Alastair asked, "Garage, Doc?"
Doc didn't answer.
"Doc? Garage?"
He finally shook his head. "People will be fleeing the Danaan Heights Building by the time we get there. We might not be able to get in at ground level. We'll direct the Neckerdam Guard to try. As for us . . . Gaby, meet us in the hangar. We're taking the Outrigger."
"Oh, no," she said.
"Oh, no," said Alastair.
Chapter Five
Doc's hangar occupied the top floor of the Monarch Building. One large section of the ceiling was a hinged panel that would rise away to allow his special aircraft to take off and land; on the stained concrete floor beneath it usually rested Doc's primitive version of a helicopter, the diamond-shaped rotorkite. When Gaby reached the hangar, Doc and Alastair already had their shoulders set against the rotorkite's stern end and were rolling it out of the way.
Gaby apprehensively turned her attention to the Outrigger. It looked something like a long, sleek, green car with landing gear instead of ordinary wheels. From a cross brace that resembled stubby wings hung two large engines with wooden propellers. Atop the vehicle was tied a mass of heavy gray cloth.
Doc and Alastair trotted up and positioned themselves behind the vehicle. Doc said, "Gaby, ready the hose." Doc and Alastair set their shoulders to the Outrigger.
By the time they wheeled it into place beneath the panel, Gaby had the hose ready. Before the Outrigger was quite centered over the painted takeoff "X," she had fastened it to the nozzle on the cloth mass and tripped the catch at the end of the hose. With a great hissing noise, the cloth began to inflate.
Doc ran chains bolted to the floor to hooks on the vehicle's undercarriage, then climbed into the cockpit. Alastair threw a switch against the wall. The hangar lights dimmed. A vibration rattled the floor and walls; the ceiling rose away, opening on its hinges, revealing late afternoon sky above.
Gaby joined Doc in the cockpit, helped him count off the items on the vehicle's brief checklist. She felt the Outrigger wobble as the lozenge-shaped balloon filled with helium and tried to carry the car into the sky.
Alastair slid into the back seat and dogged the door shut. "Fully inflated, and the timer's ticking on the hatch."
"Ready to go." Doc flipped a switch on the console and the port engine roared into life, filling the hangar with fumes. Another switch, and the starboard engine added its own roar and stench. The Outrigger vibrated with their power. "Gaby, set us free."
She pulled a wooden handle and felt a little shudder as the hooks on the underside rotated, heard a metallic crash as the chains fell away. The Outrigger lurched and rose a few inches into the air.
Doc throttled the engines back and the propellers slowed. "We're too heavy. Gaby, drop some ballast." He consulted the gauges before him. "Two talents."
Gaby pulled the ballast lever. Out the window to her left, she saw water pouring out of the Outrigger's underside. When the gauge indicated that a hundred and twenty pounds of it had poured out, she restored the lever.
The Outrigger lifted up and forward into the sky. Doc said, "Alastair, would you like to do the honors?"
The doctor nodded and closed his eyes. Over the roar of engines, Gaby barely heard the words he said—invocations in High Cretanis, the ancestral language of lights like Doc. Gaby knew that updrafts and bizarre wind conditions made it impossible to land aircraft on or take them off from Neckerdam skyscrapers like the Monarch Building . . . unless one could persuade greater powers to still those winds for brief periods. She hoped this would not be one of those times when the powers chose to ignore the requests of a mortal.
* * *
"So who commissioned the gun barrels?" asked Harris.
"Rospo didn't know who the original client was." Noriko looked east up the street. "The gunwright Francisc deCallac, up that way, gave him the assignment."
"I talked to him." Harris frowned. "He didn't say anything about this."
"Probably protecting his client." Zeb cocked his head. "That's the second siren I've heard in just the last couple of minutes."
"I'll call in to see what's up," Harris said. Then a third siren sounded, nearby and approaching. "Wait a second." Harris stepped out into the street and held up his open wallet.
The oncoming city guard car, a huge, lumbering Bellweather painted in blue and gold, squealed as it braked. The driver, a uniformed guardsman, leaned out the window and saluted. "Sir."
"What's happening?"
"Explosives threat at the Danaan Heights office tower. Your boss has been called out by the exploder."
"Get us there." Harris held the rear door open for his companions.
* * *
A side wind nearly blew the Outrigger into the Monarch Building's mooring tower, but Doc regained control and wrenched the vehicle around to the northeast. "Well, Alastair's invocation must have done some good; we're not being flung like a crackbat ball. But the winds are still bad," he said. "Updrafts."
Gaby grimaced. "I'm going to go in," she said. "It'll be better than feeling what you're about to put us through."
Doc smiled.
Gaby put on the radio headset, closed her eyes, and launched herself into the Grid. The world around her faded to grayness. Then she was somewhere else, her special room, a stone-walled bedroom with a mirror on the wall, her eight-legged horse doll on the bed before her.
The room, she knew, existed only in her own mind. Doc said it was a metaphor concealing the set of controls that allowed her to do what she did. That didn't make it any less comforting or less private.
She stared at the mirror, groped beyond it with her mind, and found the little eye she was looking for. She opened it. The reflection in the mirror faded, replaced by a view of a nice-looking young woman seated behind a telephone switchboard. The woman looked startled—as did most people when Gaby remotely turned on their talk-boxes without warning. "Goodlady Greene," the woman said.
"Sibyl, anything that comes in related to the Danaan Heights Building, and any call from one of the Foundation associates, forward directly to the Outrigger."
"I will."
"What's the number for the main switchboard at Danaan Heights?"
Sibyl turned to a large bound volume on the table beside her and opened it. She searched for a moment. "Brambleton South one naught four seven."
"Thanks, out." Gaby waved and the switchboard disappeared. Once again she felt beyond her mirror, this time looking for a specific eye by identity rather than by familiar location—a trickier prospect.
A moment later she had it, tried to open it. But she felt only pulses of noise.
She opened her eyes and the Outrigger cockpit swam back into reality around her. "Sibyl's alerted," she said. "And the Danaan Heights switchboard is busy."
"Not a surprise," said Doc. "Can you force yourself in?"
"Oh, yes."
"See if you can get to the building management office. I want someone standing by there with the building plans in hand." Doc kept the pitching, bobbing Outrigger oriented toward the distant rust-red Danaan Heights skyscraper.
* * *
The Outrigger was almost directly overhead when the Royal Guard car reached the vicinity of the Danaan Heights Building. Harris took note of the approach of the aircraft as he and the others piled out of the car a block away from the building.
They couldn't park closer. A steady stream of men and women flowed from the building doors, spreading out across the street, stopping traffic. Office workers from surrounding buildings joined them, all fleeing the vicinity of the Danaan Heights Building, most heading first toward the sprawling park that lay across the street from the building's east-facing main entrance.
Zeb said, "They take bomb threats pretty seriously around here."
"I don't think I've ever heard of a false call," Harris said. "Around here, bombers, or exploders, tend to be rare, but when they say there's going to be an explosion—"
"Got it. Hey, isn't that Ixyail?"
It was; she was on a clunky-looking motorcycle behind a begoggled man. Harris shouted, "Ish!" and waved.
As the cycle slowed, she dismounted with extraordinary agility and ran over to join them. "What's the task?" she asked.
"Get in, get to their main operations office, see what we can find out. The cops—Novimagos guards, I mean—will doubtless do a floor-by-floor to evacuate stragglers and look for explosives; they'll need all the help they can get." They headed toward the building, pushing their way through a panicky, ever-thickening crowd.
* * *
The Danaan Heights Building was about forty stories tall. The roof was peaked, with a radio tower pointing into the sky; there was no place to set down. Doc circled and thought about it.
"Do you have the building manager on the talk-box?" he asked.
"Better than that," Gaby said. "He snagged an architect from a firm whose offices are up thirteen. The architect is standing by to interpret the building plans for you."
"Excellent. Here's what we'll do. Alastair, you'll start from the top floor. Use your Good Eye to see if you can spot devisement residue that might relate to the explosives, just in case they're not wholly chemical. I'll hurry on down to the basement supports; if the explosives aren't there, I'll get on the talk-box with the architect. Between us, we'll figure out where the best placement of explosives is likely to be, and I'll look at those sites."
"Doc?"
"Yes, Gaby?"
"How do you and Alastair plan to get down there?"
"Line and winch."
"Ah." She shuddered. "Doc?"
"Yes, Gaby?"
"Who do you plan to have fly the Outrigger?"
"You."
"I don't think so. I haven't soloed in this gasbag. There are winds. You said so."
He smiled at her. "You're about to solo. By this time tomorrow, you'll have your license to fly liftships. With my signature on it."
"Oh, great."
* * *
Harris and company all picked up assorted bruises from the shoulders and elbows of fleeing office workers as they forced themselves into the building lobby. Zeb looked around and swore. Unending streams of frightened people poured out of the stairwells, crowding the lobby, clogging the exits.
Harris grabbed six people in succession before one could tell him where the building's main office was: ground floor, down a side hall. He and the others pushed their way through the crowd of escapees to get there.
Inside, the building's manager, a dumpy man who would have reminded Zeb of a stereotypical accountant if not for his long nose, pointed ears, and sharp one-inch fingernails, introduced himself. "Gwern Tunny," he said, and shook Harris's hand. He nodded at Ixyail, ignored Zeb and Noriko. "This is Crimmal Hyde, of the building firm MacQuill, Tew, and Hyde."
A lean, mournful-looking man with dark hair rose from a chair and shook hands all around. "I don't run very fast," he said with a trace of apology. "I trust you'll give me at least a chime's head start before it's time."
"Count on it," Harris said. Also on hand were a lieutenant of the city guard and the office secretary. Harris turned to the guardsman. "Athelstane, good to see you again. Has anyone else from the Sidhe Foundation been in touch?"
The blond, bearded man gestured to the telephone handset lying on the desk. "Your lady's on the talk-box now."
"Great." Harris picked up the handset. "Gaby? Gaby?" After a moment he set it down, looking troubled. "No answer."
* * *
Gaby struggled to hold the Outrigger steady. She kept the liftship's nose into the wind, tried to apply just enough power to keep the vehicle from being blown away from the building. She leaned out of the window to take a look down.
Below, a cable hung from the liftship's passenger compartment. Twenty yards down, Doc was still descending hand over hand; Gaby had to lean out of her window to see him. Ten yards above him, Alastair, not quite so physically adept, struggled with his own descent.
Doc came abreast of the building's radio antenna—aether antenna, Gaby reminded herself. He was still a dozen yards from it. He took a look up.
She steeled herself and put on more power, forcing the little liftship forward into the wind. The line holding two of her dearest friends above a five-hundred-foot fall swung steadily closer to the antenna. Closer, closer—then just past, as the wind died down and the Outrigger picked up speed.
Below, Doc twirled something in his hand, then released it. It was a hook on a line; she saw the hook wrap itself around the antenna and catch fast. Doc quickly tied its line off to the cable.
The wind redoubled its force. The Outrigger turned to starboard and drifted sideways. Gaby saw the cable and line attaching it to the antenna grow taut—saw the antenna bend as the Outrigger threatened to pull it clean off the top of the Danaan Heights Building. Doc looked up, aggravatingly patient. The Outrigger's nose swung toward the antenna as wind and the liftship's tether conspired to inconvenience Gaby.
Gaby swore and struggled with the controls. She increased power, moving toward the antenna to reduce tension on the line.
Finally Doc was able to shimmy across the fragile-looking line and get his hands on the now-bent antenna. Alastair, looking nowhere near as composed as Doc, followed suit more slowly; when he reached the antenna, he held on to it as though it were a long-lost lover. Doc flashed a knife and the line fell away from the antenna.
Freed of nearly four hundred pounds of weight, the Outrigger leaped upward. With the pull of a lever, Gaby quickly bled some pressure from the gasbag; should she need to retrieve Doc and Alastair from the roof, she could increase lift by dumping more ballast and replenishing gas with the bottled helium onboard.
By the time she got the Outrigger under control again and could lean out to look, Doc had pocketed the knife and the little grapnel. He gestured up at Gaby, raising his fist and twirling it: Climb and stand by. She nodded and finally began breathing again.
* * *
"Any suspicious activity around the building?" Harris suggested.
Gwern Tunny shook his head. "Well, some vandalism."
"Tell me about it."
"Someone chiseled some gouges into the building's dedicatory plaque this afternoon," Tunney said.
"No, I'm looking for something like an opportunity to bring a lot of explosives, maybe dozens of talentweights, into the building."
"Nothing like that."
"New tenants? Has anyone rented an office on the first few floors in the last week or two?"
"Just one. Kymon's Cameos, a camera studio, up three."
"Do you have a master key? Give it to me." Harris passed it over to Noriko. She and Ixyail departed without a word; Zeb followed.
Tunney looked even more distressed. "Uh, Goodsir Greene . . ."
"Yes?"
"The Danaan Heights Building is lights and darks only."
Harris looked at him.
"Well, it is building policy."
Harris didn't answer.
Tunny tugged at his shirt collar. He seemed unable to turn away from Harris's emotionless stare. "I'm not responsible for establishing the policies of this company, sir, just for enforcing them."
Harris let him writhe a moment longer, then asked in a quiet, chill voice, "You're saying you no longer require the aid of the Sidhe Foundation?"
"Nothing like that, sir—"
"Then shut up."
"That sort of language is not appropriate—"
"It's very appropriate." Harris heard a tinny voice on the telephone handset; he picked it up. "Hello?"
* * *
Alastair walked slowly down the main corridor of up forty. Doors hung open, xioc still steamed on desktops, talk-boxes still blared with music, but there was no one to be seen. Doc would probably be ten floors down and descending fast.
Alastair held his left eye shut. His right eye saw more: little telltale traces of devisement would waver or glow under the gaze of his Good Eye. But he'd seen no unusual devisements walking a
round this floor, just improvements on the occasional lock, glows on the walls that probably heralded warded safes.
Down the hall, an elevator cage slid open and four uniformed royal guardsmen spilled out. One came directly for him: "Goodsir, the building is being evacuated, you need to get down to ground—"
Absently, Alastair held open his wallet, letting the enameled bronze shield of his Novimagos Guard commission show.
The guardsman saluted. "Sorry, sir."
"Don't fret about it. But if you find anything odd in the course of your evacuation, send someone up for me immediately. I'll be descending floor by floor, fairly slowly."
"Yes, sir." The guardsman left him alone. He and his fellows charged through the halls, shouting hellos for anyone who might somehow have missed the news.
Nothing here. Alastair headed for the stairwell down.
* * *
"Goodsir Tunny, can you hear me?" Gaby waited, then hissed in vexation. She wasn't in her special room now, but was still connected to the communications grid by her special gift; she maintained her link to the building manager's line and could feel that it was still open. So why wasn't anyone answering?
A new voice: "Hey, little girl, who's your daddy?"
"Harris! I was hoping you wouldn't even hear about all this."
"Next time we'll ask the bad guys not to advertise on the radio and panic the whole city."
In as few words as possible, she filled him in. "When Doc gets to the basement, he'll call in, and I'll patch him through to you. And Harris?"
"Yeah."
"I want you out of there two chimes before the deadline. More if possible."
"I'll see what I can do."
"I'll make every talk-box in the building ring and ring and ring. You hate that."
"Too true. I love you."
"I love you."
* * *
The locked door to Kymon's Cameos opened to the master key. Beyond, the offices were dim, the only illumination from sunlight filtering in through the Venetian blinds—blinds with, to Zeb's eye, archaically broad wooden vanes. Ixyail called out for anyone who might hear, then they searched the place with sloppy speed, knocking things off tables, opening closets and cabinets and spilling their contents out onto the wooden floors.
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