Authors: Colin Harvey
The creature's throat dappled, as if unseen fingers pressed at its throat. It shook its head, and the spell was broken. It swiped at Duff again, then toppled forward, the metal spike Task had thrust into its back sticking out.
"More to come,” the Levid said in its slab-voice. “Many more.” Then it died.
"Damn,” Duff muttered.
"Nothing much to worry about there.” Sinhalese motioned for Task to right her couch.
"Just nuisance value,” Duff admitted. “Whoever sent it is either making a point or is more interested in quantity than quality. The Spell of Sending so they emerge underground—where we have less protection—was a good idea."
"Making a point?” Sinhalese asked.
"Yes,” Duff said. “They're offworld mercenaries—a nuisance rather than a serious problem. Perhaps a distraction while someone makes a real attack.” He stretched and waved his hands in a pattern. He waited for some time, then when the creature twitched, said, “Arise."
The Levid stood, waiting.
"Task will accompany you.” Duff motioned to the zombie, who gripped the creature's arm.
"Father!"
"He'll be back before you know he's gone,” Duff said. He turned to Task: “When you've found who it is, return to me.” He handed Task a small object. “Use this to return."
Duff muttered the counterspell to the sending under his breath, and both Levid and zombie vanished.
An afternoon of silence passed, Duff making it perfectly clear he had no desire for conversation. Sinhalese, having misread the warning signs before, had no intention of repeating the mistake. Nonetheless, it upset her that he'd once again withdrawn when she needed him to talk to her, to trust her. The afternoon turned to an equally silent, strained evening.
Twilight stretched the shadows. Duff and Sinhalese had changed into dinner clothing and sipped spiced wine while servants laid out their evening meal. Duff put his glass down when Task reappeared and said, “Come,” without waiting to see if he was obeyed, and marched from the dining area to his study.
Sinhalese cursed. She might as well have not existed. Still, she shouldn't be surprised. He'd ignored her for years, after all. “Ever since Momma died.” She blinked back tears, annoyed at herself for getting upset. “The only time you've ever noticed me, is when you've wanted something, when I could be useful to you,” she whispered.
She'd blanked out the times when he'd worse than ignored her—raged, shouted at her that it was her fault he didn't have a son to pass on the line, that she should have been the one to die, not her mother. Sinhalese knew enough to recognize misplaced guilt when she saw it. She guessed her father had pressured her mother into the archaic pregnancy rather than a sensible, civilized arrangement with clones, all to keep up with some faddish friends—and when the process had gone wrong whilst his wife was in labour, had blamed the survivor and not himself.
Recognizing the reason for his anger and being able to deal with it were two different things.
This time she decided not to back down. She trotted to her father's study, wondering whether she should announce herself or watch from somewhere secluded.
Her dilemma was solved when he called, “You should see this.” He waved his hands, and a scene appeared, frozen in time. A middle-aged woman lay in a casket. A younger man stood over her, gray-faced and haggard, mouthing something.
"Taz Pohlsen,” Duff said.
"Should I know the name?"
"No,” Duff said. “He sent the Levid. He has little enough for anything more threatening, it seems."
"Who is he?"
"The woman in the casket is his elder sister."
"And she is?” Sinhalese was tiring of this game.
"Thaddeus Maltby's wife."
"I didn't even know he was married.” Sinhalese shouldn't have been surprised. It wasn't just the Duff family for whom secrecy was a way of life. Anyone who frequently dealt with magic soon learned to wall their life off from others—
but the walls are supposed to be for outsiders,
she thought. She brought her attention back to the matter in hand.
"Not surprising he kept it quiet, I suppose. He probably thought what we didn't know couldn't be used against him. She'd have been the main recipient of the death-dues. If not, it would have gone to the municipality of Frehk."
"And?"
"And two days ago, she killed herself.” He pantomimed despair, put on a high-pitched voice: “Beside herself with grief.” Then spat. “Pah! A weakling. She didn't have the guts to fight, so she took the easy way out. Better to live as a slave than to give up life.” Sinhalese sensed that behind the sneering her father was genuinely upset, which surprised her. Then he looked up, and she changed her mind. “And now her snivelling little brother blames me. He wants a reckoning. I'll give him a reckoning."
"Poppa.” Sinhalese surprised herself. “Just pay him off."
He ignored her, so she said again, “Pay him off, Poppa."
"What?” Duff laughed mirthlessly. “Miss out on some fun?” He shook his head. “No, it would set a precedent. We can't have upstarts threatening Stanislav Duff and getting away with it."
Sinhalese set her mouth in a thin line but fell silent.
It wasn't his idea, so he won't listen
, she thought bitterly. Then she thought of how that Pantile bitch had argued with him, and resentment flared inside her—if it had been her ... Jealousy lent her courage. “How can it set a precedent, when we will be the only people who know?"
"Hunh?” He returned from whatever blood-soaked fantasy he was indulging in.
"Pay him off,” Sinhalese urged. “We can't afford any more enemies at the moment. You're not to blame for his sister's actions, but it discharges any tenuous moral claims he may have. If he's genuine and all he wants is money, let him have it. If he wants catharsis, send him a simulacra with your compliments, so he can exact his revenge on that. Only if it becomes clear that his claims are a pretext for more than money or satisfaction should we risk being drawn into a feud.” She could see she'd surprised him with the vigour with which she argued. “Don't be distracted from recovering the spells."
Duff looked at her as if seeing her for the first time. Then he shook his head. “No."
She thought of Jocasta again and took a deep breath. “But why?"
His head jerked back. “Because I say so."
"And that's it?” She knew she risked his surprise turning to anger if he'd decided he'd had enough advice for one evening and accused her of nagging rather than helping. She decided on one last thrust. “It sounds, with respect, Poppa, as if you have no other reason than that's the way you've always done things, so you're going to keep doing them the way you always have. The difference was you had the spells then, and you don't have them now."
He stared at her. She swallowed, awaiting the blast that would strip her flesh from her bones—the only consolation was she would probably never feel her death. Then his mouth twitched. “With respect.” He chuckled, then repeated the words. He laughed and when he had finished said, “You know those words mean the opposite of what they say. ‘With respect’ means, ‘Don't be such a fool,’ rather than respect for the person you say them to.” He paused, then added, “You really think your way will work?"
"I really, really think so."
"We will have to borrow more.” He pondered. “Still, I could buy more shares in that bank that Pantile woman told us about. Those shares have appreciated a little, but there's more to come yet."
She took a deep breath. “There's no guarantee they'll continue to rise."
Tonight she appeared to lead a charmed life. He pondered. “You could be right. But we're starting to need some extra money from channels outside our normal ones, and it's as good a way as any of raising the money."
There was no point in arguing further, Sinhalese knew. She nodded. She wondered what had changed his mind.
Duff smiled wearily. “You know, you looked so much like your mother then, when you were arguing. I've never noticed it before.” He added sadly, “Perhaps if I'd listened to her more.... “His voice trailed off.
Then Momma might be alive
, she thought but said nothing.
Duff thought some more, then brightened. “I'll show clemency. That will surprise everyone.” He chuckled. “What a novelty. Mercy, from Stanislav Duff."
The indoor market was the last place Jacques would have expected to encounter evil, searching among the stalls for something for his older son one spring lunchtime.
The market was brightly lit. Outside it was a typical day. Spring days undersea were like summer days, or winter or autumn ones upstairs. Clouds of tiny fish careered around in the sunlight just outside the windows. A grouper swam by lazily, nudging the door as it nibbled on some algae. The sensors, determining it wasn't a paying customer, remained shut. A Zelaskian carpet-ray flapped lazily overhead, temporarily eclipsing the water-refracted sun.
The water inside was heated and therefore warmer than outside. This early in the year, the ocean was chill, far colder than land temperatures, as Brie never tired of reminding him. She conveniently forgot that above the meniscus the weather could be much more extreme.
Completing his purchase, he was about to leave when he turned, struck by an afterthought. He collided with the woman behind him, and she dropped her purchases.
Apologising, he looked into a pair of eyes so blue they were almost violet, set in a heart-shaped face. Her cranial tattoos looked exotic and expensive—unlike his, they swirled and chased one another around her skull. At first he thought she was a little bit older than he, then revised his opinion downwards and finally gave up. She could have been any age from thirty to eighty. While she flailed in the water, grabbing her possessions, he noticed what nice legs she had for such a petite woman. Her stomach was flat, her legs thin but muscular. Her skinsuit was transparent, apart from where it opaqued to flesh tones to cover her pudenda, and he caught himself staring at small breasts with prominent nipples.
He'd been comfortable with near-nudity since adolescence and was embarrassed to realise he was developing an erection. He hoped she wouldn't notice, but her slight smile showed she had. He'd never believed in either love or lust at first sight. Now he was struck still and mute, though by which, he was unsure.
They stood, a pair of statues whose breathing was their only movement, bubbles rising from their gills. From the stunned look on her face, she felt the same as he did. Time stood still. They could have been in a stasis bubble for all the notice they took of the people hurrying around them. It must have been only a few seconds, but it could have been forever. She was the one to break the silence.
"I think you've got my bag.” She smiled.
Still with eyes locked on hers, he handed it over. He tried to speak, but he could only stammer.
"If I look as daft as you do,” she continued, “then we must look a real sight.” She had a slight accent that was as hard to place as her age.
"I'm sorry—” he spoke more slowly. “I wasn't looking—"
"You big ape.” She laughed. “You could've killed me. I ought to sue for damages. But I'll settle out of court, for a drink. Deal?"
"Deal.” He was relieved. For a few seconds, when she'd started talking about damages, he'd thought she was serious.
She offered him her tiny hand, which was lost in his. “Evelyn.” She smiled at him.
"Jacques.” They shook.
That was how he met Eve.
The worst moment came when the spellhound had to walk into the waves. It was nearly as bad as the moment it had dumped Gabriel's corpse at Jocasta's feet. No, it decided, nothing was quite as bad as watching her face whiten, her nostrils pinch, her lips compress into a line so thin they almost disappeared.
Walking into the water came a close second. The water rising and bubbling into its nostrils brought it close to panic. Surely they could have climbed into one of the little fat-wheeled cars and just driven into the sea, down the slope from the transit station, which was the only part of the city above sea level, to the city itself?
Most of the difficulty was purely psychological. Neither the spellhound's nor human's lungs had evolved to hold water, and even when the respiratory system was protected, the spells couldn't undo the imprint on the psyche of aeons of evolution. It simply felt
strange
. Doubtless, the spellhound suspected with an inward sigh, it would eventually get used to the feeling. It hoped it wouldn't be around long enough for it to stop feeling strange.
The tab containing the spells was as much cause as solution. The spellhound had taken it an hour before, and it had swiftly set about creating the membrane for enabling the spellhound to breathe underwater as the dwellers of the deep did. In the process, the spellhound suffered periodic loss of balance, nausea and other side effects. The worst was when everything changed colour for a few moments. Purple trees were bad enough, but the orange sky above them was truly hideous.
"It's a temporary,” the guide had explained. “It'll enable you to breathe downstairs for up to a month. If we gave you a permanent instead, it'd rewire your entire system, the way it has mine.” He grinned, and pointed to the gills on either side of his neck.
—Are all the people ‘downstairs’ amphibians?—
"Not many.” The guide was tall, nearly as tall as the spellhound, though much more lightly built and completely hairless, his scalp emblazoned with tattoos meant to look like hair. The guide, a happy, relaxed character, was one of the few locals completely relaxed around the spellhound and seemed genuinely friendly, though the spellhound wondered how much of that was the large amount of cash it had waved under his nose. Whatever the reason, he'd been a treasure trove of trivia.
—So most people only breathe water?—
"Mostly so,” the guide replied. “There's a few live up here.” He waved his hand at the island behind him. “A few such as me, who act as guides."
—I suppose when people decide to become water-breathers, there's not much point in being able to breathe air as well?—