The Bird and The Dragon
The Political Murder: Part 1

02-341 Giza

The yellow light of the streetlamp sieved through the curtains, reflected from a glass on the table, and created a spot of light in the middle of a page full of written, overwritten, underlined, and corrected text that merged into a wall of letters. Jonathan Byrd, who used the name Kario Lund here in Giza, was writing a poem; a melancholy description of a young artist’s pains.

Sounds of the city reached in the apartment and the wind carried the smell of fresh bread from the street. Jonathan had not eaten, although Indira had left bread and cheese on the table before leaving for her job at the Sea Affairs Office. She worked with the harbor documents.

Jonathan had been unable to say no when Indira had pushed her way into his life. She was a beautiful young woman and claimed to have fallen for Jonathan and something in her had resonated with the man. Jonathan had cleaned his act for her and cut down his drinking. Money had never been an issue for him, not even five years after Viper’s death. Miss Ohanu paid him, and his art made a small income.

Jonathan’s poetry was not popular, for it was considered pompous, simple, repetitive, and generally flavorless, among the other less positive adjectives. Instead, he was considered a skillful painter of miniature portraits people carried as memoirs and protective amulets. Photography was getting common, but the hand-painted portraits of the olds were believed to have more protective power over the ash demons than photos of actors dressed in the olds’ paraphernalia.

There was a knock on the door, but Jonathan didn’t care. He was not in the mood to meet anyone. The knock was repeated, a sharp, rhythmically exact series of three knocks.

“I know you are in there,” a male voice said.

“No, I am not,” Jonathan answered, grinning towards the window. He could climb to the roof, but it would have required trousers and shoes and he felt lazy. Probably it was only the landlord or someone else who was after money. Indira had mentioned new curtains, but Jonathan hadn’t paid attention. The door was locked so the person could knock for the whole day for all that Jonathan cared.

The person outside tested the door. “Are you alone?”

“No. I have five wild virgins and Governor Japinski’s mechanical dog with me, and the old man Leipzig himself is planting amber trees in the kitchen.”

“Indeed.” The lock clicked and the door handle was pressed down. Jonathan turned to face the door holding a fork as a replacement for any real weapon. He was waiting for the worst. Maybe it was Jenet after all these years or some other revenge was closing in. The possible enemies were almost countless.

The door opened and his half-brother Patrik stepped in. Jonathan felt his fake identity melt and disappear like sugar in hot water. He was not anymore Jonathan Byrd, not Lund the poet, but Kvenrei, the little brother and the black smear of shame in the family. Kvenrei stood, holding the fork, ready to do something, anything should the strategej choose violence.

Patrik closed the door and removed his hat as was the custom. He was of the same height as Kvenrei but of darker color and able to pass for a local, while Kvenrei was pale even when he tanned.

“Go away. There is nothing for you here,” Kvenrei said.

“Good morning, Kvenrei. Your homeland needs you,” the strategej said like he was expecting the words to make an impression.

“The homeland has managed this far without me. Get lost.”

Patrik stopped by his brother to study the papers on the table. Kvenrei let go of the fork without paying attention to Patrik who smelled of fresh air, clean clothes, and a mild aftershave. Their latest meeting had been over two years ago.

“Poetry? Nice to see you paying attention to your cover role.”

Jonathan said nothing. Patrik’s cultivated opinions about the fine arts were none of his interest. The strategej’s mother owned a theater and Patrik could without doubt write pieces to make him famous among the rich, not only to barely support his daily living like was Jonathan’s case.

“Kvenrei, I need your skills. There is a man among these end-of-the-world believers I must remove from the ranks of the living. The deed must not point towards north.”

“Get a local mercenary to do your murder. I am out of that business.”

“You can’t deny your bloodline.”

Kvenrei was silent. Patrik was making self-evident statements, but he was not the walking disappointment to his father and had not released a pre-rebellion ainadu to haunt them.

“A war is coming,” Patrik continued. “A world war to destroy trade and political relationships for a long time. It can still be prevented, and I need you for that. You are the most brilliant matrix creator I have met.”

Kvenrei was still avoiding looking at his brother. Wars were always hanging on the political horizon like clouds as the weak countries and the strong city-states and their coalitions fought over Watergate’s thin resources. The lesser skirmishes happened all the time. Viper’s death had launched a new wave of conflicts and instead of calming it had spread all over the world. The crime lord had been the central knot in a wide network, which was still crumbling and reorganizing itself. Kvenrei’s lack of communication didn’t disturb Patrik, who stood motionless in his tracks.

“Who?” Kvenrei finally asked when he couldn’t anymore bear the silence.

“Trade minister Mendes.”

“Definitely and without hesitation NO. That man is ridiculously paranoid.”

“I agree. That is why I need you.”

Kvenrei turned to face his brother shaking his head. “He believes the ash, the spores, and radiation are stalking him. He calls the world as his purgatory. Mendes is the most puritanist person I know, impossible to get close to, impossible to poison. He keeps no family or even lovers!”

“I see you have already familiarized yourself with the subject.”

“Everyone knows this. Rumors, stories, political cartoons, and bar talk from the frustrated public servants. Who do you want to be blamed?”

“It would be best if the reason for his death was shrouded in mystery.”

“You mean that someone should contact Mendes, kill him leaving no obvious signs, and disappear without a trace.”

“Exactly. How would you do it?” Patrik was calm.

“In the toilet or bed when he is alone. I would open the aorta; it is large enough to be targeted from the outside.”

“Do you have a plan for a matrix with that effect?” Patrik was curious and Kvenrei turned his paper sketching the key effects. He had not thought of the matrixes for an age and the ideas were flowing into his mind like the fresh air, blowing the stale poetry away.

“You can add an interference control to correspond to the flow. The volume inside is so large…”

Patrik studied the sketch and its creator when Kvenrei talked to himself. His brother had a short growth of blonde hair, and he was wearing only a shirt and briefs.

“…properly written it will burst the vein open when the matrix is in the range. Depth is a bit tricky to calibrate unless…”

“It would work, Kvenrei,” Patrik agreed. He hadn’t expected anything less. “Will you do it?”

Kvenrei raised his eyes from the paper and looked around hesitantly.

“I wouldn’t want Jesrade to face the war,” Patrik said mentioning Kvenrei’s little sister, her half-sister, who was making her way into Khem’s uppermost circles as the crown prince’s lover.

“The war would make her shine brighter.”

“The foreigners would have hard times and any mentions about ash demons…” Patrik replied honestly.

“How would the Trade Minister’s unfortunate passing affect the situation?”

“His most likely replacement is Pavel Althan. He has much less bounds to religion than Mendes. Open trade and crossable borders will strengthen the peace and decrease the criminal organizations’ influence.”

“When you need him dead?” Kvenrei put his pen on the table and met Patrik’s eyes.

“Tonight. Latest next week, before he leaves for a visit to the archipelago.”

“I’ll need blood.”

“You have it in your veins.”

Kvenrei smiled a little and crushed his sketch into a ball. The poem was horrible. The matrix would need lots of power and it was an unnecessary complex and extremely wasteful way to kill someone. It was perfect. Something not even the paranoid fanatics would suspect. Kvenrei walked to the fireplace and set the sketch on fire with matches.

Ten minutes later Kvenrei walked out of the apartment he shared with Indira. It was the first day of the dark time. He only had the clothes he was wearing and a small brown bag with a notebook filled with poems and some pens and brushes.

Patrik walked satisfied with his work. Kvenrei was an unreliable and unpredictable man, an occasional drunkard and known for his habit of disappearing for weeks or months. Despite his shortcomings, Kvenrei had served his country and excelled in work involving matrixes. Patrik had repeated this argument several times while defending Kvenrei when commander Anhava was about to dispose him of his service.

Patrik took his brother to the house he was hiring. He had brought a small group of his soldiers to the city undercover as a merchant retinue. Kvenrei followed him deep in thought, keeping his silence when he sat at the table equipped with drawing materials.

Patrik expected to see plans drawn on carbon and comprehensive calculations about balancing the complex formula. A group of guiding lines and weighting the ink to control the inner volumes were common procedures. Instead, Kvenrei folded a thick piece of paper and ripped it to the size of his liking using the table’s side. He adjusted the paper and stared at it for a long time, only his pupils moving. Without taking his eyes from the paper Kvenrei took a brush gently, moving slowly like in a dream.

Patrik witnessed with growing astonishment as the matrix emerged to the paper with exquisite strokes. The strategej knew he was good with matrixes, able to make changes and additions to the basic forms and connect them. But Kvenrei was creating a complex, interconnected shape and Patrik couldn’t even name the functionalities he would use to create the desired effect.

One elegant stroke at a time the matrix flowed to the paper from Kvenrei’s brush. Patrik didn’t grasp the meaning of all the parts, and couldn’t understand the working mechanism or how Kvenrei improvised such lines.

It took two and a half hours and Patrik followed the whole process. The matrix was extremely complex, but the finalized shape was a balanced and harmonious whole when Kvenrei set down his brush.

“It needs to be loaded,” Kvenrei said.

Patrik nodded and gave him his dagger. He was in awe and for once proud of his brother. Kvenrei exhaled quietly and took the knife. His fingers had no tattooed matrixes, no obvious place for drawing the blood until Patrik gave them a closer look. The signs were almost invisible under the nail of the left ring finger. They showed up only when Kvenrei opened his skin to activate the matrix.

Patrik was able to estimate the matrix volume which gave an estimate of the resonance required for activation, although the calculation was far from linear. In his opinion, the matrix was full too soon and Kvenrei was already cleaning the leftover blood from its glistening surface.

“Did you do your tattoos?” Patrik asked nodding to the already fading signs in Kvenrei’s nail.

“Father.” The answer was tepid.

“Based on that matrix you are worth it. You inherited his blood.”

“We share the same father,” Kvenrei evaded. “Here is your matrix. I’ll get back before Indira returns.”

“We already agreed you would deliver it,” Patrik said and gestured to the table in the next room. A cold lunch was set there as was the local custom. Kvenrei moved to the table. He was interested. Too long he had played an artist and the man was missing the adrenaline-fueled excitement that made him feel alive and washed all the thoughts about the past and future away as negligible.

“Give me the details,” Kvenrei said.

Patrik was content; Kvenrei was secured in his hook as he had known would happen. “The ministers are gathered in the governmental palace and many sleep there. They are debating the military renovation. As you said, the security is formidable, and Mendes is alone only in his apartment. We know the location -the southern wing, the third floor, windows towards the inner garden- he has used the same apartment for all the eight years of his governmental period.”

“Anyone with my face won’t get near the governmental officer.”

“You are known to be very good at lurking around without raising suspicion.”

“A big part of the non-suspicious lurking is to avoid lurking. To look like you belong there.” Kvenrei ate while talking. He had skipped the breakfast.

“I remember you as a great climber. Have you lost it?”

Kvenrei snorted for the answer. “It is no trouble to get to the roof. I believe the apartment’s windows have been sealed and equipped with filters or nets or whatever is the latest innovation to prevent radiation from entering. The chimney certainly has a net.”

Patrik shook his head at the Southern beliefs.

“Luckily the minister believes in the technological advancement in hygiene. The southern wing has water closets, and that system is known to be prone to clog.”

”Interesting to hear that you already have all the details. Considering that you are out of the business.”

“It was an expensive plumbing system, and it became a target for public mockery until the king ordered a similar one to be installed in the other governmental buildings.”

“You don’t look like a man who crawls in the sewers,” Patrik mentioned.

“They are probably far too small anyway. But an ash-raped wreck like me suits for cleaning the shit stuck in their pipes.” Kvenrei chuckled.

Patrik exhaled a bit for his brother’s words. Just a bit, nothing like laughter and Kvenrei didn’t notice it. “Do you understand anything about the technology?”

“No. But I can hold the right end of a wrench.”

“Posing as a plumber doesn’t provide you with an entrance to the minister’s apartment,” Patrik said.

“Of course not. But it gets me inside the area, hanging somewhere in the maintenance building. You will use your contacts, and get someone to claim a clogged sewer.”

Patrik gave Kvenrei a sharp look, re-estimating him.

“Of course, you have a contact. So what if someone reveals a plumbing fault was a fake? It has nothing to do with a burst aorta.” Kvenrei said.

“You are right. But what makes you believe I have such a contact in place?”

“Because you are very good at your work. Do I have to quiet the contact also?”

“No. I’ll take care of that if needed.”

“Could you pour me some wine?”

“No. You will do this sober.” Patrik said.

“For such a nice big brother you are a real spoilsport,” Kvenrei complained.