by T. A. Pratt
“The message is this: the Borrichius spores are in Felport.”
Silence. Then a sound like chewing, perhaps like laughter through chewing. “That is all? That is the whole of the message?”
“That's it.”
“Then we are done. The Mycelium says not to kill you. The Mycelium says, spare your liver and kidneys. I am sad. I have alpha-amanitin. I have bolesatine. I have coprine—for the drinkers, the campers, with their beer cans and their stink. I have orellanin, gyromitrin, mus-carine. I have the hands of a destroying angel, the breath of an ivory funnel. I wear my autumn skullcap, I hold my deadly parasol, I am the deadly dapperling. But for you, not death.”
“Good to know.” The messenger had been a courier for sorcerers for years, and he'd thought himself pretty well hardened against weirdness and threats, but his business seldom took him to places as remote as this. Being at the mercy of this man's nature in nature unnerved him. He wondered if he could run, wondered if this guy would just pop out of the ground and grab him.
“For you, only madness. For you, psilocybin.”
Something huge loomed out of the trees to the left, a blur of vegetable coloration, something that might have been a face under a veil of heavy mosses, arms that could have been stout tree branches. The messenger stumbled back, dropping the compass—which was buzzing like an agitated beehive now—and tried to run, tripping on a half-hidden log and falling to the ground. Something fell upon his back, pinning him down with his nose pressed into a cluster of ugly brown mushrooms. He thrashed, and a thick choking dust filled his nostrils and mouth, worming down his throat and airways. He began to gasp.
The thing on his back rose up. “You can run. Try to run. You will not reach the edge of the forest before you begin to see visions. Psilocybin. We were there for St. John the Divine. We will be there for you. The Mycelium may have a message for you. Or you may be given to the forest.”
Dosed, the messenger thought, scrambling to his feet and half running, half stumbling down the hill. He'd done acid before, even mescaline, but never shrooms. It wouldn't be so bad, would it? As far as hallucinogens went, shrooms were natural, crunchy; hippies did them. If worst came to worst he could just hunker down and wait out the trip—find a pretty spot by a lake and soak in the view. Besides, it would take a little while for the effects to hit him, and before then—
The trip hit him like he'd run into a wall. The sky opened. The earth opened. The sun melted and dripped down the sky. The light vibrated. The ground laughed.
The messenger saw god. A god. Bulliard's god.
And Bulliard's god saw him.
arla went back to her office after leaving B in the catacombs, and found Jason and Rondeau lounging at the table off the kitchen, drinks in hand, a couple of decks of cards scattered before them. Without a word Marla picked up Rondeau's tumbler and sniffed it, frowning. “This is either plain tonic water with lemon or you got some nice vodka that doesn't smell.”
“I'm on the wagon, for the moment.” Rondeau held out his hand, palm down. “See how steady I am? Jason dragged me out of a bar before I got so drunk I slid underneath one of the tables.”
“My brother, savior of man.” Marla consented to be briefly embraced when Jason stood up. Dinner the night before had been… nice. She wouldn't go so far as to say there were no illusions between Jason and herself—for one thing, he thought her entire lifestyle was a sham—but the lies they told each other were different from the lies she told most people, and that was refreshing. Even after all those years apart, there was the unspoken bond of shared experience between them. They weren't so different. Smart, ambitious, ruthless, desperate to leave behind their roots and find new life and purpose elsewhere. She'd found magic. He'd found the grift.
“Marlita.” Jason sat down, leaning back in the beat-up old kitchen chair and lacing his hands over his belly “I've got a proposition for you. I'd like to take on your man Rondeau as a subcontractor.”
Marla looked at Rondeau, who looked down into his glass, which he was probably wishing contained something stronger than tonic water. “Oh, really. Do tell.”
“Like I told you last night, I've got an operation under way, and I can use another pair of hands and eyes. His brain will come in handy, too. He helped me run a sweet little lost-ring scam at a bar earlier, and he did good. I think he's got grift sense.”
“Grift sense?” Rondeau said.
“Don't get excited,” Marla said. “It's not like a sixth sense or even spider-sense. It's old-time hustler lingo. Just means you have a knack for spotting gullible idiots who'll fall for a line of bullshit.”
“I would've put it a little more elegantly than that, but basically. What do you think? I promise it won't interfere with your business.”
“And your word is gold, right, brother? Rondeau, go downstairs for a bit while I talk to Jason alone.”
Rondeau scurried away, and Jason looked after him with eyebrows raised, then turned to Marla. “You've got him well trained.”
“He's been working for me for a long time.” Marla sat down, sighed, and picked up Jason's glass. She took a sip and grimaced. “Ah, should've known you'd have something other than tonic water.” She put the glass of vodka down and gazed at her brother, drawing out the moment of silence to see if it would put Jason on edge, but he just looked patiently expectant. “You want to use Rondeau's connection to me to help you scam Cam-Cam. You already dragged my name into this to give it a whiff of legitimacy, and now you want to parade Rondeau past Cam-Cam so he thinks he's really on the inside track to magical mystery woo-woo stuff.” She looked at him.
Jason looked back. After a moment he said, “I'm sorry, was that a question? Yes. You are correct. I didn't expect you to think otherwise. So what do you say?”
“I'd really rather not have Cam-Cam buzzing around and annoying me. After you rip him off and leave him penniless, he'll come sniffing around here after Rondeau, looking for restitution, and I don't want to deal with it. You can leave town and avoid the repercussions, but I've got a life here, and I don't want you fucking it up. Understand?”
“Ah, Marlita, but the blow-off I've got planned is perfect. Smoothest dismount you can imagine. This guy won't even know he's been scammed. He'll be flat broke, he'll give me his last dollar, and he'll thank me at the end of it. But in order for me to accomplish that perfect blow-off, I could really use Rondeau. I meant what I said. He handled himself well today”
“I'm sure he did. He's capable, in his way” Marla considered. If things went bad and Cam-Cam bothered her afterward, she could always dose him with forget-me-lots and send him back to his life as an irritatingly clueless seeker after wonder. It wasn't likely to be a problem—Cam-Cam wasn't heavy, he wasn't connected, and there were few downsides to messing with his memory She couldn't explain that to Jason, but she could pretend she believed his line of patter about having the perfect scam. Maybe it would help their relationship. She was a bit surprised, after last night's dinner, to realize she wasn't opposed to the idea of having a relationship with him. Maybe she was going soft. And with B around to take up the slack, she didn't need Rondeau quite so much, not on a daily basis, and letting him do some work with Jason would…well, not keep him out of trouble, obviously, but keep him in trouble she knew about. “Okay But if I even hear about guns, knives, hatchets, any kind of physical coercion at all, Rondeau is out, understood? This has to be a clean and gentlemanly grift. Otherwise I'll go to Cam-Cam personally and tell him you're a liar and a thief.”
“Wow. You're protective of Ronnie, huh? Do I hear wedding bells?”
Marla snorted. “Me and Rondeau? That would be like—” Like dating my brother. Her standard answer when people misunderstood her relationship with Rondeau, but it would feel strange saying it to Jason. “We're old friends, is all. He's saved my ass a few times, I've saved his ass a thousand times, and that's the extent of our interest in each other's asses.”
“Understood.” Jason reached over and clasped Mar
la's hand. “I promise, no heavy stuff. Pure intellectual scam.
It'll be great, you'll see, and I'll cut you in for five percent, since you're kind enough to let the kid moonlight.”
“Keep the money. Consider it eighteen years of overdue birthday presents.”
“Wow, turning down cash. You must have a sweet operation in this city Maybe I should become a legitimate businessman.” He stood up. “Should I tell Rondeau the good news, or do you want to?”
“You can. Just do me a favor?”
“Name it.”
“Make sure he has to wear a really bad fake mustache as a disguise at some point. Or, better—dress him in drag. Something slinky, red, and backless. Make him think it's absolutely essential to the scam.”
Jason laughed, and it was so familiar it made something tear loose in her heart—it was the same laugh he'd had as a teenager, when something genuinely delighted him. “I'll do my best, Marlita. Can we get together again this week? I feel like we barely made it two blocks down memory lane last night.”
“Sure, give me a call later, we'll work it out. Send Rondeau up for me, would you?”
After Jason left her, she sat quietly at the table for a while, then polished off the remains of his drink. Marla was never prone to introspection, but it was hard not to think about friendship, family, history, with Jason back in her life. Maybe that wasn't a bad thing. Time would tell.
Rondeau appeared. “Hey, thanks for letting me get into this. Sounds like it could lead to both fun and profit, which are each on my list of top-five favorite things.”
“Mmm-hmm. Listen, I need you to spy on Jason for me.”
Rondeau sat down and reached for his glass, swirling the pebbles of ice around. “Ah, right. Should've figured. You think he's got bad intentions?”
“Oh, he's definitely got bad intentions. I don't mind that—unless he's got bad intentions toward me. The guy shows up unannounced, with big plans I'm already a part of, like it or not? Damn right I'm suspicious.”
“Gotcha. I'll keep my gimlet eye on him. Or is it my weather eye? Do you get one of each? Is it like ‘port’ and ‘starboard’?”
“Just remember, like I said, no magic talk.”
“I know, I know. So … Jason's your brother, right? He loves you? I never had a brother, but it seems…” He trailed off.
“I'm just being cautious. Jason and I didn't part on such good terms. We're both smiling and pretending that stuff never happened, but it doesn't mean there's no old bad business underneath.”
“Understood. I'll watch for signs of moral turpitude and spiritual decay, and report back. I've got my cell if you need me. Jason wants to introduce me to one of his buddies, and they're supposed to fill me in on the big con. I feel like I'm in The Sting or something.”
“Movies aren't real life, Rondeau.”
“Only because we don't try hard enough. What's wrong with being a little cinematic? Catch you later, boss.”
* * *
Viscarro escorted B to a little waiting room near an access hatch leading to the surface, where Marla was lounging in a high-backed carved chair, reading a thick sheaf of paper. She folded it up and shoved it into the beat-up leather sack by her feet, then grinned. “So, B, is your head all full of esoteric knowledge?”
“Positively stuffed.” He yawned hugely. “I think I've forgotten what the sun looks like.”
“The sun went down half an hour ago, so you'll have to wait until morning to reacquaint yourself. Viscarro, was he a good student?”
Viscarro sniffed. “He was acceptable. He's learned some very basic pscyhometric techniques, so he should be able to help you should you encounter any more artifacts. Of course, some would say it's unfair you already have two.”
“I thought you had, like, a hundred artifacts in the bank down here? All nicely sitting on shelves, not bothering anyone?”
“My inventory list is confidential.” He waved his hand. “Begone. I assume I won't see you until next month's tribute is due?”
“Unless some metaphysical shit hits the fan before then.” She stood up. “Come on, B, you've had a hard day. Want something to eat?”
This time they went up a dimly lit flight of stairs, emerging into some kind of power substation, all humming coils of metal, and then out into the night. They were in a fenced-off lot in who knows what part of Felport, but B didn't care where he was—the air was still pleasantly warm from the day's dissipating heat, and he'd never been so happy to have outside air in his lungs. “I think that place down there is where dust is made.”
Marla led the way toward lights and bustle a couple of blocks away, where it looked like early nightlife of some description was gearing up. “Viscarro was okay? He didn't try to enthrall you and make you his Renfield or anything?” The question had an absent-minded tone—banter on autopilot.
“No, he was fine, boring and humorless, is all. I didn't get any… you know… twinges. Like we talked about. So what's on your mind?”
“Hmm? Just trying to decide where to eat. There's a good taqueria up past this movie theater, and a café with decent panini, and I think a pho place. What're you interested in?”
“Oh, anything. Seriously, I can tell something's bugging you, what is it?”
Marla started to walk faster, and B had to hustle to keep up. “I don't know. Maybe my brother. He's on my mind a bit. Family reunions aren't really my thing.”
“Rondeau said you hadn't seen him in a long time?”
“Since we were kids. I left home when I was about fifteen. He was a couple of years older, already a high school dropout and small-time crook by then.”
“Were you guys close?”
“Once upon a time, it was me and Jason against the world. Let's eat here.” The taqueria was jammed into an alleyway between two closed shops, the counter manned by a surprisingly perky white teenager, who said, “¡Hola!” when they came in. They placed their orders—something heavy on the spice, called the scorcher special, for Marla, and a plain cheese quesadilla for B, who'd been forced to swear off hot sauce (along with caffeine and uppers) when his supernatural sensitivities developed some years earlier. They were the only ones in the place, and they took a table as far away from the counter as possible. Marla sipped her agua fresca and took a bite of her burrito, and B just waited, trying to be patient, knowing she would get to things in her own time.
“Okay. Jason did something really bad, right before I left town. I couldn't forgive him for it, and he was pretty upset about that—he thought I'd understand, maybe even that I'd applaud. After we had our big screaming fight over it, I told him I had a drunk for a mother and a psycho for a brother and I didn't see any reason to keep living in the cesspool with them. I packed my bags and started hitchhiking, and I eventually wound up here. I seriously never thought I'd see him again, especially not wearing a thousand-dollar suit and smile so sincere I can't help thinking it's phony”
“Sounds like an interesting guy I hope I get to meet him.” Insight into Marla's past—into anything about her personal life—was rare. “Is he in town for long?”
“Much to my dismay. He's running a scam on this rich magic-chaser named Campbell Campion. He's got Rondeau helping him out, and I know if I'm not careful, I'll wind up helping him, too. He can be very convincing.”
“A real con artist, huh? I knew my share of hustlers back in Hollywood, but we're talking like a whole big con kind of thing, with accomplices and disguises and salting gold mines and stuff like that?”
“So it would seem.”
“I thought all the con men were doing identity theft and Nigerian e-mail scams these days.”
“Jason's old school. He says he doesn't even care about the money, that he's got plenty of money—he's just in it for the thrill. I can't say the idea of seeing Cam-Cam reduced to poverty upsets me. He's a pain in the ass with more money than sense who thinks he can buy the numinous with a checkbook. He's heard of me, though, and Jason parlayed our family ties into a meeting w
ith Cam-Cam, and from there, some kind of con. But I can't help thinking, Jason being here, bringing Rondeau in on his grift… it can't be coincidence, can it? Did he just happen to find me and see an angle he could play, or did he come looking for me, and if so, why?”
“You can't just ask him?”
“I can ask, but how can I be sure he's telling the truth? I could cast a spell to reveal falsehoods, but I know for a fact Jason has faked out polygraph machines in the past, and I wouldn't necessarily trust the results—Jason's got the rare ability to make himself believe whatever lie he's telling, at least while he's telling it. That's why he's so damned convincing.”
B chewed his quesadilla. Bland. He was so sick of bland things. “So why don't we go find an oracle and ask it if your brother has nefarious intentions toward you?”
Marla shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “Messing with that kind of magic just because I'm suspicious of my brother seems… trifling, somehow. Oracles can get pissed when you come to them with bullshit questions, you know?”
B shrugged. “Sure, but I'm an oracle generator, so it seems a waste not to use me—I can sniff out some supernatural node of influence and put the question to it. If whatever we summon gets pissed off, I'm good at soothing them.”
“Maybe it's a good idea. This is kind of eating at me.”
“I can't promise we'll get an answer that makes sense, but it's worth a shot.”
Marla wiped her mouth with a wadded-up napkin. “Okay. Earn your supper, then, lowly apprentice. Find me an oracle.”
They went back out into the night, and B opened himself up. Marla had explained to him that most of the supernatural beings he called into existence weren't actually hooked up into some cosmic information line—they were just telling him things he already knew, truths he'd discovered using his unique psychic senses but, for whatever reason, couldn't apprehend directly Even if they were just a manifestation of his own powers, though, he needed them—without outside explanation, the secrets would stay locked up in his brain, coming out only in cryptic dreams that, more often than not, he required an oracle to interpret anyway.
