Conflagration

by Mick Farren

  The first thing to present itself was what Cordelia called the writing on the wall. The blasted and soot-encrusted surfaces of the ruins that faced the river were daubed with complex layers of whitewashed graffiti. Cordelia could see words and slogans in a half dozen languages, and also texts and ideograms that were totally indecipherable, and probably invented or deliberately abstract. Representative art came in the form of monotone murals, often unfinished, and mostly vivid with violence or inventively pornographic, some crude but others executed with a high, if primitive, skill. As they moved deeper into the devastation, she started to see people. At first, it was children, which surprised Cordelia. She had not considered kids living in such a place, but on reflection it made sense. They were lean and dirty, ragged, and strangely silent. They stood or sat immobile, keeping watch on the river. Some, dressed in bits and pieces of ancient and discarded uniforms, cradled weapons like a juvenile guerrilla army: long-barreled muskets, crossbows, and single shot, flintlock pistols. One crew manned a primitive but effect catapult, capable of hurling quite large chucks of masonry, while two older boys leaned on the rude mounting of an antique three-inch brass cannon. The spectacle had been so eerie and menacing that Cordelia had turned to Sera and questioned her about it. “The children are the city guards, the watch on the Seine?”

  Sera had shaken her head and shrugged. “Those are the petits, the little ’uns. The ones who’ve made it their mission to man the approaches. More kids come here than adults; all the runaways from all over the province and even farther. And they’re one fuck of a lot harder to handle than the grownups, because the Zhaithan don’t want the second and third generation subjects learning to read and write if they can help it. I guess that’s one of the advantages of the gangs. If the kids attach themselves to a gang, they at least get some kind of education that stops them from turning feral.”

  “They’re scary, so quiet and still.”

  “That’s the mudlarks and river rats. They’re the kind of predators who watch and wait. I mean, all les enfants are predators of one form or another, but most are more boisterous about it. The hardest thing with this lot is to stop them killing the Mosul agents when they come in to trade.”

  “What about us? Suppose they take a dislike to this boat?”

  “They know enough not to fuck with me and mine.”

  “They still look scary.”

  Sera glanced up at the silent children once more. This time, she was not so dismissive. “I must admit that they have been looking a tad more scary of late. There are even rumors going around the city that the rejects from the breeding program were being dumped here to fuck with us.”

  “What?” The words breeding program had instantly snagged her interest.

  “Supposedly the Zhaithan have been shipping them in and letting them go at the outskirts of the city. Seeing if they can make their way to the inhabited sections.”

  “What breeding program?”

  Sera was surprised. “You never heard of the breeding program?”

  “There are a lot of things I seem not to have heard of.”

  “That’s something else we have to talk about later. Probably after my father has had his say.”

  Cordelia allowed herself to become just a little aloof and resentful. “I’ll hold myself in readiness.”

  The exchange had, however, lifted Cordelia’s spirits, and restored more of her hallmark resilience. While still reserving judgment, she accepted that all Sera had said tended to confirm she was more than just the helpless hostage. Indeed, by the time she had considered most of the implications, she was so well recovered that, when out of nowhere, she had heard Jesamine’s unmistakable accent inside her head, she did not immediately break down in screaming horror.

  “Cordelia, it’s me. I was sent to find you.”

  The fleeting image of a golden wolf appeared for a moment, standing impossibly on the surface of the river. For an instant, Cordelia did reel, but she rapidly recovered, even remembering to focus hard and communicate without speaking or even moving her lips. “Jesamine. Is that really you?”

  “I was sent to find you.”

  “Are the others here?”

  “There’s no time to explain. They are helping me. Where is this place? Where are you?”

  “This is Paris.”

  “Paris?”

  “Don’t ask.”

  It wasn’t until they were almost done that Sera Falconetti noticed something, but assumed that Cordelia was merely showing signs of wear and tear. “Are you okay?”

  As the whisper of Jesamine departed, Cordelia put a modestly dramatic hand to her brow. “I suddenly felt a little faint. Today came with a sizeable helping of wear and tear.”

  In fact, Cordelia was feeling quite reinvigorated. Word of her location had been passed, and the others were free. They hadn’t been kidnapped as well, and were seemingly addressing the problem. She was also fascinated by the vision of the golden wolf on the water. Maybe Jesamine had learned a thing or two while she’d been screwing around with the Ohio. What did they call things like the wolf? A Quodoshka?

  Sera seemed to buy her charade of fragility and debilitation, and made her voice reassuringly concerned. “Don’t worry, we’ll be in the underworld in a moment, and not far from where we’re going. When we get there, you’ll be able to clean up and rest for a while.”

  Only minutes later the barge negotiated the slime-covered broken piles and fallen spans of a collapsed bridge, and turned against the current to pass through a broken arch into a dark and vaulted tunnel that must have also once been part of the Parisian sewer system. For a few minutes they were in semidarkness, only able to see little more than the silhouettes of each other, but very aware of splashings, scuttlings, murmurs, movements, all around them; but then they rounded a bend and into what had to be a main thoroughfare in this demolished outlaw city. A missing section of roof let in broad shafts of daylight, and other areas were lit by burning torches and braziers. The barge was floating through a continuous traffic of rowboats, dinghies, canoes, even circular coracles moving around and between more barges like the one they were on. Cordelia was surprised that so much travel was by water. Later she would learn that most of inhabited Paris was reached by boat, and that the operational sections of the city were the archipelago of tiny islands formed when, during the bombardment, the banks of the Seine had completely collapsed. Even after so many years, urban explorers and sewer-rat garbage prospectors would break into a previously sealed area, and find burned skeletons and even mummified bodies, undisturbed since the original Mosul firestorm.

  A raised flagstone walkway, like a broad sidewalk, ran along one side of the water. Thronged with people, it offered all the fun of a ragged but energetic fair. An extensive and comprehensive flea market was in full swing, and Cordelia saw merchants conducting trade from behind booths and stalls, and even from blankets laid out on the flags. The fastest and most popular trade was in food and provisions, and, although standards of cleanliness and public health might not have measured up to London or Albany, customers lined up at the stalls of the bakers and butchers, the men and women selling relatively fresh produce, and even crowded round the vendors of decidedly dubious-looking canned goods. Food was not all that was on sale. An elderly man handed out dusty bottles of wine in exchange for what looked like goodly sums in coins and some kind of script. An armorer made deals on carefully restored swords and firearms. Racks of used clothing were pawed through and inspected for bargains, and still more tradesmen hawked tools, household goods, trinkets, while an apothecary presided over pills, potions, and powders in an array of bottles and jars. Wandering musicians, one playing an inevitable saccharine accordion, plus jugglers, a fire-eater, a man with a performing dog, another with a monkey, and a variety of low-level bawds and prostitutes moved through the more mundane buying and selling, offering their more exotic goods and services. Cordelia had to assume that a covert contingent of pickpockets was also working the multitude, while th
ose who did not perform, fuck, or steal, wagered and gambled. During their short progress down the underground waterway, she noticed two crap games and a three-card, spot-the-lady table.

  The barge approached a jetty that was guarded by a trio of armed and heavyset men. Ropes were thrown, and the vessel quickly secured. As soon as they stepped ashore, one of the guards informed Sera that she and Cordelia should make themselves presentable for her father. Stone side passages and a flight of medieval spiral stairs led to what turned out to be the Falconetti family’s quarters, which proved luxurious in the extreme compared to what Cordelia had seen of the rest of the city. In most things, Sera had been as good as her word, but in the promise of resting for a while, she underestimated her father’s impatience. Cordelia had barely been given time to wash off the streaked whorehouse makeup and scramble into a quick change of clothes before being brought to the lair of Falconetti senior.

  By the time she had listened to all of Damon Falconetti’s stories, plus an analysis of the Parisian gang structure, and how a long history of bloody family vendettas had only been brought to an end a few years earlier by a set of laboriously negotiated treaties, she was starting to feel the cognac weighing heavy on her eyelids. Maybe because she was tired, and also a little drunk, Cordelia made her first serious misstep. “So that was when Il Syndicato was formed?”

  Falconetti’s face darkened. The others in the room fell silent, and exchanged glances as he stared hard at Cordelia. “Il Syndicato?”

  Cordelia was nervous and knew that it showed. “Did I say something wrong. I was only repeating what I heard.”

  “There is no such thing as Il Syndicato.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Do you understand that?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  Falconetti repeated the words like a mantra. “There is no such thing as Il Syndicato.”

  “I can only apologize again.”

  “Repeat it for me.”

  “There is no such thing as Il Syndicato.”

  “It is an invention of the Norse newspapers. It sounds exciting and theatrical, but it is a fanciful fiction, and that’s another way of saying it’s bullshit. You’d do well to remember that.”

  “I will.”

  Then a slight twinkle wavered at the corner of Falconetti’s eye. “That’s not to say that there isn’t a degree of organization.”

  “Oh course not. I could see that by the way I was brought here.”

  Old Temps Perdu actually smiled as Falconetti continued. “If some minimal accord had not been created, the gangs of Paris would be at each other’s throats with axes and butcher knives like they were in the old days, planting nailbombs and creating royal fucking mayhem. We’d be decimating each other until there were so few of us, the fucking Mosul could walk in and clean out those that were left with half a regiment of raw recruits.” A number of the henchmen nodded in agreement. “Damn right.”

  “I heard that the last time the Mosul came in here, you poisoned the Seine.”

  Now Falconetti actually smiled. “We threatened to poison the Seine. That was enough for them. Plus, we made them aware just how much they needed us. Where else were they going to get their scotch, and their drugs, and the A-list whores?”

  At the phrase, “A-list whores,” one of the women in the background giggled. Falconetti glanced at her, but then turned back to Cordelia. “Once, of course, some kind of rough and ready common purpose, and sense of mutual interests had been established in Paris, it only made sense to put out feelers to the other centers where the Mosul don’t have complete control. We’d be fools not to cooperate with the Lorenzo of Naples, or Van Cleef in Amsterdam, or form links with Palermo, and the one who likes to call himself The Sicilian. It has also, on occasion, been to our advantage for strangers and civilians to believe in such a thing as Il Syndicato, but there is no secret society with members spread across the Empire. So you see, Lady Blakeney, you really shouldn’t come walking in here, talking of things you know nothing about.”

  Cordelia noticed that Falconetti was calling her “Lady Blakeney” again, and she took this as an indication that her faux pas had been forgiven. On the other hand, she could not fathom Falconetti’s sudden anger, or even if it was real, or part of some devious charade. All she could do was bow her head and wait and see. “I’ll try not to do such a thing again.”

  Falconetti seemed mollified, but then proceeded to take her completely by surprise. “I imagine you would like to know why you were brought to me?”

  After waiting so long, and having been through so much, with no explanation so much as offered, the sudden blunt statement took Cordelia by surprise and she had to maintain tight control to not blurt the obvious reply. “Very much indeed.”

  Falconetti smiled. He seemed to relish keeping Cordelia off balance. “You’re a very popular young woman, Lady Blakeney.”

  “That’s flattering.”

  “Perhaps not in this instance. When it became known that you and your three companions were coming to England, a price was put on your head.”

  Cordelia was suddenly very cautious. “A price?”

  “In fact, a number of interested parties made offers for the four of you, both dead and alive.”

  “I seem to still be alive.”

  “Indeed you are, but that is only because the more deadly offer was vetoed.”

  “I suppose I should be grateful for that.”

  “Perhaps not. The contract on your life and the lives of your companions was solicited by Zhaithan intelligence.”

  “I see.”

  “But it was vetoed by Her Grand Eminence Jeakqual-Ahrach.”

  “She wanted us alive?”

  “She made it an inviolable edict.”

  Previously Cordelia had been nervous, but now she was terrified. “So after all the stories and cognac, you’re going to hand me over to Jeakqual-Ahrach?”

  Falconetti laughed and shook his head. “Even I am not that gratuitously cruel.”

  “You’d go against Her Grand Eminence?”

  “That’s the rules of trade. Her offer was more than matched by a party with whom I was far more comfortable doing business.”

  “And are you going to tell me who that might be?”

  “I can do better than that.” Damon Falconetti gestured to a short man with shaved eyebrows, an upper body covered in tattoos, and a broken nose with a steel spike through it, who stood by the entrance to the room, leaning casually, but definitely on guard.”

  “Ask the client to come in, Bonaparte.”

  Bonaparte nodded and gestured to somewhere beyond. Then, to Cordelia’s stunned amazement, Harriet Lime walked into the room. She was wearing an extremely sexy and formfitting adaptation of a standard aviator’s outfit, and seemed highly amused by Cordelia’s reaction. “Well, Cordelia, my darling, I would seem to be the one who made the winning bid in the Falconetti auction.”

  For Cordelia, this was the final straw. Had she been the fainting type, she would have swooned dead away. As it was, her jaw dropped and she knew she must be babbling. “How can you be here? I left you in London. I left you at Deerpark.”

  “And rather rudely, I might add.”

  “But how can you physically be here. How did you get across the Channel and through Mosul territory?”

  Harriet Lime replied as though the answer was obvious. “The Black Airship.”

  Cordelia didn’t want to even speculate what the Black Airship might be. Instead, she half rose. “So am I rescued? Can you get me out of here? I need to get back to the others.”

  Harriet Lime gestured for her to sit. “You are perfectly safe here. The Falconettis and I have an understanding. All you have to do is relax and wait. The others are coming to you.”

  ARGO

  “Cordelia is in Paris and being held by Il Syndicato?”

  “Unless what I went through was some bizarre hallucination.”

  “It makes no sense.”

  Windermere held up a hand.
“In some respects, she’s safer there than she might be here.”

  Raphael’s expression was grim. “The fact that she’s there clearly proves she wasn’t being protected here.”

  Jesamine agreed. “And the same goes for the rest of us. There’s been all this talk about security, and we’ve seen all these shows of force like the gun crew on the back of the damned train, but Jack is dead, Cordelia is in the hands of Frankish gangsters, and no one else seems to know or care what happens to the rest of us. We’re stranded in Norse jurisdiction, and we don’t have a clue what to do about it. If it wasn’t for Cordelia, I’d say we should get on board the Constellation or any other ship bound for the Americas, and get the fuck back to Albany.”

  Raphael and Jesamine were ganging up on Windermere, and Argo was more than content to let it happen. The only problem was that, in their anger and confusion, they weren’t listening to what Windermere had to say, and leaving him to ask the relevant questions. “What do you mean she may be safer there than she is here?”

  This at least stopped them temporarily, and gave Windermere a chance to answer. “I think we’re all agreed that the greatest threat to Cordelia, and the rest of you, is Jeakqual-Ahrach. Apart from a small handful of people, some of whom are in this room, the Norse have hardly heard about Jeakqual-Ahrach, and those who have hardly see her as a threat.”

  The room in question was a small sitting room on the ground floor of Deerpark, and in addition to Argo, Jesamine, Raphael, and Windermere, Anastasia de Wynter and a woman called Hortense made up the small private meeting that now followed the ritual. Argo could feel the anger that was building inside Raphael and Jesamine, if for no other reason than it completely matched his own. The greatest frustration was that, with Cordelia missing, they could no longer function as The Four, and they were all starting to see themselves as nothing more than moving targets. These perceptions were closely rivaled, however, by the strong sense that they were at the mercy of a Norse bureaucracy that had already allowed Jack Kennedy to be shot to death, and had little idea of the game that was being played, let alone the stakes that might be involved. Argo knew that it was hardly fair for them to be venting their discontent on Gideon Windermere, but he was, unfortunately, the only representative of the Norse security machine they had to hand. Argo was quite surprised at how calm the man remained as he attempted to explain the background of the latest developments.