The Book of Air: Volume Four of the Dragon Quartet (49 page)

Baraga strides over to stare down at the girl. “How much longer do we have?”

One of the technicians shrugs. “If you hurry, you’ll get the shot.”

“Good. Stay in tight until I tell you to clear.” He turns to the clipboard man, who is dogging his heels. “Time?”

The man checks a stopwatch. “Commercial break ends in three minutes.”

Baraga nods and turns to the big camera, which has been rolled up beside him. He adjusts it slightly, presses a few buttons. “Take the master from here,” he says to the operator. He crosses to the second camera, positioned for a close-up of the girl’s face. When he’s arranged it to his satisfaction, he touches the nearest white-coated medic on the shoulder. “Don’t let her die on me too soon. Let her go as slow as you can. We need the footage.”

“Yessir, Mr. Baraga.”

Die? Don’t let her die too soon?
Paia’s elaborate rationale crumbles. Dizzy and terrified, she snatches at Fire for support, but he’s not there. He’s moving toward the circle of light, and Paia supposes with a sinking heart that he’s zeroing in to enjoy a closer look. But his back is more than usually erect, and he glides rather than walks, a reversion to less human phases of his man-form. He stops just inside the bright circle, taller than any man in the room. The light falls on him as it had on Baraga earlier, setting his red tunic and red-gold hair aglow, glinting off his golden nails and on the faint gilded profile of the scales that have risen up like hackles on his cheeks and neck.

“Kenzo. What is this?”

“What’s what?” Baraga barely glances away from the third camera’s view screen as he lines up the shot.

“What are you doing here?”

Baraga chuckles into the little screen. “I knew you’d approve. It’s kind of an underground thing from the early days of video. Used to call it a snuff flick. I figure people out there are tired of holos and sims. If this doesn’t boost the ratings, nothing will.”

“You will stop this now.”

“Don’t make a scene, now. You’ll throw off my actors. Don’t worry, I’ll give you all the time you want when I’m done.”

Baraga eases the camera this way, then that, oblivious to what everyone else in the big dark room sees and is backing away from: Fire’s ominous glow, his increasingly towering height, the angry hiss of his serpentine curls. The bloody knife clatters to the floor as the big actor shoves past the makeup man and flees into the shadowed perimeter of the room.

“Listen to me, Kenzo Baraga. You will stop this abomination now!”

“What? What?” Baraga lifts his head from the screen at last. He sees he’s suddenly alone with a bunch of equipment in a big open space. His only companions are the bleeding girl and the medic whose hands are staunching the flow. Apparently that one fears Baraga’s wrath more than the dragon’s. Baraga seems unruffled, except for his irritation at the delay. Paia thinks he is either very dense or very confident. He plants his hands on his hips, gazing point-blank into Fire’s chill fury, and sighs. “What
is
the problem?”

“Bind her wounds. Let her go.”

“What? No way. I have a ton of money invested in this.”

“Do it!”

“Wait a minute!” Baraga looks incredulous. “I’m hearing this from you? My evil angel is getting squeamish? The flaming demon of my dreams is suddenly bothered by a little reality video? I can’t believe it!”

Paia is not sure she can believe it either. Astonishment shoves horror into the background temporarily. What’s come over Fire? Is this another of his poses, or a genuine change of heart?

“Don’t argue about it,” growls Fire. “Just stop it. Now.”

“No.” Having moved past his surprise, Baraga is getting angry. “Absolutely not. I’ve done nothing illegal here. The girl is bought and paid for. Now her father will be able to feed the rest of his family for the next six months, maybe even a year if he isn’t reckless. She has three younger brothers who might now make it to adulthood. She’s fortunate she can offer them such a gift! Besides, who are you to object?”

Paia hears strong echoes of the God’s rationalizing rhetoric in Baraga’s justification. She wonders if Fire hears them, too.

“This is not a necessary death, Kenzo. She is no threat to you.”

“She’d have died on the streets anyway before she was twenty.”

“This is torture, for the pleasure of it.”

“Hey, she’s not in pain. Scared, maybe, but we’ve got her on an anesthetic. What do you think I am?”

“A monster.”

Baraga laughs. “Oh, that’s rich. I’m the monster now. You’re going soft, I swear. Look at you all puffed up and furious. What’s going on? I’ve never known you to mind a little mayhem.”

“I mind when you misuse the power I gave you.”

“You didn’t call it misuse when I took care of those little odds and ends you wanted dealt with.”

“Those deaths served a larger purpose. A kill should always be
necessary
. And it should be done quickly and cleanly.”

“Oh, it’s predator’s ethics we’re talking about here? How old-fashioned. Well, this isn’t about ethics, it’s about money. My money.” Baraga goes into motion now, pacing about, shaking an angry finger at the scaled giant towering over him. “What do you know about what’s necessary? What do you know about what sells? What do you know about human tastes?”

“More than I ever cared to.”

“Ah, now we’re into aesthetics. Look, I’m the sales expert here, and I’ll tell you what: people don’t
want
a clean kill. Or a justified one. They want it the way they see it in the world: random, messy, and violent. They don’t want it
noble, and they don’t want it metaphorical. They want it real and dirty. They want to see every drop of blood. They want to hear every last gasp.” Still pacing, Baraga shrugs elaborately. “Who am I to question? I just give them what they want.”

On the shadow’s edge, Paia shudders in empathy. Fire cannot fail to hear the echoes now. These are his own words flung back at him.

“And I’ve given you what you want. So bind her wounds or end it quickly. Otherwise, I’ll withdraw my patronage.”

The Media King’s head snaps up, and his full mouth tightens. “Yeah? Terrific. You go ahead. I can manage without you just fine.”

“Kenzo, I’m warning you. No patronage means no protection. Do not take my mercy for granted.”

“Threats, Fiero?” Baraga folds his arms and leans against the boxy camera in a show of swagger. “I’ve got the greatest security organization around.”

“Indeed? And where are they now?”

Baraga waves a negligent hand. “I’ve only to raise the alarm.”

Fire shakes his head solemnly. His bleak and implacable gaze makes the circuit of the empty room, boring into the tiered ranks of faces at the control room window, into the crowd at the half open door. “They’re watching, oh, so eagerly, but they’re not helping, are they? You’re just another thrilling episode of reality video as far as they’re concerned. The truth is, Kenzo, you’ve been deserted, as I was, in your last hour.”

“What last hour? What are you talking about?”

“If I’m finally going to destroy the monster that is humanity, I might as well start with those of my own creation.”

“Threats again? Remember, I know what you are! You can’t pick up a glass or open your own door! What’re you gonna do to me? You’re a vision, a nonthing. Your psychic laser only hurts if the victim believes it will. You may have the rest of them pissing in their pants, but me? I know better.” He steps away from the camera and stoops for the knife dropped by the frightened actor. It leaves a puddle of blood behind as he snatches it up. “You can’t even stop me if . . .” Faster than Paia has time to comprehend and
react, Baraga is beside her, has grabbed her and put the knife to her throat. “If I decide to use this pretty lady as a substitute when the first one’s gone wasted?”

The knife is no mere prop. It’s actually done the cutting so horribly evident on the dying girl’s body. Paia feels its edge as a thin, cold line against her skin. She knows better than to struggle. She’d be terrified, but she knows something else that Kenzo Baraga does not.

An interesting thing happens during the suspended moment while Baraga grips her tight against him, breathing hard from defiance and adrenaline, while the knife blade warms from her own nervous heat, while Fire watches and watches, each second stretching into an eternity. As he watches, the visible signs of his fury diminish. His snarl fades, and with it, his gilded glow and his scales. The wildfires of outrage die in his eyes, leaving them empty and remote, no longer golden but as black as the eternal void. It’s a look of failure, of profound defeat.

When at last he moves, it’s like Time restarting. Only a pace or two between them, but this also seems to take forever until, with the speed of a snake strike, Fire grabs Baraga’s arm, jerks the knife clear and crushes the Media King’s wrist to pulp in his gilt-clawed fist.

Baraga cries out in pain and shock and disbelief. The knife spins through the air, away into darkness, clattering wetly against nameless machinery. Paia is flung out of Baraga’s grasp, stumbling against the camera. Fire has him by the throat and he’s writhing, gasping for help. But those watching from the shadows are not soldiers. Their only loyalty is to their paychecks. And if a few of them are concerned enough to alert the sentries in the outer halls, it’s too late by the time those boys in uniform storm the door of the studio, automatic weapons raised before them like talismans of their faith.

By then, Fire has already taken Baraga’s head between both hands, as if the stunned and struggling man was straw or feathers, and twisted once. The crunch is like sticks breaking. Fire holds the limp weight aloft for a moment, shakes it gently, then lets it drop. He steps over the corpse, man-sized again but no less intimidating. He stops beside the bleeding girl and pins the terrified medic with a surprisingly gentle regard. “Can you save her?”

The man swallows. “I’ll sure try.”

“See that you do.”

With a deft and iron twisting of his fingers, Fire snaps the girl’s manacles, then turns away toward Paia.

“Come, beloved,” he says with a tired sigh. “We have an appointment to keep.”

“
W
hat is it, dear knight?” Erde cannot imagine how the old man could have succeeded where the dragons so far have failed. But she’s just seen Captain Wender turn away with a grim look, and she refuses to join these men in their gloom and despair. Hal’s scholarly side has proved useful before. “What is their Purpose?”

The wind has come up again, flinging snow into Hal’s haggard face as he stares up at the dragon and struggles to speak.

“Milady,” Wender pleads. “Let me bring him inside, out of this damnable weather, before you get him started again with theories and explanations!”

“Of course, Captain! Though he would be warm enough, tucked next to the dragon.”

“And what about the rest of us?” complains Rainer, dryly amused.

“Oh! I . . . forgive me! I . . .!” Again, Erde is too flustered to continue. It seems she will never get a full sentence out in the young king’s presence.

“Come, Kurt,” he says briskly. “Shelter for all.”

He orders the braziers stoked, food and wine brought, then gestures his knights into position around the pavilion. Graciously, he offers his own arm to support the protesting but still tottering Hal through the thickening snow into the comparative warmth of the tent. Inside, Wender hangs Hal’s sword back on its hook, and draws up a circle of fur-draped camp chairs. Hal stalls at the doorway, staring in dismay at the chaos of books and papers and lanterns and jumbled furniture. Erde sees him calculating the depth of
his plunge into fevered unreason. He lets Rainer lower him into the nearest chair.

“How long, Kurt?” he asks quietly.

“Milord?”

“How long was I . . . unwell?”

Wender decides to play it lightly. “Depends, milord.”

“On what?”

“On where you think the borderline might be.” Wender gestures toward the higher, messier stacks of books. “It all sounds crazy to me, so who am I to judge?”

“You’re a patient man, Kurt.” Hal’s shoulders relax, and he smiles, rubbing his chin. “I sure need a trim.”

“Indeed, milord.”

The smile and the calmer manner bring back the elder knight of Erde’s fond memory. She settles into the chair next to him once the king has indicated that he prefers to remain standing for a while. “I’m so relieved.”

“No more than I.” He glances at his hands, sees that they’re smeared with mud and dried blood. “Kurt, some hot water, when you have the chance.” Wender has it ready, and a clean cloth, and is just clearing space on one of the tables when a boy appears with food and warmed wine. Hal washes intently, as if a proper scrubbing might scour away the shame of his madness. With dripping hands, he slicks back his unkempt hair, then turns stiffly in his chair to eye his king, who leans against a tent pole, watching.

“You’re very quiet, my liege.”

“I’m savoring the relief of having you back again.”

“You’re very kind to say so. And I, of course, have no idea of how to apologize.”