Vengeance (34 page)

Steam billowed from around the door when it was opened and hastily closed by another bather. The attendant, a zombie, handed Jocasta a towel, and she quickly slipped into a cubicle, disrobed, and wrapped the towel round her.

She repressed a slight shudder as the soap-fog coiled around her, its tendrils tickling, stroking, questing. She slapped a particularly inquisitive strand that probed at her and smeared some of the semisentient goo up and down her arms and laved her torso as well. It was too expensive to be anything but a luxury, but she felt in need of it today. And she'd paid enough; she
would
enjoy it. There would be little enough pleasure, she suspected, when she made her report to Stanislav Duff. At least when he saw how much he'd have to pay for the spells to be returned.

In the gloom she could just make out the shapes of other bathers. The other night a melodrama had reached its preposterous climax with the villain trying to kill the hero in the steamy gloom of baths similar to these. She told herself sternly there was no chance that life would so imitate art, but she had to stifle a squeak when one of the shadows loomed close, then relaxed when it receded.

She sat on the stone steps that ringed the uneven floor of the adapted cave and breathed deeply, soaping herself all the while. When she finished, she made herself stay a little longer, just to prove that she wasn't afraid. At last, her stubborn streak satisfied, she reclaimed her robe and returned to her room, where she dressed quickly and set out to work.

The festival of Regus would begin in a few days. Crowds already thronged the streets from the hills overlooking the city down to the harbour. The clowns wore sad faces now, and the crowd's gaiety was slightly desperate as the world descended toward winter. Hawkers jostled and shouted to make themselves heard over the zealots; one group set up their pitches, another readied for the forthcoming bonanza.

The city was a tapestry again. Craftsmen finished effigies of summer for mock burial, their creators working through the night, red-eyed from stimulants and lack of sleep. Gangs of labourers worked on palaces while house-proud paupers made what little effigies of the winter gods they could afford.

Breakfast collected, Jocasta let herself into the office. Gabriel and the spellhound had cleaned it the night before and now finished the adjustments to the wards mounted on the wall. She checked them while she ate and drank on the move.

Behind her Gabriel said, “The advocate is here."

To calm herself she straightened her gown, fiddled with her hair. “Show him in.” Her voice was barely a whisper.

Within his magic-pickled young body, Julius Merrythought Inkuku was a dry, dusty old man.
He must have grown to hate that name
, she thought.
He certainly doesn't look given to many merry thoughts
.

His face was smooth, unlined. He wore a dark drab gown fashionable in the previous century. The stick he leaned on for support was only a mark of vanity—he could've easily put right whatever ailment required it.

"Demoiselle Pantile.” His voice was as precise and fussy as his demeanour. She hoped she would be able to use it to her advantage should the need arise.

Merrythought belonged to the oldest and most respected collection of advocates in the city. If things became as awkward as she expected them to, she wanted the best there was to intimidate Duff.

He declined her offer of a drink and scanned both her deposition and that of the spellhound's Eye. “Admirably thorough and precise.” He nodded approval. “I can see why Ser Duff hired you.” He grew ever more serious, at one point drawing a sharp breath and sucking his teeth. He looked at her sternly when he had finished. “His requirements are a little bloodthirsty."

"Indeed,” she answered as dryly as he.

He reread it. “Seven deaths at least, including two offworlders—"

"Who shouldn't have been here at all."

"Agreed. But that gives us no moral high ground. Should the Galactics come looking for them...” he trailed off. “The people killed in the bar in Lantresant and those in Meroë when your ... ahem ... associate fell through that glass roof. And those it killed in the past."

"Ser Julius!” Jocasta said. “They're long gone to dust. You can hardly condemn us for that!"

"So if someone came back from the future and killed you, that would be acceptable?” Merrythought sniffed. “I am not sure I can approve of this little vendetta of Ser Duff's—but it's hardly been little has it?"

"All of them killed within their local laws or the laws applying to Frehk.” She didn't add that the ones killed under Frehk law weren't killed in Frehk. Better to keep quiet.

He looked at her sharply. “A very interesting comment. You're full of surprises, Demoiselle Pantile. Your reputation is barely that of a novice."

She reverted to her usual wittering self, flapping her hands like fluttering birds. She chirruped, “Sometimes such an image isn't a hindrance. It sometimes helps to have people underestimate you."

He looked down at her desk, laden with evidence that she had methodically tidied away. One of the spells was still alive, unusually, as most had to be dead before they could be used. It scuttled across the desk in a rippling blur of legs, almost falling off the edge of the desk before she scooped it up and placed it in its canister.

"Merry,” she said carefully. “What would happen if you killed one of the Galactics and used the spell of reanimation on it?"

He looked at her with coal-black eyes. He asked at last, “Any particular race of Galactic?"

She shrugged. “Any of them. Do some of them react differently?"

"I've not heard that particular question asked before."

"No,” she agreed. “Usually, it's questions along the lines of, ‘Daddy, where do spells come from?’ Or ‘Why do the Galactics hate us?’”

"The sort of questions some people don't want to be asked.” Merry studied his nails.

"Ser Duff,” she said. “He's the kind of person who dislikes such questions, isn't he?” She sighed, added, “I've heard that using extraterrestrial tissue can amplify enormously the effects of certain spells. That other ones won't work at all without their intergalactic ingredients."

"These are very dangerous things to hear, Demoiselle Pantile,” Merry said.

"Sometimes one needs to take precautions,” she agreed.

"Are all these precautions necessary, Demoiselle Pantile? An advocate to witness the proceedings? All the defences and other, ah, preparations you've taken?"

"I think so.” She smiled brightly. “He lives by his own moral code. In his own way, he's a very honourable man. The problem is, his isn't always the same moral code as everyone else's. It's always best to remember that."

"I'm not sure that I want to be involved in this at all.” The old man rose to go, but Jocasta seized his shoulder.

"Please don't go.” She opened her eyes as wide as possible and licked her lips. “I'm really very, very scared of what he might do.” She only half-exaggerated. She leaned as close as she could to him. “Please stay,” she whispered.

"I have the ‘fluence as well, Demoiselle Pantile.” The old man sniffed. “So you can stop fluttering your lashes at me."

"I'm sorry, Ser Julius,” she said humbly.

"So what else is there to do while we wait?” the old man asked querulously, and Jocasta had to smother a smile of triumph.

"What you should do is check every item on the invoice I've prepared for him,” she said. “And cross-check it against the contract he signed.” She added, “I don't want him to be able to claim we've charged him for anything not in the contract. Or rather, if he does claim, we can argue it's in there in another format."

He blinked and said, “You mean it's not whether it's legal, it's whether it can be claimed to be legal?"

"I couldn't have put it better myself.” She smiled.

He blinked again, and she realised that it was the nearest he got to a smile.
Funny little man,
she thought. She reminded herself not to underestimate him.

He looked over the invoice, at the supporting text, back to the invoice. He studied it for fifteen minutes, then sighed. “Everything appears in order, Demoiselle Pantile. And get ready to call a healer for the heart attack he'll have when he sees this."

Jocasta raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

The old man continued, “This is over a million, almost three year's income for me. Perhaps Duff is wealthier, but it'll still make a huge dent in his bank balance."

"It will certainly cramp him a little,” she said.

"Some people might be grateful if he was cramped,” the old man said, “Not that it justifies presenting him with an enormous bill.” He blinked again.

"You mean he's not universally popular?” Jocasta asked in mock surprise.

"He has upset a few people over the years."

"Ser Duff is a passionate man.” She measured her words carefully. “He likes his vengeance hot and bloody."

"That echoes a lot of things I've heard about him."

"Perhaps vengeance is better served cooler."

Merrythought cleared his throat loudly and said, “I'll just sit quietly until he arrives."

The next hour dragged, yet afterwards Jocasta couldn't remember a single thing she'd done during that sixty minutes. In fact she concentrated on keeping calm, thinking only of the meeting, telling herself over and over she had nothing to be scared of. That despite the way Duff intimidated her, he would never harm her in front of a witness. She hoped she was right.

Eleven o'clock came and went. Jocasta fidgeted uneasily while the spellhound watched her with hot, red eyes. Merrythought sat, apparently dozing in the corner.

Then she heard Duff's boom in the outer office: “Has she got herself a lackey?” Then Gabriel ushered Duff, Sinhalese, and Damon Task into her office. Duff looked around, taking it all in. “So this is the hidey-hole?” He grinned wolfishly.

"Indeed it is, indeed it is,” she twittered, fluttering around them. Sinhalese drew back, nearer to Duff. He in turn wandered around the office as if he owned it. He said nothing about the wards on the walls, though they must have been clearly visible to his trained eye.

"What's this, then?” Duff pointed to Merrythought, who as he rose blinking from the corner, resembled a small animal waking from a nap.

"This is my advocate. Julius Merrythought Inkuku, let me introduce Stanislav Duff. I thought it best everything be done properly.” She clapped her hands together. “Oh, thank you so much for coming, the three of you at such short notice!"

"How could we not?” Duff boomed. “Your message said that all is recovered. Though why you insisted I bring them—” he indicated Sinhalese and Task, “with me, I fail to understand.” He stared at Merrythought, who in turn studied Duff.

Duff had shed further weight since she'd seen him last. His eyes had sunk back into their sockets and looked bruised, as if he'd been beaten up. He'd trimmed his beard, and it served only to emphasise his gaunt looks. Compared to how she'd first seen him, Jocasta thought he looked positively emaciated.

Sinhalese looked little better, more a heavily made-up scarecrow than the vivacious beauty Jocasta had first met. Only Task seemed not to have changed.

Duff turned to her and grinned, baring his teeth. “Do you think I'd cheat you, woman?” he growled, deep in his throat.

Jocasta forced herself to ignore the pounding of her heart, to keep her voice steady. “I think no such thing, Stanislav. He's as much here for your protection as he is mine."

"Well then, I don't need him!” Duff turned and glared at the old man. “Get out, you parasite! We don't need you here!"

"Stay, Ser Merrythought,” Jocasta commanded.

"You forgot to lisp, Jocasta,” Duff said, smiling.

Jocasta smiled back. There was no humour in either smile. But almost imperceptibly the balance of power in the room swung slightly toward her.

"Shall we start?” She reached down beside her desk and with the air of a conjuror, placed one spell after another on it, naming each one as she did so: “The Spell of Summoning, recovered from Lantresant. I'm sorry to say it's no longer useable.” She placed a second one beside it: “The Spell of Invisibility.” She looked up and smiled at Duff leaning forward, licking his lips. “The Spell of Levitation; Elsewhere; Shadow-casting; the Spell of Strength and Speed; Succubation, recovered from Atlantica.” She added, “The Spells of Enchantment and Yesterday, both recovered from the Deep Past; only the casing of the Spell of Silent Death was available there. And of course, the Spell of Reanimation, Ser Duff.” She clapped her hands together. “All spells or their cases recovered. One or two can't be used in their original form, but you didn't specify that they must be.” She waved his hand away. “Ah-ah!"

"My spells,” he marveled and beamed. “Even the box. This is a great, great day, Jocasta. I admit I doubted you at times—well never mind.” He shook his head in delighted amazement.

"There's more yet,” she said and laid the copies out. “Some of them are of lesser quality, others almost as good as the originals. Their owner will make a handsome profit.” Something about the way she said ‘their owner’ made him look up sharply.

"What about this man. O'Malley?"

"I'll tell you,” she said. “If I can summarise the case,” and ghost images danced amongst them: the spellhound's battle with the demon in Lantresant, its rush toward the doomed Gabriel. The spellhound confronting the aliens. Duff flinched, but they pressed on, giving him no time to speak, and he fell quiet, picking anxiously at the side of his mouth and muttering quietly from time to time. The flight back through time, the deadly minuets culminating in O'Malley's death in the tower.

When it finished, Duff leaned back in his seat, eyes almost closed. “Magnificent,” he breathed.

"And now,"—something about Jocasta's voice startled him from his gloating—"I've had this checked,” she said. The invoice scrolled down in front of him.

There was a long pause, while his good humour vanished.

Oh dear,
thought Jocasta.
I knew he wouldn't like this.

"This can't be right,” he said. His face darkened: “I never realised you had such a talent for fiction."