Vengeance (32 page)

"Good. Then it's done,” Arquette said.

The spellhound's hackles rose. O'Malley was here! It could feel it! It took a deep breath, drawing the air in through its long snout, then exhaled with a snorting sneeze and began to pant. It whined with excitement, then yawned.

Tinian tried to move further away, impossible in the cramped confines. She muttered so quietly even the spellhound couldn't hear her, but it probably wasn't complimentary.

They circled the House of Clarity fifty metres away and a hundred above the walls. It was two hundred metres long by ten high, bordered by buildings forming the sides of a square around a central courtyard.

The buildings were joined, preventing access except through three-metre-high doors set like black studs along the length of the building. The spellhound was disappointed. The walls were too high to jump.

Arquette said, patiently, “Remember, this is unofficial. If he doesn't want to see you, that's it. We're not going to force entry for you."

"And if you break one law,” Tinian added nastily, “you're off."

Their knock was answered by an emaciated man of indeterminate age, wearing a plain grey habit with a hood drawn back. When he ventured out, the hood would cover his skull, which was transparent from the nape of his neck to his crown and from the temples back over his ears to the back of his head. His brain, a pulpy grey mass, was clearly visible through the clear cap. The eyes glittered strangely, as if he looked at a different landscape from them. “Yes?” he asked impatiently in a scratchy voice.

Tinian said, “We're, uh, looking for Dezenine O'Malley. We want to talk to him, if that's possible."

"And if he doesn't want to see you?” the doorman asked querulously. “You have a warrant?"

"No, Ser O'Malley has broken no local laws,” Arquette answered smoothly and added quickly as the door swung shut, “but we do need his help. It's very important."

"None of your fleshly concerns are important,” the doorman chided from through the last the crack in the doorway.

"Please, ask if he will see us?” Arquette persisted.

The doorman sighed, nodded once, and shut the door.

Arquette puffed his cheeks out in relief or exasperation.

Long minutes crawled by before the door opened again. The spellhound felt excitement rise anew. Green eyes studied them. The newcomer turned to the doorkeeper. “Thank you, brother.” He said to the waiting trio, “Will you give me a few minutes to gather my possessions? I won't run off.” There was the hint of barely suppressed laughter bubbling below the impish exterior.

"To be absolutely clear about this, Ser O'Malley,” Tinian said. “This isn't an official call, and we have no official status other than assisting this, uh, citizen find you as we would anyone else."

"Very public spirited, officer,” O'Malley said, and it wasn't possible to tell if he was serious. “Your job is done. You must be very busy."

The door shut, and the spellhound could contain itself no longer. It keened deep in its throat in excitement.

"Remember the deal.” Arquette nudged the spellhound, and the militiaman left.

The spellhound's every cell focused on that door, as if it were the most important thing in the galaxy. Time seemed to stand still. O'Malley emerged, clutching a cloth sack in his freckled, liver-spotted hands. The spellhound could smell that familiar sulphurous, slightly sweet smell emanating from the sack. Duff's spells amongst other things. It keened again.

"Where shall we go?” O'Malley might have been discussing a picnic. The spellhound watched him, this man it had chased across millennia. It saw no concealed weapons nor signs of stress. There were a few beads of perspiration on his forehead, but it was a warm day. There was an occasional tremor, but nothing to show he was aware of the spellhound's murderous intent.

"I'll tell you what,” O'Malley said. “It's near lunchtime, and those chappies at the House of Clarity, lovely people though they are, don't go much on food. Why don't we find a nice place to eat? There's a place I've wanted to try for ages. It's expensive, but you can't take it with you."

The spellhound experienced the unfamiliar emotion of surprise. It was used to fear or fury rather than being greeted as an old friend.

"I have a proposal for you.” O'Malley held up his hand to forestall any objections. “Nothing dubious, I assure you. I'm sure you're a fine, upright fellow, and I'd never dream of anything improper.” He peered at the spellhound with interest. “Hmmm.” He reached out to the spellhound's jaw. “Open up a second.” He tilted his head. “Duralumium gnashers. There's—” he moved his head from side to side, studying the spellhound. “—Great Dane in you. Am I right?"

—I don't know. I know that I am of dog stock.—

"And some human, too.” O'Malley peered into its eyes. “There's mutagens been at work,” he said softly. “What did they do with the original fella? Boil him down for soup for cannibals?” He laughed mirthlessly.

—You had a proposal?—

"So I did.” He clapped his hands. “You want to know where I've hidden the rest of the spells. I want a couple of hours to have a fine meal before I give you this, take you to the rest of them, and then you kill me. Because that's why you're here, isn't it?” For the first time the spellhound could sense fear.

It wondered what O'Malley's plan was. The man had already proven as slippery as an eel.—It is. Duff has sworn vengeance on all those who have had his spells.—

O'Malley laughed bitterly. “Overwrought histrionics. I'd expect nothing else from that buffoon. He always thought he was something special. Lots of roaring and shouting and generally overacting, if I remember right.” He smiled sadly. “I know he's The Man; we're just bit-part players. Deal?"

—Agreed.—If O'Malley tried anything, the spellhound would be ready.

The spellhound thrust out a huge paw. It could tell from the man's surprise and sadness that registered on the Duff's biometrics that it was a gesture the man found unexpectedly touching. They shook firmly.

O'Malley wiped his hand discreetly afterwards. “No harm being careful, just in case,” he muttered, clearly thinking the spellhound couldn't hear him.

They hailed a pedicab.

The Galilean specialised in offworld cuisine. It was very expensive and very select. A large gratuity slipped discreetly to the maitre d’ got them a booking.

"It's the view that makes it,” O'Malley explained.

The view was indeed breathtaking. Most of the buildings on The Edge were squat, but the Galilean was extravagantly tall. The rotating restaurant at the top had a stunning view of Earth's northern polar ocean below and the moon and stars. However, most of the diners seemed more interested in being seen.

"You aren't hungry?” O'Malley asked.

—No, thank you. I eat only in the morning and evening.—

"What do you eat? I ask because I've never met a spellhound before, and it's a pleasant surprise."

—You have two hours.—The spellhound reminded him.—I'm sure you don't want to spend your last hours discussing me.—

O'Malley smiled. “Nicely put.” He studied the menu and exclaimed in delight “They have real meat on the menu! Only bird, admittedly. I had real meat once, you know. I think it was pig. To be honest,” he admitted ruefully, “I wasn't that impressed. I thought it overrated.” He ordered and leaned back, nursing his drink.

"I've heard that sometimes from here you can see past Pluto right out to The Bubble.” He shrugged. “My eyesight's not that good anymore, and I can't see the point. What man wants to look at the bars of his prison?"

—That depends on the nature of the prison.—

"Yes, I suppose it does.” O'Malley looked at the spellhound as if studying a poker opponent. “What bars do you live with?"

—Every month I have to have a course of injections. In theory, when my owner dies, I die with her.—

"In theory?” O'Malley raised an eyebrow and tried to hide a smile.

—If I earn enough, I might earn the right to buy my own contract.—

"She'd let you do that?"

—Perhaps. Perhaps not. I will find out in time. It makes no difference to the here and now.—

"No, I suppose not.” O'Malley looked thoughtful. “Mankind's bars allegedly come from us stealing the Galactic's knowledge. And worse."

—Do you think mankind will ever be released from prison?—

O'Malley signalled for another drink. “Maybe. Maybe not. It's what we did with that knowledge, the uses we put it to, according to legend. Eat it or beat it has always been mankind's philosophy. I have no illusions: If we can't find a use for it, we eradicate it. And xenophobia isn't the quickest way to win friends Out There. We've always been a nasty bunch of bastards. It was useful once. But what worked in prehistory may not be appropriate for a society that wants to earn respect from its peers or even betters.” The spellhound noticed he'd started to slur a little. How much could he drink and still remain capable of escape? “Anyway, whether we ever get to ask them is problematic. The Interdiction could have been lifted years ago. May have been for all I know. But it suits some of our people to keep it in place."

—Why?—

O'Malley shrugged. “You know the stories—humanity split into factions. Those groups such as the Shifters that headed for the stars probably included the brightest and boldest. Those groups who stayed behind such as the Statics have run the place ever since, and it probably suits their purpose to have us locked away. In fact,” he lowered his voice, “I'd say that if our jailers are still out there, they're more probably human than alien. But that will never be admitted to, and you and I will never know."

—A very bitter outlook.—The starter arrived, and O'Malley tucked in and fell silent.

"You're right,” O'Malley said, after a pause whilst he ate. “But they used to say ‘History's written by the winners', and in this case, that's Duff. So maybe you'll forgive this old loser a hint of bitterness at being just a footnote.” He looked directly at the spellhound. “It gets a bit wearing, being the cheerful rascal even when you're looking at your own death, and perhaps you'll forgive me a moment of grumpiness."

—I'm not offended. What was that quotation: ‘Do not go gently into that good night?'—

"That's the one.” O'Malley smiled, surprised out of his introspection. “You're a poetry reader as well.” He paused, then continued. “I thought I could hide out up here, as long as I didn't use magic. After a while, hiding stops being fun, and once you found me, I thought I'll not turn and bare my teeth to die like a trapped animal. Anyway, you'd probably only raze wherever I'd stood to the ground."

—Perhaps.—Hunting, tracking, killing. The spellhound was familiar with these skills. Making polite conversation wasn't something it was used to; fortunately, O'Malley could talk for both of them. It wondered if the old man was really so lonely that he was even prepared to chatter to his own nemesis.

O'Malley savoured the starter, enthused over the entrée. Then the main course. “Mmm, chook. Can't beat it.” O'Malley had regained some of his good humour. “I've nothing left to live for, you know.” He smiled wanly. “I've outlived my wife and my children, which shouldn't happen to any man.” O'Malley paused, his gaze far, far away. “The boy was going to become an archmage. Then the green fire took him. And the girl.” He sighed. “Ah, she was so beautiful. That kind of beauty offends fate.” He looked up. “So I'm not afraid of dying.” He lied, the spellhound could tell. “But I'm tired of running. I don't have the legs for it anymore.” He paused. “I'm as old as Duff.” He smiled. “I know, I'm nowhere near as well preserved, but I don't have his wealth. And if I'm not as impressive, it's because I don't have his particular
talents
.” He looked as if he'd swallowed something nasty when he said the last word.

"We were at the Thaumaturigical Institute together.” He sipped again and pulled out a faded picture, the images of young men appeared to stand beside their table. None of the other diners reacted. “There's me, stood partly behind a lad called Wentworth P'Tang and two away from Duff. Only the top twenty candidates passed to enter the next year. I finished twenty-first. One of those who passed was Duff. I didn't begrudge him his success, until he went around afterwards bragging that he'd cheated.” He added, “He did me a favour, it turned out, because eventually I met Shalleen and we had the children. If he hadn't done that...” His voice trailed away, and lost in memories, his eyes moistened. He pulled himself together. “Course, that's hindsight. At the time I went off the rails, took to drink and all manner of nasty habits for a few years while I skimmed round the world. Pulled myself together in the end but by then I'd forgotten what I'd learned and fallen so far behind my peers, I'd never have caught them up, so I became a simple shopkeeper."

The waiter brought a liqueur. “I never cared for what Duff had done and never really forgave him for it,” O'Malley said between sips, momentarily fierce again. “Not that I lost a lot of sleep over it. But when the chance came to kick him in the pants, it was too good to refuse."

The spellhound leaned forward.—So when Maltby offered you the stolen spells, you took them?—

"Maltby? Who's Maltby?” O'Malley looked puzzled. “I've never heard of him."

—Then who sold you the spells?—

O'Malley grinned. “Ah, I've got something you want. Can we deal?"

—The only bargain that I'll make with you is that your death can either be quick and painless or slow and agonising.—

"Okay.” O'Malley grinned, wrote on the napkin, and passed it to the spellhound. “You can't blame me for trying."

—I don't.—The spellhound studied the note.—You're sure?—

"Positive."

—Thank you.—

"You're welcome."

They talked some more for a while, until O'Malley finished his liqueur and said sadly, “I guess that's two hours just about gone, isn't it?"

—Indeed.—

"They say time passes quickly when you're enjoying yourself. You're very good company."

—Thank you. I enjoyed myself as well.—It was true.

O'Malley signalled a waiter and handed him a huge wad of money. He seemed suddenly much more sober and stared intently at the spellhound as he said to the waiter, “There's money for the meal there. Count it, will you?"