Zeb turned his attention to the featureless ceiling and waited for sleep to come.
And waited.
* * *
At dawn the next morning, they were a cheerless group in the Foundation's main room.
Noriko looked almost as though the previous day's events had never happened; dressed in a red silk pantsuit, she could have stepped from the pages of a fashion magazine, had a bruise on her cheek not spoiled the illusion.
Doc and Ish had apparently had their bath, and perhaps a little sleep; they looked clean and rested.
Alastair had benefited from neither. He wore the smoke-saturated garments of the previous day and a night's worth of stubble. Dark rings under his eyes proclaimed that he'd been up all night—helping with the wounded, he explained. He smelled like something that dogs would like to roll in and the others insisted he sit at a separate table. He nursed a cup of xioc; the bitter chocolate drink was all that kept him awake.
Zeb had finally managed to get a couple of hours' sleep, but the mirror had shown him bags under his eyes that were a clear indication he needed more.
Harris was last to arrive. He emerged from the elevator hall in yesterday's dirty pants, a starched white shirt probably loaned him by the hospital, and a haggard expression. "She's going to be fine," he said before the others had time to do anything but look the question. "Bruised breastbone from hitting the controls. Lots of other bruises. No concussion, no burns. She's mostly been asleep since we got her to the hospital. Now she's in that sleep." He poured himself a cup of xioc. He joined Alastair, sniffed, thought the better of it and moved to the others' table. Alastair grinned.
Zeb asked, "What's that sleep?"
"It has to do with her Gift. Basically, it recharges her batteries. If she can get enough sleep, she can bounce back really fast from exertion or injury that would wipe me out." He sipped at the bitter brew and winced. "God, I hate mornings. So, what did you find out while I was off gallivanting?"
Doc stirred. "The Danaan Heights Building was destroyed by a powerful devisement of unknown type and origin."
"I'm shocked." Harris looked around at impassive faces. "That's sarcasm, guys. How `unknown'?"
"Very unknown. The residual flavor of the energy didn't match any god or goddess I'm familiar with. The delivery mechanism is unknown. The launch site for the miniature sun is unknown; I didn't see any sort of aircraft at its point of origin, though it might not have been possible to see it behind the ball of fire."
Alastair mumbled something. He looked at them expectantly, as if waiting for an answer, then cleared his throat with another swallow of xioc and tried again. "The strings have been cut."
Harris asked, "What strings?"
Doc frowned. "You mean, on the rubber man?"
"Yes. That's almost the first thing I checked on when I got back. The rubber man is no longer connected to a human controller."
Doc looked as though he wanted to swear. "And now, a lead lost because of this event. That is something we did not need."
Harris straightened. "Jesus. What if that was the point?"
The others looked at him. Ixyail said, "Destroy a building just to have time to cut the ties between your rubber puppet and its puppeteer? That would be like swatting flies with an autogun."
"Yeah . . . if that's all they did." Harris moved to the nearest telephone-style talk-box and pulled a grimy, crumpled list of names, addresses and numbers from his pants pocket. "Give me a minute."
* * *
It didn't take Harris long to get the information he sought.
According to the city guard, yesterday, while most of Neckerdam's attention was glued to talk-box reports of the Danaan Heights situation, gunwright Rospo Platsmith, the man Noriko had spoken to about the making of four unusual gun barrels, was approached by a potential customer. The man, a gray-bearded light, opened a carrying case containing a shotgun, an old Gudson Model 1 in fair condition. He claimed that he needed the hardening devisements renewed on the weapon's metal. But as Platsmith reached for the weapon, the client took it by the grip and turned to shoot the shop's guard dog, firing both barrels. He then drew a revolver and shot Platsmith twice in the chest and once in the head. He then turned the gun on the other gunsmith and two customers in the shop, shooting each once in the head or the back as they fled. Both customers apparently died instantly; the second gunwright lingered long enough to give city guards the story before she, too, died.
Half a bell earlier, a few blocks up the street, gunwright Francisc deCallac and members of his staff had been murdered by a person or persons unknown. DeCallac's clerk and shop guard were found in a back room, lying upon the floor, shot in the back. DeCallac was found between the ground floor and up one on a back stairway, apparently shot in the back while fleeing.
No evidence was left behind to indicate why the two gunwright shops were attacked in this way. But Noriko confirmed that deCallac was the gunwright who had commissioned Platsmith to fabricate the four barrels.
Zeb listened to these accounts in a sort of haze. All those people murdered just to impede the Foundation's investigation—he knew they should be his chief concern, but the image of Rospo's dog as he'd last seen it, stretched out on the floor, body inert but eyes and ears attuned to every customer's movements, stayed fixed in his mind's eye. His throat felt tight.
"They're cleaning up after themselves," Doc said, his tone wondering, "and they may have knocked down Danaan Heights just to give themselves uninterrupted time in which to do so."
"No," Harris said. "There's already talk on the street that the great Doc Sidhe couldn't stop this bombing. I heard it in the hospital. They were cleaning up after themselves and messing with Doc's reputation. A double victory."
Ixyail wrapped her arms around herself as if against a chill in the air. "I hope this does not mean the building was a casual demonstration of what they can do."
"For now, we have to presume it is," Doc said. "And take steps based on that presumption. None of the associates is to move alone—go in pairs at least. No one is to go unarmed. Spend as little time as possible in predictable locations, like the Monarch Building and your own homes. Harris, we might all find your makeup kit handy—"
"Right."
"Who is protecting Gaby?"
"Two of Lt. Athelstane's men. And as soon as I can get back over there, me. She'll probably check out later this morning."
"Good." For a moment, Doc's tired, discouraged expression reflected the years Harris knew he carried. "Milords and miladies, we appear to be at war. Conduct yourselves accordingly."
Chapter Seven
"Got one," Zeb said.
Harris moved around to Zeb's side of the table. He refrained from leaning over the book Zeb was looking at; the little windowless room in Neckerdam's main guard station was hot and he didn't want to drip sweat all over the cameos.
The book was the equivalent of an old-fashioned grimworld mugbook. It was large and leatherbound, with a half dozen photographs affixed to each page.
The photo Zeb pointed to showed a thick-necked, belligerent-looking man. Though the picture was a black-and-white, the man obviously had a lot of gray in his beard. It was the graybeard Zeb had met in Harris and Gaby's hotel room.
The text beneath the picture read:
CLAN Bergmonk NAME AlbinPlowmoon 17, RBG 23/SY 1430
"Taken five years ago," Harris said.
"What the hell is `Plowmoon'?"
"Roughly the month of May."
Zeb shook his head. "Man, I hate their dating system."
"You and me both." Harris called out the door, "Sergeant, can you get us files on Albin Bergmonk and anyone you have who works with him?"
* * *
Doc pulled the top-down roadster out of the garage door a block from the Monarch Building. He'd driven from his underground garage along the side tunnel he called his "sally-port"; it gave him access to the street by way of this less conspicuous exit. Once he was on the street and a block from the gar
age, he pulled the green beret from his head and tossed it into the back seat; the wind whipped his hair into a trailing cloud of whiteness. Harris sat in the passenger seat. The other associates were in Noriko's lumbering luxury car, following.
Doc had to raise his voice to be heard over the wind. "Albin Bergmonk. `The Bergmonk Boys'?"
"That's them. You've heard of them."
"Only a little. Tell me."
Harris started to open the file folder on his lap; as wind yanked at the corners of the papers within, he changed his mind and kept it closed. "Five of them. Actually, there were thirteen kids in his family, but only five of them turned out bad. They're a self-contained little gang, specializing in robberies, especially bank robberies. Professional, with family loyalty going for them.
"The oldest one is Albin, the leader. He's fifty, a graybeard both literally and socially in his clan. Plans their robberies. He's the one whose arm I kicked back on the grim world. Next is Egon. He's been up for dueling manslaughter two or three times, prefers the knife; he's in his mid-forties, still has some blond in his beard. Him I kicked in the throat."
"You're very good at making friends, Harris."
"I know. Then there's Jorg, the biggest of them; the sergeant said he'd been known to bench-press the front of a car so his brothers could change a tire. He's about forty, a big hairy redheaded thing. He's the one that Zeb, who also knows something about making friends, belted in the temple with a gun butt. Otmar's next. He's the one whose nose I broke. A bit of a whiner, according to the records, but he never ratted out his brothers."
" `Ratted out'?"
"Sold them up the river?"
Doc gave him an admonishing look. "Speak the queen's Lower Cretanis, would you?"
"In spite of his perceived weakness, he never turned them in to the authorities. Never testified against them, never implicated them for any crime. Anyway, he's their driver. Competed in professional races before he entered the family business. Also their pickpocket. Last is Rudiger, or Rudi, the baby—about twenty-five, and beardless. Zeb kicked him in the head. Though they can all shoot competently, he's supposed to be the best of them, and a charmer."
Doc turned left up Lady Way; the business skyscrapers quickly gave way to residential towers and small private estates. "Robbers. Any variant on that?"
"Well, plenty of other crimes, but no professional crimes of other types. They've been sent up individually for brawling, dueling, nonpayment of debt, assaulting city guards, making of threats against the Crown, and so on . . . but when it comes to money, robbery only."
"I wonder what caused them to change careers." The private estates to the left abruptly ended. Next was an open field, upon it a sprawling four-story mansion, a graystone monster of bell towers, gargoyle-filled ledges, and wrought-bronze fences.
Harris looked the building up and down. "Dr. Frankenstein's mansion, I presume? Where's the storm cloud?"
"Neckerdam Civic Museum. A little bit of omen-reading this morning suggested that it might be a place to get questions answered. Which suggests that answers about the Danaan Heights Building will point us in the direction we need to go."
"Omen-reading. Doc, you really know how to build confidence in your associates."
* * *
Zeb kept his intimidation face on as he stared unblinking at the museum guard. The guard, talking to Doc, tried to ignore him, but his gaze kept being drawn back to Zeb. Beyond the guard, beyond the turnstiles, museum visitors were milling in and passing through the spacious foyers, looking at the first glass-case displays placed in their path.
"I am not saying you can't go in," the guard said. He was a tall man for the fair world, burly, wearing an ill-fitting uniform that was reminiscent of the Novimagos Guard but didn't incorporate the same crest that the true police uniform did. "I'm saying that it isn't the hour for duskies, and they can't go in." His nod took in Zeb, Noriko and Alastair.
Doc's voice was cold. "Call your curator."
"The rules—"
"Call your curator now, before I choose to become unpleasant."
Much put upon, the guard sighed, withdrew from the line of turnstiles to the little booth that was his personal domain, and dialed his phone. Zeb could hear his words: "Ma'am, the Sidhe Foundation is here. Well, yes, ma'am, but there's a problem. Three of them are duskies, and it's not the hour—" The guard was suddenly obliged to hold the earpiece a few inches from his head, and even at this distance Zeb could hear shrill noises of unhappiness emitting from it. Finally: "Yes, ma'am. Whatever you say, ma'am."
He hung up and returned, even less happy than when he withdrew. "Go right in," he said. "Goodlady Obeldon will be down immediately. If you'll wait over by the statue of Barrick Stelwright?"
As the associates belatedly moved through the turnstiles, Zeb caught the guard's eye again. "So, what changes around here when it's the duskies' hour?"
The guard's tone was dismissive. "We increase the guard, of course."
"Of course." Zeb shook his head and joined the others.
Barrick Stelwright, if the bronze statue were to be believed, was unusually tall, with a saturnine face and mocking expression, and wore clothes that, as far as Zeb could tell, were pretty close to contemporary Neckerdam styles. The inscription at the statue's base identified him as a Favorite Son of Neckerdam, essayist and critic.
"Actually," said Gaby, "he seems to have been a complete rat bastard. Movies, plays, novels, he'd rip them to shreds in his column regardless of whether they were any good. I've read a collection of his reviews: brilliant, but mean."
Zeb asked, "So, why would they put up a statue to him?"
A new voice, female and cheerful, answered: "He willed a lot of money to the Museum, of course."
The speaker, arriving from the direction of the staircase, was the whitest woman Zeb had ever seen, her skin having only the least amount of color necessary to impart it the semblance of life. She was Gaby's height, tall for a fairworld woman, with hair that, though long and luxuriant, was just a shade too pale to be honey-blonde. Her dress, knee-length and cut in the practical fashion of downtown money-exchangers, was a pastel green. She wore gold-rimmed glasses just a little too large for her face, and beneath them her smile was both mischievous and infectious. She was beautiful.
She extended her hand to Doc. "Dr. MaqqRee, isn't it? I am Teleri Obeldon, curator of Neckerdam Civic Museum. Grace upon you."
Doc shook her hand, though Zeb suspected from the way the woman had presented it that she'd expected it to be kissed. "And on you," Doc said.
"Allow me to apologize for the guard. He's reliable and observant . . . but hasn't much sense for situations like this."
"What sort of situation would that be?" Zeb asked, his voice innocent.
Teleri's smile faded; she cleared her throat delicately before answering. At least she met his gaze. "Well, you must understand, it has only been in the last two years that we've even had hours for visitation by duskies. They were implemented by my predecessor, whose heart was much bigger than it was strong—he died when it failed him, not long after he added the dusky hours. It may be that all the letters and talk-box calls he received complaining about the new policy pushed him to that collapse." She shrugged. "So the guards have had to make some changes in the way they do things. Some are slower than others at it." She smiled brightly again at Doc. "Now, please, tell me how the lowly Civic Museum can be of help to the famous Sidhe Foundation."
"You're aware of the destruction of the Danaan Heights Building."
"Oh, yes."
"We'd like to find out if there is anything in the history or construction or location of the building that made it especially vulnerable to devisement attack."
"Of course. Well, our library is the place to start." She slipped her arm through Doc's and turned him toward the archway leading to the south wing. "It is also by appointment only. You now have an appointment, and you'll be the only ones today, so you won't be disturbed in your studies." She leaned close
as she walked with Doc.
Zeb glanced at Ixyail, but her expression, watching the curator, was more a combination of amusement and pity than irritation. She noticed his look and whispered, "Plain, half-blind old maidens have to be very obvious to get anything. It's sad, really."
"Plain. Right."
"Of course, she will get nowhere with my Doc."
"Sure."
* * *
The library, closed off from the rest of the museum by imposing bronze-bound doors, was at the south end of the building. In the lobby before it was a scale model of the entire city, ten paces long by four wide, meticulously constructed, every skyscraper in its true colors. A heavy brass-reinforced glass lid protected the model buildings from straying hands.
Alastair whistled. "This wasn't here two years ago."
Beside the model was a dark wood door with a sign reading, BY APPOINTMENT. Teleri unlocked it. "It wasn't here two weeks ago," she said. "One of the uses to which we put Barrick Stelwright's money. And some of the budget set aside for the model is still available for annual corrections."
Doc stared at the model, found the little statue representing the Danaan Heights Office Tower. "By chance, do you have an overlay showing Neckerdam's ley lines?"
Teleri smiled. "Nothing so crude as an overlay." She returned to the model. "Stelwright," she said, "ley lines."
A dim glow manifested itself among the buildings of the model, two straight lines that crossed east-west and north-south in the vicinity of the model of the Monarch Building. Neither came near the Danaan Heights Building. "Very helpful," Doc said.
"It's nothing. Stelwright, underground." The ley lines disappeared, and a bewildering series of dotted lines, some in red, others in yellow or blue, manifested themselves at street level on the map, appearing to well up like wet paint from beneath the surface. At intervals, little stars appeared beside the lines. Subway stations, Zeb guessed.
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