Authors: Colin Harvey
The courtyard walls hid much of the surrounding countryside, but still the east tower of Duff's gothic fantasy was visible. She'd stared at it as the cab neared. “Good grief,” she'd muttered. Its soaring splendour and the lush profusion of the flowers in the almost endless gardens only emphasized the semiarid scrub surrounding the estate. She knew well how dry it was. She'd been born and grew up in such a countryside.
Jocasta wondered if the grey hairs on Duff's chest would be soft to the touch or feel as harsh as they looked. “Three originals recovered, and two copies.” She forced concentration as she reported to Duff. “Not as much progress as we'd like, but we're closing in on him. We'll soon have the other spells.” She decided not to mention the warning O'Malley had received before their visit to his shop. If there was a spy in the house, the fewer who knew they knew, the better.
Duff's head had slumped forward as if he'd fallen asleep; she wasn't fooled. When she finished, his eyes snapped open. “You've done well.” He might have been giving her a test score. “Will you stay tonight? We hunt in the Tróia tomorrow, so this is our last night here for awhile."
"I've brought no other clothes,” she said. “I thought I'd be on my way again as soon as I'd updated you."
"Nonsense,” he boomed. “We'll have Sinhalese provide you with clothes. She could outfit a house full of guests from her wardrobe here."
"I'd be delighted.” She could say little else. The area was beautiful, and to get away from the never-ending press of bodies in the cities would be a delight. If it were anywhere but here, in Duff's company.
"Then it's settled.” Duff clapped his hands delightedly. “Fetch Sinhalese,” he told a zombie.
Jocasta was led to her room, where she luxuriated in the amniotic warmth of a huge bath. When she emerged, a sumptuous evening gown encrusted with mood-stones whose colour altered with her emotions was laid out on the bed. It moulded to her, and she revelled in the feel of it. She saddened when she thought of how many families its cost could have fed but banished the thought. Dwelling on that wouldn't feed any of those families, and the dress, which had turned from pink to blue with her sadness, reverted to its previous colour.
She joined Duff, Sinhalese and Duff's neighbours for dinner. Duff recounted tales of pranks he and his friends had played before the onset of ‘respectability’ and scurrilous tales of his rivals’ peccadilloes. She was surprised by what good company he could be. It was only when the talk turned to hunting in the Tróia and the canyons to the south that the table quietened. Duff carried on for several minutes before he realised Sinhalese and Jocasta weren't talking. He fell silent in turn.
"Do we bore you ladies?” Duff's neighbour said. Jocasta couldn't remember his name. He was slight, dark, and not as attractive as he thought he was.
"I kill because it is my profession,” Jocasta said. “Not for sport."
"Not everyone finds killing entertaining, Fidor.” His wife was slight, like him, but so pale she was almost colourless.
Perhaps he's attracted to the contrast,
Jocasta thought.
"Nonsense,” Fidor said. “It's natural. Kill or be killed."
"Do the inhabitants of the Tróia pose such a terrible threat?” Sinhalese asked sweetly.
Duff intervened before the argument could grow. “Perhaps you should call a truce.” He smiled to soften his words without quite succeeding. “While Demoiselle Pantile and I exchange a few words privately. Please excuse us."
Here it comes
, Jocasta thought.
Whatever he's been building up to.
He led her to a small room off the dining hall. She waited for him to speak while he pinched the bridge of his nose. “Forgive me, dear lady. This is somewhat difficult. Where to begin?” He swayed slightly. “Well, I've been busy filling the vacuum caused by Maltby's untimely demise."
You old hypocrite
, she smiled, admiring his nerve.
You've said it so often, you've convinced yourself you had nothing to do with it.
"How does it affect the case?"
"I believe you've done enough.” He sighed. “I fear I lost my perspective in the days that followed the theft. I allowed myself to become overwrought."
More that you can see a chance of advancement, and your little vendetta may compromise it.
“Is this because of the money?” she asked bluntly. “Forgive me, I know this has been expensive, the death-dues alone—"
"Of course not!” he snapped, so hotly she wondered what nerve she'd touched. “Money isn't the issue.” He whirled around. “Yes?” he snapped at Sinhalese, who pushed the door open with unusual timidity.
"I'm sorry to interrupt.” She flashed a quick smile. “But a message has been forwarded here for Jocasta."
She looked at Duff, who nodded, and the figure of a large black woman coalesced in the corner. “Demoiselle Pantile? My name is Gulane Dakrery. Your spellhound has been attacked. It gave me your card. It's in my back room recovering. It was trying to help a customer of mine who was being abducted."
"I'll be there as soon as I can. Give me your address.” The woman did so, and they ended the call.
Jocasta turned to Duff. “Before you complete your offer, Ser Stanislav, let me speak.” She took a deep breath. “If you think I'm pulling out now, think again.” She didn't lisp now. “We've done only a fraction of the job you hired us for. That alone would make me very unhappy about abandoning it. Now the stakes are raised—"
"—My dear—"
"—I'm going to get my partner out of there,” Jocasta said. “Then I'll recover the spells. If O'Malley has had anything to do with this attack, you'll need to queue for your precious vengeance.” She paused. “If I fail, you won't pay a penny. If I succeed, every single expense will be charged. Your advisors will be welcome to study the bill. You will pay me as per our agreement. If not, I will pillory you as a trickster in every court on—or offworld. Understood?"
Duff nodded, stunned by the tirade.
She managed a tired smile. “Good, I can note in my journal what a gentleman you are.” She had reverted to being an amiable, slightly vague, middle-aged woman.
"Journal?” Duff asked.
"I took the precaution of copying everything down.” She smiled. “Just in case I suffered any little accidents. It's quite safe: unless anything happens to me. And now excuse me, I need a spell. There's no time to waste crawling around the planet.” She turned to the inevitable zombie. “I need a Spell of Elsewhere."
Duff nodded confirmation to the zombie. He felt he had little alternative at the moment. Felt as if he had walked, out-flanked and out-gunned, into an ambush for the second day running.
O'Malley struggled with little effect, only stopping when one of his captors hissed, “If you don't stop wriggling, we'll go back and carve your hag into pieces."
He stopped, and someone slapped a sticky-patch over his eyes.
We're so loaded with charms and spells, we're reduced to hitting each other on the head and using blindfolds
, he thought. Hands gripped his, and then his hands were bound tightly. He tried to keep a mental map of their route, but he was quickly lost. He was unsure whether they did it to confuse him or they really had to take such a circuitous route, but he gave up the futile effort.
He guessed they were still in Meroë but knew little more than that. After they'd spent long enough that they could have lapped the city several times over, they halted, and he heard a door open. He was carried down several flights of steps; another door creaked open, and he flew through the air before landing on a bed of straw.
Jocasta gripped the rail beside the capsule to steady herself and studied Gabriel's lifeless body. The cocktail of her guilt and remorse was heady enough to make cool analysis nearly impossible, even without her desire for the young man being added to the mixture.
I sent you into action with my spite as your farewell, old friend. It's only proper I put that right
. She stroked the youth's side, looking at the wide mouth and eyes, now shut, wanting to feel muscles tighten in response.
And it's only right that the cause of our quarrel should help
.
What led you to disobey explicit instructions?
she'd asked the spellhound in a white-faced fury, when it spilled the youth's corpse at her feet.
I told you to bring him alive
, she whispered, her rage even greater for being held in check, straining the puny confines of her body.
I should put you down like the mangy cur that you are.
—He'd never have come willingly.—
That wasn't your concern. You were to bring him alive. It was up to you to find a way.
—When you had me created, you designed me with initiative and free will. You can't have that only when it suits you. You must have known there would come a time when I would have to make a decision which you wouldn't agree with?—
But why did it have to be now?
she wondered.
Why did it have to be that decision?
The last twenty-four hours had been a whirl of activity. The Spell of Elsewhere she had used to get home so quickly was costly to both body and mind, as well as to purse.
While still suffering the after effects of the spell, she'd called people she hadn't spoken to in years. Called in favours, put pressure on them where coercion failed, all the while unable to give them more than the briefest of explanations. Now she had an arsenal of spells she could use to take on an army and beat them.
It would be some time before she'd be able to sleep. Until then she would need the Spell of Strength and Speed, and would have to hope her system could stand the punishment it would exact as payment.
She broke the seal of the stasis field, drained the body of blood and transfused fresh blood, injecting Gabriel's body with a reanimation spell.
Gabriel's eyes, as yet unfocussed, opened, and Jocasta turned away while he re-entered the world of the quick.
She left him to lurch around, trying to coordinate rebellious feet.
She felt him clutch her shoulder. His touch was warm, as was his breath.
"You resurrected me.” It was a statement, with a hint of wonder to turn it into a question. The zombie's hands were on her shoulders, pressed against her back.
"I have need of you.” She sounded no less harsh than when she'd sent the spellhound on its way but for different reasons. “We must clothe you. Come.”
Go to Atlantica
, she'd shouted at the spellhound.
Go to Meroë. Go to hell, for all I care! I don't want to see you again unless you have what we're looking for. If you fail, you might never have existed for all I'll care. The next creature I design will have no such capriciousness. Go before I change my mind and have you sent back to the vats for termination!
She knew she'd never do what she threatened, but the spellhound couldn't know that. Had her words driven it to take one risk too many?
Now she had to undo the harm she'd caused the one creature she could trust with her life. “We have work to do,” she said. “Perhaps bringing you back may yet prove more than just an indulgence and may serve some purpose."
The spellhound opened one eye cautiously; there were strange shapes around it, one moving, above it to the left, two large oblongs of light. It concentrated on them and decided they were windows. The shapes were tables and chairs, many of them scattered across the floor. The moving shapes were legs.
It sat upright slowly, fighting nausea. Its head throbbed, a rhythmic pulsing with the epicentre at the crown of its head. When it gingerly reached out a paw to test the injury, the pain nearly made it pass out again. It tried to lever itself upright with a chair but only pulled that over as well.
"You'd be better off sitting there and drinking this.”
This
was a glass of vile-smelling, steaming liquid.
The spellhound tasted it and yelped but forced it down. Then it waited a few seconds and tried again, this time helped by the woman.
"You're making the place untidy,” she joked, holding out a canister. “Let me.” She reached up, and there was a hiss. It recognized her now, the barkeep. The pain faded, and it moved its head gingerly.
The barkeep said, “It's an anaesthetic. It'll hurt worse than ever when it wears off, but it'll keep you going until then."
—Let me buy it off you.—It passed crumpled notes to her.
"Don't overuse it. It's addictive, and when you do stop, the pain will be worse than ever.” She walked back to the bar. “That spanner shoulda split your head like a melon."
—Reinforced cranium.—
"I called the number on the card,” she said. “Didn't know what else to do. Some nice-talking lady said she'd be here soon.” She sounded hopeful, and the spellhound wondered if she merely wanted rid of it or was hoping for a reward. “It'll be too late for Dee—still, he shouldn't have messed around in women's business."
—Dee. Dezenine O'Malley?—
"That's the one,” she said flatly. “If he'd kept his nose out and his mouth shut, I'd have had him by the year end.” She mimed reeling in a fish. “Trouble is, show them a big pair of tits, and they go all hormonal. If he'd been a local, he'd have known better than to fuck The Sisterhood."
—Fucking The Sisterhood is not recommended?—
"So you'll have noticed.” Her look was nowhere near as casual as her voice. “Why were you mixed up in it?"
—Dezenine called me—said he was in trouble.—It hoped O'Malley hadn't told her anything to contradict its story.—We should get him out of there. So tell me everything.—
"Not much to tell.” She shrugged. “The Sisterhood runs Meroë. Us small fry have to pay protection—or else.” She ran a finger across her throat. “O'Malley didn't know what he was getting into, playing white knight."
—What was he getting into?—
"If he's lucky,” she said grimly, “they'll kill him quick. More likely they'll make an example of him, show what happens if you fight The Sisterhood."
—Then you'd better tell me where he'll be.—
"Not with that lump on your head. You'd be better off waiting for the nice lady."