"I heard that!" Amanda's contralto sang out, though she was nowhere visible.
The elf's smile broadened. "You see," he said softly, then raised his voice and continued, "... albeit a rather charming one."
"That's better," the anima replied.
I shook my head. "Does she live here?"
"Not as such," Greybriar responded. "She comes and goes pretty much as she wishes. Although she does always seem to put in an appearance when I have guests, whether business or social. On occasion a touch awkward, that."
I had to chuckle. "Is Amanda her real name?"
"Not her True Name, no. She-suggested I call her that, and it seems to suit her, wouldn't you say?"
The elf rubbed his hands together briskly and said, "Well, down to business. What is it, exactly, that I can do for you?"
"I need magical protection," I told him bluntly. "Some kind of"-I hesitated, not knowing the correct terms-"some kind of magical burglar alarm. I'll be staying in an apartment. I need something to keep things out."
"I see." Greybriar nodded, steepling his fingers and touching them to his lips. "And exactly what is it that you expect to be coming to call?"
"A city spirit, I think."
He raised an eyebrow. "Oh? You've got on the wrong side of a shaman, have you?"
"Not that I know of."
"Then why a city spirit?"
I hadn't intended to raise the topic, but now it seemed sensible to give the elf more information. I quickly summarized the events that led to Naomi's death, leaving out her name, of course.
Greybriar listened without interruption, his brows drawing closer and closer together as I continued.
When I finished, he was silent for a moment. Then he asked slowly, "The official conclusion was a city spirit, is that true?" I nodded, and the elf's frown deepened. "It might have been a city spirit," he went on, "but from the description I tend to doubt it."
"What was it, then?"
He shrugged. "It could have been many things." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, still watching me keenly from either side of his steepled fingers. "Actually, though, the nature of the culprit disturbs me less than other matters. Are you familiar with the magical protections that Lone Star uses?"
"No," I answered.
"In specific terms, neither am I," Greybriar admitted. "But I know very well how I'd go about it, and I can't imagine that an organization like Lone Star would cut corners when it came to astral security." He fixed me with a cool and steady gaze. "That thing, whatever it is, simply should not have been able to do what it did."
"Hold it," I said. "I always thought that if something's powerful enough, it could break through any kind of protection. Or is that drek?"
"No, it's not drek. Magic is like anything else: there is no such thing as an unbreakable barrier. Just like the bulletproof windows in a corporate office won't stop an artillery shell. But, think of this, what would happen if you were to fire an artillery shell through a corp office's window? Would you then be free to climb in and go about your nefarious business?"
I snorted, and Greybriar nodded in agreement."Precisely," he said. "You'd have set off who knows how many alarms, and alerted everyone not deaf.
"The same would be true with crashing through the magical protection," he went on. "Lone Star probably has magical barriers, wards, and doubtless spirits or elementals patrolling astrally. An attempted penetration, in the middle of the day, would certainly trigger alarms and alert every magically active employee in the building. Did either of these happen? No." He paused. "So much more to this than meets the eye."
Just like everything else. I nodded slowly. "I'll keep that in mind," I told him.
"Do that." He sat back in his chair. "As to your defense problems, I can help you, but it will be expensive." I nodded in agreement. "Wards as primary defense, I think, with a fire elemental on patrol. And perhaps a watcher spirit to alert you if anything engages the elemental. Does that sound adequate?"
"You're the mage," I told him.
"All right, then. How long will you need the protection?"
I thought about that. "A week," I said. "To start with."
"Hmmm," the elf murmured, "that will be expensive. My standard rate for a week would be seven thousand nuyen."
"Cut him a deal." Amanda's thrilling contralto sounded from nowhere.
Greybriar rolled his eyes in apparent disgust, but the half-smile playing about his lips seemed more indulgent than anything else. Interesting. "Considering the fact that Amanda likes you," he continued smoothly, "I think . . . five thousand?" He waited for an answer from the empty air, but none came. "Five thousand," he confirmed. "Is that acceptable?"
I sighed. It wasn't acceptable, but it was better than getting my head ripped off. "Deal," I told him. I made the appropriate credit transfer, and gave him the address of Naomi's apartment.
As I was leaving, Amanda's disembodied voice whispered in my ear, "See you around, Derek." I hoped not.
Another fragging angle, I grouched to myself as I drove southwest into deepest darkest downtown-corruption in Lone Star itself. How else could the thing have got through to geek Naomi?
Then I remembered I'd already found evidence of nasty drek at the Star: the missing-but-not-deleted files in the Avatar directory. Frag this multi-conspiracy biz. It was much too easy to forget something. I was definitely getting much too old for this drek.
I wasn't looking forward to the next step in my plan, but I saw no better option at the moment.
Following my assumption that X was some kind of middle-manager at Yamatetsu and that he (or she) was the one who handled the contact with Sutcliffe in Fort Lewis, I had to figure a way of attracting the murderer's attention without giving him any reason to suspect a trap. Not easy. Even harder would be finding a way of closing that trap.
What the frag did I think I was doing? part of my mind mattered. Did I really think I could bring down X? Yes, another part answered forcefully. I was mad as hell. Cranked up and ready to rock.
I still didn't have the solution to how I'd draw X out of his shell. But I understand enough about the way my mind works to know how to provide it with the background it needs. One of the things it needed was a better feel for the Yamatetsu Corporation.
I parked my car in the Seattle Hilton parking lot at Sixth and University, leaving my Manhunter locked in the glove box, then walked the three blocks to the City Center Building at Fifth and Pike. Yamatetsu's Seattle headquarters was another heritage building, built in the late 1980s, I'd guess, and restored to its turn-of-the-century retro opulence maybe a decade ago. I walked in through the revolving doors-how long since those were in common use?-knowing very well that hidden electronics were scanning my body for offensive weaponry. Then I was into the marble-tiled lobby. I looked up. The lobby was double-height, more than ten meters from floor to ceiling, with a mezzanine looking down into the entranceway. Suspended from the high ceiling were two huge inverted bowls of what had to be real glass, turquoise and aquamarine swirled together in artful artless-ness, like "end-of-day" glass. The bowls glowed with internal light, creating a deeply peaceful ambience throughout the space. I rode the escalator up to the mezzanine, which was carpeted in rich, dark hues rather than floored with polished marble. Antique 1990-vintage furniture formed cozy and inviting "conversation groupings," and here and there glowing glass cases displayed turn-of-the-century and contemporary works of an in ceramic, crystal, and light sculpture. Anywhere else, I'd have been sure without a doubt that the art objects and antiques were copies. Here, though, in this elegant environment, I was convinced they were authentic.
I strolled toward the elevator core. To my right was a small, oh-so-trendy wine bar, already doing brisk trade from well-dressed corporators getting a jump on the cocktail hour. To my left, a row of little boutiques, the kind where you've got to show a triple-A credit rating to even get past the front door.
Directly in front of me was the inevitable security desk,
situated between casual visitors like me and the elevators.
In most corp buildings, such a desk would have been manned by a hard-faced troll crammed into a security guard's uniform. Here, though, I encountered an elegantly beautiful young woman wearing an outfit I took to be a turn-of-the-century business suit, in a blue that harmonized perfectly with the lights overhead.
She matched the antique ambience of the place almost to a T, the only anachronistic feature being the optical fiber running from the desk to her datajack.
As I approached, she greeted me with a warm smile. The expression didn't seem to reach her eyes, however. In fact, those eyes seemed to glitter in a faintly unnatural manner, and I guessed that my image was being electronically transferred from her modified optics to a database in her security desk.
"Good afternoon," she said politely, "may I help you?"
I shook my head. "Just rubbernecking," I told her, putting on my best tourist's golly-gee smile. "Does this whole building belong to Yamatetsu?":
"That's correct, sir. Just a moment, please." She paused, seeming to glance off into infinity. I figured a call or message must be coming in on her datajack. I started to walk away, but she'd come back to herself.
"Sorry, sir," she said, "is there anything else I can help you with?"
Suddenly I was uneasy. It was as though the young woman's silent communication symbolized everything that was going on. I was in the stronghold of my enemy- X-and I felt it, profoundly and disturbingly. But I kept my inane smile in place. "No thanks," I said amiably. "Have a good afternoon." I kept on moving, heading for the down escalator.
"Sir." The voice sounded sharply behind me. Male, and definitely backed by considerable resonant space. Instinctively I glanced back.
One of the elevator doors had opened to reveal three men-troll, ork, and human-in dark green security uniforms. All three were armed, although none had yet drawn his weapon. I picked up my pace and wished for my Manhunter. A group of sararimen were stepping onto the escalator. If I could duck in among them, the odds were reasonable that nobody would start shooting. I might just get out of this. Just.
"Sir," the troll snapped again. I took two running steps toward the elevator. . .
And pitched forward, to land in a heap on the carpeted floor. I tried to move, but my muscles refused to respond. It was like I was a passenger in my own body, and somebody had turned off the power.
I was face-down, right cheek against the carpet. My eyes were open, but I couldn't move them, and all I could see was my right shoulder. I could still feel pain-specifically, my jaw, knee, and ribs, which had taken the impact when I'd crumpled-but that was it.
My field of vision shifted, and I knew the sec-guards had rolled me over. I looked up-totally helpless-into their faces. The human, small and thin in comparison to his burly companions, turned to the troll and said, "Told you I'd get him."
The troll grunted. "Finish it," he ordered.
The human pointed his index finger between my eyes. "Good night," he said quietly.
Down came the curtain, out went the lights, and that was it.
Chapter 18.
Consciousness returned as suddenly as it had departed, more like a switch being flicked on than the slow ascent into wakefulness typical of natural sleep. At the time, of course, I didn't give a frag how consciousness returned, as long as it did. I'd had no way of knowing what the security mage-which was what the weaselly human had to be-was going to do with his spell when he had brought his finger to bear.
He could as easily have been turning me into a fragging tree as putting me to sleep.
Well, I was no tree. I was awake, and my body seemed to be back under my own control. Lot of good it did me at the moment.
I was in the back seat of a luxury car-a Mitsubishi Nightsky, I guessed-pressed between the bulks of two fellow passengers. The chummer to my right was a troll, the guy to my left was human but only marginally smaller than his colleague. Both towered over me, and I felt like a kid in the company of an Urban Brawl team. My minders wore high-fashion business suits, I noticed.
As the car rounded a corner, I "accidentally" swayed back and forth between the two of them. No armor that I could detect, just iron-hard ridges of muscle under the fabric. Natural or augmented? It didn't really matter. I was convinced that either one could have torn me in two without breaking a sweat. Neither responded in any apparent way to my return to consciousness, although I knew they were well aware of it.
These boys, in their thousand-nuyen suits, were pros all the way.
Which made me feel better about my situation. Marginally. If my immediate death was the goal, I'd never have regained consciousness. I'd have been reduced to goo and washed down the drain, or transformed into a fragging ported palm to grace some building's roof garden. So I didn't think I needed seriously fear a bullet in the back of the neck in a dark alley, not at once. And as long as I was alive, I had a chance of escaping or otherwise prolonging that condition.
Of course, the prospects for the immediate future still were not too pleasant. Assuming that my current minders were in the employ of X-a logical assumption-then they'd be taking me to someone whose responsibility would be to find out what I knew and who else knew it. Probably in a number of unpleasant ways. Which put escape as the first order of business.
But also totally impossible at the moment. I couldn't move a muscle without one or both of my monolithic minders knowing it. I was unarmed and totally outmatched in hand-to-hand combat. A polarized barrier separated the rear seat, where I was, from the driver in the front seat, so no chance of orchestrating a crash. Not promising.
"Where are we going?" I asked. Predictably, no answer, not even the slightest acknowledgment that I'd spoken.
I checked the side windows. They were partially darkened, which probably meant they were opaque to anyone trying to look in. From the inside, however, I could see out, but not clearly. We were on a wide boulevard flanked with trees. At first I had no clue to our location, but then I saw the rolling fairways of a perfectly manicured golf course. I checked my watch: only about half an hour since I'd entered City Center Building. That told me where we were-cruising northeast on Madison-and gave me a good idea where we were going-the luxury district of Madison Park.
Set on the shore of Lake Washington, Madison Park was one of the most famous-or most notorious-luxury enclaves within the Seattle sprawl. It was like Beaux Arts Village, but even more so, an area of trees, beaches, rolling hills, and a golf course. A fragging golf course! How many hectares does a golf course take up, all the while people in Redmond and Puyallup are scragging each other for a two-square-meter squat in an alley? I'm not a Rational Communist or a Neoanarchist or any other fringe "ist," but sometimes the disparity between the two ends of the socioeconomic scale hits so hard even I can't ignore it.
Obviously, if Redmond squatters are willing to geek each other for a piece of alley, they certainly aren't going to respect a sign that says, "Keep golf carts three meters from green." Equally obviously, since the Madison Park golfers have no need to step around squatters as they stride the fairways, the golf course must have some pretty significant security. In fact, the whole Madison Park district does. When I called it an "enclave," I chose that word on purpose. There wasn't a spike-topped wall, but the boundaries of the region were protected. By unobtrusive checkpoints on all the roads leading in, said checkpoints manned by well-armed, -armored, and -paid "private security consultants"-in fact, Madison Park's own private police force and army. Ne'er-do-wells, tourists, rubberneckers, and other personae non gratae are turned back before they can penetrate too far into the sacrosanct region, while uninvited guests who find ways of bypassing the checkpoints are apprehended and dealt with in the most expedient manner, what with me private army, plus very intense enforcement provided by Lone Star, Madison Park has the lowest crime rate in the city, but the highest rate of "suspects shot while trying to escape" or "fatalities while resisting arrest."
As fo
r the houses themselves, well, most of them aren't so much houses as mansions. Usually set in multi-hectare grounds, surrounded by high walls and patrolled by armed guards or guard animals. They say "a man's home is his castle," and the residents of Madison Park take that precept very much to heart.
The Nightsky continued northwest, then swung right. I tried to see the street name, but the signs in Madison Park are so discreet as to be virtually invisible. (I guess the rationale is that if you don't know where you're going, you shouldn't be going there.) All I knew was that we were heading toward the water.
Then we reached our destination. The big car took a sharp left and cruised through a huge gate in an equally huge wall. As soon as the car was through, the gates began to whir shut behind us. I caught a glimpse of a security guard in a black uniform standing at attention as we passed, Heckler & Koch SMG at picture-perfect port-arms.
The car sighed to a stop in front of the house. My human minder looked down at me, and said quietly, "Let's keep this civilized, okay? You're a guest." (Yeah, right.) Then he swung open his door and climbed out, with an economy of motion-grace, even-that belied his huge size. "Please come this way, sir," he suggested.
I slid across the seat, glad to be out from between the two mountains of muscle. Trying to keep it casual, I got out of the car and glanced around.
If I was going to make my bid for freedom, this was not the time. My human minder stood three meters away. He had no weapon in his hand, but he looked poised and ready, easily capable of tearing my head off. Even if I'd found a way of disabling or avoiding him, visible weapons were also in the offing. Two more security guards flanked the front door of the house, their SMGs weren't pointed at me-quite-but they could be brought to bear instantly. And then, just to clinch the issue, I felt a looming presence at my back.
The troll was out of the car, too. I sighed, discarded even the faintest idea of making a break.
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