I have known tranquility

[image credit: http://www.williamlewispaintings.net/oil-painting-valley-view.html]

“You’ve gained weight,” the fat man sitting idly across the table from him intoned over his beer. “Going soft?”

Iskrin looked up and shook his head briefly, smiling. “No, Sam. Not soft.” He took a sip of his own beer and glanced around the small tap room one more time to check that he hadn’t missed anything in the last three or four glances. “How about you, Sam? You’re looking a little well-fed yourself.”

Truth be told, Sam had gone from being stocky to being plump. The man must have been in his late thirties or early forties, but almost a decade on Sihnon had taken its toll on his body. Altogether too much pleasure had been had. “I have gone soft,” Sam admitted, grinning. “Trading fine art, antiquities and furniture tends to make a man lose the edge, you know?”

Iskrin nodded, apparently agreeing but fairly certain that Sam would have gone to fat whatever trade he’d found for himself. He took another sip of his beer, trying to ignore the knot of anxiety in his stomach, trying to keep the conversation light for now. He hadn’t seen Sam in three or maybe four years. Sam was a war veteran who had found that trading art stolen during the war was a darned sight easier than trying to make an honest living. He’d gone honest since, but it was his dishonest side that had thrown him and Iskrin together originally.

When the 18-year-old Iskrin had arrived on Sihnon all those years ago with fire in his heart and a desperate need to track down the boat captain and find his lost love, Sam had taken him under his wing and offered to help. Looking back, Sam’s generosity at the time had probably had more to do with the fact that Iskrin claimed the boat had been full of rare art (unusually true) than that he wanted to help a fellow human being. Yet, somehow Iskrin’s plight had managed to find that last shred of humanity the war had left Sam and from that day to this, he had kept his eyes and ears open for sign of Lys.

And now he had called.

“I’m guessing you want me to get to the point?” Sam asked finally in a smooth Londinium accent with a hint of Sihnon, fingering his beer glass nervously. “You aren't going to like it, Isk. Trust me.”

Iskrin nodded, controlling the knot in his stomach with an iron will. “Quit with the dramatics and just tell me,” he growled quietly, barely able to remain calm in this very public setting.

Sam nodded, taking a gulp of beer and then sitting up straight to look Iskrin firmly in the eyes. “Sorry,” he said. “I know this is hard.”

Iskrin managed to restrain himself from reaching across the table and shaking the man screaming ‘just tell me’. Instead he nodded and clasped his hands together tightly on his lap.

“It’s the darndest thing,” Sam began, his rich voice carrying across the small space between them. “I bought a painting by Joriquos Bos last week. You know him?”

Iskrin shook his head. “No. Does it matter?”

Sam laughed. “Yes it matters. Patience my friend; you need the story.”

“Your stories take hours, Sam. I need to find Lys.”

“And you will,” Sam said, taking another gulp of beer and gazing nervously about the room. “Anyway, Joriquos Bos,” he continued, “is an extremely famous portrait painter here on Sihnon. He’s painted everyone who’s anyone. But what most people don’t know is that he started out doing landscapes.”

Iskrin’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I ain’t seein’ how this is relevant,” he growled.

“You will.” Sam took another gulp of beer and Iskrin wondered what was making the man so nervous. He couldn’t be that worried about the news he had to deliver. Whatever the truth, it couldn’t be any worse than the horrors Iskrin had imagined as he lay listening to the rumble of the Unlikely’s engines, dreaming of the nightmares his lost love had suffered.

“OK, you were talking about landscapes,” Iskrin said finally, urging the fat man to go on.

Sam smiled nervously and then continued. “Yeah. And he made a tour of the less salubrious core planets in his younger days – some of the border worlds too. One of them was Three Hills.” Sam paused, watching Iskrin’s face for a reaction. “He painted a landscape there called I have known tranquility. It’s a pretty simple piece – depicts a valley with a town nestling in the bottom of it. Usual stuff.” Sam paused for another gulp, gathering his courage before continuing. “The town," he said slowly, studying Iskrin, "was called Bartholomew."

And this time, Iskrin did react. At the mention of the name of his hometown he tensed, his muscles going stiff and his heart racing. “You’re sure?” he asked, almost breathless with fear.

Sam nodded. “Yes, he painted your home town.” The fat man paused to signal a waitress that he needed another beer. Iskrin sat staring at his own glass, his mind turning over and over. Of course, he thought to himself, a painter painting Bartholemew could mean nothing, just coincidence.

“When?” Iskrin asked at last.

Sam's eyes flicked back from scouring the room. “When what?”

“When did he paint it?”

Sam looked a way for a moment, anxiously searching again for sign of the beer he’d ordered as he muttered, “where’s that damned waitress?”

“When did he paint it Sam?” Iskrin leaned across the table, his eyes fixed on those of the war vet-turned-dandy sitting across from him.

“I ain’t sure, mind,” Sam began, his original accent coming briefly to the fore as his nerves got the better of him. “But it all fits. You know?”

Iskrin placed his hands very slowly on the table, palms down. The willpower he used to control his nerves shocked even him and as he spoke, his voice was flat and calm. “Tell me what you suspect, Sam, or so help me God I will beat it out of you.”

Sam looked at the disheveled captain sitting in front of him. His eyes were red with lack of sleep and worry. His clothes looked not to have been changed in some days and he smelled as though he hadn’t bathed in even longer. Sam sighed inwardly. The information that he had discovered in the past week had nearly broken his heart, so what it was about to do to Iskrin he couldn’t imagine. For more than a decade he’d searched for a sign of Lys to no avail. His art dealings had taken him to most core worlds and some beyond and he’d never so much as found a trace of her. And now he knew why.

“Iskrin,” Sam said reluctantly, “I will tell you, my friend. But I have to explain it my way.”

Iskrin nodded, forcing himself to relax back into the leather-upholstered seat beneath him. “Sorry,” he whispered.

Sam looked at him for a long moment before continuing. As he began speaking, the waitress arrived with his beer and Sam swigged near half of it down like a man fresh out of the desert.

“The painting is of Bartholemew," he began quickly, wanting to get the tale out now. "It looks pastoral because Bos wanted it to be so, but he has always been a stickler for detail, so he couldn’t help but include the radio mast, despite his best intentions." Iskrin nodded. "Thing is, Isk,” Sam said carefully, “the mast has three aerials.”

Iskrin let out a breath that he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, his mind suddenly afire and his belly feeling like a stone had just been dropped into it. “You’re certain?” he asked urgently and then shook his head irritably. “No, of course you’re certain.”

Sam nodded. “So here’s what we know,” he said, his voice slower now. “The Bartholomew radio mast had two aerials up until two days before the Merry Bitch landed on Three Hills; the day the boat landed the town was celebrating its new triple-link to the Cortex."

"My da was mighty proud of that third arial," Iskrin confirmed, his mind slipping back for a moment to the memory of the shindig the town had thrown to celebrate the increased bandwidth.

Sam smiled. "So you told me," he said before continuing, counting off his points on his fingers. "We also know that the boat was loaded with rare art the likes of which no boat should ever hold. Least not a boat like that.” Sam made a sour face. “Two days after landing, the captain and his crew raped and pillaged their way through your town, destroying everything, including the radio mast. Yet somehow," Sam continued, his voice punctuating the facts, "Joriquos Bos managed to paint Bartholomew at some point within the two days that it had a three-aerial radio tower.”

Iskrin’s face was grim, his teeth clenched and his jaw hard as was his custom whenever he was seeking to control the rage inside him. “It’s not a coincidence,” he growled; statement rather than question.

“No, it’s not,” Sam confirmed, his eyes cast down, his sweaty hands gripping his beer glass like a life preserver. "Here's the thing, Isk. Bos was planet hopping on the Merry Bitch, doing paintings while the crew extorted the border worlders. In return for passage, he was offering them his personal protection should any of the worlds complain. His father is high, high up in Alliance central command."

Iskrin furrowed his brow, a look of disgust on his face. “How do you know?” he asked flatly.

Sam finally looked up, meeting Iskrin's gaze. “I spoke to Bos," he said, wringing his hands nervously. "He’s outside in the trunk of my car.”