by John Meaney
Would they flense the bones? Or was that a pleasure reserved for Gelbthorne himself, with Finross perhaps assisting?
I am the music.
Exits—Donal remembered a fire-alarm button in the corridor outside. The memory offered itself up to him now.
So flow.
He vaulted backward over his seat, brushing aside Don Mentrassore's grasp—the don was now under Gelbthorne's influence—took three long steps out into the corridor, and hammered the red triangular button with the bottom of his fist.
A klaxon howled.
Overhead nozzles sprayed water down from the ceiling. Further down the corridor was a hose cabinet, with a sand bucket and a fire ax. Donal grabbed the ax and went back into the box.
Water was spraying downward in the auditorium, the performers suddenly came to a halt, and the orchestra sound fell apart in discord. Those audience members who'd been mesmerized were jolted out of the trance.
A woman screamed, starting the panic.
“Fire!”
Across the gap, just for a second, Councillor Gelbthorne's gaze locked on Donal's. Gelbthorne concentrated, willing Donal to drop into a trance.
“Fuck off,” said Donal.
The don reached for him from behind, but Donal slammed his elbow back into the don's face, blood spattering as his nose broke, and then Donal was spinning out of the box, ax in hand as he ran into the corridor.
He sprinted, pouring on the speed. Gelbthorne was not going to get away.
I am the music.
But people, panicking, were filling the halls and corridors.
Donal reached the door that led to the stage. It was opening slowly from the other side. Donal grabbed the knob and ripped it open fast, then slid past the stumbling man he'd surprised.
Keeping hold of the ax, Donal ran backstage. With pandemonium among the audience, this was the quickest way to Gelbthorne's box.
And Finross. He shouldn't forget Alderman Finross.
Threading his way among performers and stagehands, Donal reached the far side and looked out. A blocky figure in police uniform was there, directing three other officers to keep the frightened audience streaming out through the fire exit. One of the uniformed men looked familiar: it was Reilly, the officer who'd driven the car.
No sign of Gelbthorne.
But there was Temesin in his dark-blue coat, improbably smoking a cigarette, standing calm while water showered down and hundreds of civilians fled past him.
Donal decided to trust him.
He made his way through the pouring water to Temesin, and said, “He was up there. In that box. The mage who kicked off the spell . . . Must have backfired.”
“Yeah, right.” Temesin stared at the ax in Donal's hand for a second, then looked up. “That would be Councillor Gelbthorne. Had a visitor with him.”
“From Tristopolis. Alderman Kinley Finross.”
“Wonderful. Another politician. And what spell was that, by the way?”
The paramedics who'd been waiting were now in handcuffs. Five uniformed officers surrounded them.
“I suggest you—”
“Gelbthorne's disappeared, before you go on.”
“Does that mean you've had men outside trying to spot him?”
“Maybe.” Temesin took the sodden cigarette out of his mouth. He flicked it onto the wet carpet. “I'm not sure we have enough for a warrant.”
“An arrest warrant?” asked Donal. “Or a search warrant?”
“Either one.” Temesin squinted at Donal through the artificial torrent, which was not letting up. “Too bad.”
“Yeah . . .”
Donal looked back up at the box he'd been in. There was no sign of the don.
“You ever notice how things happen in twos or threes?”
Temesin jammed his hands in his pockets.
“What are you thinking of?”
“Just that if there was an emergency, like a fire or some such, in Councillor Gelbthorne's house, you'd have no hesitation in breaking in with your officers to bravely rescue the good man . . .wouldn't you say?”
“Maybe.” Temesin looked at Reilly, who was still ushering people out through the fire exit. “I take that back. Definitely.”
Something like this should take planning, but Donal knew that Alderman Finross was a coward who would be on the first flight back to Tristopolis, now that the attempted murder and bone-stealing had blown up in front of his eyes. Donal had to take him down tonight.
Two thousand children, breathing in time . . .
Perhaps it was the synchronized respiration of the audience, as they had begun to fall under Gelbthorne's spell, that reminded Donal of the captive children in the Power Center.
Or were they specially grown inside the Power Center from the time they were newborn? Donal wasn't sure he'd seen true awareness in their eyes. He wondered if using living beings was truly worse than using the bones of the dead.
Donal remembered his conversation in the Energy Authority complex, and Cortindo saying: “The conglomeration does not truly think or feel anything.”
“Not even pain?” Donal had asked.
“No. At least, that's what I'll tell anyone who asks me officially.”
Now he let out a breath.
“How is power delivered to the houses? Big houses.”
“Like Gelbthorne's? He's even got his own . . . generators, if you can call them that.”
“I've seen what your Power Centers are like.”
“Yeah. At least we bury them in peace when they die.”
“Shit.”
“Right. But subgenerators have long shafts linking them to the main centers, in case of power shortage and in case of accidents. Probably, if you knew someone with influence in the corporation, you could even get schematics of the system.”
The nozzles' spray was lessening to a light drizzle.
“If only I knew someone like that,” said Donal.
“Mmm.”
In his study, Judge Prior leaned back in his chair.
“Young lady,” he said to Laura. “I knew your father for many years, and I remember your every birthday party, you and the other toddlers—”
“Other rich folks' kids.”
“If you like. But I can't let you ask me to do this.”
“Please, Your Honor. This is important.”
“As is the order of justice. And propriety.” The judge removed his reading glasses and put the warrant aside. He rubbed his nose. “I'm sorry, Laura.”
Alexa took a step, thinking Laura was about to leave, then stopped.
“Excuse us a moment, Alexa.” Laura hefted a small object from her purse. “Can we talk in private, Your Honor?”
“Is that a privacy cone?” Judge Prior glanced at Alexa. “Well, my dear, if you like. But I'm not changing my—”
Laura activated the talisman's spell, and an inverted cone of silence rippled through the air as it slid into place, enclosing Judge Prior and Laura in a volume from which no sound could escape.
A transparent volume.
Watching carefully, Alexa held herself very still, hoping that both Laura and the judge would forget about her presence. She watched for perhaps two minutes.
Finally, the privacy field shriveled out of existence and Laura put the talismanic device back into her purse. She twisted the clasp shut. Then she waited as, hand shaking, Judge Prior undid the cap of his expensive fountain pen and slowly signed his name at the foot of the warrant.
“There,” he said. “You're satisfied now.”
“I am. Thank you, sir.” Laura picked up the warrant. “We'll see ourselves out.”
The judge watched Laura and Alexa until they reached the study door. Then: “You've changed, Laura Steele. You didn't use to be like this.”
“Yeah,” said Laura. “Death has a way of doing that.”
Outside, the Vixen's headlights sprang into full brightness as Laura and Alexa came down the steps. Neither woman said anything until they had climbed
into the car and it was rolling down the driveway.
When they were on the public road, Alexa sighed.
“I don't believe that.”
“We got the document,” said Laura. “What else matters? I hope your lip-reading is as good as ever.”
“Just about. Did your father really tell you that he'd bribed a judge? And Old Incorruptible Prior, at that?”
“Not exactly. Dad said it all right, just not to me. I was listening at the keyhole.”
“Oh.”
As the car drove on past the park—it looked dark and dangerous in the night—Alexa added, “What did you mean earlier, about being willing to sacrifice? The judge?”
“No. I'm the one who's made an enemy tonight.”
“Shit.”
“Do I look like someone who cares?”
Don Mentrassore, his nose covered in a green wormskin dressing and his manner furious—though not at Donal—did more than furnish the information. With Hix (not Rix) driving, the don accompanied Donal to the Power Center, where they bypassed the generation halls with their enslaved children.
Donal wondered whether he was right to be pursuing one man in the midst of this, before remembering the diva and what had happened to himself.
Uniformed technicians handed over a rolled-up purpleprint and a large flashlight.
“There're bogies,” said one of the men, “that can take you most of the way.”
Still dressed in his theater finery, the don nodded to Donal and said, “That's a little too adventurous for a man of my age. But I wish you luck, sir.”
“Yes, thanks.” Donal nodded, unable to warm to the man any more than that. He waved the purpleprint. “Appreciated.”
It was now around five hours since the don's driver had tried to kill Donal in this place. Perhaps later he would be able to blame Harald for that attempt, not the don.
“This way.”
Two technicians led him through a hatchway and down a metal ladder, to a narrow maintenance tunnel along which a single rail ran. There was a bogie as promised, a small flatbed atop two wheels side by side. Donal could not see how it stayed upright or how it was powered.
“Necromagnetic induction,” one of the techs said. “And, look, see up there?”
Donal looked. There was a glowing number in orange, 327, high up beside the hatchway.
“You keep on going,” the tech continued, “until you reach two hundred one, then get off and ascend the ladder, where the domicile tunnels—that's the tunnels to private homes—radiate outward. Ya gotta take number five, and it's the second house.”
“All right,” said Donal. “Two hundred one, five, second house.”
“And you'll want these.” The technician handed over heavy goggles. “It goes pretty fast.”
Donal pulled the goggles over his head, clambered onto the bogie, then sat cross-legged on the flatbed, thinking again of the cross-legged, mindless children sitting in rows not so far from here.
“What do I—”
A rectangular portion of the bed, next to Donal's right hand, began glowing a soft orange.
“Press that, keep pressing it . . .”
Donal pressed down and the bogie rolled into motion.
“. . . and keep pressing until you want to stop, then just let go.”
No one had to tell Donal that this was called a deadman switch.
Acceleration was building up, but something prevented him from falling off.
Good ride for kids.
If only the orphanage could see him now, ignoring the plight of hundreds, no, thousands of children. If Sister Mary-Anne Styx were here . . .
But already the tunnel had arced to the left and downward, and if Donal looked back there was no sign of the Power Center, only the plain walls and rows of safety lights streaming past.
I am the music.
With his left hand, he checked the gun at the small of his back once more.
In Tristopolis, Viktor was leading a group of R-H detectives up the short path to Commissioner Vilnar's blackstone residence. It was unfair of Laura, by Viktor's reckoning, to expect Robbery-Haunting to help out in the slightest way—forcing your way into a police commissioner's house didn't seem like the best method of enhancing anyone's career prospects.
At least, Viktor decided, he himself would do all the talking. Warrant in hand, he banged on the door. In maybe five seconds, it swung open. A scowling woman with a lined face stared at Viktor.
“What the bleeding Thanatos do you want at this hour?”
Viktor held up the warrant.
“Is the commissioner in, ma'am?”
“No, he's not. He went to the Death-damned office for something. You married, detective?”
“Uh, no, ma'am. Not exactly.”
“Well, do some poor woman a favor and think about whether she wants to be married to the entire damned department. And was that a search warrant I just read?”
“Yes, that's—”
“I don't know what's going on, but Arrhennius is going to be pretty pissed at you guys. You want some coffee?”
“Arrhennius?”
“You're busting into a man's home and you don't even know his first name?”
Viktor rubbed his face.
“Sorry, ma'am.”
“No, you're not. But I suspect you will be.”
At exactly the same moment, Laura and Alexa were leading another team of R-H officers, six of them, toward the elevator shafts. Gertie's wraith hand beckoned briefly before slipping back inside the entrance to her own.
The eight women and men looked at one another before stepping into the shafts in tandem. No information indicators showed on any of the elevator shafts.
They rose in silence and came out on the 187th floor, into a corridor ringed with alternating bands of icy cold and searing heat. Laura said nothing as they passed through the outer office.
Eyes was at her desk as always, her long black hair glistening with reflected highlights from the silver cables that linked her eye sockets, via the console, to the rooftop mirrors—to what was in effect the commissioner's private communication and surveillance network above the city streets.
Perhaps Eyes somehow knew about the warrant that Laura carried, because Alexa noticed her reach beneath her desk to press a button. The door to the inner offices slid open.
Then Alexa was following Laura into the commissioner's office, with the R-H officers behind them.
“What's gone wrong?” This was the commissioner himself, gesturing back the metal visitor's chair that was transforming itself into a hooked, talon-bristling monstrosity, ready to attack. “What is this?”
There were other defenses in here, many of them subtle and unexpected, down to the ashtray that could double as a percussion grenade.
“It's the Black Circle,” said Laura, holding out the warrant so that the commissioner would be unable to see his own name written there. “They've penetrated higher in the city apparatus than anyone suspected.”
“And you've got proof?” said the commissioner.
“Enough, we think.”
“Are you sure about that?” The commissioner's fists clenched. “Really sure?”
“Certain enough,” said Laura, “to get a judge's signature on this.”
The commissioner's squarish face split in a predatory smile.
“Then let's go and get her,” he said. “I've waited a long time for this.”
Laura froze, still holding out the warrant.
“What did you say?”
“I said—Well, what the Thanatos did you think I said? Are you deaf?”
“No, but—”
A crash reverberated through the office, a vibration that rippled the air—or perhaps just the eyeballs of everyone inside. They toppled to the floor and lay there. The warrant spilled across the floor, right next to the commissioner's blunt-fingered hand. He levered himself up to a seated position on the floor, staring at the paper.
Then he looked up at Laura.
After a long moment, Laura regained her voice.
“Sir?” Her certainty had slipped. “We have evidence from corroborated sources. We know the phone number you used to contact the . . .”
Laura's voice trailed off.
“What number?”
Alexa answered: “It was seven-seven-seven, two-nine, three-five-one, seven-two-zero. There's no doubt.”
The commissioner huffed as he struggled to his feet.
“Which'll be the phone on Marnie's desk.”
There was no doorway. The R-H officers had already crawled to the wall where the door had been. Two of them slipped deep into trances, trying to determine what hex enchantment had been wrought. One of their colleagues hammered his fist in frustration on the solid stonework.
“Who?” said Laura.
“Marnie, my secretary.”
“Oh, you mean Eyes,” said Alexa.
The commissioner's lips twitched.
“Yes, I mean Marnie Finross, the alderman's niece, whom I thought I was keeping under adequate surveillance, until you blew the whole thing wide open.”
Laura tried to focus on what was happening. Commissioner Vilnar was tough but slippery when it came to confrontations: everyone knew that.
“Nice try, Commissioner. But hasty lies won't cover up the evidence.”
“No, but impetuous actions will certainly mean Marnie gets away, don't you think?”
Laura opened her mouth to reply, but one of the R-H officers said, “He's telling the truth, ma'am.”
“And you are . . .”
“Petra Halsted. They said I should help out.”
“Laura, I've heard of her.” Alexa's tone was quiet. “She's a truthsayer. Notified before federal spellbinders.”
“Shit.”
The commissioner cleared his throat.
“Recrimination is for idiots,” he said. “Why don't we see if we can get ourselves out of this Death-damned mess?”
Donal had his gun out now, walking crouched along the narrow access tunnel. Back in the main tunnel, the wraith-enabled bogie had moved away from Donal as soon as he'd stepped off. There was no means of fast escape.
As far as he could tell, all the narrow branching tunnels led to the subterranean levels of the great houses; none led directly to the open ground. That would have been a security risk.
