Café Etta was shaded by the tall pines, which grew majestically in most of the city’s vacant land. The summer sun was still well above the horizon. White clad waiters with red checked aprons ran everywhere: lighting lanterns hanging around the edge of the awning, showing guests to their tables, cleaning up after guests who had left, and bringing great trays of food out to those who had already ordered. One waiter, a tall thin young man with black hair and the beginnings of a mustache carried a dessert tray to a table in the back of the café. Carefully balancing it in one hand, he lowered plates of cheese, sliced apples, butter biscuits, grapes, and thickly sliced gingerbread onto the cloth-covered surface. Replacing these on the tray with the last of the dirty dinner dishes, he nodded to the four seated patrons and headed for the kitchen.
“I don’t think I have room for another bite,” said Saba Colbshallow, leaning back from the table. He patted the waistcoat of his charcoal grey suit to show how full he was.
“It was a lovely meal,” said his wife, reaching over and popping a pair of large grapes into her mouth. “This new chef really can do wonders with a pork roast.”
Mrs. Loana Colbshallow was without a doubt the most beautiful woman in the café. Her multihued hair was swept back beneath a broad-brimmed, bright red hat with white flowers that matched her bright red dress. The plunging neckline showed a bit more skin than was current fashion, but neither her husband nor any other man in the establishment seemed to object. Directly across from Mrs. Colbshallow in a quite fetching sky blue gown, Mrs. Dot Shrubb clearly was bothered both by the lack of cloth which covered her dinner partner’s breasts and by the amount of breast which threatened to jump out at her. All through dinner she had stared at the prodigious amount of cleavage and scrunched her nose. Her husband seated to her right had been oblivious to this, and fortunately for him, seemed oblivious to the cleavage as well.
“I’ll say this,” he said. “If we had dined on this meal in Brech City, we would have had to pay a pretty pfennig for it.”
“I think we may very well pay a pretty pfennig tonight,” replied Saba. “Dining out is one of the few things that isn’t dirt cheap in Birmisia.”
“I hear the new café, Bonny Nurraty, is only half the price, because they employ a lizzie wait staff.”
“It’s Bonne Nourriture,” said Saba. “I also hear the food’s not half as good, though I’m sure that has nothing to do with the lizzies.”
“Unless my mother-in-law decides to open her own restaurant,” said Loana. “I don’t see anyone taking the fine dining crown away from Aalwijn Finkler.”
“And you can be bloody positive he won’t ever have a lizzie wait staff either,” added Eamon. “Actually it’s nice to have a place to come where there aren’t any.”
“What do you think about it, Dot?” asked Saba.
Dot just shrugged.
“Dot’s getting to be a lizzie-lover,” said Eamon, stroking his wife’s long coppery hair.
“You like her too,” said Dot, in the nasal voice that was the result of her deafness.
“Well, our lizzie is all right. She dotes on the boys—takes them for walks and plays her little block game with them.”
“That’s just it, isn’t it,” said Loana. “Everyone seems to like their own lizzie. They just don’t trust the rest of them. I have several to take care of things and one that comes in twice a week to clean and have never had any problem with any of them.”
“How are the boys, anyway?” said Saba, intentionally changing the subject.
“They’re fine. Young Saba showed me this week that he can do addition, and little Al isn’t far behind.”
“Alasdair,” corrected Dot, punching her husband on his meaty shoulder.
“And how is Darsham?”
“Wonderful. He follows Saba and Alasdair everywhere they go. Best dog I’ve ever seen.”
“You know he was going to name one of the boys Darsham,” Saba told his wife.
“That’s right,” said Eamon. “But I was overruled on account of my wife fancying your husband.”
Dot hit him again. “You named Saba. I named Alasdair.”
Saba, Eamon, and Loana all laughed. Dot scrunched up her nose. Aalwijn Finkler stepped up to the table between Saba and his wife.
“Inspector, Sergeant, ladies. How was your dinner this evening?”
“Dinner was lovely,” replied Loana.
“Wonderful,” said Aalwijn. “And what are we celebrating?”
“We’re celebrating being able to afford to go out for dinner,” replied Saba.
“I’ve always said the police were underpaid. I’m having a very nice sparkling wine brought out. It’s on the house.”
“I hope this isn’t a bribe,” said Eamon, grinning.
“Nonsense,” replied Aalwijn. “Everyone says that Inspector Colbshallow is above such things, and I don’t expect that you could be bought for less than three bottles.”
Saba burst out laughing. Eamon’s grin dropped to a rather uncomfortable smile. As Aalwijn walked away, he said, “What do you suppose he meant by that?”
“He was just joking,” said Saba. “Everyone knows you’re honest to a fault.”
“It’s just that you accept quite a few gifts,” said Loana.
The smiles on both men’s faces were wiped away. Dot, noticing a sudden change in the mood though she had not followed all the conversation, looked from one to another of her fellow diners.
“Well, you do accept gifts,” repeated Loana.
“There’s nothing wrong with a police constable receiving a gratuity now and then,” said Saba.
“But you never do it.”
“I don’t, well that is… I don’t have any opportunity. I don’t walk a tour anymore.”
Loana batted her eyes at him and said. “You didn’t when you were a PC either.”
“I um… hmm.”
Eamon looked at him, but Saba just shrugged. The rest of dessert was eaten in silence. At least what dessert was eaten, was eaten in silence. Loana sampled something of everything and was especially fond of the fruit. Dot halfheartedly nibbled a biscuit. Neither Saba nor Eamon touched anything. When the waiter arrived with the check, Eamon snatched it out of his hand.
“Hold off,” said Saba. “It’s my turn to pay for dinner.”
“I’m paying for Dot and me,” said Eamon. “I don’t take anything that’s not properly mine.”
“Don’t be that way Eamon.”
Eamon scrunched up his face a bit as he figured out what half of seventeen marks eighty-two pfennigs was. Then he stood up and whipped his wallet from the breast pocket of his pinstriped suit. Fishing out four one mark notes and a five upon which the face of Princess Aarya had been given a blue ink mustache, he tossed them down between the empty fruit plate and the almost full cheese dish.
“Come on, mate,” said Saba.
“Good evening, Inspector Colbshallow, Mrs. Colbshallow.” Dot was at his elbow in an instant and they turned and swept out of the café.
“What the hell?” Saba demanded of his wife.
“It’s about time they pay their fair share, if you ask me.”
“They paid for dinner the last time.”
“Dot cooked dinner last time, and it was nowhere near as nice as this.”
He gaped at her.
“The dinners we provide are always nicer than the ones they provide. And we should get out and socialize with some different people anyway. We’re very popular. Everyone wants to have us. We shouldn’t be monopolized. Reenie Ghent has been after me for weeks for us to go out with her and her husband.”
Saba dropped fifteen marks on top of those left by Eamon, and then he escorted his wife out of the café and down the cobblestone walk to the edge of the road where his steam carriage was parked. The sun had finally dropped out of sight, lending a monochrome cast to the city street that he didn’t think showed off the bright blue of the car’s bonnet well. Helping Loana into the passenger seat, he walked around back to shovel coal into the firebox. He looked up in the sky to watch a large flying reptile, harassed by seven or eight small birds. With a sigh, he shut the relief cock and stepping to the left side of the vehicle, climbed into the driver’s seat. Saba waited ten minutes for the steam to come up before pulling away from the curb. It was only a fifteen minute drive home, but it was an altogether silent twenty-five minutes.
The Colbshallow home was a large, beautiful, red brick house sitting back from the road in the shade of large pines and maples, along with some recently planted apple trees, on a large fenced estate. The small A-frame house, which had been Saba’s first home, on the corner of the property, was currently being rented by the Zaeri Imam Francis Clipers. Pulling into the parkway, Saba brought the steam carriage to a halt in front of the portico. The lizzie doorman hopped down the steps to help Loana down.
“Leopold Ghent is a wanker,” he called after her, breaking the silence.
“He’s railroad agent,” said his wife in a tone that was usually reserved for sweet nothings. “And Reenie is adorable.”
She swept up the four steps and as the lizzie held the door for her, she disappeared inside. Saba pulled the car around to the far side of the house and parked. He hopped out, opened the steam cock, and poured a bucket of water over the coals. The loud hiss startled three bambiraptors who had been feeding in the yard, unbothered by the normal chug of the vehicle.
Saba climbed the five cement steps that led to the side door and entered the kitchen. Not having to serve dinner this evening, the lizzie cook had been given the night off and the kitchen was pleasantly cool. Opening the froredor, he retrieved a soda water and pulled out the cork stopper with his left hand, his wife having successfully trained him not to do so with his teeth. He took a swig, then snorted and almost gagged. Lifting the bottle to look at the printing, he read. “Major Gortner’s ginger and mint flavor barley pop?” He opened the froredor again and looked inside finding five more of the imposters and not a single bottle of original Billingbow’s sarsaparilla and wintergreen soda water.
“Bugger all!” he slammed the door shut, rocking the magical freezing box back and forth and toppling a small, pink pot filled with red flowers to the floor where it shattered.
The next morning, Saba got up before his wife awakened. He dressed quickly in his grey suit and left through the kitchen. He didn’t stop for breakfast, just grabbed a crumpet from a pile that the cook was assembling. She hissed at him, but handed him a cup of tea. He folded the crumpet in half and stuffed it into his mouth, then set the steaming cup on the passenger seat as he lit the furnace and filled the boiler from the water jug by the side door. By the time the steam was up, he had finished with his tea, and left the empty cup on the step.
The police station was almost four years old now. It had been constructed on what was at the time the edge of town, just east of the railroad yard. Now it was in the heart of the new business district and a short walk to the brand new rows of brownstone apartments or Lizzietown, depending on which direction you went. Made of sharp red brick, with white stonework at the corners and above the windows and doors, it was a square five-story building. On the arch above the door was carved in large letters “POLICE” and just below it, the police motto “punishment follows swift on guilt.”
The police sergeant on duty was not Eamon Shrubb, but Richard Butler who had just come on duty and was handing out assignments to six PCs in their bright blue uniforms with shiny brass buttons.
“You’re in early this morning, Inspector.”
“Anything exciting happening?” asked Saba.
“Nothing on the night blotter. I’m just sending the lads out. Are there any areas you would like them to keep an eye on?”
“Just the usual—the docks, Lizzietown.”
“Right. Did you know that Tabby Chesterton is in the holding cell?”
“No. When did that happen?”
“She came in yesterday about dinner time, I’m told.”
“She’s not here for soliciting?” asked Saba.
“No. I understand she poked her husband on the noggin with a frying pan.”
“He’s not dead is he?”
“I don’t think he’s badly hurt.”
“Toss me the key then.”
Butler threw a six-inch ring with a dozen large steel keys upon it to Saba, who caught it in the air. Then he stepped into the elevator, just past the sergeant’s station and closed the cage after him. Turning the lever, he sent the elevator car downward to the basement where the holding cells were located. In the first cell, he found the former Miss Malloy sitting on the cot, wearing a blood-spattered brown frock dress, her brilliant red hair a disheveled mess.
“So what happened, Tabby?”
“That no good husband of mine came home pissed again.”
“So you clubbed him?”
“I just gave him a love tap. Am I going to have to go before the Justice of the Peace?”
Saba placed the key in the lock and turned, then opened the door wide. “What’s the point in having a friend on the police force then?”
Tabby stood up and walked out of the cell. She stopped in front of Saba and leaned close to him, pressing her palm against his right cheek.
“I can think of several ways that I could express my appreciation,” she said.
“You’re a married woman now, and I am a married man.”
“Aye. And your wife is just lovely too. You made a good match.”
“Maybe. But speaking of matches. Are you going to have any trouble at home? I could come along and give him a talking to.”
“No. He’ll forgive me for clocking him. And it’s not as if he beats me. He just likes to come home ass over tit on payday.”
“So why did you marry him?”
She gave him a sweet smile. “How often do you suppose I’d been asked? It wasn’t as if I was an unplucked flower.”
“That doesn’t mean you don’t get to be happy, does it?”
“I’m happy enough,” she said, sounding as though she meant it.
“Come on. I’ll walk you up.” Saba led her into the elevator and pulled the lever, taking them to the ground floor. He opened the elevator door and escorted her out.
“Be careful with the frying pan,” he told her. “You might accidentally kill him.”
She smiled at him. “Have a lovely day, lad.”
When Saba turned around, he saw several of the PCs watching him. He raised an eyebrow and they conspicuously found things to do. Tossing the keys back to Sergeant Butler, he stepped back into the elevator and pushed the lever to the other side, taking the car and himself up to the second floor, where his office was located.
Inspectors at Mernham Yard would have given their eyeteeth for the spacious office that Port Dechantagne’s sole inspector enjoyed. It was beautifully paneled with several large windows. The wall behind Saba’s desk featured more than a dozen photographs, mostly of him and various city officials at the ground-breaking ceremonies or completions of some of Port Dechantagne’s many construction projects. Walking across the room, Saba looked out the window, down onto the small city garden next door. A lizzie gardener was picking summer squash from the vines.
Turning around, Saba walked back out of the office and bypassing the elevator, shot down the stairs. Five minutes later, he was in his steam carriage driving down Forest Avenue. He drove to the corner of Bainbridge Clark Street and pulled to the curb. A large wagon pulled by an ankylosaurus had parked in front of one of the many new buildings in this part of town. Two young men were supervising the unloading of a large piece of machinery by half a dozen lizzies.
“Watch it!” shouted the older of the two. “Good Kafira, watch what you’re doing!”
Several of the lizzies hissed words that Saba recognized as profanity. He climbed out of his vehicle and strolled over to stand behind the two humans.
“Good day, gentlemen.”
The younger of the two, no more than a boy really, turned around. The other continued to grouse at the reptilians, who were now carrying the machinery to the building. “Easy there! Watch that!”
“I find it’s usually easier on you and them if you just give the lizzies their instructions and let them carry them out.”
“And who are you?” asked the boy. “The local lizzie expert?”
“No, I’m the police inspector. Who are you?”
“My name’s Maro McCoort, and this is my brother Geert.”
The lizzies sat down the piece of machinery on the lawn. The young man, Geert, turned around. “If you’re here for permits, our friend has already taken care of them.”
“What friend would that be?” asked Saba.
“More like family.” A deep sultry voice in Saba’s ear made him jump and spin around.
Zurfina the Magnificent stood only a few inches from him, looking up into his face with large, charcoal-lined grey eyes. Her long wavy blond hair cascaded over her shoulders. She was as lovely as the day Saba had first seen her. Her sheath dress, shiny and black stretched over her body from her neck to her ankles, and matched her long gloves.
“These are my little… cousins?” She looked at the boy. He nodded. “These are my cousins, Gary and Mark.”
“Zurfina,” said Saba, regaining his composure, and taking a step back. “I had heard you’d been out and about recently, but I didn’t expect the pleasure.”
“Oh, the pleasure is all mine, Little Saba,” she said stepping forward. “You look so delectable. I knew when I first set eyes upon you, you know, that you would be a very pretty man when you grew up.”
“So what business are these cousins of yours in?”
“Stationers, or some such.” She placed both her hands upon his chest. They seemed far warmer than they should have.
“We’re printers,” said Maro, though Zurfina paid him no mind.
“So you’re setting them up for business?”
The sorceress waved her hand in a famously Zurfina dismissive gesture.
“They said you had taken care of their permits for them?”
“Permits… I’m afraid I don’t really know… what permits… are… really.” A look that neither Saba nor anyone else in Birmisia had ever seen upon Zurfina’s face took its place their and sat. “Are these permits important?”
“Usually,” said Saba.
“The permits are extremely important Fina,” said Maro. “We must have them if we are to get the shop up and running.”
Saba offered his left arm and Zurfina grasped it. He led her down the cement sidewalk that lined the brick street. She stroked his bicep with her rubber-gloved hand.
“Are you a partner in this business of theirs?” Saba asked.
“Oh, heavens no. What do I know of printography?”
“But you promised that you would get all their legal paperwork taken care of so that they wouldn’t have to worry about it as they set up their shop?”
“Yes, I might have made a promise to that effect.”
“And you haven’t the least knowledge of what must be done?”
“That would be correct. But you do, Little Saba. If you could be my liaison and arrange these things I could be very grateful. I know that you are doing well, but there are still things a man could wish for. I could make those dreams come true for you—a steam powered carriage.”
“I have a steam-powered carriage.”
“One that runs by magic. You never need to add coal again. Add water, say the magic word, and you’re off. Quick as a biscuit. Or perhaps you would like a girlfriend, a lover. I could arrange that.”
“I’m married.”
“How about a lover who would do anything you asked—anything. No request would be denied. One who would not be objectionable to Mrs. Colbshallow, one she might not notice at all, or one she might fancy a bit herself. There really is no limit if you just put a bit of thought into it.”
“You are the devil.”
“Nonsense. I’m just a woman in need of a favor. I’m a damsel in distress. Isn’t that what you do—rescue damsels in distress?”
“Yes, that is what I do,” he said. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll have a friend of mine from the mayor’s office gather the paperwork for them. And I don’t need or expect any recompense.”
“What if I wanted to do something for you?”
“Again, not necessary. By the by, have you heard from Senta?”
Zurfina shook her head and another expression that Saba had never seen nor expected crossed her face.
“Are you concerned?” he asked.
“Of course not,” she said. “Senta can take care of herself.”
“I dare say that’s true.”
Zurfina walked Saba back to his steam carriage. He climbed into the driver’s seat then reached down to remove her hand from his thigh.
“How come you’re taking so much interest in these fellows?” he asked.
“Sometimes we do things for family that we might not otherwise do,” she replied.
“They’re not really your family, are they? They’re Senta’s cousins, right? I think I heard something last week about them being on the Mistress of Brechbay when it sank.”
“Senta’s family is my family.”
Zurfina stepped away from the vehicle and Saba pulled away from the curb, stopping at the corner to check for oncoming traffic. There were no other steam carriages on Bainbridge Clark Street, so he started to pull forward. A sudden movement on his left prompted him to pull on the brake, and two massive creatures ran past, barely missing the front end of his car. Two three ton iguanodons raced side by side north up the street, their relatively small front legs tucked in close as they relied on their large back legs to sprint at more than twenty-five miles an hour. They bumped into one another as they ran, and one huge tail smacked a small tree in a planter on the sidewalk, knocking it over. Saba stood up from his seat. It was only then that he saw the two dinosaurs had humans riding on their backs.
Sitting back down and releasing the break, Saba stamped his foot down on the forward accelerator and turned north, following the stampeding beasts. The toppled tree was not the only damage left in their wake. A lamppost had been bent. Hopefully there was no gas leak. A small flowerbed in the median had been trampled. The speeding vehicle was faster than the running dinosaurs though and as the monsters reached First Avenue, he was right on their tails. He pressed the horn producing an ah-oogah.
“Rein those animals in!” he shouted.
The dinosaurs did in fact have reins, though not bits and bridles as a horse would have had. Nevertheless, the riders brought them to a quick halt. Saba took the carriage out of gear and threw on the brake, then jumped down and ran forward. He was careful to stay out of the way of the stamping feet and waving tails of the panting brutes. On the back of the first dinosaur sat one of the Charmley twins, Saba couldn’t tell if it was Walter or Warden. On the other dinosaur was Graham Dokkins.
“What the hell is this?” shouted Saba.
“Great, isn’t it?” said Graham, sliding down the iguanodon’s side to the ground. “I invented the bridle myself. Stinky is already used to it, but Molly’s still a bit testy.”
“You battered a lamppost!”
Graham looked off to the south. “I didn’t hear an explosion.”
“Lucky for you.” Saba looked up at the Charmley boy. “Get down here.”
“Come on Saba,” said Graham.
“Don’t you ‘come on’ me. You’re under arrest. How’s that?”
“There’s no law against riding a dinosaur in town.”
“Really? Are you sure about that?”
“Yep.”
“How about destruction of public property? How about contributing to the delinquency of a minor?”
“How about police brutality?” countered Graham.
“Oh, I’ll show you brutality. Somebody could have been trampled to death.”
“We picked a quiet street,” said the boy.
“You keep your trap shut, Walter.”
“I’m Warden.”
“I don’t care which one you are. Wait till I tell your mother.”
The boy’s face whitened.
“Your mother has long since given you up for a delinquent,” Saba told Graham. “But I don’t think she would want to see you in jail. It’s out of concern for her that I’m not running you in. But you’re going to pay for any damage done.”
“Fine,” said Graham, unrepentant.
“Too right,” said Saba. “Now walk these animals home.”
“I’m taking my animals home,” said Graham. “But I’m going to speak to the City Council. I’m going to get official permission to ride a dinosaur in town, and then you won’t have a thing to say.”
Graham turned around and collected the loose reins from his dinosaur and the one that Warden had been riding. Then he led them around Saba and his steam carriage and down the street. The two dinosaurs trotted along behind him as well behaved as any domesticated beasts. Warden looked at Saba for a moment, and then followed. Saba walked forty feet up the road to the police call box that stood on its own shoulder-high post. He pulled out his constable key and opened the red door, then began tapping the telegraph plunger inside, sending a message back to the station to inform them of the damaged street lamp.
When he returned to his steam carriage, he heard a distressed hissing from the rear of the vehicle. He walked around to find the pressure gauge on the boiler in the red. Opening the relief cock, he jerked his hand back as angry steam shot out. Getting back into the driver’s seat, he started off, making a right turn and heading to the old Town Square. By the time he had pulled the vehicle in front of Parnorsham’s Pfennig Store, almost all the steam had been bled from the boiler and the carriage rolled to an easy stop.
Climbing down, Saba entered the store, triggering the bells just above the door. A young man in a white long-sleeved shirt and dungarees stood behind the counter.
“Where’s Mr. Parnorsham?” asked Saba.
“Probably at home playing cards. I’m the new proprietor, Oswald Delks.”
“How do you do,” said Saba, shaking hands. “Police Inspector Colbshallow.”
“What can I do for you, Inspector?”
“Do you have any Billingbow’s?”
“Sure. I’ve also got Major Gortner’s. Everyone seems to love it.”
“Gah. No thank you. Two six packs of Billingbow’s please.”
Delks went to the back and returned to the counter with the two six packs.
“You know I think Uncle Herb mentioned you. Didn’t you fight the lizzies with him?”
“Mm-hmm.” Saba nodded.
“I love that story. Uncle Herb, single-handedly shooting it out with fifty armed lizzies right here in Town Square. Did you see it?”
“No. I was across town.” Saba placed two one mark notes and seven ten-pfennig pieces on the counter.
“I just can’t abide those reptiles.” Delks handed back six copper pfennigs. “They’re creepy. Kafira’s tit, here comes one now.”
The bell above the door clanged once again, this time as a lizardman entered. It was carrying a large hatbox tied with a red silk bow. There were quite a few variations from individual to individual among the reptilians. This aborigine had a face of deep forest green that continued down and was punctuated with darker strips just below the shoulder. Saba immediately recognized by the shorter stature, just under six feet, and the lighter belly coloring, a pale green, that this was a female. Only a few seconds later he recognized who the lizardman was.
“Hello Cissy.”
“Hello Sada,” she replied.
“What do you need, lizzie?” asked Delks in a rather snotty tone.
“Dillingdow’s,”
“Huh?”
“She wants Billingbow’s,” translated Saba. “A six pack?”
Cissy nodded.
Delks raised an eyebrow, and then walked to the back of the store once again, returning with yet another wooden carrier containing six bottles of the popular soda water.
“I didn’t know you lot drank this,” he said. “That will be three marks.”
“That should be one mark thirty two P,” said Saba.
“I can charge whatever I want.”
Cissy set three one mark notes on the counter and picked up the six-pack in her clawed fist. She headed back out the front door, pausing just long enough on her way out to hiss “Asshole.”
“If you’re going to start skinning the natives,” said Saba to the proprietor, “you might not want to start with the governor’s own lizzie.”
Walking outside, Saba found Cissy tilting one of the bottles into her long, many-toothed mouth.
“I like to let mine cool down in the ice box.”
“I know. I see you drink. Cold drink not good to lizzies. I get thirsty. I like Dillingdow’s.”
“Did you pick that up for Mrs. Dechantagne?” he asked, indicating the hatbox.
“No. This is Cissy’s hat. You like to see it?”
He nodded. She carefully untied the red silk ribbon and opened the box, withdrawing a broad-brimmed lady’s hat, made of plaid material, decorated with artificial blue and pink roses and a large green feather. Carefully balancing it on her head, Cissy tied it below her chin with a thick strand of blue lace.
“It looks very nice on you,” said Saba.
“I wear it to shrine, like all the fine ladies.”
“You go to shrine regularly?”
“Yes. I Zaeri now. You Kafirite?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Kafira die for hoonan souls. I think not for lizzie souls.”
Saba nodded thoughtfully, and then turned to set his two six-packs into the passenger seat of the steam carriage. He didn’t know much about the lizzie religion, or if there was one now that he thought about it. It was not surprising that Mother Linton was not interested in converting the locals to Kafira, but it seemed like someone would want to. He wanted to ask Cissy who had told her about the Zaeri faith, but when he turned back around, she was already gone.