I crouch down to help her pick up her things. She pushes my hands away.
‘I can manage,’ she says.
‘You don’t need to leave, I’ll – you can stay here.’
‘You’ll leave me in your parents’ house? Where everything will just remind me of you?’ She bends down, grabs the clothes and shoves them back into her bag.
‘We can work this out. I can do better. No more lies.’
Lissa scowls, her lips move as though to frame some sarcastic response and then she seems to think better of it. ‘I need time to think.’
‘But I –’
‘And you have a Death Moot to run. Don’t let me get in the way of that.’
Why didn’t I tell her about Suzanne? What stopped me from mentioning it? I have no excuse, or I have far too many.
‘Lissa, I was set up. I’m sure of it. She wanted you to walk in.’ Even to my ears that sounds far too desperate.
‘So I could see you kissing her?’
‘Yes! This won’t happen again … Christ, it didn’t happen the first time.’
‘Really?’ Lissa throws up her hands. ‘Yeah, I’ve seen how it didn’t happen. Don’t you see? I’ve watched all this play out before.’ Lissa picks up her bag. ‘I can’t be this person. Not with you. Mum and Dad, they had their problems, and I swore I would never be like that. And I won’t.’
‘But –’ I reach out towards her. She steps away from me, throws her bag over her shoulder. ‘I’ll come back for the rest later.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘Somewhere. Anywhere but here. And don’t send any of your bloody Avians after me.’ She walks back down the hall, and I follow her to the front door.
‘This could have been so good,’ she says.
‘It still –’ Lissa shuts the door in my face. I flinch backwards, then grab the handle, fling the door open. Lissa is hunched down on the stairs, sobbing.
‘I thought you were going away.’
She clambers to her feet. ‘Oh, fuck you.’
‘Stay with me, I can protect you.’
Lissa’s eyes flare. ‘You can’t even protect yourself! The prick blew up our car, Steven. If he hadn’t, I wouldn’t be waiting for a fucking taxi right now! He killed Travis and Jacob, he nearly killed Oscar.’
‘But he’ll track you down.’
‘I’m not a Pomp now. You know that’s going to make it harder. I’ve pulled out of the game. If he comes after me, and if you do, too, you better be prepared for the consequences.’
‘You can’t –’
‘Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do. You stay away until I’m ready. To forgive you, or not to forgive you. You lied to me. And you lied to me about her.’
‘I wanted to spare your feelings.’
‘No, you didn’t want it to be difficult. And that worked out so well. Love isn’t easy, Steven. It’s hard.’
I want to ask her why she’s leaving, then. Why she’s taking the easy option. But I’m the one who has wounded her. I have no right.
She slams her bag onto her shoulder again, and swings around towards the road. ‘Don’t come near me.’
I stand there, my mouth hanging open. I deserve it. I’m a fool. I can no more touch her now than when she was a ghost.
A taxi pulls into the street. Lissa looks back at me as it stops beside her. Her eyes are hard. Then she jumps into the cab. I watch it go.
There’ll be time to make it right. But not now. Now she’s safer away from me. I have to believe that. The day after tomorrow, the Death Moot begins.
A sparrow looks at me. I nod at it. And send the little Avian Pomp after the taxi.
31
I’m still in shock on the morning of the Moot. A day of prep has done little to dull the pain. Lissa’s taken up residence in a hotel. The blinds are shut, and my Avians have no view of what is going on beyond them. Only her heartbeat reassures me that she is alive.
It took me three years to get over Robyn. I’m not going to lose Lissa.
Tim was more sympathetic than I thought I deserved. Maybe he’s terrified I’m going to lose it. By 8:00 am he has rewritten my opening address, and left me to link my speech with some animations I’ve sourced from Cerbo. I’ve never used PowerPoint before, but have found some amazing transitions. I’m feeling almost professional.
It must be the calm before the storm. Rillman’s been quiet, there have been no attacks, which worries me. What is he planning? Not a single RM has called me. Perhaps they are steeling themselves for the two days ahead, perhaps they are too busy hiding from Rillman. I’d have at least expected Suzanne to ring to gloat, or to apologise.
Only Solstice gets in contact. Reckons he might have something on Rillman, but he wants to follow it up first. I talk to him about Lissa. He offers me some security, two guards. I think about it. Suzanne said she had someone watching Lissa. But do I trust her? Not really. Not after what she pulled in my kitchen. I give him Lissa’s address. The Death Moot is going to keep me busy for the next forty-eight hours, and my Avians certainly aren’t going to be able to get inside the hotel she’s staying in.
Then I check on Oscar. He’s doing OK, but Brooker doesn’t expect him to be out of bed for another week. I talk to Oscar about Lissa, and he listens, but offers no comment. I tell him I think I’m ready to look after myself, and he smiles. ‘Yeah, I think you are, too.’
I receive one call from the Caterers, everything is prepared, that the bridge is waiting.
I walk over to Tim’s office, knock on the door.
He opens it, and smiles at me nervously. ‘Ready?’
‘Yeah.’
He comes over to me, straightens my tie. ‘You are now. How’d you go with that PowerPoint presentation. Hope you didn’t put in too many fancy transitions.’
‘Of course not.’
I grasp his hand and we shift onto the Kurilpa Bridge.
And here it is. Everything has been set up for this moment. This Moot. The bridge is just wide enough for our marquees. It certainly wouldn’t be in the mortal realm, not if you needed to accommodate all the pedestrian traffic as well. The marquees are worth the rather large amount of money we paid for them. As is the lighting, and the aircon, which is keeping the space to a comfortable twenty-five degrees.
The Orcus sits around the table, each in their throne. Li An smiles at me. Kiri nods. Anna Kranski gives me a little salute. Devesh Singh is mumbling into his coffee. Charlie Top, now Middle and South Africa’s RM, is tweeting like mad on his phone. Suzanne is sitting at the other end of the long table, a coffee by her side.
Here we talk as equals. And we’re all looking a bit ridiculous. I’ve bought them all Akubras to wear – it seems the thing at these international conferences. I want to laugh but the Hungry Death bubbles beneath my skin, whispering to its eleven selves, calling them, and they call back. Its presence has never manifested itself so strongly before. I find it quite terrifying, and a relief that it’s not just focussed in one person.
How could you handle all that hunger and not go insane?
En masse there is a density and a gravity about the RMs that is impressive. I can’t quite believe that I share it. Neill’s absence is a void that can’t be ignored, though no one is talking about it. That will come later, I guess.
I begin my speech welcoming them all here. They laugh in the right places, though I can’t say my delivery is that good. Lissa helped me come up with most of the jokes. I’m still not sure what happened. How could I break her heart so easily? Maybe I thought I’d earnt it.
The Moot progresses. The first topic on the agenda is something small, a matter of profits in the last quarter. Suzanne brings that one to the table. I’m actually surprised that she uses a PowerPoint presentation; I was kind of expecting something with animated dust or lightning. The topic is dry, but people seem interested. Maybe it’s a break from all the events of the last week. The morning session moves surprisingly swiftly, though I don’t hear too much of it.
I’m thinking about my core presentation this afternoon. I have so much to discuss, and, even with Tim’s rewrites, I’m not sure that I can pull it off.
Lunch is called at around twelve-thirty.
With all of us together the air is charged with the sort of electricity you’d expect just before a massive storm. In fact, there’s one forming in the western suburbs. Thick, rain-heavy cloud is growing darker and darker, and it’s heading our way. I’m outside, taking a breather from all the food and the talk. Li An has joined me on the bridge. I don’t know why, though. He hasn’t said anything yet, and we’ve been out here for ten minutes.
From the bridge we can see both the Underworld and the living one. On one side is the cultural precinct starting with the sharp lines and angles of the Gallery of Modern Art, and on the other rise the skyscrapers that make up the CBD. The storm is building on Mount Coot-tha. I watch as the Caterers run from line to line on the marquees, double-checking that everything is as it should be, and will stand up to the tempest.
Li An nods at the Caterers and finally speaks. ‘Happens all the time, these storms,’ he says. ‘You get used to it.’ He spits out an olive pit and frowns. ‘Never get used to the miserable catering, though. After ten thousand years you’d think they’d know how to use a bain-marie.’
My face burns. He doesn’t stop eating the nibblies, nor swigging down on a glass of white, though, all of which cost me more money than I want to think about right now.
He pats my shoulder gently. ‘Of course, you won’t need to worry about that, soon.’ He sighs. ‘Got any of those little sandwiches? I do like those little sandwiches.’
What the hell is he talking about? I open my mouth to thank him for the vote of support when the air is split with a tremendous thunderclap.
Two black flags, marked with the brace symbol, snap in the wind above the Ankous’ marquee. The RMs call it the whinge tent. As far as I can see it’s justified, the title and the whingeing. We make them work hard and then some. Tim knows he doesn’t have to put up with my shit, but the rest of them don’t have the advantage of a family connection. This must be their only chance to vent.
Tim stands by their marquee with the other Ankous, apparently holding court. He looks far more comfortable than me, though I’ve noticed that he’s drawing on a cigarette faster than I thought was humanly possible.
He nods at me. Yeah, something’s going on there, and he’s not happy. He gestures at his phone; I yank mine out of my pocket a moment before it signals that I’ve received a text.
Be careful, Tim’s written. They’re up to something.
A few more specifics would be helpful.
A hand, a big hand, slaps down on my shoulder and I somehow manage not to yelp.
‘Good spot, this,’ Kiri Baker says. He’s about as broad across as I am tall. He smiles a wide, bright smile. ‘Nice.’
I nod my head. ‘Yeah.’
‘So, you still seeing Mr D for advice?’
‘Yeah.’
‘He still doing that face thing?’
I nod, and Kiri shivers. ‘Fuck, that used to scare the bejesus out of me. Dramatic bloke, isn’t he? Gotta have a hobby, I suppose.’ He slaps me on the shoulder again and squeezes. ‘We southerners have to stick together, eh?’
Hm, that didn’t count for much when we had a Schism a couple of months ago.
Kiri sighs. ‘It’s a shame we’ll never have a chance to know what may have come of that.’ I turn sharply and look at him. He’s grinning. ‘Desperate times. Now, I’ve got to get some of those little sandwiches.’ He walks back into the marquee.
What do these people know that I don’t?
It’s my turn at the podium again. I pull out my PowerPoint; relate all that I know about the Stirrer god. The things that Cerbo has told me, my own experiences. I even mention the visit from the Stirrer that inhabited Lissa, suggesting that Stirrers may not be as unified as we once thought.
I cannot feel any heartbeats, which is a blessed relief. Must be the storm. I look at the eleven RMs before me. They may be my people now, but I can’t show any weakness. My only strength, Mr D reckons, is that none of them is likely to remember what it was like to be new to the job. They expect a higher level of knowledge than I have.
Huff and bluff, I think to myself. If there’s anything I’m good at it’s bullshit.
‘We have to do something,’ I say.
‘But what?’ Charlie Top asks. ‘My resources are stretched as they are, particularly now that I’m shackled to South Africa, too. Do you not know how many wars my poor Pomps are working? Will you give me more crew to work them?’ He looks over at Suzanne. ‘Not that it matters,’ he says under his breath, and makes a show of looking at his watch.
‘I don’t have any to give,’ I say. Everyone laughs at that, and I fail to see the joke.
‘Exactly,’ Charlie says. ‘You developed world RMs never have anything to give. We’re all part of Mortmax and yet what do you all do? Cut back our supplies or provide them with so many conditions that –’
‘It’s not the time to discuss this,’ Kiri breaks in. ‘We have deeper issues at stake. Rillman has killed an RM. Mortmax’s thorn has grown thornier. We all felt it, we’ve all borne that new burden.’
‘Which is why de Selby must know these things,’ Charlie says. ‘Why he must understand the issues of our regions before it’s too late.’
‘It’s what I’m after,’ I say. ‘A unified approach to dealing with this problem.’
‘Yes, but what you don’t understand, Mr de Selby, is that the threat Rillman offers is more immediate,’ Anna Kranski says.
‘How can it be more immediate than this?’ I slam my hand on the projector and the inky black illustration of the Stirrer god that covers the far wall shakes. ‘It’s coming. And it’s getting faster and hungrier and more powerful.’
‘We have months, if not years, to resolve that issue. Well, you will,’ Charlie says. ‘Perhaps you might want to work out how to use PowerPoint, too. All those transitions!’
My jaw drops. ‘I thought the transitions worked very well.’
Charlie Top snorts. ‘In my experience things aren’t ever as neat.’
‘And what exactly is your experience?’ I demand.
‘I was old before you were born.’
‘Ha! What’s a few centuries?’ I say.
‘Actually, Mr de Selby, a few millennia.’
‘Well, I’ve yet to see the wisdom of them.’ I close the PowerPoint presentation. ‘We know so little, because we share so little. We have to be united. We have to be because there is no one else but us.’
Charlie looks over at Suzanne, and smiles sombrely. ‘He may just be ready.’
What the fuck is he talking about? And what the fuck have all those veiled comments been about? I get the feeling I’m about to find out.
Kiri whistles and jabs a thumb towards the doorway. ‘There’s one motherfucker of a storm coming.’
Wind shakes the marquee like some curious, angry giant. Then the tent is gone, hurled into the air, and I’m having some sort of Dorothy Gale moment. Lightning dances across the river, spanning the water at some points so that it looks like a bridge of flame. And at its heart is a figure, grinding two knives together. Around him stand half a dozen Stirrers, their arms tattooed with a familiar pattern, their hair writhing with esoteric energies.
Sensing the threat, my sparrows and crows swarm, but they can’t draw close. The moment they do, lightning blasts them out of existence.
Suzanne grabs my hand. ‘This is it, Steven. I’m sorry it’s all going to rest on your shoulders.’
‘What the hell are you talking about?’
‘You never were the brightest one, were you? Just look after Faber for me. He has always been such a loyal Ankou.’ She grabs my face, kisses me once on the cheek, and then the lips, the latter a lingering thing that possesses a surprising tenderness. ‘Pity, I think I would have enjoyed getting to know you better.’<
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They can’t be serious. They can’t leave all this to me! I didn’t even want to be RM, and I certainly don’t want to run all of Mortmax Industries. I can’t.
The other RMs surround us. I remember them circling me while I fought Morrigan in the Negotiation, with all that hunger in their eyes. There’s none of that rapacity now, just a grim fear. These Deaths are going to face their own mortality. They’ve forgotten what that is like, and now it’s time to die. But for me, it’s all too familiar.
It’s one thing to serve it out, to be the creeping replication of cancer cells, the rupturing or blockages that halt a heart, or the shriek of metal against metal and the burn of petrol waiting to ignite on a highway. But it’s an altogether different thing to be on the receiving end.
‘We’ve been working hard to bring Rillman out into the open. The man has been actively lobbying against us in various parliaments for a long time. And he can be extremely persuasive, as you would expect from a man who came back from the dead. We never though he’d get his hands on the knives so swiftly. Steven, you have proven a remarkable accelerant.’
‘Yeah, people say that about me.’
Suzanne ignores me. ‘You were the perfect bait though; imagine, an RM who had also completed a successful Orpheus Manoeuvre. How could Rillman ever resist that? I’m sorry about what he did to you.’
‘And Lissa? Walking in on you – me … ?’
‘We needed Lissa out of the way. She was in too much danger, and if anything happened to her, we know how that might affect someone at the stage you are in of your career. The last thing we wanted was a rogue RM. I must apologise for that. It was my idea. I sent one of my own Pomps to the Princess Alexandra so that she’d come home. You were set up again.’
‘Again?’
‘Well, Morrigan did it so successfully. We thought we could as well.’
‘Successfully? Look how that ended up.’
‘Hm, well, there’s a theory that bait is best when it doesn’t realise just what it is. Even Mr D agreed on this. Why do you think we allowed you to have him as a mentor? You are the first RM in the history of the Orcus to have such a guide!’
Managing Death Page 23
