Selling Out

by Justina Robson

  There was a sound like a big, indrawn breath, and then the spatter of many items falling onto the stone dais around them. Lila’s diamond net shield became soft as gossamer and began to float like dandelion fluff over her. A small motor hummed and reeled it back in, ready for a second cast.

  A thousand flashbulbs went off from all over the room and there was a sudden great thunder of clapping and hooting. Lila, rooted, ready to defend her life, realised she was being applauded.

  What a charming image, you the great heroic defender, the beautiful girl at your feet, Tath said witheringly, not without a trace of envy.

  I’m the girl, Lila objected.

  “Ow,” Sorcha said, sprawling even more prettily beneath Lila’s titanic stance. She smiled and posed for the shots with relish, scattering some of the poisoned darts, arrows, bullets, jewellery, bones, charms, and pieces of underwear that lay everywhere as she writhed obligingly. “Ow, ow, ow . . .”

  Disgusting.

  Lila thought she detected a trace of some other feeling in Tath but he withdrew completely before she got the scent of it. The music picked up again. Grey shadows came to pick over and clean up the dead press imp. Conversation resumed, all the words not meant for her ears—and that was almost all of them—sounding like yet more voices joining in the accompaniment of the songs as if the speakers were singers in a massed yet unconducted choir. Gradually attention was slowly withdrawn in a graceful way, though many glances were thrown back in their direction. Slowly Sorcha wriggled her way up to all fours and moved around, picking up items here and there. When she finally stood she presented two handfuls to Lila.

  One was of little scrolls. “Duel challenges.” The other was a collection of bones tied around with what looked like hair. “Marriage proposals.”

  Lila put her gun away.

  “Keep it up,” Sorcha murmured. “Looking good.”

  Lila left the gun where it was but remained in defensive mode. If it kept this incredible mass of interesting, fixated, obsessive creatures away from her then it could stay. Sorcha gave her the handfuls of tokens. “What do I do with them?”

  “Who cares?” Sorcha tossed her head of flame and smiled daz zlingly at a tall green demon in half a tuxedo who had come up the stairs and offered her his hand. “Let’s dance.”

  “Sorcha . . .” Lila began in protest but her guide was already descending the stairs.

  “Mind the way!” said a voice behind her as a demon of beautiful yellow cheetah shape and with butterfly wings came forwards, the announcer calling names . . .

  Lila wanted to step aside and give way but she knew that if she did all her grand entrance and show would count for nothing, worse than nothing. She shook her head and gave the cheetah a shove backwards, employing the AI systems to do her calm walking for her. Inside she was terrified, not knowing what she was going to do when she reached the bottom of the staircase. What had that announcer called her? Friendslayer? Her breath was short. She hoped her fear didn’t show on her face, or come out in her smell or whatever they could pick up.

  They like titles, Tath said. Especially true ones. They love names.

  She looked around for the one or two faces she might know—Sorcha, who was disconcertingly far away in the crowd now, showing every sign of being courted by at least half a dozen individuals . . . and Teazle. Surely if he had invited her then he should be here to say something to her? But the last stair came and there was no sign of his blue, feathery being. She saw someone who looked like him but they had no horns . . .

  The mass of demons parted gently as she arrived to let her pass. She kept walking because she had no concept of where to go or what to do. As she moved she heard distinct whispers rise from the musical throng . . . friends of the family wished her a lingering and painful death . . . curses of weakness . . . pleas for favour . . . anonymous bursts of admiration . . . explicit invitations for sex, for hunts, for adventure, for art, for dinner . . . It reminded her suddenly of the moment she had stood before the elf lady’s court in Alfheim and the unspoken yet clear outpouring of their scorn, contempt, and hatred. The difference was that here, even the ones whose heartfelt desire was to see her head in a trophy cabinet had no trace of loathing in them. They gave her their ill will with absolute respect. And the ones who liked her . . . their adoration was boundless. It was clear that none of them had an ounce of pity for her.

  She found a strange smile shaping her mouth and felt herself growing taller, though there was no more cyborg power to lift her higher.

  Junkie, Tath whispered.

  Jealous, she retorted.

  Magic foamed softly around the table like the flow of bubbles in a hot bath. She watched people dip their hands into it and then it seemed to lead them, like a hand holding theirs. Many of them did it, with no more thought than they gave to picking up a drink or a canapé.

  Moving closer to the table Lila pretended to cast a glance over it though she had long since learned never to look the food in the eye. As if she knew what it was for she dipped her hand and felt the foam tug.

  That’s right. Rush in, Tath snarled. Magic you don’t know, just touch it . . .

  If you haven’t got constructive criticism . . . But then Lila saw where they were going and wished she hadn’t.

  The magical froth drew her gently but inexorably towards a gentle alcove lit by torchbowls of burning liquid with a throne at their centre. Carved with many creatures and the sigils of the Sikarzi house—a snake and a unicorn—it was filled by the tall and slender female form of a turquoise and golden Medusoid. Those heading to this seat were each in turn giving gifts to this person and generally doing things that looked to Lila very much like saying thank you to the party hostess.

  I need a gift, she said to Tath in desperation, then realising her position . . . I need an army . . .

  Show no fear, he said with sudden conviction. And no shame. This is their world now.

  Lila began to switch on the emotional shunt.

  No. They will sense that. They read feelings. It is one of their arts. You have to do it for real. The world runs on that here. Whatever stupidity they are about it must be sincere or it counts for nothing.

  I can’t do this! The queue to pay respects was rapidly dwindling and now the Medusa had seen her and Lila could feel her attention as if it were a searchlight in a world of darkness. Even if they think it’s trivial . . .

  They do not. I assure you.

  Not helping!

  Be true. Be strong.

  Lila searched for Sorcha, but she was far away. Her turn arrived. The demon before her swept graciously aside in a swirl of fur and beads. Lila stood before her victim’s mother clad in blood. She was as lost as she had ever been. Her life hinged on not screwing up. She thought of Zal. She imagined what Zal would do.

  The Principessa Sikarzi stared at her with her yellow snake eyes, her beautiful woman’s face as cold and expressionless as though it was carved by a perfectionist’s hand. Her hair was made of golden vipers and all of them coiled, staring at her, their orange tongues flickering. All the warmth and enjoyment had left the demon. She was focused on Lila as though there were nothing else in the universe. The long reaches of her tail that had flicked and quivered in conversation froze. Lila felt the time given to her ticking away, leaking away . . .

  Lila stared back. She channelled Zal in her imagination for all she was worth, trying to feel her way into his effortless self-confidence, his swagger . . . keenly aware that as Lila Black she wasn’t able to contemplate murdering someone’s son, but that as Zal she could do anything it took . . .

  She swept a deep bow, eyes closed, arms wide, showing respect, but she was fast out of it and up to her full height. Did the eyes narrow against her? She wasn’t sure. There was a kind of quiet around her as the others all watched. Without hesitation, arm animated by the sure responses of Zal instead of the hesitating doubts of Lila, she reached up to the shoulder of her flimsy dress and tore. She intended to rip off only a bit but t
he whole thing came away in her hand leaving her naked except for gore and her knickers. She dropped the dress in the Principessa’s lap.

  “Close,” she said to the waiting yellow eyes. “But no cigar,” and turned without a word, letting all her defence systems deactivate as she walked.

  Her bare skin burned as she waited for the assault that was certain to happen. She reached the main room in a blur of terror which must have looked like haughty pride, and cast about desperately for anything familiar.

  “That was nice,” said a voice from behind her.

  She turned but nobody was there. Then the dragonman statue close to the wall opened its eyes and cocked its head, looking at her with a gentle smile on its long, crocodilian mouth.

  “Respect for the family, a very respectful present seeing as it’s the only bit of him she’ll ever get back, and then a show of strength at the end. Why, you might have lived here all your life.”

  “Teazle?” Lila said, watching as the large statue—white as snow, winged, muscled, and disconcertingly naked—shrank in size, peeled itself away from the wall pedestal it had been sitting on, and slowly moved forwards onto all fours. His long neck let him look up easily at her even when he was down, his shoulders no higher than her hip.

  “I said it before and I say it again,” Teazle said. “Nice breasts.” He flicked his wings against his back.

  “It’s you, isn’t it?” Lila said, feeling heat radiate from Teazle’s lithe body as he stood beside her like a big dog. “You’re the assassin they talk about.”

  “Now that I’m with you nobody else here will take a pot shot at you,” he said. “Burn those daft duelling notices as well. Anyone who touches you answers to me. Including that elf of yours if he gets here unwisely. Fancy a drink? I’m parched.” He padded off towards the main table and then waited for her to catch up with him. The feathered tip of his tail swung like a leopard’s, soft and heavy.

  “What?” Lila followed, feeling strangely comforted by . . .

  Oh, please, Tath said. Not the glow of attraction. Even you can’t be so stupid as to . . .

  Lila ignored Tath. “We are not friends,” she said as she caught up with Teazle who had gone bipedal at the table in order to fill two cups at a fountain of some kind of wine.

  He handed her a dripping glass and threw all of his drink back into his long mouth with an easy gesture before flinging the cup away into the crowd. “Really? That’s a pity. I was under the impression you wanted to find out what road your elf lover took in order to become one of us. But if you’re sure you don’t want my help . . .”

  Lila gave the demon a long, hard look and for the first time since she had entered Demonia felt the solidity of a big conviction growing inside her. “Okay,” she said, putting the drink down and setting her hands on her hips. “I know you like playing Games just like the elves . . .”

  Teazle made a face at this but listened, his soft, cowlike ears tipping her way.

  “. . . but I’m done with all this operatic charade stuff . . .”

  She was aware of the missile at the same moment as Teazle. The arrow in flight was so fast it tripped her sensors and cued her to duck even though she couldn’t see anything. In contrast to her defensive move the white demon leapt up into the air with a single spring of his narrow, powerful legs. He opened out one wing and rolled as he jumped higher than the height her head had been at. The arrow hit where feathers gave way to skin and punctured straight through the tough web and flesh. Stripped of velocity it fell on Lila’s shoulder harmlessly as Teazle’s long arms and legs reached out towards the downshaft of a stalactite and took hold of the thick rocky substance of it. He pushed off from it in a huge leap across the table, wings opening, and skimmed across the heads of the crowd and the table itself, knocking over an ice sculpture of a fey princess. The ice form crashed down onto the splendour, splattering food over those nearest as Lila came up from her deep crouch, the arrow in her hand. It was slimy with faintly bluish blood. She was just in time to see Teazle kick vigorously off the heads of two partygoers, to shrieks of pain and protest, and loop his suddenly narrow and sinuous body up over the rail of a balcony close to the roof. He vanished with the speed of a rat into a tunnel. The half of the room that had watched his antics mostly shrugged and went back to their amusements. Lila looked after him and then down at the arrow in her hand.

  To her surprise it was carved with little sigils she recognised as elven. Her AI scanned them and informed her it was simply a phonetic version of her own name. She looked back up to the balcony—why would he make a saving move like that? She had no doubt where he’d gone: after the shooter. Well, she’d had more than enough parties to last a lifetime. She kept a hold on the arrow and took a couple of steps backwards then in one big stride hurdled the table before her and kicked straight up off the floor in a jump taking almost all her power. It launched her up to the balcony in an arc that let her catch the rail in both hands and use her arms to lift her up and over, hands right and feet left. Then there was a narrow dark corridor full of people but they were mostly standing aside from Teazle’s forced passage, some of them lying flat where he’d left them. She followed the trail of bodies, complaints, and turned surprised faces all the way up and up a long set of halls until they ended at a large opening with free night beyond.

  This was the landing platform. As she left the structure of the mountain in which they had been entertained she saw the whole of Bathshebat spread out before her, far below. Its glittering lights and splendour shone off the water, and silhouetted against it were the huge, slow-moving shapes of various dirigibles and their balloons which had been parked here. The snort and scrape of living creatures betrayed a stables far off to her right. She heard some kind of babble and turned to see a humanoid demon in a uniform standing quite close to her in the relative darkness. She didn’t need any certificates in demon culture to know a parking jockey when she saw one. “Which way did they go?”

  The demon pointed out, towards the city. He vaguely mimed flapping, meaning they had flown, and shrugged because clearly she wouldn’t be able to follow. Lila made the edge of the deck at a dead run and launched herself, arms wide, into the cold embrace of the night wind coming off the sea. Vanes opened from the lower section of her arms and at her hip. Her sensor arrays picked her target out easily against the dark background. The rocket systems in her feet ignited.

  It was just incredibly cold.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Malachi left Zal in his suite and went out the easy way, through the open French windows and over the railings. He floated down to the ground slowly, thinking all the way and looking out over the city grid to check the traffic. Zal made him very uneasy. He had strange energy—not surprisingly perhaps—and the added factor of what was not a simple addiction complicated an already complicated person. Top him off with his personal problems, whatever was lingering in Alfheim to torment him, and the constant nagging from the record label and he figured Zal was about as reliable as a monkey-pookah. Whatever he said for the Hoodoo would stand, but Malachi wasn’t convinced that Zal wasn’t some kind of adept . . . who knew what he was able to do? He had the cojones to drown the doll so he was either hiding a talent for sorcery or he was already taking the kind of risks Malachi so hoped he would avoid until Lila’s return from Demonia.

  Malachi landed and walked onto the pavement. Even that small use of magic in this fundamentally magic-impoverished world had tired his wings out. Much to his disgust nobody commented on it. There were enough faeries around now that they were barely worth a second look. Malachi smoothed his jacket and adjusted the way it sat on his shoulders. Mention of the Others made him nervous. He had even begun to perspire.

  He recovered his car and reviewed the list of suspects that had been trawled up after a forensics sweep of the old clunker Lila had found near Zal’s recording studios several days before. They didn’t match up with the unidentified fey driving the tankers that had successfully primed Zal’s kidnapping an
d Malachi didn’t recognise those drivers either. Given the talents for glamour in his world he didn’t hold out any hopes from a photograph and the vehicles themselves had been burned out comprehensively, leaving nothing behind to use as a tip. The suspect list on the listening devices did include names he knew however. But his mind stubbornly refused to focus to the degree necessary to divine their whereabouts so he could go spy on them. He kept thinking about the way Lila had rushed off to Demonia like it was some kind of escape chute, barely enough time to grab her updates and the pretence of a cover story about being an ambassador and off she went. He would have bet his entire wages on her not having read most of the Demonia material. In her references from her diplomatic job they mentioned how diligent she was, what attention to detail she always paid . . . Malachi didn’t recognise her from the descriptions. She sent his fey senses twitching with alarm signals that told him here was a person who did not deal with matters they found painful but had learned to sweep them under the carpet and the carpet would soon be big enough no more.

  Such information was always of use to a faery of his situation, for whom sifting through the trash for truth was an essential preoccupation, an obsession, an unscratchable itch of curiosity that knew no fear or boundary. Many humans were like Lila in this way, but none of them happened to go around equipped with high-technology weapons on matters of interdimensional sensitivity. Upon this point he was in complete agreement with Lila’s psychologist, Dr. Williams. But the doctor, himself, and Lila’s mentor were no match for the determination of the agency and its addiction to speedy actions. For that to change there would have to be a spectacular disaster and thanks to luck and poor judgement on many parts the last opportunity for spectacular disaster had been averted. The elf insurgents seeking to divorce themselves from a dangerous continuum had been thwarted, Zal had been rescued, and all unpleasant matters that might have resulted had been forgotten as the elves commenced their largest ever civil war; a conflict that was waged across lines of class, species, heredity, magic, and almost any other parameter of power one could name so that even meticulous spies such as the Faery Fee could barely keep track of who was doing what to whom and why. Malachi was much less interested in the elven war than he was with Lila’s carpet however.