The Business Of Death, Death Works Trilogy (60 page)

“But nature doesn’t always win out. A Stirrer visited me today. Walked through my braces, and it had this on its wrist.” I draw the symbol in the air.

Mr. D slaps my hand. “You don’t want to be drawing that symbol here!”

“What is it?”

“Nothing good, that’s for sure.”

“I thought this was my region.”

“It is, but regions are always imperiled, and that symbol’s a siege engine of a most terrible sort. I haven’t seen it since—”

“Would the name Francis Rillman be tied up with it by any chance?” I get out of my chair and round on Mr. D. “What the fuck is it that you’re hiding from me?”

Mr. D smiles. It’s an expression that I suspect he thinks is calming but it’s actually the most irritating thing I’ve seen all day, particularly as it is wrapped in his various faces. “I assure you, Steven, that I’m not trying to hide anything from you. I don’t work that way, and if anyone should know that it’s you.” He sees his approach isn’t exactly working and sighs. “Yes, Rillman is involved. He was one of the best Ankous I ever had. Better than Morrigan, and more trustworthy—or so I thought. Francis failed the Orpheus Maneuver, but before that he had started a Schism. And like Morrigan he made deals with the Stirrers, but unlike Morrigan he’d designed a new symbol. I can’t tell you what sort of genius that must take, but there hadn’t been a new symbol in pomping since the Renaissance.

“He used his in a most peculiar way. He stole my powers—well, learned to mimic them. But he wasn’t smart enough—or was perhaps too smart. He killed his beloved, Maddie. You see, she was a Pomp. I liked her, too. Steven, always know your staff. Know them as deeply as you can, watch their careers, and watch your back. She was against
his Schism, she refused to become a Black Sheep, even tried to stop him. And when that happened everything fell apart for him. He tried to get her back and when I stopped him, well, he wasn’t happy. His Schism gambit had failed and he had lost his love. And theirs was a grand love, in spite of his ambitions. It sometimes works out that way. You know, I think he would have succeeded but for me. He certainly had Neti’s support.”

“Aunt Neti?”

“Yes, she could see the romance in it. But I think, too, she was pleased that he came to her, that he followed the traditions.”

“She certainly thinks poorly of me.”

“You’re an RM. It doesn’t matter what she thinks.” He sips on his tea. “I really believe, now, that he may have been the inspiration for Morrigan’s Schism—only Morrigan was more thorough, and heartless. But that old bastard never got his hands on the new symbol. That, I kept hidden.”

“You could have told me about it.”

Mr. D nods. “Yes, I could have, de Selby, but I never expected to see it again.”

“So after Rillman lost the love of his life?”

“Not just once,” Mr. D says, “twice. He found her in Hell, as you found Lissa. Only I was waiting on the border. She returned to the One Tree.”

“What did that do to him?” I don’t really need to ask the question, and Mr. D sees that, but he plays along.

“He turned to the Stirrers, got in with them even more deeply. I guess he figured that they would know what he didn’t. How to get his wife back.”

“Did they?”

“No, their skills don’t work that way. The bastard has no sympathy from me—you don’t deal with the enemy. I actually banished him from my region, would you believe? Thought that would be
enough, but then I didn’t expect another Schism so close to his. If he’s back in the region it’s only because I’m dead.”

“Could I banish him?”

“I don’t think so. You’re too new to your powers. It’d probably kill you. No, you’re going to have to face him the old way.”

“With knives and death?”

“I was going to say with lawyers, law men, the full force of jurisprudence. But sure, knives and death … That could work, too.” Mr. D looks mildly annoyed now, which is a fair sign that he is mightily pissed off. He’s not even drinking his tea, but continues on.

“Rillman opened the door for Morrigan, gave him ideas. And more, like I said, the little bastard stole some of my powers.” He indicates his face. “This. Showy as it is, was mine. He stole that from me, made it somewhat less unique, less artistic.” Mr. D squints into his tea, then pushes it aside as though disgusted by what the tea leaves have told him. “I’ve got some beer up here if you would like.”

I shake my head, remembering the ashy rubbish we’d consumed on his boat.

“He stole your ability to change your face?”

Mr. D twists the top of his beer. “Yes, only his approach is a little more utilitarian.”

“He can change his form!”

“Only into the dead. Which is very useful if you don’t mind murdering people. Also, it makes it extremely difficult to be found.” Mr. D sighs. “I’m sorry I have left you such a mess.”

“I’ll deal with it,” I say grimly.

“I hope so, but this may well be beyond you. Rillman’s tenacity is more than a match for yours, and he is one of the smartest people I have ever met. And you, dare I say it …”

“Thank you very much,” I say. “Now get me one of those beers after all. And tell me every fucking thing you know.”

B
y the time I shift home, Lissa is asleep. I check her schedule. She’s not starting until late. It’s nearly 5:00 a.m. Christmas Eve, though it doesn’t feel like it. My eyelids are heavy, but I fear what sleep offers more than anything Rillman can throw at me personally. I pull down the blinds and scrawl Lissa a note.

Oscar arranges for another crew to look after her. The body the Stirrer inhabited has already been collected. I can almost pretend that it was never here, but it’s opened wounds again. Looking at the kitchen, where it had sat, and where my parents had been killed, and their bodies stolen. Too many Stirrers have been here. They’ve poisoned my memories of this place.

I think about its offer. No, Lissa and Mr. D are right. You don’t deal with Stirrers. No matter what.

I shift to my office, and work on my presentation for the Death Moot. I check on Lissa from time to time, but she doesn’t wake, poor darling.

Tim comes for me around ten. It’s meet-the-Caterers day. He’s already been briefed on last night’s problem with an exploding car and he’s employed more staff to investigate, and to search all the other vehicles for bombs. Nothing’s come up yet.

My eyes feel square from staring at my computer for so long. I read Tim my Moot preamble, feeling very good about it, even statesmanlike. There’s all manner of stirring stuff, demanding unity, and
that the Orcus must act as one to fight this threat. And that it is not impossible. He nods his head at the end.

“I’ll rewrite it for you,” he says.

“Really?”

“Trust me. You’ll even believe you’ve written it when I’m done.”

He’s nervous, twitchy. “Is it time?” I ask.

“Yeah, they’ll be there soon,” he says. “Oscar will walk us over.”

Kurilpa Bridge is like a huge game of cat’s cradle drawn out in steel and wire. There’s a metal canopy above us, providing a little shade. I look back at the way we came, down the walkway that leads to Tank Street with its lawyer-crowded coffee shops and glass-fronted restaurants.

“Maybe we should have gotten a coffee first,” I say.

Tim crushes a cigarette beneath the toe of his boot. “No time.”

“Why did you choose the bridge?” Oscar asks. He studies first one bank of the river then the other, then pushes his face into his broad hands. There’s clearly not enough escape routes—unless you want to dive into the river. There’s plenty that way.

“Technically it won’t really be the bridge, not as Brisbanites see it,” Tim says. “The marquees will be set up in the space between the Underworld and the living. You’ll have quite a view of the city, and the Underworld equivalent, without really touching on either.”

“There’ll be two marquees?” Oscar asks, and I can tell he’s even less happy.

“One for the Ankous, to bitch about the RMs, and the other, the big top if you will, for the main show. Both will be air-conditioned, of course.” Tim mops at his brow with a handkerchief. “Maybe the next Death Moot could be in Antarctica.”

I grin. “No, they did that in 1963. It wasn’t a hit. Too many bloody penguins.” I remember Mr. D’s stories about that one. Said it was so cold his knees ached for the whole Moot and then a week afterward.

Oscar shakes his head. We’re not much help.

“Water beneath bridges is a traditional interface between the lands of the living and the dead. And Mortmax Industries is all about tradition, but I didn’t make the decision,” I say. “I just bled over it.” I pat Tim on the back. “Both of us did, didn’t we, buddy?”

Tim shudders. “Don’t remind me.”

“And there’s still a little more blood needed,” I say. “We’re going to disappear for a while Oscar, but don’t worry. We will be back.”

Oscar shrugs. “We do what we can, boss. I’m aware there are some places that we can’t follow you.”

After a couple of joggers have passed us by, Tim and I pull our knives from beneath our jackets. Tim counts down silently to three and we cut our palms, heart line to thumb. I walk to the western rail of the bridge, Tim to the eastern and as one we plant our bloody palms on the bare steel.

Metal thrums. And there is a sound like someone scratching a record, a painful scritch! that runs across the heavens.

Oscar throws up his hands, and then he’s gone. But it’s really us who have gone.

The sky darkens, then brightens. The whole city contracts, expands and contracts again, as though reality has grown rubbery. And suddenly it is only Tim and I on the bridge. There is no traffic on the expressway, and no people here or on the streets below. The city is quiet. Oddly enough there are birds in the air and the river is teeming with fish. Its surface bubbles, the water itself a murky reddish brown, the same color as my palm print on the rail. The bridge itself is luminous, silver and white, and a bright sun burns in the sky.

“Well, I never,” Tim says. “How’s that for magic and stuff?”

“Now, where are these Caterers?”

A bell tolls, loud and clear. It echoes and vibrates through the bridge so that it’s almost a bell itself.

“There, I think,” Tim says.

A right hand, pale, long-fingered and neatly manicured, materializes in the air between Tim and me. Then another. And another until a dozen hands are present. Then left hands being to appear. And twelve men, or women—they’re as androgynous as Ziggy Stardust—stand before us, all slightly shorter than me, all carefully dressed in white suits. A pair of them scurry to the center of the bridge and start taking measurements, pulling tape between them, scrawling notes down onto clipboards.

The Caterer nearest to me dips its head. He seems to be the boss.

“Mr. de Selby. A pleasure.” He claps his hands. “And what a glorious venue. Shiny, new. Nothing of the gothic about it, and you would simply
not
believe how tiresome all the gothic is.” He spits out the word as though it were a bitter poison, revealing neat but very sharp teeth.

The rest of the day is spent walking over nearly every inch of the bridge, marking sections with our blood, anchoring, as the Head Caterer calls it, this reality with our own. With too much blood, the bridge may sink into the living world and the Death Moot will become a crowded affair, and Mortmax will not only be paying the Caterers but also Brisbane City Council for illegally building marquees on this public thoroughfare. With too little, this reality might just drift away and the Moot with it.

Oscar calls me a couple of times, but there is no hurry in the Head Caterer, just a methodical preparation of the bridge. I can respect that, but there are several more pressing situations I should be applying myself to.

By early evening, Tim and I are feeling a little anemic. And Tim is sick of Caterers bumming cigarettes off him. But the Head Caterer is clapping his hands with joy, and already one marquee is constructed.

“This will be the best Moot in our ten thousand years of catering,” he says. “The location!” He points to Mount Coot-tha in the northwest, the shadowy hint of the One Tree. “The air, so vibrant,
and yet so suggestive of death. You have done well with this city. I promise you, people will not forget this Moot.”

“Ten thousand years?” I say. “You’ve been doing this for ten thousand years?”

“Yes, and thank goodness for climate control these days. You would not believe just how feral it used to be. Cold in winter, boiling in summer. Terrible, terrible.”

We shake hands, sealing the deal with a little more blood. Then the Head Caterer goes off to direct the positioning of a freezer in the kitchen set-up.

There’s a door made of pine, in the middle of the bridge, nothing more really than a frame. One of the Caterers leads us to it.

“Access point,” the Caterer says. “You come and go through here. Got pizza and beer coming if you boys would like to stay.”

We beg off, it’s Christmas Eve after all, and walk through the door. We’re back into our reality. There’s no Narnia-esque time transition, it’s night in the real world as well, just an ear-popping step into a jogger-crowded bridge. We both leap out of the way of an oncoming cyclist. The door that we walked through is gone. Oscar’s waiting patiently with Travis and Tim’s burly bodyguards.