Poison Sleep

by T. A. Pratt

  “Of course,” Pelham said. “I live to serve, Ms. Mason.”

  “Well, we’ll see if we can find something better for you to live for, but I guess it’s a start.”

  “Say,” Rondeau said. “Do you know anything about the care and feeding of baby goats?”

  Marla left Pelham and Rondeau at the club and went to take a walk. The goat was locked in the men’s room, eating a potted plant and drinking from the toilets. Pelham had been reluctant to leave her side, but she convinced him that Rondeau would teach him the ropes—answering phones, the ins and outs of Marla’s rather freeform filing system, which people she was willing to take phone calls from and which she’d just as soon avoid. She set off toward the esplanade, wanting to hit the center of Felport’s tourism and get a sense of the summertime commerce, and as the Market Street Market wound down in the afternoon, the esplanade was the next best thing. Fiduciary magic wasn’t her specialty—her consiglieri Hamil was the one who kept his finger on the pulse of the city’s economics, with a little help from the chaos magician Nicolette—but she could get a crude sense of the health of a particular sector by quietly sitting and letting the city flow through her. She’d been chief sorcerer for five years, and was finally beginning to develop what her predecessor Sauvage had called “city sense,” the ability to expand her consciousness until the city became almost part of her own body. With some effort, she could feel spikes in crime rates like sharp pains, taste pollution like morning breath, experience economic downturns like fatigue and bad traffic like clogged sinuses. Apparently the city sense became second-nature after enough years, but Marla wanted to practice, and she found positioning herself with some physical analogue of the quality she wanted to explore helped her focus.

  The day was warm and lovely, and the esplanade was hopping. Most of the little shops had their doors open for the breeze, and people strolled in and out at a good pace. Marla sat down on a stone bench with a good view of the water and watched people in shorts and T-shirts stream by, kids clutching ice-cream cones, young women Rollerblading, lovers strolling arm in arm. Felport wasn’t a real hub of tourism, but it was the biggest city in this part of the state, and so a lot of people from the sticks and suburbs came in to see the occasional show, eat in good restaurants, take the kids to museums or the zoo or the little amusement park and boardwalk down by the bay. Marla closed her eyes and let the shape of the city coalesce in her mind, from Ernesto’s vast junkyard in the south, then north to the green expanse of Fludd Park—gods, she hated that place, all bugs and dirt and ducks and trees—in the city’s center and up to the rabble of student housing, on past the river to Adler University with its weird sculpture garden, and then east to the Heights where the Chamberlain lived, on to the old city with its narrow cobblestone streets and historic buildings, over to the fancy houses with bay views, then down to the south side of the river again, to the clutch of skyscrapers and high-rises downtown, over toward the old industrial sector by the docks, down to the esplanade again, where Marla sat. The city felt whole and relatively safe, no pinpricks of interdimensional invaders, no waves of rage from some passing monster, most of the ordinaries going about their lives with the usual mixture of hope, anxiety, sadness, and joy, unaware of Marla or her kind looking out for them (and, admittedly, sometimes making a living off of them). Marla shivered with pleasure, a sensation like eating a perfect meal and being absolutely satisfied, neither under-nor over-full. Felport in early summer, before the intense heat and humidity really set in, was a wonderful place. So what if she had a party to plan? So what if she’d acquired a valet against her will? These were minor concerns. Her city was healthy. Life was good.

  “Hello, Marla. I like your knife.” The voice was right next to her, closer than should have been possible—she hadn’t sensed anyone sitting next to her, and even immersed in her city sense, she shouldn’t have been that lax.

  “Do I know you?” Marla opened her eyes and gave the stranger a close look. He was young, handsome, dirty-blond, with that just-out-of-bed messy hairstyle that probably took way more work than Marla’s own ragged shag did. He was dressed in a nice dark suit and blue shirt, classy and not flashy, but he had on a gaudy array of rings, one on each finger, each with a different gleaming gemstone. He smelled like nothing at all, which was part of how he’d managed to sneak up on her.

  “Not intimately,” he said. “Not yet. But you know my work. I’m Death. You can call me Mr. Death.”

  “I used to know a goth kid back in Indiana who called himself Death,” Marla said. “He got run over by a semi. That’s what you’d call a self-fulfilling prophecy. You might want to reconsider your nickname.”

  “Mmm. Why don’t you spare yourself grief and give me your pretty little knife?”

  “Why don’t you take a flying leap off a cliff? Piss off. You’re crowding my space.”

  He put his hand on her wrist. Well, that was that. Touching her was a no-no. She grabbed his hand, intending to put him in a vicious twisting joint-lock that would have him on his knees before her, crying.

  Instead, to her surprise, everything whooshed, and people yelled, and she was looking up at the sky, and everything hurt. She sat up—pretty fast, all things considered, thanks to her old friend adrenaline—and realized she’d been thrown from the bench, where she’d crashed into the low wall on the far side of the walkway. How had he thrown her? How had he gotten any leverage, sitting beside her? He was still lounging on the bench, cool as you please, and most of the passersby had taken off running, which seemed a reasonable response. Guess he’s a sorcerer. Why couldn’t new guys in town ever just introduce themselves? They all had something to prove. Marla stood up. “Bad move, out-of-towner,” she said. “I turn people like you into compost.” She launched herself toward him, spitting out a spell of deflection as she went, so if he cast another spell, it would bounce off her and back to him. He didn’t move, and she leapt, ready to deliver a kick—with her magically reinforced steel-toed boots, no less—to his face.

  He was up and out of the way faster than she could see, and before she even landed she reached into her pocket for the little vial of hummingbird blood she’d kept there. She crushed the vial, blood and glass stinging her hand, and all the light around her subtly blue-shifted as her metabolism and subjective time sense sped up a hundredfold. She couldn’t spend too much time in this state—the crash after extended use made coming off crystal meth seem gentle—but for now, it should make her an unstoppable fighting machine, faster than any other primate alive. She spun, and Mr. Death was lounging by the low wall behind her. Fast, but she was certainly faster. She raced toward him, ready to deliver a punch that at this speed would probably cave in several of his ribs, but he moved out of the way, which really shouldn’t have been possible. Marla nearly flew off the edge of the esplanade, which would’ve meant a long drop into the cold bay, but she corrected her course, landed in a crouch on the wall, and sprang back after him.

  He swatted her out of the air nonchalantly, and she hit the ground hard enough to bounce. “This is silly.” His voice wasn’t the slowed-down drone it should have been; he’d somehow accelerated himself to match her. “Just give me the knife and I’ll be on my way.”

  “You want the knife?” Marla drew her dagger of office and held it in a reverse grip, blade tucked up against her forearm. “You get the knife.” Fighting an unarmed man with a knife wasn’t sporting, but Marla was past the point of caring about sport. She wanted to kill this guy. If she needed to find out who he was later, maybe she’d bring Ayres out of retirement and get him to interrogate the guy’s corpse. She came at him, ready to flick out her blade and finish this, but he moved, still faster than her eye could comprehend, twisted her wrist so hard she cried out and dropped the blade, and tossed her off to one side like an empty beer bottle. The dagger fell in slow motion at first, then clattered to the pavement as normal time reasserted itself. Marla groaned. She hadn’t been tossed around like this in a while. She mumbled a little
analgesic spell to numb the pain in her wrist, and watched while grinning Mr. Death bent down to pick up her dagger.

  His scream, though not unexpected, was quite gratifying. His right hand was a spurting bloody mess, with most of his fingers dropping, severed, to the ground.

  “My dagger,” Marla said. “It doesn’t like strangers.” She whistled, two low notes, and the dagger skittered along the ground and flew into her hand, hilt-first. After giving the blade a shake to cast off the stranger’s blood—every drop left the blade, which was part of the weapon’s magic—she tucked it into the sheath at her waist. Mr. Death whimpered and cradled his devastated hand. Sirens wailed, approaching fast. Somebody had seen the fight and called the cops. Marla wasn’t worried about the cops—she knew the mayor and chief of police, and more important, they knew her, and what she really did for Felport—but she preferred to avoid the hassle. She considered trying to kill him again, now that he was wounded, but her time in the graveyard last night and the memories it prompted made her inclined to alternatives like mercy. “You’re a good fighter,” she said. “That was a nice workout, and some of those tricks I’ve never seen before, but you better believe I’ll learn them soon. This isn’t the place to make a name for yourself, though. Leave town. If I hear you’re still hanging around later, I’ll make the loss of a few fingers seem like a pleasant morning.”

  He didn’t answer, just stared at her and bled. “You take care now.” She walked away, leaving Mr. Death to gather up his fingers. A good magical surgeon could reattach them like new. Maybe he knew somebody who could do that back where he’d come from. Wherever the hell that was. She’d make some inquiries.

  “I hope you’ll forgive me for saying so,” Booth drawled, “but this place has the distinct odor of age and staleness.”

  “The dead man complains to me of odors?” Ayres said from his folding chair by the window. “Make yourself useful by cleaning the place, then. I didn’t bring you back to life so you could bitch and moan.”

  “Men of quality don’t clean.” Booth was looking at himself in a full-length mirror. He’d been doing that ever since Ayres cast a glamour to cover his hideousness. “This really isn’t a very good likeness, Ayres. The tattoo on my hand is absent, for one, and I think my cheekbones should be higher.”

  Ayres had conjured Booth’s illusory form from vague memories of the assassin’s photograph in documentaries about Abraham Lincoln. He could have made Booth look like anyone, but the assassin wanted to appear exactly as he had in life. Vain bastard. “You’re welcome to return to your prior state, and go around looking like an overdone piece of bacon, if you prefer.”

  Booth joined him at the window. “My apologies, sir. You’ve done a great kindness for me, and I won’t forget that. May I ask, what are you looking for out that window?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. A plume of smoke. An earthquake. People running and screaming. Some sign of the titanic battle between Marla Mason and Death. Though I suppose it’s likely to be a quieter affair.”

  “Mmm. If I’d known there was a duel in the offing, I would have offered my services as Death’s second. Seems the least I can do, for his allowing me to leave…that place.”

  “I’m the one who brought you out of that place. And don’t forget it.”

  “But you derive your power from his,” Booth said, undeterred. “Much as a statesman derives his power from his constituents. Remove the goodwill of the people, and a politician is just a liar in a suit. Remove the goodwill of Death, and you’re just…well, courtesy forbids elaboration.”

  “I can send you back to Hell,” Ayres said.

  “Not if I send you to Hell first,” Death said, and Ayres rose as quickly as he could.

  “My lord!” he shouted. Death was spattered in blood, and his right hand was a crippled ruin.

  Booth stepped forward and offered an illusory handkerchief, but Death waved him away. As Ayres watched, Death lifted his arm, making a fist with his remaining two fingers, and when he opened his hand, all his digits were back and whole.

  “You might have mentioned that her dagger is enchanted.” Death visibly seethed, dark energy crackling from his shoulders.

  “I…my lord?” Ayres had never been more terrified.

  “When I took the knife, it cut me,” Death said. “Nothing cuts me.”

  “Due respect, my lord, but…I thought the whole point of that blade is its ability to cut anything?”

  Death grunted. “I didn’t seize it by the blade. It turned in my hand and…bit me.”

  “I had heard rumors to that effect,” Ayres said. “My apologies. I did not think any mere enchantment would hinder you, my lord.”

  Death seemed to consider that. “Indeed. It shouldn’t have worked—mortal magic is no more than sparkles and light to me. Perhaps it’s no mere enchantment, then. Perhaps it’s a fundamental quality of the weapon, that it cannot be taken by force. My father would…would have known. The sword was lost before my time, and I don’t know its whole nature.”

  “Some artifacts must be given willingly.” Ayres took the risk of sitting back down. Death didn’t seem offended. “They bind to their owners, and can only be given away willingly, or passed down through some other protocol. I know this dagger has passed from hand to hand for generations, from one chief sorcerer to another, since Felport’s founding.”

  “So even killing Marla might not be sufficient,” Death said. “It would just pass to her successor?”

  “That is my understanding.”

  “Hmm. What if I became chief sorcerer? With the blade in my rightful possession, I could strip away all the enchantments that govern its conditions of ownership.”

  Ayres shook his head. “There is precedent that suggests only mortals can become protectors of Felport.” He was thinking of Somerset’s resurrection and attempt to regain control of the city. Somerset had been a heartless undead monster, and according to the stories, the dagger of office had burned his hand when he took it from Sauvage’s corpse. After Marla killed Somerset, she took up the dagger, and with it the mantle of Felport’s protector. Several of the other powerful sorcerers had supported her claim, and her position had held.

  “I just want the blade,” Death said petulantly, and Ayres thought, again, that he seemed very young. “How can I get it? I’m afraid peaceful negotiations are probably out of the question. Marla Mason and I…clashed.”

  Ayres mused. “I know little about her. She has a few loyal friends, but I suspect she might even let them die before bowing to you. She’s stubborn. But perhaps…” Ayres hesitated.

  “What?”

  “I…” Should he say this? He loved Felport as much as Marla did—it was perhaps the only thing they had in common. But the opportunity to cement himself in the new Death’s good graces could mean great power for him. Cities rose and fell, but power was eternal. He made his choice. “Marla loves the city above all else. If Felport itself was at stake, she might be willing to make a deal. Remove her from power and take over the city yourself. You may not be able to rule as chief sorcerer, but you could become a sort of dictator.”

  Death smiled. “You may be on to something there, Ayres. Perhaps you’re worth keeping around after all. I’ll go for her just before dawn, when she’s tired and unprepared.”

  “Just let me know if my—” He almost said servant. “My associate Mr. Booth and I can be of service. He has some experience toppling heads of state, if I recall.”

  “Sic semper tyrranis,” Booth said agreeably.

  Also by T. A. Pratt

  BLOOD ENGINES

  POISON SLEEP

  A Bantam Spectra Book / April 2008

  Published by Bantam Dell

  A Division of Random House, Inc.

  New York, New York

  All rights reserved

  Copyright © 2008 by T. A. Pratt

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  eISBN: 978-0-553-90473-4

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