The sounds of the staff at work reached their ears.

“Oh, Russo!” he called to someone passing in the hall.

“Yes?”

“You’d better send for the city police.”

“...is something–?”

“Just send for them!” The door slammed. “Oh, gods!” The secretary moaned and Serge heard the chair creak as he lowered himself into it.

Serge Lamote stood and wondered. Havlat was dead, so who had killed him? Even if Serge hadn’t been familiar with death, he wouldn’t have been able to feel much true grief for a man he’d met only once. And so, free from anything heavier than the natural repugnance he felt for death, his mind ask the obvious question.

“Who met with Signore Havlat before me?”