Queen of Nothing (Marla Mason Book 9) (2 page)

Rondeau sauntered through the shop with Pelham. This seemed to be one of those bookshops obsessed with taxonomy, with divisions and sub-divisions of category noted on the shelves with handwritten labels. Like, they didn’t just have “Children’s Literature,” they had “19th-Century Children’s Literature” and “Picture Books by Author-Illustrators” and “Weird Creepy Old Children’s Books” and so on. Pelly oohed over a shelf featuring old books on etiquette, full of sample letters for writing to monarchs and cardinals and ambassadors, and guides to formal dining traditions in Austria-Hungary, and sumptuary codes. Rondeau’s interest in books began and ended with crime and mystery novels, and there was a pretty good selection here, including a couple of old McBain’s he hadn’t read yet, in a section marked “Police Procedurals.” The adjacent section on “Amateur PIs” probably deserved a look too.

In an adjacent aisle a woman laughed, a raucous but not unpleasant sound, and it somehow tickled the back of Rondeau’s brain. He didn’t recognize the laugh, exactly, but hadn’t he known someone who laughed
like
that, if in a different voice?

A middle-aged redhead appeared, wearing a blue and white dress in a shifting optical-illusion sort of pattern, clutching a copy of the
Principia Discordia
and chuckling to herself. She caught Rondeau’s eye, winked, and vanished around a shelf. She definitely looked familiar... or was it just that bright red hair, so much like the woman he’d seen sunbathing in Death Valley? Could it be the same person? It was hard to tell—the sunbather had been wearing sunglasses, and rather less clothing—but maybe. Were they being stalked? Or, no, the woman had been here before they arrived, or they would have heard the bell over the door ring when she came in, so... reverse-stalked?

Rondeau didn’t dismiss the idea that he was paranoid, but he also didn’t reject the possibility that he wasn’t. A few moments later he heard the bell tinkle, and leaned out of the aisle to see the woman disappear out the front door, carrying a paper bag with her purchase. Hmm. Just what he needed. More things to worry about.

A moment later, the clerk turned the “Open” sign to “Closed” and walked over to him. “So, uh—Rondeau, was it?”

“That’s me,” he said cheerfully.

“So that’s Mr. Pelham?”

“You’re two for two, Tessa.”

“Sorry for earlier, I just had to check, and then I needed to make sure there was no one else in the shop.” She took a particular book down from the shelf she was standing beside, then put it back in, upside down. She gave Rondeau a smile and walked away.

Okay. That was a weirdly inconclusive interaction. Rondeau turned back to the shelf of mysteries—and instead of the shelf, there was a door, standing partially open, but not wide enough to reveal much of the space beyond, except the presence of more bookshelves there. Definitely not just a secret door; this wasn’t a bookshelf on hinges. This was a magically concealed entrance, and one hidden well enough that even Rondeau’s illusion-sense hadn’t tingled in its presence. (Bradley probably would have seen right through the glamour, but he preferred to see the world as it truly was, while Rondeau cultivated a certain amount of willful blindness; it made the world a prettier place.) Rondeau whistled, and Pelham hurried over to join him. “A half-open door, Pelly. Would you call that an invitation?”

Pelham cleared his throat and rapped his knuckles on the door.

“Come in!” a familiar voice called.

Pelham pushed the door open the rest of the way and stepped through, and Rondeau followed. The door swung shut behind him with a definitive click, and when Rondeau looked back, there was no door visible at all, just a shelf of books... showing not the spines of books but the reverse edge, as if Rondeau had wandered around the back of a bookshelf. He turned back, and suddenly there was Sanford Cole, white-whiskered and diminutive, sitting behind a desk piled high with volumes, peering at an old newspaper through a magnifying glass.

The room was surprisingly bright, with rectangular windows high up on the walls, above the ten-foot-high shelves. There was no sunlight at the moment in San Francisco—it was very nearly night—so that light was coming from elsewhere. Rondeau reached out, tentatively, with his supernatural senses, and decided they were in a pocket dimension, a bit of carved-up and snipped-out space created by a powerful sorcerer for use as a refuge or study.

Cole put down the magnifying glass and gave them a mild smile. “Ah, Rondeau, and Pelham. Always a pleasure. What brings you to my city?”

Rondeau suddenly felt underdressed. Cole was dignity personified. “Sorry to barge in, sir. We’re really looking for B, I mean Bradley, but we weren’t sure how to find him, or even if he was, ah, still around. Like, on this mortal plane or not.”

Cole nodded. “He is, and from what he’s told me, he intends to stay indefinitely. Apparently independent existence suits him, and he is in no great hurry to rejoin his collective. I’m afraid Bradley is not in the city now, though—he’s out on one of the sea islands with his apprentice, Marzi.”

Rondeau raised an eyebrow. “I thought Marzi was going to be
your
apprentice?”

Cole’s smile was a flash, there and gone. “So did she, and Bradley, too. But I told Bradley he was certainly experienced enough to take on his
own
student at this point. He is, after all, a tiny fragment of the intelligence that oversees the integrity of the multiverse itself. I have, of course, been happy to help and offer my guidance as needed.”

“Having a student helps keep Bradley tethered to our world, too, huh?” Rondeau said. “Gives him something to do, so he doesn’t take off and get re-absorbed into the godhead, or whatever.”

Cole’s smile was warmer now. “Marla always insisted you were more astute than you liked to let on, Rondeau. Yes, that angle did occur to me. It is pleasant to have Bradley back. I understand the burdens of responsibility, and the inescapable call of duty, but if Bradley can find a way to do his great work while still allowing some part of himself to dwell among friends, that is the most desirable of all possible outcomes. Why are you looking for him? Not more trouble, I hope, like that dreadful business with the Outsider?”

Pelham said, “Mrs. Mason was supposed to return from the underworld three days ago.”

Cole nodded. “Oh, I know. I keep her cycle marked on my calendar. It’s good to know when Marla Mason is abroad and walking up and down in the world.” He laced his fingers together on his desktop. “But I note you say ‘was supposed to.’”

“She never showed.” Rondeau looked around for a place to sit, was disappointed, and settled for leaning against a shelf instead, arms crossed. “We waited three days... it seemed like a mythic interval, I don’t know... and then we started to get really worried.”

“She
is
a god,” Cole said. “I can’t pretend to know what the lives of such beings entail—I have avoided consorting with such forces whenever possible, beyond a few ill-considered youthful forays—but I imagine her existence is quite complicated. Perhaps she’s simply dealing with a matter of some importance?”

Rondeau chewed his lower lip for a moment. “I dunno, Cole. Her bargain with her husband was, she’d spend a month in the underworld, and a month living as a mortal. One on, one off. She was pretty clear about that, and I get the idea that when gods make a deal, they stick to it. That their laws are less like contracts and more like gravity. It’s not like Marla is the only god of death. It’s a whole duality thing. Her husband could step in to cover her, right?”

“Unless something happened to Mr. Mason, too,” Pelham said quietly. “If something happened to Death himself.”

“You decided against summoning an oracle to ask after Marla?” Cole said. And then: “Ah. You want
Bradley
to summon an oracle instead. To take the danger and burden of repaying the oracle on himself.”

Rondeau almost ducked his head, but he settled for a shrug. “It’s half cowardice, sure. You heard about the thing that happened with the Pit Boss? The last oracle I summoned stole all my money and kicked me out of Las Vegas.”

“I understand that is because you made an ill-advised bargain with the creature.”

Rondeau lit up. “Yeah! Exactly! It was a
terrible
bargain! I have the same powers to summon oracles that Bradley does, but he’s got more experience, and a better natural sense, and, hell, he’s just
better
than I am. Me and Bradley are both driving high-powered sports cars, but he knows how to handle his. I just flip mine over and end up in a ditch.”

“It’s true that you’ve received no formal training in the use of your powers,” Cole said. “Though I gather you haven’t been interested in pursuing such studies?”

“I’m a lazy hedonist, Cole. I’m happy sitting around in my suite at the hotel playing video games and eating lobster. I don’t
want
to be a crazy powerful sorcerer. I wouldn’t even be here right now, except....” He shrugged. “Marla.”

Cole nodded. “Marla. She does inspire a certain loyalty. It isn’t easy to become her friend, but once you do, it’s forever. She’s demonstrated a willingness to destroy the fabric of reality itself to help a friend. You know she’d do anything for you.”

Rondeau snorted. “I dunno if I’d go
that
far. When I fuck up she’s pretty happy to let me twist for a while.”

“Don’t be uncharitable.” Pelham’s voice was sharp. He thought Marla Mason hung the moon, and the stars, and probably the space station and satellites and most of the planets besides. “Mrs. Mason intervened with the Pit Boss and returned you to your position and status in Las Vegas. She just wanted to make sure you had time to learn from your mistakes first.”

Rondeau nodded. “I did learn. I haven’t summoned an oracle for anything important since.”

Cole said “Mmm. It’s up to Bradley, of course. But have you considered attempting conventional divination?”

“We know enough about divination spells to find a lost set of keys, but that’s about it,” Rondeau said. “Besides, I mean... she’s a part-time
god
. She can’t be easy to find.”

“Divination magic is a specialty of mine.” Cole rummaged in the drawers of his desk and drew out a roll of purple velvet cloth. He opened it on the desk, revealing a small brass bowl and a clear glass tube full of small sticks with dark heads. “Lucifer matches, from 1829. They were swiftly made redundant by the invention soon after of phosphorus matches. But I bought these, and enchanted them. Now, let me see, where is my special inkwell....” He opened another drawer, removing a quill pen, a ragged scrap of hand-pressed paper, and a black inkwell. “Ink mixed with my own blood, and a charm to prevent coagulation.” He dipped the quill and scrawled something on the paper, then opened the tube and carefully removed a match. Cole didn’t strike the match, just stared at it, and the head burst into flame with a sudden flare and accompanying chemical stench. He held the paper to the match and when it began to burn, dropped the flaming scrap into the brass bowl.

The smoke that rose up was copious and thick, mostly black but streaked with gray threads, and weirdly odorless. Cole stared at the smoke, grunted, and then waved his hand through the smoke, dispersing it. “Marla Mason is nowhere in this world, or if she is, she is hidden so well even I cannot discern her position. Such concealment is certainly within the power of a god. Has it occurred to you that, perhaps, she doesn’t wish to be found?”

“What, that she found some other route to re-enter the world besides her sandbox in Death Valley and she just didn’t tell us?” Rondeau scowled. “That she ditched us? I mean, maybe. Last time she was on Earth, after we beat the Outsider... things got kind of fraught at the end. We were all pretty surprised when Marla teamed up with Regina Queen and froze Nicolette into a block of magical ice for all eternity.”

Cole nodded. “I heard about that. Bradley was very disappointed in Marla. He thought her refusal to recognize Nicolette’s redemption and transformation, her dedication to leading Felport, was a regrettable lapse in judgment. Small-minded and spiteful, I believe he said.”

Rondeau nodded. “Also nasty and vengeful, and I say that as someone who hated Nicolette from guts to garters. Marla’s been going on and on for months about how she’s trying to do better—she even has those words tattooed on her wrist! And then when Nicolette actually gets her shit together, and helps us capture the Outsider too, Marla turns on her. I couldn’t understand it.”

“I’m sure Mrs. Mason had her reasons.” Pelham was loyal, as always, but even his voice had an edge of doubt.

“Didn’t she task the two of you with... getting rid of Regina Queen?” Cole said.

“You mean did Marla tell us to murder the person she used as a tool to stop Nicolette? She sure did.” Rondeau shuddered. “Like we’re assassins now? I mean, yeah, Regina Queen’s as evil as the sun is bright, but still. I’m not a killer if I can help it, though. We made a deal with the new boss of Felport, Perren River. She put those lunatics Squat and Crapsey on her payroll, to keep them from causing trouble—better to have them inside the tent pissing out than outside pissing in, that sort of thing. She sent the deranged duo after Regina Queen, with their expedition funded by a hefty contribution from my personal coffers. I hear they got the job done.”

“An elegant solution, in its way,” Cole said. “I’m sorry Marla put you in the position to come up with it.”

“Yeah. I guess maybe Marla’s off somewhere sulking because we all got mad at her, but....” Rondeau shook his head. “What if she’s in trouble? If we find her and she tells us to fuck off and leave her alone, that’s one thing. But I’m not going to stop looking if she might need help.”

Cole nodded. “Bradley and Marzi will be back tomorrow. Perhaps he’ll have better luck tracking her down than I did. In the meantime, do you have a place to stay?”

“We’re open to recommendations,” Rondeau said. “We’re not picky. Any of the best hotels in the city will do.”

Oracular Emperor

Bradley Bowman, often known as B to his friends, sat in the window of the Borderlands Café in the mission, sipping a strawberry lemonade and watching people stroll by on the street. Rondeau and Pelham were late, which wasn’t surprising. Rondeau was often
calamitously
late, and Pelham was always scrupulously on time, so when the two of them joined forces, they split the difference, and were usually only moderately tardy.