by John Meaney
Trapped.
But Donal was in the place he was supposed to be, and he was very tired. He looked around for light switches, seeing nothing appropriate.
Shit. How did he work the damned lights?
Is it always like this in a foreign country?
Tiny flames flickered in the bedside lamp, but there were no knobs, switches, or buttons. After a moment, Donal took a guess and snapped his fingers, feeling foolish.
Every light in the room switched off.
Donal stripped and got into bed. He lay down, and slid into . . .
Do you feel the—Yes, they're everywhere.
. . . sleep.
Soft beeping and moans and twittering sounded from monitor sprites hovering above the patients. Harald held Sushana's hand while she slept. The IV tube into her arm delivered the narcotic coma she needed to kill the pain and allow her body to heal—of external wounds, at least.
A pool of light surrounded the bed; beyond it, curtained-off beds remained in darkness while their occupants slept and, for the most part, crept their way toward death.
Then Alexa came walking down the aisle between the beds, re-pocketing her golden detective shield that she'd had to flash to be allowed inside. Visiting hours were long over, and Sushana was a colleague rather than a relative.
But it was Harald that Alexa had come to see.
“What is it?” Harald appeared surprised, then stone-faced, clamping down on his expression. “Has something happened?”
“Is that what you're expecting?” Alexa remained standing, having few other psychological advantages over an ex-marine with so many years' experience. “That something bad might have happened?”
“What do you mean?”
“Maybe something bad in Illurium? To Donal Riordan?”
Harald spread his hands. “Hush . . . I don't know what you're talking about, but this is a Serious Cases Ward, where—”
“Donal Riordan is spying on Commissioner Vilnar for us. For Laura. I wonder if you're aware of that.”
“No.”
“And Xalia's hurt too. Someone's doing the Black Circle's work for them. Perhaps there's something you're not telling us, Harald. Something you've never told Sushana as you betrayed us all.”
Even deep in a narcotic coma, Sushana groaned and moved her head from side to side before lapsing into stillness. There was a frown on her battered, swollen features. Her eyes remained closed.
“You can't think”—Harald was on his feet now, as though there had been no act of standing up but an instantaneous change in position—“that I'm a traitor. Look at what they've done to . . .” He gestured toward Sushana in her bed.
“Just as I can't think Donal's a traitor,” said Alexa, her voice low but fierce, “when he's risked so much and suffered so much for us. Who the fuck d'you think got us Vilnar's phone number in the first place?”
“What?”
“If Donal hadn't brought in Kyushen Jyu, the person Donal met when he was in the hospital thanks to the Black Circle . . . And Donal was the one who talked to Feoragh Carryn, remember? Both evidence trails come from Donal's work.”
“I don't—” Harald was frowning now. He turned to stare at Sushana's battered face. “No. I can't have made that mistake.”
“Perhaps you need to think more deeply.”
Harald's jaw muscles clenched. “Thanatos.”
“I saw a chapel to the Sacred Thanatos downstairs. You want to go and pray for a minute, Harald? And think about what you're doing?”
Alexa knew she was taking a risk. This was an accusation of criminal activity, and if she made it official and Harald was convicted—interesting things happened to cops who went to jail.
And it had to be obvious from the way Alexa was speaking that she'd told no one else what she suspected. “Harald?”
Perhaps she should have been more open with Laura.
“Yes,” Harald said, surprising Alexa. “I think I'll do that.”
“You'll—”
“Go into the chapel to pray.”
Then he slipped past Alexa with silent footsteps and padded out of the ward like a ghost. She stood there, confused, not knowing what to do.
Barefoot on the deep soft carpet, Donal used the luxurious bathroom first, then made his way to the nearest window and peeked out. The sky was still black, with scarlet meteors streaking past.
So beautiful.
Gardeners were working down on the lawn. A handyman was raking the gravel of the huge drive.
According to an ornate clock sitting on a baroque table, the time was after eleven o'clock. Late morning, and Donal had felt no need to rise earlier.
He wondered if Don Mentrassore worked from home or whether he would be elsewhere by now, doing whatever it was he did for a living. Or perhaps all he needed to do was count his money and spend it.
Donal realized that he had little idea how really wealthy folk lived their lives.
He went back to the bathroom, filled a glass from the faucet, and drank. Then he limbered up and worked his calisthenics and shadowboxing, feeling the exercise come easier and with a new sense of fiery joy.
Everything was falling into place. He'd felt that way since the . . .
Can you feel the bones?
It doesn't matter.
. . . witch on the plane had given him the amulet, the one he wore even now.
Donal stopped halfway through a five-punch combination. An amulet for luck? A charm that let him move through life taking serendipity for granted?
At the orphanage he'd learned to make his own luck. Yet Sister Mary-Anne used to say that a boy with the right frame of mind would create luckiness purely by being aware of opportunities, by having the fearlessness to follow them.
So . . . He was in a mansion owned by a rich ally, all set to help. He had a name to hunt down: Councillor Gelbthorne. That was the name Feoragh had retrieved from the Lattice.
Perhaps it was time Donal Riordan allowed good luck to enter his life.
Laura. I wish you were here.
Dressed in a clean shirt and the same suit, Donal went looking for breakfast. He'd tried wearing the amulet outside his shirt, but it made him look like a lower-southside pimp, so he tucked the thing out of sight.
“Mr. Riordan.” It was a familiar snooty voice.
“Hix. Good morning.”
“If you'd care to dine, perhaps the kitchen could help. They're preparing the don's luncheon.”
“Which way is the kitchen?”
“Along that corridor.” Hix pointed downstairs. “Then turn left and it's the second door on the right.”
“Got it. Hang loose, Hix.”
Donal gave a sunny smile. He felt good and, whether you were stone-faced or smiling, you never let other people break your composure.
Hix sniffed and turned to polish an antique shield that hung on the wall. A short sword was slung diagonally across it. Donal had seen cheap imitations, but this one probably would have been at home in a museum.
Whistling an old dance tune, Donal followed Hix's directions and poked his head inside the kitchen. It was red-tiled and copper-faced and looked like a chef's dream.
“Hey, guys,” Donal said to the four cooks. “Any chance of some breakfast?”
“No problem. Sit down.” One of the men pointed to a wooden table off to one side. “What d'you want? Sausage, omelet? What?”
“An omelet sounds great,” said Donal. “Any kind you like yourself.”
It felt good to let someone else do the cooking, like being in a restaurant that magically expected no payment. For a short while Donal could imagine this was a vacation, which up until recently he would have been happy to experience alone. Now he was missing Laura.
There was strong dark coffee already made, and Donal sipped it until the omelet arrived, replete with blue peppers and strange orange mushrooms and melted blue-green cheese on top, served with two fat slices of buttered toast. Donal dug in, while the cooks continued preparing lunch.
“That was absolutely fantastic,” Donal said shortly.
“You haven't cleared the plate.”
“I'm full, but that was the best I've ever tasted.”
“Thank you.” The cook was mollified. “Our pleasure.”
Donal waved a hand at the cooking pots, from which enticing smells rose. “How many guests does the don have for lunch?”
“Just three,” said another. “Bigwigs from the north.”
Refilling his coffee cup from the pot, Donal said, “I wonder when the don will be able to see me.”
As if someone had been listening in, a figure entered the kitchen, a shaved-headed man in a butler's suit. One of Hix's juniors, Donal supposed.
“The don invites you to see him now,” the butler said, “in the Red Library. If you'd like to follow me . . .”
“I'm right with you.”
Donal was still in a good mood.
He wondered what would happen if he took off the amulet.
At the same time, Alexa and Viktor were in the underground parking garage of the hospital, interviewing one of the nurses coming back on shift. They'd already talked to the family of a terminally ill patient who'd spent the whole night conducting a vigil in the hospital chapel.
The family agreed that a man answering Harald's description had spent some time in there, in trance if not in prayer. Then the man had stood up and muttered, “Fuck it,” before looking at the sacred relics and adding, “Sorry.”
He'd rushed out of the chapel, and the one place Alexa was certain that Harald hadn't gone was back to Sushana's bedside in the ward. Alexa knew that because she'd waited there for over an hour, until it was obvious that Harald had disappeared.
“That's right,” said the nurse now, talking to Viktor. “A bone motorcycle, a Phantasm IV. I had a boyfriend who was into motorcycles, and he said—Well, they're powerful beasts, and I noticed that one, all right?”
“And that's the thing this guy”—Viktor held up a snapshot of Harald—“was riding?”
“Yeah, he came running down the stairs.” The nurse pointed at a door in the concrete wall. “From there. He leaped on the Phantasm, which I swear started up before he touched it, and it sped out of here faster than you can imagine.”
“You're positive?” said Alexa.
“Oh, yes. It was him. Did he do something?”
“No.” Alexa's reply was automatic.
“At least not yet,” muttered Viktor.
If you were going to call yourself a don, you had to dress the part, or so Donal supposed. The man who rose from the chair was dressed in a pearl-gray suit and white lace-edged shirt, with a silver cravat pinned in place. The pin sported a large blue diamond.
As for the man, he was thin and his complexion was tanned, and his gray goatee was elegant. In overall impression, in visual shorthand, he resembled the dead Malfax Cortindo, but his aura was very different.
“You're Don Mentrassore.” Donal held out his hand.
“And you're Lieutenant Riordan.” They shook hands. “If you don't mind sitting in hard chairs like this, take a seat.”
“Thanks.”
“Can I get you a coffee?”
“I just drank a pot of the stuff in the kitchen, with the cooks.”
“Ah.” The don smiled. “You know they eat better than I or my official visitors do. I think they deserve it.”
“Harald sends his regards.”
“And how is he doing, Lieutenant?”
“Marvelous. As for you, I don't need to ask.” Donal gestured at the reddish shelves filled with books that were predominantly bound in scarlet leather. “This place is magnificent.”
“When you say that, you sound as if you mean it.”
“Ha.” Donal peered at some of the book titles. There were philosophical texts he'd vaguely heard of and never attempted to read. “You could say that.”
Don Mentrassore looked at his wristwatch. Donal had half-expected a watch on a chain, but this looked up to date and superlatively expensive. “I'll get rid of my lunch guests as fast as possible, and I'll clear the evening to do whatever I can to help.”
“Thanks. There's an opera being performed soon, with these famous triplets, whatever they're called . . .”
“The Tringulians. You can't mean anybody else.”
“Right. Them. Any chance of us getting tickets?”
“To which performance?” The don leaned back and crossed his legs. “I expect you're thinking of the premiere.”
“And the following nights, too, if possible.”
“Every night? Whatever for?”
Donal looked at him.
“To repay your debt, I guess you'd say.”
“Ah, Lieutenant. You haven't met my daughter, Rasha. She's overseas and a brilliant scholar now, but a few short years back . . .I would pay what you're asking a hundred times over, and it would be little recompense for what Harald gave me. He gave me back my daughter.”
“I see.”
“And I have a box at the theater, a season-by-season arrangement, though I don't attend often enough myself. We will do this, Lieutenant.”
“Thank you, Don Mentrassore.”
“As for my business meeting, which we pretend to call a lunch, though I suspect my fellow diners will have little appetite, since they have so much money at stake in our dealings . . .”
“I'll leave you to it.”
“If you like, Lieutenant. But I was going to add that they're in the energy business, and so am I, and a little bird told me that there's a connection between the Tristopolitan Energy Authority and the people you're after. At least I think I understood that correctly.”
“It's a possibility,” said Donal, unwilling to give up information.
“And I'm wondering if there could be a connection with our own Power Centers. Not that I've spotted anything certain, and I am a major stakeholder. Well, eight percent, but that's the second-largest individual holding in the corporation.”
“I don't understand.”
“If I could get you a visitor's pass into the main Power Center, with authority to access Records . . . would that be a help to you? And I'll see about the opera, of course. If my assistants have rented out my box to someone else, I'll override the agreements.”
“Thank you.”
There was a name that Donal wanted to ask about: Councillor Gelbthorne. But everything that Don Mentrassore had said so far could be flimflam, and giving out the name of a suspect was not the best way to conduct an investigation. Donal would try roundabout means to investigate the councillor first, before asking for specific help.
“My driver will take you there,” said the don. “Let me make some calls, and Rix will fetch you when it's arranged. I'll make sure you're back in time for the opera. And you have something suitable to wear?”
“Um. . .” Donal plucked at his suit jacket.
“Never mind. I'll get one of the housewraiths to take your measurements.” The don picked a small bell from a table and shook it. If there was a ring, it was inaudible to human ears, but a bluish wraith appeared fast, rising up through the floor. “Flisswell, measure up this gentleman for a suit of clothes.”
There was a blur like smoke, the momentary sensation of damp fingertips across skin, and then the wraith was gone.
“Was that it?” Donal asked.
“Oh, yes. All done. The tailors will already be getting to work.”
“Then I'll go and wait. I don't suppose I could borrow a book to read?”
“My dear man.” The don stood up. “My lunch will be ready soon, and I need to greet my guests. You can stay in here for as long as you like and read anything you like. Use that other bell there, the black one”—he pointed—“to summon one of the butlers. Or if you want to leave to go back to your bedroom or whatever, you can just go. Things are perfectly secure. No need to lock doors or anything.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
The don nodded and walked out of the library. But Donal was alr
eady at the shelves, running his fingers across the spines of the grand old books, spellbound by the choice available to him.
It was three hours later when a knock on the library door dragged Donal out of his reading. He looked up, realized someone was waiting for permission to enter, and called, “Come on in.”
The man who opened the door was dressed in a dark suit like last night but without the cap. “Afternoon, sir.”
“I told you to call me—”
“Donal, all right. I'm Rix, you might remember.”
“I do remember, and I've met your cousin Hix.”
“Yeah, sorry about that.” Rix gave a wry grin. “He's a real old charmer, isn't he? If only we could extract the poker running parallel to his spine.”
“I'm sure he's a wonderful human being.”
“Ha.” Rix clapped his hands together. “So, ready for another adventure? The don's got your scenic drive all mapped out, with a ride to the Power Center, right?”
“That was the arrangement.”
“Your pass will be waiting for you,” said Rix. “All officially arranged. Shall I bring the car 'round front in ten minutes?”
Donal closed the volume of the Encyclopedia Yelbinica that he'd been reading, with its discussion of nonlinear hexodynamics that seemed to contradict what Sister Mary-Anne Styx had taught in the orphanage. His head was whirling.
“Ten minutes, right,” Donal said. “That would be perfect.”
It would give him time to grab a coffee from the kitchen, pop into the bathroom, and check his stolen handgun once again: a reasonable precaution with a weapon that he had never fired for real. The Power Center was near the docks, or at least that was what Rix told Donal. What that meant was, they were headed for the edge of Silvex City, where tethered airships floated impatiently at the docking pillars. They waited to be gone, to hitch on to laminar flow currents, the steady winds that blew horizontally between the stacked Glass Planes.
* * *
Rix stopped the car for a while so that Donal could watch.
“How do they get back?” he said.
Rix pointed to an airship rising from a great circular gap in the glass surface. “The wind flows in different directions between the various layers. It's a weird system, I suppose, but everyone is used to it.”
