Vengeance (13 page)

"You don't have a name,” Vassalls said crisply. “Who are you?"

"Is that a crime?"

Vassalls looked puzzled. “I asked you a question."

"And I answered—is that a crime?"

With a sigh of exasperation, Vassalls muttered, “Damned mutie."

"I am not a mutation. Vat-bred, yes, but not a mutation. I can give you a serial number, if you wish."

Vassalls thought for a moment. “We're betting you're up to no good. We've had a complaint someone's been impersonating a municipal official."

"Do I look stupid enough to try to impersonate a municipal official? I don't think I'd be very successful, do you?"

"This isn't a joke!” he said. “This is serious!"

"I'm not laughing. I've been abducted, and you've made serious accusations without any substantiation. Is this how Atlantica normally treats visitors?"

"Is that what you are? A visitor?” Vassalls looked sceptical. “You don't look like a tourist to me, more some land-based dabbling in magic. We dislike such things down here. We'll be keeping an eye on you.” He turned away indicating the interview was over.

The spellhound thought otherwise. It swam around to face him, growling softly, then more loudly. “Perhaps I should speak to some of the local gossip-groups? Have them make a few public proclamations?"

"What?” Vassalls barked.

"Kidnapping, harassment, threats. If this were official, shouldn't I be at Militia headquarters, not City Hall? I think your citizens would be very interested to hear that their elected officials decided to kidnap an innocent tourist."

"Innocent?” Vassalls blustered. “If you're innocent, it's only because we haven't found what you're guilty of ... yet."

"An interesting philosophy. One the gossips will enjoy repeating. This conversation is being transmitted, you see. Just a precaution, of course.” If Vassalls checked and found nothing, he'd still have no way of knowing if the spellhound had been bluffing or whether their monitors couldn't pick up the broadcast.

Vassalls licked his lips nervously but said nothing. He was a novice playing a lone hand, the spellhound decided. It wondered whether this was a black operation or if the city's officials were involved.

"What
do
you want?” the man asked sulkily.

"The name of the person who complained about me,” the spellhound said.

"And when you find them?” The spellhound's sensors read how worried the man was. It was a black operation. Militiamen who owed a favour or were getting paid. Probably no one else involved. Small-time stuff.

"I'll ask them why. Politely and gently, of course."

"Of course,” Vassalls said. “We don't accept your barbarous land-based customs here. You don't pay blood money. You turn complaints over to the militia.” His attempt at intimidation was no more impressive than his previous effort.

"I merely wish to ask them why they complained about a harmless tourist. It would waste scarce militia resources, wouldn't it? Two militiamen are sitting outside, incidentally. Haven't we wasted enough of their valuable time?"

Vassalls said, after much chewing of his lip, “It was my Aunt Germaine."

The spellhound left but not before asking: “You won't tell her I'm coming, will you? I'll be monitoring every band. I'd hate to spoil the surprise."

Eve took his hand as they swam up the street toward the summit. She smiled and leaned into him. “I've dreamt about this for weeks."

They reached their destination, an underwater fairytale castle. “Whose is this place?” Jacques asked. It was so close to the meniscus, the sun shone clearly down through the water, casting an ethereal light over everything, lending a feeling of enchantment to the situation.

"Just someone I know. They're away at the moment, so we can use it.” She unlocked the door.

The house was spacious, if a little ornate. He thought,
Some people like unrelenting pink
. They swam, still hand in hand, to the bedroom. She put his hand to her nipple. He ran his finger underneath the seam, and she shed her skinsuit as a snake does its skin.

That afternoon took on an almost hallucinatory vividness. Eve astride him, leaning forward; his back arched in the moment of climax; the sun shining into the bedroom as he looked down on her from above, her eyes half closed, a little smile playing around the edges of her mouth; kissing her stomach, then down between her thighs, rolling her over onto her stomach and sliding in from behind.

Finally, as all things must, it had to end. They swam down the long, gradual summit toward town. Then it was time to go their separate ways. He stopped and looked at her. “Wednesday?"

She nodded. They kissed, and she gripped him tightly, wrapping one leg around his hip. She kissed him long and hard.

"Wednesday,” she agreed.

When he got home, the household was in its usual state of uproar, but he glided through it as if in a dream. All evening he sat that way. There, but not really there. He sat up alone, savouring every moment, every touch of her. When he was sure Brie would be asleep, he went to bed.

He dreamt he was on land again, before he and Brie had moved downstairs. He was in an old country house, a rambling gothic monstrosity that he knew, in the way one does in dreams, belonged to Eve and her husband. Outside, thunder rumbled in the distance, and rain lashed against the panes. The house appeared to be deserted, though a fire blazed in the grate and tea was set for one. He stood by the window looking into the garden, when a feeling of terrible fear, no less dreadful for having no apparent cause, possessed him. He had the vague feeling common in dreams that something terrible was going to happen.

Lightning danced crazily. From upstairs came the sound of something heavy being dragged across a floor. He knew he shouldn't go and investigate—that he was safer where he was. So of course he checked every room, every cupboard, wardrobe, and closet. The house was empty. When he'd searched the whole house and found no one, he returned to his tea. Surprisingly, it was still hot.

He looked out of the window. Lightning lit up the garden, illuminating a scene from a charnel house—two bodies dangled from a tree, nooses around their necks. Appalled, yet unable to look away, he waited, breathless for the next flash. When it came, he saw the rotting faces of Eve and her husband.

The light awoke him. And Brie staring at him, frowning with concern. “You were screaming in your sleep,” she said grimly.

"Sorry,” he gasped. “It was a real horror."

"I gathered that,” she said. “I'll sleep in the spare room. Call me if you need me, but try not to frighten the boys.” Her tone was neutral, but he sensed disapproval.

"Okay,” he agreed weakly, falling back into a fitful doze.

He woke early the next morning, aching all over. Perhaps because the nightmare lingered, the world seemed suddenly treacherous.

His shaking and shivering worsened throughout the day. When he sneezed, he reflected ruefully that illness was one thing that was much more unpleasant underwater than on land.

The next day was no better, nor the next—if anything, it was worse. And perhaps in reaction to their intimacy, Eve seemed distant when he met her. He wanted so much to hold her, but she had never seemed so remote.

Ben sighed with relief when the spellhound returned. “What was all that about?"

"
That
was about an amateurish attempt to intimidate me,” the spellhound said. It studied him closely. “We're dealing with very small players, but an amateur's weapons can kill as effectively as a professional's. If you want to walk away, I won't blame you. But you must decide now."

"You crazy?” Ben grinned. “This is the most excitement I've had in years!” He climbed aboard the bike, and the spellhound joined him. “But why do they want to scare you off? I thought this was all about a legacy?"

"I'll explain later. It's very complicated."

The ride was wild, and several times crosscurrents nearly threw them off the bike. They returned to an area they had visited the day before, one of the shabbiest parts of the city, where the streets were less brightly lit than other areas. The gloom only partly hid the run-down state of the buildings. The walls and windows in almost all of them were cracked and needed repairs. The spellhound found the dinginess depressing.

"This woman's his aunt?” Ben was outraged. “What man would let one of his family live in such squalor?"

The woman had locked up her shop and was swimming away when the spellhound blocked her path. She was old and frail, and looked as if she might expire on the spot. Her eyes were wide with fear.

"If you tell us who you are shielding, we won't hurt you. We know you've done nothing wrong,” the spellhound said. Ben shot it a perplexed glance. “I know your nephew probably warned you we were coming, but we're not here to harm you."

She said nothing, and Ben added, “I promise you we're not here to harm you."

For a moment it thought that she might balk, but then she sighed. “I was asked for a particular spell.” She licked thin lips nervously. She was very like her nephew, the spellhound thought. “I was paid a lot of money, but told I should tell no one."

"Why you?” Ben asked.

"Why not? My nephew got me a cheap tab, so I was able to get what they wanted."

"Who was your client?"

"I was paid a lot of money,” she said stubbornly.

"If I pay you more, will you tell me?"

"How much?” Her face showed suspicion losing to greed.

The spellhound took the coins from a pocket and counted them out, one after the other, whilst the woman looked on, her lip-licking growing more frequent. Finally the spellhound stopped and studied her.

"It was an alien!” she exclaimed. “I dunno the name! It was all horrible—tentacles, and whiskers where there shoulda bin a mouth!"

The spellhound handed the money over. “Where can I find it?” it asked.

"You can't smell it, can you?” She leered at the spellhound. “Suppose I knew? How much would that be worth?"

It was true. Without a reference point, the spellhound might spend months tracking the alien, without ever knowing whether or not it had picked up the spoor.

To answer her question, the spellhound held another bag of coins in front of her.

"I'll need to show you on a map,” she muttered.

"Here,” Ben called up a display from the bike's dash.

"There.” She pointed. “I followed it back to its lair when it took the spell. There's the wreckage of a ship down there. I don't think it's going nowhere."

"Who did you tell?” the spellhound asked.

"No one,” she said. “I was saving that one for another day."

The spellhound guessed it was true. The woman had probably thought she would blackmail the alien, an incredible risk. It guessed she'd agonised for some time whether to give the secret to her nephew or take a risk herself. And luckily for the spellhound, her uncertainty had paralysed her. She was fortunate the alien hadn't simply killed her.

"You're lucky to be alive,” Ben said.

"I ain't done nothing wrong,” she said as they turned to go. “I never touched the spell!"

It was true, from one point of view; she'd had no contact with the spells, unless the tab was scrambling the spellhound's sensors so badly they were useless. However, she'd handled the casings. The spellhound searched its memory banks as a lawyer would, seeking precedents. In some instances, casings counted as magic, though in others they didn't. In the end, pragmatism saved the woman. The spellhound needed to keep searching, and killing her would stir up enormous problems—the scales weighed in her favour, and the spellhound let her live. She never knew how close she'd come to death.

Jacques declined to join the others in celebration of winning the contract. He ached more than ever but hurried to meet Eve, worrying even as he did that he might infect her.

At the end of an hour, when she'd seemed more distant than ever, she dropped her bombshell. “I've something to tell you."

"Oh?” He tried to sound unconcerned.

"Reynard's worsening. He's going to need constant care for some time. I'm sorry, I'm not going to be able to see you again.” She gave him a brief flash of a smile, as if to lessen the impact of her words.

"I see.” He was stunned. This was the last thing he'd expected.

"I'm really sorry, Jacques.” She looked grave.

Soon after, she left him staring into space. He returned to work but might as well not have bothered. He spent the afternoon thinking about her. He knew he should consider her husband, wasting away. He should consider Brie and the boys, but all he could think of was Eve. And that he'd never see her again. Instead of going home, he went to a bar. Drank himself stupid before swimming home, salt tears unnoticed in the water. When he got home, the door was locked fast. He considered hammering on the door, but it was probably Brie's intention that he wake half the street. Instead he carried on swimming until he found a cave and huddled in it for warmth. He awoke, cramped and shivering with a raging fever.

When he got home, the voice wall blinked, and Brie's voice said, “I've taken the boys to Mum's. I'll be back at twelve. If you're not here, I guess you'll want to separate.” Her voice was steady, though it quavered at the word ‘separate'.

It was too late for pangs of conscience, he knew, but he felt as if much of what had happened had been a dream. His eyes streamed, and he sneezed a fusillade of bubbling snorts. He dialed her mother and left a message. “It's Jacques. I'm ill, so I'm going to the healers. Brie, please wait for me."

By the time he got home from the healers, it was lunchtime, and Brie hovered cross-legged in the water, her arms folded. Her face was white and pinched. “I've left the boys at Mum's.” Her bottom lip quivered.

"Seems sensible at the moment,” he said hoarsely. “Whatever I've got, I don't want the boys getting it."

"Shame you couldn't have thought about them a little sooner,” she snapped, and for a moment he thought she was going to lose her usual calm, but then she regained control. It would have almost been a relief. Part of his restlessness had been her infuriating calm. She asked levelly, “Do you want to go with her?"