Adornments of Glory

by J. Crispin-Ripley

  "You're number two, right behind the Unknown," Ishtar said with a laugh. "I'm standing in for them at the moment. Would you rather get laid or save the world, two worlds, maybe?"

  "Save the world, I guess." Feldspar gazed down into Susan's eyes. "I hope you'll enjoy your night. Rabid's still in action and, as I'm sure he'll tell you, he's interested."

  "He doesn't need to tell me. I've noticed."

  "The Adornments of Glory... remember them?" Ishtar sighed. "Feldspar, can you ignore the elf's jewels and your damn hormones long enough to explain the quest, or must I?"

  Once forced on track and well away from Susan--not even looking her direction--Feldspar told a clear and dispassionate story... in that exhilarating deep voice. Her adventures to date: the wicked foster-uncle, wickeder mother, the Great Mother, and the intrigues of what seemed to Susan a high-tech medieval elite surpassed any of the fiction she'd read--because the story was demonstrably true; Feldspar could indeed wear the illusion of someone else, Rabid did teleport and as for the rest of it--Susan believed everything. These three were like no people on Earth... or rather, Terra. She couldn't question they weren't human, none of them were, not even Feldspar. She couldn't be human--just look at her--clearly, Feldspar was a goddess.

  "So first of all you have to find this Delarone," she said when Feldspar finished. "Do you have a picture?"

  "Damn, I should have thought to show it to Roger and you before this." Ishtar got up and went to rummage in her pack.

  "You have a picture of him?" Obviously news to Feldspar.

  "Daddy dear keeps files on your mother's other pallet-pets. I've been breaking into his personal directories since I was seven. Where's that damn com-reader?"

  "You're a hacker?" Susan asked.

  "Here it is." Ishtar straightened and gave her a narrow-eyed look. "I'm not just a muscle-bound idiot."

  That was distressingly close to her mental image of Ishtar. "You read minds?"

  "Faces and body language. Here. Catch."

  Without taking her eyes off Ishtar, she instinctively caught the com-reader in her right hand. It was much lighter than a softball, albeit a different shape. "Sorry, I think our problem might be we're too much alike." She looked at the computer screen. Delarone was a weasel-faced redhead. "Never seen him, and someone that ugly, I'd remember. Roger?" She handed him the com-reader.

  "Thanks. Nope, me neither--no surprise, there are circa six million people in the Noronto area."

  Roger's offhand remark visibly shocked the Diluvians. "Roughly ten percent of our sentient population, crammed into a small area," Rabid said.

  Ishtar shook her head. "It's a wonder there are souls enough to go around."

  "I doubt there are." Roger's cynical tone was reflected in his thin smile. "Most of what's walking around out there doesn't seem to have one."

  "While that's an interesting concept, I suppose, I think those of us who do intend to sleep, should get some." Feldspar smiled at Rabid. She'd been serious earlier? She wouldn't mind if Rabid...? If she and Rabid...? "Roger, if you're going to stay here, I think you should take the small bedroom."

  "I think I'd better go back to my place," Roger answered.

  "Your choice," Feldspar responded. "The door locks. Ishtar and I could bed down out here. No? Whatever..." Her deep amber eyes moved to Susan. "At any rate way, you and Rabid can share the big bedroom... unless you intend to be a 'good girl'."

  "Never." Susan's left hand strayed to where it'd wanted to be since Rabid sat beside her. He was immense.

  "Good. I'm glad I didn't misjudge you."

  Several hours later Susan's carnal haze cleared long enough for her to understand what Feldspar had meant about "those of us who do sleep." Rabid evidently didn't need to, and required little time to recover. He was all thrust and no style, but what thrusts! For the first time in her life, a man had outlasted her. But it wasn't a competition, she reminded herself as she drifted into gentler dreams. And next time, she'd sap him.

  The clock tower on Old City Hall claimed it was only ten in the evening. Roger knew that was true but in his bones, it felt much later. Exhaustion was creeping up on him as he walked. Dawn was a lifetime ago. He could have stayed with the quest party at the Westshire, probably should have, except... could he have slept with Ishtar so close or would he have lain awake, waiting for her to slip into bed beside him? Easy answer--he wouldn't have slept, and Ishtar wouldn't have visited. She seemed the most committed of the Diluvians and wouldn't do anything to jeopardise the quest. But he would have expected it all the same... lain awake... hoping, waiting... in anticipation... and fear.

  Ishtar wasn't one of the mythical bright-eyed brigade: her passion burned--passion for her cause, passion for life. There was too much person there for even that voluptuous frame to hold--she burst forth from it like a star going nova. How could anyone resist her? And, having failed to resist, would they survive? Roger sensed if he got too near her, her fire would consume him. She was right... he needed protecting--from himself and from her.

  Damn, he must be tired. Daydreams, foolish daydreams. Should have taken the streetcar. To Ishtar, he was a passing fancy... nothing more. No more overweening expectations please--he was a moth avoiding a flame. Had he thought that? Words right out of Maxine Albright's drivel. He trudged. There, at last, the window of his room... home. He'd left the light on?

  They were waiting for him. Not even bothering to hide. Police officers, two of them with a warrant. A search of his room had proven it clean of counterfeit money or any printing apparatus... so could he tell them where the press was located? And would he object to a search of his person--too bad if he did... oh my, what have we here... a few hundred in obviously forged American bills? "In Good we Trust"--was that supposed to be funny? They thought it stupid, that it was like he was trying to be caught.

  Roger agreed, and denied having anything to do with producing the phoney bills but, no; he wouldn't tell them where he had obtained same. Would the Noronto police force believe him if he did? Believe him if he said a dwarf gave it to him, and the perpetrators were from another planet? Not a chance. The Noronto police wouldn't even believe he was a Canadian citizen by the name of Roger O'Brien until they'd checked every scrap of his ID and run it through their computers. At least these officers were a cut above the street patrols. They didn't beat him up before taking him to the station. Roger rather expected that would come after he refused to co-operate in a second interrogation.

  "I want to make my phone call."

  "You watch a lot of TV, don't you, Roger?" A bright smile--Sian Jones, the detective assigned to his case, would never be cast as a detective in the movies. A kindergarten teacher would be more like it--her rosy cheeks and lively dark eyes exuded warmth and a joy of living more suited to that role. "I suppose you want a lawyer as well?"

  "I don't know any."

  "I could introduce you to one, if you'd like." She smiled again. "But why? I just can't see you as a criminal, Roger. Tell me where you got the counterfeit bills, please. Believe me, you don't want to spend the rest of the night in lockup."

  "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

  "Try me." She raised a dark eyebrow. "You might be surprised."

  Why not? She was right--he didn't want to spend the night in jail. Stories of what happened in Noronto cells were legend. Legend... elves, dwarves, quest--what exactly should he tell her? If he told her that and she believed he was telling the truth as he saw it, he'd end up in a different sort of lock-up. Partial truth was called for. "Linda Bedarova's daughter, Ishtar, gave it to me. She's staying at the Westshire with her mother."

  The eyebrow moved higher. "Now that does pose a problem, for me as well as for you. I doubt the Westshire management will connect you to their suite at this hour. You're welcome to try, of course." She sighed. "I can tell you're not lying, and that you're not telling the entire truth. I suppose I could muscle my way through the front desk but if I bother an important visitor like Bedarova and sh
e complains, the chief will have my balls, so to speak."

  Roger tried the phone call, with the result Detective Jones predicted. The front desk politely told him they probably wouldn't put him through to the room even if it were daytime--did he know how many people wanted to talk to Linda Bedarova? And no, Susan Milano wasn't answering her page--she was off duty. He was able to leave a message on her voice mail. "Afraid that'll have to do," Roger told the detective. "Guess you might as well lock me up."

  "I'd rather not. No good will come of that." She tilted her head to one side and examined him closely through narrowed eyes. "I can see why they brought you to me instead of the boys in bunko. You're an anomaly. Except you're not--you're entirely mundane. Roger, what have you got mixed up in? Whatever it is, I think you need help."

  "Mundane?" That stung. "And if you're not part of the fraud squad, then what are you?"

  "You wouldn't believe me." An almost teasing lilt to her voice.

  "Try me."

  "Okay, I maybe will." She stood and came around the desk, freeing her long jet-black hair from its ponytail and shaking it out into wild waves. He tilted his head to meet her eyes. The glint in them forced him to change his earlier assessment. This was no kindergarten teacher, no innocent. But what was she?

  She answered his unvoiced question. "I'm a psychic, Roger... a psychic, a practising Wiccan... if you must, a witch."

  "Right, the Noronto police employ a witch. Sure, I'll buy that."

  "You don't have a high opinion of the force, do you? Roger, the street patrols are thugs because they deal with other thugs, with petty evils. The only thing the soul-dead understand is violence and if I thought you were anything like that, I'd hand you over to the men with rubber truncheons without batting an eye."

  "So, if you aren't, what are you going to do with me?"

  "I'm not quite sure. One thing I do know is my shift is almost over. I wonder...." She took a step back and looked him over, head to toe. "Why not? I'll be back, Roger. Don't go anywhere."

  Fifteen minutes later Roger wished he'd thought to ask when she'd be back. The next day? Maybe he could sneak out. He'd give it another ten before he'd try.

  Detective Jones returned as Roger was starting for the door, after debating whether to extend his deadline another five minutes and deciding enough was enough. Her crisp blue suit was gone, replaced by a summery white frock. She looked like a willowy teenager on the way to the mall until you got to the eyes. Those were ancient, buried deep in her face.

  "Was I wrong to trust you?" She shrugged. "Never mind. Let's go."

  "Where are we going?"

  "I got you released in my custody. Give me your hand."

  "My hand?"

  "They're at the end of your arms--the left one, please." She took it with her right. "Try anything funny and you'll wish you were in lockup. Got it?"

  They walked out of the station house, hand in hand. "Do you want to know about the counterfeits now?" Roger asked when they got to the sidewalk.

  "No. Just shut up and walk. My place is about ten minutes from here." She didn't say another word.

  * * * * *

  At sunrise Ishtar declared the night officially over. After Roger left, damn him and bless him for taking temptation away, she and Feldspar had bedded down in the smaller bedroom--why did a honeymoon suite have a spare room? Another Terran mystery, one she didn't care to solve. It wasn't because the happy couple was expected to have company. The sound insulation in the suite was non-existent, and Susan was a screamer.

  If they didn't get the damn Adornments back soon, Ishtar knew she would go insane and kill someone. If she strangled Feldspar, would that release her from the vow Feldspar had made on her behalf? And how dare that damn vicarious oath-giver still be asleep? She grabbed Feldspar's shoulder and shook.

  "What? What's happened? Is something wrong?"

  "Damn stupid questions if you ask me. Of course there is... damn wrong." The Adornments were on Terra and so were they. Wasn't that enough?

  Feldspar sighed. "Anything I don't know about already?"

  "Probably. You omniscient?"

  "Good morning, Grunt."

  "Ishtar."

  "Act in a godly manner and I'll treat you that way."

  The girl had a point. Just because she felt miserable was no reason to make everyone feel the same way. "Sorry."

  "Rabid and Susan up yet?"

  "Don't know." Ishtar opened the door to the main part of the suite. Faint mewling came from the large bedroom. "Yeah, Rabid is anyway...." She marched across the room and hammered on the door. "Good morning!" Without waiting for an answer she went to the closet by the door where the purchases from the previous day were hung. Let's see... stretchy silver, yesterday... how about stretchy gold today? Damn, Susan would need something... her previous day's clothing would be unwearable. She and Feldspar were close to the same size... yeah, that red sheath dress would do... it would suit Susan more than Belinda anyway... Feldspar had no damn colour sense. Let's see, for Feldspar as Belinda... an androgynous black pantsuit. After all, she was the bad guy.

  The sounds from the main bedroom had changed to those of a running shower. Gee, hope she hadn't ruined anything for anyone... yeah, sure she hoped that... dress in hand, Ishtar returned to the bedroom door, knocked once and went in without asking. Damn place would need to be fumigated. No one in sight--then a moan drifted out of the bathroom over the water sounds... damn animals... and damn, she needed to get laid. Susan's clothes were strewn about. Ishtar kicked them into a pile by a chair and draped the dress over it. The lucky trollop would either get the hint, or not. She left. Probably just as well Rabid and Susan were in the shower... she hadn't bothered to dress and the sight of her would have made either of them wish they'd bedded someone different the previous night... her. She stopped in front of the mirror to admire. Damn, she was hot.

  Susan emerged from the bedroom sooner than Ishtar'd expected. Yeah, that dress was her. Feldspar could wave it good-bye.

  "Thank you," Susan said to Ishtar. "I presume it is you I should thank?"

  "No problem. Do your best to drive Feldspar nuts, okay?" She grinned. For that, all Susan had to do was exist. After all these years Ishtar knew what Feldspar went for and when the girl went the distaff direction Susan was exactly what the Prophesied ordered. "How do you get breakfast around here?"

  "Room service." Susan picked up the telephone. "Hello, the Honeymoon Suite... yes, full breakfast for...." she paused, "make it for eight." She pushed the plunger down with a thumb. "I figure we'll eat it. Might as well check my messages while I'm at it." She punched in a series of numbers, then a few more. The smile on her face disappeared as she listened. She hung up the phone. "Roger's been taken into custody for passing counterfeit money. He says not to spend anything Spinecracker gave you."

  "Where is he?"

  "Main downtown cop shop, he said."

  "Let's go get him."

  "What are you going to use to bail him out?"

  "We've got... damn, you're right." Their cash was useless. "Hey, I bet Linda Bedarova could swing getting him sprung." She started for the small bedroom. Where was that damn Feldspar? Primping? Yeah, got it right in one. "Hey, beautiful... now we do have something new wrong."

  Susan tapped on the door behind them. "We've got another problem, something more serious."

  "What?" What could be worse than Roger being taken captive?

  "The manager called to say I'm fired--don't look at me like that... that's not the bad news--it's that according to him I'm responsible for the Westshire losing their most important guest in years to a rival." She paused for a breath. "Linda Bedarova checked into the Milton Arms late last night."

  * * * * *

  Roger woke up with his right hand cuffed to Sian Jones' bed. His arm hurt. There was a trick to turning over while shackled--there must be--another couple of nights and he might learn it. He also needed to... "Hey, I have to use the washroom. Detective Jones? Please?" She wouldn't
be pleased if he peed in her bed.

  Maybe this morning they could talk. If nothing else, they could find the Diluvians and have them explain to Sian how he got on the wrong side of the law. And where was the Law, this morning? "Hey, Detective Jones... Sian?"

  She appeared in the doorway, rubbing sleep from her eyes. A witch? Did witches wear canary yellow tracksuits? It washed out her skin, made her look sallow--despite her dark hair and eyes, Sian's skin was as pale as Ishtar's. "You sleep well? Sorry about being so abrupt last night...."

  "Please?" He shook the chain. "I really need to...."

  She took the key off the top of the dresser and freed him. He rolled off the bed and ran. Ahhh... barely made it.