by Andy Havens
Ken, however, did.
“That,” he said softly, pointing to a bar across the end of the doorway that would open, “is secured with a double-acting pin tumbler lock.” He pointed at what looked, to Tom, like a small box on the far corner of the door near the hinges. “And that is a sidebar cylindrical code lock with a ten-key electronic access panel.”
“OK,” Tom said.
“It means that to open it you’d need an actual key, a programmable code key and the access number for the panel, all at the same time, to open the door.”
Tom still didn’t know, or care, about any of that. “Cool,” he said, assuming that was what Ken wanted to hear.
“Yes,” agreed Ken. “Cool.”
As they regarded the locking mechanisms – Ken with transparent joy, Tom with transparent boredom – they heard a door open near the front of the house and a number of people begin talking at once. It was that rumbly sound that came from groups of more than four or five people when they all were talking together and loudly. You couldn’t quite pick out any voice or conversation, but you could tell it was happening.
The voices moved from just beyond them – the waiting area, which wasn’t covered by the attic – to directly beneath the service door at their feet… and then moved down the hall a dozen yards or so. They could hear the voices rise in pitch a bit and then grow quiet as a door was opened.
Some of the voices went down the hall, but most went into the room beneath them to their right.
“The conference room,” Ken whispered.
Tom nodded.
“Let’s listen!”
Tom nodded again and they tiptoed a few yards down the center aisle, stopping above where the voices were gathering inside the room down below.
Tom pointed at a platform which jutted out from the walkway and made a should we sit there? face. These large, square boards were spaced throughout the attic, set between the open beams as places to provide storage. It was, basically, a large piece of plywood laid on top of the four-by-fours that ran perpendicular to the walkway. Between the beams was either insulation or a view of wiring, piping and, eventually, the framework for the drop-ceilings of the first floor rooms.
Both men knew that if they stepped off the walkway or the platforms they’d fall right through the drop-ceiling into the room below. Ken looked at the board Tom was pointing at – which would probably provide a better vantage for spying – and then back at the solid walkway.
“One second,” Ken whispered.
Squatting down, he put a hand on the board and moved it back and forth a bit, as if petting a dog’s belly. This platform was around eight feet on a side. Some they’d passed had been smaller, some larger. This one didn’t have any “treasure” on it except for an ancient dolly and a small box filled with rags and an oil can.
Like the one from the Wizard of Oz, Tom thought.
Looking up, Ken whispered, “It’s OK. It says it will be quiet.”
Tom nodded. While the talk of locks had made no sense to him, the idea of a large plank of wood reassuring his friend about its intentions to remain discreet seemed entirely reasonable.
The two men stepped carefully onto the board. No creaks, no groans, no cracks. Smiling, they took a few more steps and then, very carefully, sat down near the edge of the platform.
Tom leaned over and could actually see a small crack in the ceiling tiles below him. Not enough to view anything, but it let a sliver of light – and a lot of sound – up into the attic. He pointed it out, silently, to Ken who looked as if he was about to burst into giggles until Tom made the shush! gesture and a fake, angry face at him.
Ken mimed being scared with his hands up and an Oh no! face and the two men smiled at each other, both having almost the exact same thought at the same time.
It’s fun to share a secret adventure with a friend.
Below them, the door shut. Chairs scraped out and then back in. There were a few moments of conversations trailing off, and then one deep, male voice asked loudly “Are we going to be able to get some coffee in here. And maybe a bun. I didn’t have time to stop on the road.”
Someone else mumbled a reply. The door beneath them opened and they heard the voice of the Farm’s director, Roland Daniels, say, “Meredith? Could you please have Lance and the gang put together a coffee service and a couple dozen donuts? And one of those nice fruit and yogurt trays they do? Thanks so much.”
The door shut and the two friends heard a quiet shifting of chairs and a couple low murmurs. There was a click and a strange, static buzzing sound for a moment which then grew softer and finally silent. Then a new voice that they didn’t recognize said, “In the absence of Anders, but with a quorum of eleven in attendance, I call this council of the Apostles to order. Are we of one mind?”
The others down below answered in unison, “We are of one mind.”
Tom looked at Ken, eyebrows up and questioning. Ken shrugged as if to say, What the heck do I know?
Shifting around a bit to get more comfortable on the wooden board, Tom folded his arms and concentrated on listening and remembering.
* * * * *
Sometime between highest sun and its setting, the bound Reckoner in Mirkir’s garden awoke.
“Muhhggg…” he said, trying to talk while lying on his side, one cheek planted in the grass.
Mirkir knew that the man would be disoriented and thirsty. But he didn’t know what to do about that. He wasn’t sure he cared, except that options became more limited if his prisoner died.
How often do they need water? He wondered. Once a day? More than that?
He couldn’t remember ever caring before. Or even thinking about what or when man-creatures drank.
This is not my job.
He hopped over to sit next to the blindfolded person and muttered, “Thirsty?”
“What? Who’s there? What happened? Where am I?”
Mirkir wasn’t going to answer any of those questions, so he asked again, “Thirsty?”
“What? Oh. Yes. Yes!”
The man tried to sit up, fell over, tried again and succeeded, hands still bound behind him.
Mirkir trotted over to one of the storage sheds that Kendra and the other junior gardeners had used. He didn’t know how to open it with a code, so he jumped up and pawed at it with one strong, stony paw, shattering the lock and bouncing the door wide open.
He had decided that getting in trouble for breaking the shed would be less problematic than getting in trouble for letting his prisoner die of thirst.
On the middle shelf of the shed was an opened case of bottled water. Mirkir jumped up again and batted a few of them out and onto the ground. Then he rolled one over with his nose until it was against the prisoner’s hands.
“What? Oh. A bottle? I can’t… Untie me! Please!”
Ah. Yes. Hands.
Mirkir grunted and Hayyel dropped down from above. His claws were most likely to be useful in this situation. Sure enough, with a couple tries, the bird-gargoyle had managed to shear the top off the bottle and then, perching on Mirkir’s back, offered the jagged neck of the bottle to the prisoner’s mouth. The man drank eagerly, letting much of the water spill down his chin and neck in the process.
After finished the bottle, the man said, “Thank you… Uh. I don’t know who you are.”
Mirkir grunted again and Hayyel tweaked the man’s blindfold with one sharp claw and it came undone, falling around his neck like a kerchief.
After blinking in the sunlight, the man looked around and spotted Mirkir sitting in front of him on the grass.
“Who… What are you?”
“Mirkir.”
“OK. Mirkir. I’m Tenniel. Do you know where we are?”
“Garden. My garden.”
Tenniel looked around at the odd, artistic topiaries. At the other more common plants and flowers. At the high brick walls and the wrought-iron benches.
“Your garden,” he said simply.
Mirkir grunted. “
Ish.”
“You guard it?”
“Yes.”
Tenniel nodded. “An Earth construct. And these…” he nodded his head to his right at where Hayyel sat and up at where Brayach, the dolphin-looking creature, perched on his corner, “… are your brothers?”
“Yes.”
“Uh huh…”
The man looked around a bit. He was young-looking, though that didn’t mean much in Reckoners. Blondish hair, reddish beard. Bright blue eyes. Some kind of jewel in a ring on one ear.
The fellow smiled at him, and Mirkir could feel him trying something. Some kind of Chaos Way.
The gargoyle shook his head. “Earth is deep here.”
Tenniel nodded. “I can feel the roots. They drain other Ways.”
Mirkir nodded. “Deep.”
The man looked around a bit more, taking in details, studying… something.
“We’re still in the city,” he said.
Mirkir grunted.
“Why am I here,” Tenniel asked, a bit of anger in his voice now. “Why am I bound?”
Mirkir had no idea, so just looked at the Reckoner with his best, I have no idea what you’re talking about face.
To his credit, Tenniel chuckled. With that look on his face, Mirkir reminded most people of a dog trying to understand trigonometry. It was a very good “dumb face.”
“Will you untie me?”
Mirkir thought about it. “Your word not to leave garden?”
The gargoyle could almost read Tenniel’s thought: he doesn’t know Chaos very well, does he.
Tenniel was wrong.
“Roll the dice,” Mirkir said, “Hayyel plucks your head.”
Tenniel looked over to where the bird-gargoyle was sitting. Hayyel shook out his mane and the many, sharp, spear-point feathers fanned out. He opened his beak and showed his rows of sharp teeth. Turning to the drying, dead remains of the topiary that had once contained the sky woman, he snapped his jaws shut around a four inch wide branch, clipping it with hardly a sound.
The branch fell with a splintery crash next to Tenniel who said, “Uh, yes. I give my word that I will not try to leave the garden without permission.”
Mirkir nodded and Hayyel cut through the ropes with a quick pluck of his beak.
Tenniel rubbed his wrists and said, “Thank you. I still don’t know why I’m here, but I appreciate the courtesy.”
The gargoyle grunted and gestured with his head at the shed he’d recently broken into. Tenniel stood and looked inside, retrieving both another bottled water and two protein bars. He looked deeper into the shed and spying the first aid kit, opened it up and removed the bottle of Tylenol, shaking a few into his palm. He drank them down with the water, ate the two energy bars and got another bottle.
“Mundanes do have some good ideas,” he muttered to himself.
Mirkir grunted.
The Reckoner walked slowly around the garden now, inspecting the topiary bushes, including the one that had died. He looked up at the top of the walls and down the short, brick tunnel that led to the front gate. He finally took a seat on one of the park benches and sipped at his third bottle of water.
With nothing much to do but wait, he addressed the gargoyles, attempting conversation even though he knew it might be somewhat one-sided.
“I can’t for the life of me understand why someone would tie me up and drop me in here.”
The stone creatures were silent, two looking at him from the ground nearby, one from its perch on the roof.
“The last thing I remember was drinking quite a lot at the party and smoking something… odd. And dancing with the unicorn…”
“Not unicorn,” Mirkir said.
“Oh?”
“Elaph. Dusk hind.”
“Oh. I did not know that. Some kind of Earth creation I assume?”
Mirkir nodded. “Made in the garden. Here.” He gestured with his chin at the topiary hedges, but the man clearly had no idea what he meant by that.
“Interesting,” Tenniel commented. “I even thought so at the time. To find an Earth construct romping about at a Blood dance. But you never know with Blood… They throw the best parties and part of the fun is playing with new friends from other Houses.”
Here, he frowned. “I hope I didn’t offend someone. I really don’t remember much after moonset.”
Mirkir said nothing. He’d had experience watching all kinds of… nonsense… during parties here in the garden. Aethereals from Earth, grown in the garden to be variously attractive and interesting, along with Blood clans whooping it up until all hours. Many Reckoners from all the other houses being sent home in various stages of inebriation or unconsciousness.
“But, seriously. What could I have done to offend someone? I mean… I was just dancing and laughing along with everyone else. Another night on the town before heading off to… another town and another night. I’ve been in some interesting spots before, but never anything like trouble. Not like this. Whatever ‘this’ is…”
He was talking to himself, Mirkir knew. They did that a lot. If there wasn’t another of their kind, they’d just sit around yapping while sane, sober creatures made of stone listened and waited for them to shut up. One way or another, they all eventually stopped talking.
Maybe talk can help here, the gargoyle thought to himself. Maybe… move things along.
“You,” he said, interrupting Tenniel’s ponderings.
“Yes?”
“You call House?”
Tenniel frowned for a moment, then realized what the creature was asking. “You want to know if I’d like to call someone at the Fluid Court?”
Mirkir nodded.
“Oh dear, no,” Tenniel said quickly. “To paraphrase a famous Mundane, I may be ‘of’ Chaos, but I’m not currently ‘in’ at Court. A variety of… disagreements. I mean, someday maybe I will… Well… Never mind. No, no. I will wait here and work this out for myself. I’m sure I didn’t do anything truly reprobate. And I have Ways I can use to help settle any, well.. any pressing debts or forgive any odd…”
He paused, unable to think of a word, looking at Mirkir hopefully.
“Berries,” Mirkir said, trying to be helpful. It was the word he’d been thinking of. Since one time when he’d caught a squirrel it had some berries in its mouth and had spit them out, most entertainingly, when startled by the stone dragon-dog.
Tenniel looked startled for a moment, then began to laugh. A good, hearty laugh that was both cleansing and revitalizing to his soul.
“Ah, yes. I definitely have Ways that could settle debts and forgive any odd berries.”
Mirkir nodded and grinned, pleased that he’d been able to help.
The look was so incredibly inappropriate on the gargoyle’s face that Tenniel began to laugh again, finally settling down to take a few more sips of his water and wait for whomever was in charge of this… this mess.
It was the last time he would ever laugh.
* * * * *
As it was only midafternoon, the small yet elegant restaurant was empty of ordinary customers. Inside, a short, skinny, bald, twitchy man in a cheap suit sat across from a tall, fit, elegantly coiffed, calm woman in a very expensive suit.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Loryys,” said the first with a grimace. “I don’t have a body for you today.”
“What do you mean you don’t have anyone? It’s Friday. There’s always someone on Friday.” The woman across the table was calm and kept her voice low, but she radiated threat more obviously than a rattlesnake shaking its tail.
It didn’t help Ricky Echo’s nervousness that he was in the early stages of withdrawal. He’d gone through his supply of red mash much more quickly than he should have. New girlfriend, new tags in the gang, more people to impress. His own growing need, of course. But he’d never had to go more than three days without a hit. Not since joining the Shore Walkers.
“Yeah, there’s always someone on Friday,” Ricky repeated. He had a habit of doing that, hence is ni
ckname.
The woman across the table, Loryys, was used to the repetition and no longer even commented on the quirk. For the first year or so of their association, she’d pointed it out every time, trying to get the creepy little chronic to cut it out. But while annoying, it was clearly unconscious. Or at least unintentional. Or at least unstoppable.
“But not today.”
Ricky simply shook his head. He could see several of Loryys’ tattoos peeking out from under the cuffs of her jacket. The slightly too-tight jacket that barely closed in front and couldn’t begin to hide the width of the Blood Chief’s shoulders.
She reminds me a bit of what’s-his-name… That bald, English guy from those driving movies.
Loryys simply stared at the small, wiry man. She was used to dealing with tags. More than any other House, Blood tended to overlook the weaknesses of Mundanes. Loyalty was a concept chronics understood, if shallowly, and that could be both rewarded and exploited. As a Clan Chief, Loryys had a lot of leeway in determining how to treat her own tags. While not under the Law itself, there were unwritten rules within the Domain about how and when to reward or punish these lesser… associates.
Unfortunately, this little bastard isn’t one of mine, she thought. And whatever else Rain may or may not be, even Senbi respects his power and connections.
So she simply waited. In her experience, chronics had less patience than even the most edgy members of the Fluid Court.
Sure enough, less than a minute later, having neither been threatened or bribed, Ricky started babbling.
“Ms. Loryys… Seriously. I don’t know what’s going on. It’s been the same for us for years. We get an address, we make a pick-up, we bring the body here. That didn’t happen. A couple of times before there have been delays… An hour here, two hours there… but Mr. Vernon always called. Or he sent one of Damon’s boys with a message.”
Loryys just kept staring. Ricky broke eye contact and looked down. But that meant he was looking at the Chief’s hands. At the tattoos that moved. They were beautiful and intricate but… unsettling. So he looked back up. Loryys was still staring, still quiet, still calm.
