Choosing sides

 “What is the meaning of this?”

Allabar im-Mantis held up a red-stained envelope in one hand and then, with a disdain that his advisor could only envy, the middle finger of his only son.  The finger had been neatly amputated from the man’s hand and the stump end had dried and shrivelled somewhat.

“A demand,” said Chretien, im-Mantis’s advisor-without-portfolio, “and a middle finger.  I expect you’re supposed to take it metaphorically, though the fact it comes from your son would seem to make it less offensive that you would otherwise expect.”

“What?  Speak normally!”  Allabar had spent much of his adult life spending money that, strictly speaking, wasn’t his, and he had enjoyed it.  He was obese, struggled to get in and out of bed by himself, and got short of breath just walking from one office to another.  He travelled everywhere in a bullet-proof limousine and was growing steadily more fearful of the world around him.  He was also getting steadily more impatient with everyone and everything.

“It’s both a warning and an insult,” said Chretien.  He waited for im-Mantis to think about that.

“I get the insult,” said Allabar testily.  “I think I can see when someone’s giving me the middle finger!”

“This is your son’s middle finger,” said Chretien.  He waited again, resisting the urge to drum his fingers on the folder of paperwork he was carrying.

“My son wouldn’t dare give me the middle finger!”

Chretien nodded.  “And that is the insult, Sir.  Your son is, if you like, being forced to give you the middle finger.”

“Bah!”

“And it is s-also a warning,” said Chretien, narrowly avoiding saying ‘simultaneously’.  “That if you do not take the demand in the letter seriously then your son might come to more harm.”

“Where is the little idiot?”  Allabar looked around the long, narrow office as though expecting Qasqar to be hiding beneath a desk or in a cupboard.  Chretien allowed himself a tiny smile at the thought that if Qasqar were here he would almost certainly be trying to hide from his father.  “Why have I only got his finger?”

“Qasqar is still at the hospital,” said Chretien.  He had received a report an hour earlier from one of Qasqar’s security guards that the man was refusing to leave until he was certain his father had calmed down.  “I believe they are dealing with his… injury.”

“They’d better be regrowing his damn finger!  Why’s it taking so long?”

“I have no idea,” said Chretien.  “I can ask for an upda—“

“Leave it!  What is this demand about?”

Chretien nodded again, mostly to himself.  He had expected Allabar’s concern for his son to last for less time than it had.  “As you have read yourself,” he said, knowing that Allabar rarely took the time to read things, “the letter is a demand for changes in the way the country is run.”

“I’m not stepping down!”

“Quite.  In fact, the demands are more about socio-political policies, and the release of Jacques Humtaine from prison.”

“Absolutely not!” Allabar’s face reddened.  “He conspired against me!  And he’s still not told us who his conspirators are.  He can stay there and rot for all I care.”

“And the policies?” Chretien didn’t bother trying to explain the demands as he was sure what Allabar’s response would be.

“Nothing doing!”  Allabar glared about the office as though still trying to find his son hiding somewhere.  “I’m giving in to nothing.  Double the security on Qasqar and myself and find out how they managed to get to him.  And then have the people who let it happen sent to the Fort.”

“I have already taken the liberty of increasing security about you and your family,” said Chretien.  Allabar im-Mantis was separated, officially, from his wife but had been unable to remove her as Mistress of the Treasury and so some of his everyday frustration came from their sniping at each other as they attempted to run the country.  “However, I cannot send Qasqar to the Fort.”

“Of course you can’t!  I didn’t tell you to, I told you to send whoever failed to protect him!”

“That would be he himself, Sir.  He dismissed his security guards, went to the Hotel Amadeo, and drank heavily there.”

“So blame someone in the hotel.”  Allabar stamped over to a window and stared out of it.  Chretien shifted uncomfortably where he was standing; the window actually offered a view of the Hotel Amadeo and he wasn’t sure if Allabar knew that or it was just chance.  “They have security themselves, don’t they?”

“They do,” said Chretien.  He had spent several hours earlier that day reviewing the security cameras in the hotel, and talking to the guards and the barstaff.  “Unfortunately the incident cannot be placed with them.”

“Of course it can!  Just make something up!”

Chretien sighed.  “Sir,” he said firmly, “your son was alone in a locked bathroom when he was assaulted and his finger removed.  Everyone, and I mean everyone, did everything they could to keep him safe and he still managed to lose a finger.  The only person I can reasonably blame here is Qasqar.  His security guards would have joined him in the bathroom if they had been there.”

Allabar turned away from the window and Chretien noticed that the reddening of his face had increased and his neck was almost purple.

“Make.  Something.  Up.”

“I see,” said Chretien.  “Yes, I shall do that.”  Privately he decided that he would make up having made something up.  Allabar rarely checked unless there was money involved.

“At last,” said Allabar.  His shoulders sank a little as though he were relaxing.  “I don’t know why I keep you around, Cretin.  Sometimes you’re as bad as Mahrie.”

Chretien said nothing.  Allabar often called him ‘cretin’ and occasionally told him it was just a little joke between old friends.

“Laugh.”

Chretien forced a laugh that might have been a cough.

“This is boring,” said Allabar.  He dropped the letter and the finger on a nearby desk.  “Find out who’s behind this and put them in the Fort.  And quickly, I don’t want to have to see security guards everywhere I go.”

“Indeed,” said Chretien impassively.  “There is the small matter of other paperwork—“

“Later,” said Allabar.  He walked over to the door and just before he reached it, he looked back.  “You’re annoying me.  Make it tomorrow.”

“Very good, Sir,” said Chretien as the door closed behind Allabar.  He waited, unmoving for two minutes according to his phone and then sat down in an empty chair.  He scrolled through several news reports on his phone before selecting one that seemed innocuous, something about the rise in inflation rates and the cost of living, and sent a link to it to a number he had to type into his phone from memory.  The real meaning behind the message was that he had picked a side.