The safe sat silvery in its niche. Apparently, Gawbyan had repaired it after his break-in.
Martinez passed into the sleeping cabin and stared at the bloody porcelain figure with its unnaturally broad eyes. He looked at the pictures on the wall and saw a long-haired Terran with blue skin playing a flute, a bearded man dead or swooning in the arms of a blue-clad woman, a monstrous being—or possibly it was a Torminel with unnaturally orange fur—snarling out of the frame, its extended tongue pierced by a jagged spear.
Lovely stuff to see at bedtime, he thought. The view dismaying.
The only picture of any interest showed a young woman bathing, but what might have been an attractive scene was spoiled by the creepy presence of elderly men in turbans who watched her from concealment.
“Comm,” he said, “page Montemar Jukes to the captain’s office.”
Fletcher’s pet artist ambled into the office wearing nonregulation coveralls and braced halfheartedly, in a way that would have earned a ferocious rebuke from any petty officer. To judge from Jukes and Xi, Fletcher was willing to tolerate a certain amount of unmilitary slackness among his personal following.
Jukes was a stocky man with disordered gray hair and rheumy blue eyes. His cheeks were unnaturally ruddy and his breath smelled of sherry. Martinez gave him what he intended to be a disapproving scowl, then turned to lead into Fletcher’s bedroom.
“Come with me, Mr. Jukes.”
Jukes followed in silence, then stopped in the doorway, leaning back slightly to contemplate the great porcelain figure strapped to the tree.
“Whatis this, Mr. Jukes?”
“Narayanguru,” Jukes said. “The Shaa tied him to a tree and tortured him to death. He’s all-seeing, that’s why his eyes wrap around like that.”
“All-seeing? Funny he didn’t see what the Shaa were going to do to him.”
Jukes showed yellow teeth. “Yes,” he said. “Funny.”
“Why’s he here?”
“You mean why did Captain Fletcher hang Narayanguru in his sleeping cabin?” Jukes shrugged. “I don’t know. He collected cult art, and he couldn’t show it to the public. Maybe this is the only place he could put it.”
“Was Captain Fletcher a cultist?”
Jukes was taken aback by the question. “Possibly,” he said, “but which cult?” He walked into the room and pointed at the snarling beast. “That’s Tranomakoi, a personification of their storm spirit.” He indicated the blue-skinned man. “That’s Krishna, who I believe is a Hindu deity.” His hand drifted across the scarred paneling to indicate the swooning man. “That’s a pieta, that’s Christian. Another god killed in some picturesque way by the Shaa.”
“Christian?” Martinez was intrigued. “We have Christians on Laredo—on my home world. On certain days of the year they dress in white robes and pointed hoods, don chains, and flog each other.”
Jukes was startled. “Why do they do that?”
“I have no idea. It’s said they sometimes pick one of their number to be their god and nail him to a cross.”
Jukes scratched his scalp in wonderment. “Jolly sort of cult, isn’t it?”
“It’s a great honor. Most of them live.”
“And the authorities don’t do anything?”
Martinez shrugged. “The cultists only hurt each other. And Laredo is very far from Zanshaa.”
“Apparently.”
Martinez looked at Narayanguru with his bloody translucent flesh. “In any case,” he said, “I’m neither a cultist nor an aesthete, and I have no intention of sleeping beneath that gory object for a single night.”
The other man grinned. “I don’t blame you.”
Martinez turned to Jukes. “Can you…rearrange…the captain’s collection?” he asked. “Store Narayanguru where he won’t disturb anyone’s sleep, and put something more pleasant in his place?”
“Yes, my lord.” Jukes gave him an appraising look. “Or perhaps you’d like me to create something for you? I can print something off and frame it easily enough, if you’ll tell me the sort of thing you’d like.”
Martinez had never been asked the sort of art he’d liked before and had no ready answer, so he asked, “Are you looking for a new patron, Mr. Jukes?”
“Always,” Jukes said with his yellow-toothed smile. “Bear in mind that you’ll probably retain command ofIllustrious for years, Fletcher’s collection will go to his family, and you don’t want to keep the original tiles and murals on the walls. This is a warship, not a haunted palace.”
Martinez looked at him. “Didn’t you create all the designs on the ship? You don’t mind if I rip out all the tiles and paint over the murals?”
A sherry-tinged jauntiness floated from Jukes. “Not at all. The designs are all safe in my computer, and quite frankly it’s not my best work anyway.”
Martinez frowned. “Wasn’t Fletcher paying for your best?”
“The work’s all his taste, not mine. All balanced and classical and dull. I’ve done a lot better work in the past, much more interesting, but no one’s paying for it, and so…” He shrugged. “Here I am, on a warship. It’s not what I expected when I first started working with a graphics program, believe me.”
Martinez found himself amused. “What did Fletcher rate you, anyway?”
“Rigger First Class.”
“You don’t know anything about a rigger’s duties, do you?”
The artist shook his head. “Not a damn thing, my lord. That’s why I need a new patron.”
“Well.” Martinez looked at the blue-skinned flute player. “Start by removing all this gloomy stuff and putting something more cheerful in its place. We can talk about any…commissions later.”
Jukes brightened. “Shall I start now, my lord?”
“After breakfast will be fine.”
Jukes brightened still further. “Very good, my lord. I’ve got an inventory of what items of his collection Fletcher brought aboard, and I’ll peruse it tonight.”
Martinez was amused by the word “peruse.” “Very good, Mr. Jukes. You’re dismissed.”
“Yes, my lord.” This time Jukes managed a halfway creditable salute, and marched away. Martinez left Fletcher’s quarters and locked the door behind him.
The interview had cheered him. He went to his own cabin and was startled to find that one of his servants, Rigger Espinosa, had laid cushions on the floor of his office and was stretched out on them fully clothed.
“What are you doing there?” Martinez asked.
Espinosa jumped to his feet and braced. He was a young man, muscular and trim, with heavy-knuckled hands that hung by his sides.
“Mr. Alikhan sent me, my lord,” he said.