Bone Song (24 page)

This could be a problem if it pulled Deltrassol out of the trance.

Then a liquid crunch sounded from outside, along with a sudden cessation in the drunkard's torrent of curses, followed by Stone's voice: “That'll cool him off nicely, boys. Be gentle with him.”

The sounds of heels scraping along bare floor followed.

Harald shifted into deep command mode, instructing Deltrassol.

“There is a house . . . in Upper Kiltrin North . . .”

This was a district containing some of the richer sections of Silvex City, where Harald had spent time in Illurium. The military camp had been twenty miles outside the city. During his assignment with the military police, Harald had spent time in the city proper, liaising with local civilians.

He helped investigate cases and assisted on the Octemday bar runs, where trios of MPs would have to extract carousing marines from the detritus of smashed tables and unconscious civilians. And do it without inflicting lethal damage on drunken men who were trained to kill.

“Kiltrin,” murmured Deltrassol. “Pulkwill's Hill.”

“. . . That's right, and from Pulkwill's Hill you descend . . . where it zigs and zags . . .” Harald waited for the tiny nod from Deltrassol before continuing. “To the silver-and-white mansion with the three steel . . . gargoyles . . . outside, the ones with spread-out wings . . .”

“Move.”

“. . . that move, that's right. The gargoyles move”—Harald's voice lowered further—“and in that house . . . that mansion . . . lives a man called Don Falvin Mentrassore . . .”

“Don Mentrassore.”

“. . . that's right, and the don has a daughter . . . called Rasha . . .and servants, and the chief butler might be called . . . Adamnol . . .”

It had been over two years since Harald's last visit. Adamnol was probably still there, but life was uncertain.

“. . .You will say the code word . . . that you will remember to forget until . . . you remember in that moment . . . that Darksong Lightning is the code . . . and you won't mind it vanishing from . . .your mind . . . inside Don Mentrassore's house.”

The don was a thin, elegant man with a silver-gray goatee, usually with a pearl attached at each earlobe, who conducted his affairs with the same kind of diligent yet easy grace that he bore in social situations.

That was why he had been so disappointed in his daughter Rasha when she fell in love with a young student of dubious character and family. It had been that student—part of the local underworld with links into crooked quartermasters among the military bases—who had been one of Harald's targets. Harald and four other MPs, all in plain clothes, broke into a camp arsenal just in time to apprehend the men who were making off with firearms and other matériel.

Two of the criminals had reached for their own weapons, and in seconds a firefight blasted the air apart—inside an arsenal filled with explosives. It was good luck that the arsenal remained intact instead of disappearing in a fireball. It would have taken out the entire camp, including two thousand men and women.

Rasha Mentrassore's fiancé had been too stupid to surrender.

He'd also been too stupid to leave Rasha at home. In trying to show off to her, boasting of his importance among important businessmen, he'd smuggled Rasha into the place in the back of his stolen army jeeplet. She'd crawled out of the vehicle when the gunfire started.

It might have been a stray round of Harald's that took Rasha in the right shoulder; it might have been someone else's. Regardless, Rasha had pitched over with her mouth working but her throat paralyzed. Her shoulder was smashed meat, splintered with bones.

After Harald and his team had killed the men who refused to stop, they went to work on Rasha and two associates of the gang, who had been caught in the crossfire. Using straps from the ammunition cases—nice ironic serendipity—they tied off the major arteries of the wounded trio.

By rights they should have handed Rasha over to the civilian police. But Harald had judged her to be largely innocent, manipulated by the boyfriend whose body now came in three parts.

And Rasha's father, the don, had a sense of honor. He always repaid debts.

“. . .You will explain . . . to Don Mentrassore . . . that a man called . . .Donal Riordan...will visit him soon . . . and will say he is a friend . . .of Harald Hammersen. . . and the don should act as if this were true . . . tell him that . . .
as if it were true
. . . but it will be . . . a lie . . .”

Harald led Deltrassol even deeper into the trance, inscribing postmesmeric commands: Deltrassol would never consciously remember these words.

“. . . because Riordan is not to be trusted . . .
not
to be trusted . . .and the don must lead Riordan . . . into a trap . . . and spring it shut . . . to the death . . .”

Deltrassol began to frown, then relaxed, too deep into the trance to argue.

“. . . and this is how . . .”—Harald slowed his voice, checking the details within himself—“the don . . . will kill . . . Riordan . . .”

It was an hour later, when Donal was returning to the task-force office with two more mugs of coffee, plus a dark-blue folder tucked under his arm, that he saw Harald walking toward him along the corridor, swigging from a silver hip flask.

Harald saw Donal at the same time. He screwed the top back on the flask and tucked it inside his jacket.

“Hey, Donal. How's it going?”

“Good. I think people were worried about y—”

“Can I give you a hand? Here.” Harald took a coffee mug. “What's in the folder?”

Donal waved the folder at Harald.

“The rest of my travel documents. I really am going to Illurium.”

They continued walking toward the office. Harald went first, opening the door and holding it for Donal.

“Good news,” Harald said. “I thought it was going to happen.”

“Yeah . . . Is there any news on Sushana? We thought you might have gone back to the hospital.”

“Nah. Viktor's there.”

They went inside the office with Donal frowning, unable to read the change in Harald's mood.

“Hey, Donal,” called Alexa. “You went out for more coffee and came back with the marines.”

“Good to see you too,” said Harald.

“Yeah, well.”

Harald just nodded. Then he gave a too-wide smile as Laura came out of her private office. “Hey, boss.”

“Hey, yourself. You okay?”

“Sure.” Serious now, Harald said, “I hear Donal-boy's going to Illurium.”

“That's right,” said Laura. “So tell me about Deltrassol.”

“Deltrassol.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I just dropped him off in Pallas Heptagon. Had to get him past the R-H boys. Robbery-Haunting must owe you a big favor, keeping their team in place this long.”

“Not anymore.”

“Well . . .” Harald glanced at Alexa. “Seems our boy Deltrassol's been blackmailing Sir Alvan in the embassy.”

“How?” said Donal. “What's the ambassador been up to?”

“Oh, let's say he likes to step out every now and then for a night on the town. Nothing majorly criminal.”

“So why,” said Laura, “did you let him go?”

“Because he was scared shitless, too scared to lie, and he knew nothing about Sushana being set up.” Harald looked at her. “You don't think I'd have let him go otherwise.”

Laura thought about that.

“No. Of course not.”

“And now,” said Donal, “we've got a source inside the Illurian embassy. Neat work, Harald.”

Harald nodded, mouth tightening, saying nothing.

T
he airport was busy. Travelers
were dazed by the facade, by the glamour, or by weariness. Security wraiths hovered inside walls, occasionally revealing themselves. Away from the check-in desks, hex-protected entrances led to cargo areas and out onto the runways.

Donal had not seen the place since the day the diva flew in.

Do you feel the song?

For Death's sake, you know I do.

Outside, seen through a full-length window, the opaque skies were near indigo. The wind that blew steadily cut through heavy overcoats, chilling passengers walking to aircraft. The baggage handlers worked fast.

Some of the security men recognized Donal as he stood at check-in. Two plainclothes officers came over.

“Flying to Illurium?” one of them said, as Donal held his ticket ready. “Not bad, Lieutenant.”

“Can't discuss it,” said Donal. “What you might call family business.”

Two of the officers looked at each other. Maybe they knew that Donal had no family, unless you counted the department.

“You want to look around?”

“Sure,” said Donal. “Not much changed from before, I hope.”

“Maybe a bit more secure.” Again the two officers looked at each other. “Wish they'd tried for the diva here, sir, if you don't mind me saying so.”

“What do you mean?”

“We've got trance shielding up the wazoo, is what he means, Lieutenant. And we're not supposed to say so, but there're undercover mages on board at all times, in among the passengers.”

“I didn't know that,” said Donal.

“Well, not many people do.”

But maybe some senior officers and politicians know. Interesting to find out exactly who.

Because they would have known that the best place to try for the diva was in the city.

“You want me to check the bags through for you, sir?”

“Um. . . all right.”

“Aisle or window?”

“Huh?”

“D'you prefer sitting next to the window or on the aisle?”

Donal blinked.

“Beats me. I'm a poor boy from the orphanage. This is all new to me.”

“I think the choice is between having a good view or not having to trample on someone's feet to get to the bathroom.”

“Huh.” Donal thought about it. “Gimme the window, then.”

They checked through Donal's two bags. The older bag was a battered rat-leather suitcase that Sister Mary-Anne Styx had given Donal on the day he left the orphanage. He normally used it to store books, the ones too precious to trade in.

The other case was new and shiny, a present from Laura. Donal tried not to feel uncomfortable about using a piece of luggage whose price could have fed the entire orphanage.

“You want to see the animals, Lieutenant? My name's Piersen, by the way.”

“Animals?”

“The ones that're flying. They have to go in the hold, along with the bags.”

“Isn't that dangerous?”

“The holds are pressurized, some of them. Come on, I'll show you.”

Donal followed Piersen through a door marked
Airport Staff Only
and felt the cold touch of wispy fingers trail across his skin. Donal subvocalized a thank-you, not because he enjoyed the sensation but because he made no assumption that the security wraith enjoyed searching him.

“Did everyone hear about what happened?” Donal asked Piersen as they walked along a bleak corridor. “About the diva?”

“Some of us knew people who were on duty that night, Lieutenant. At the theater, I mean. One of the uniforms told us the place went crazy. He's been seeing a police mage for trancework, trying to get over it.”

Piersen stopped at a set of doors made from some heavy, oily-looking material.

“Looks like the audience got ensorcelled, and a couple of dozen or more dropped into complete parazombie mode. Am I right?”

“That's about it,” said Donal. “What's through here?”

“Cargo.” Piersen pushed open the doors. “Waiting to be shipped.”

“Thanatos. So many?”

There were trolleys with baggage piled high, stone-faced handlers maneuvering them into position near the big outer doors. And there were gray hexagonal cases with animals inside, scarcely visible through the small barred openings.

Donal caught a glimpse of sliding metallic-blue scales inside one case, pale-pink membranous wings in another. He heard pitiful mewls and psychotic growls of despair.

“Can't they be tranquilized or something?”

“Yeah,” said Piersen, “but it doesn't work too well. Some of them probably
have
been drugged by their owners, but the stress wakes them right up.”

It had taken Donal an hour in trance last night to replace his fear of flying with excitement at visiting a foreign city for the first time. This was a reminder that he didn't need.

“Those cages look pretty tough.” Donal heard the doubt in his own voice. “The airlines wouldn't place their own aircraft at risk.”

Piersen laid a hand against one gray case, ignoring the hiss that sounded inside. “They'll be asleep soon enough.”

“I thought you said—”

“Right.” Piersen grinned, baring his teeth. “Every flight's got a mage or witch on board, didn't you know? You sure won't get attacked by parazombies on the plane.”

Donal blinked.

“And is it right you had to waste a bunch of 'em,” Piersen continued, “at the Energy Authority?”

“Uh . . . Kind of.”

“Damn.” Piersen looked at the crates, then hammered one with the side of his fist. “I wish I'd been there. Zombies of any kind give me the creeps, you know?”

Donal let out an extended breath. “Really?”

“What, you never wanted to draw a bead on one and—”

“Go fuck yourself, Piersen.”

Donal turned away and walked out, back to the check-in area and the regular passengers.

At the portal for boarding—meaning, exiting onto the tarmac and walking several hundred yards through the cold, biting wind—a uniformed woman was checking tickets and replacing them with boarding passes. Donal waited in line with everyone else. Finally it was his turn.

“Traveling alone, sir?”

“Yes. First time too.”

Donal stopped. The clerk's skin was very white, and the faint tracery of gray veins implied that her blood ran black and cold.

Do you feel the bones?

Yeah.

The clerk's nostrils widened. She stared at Donal for a long, silent moment.

Then she looked down, scrawled something in purple ink on a silver ledger, and annotated a white card that she handed over to Donal.

“The flight's a little underbooked, sir . . .”

“Um, what does—”

“. . . and I've upgraded you to first class.”

Donal looked at her, not knowing what to say.

“Have a nice flight, sir.”

“Er, and you. I mean, have a good day.”

The clerk smiled her icy zombie smile.

“I will now.
Thank you.
”

It was Harald's turn to watch over Sushana at the hospital, so Viktor—after two hours' sleep—had forced himself back to work. When the front desk called to say that a Bone Listener wanted to talk to Lieutenant Riordan—to talk in person—it was Viktor who picked up the call. He went down to meet the Bone Listener.

There he found her staring in silent communication with two deathwolves, their eyes glowing darkly amber. Unnerved, Viktor subconsciously allowed his hands to move to a crossed-wrists position, ready to draw his twin Grausers, before realizing what he was doing.

He cleared his throat and said, “I'm Viktor Harman. I work with Donal Riordan.”

“Is the lieutenant unavailable?” The Bone Listener, Feoragh, looked up at Viktor with odd, gentle eyes, dark against her pale skin. “What is the matter?”

“He's flying out.” Viktor checked his watch. “Probably just getting on the plane.”

“That's a pity.” Feoragh stood up. “I'd like to share some information with him.”

“What about?” Viktor realized how his tone sounded. “I mean, can't I help? Or one of the others?”

“Who else works with him?”

“We both report to Commander Steele. She's—”

“Laura Steele?” A glistening look slid across Feoragh's big eyes.

“Yes.”

Feoragh held a hand out to each of the deathwolves and murmured something in an archaic tongue that Viktor could not have named, much less understood. The deathwolves opened their mouths wide, large tongues lolling as they revealed their fangs in a shared lupine grin. They nodded once as they rose and wheeled away in one motion, padding toward the outer doors.

From the solid desk that he was part of, Eduardo watched with widened eyes as the deathwolves left. Meanwhile, Feoragh was already striding toward the nearest bank of cylindrical brass elevator tubes.

Viktor blinked three times before regaining his composure and following her.

“You know Commander Steele?” he asked, catching up.

“We know who she is.” Feoragh gave a smile that shared no warmth with Viktor. “And we have an interest in your case. Your ongoing operation.”

They rode in the tube together. When the wraith enclosed Feoragh, it shone with a soft blue glow that Viktor had never seen before. Its grasp on him was the usual cold ethereal grip, but when the wraith ascended, it was smoother and faster than normal.

Feoragh turned to Viktor as they rose. When she spoke, her words echoed with disconcerting overlays in the airflow.

“The people you're hunting,” she said, “killed more than a colleague. Mina d'Alkarny was headed toward becoming one of the greatest Bone Listeners in history. Don't think you can understand what I mean by that.”

“We're trying to—”

“I know what you're trying to do.” Feoragh looked upward as their ascent rate slowed, then back at Viktor. “And we're on your side, otherwise I wouldn't be here.”

“All right.”

But a strange softening passed across Feoragh's face then, and she waved her fingertips in front of Viktor's forehead, as the wraith came to a halt and held them in place, suspended in the shaft. Viktor felt waves of alternating warm and cool pulses passing through him.

Feoragh nodded, and the wraith pushed her and Viktor through the opening into the gray-carpeted corridor.

“You have old wounds of your own to deal with, Viktor Harman,” she said. “And I hope that you heal properly and soon.”

Viktor started to open his mouth, before realizing he had no idea what to say to her.

“Come,” Feoragh added. “Introduce me to your commander. I'm looking forward to meeting the famous Laura Steele.”

Viktor led the way, yet it felt as though he was following her. It was an unusual feeling, and he blinked his gritty eyes, checking for ensorcellment as he did so—a tendency to blink rapidly and yawn was a symptom of having been recently mesmerized.

There was nothing, and he went through the internal visualizations that he'd been provided with in trance training. Again, nothing.

Laura came out of her office to greet the Bone Listener.

“Hello, I'm Laura Steele.” She held out her hand. “I'm sorry about Dr. d'Alkarny.”

“Yes.” Feoragh bowed, then touched the back of Laura's hand. “It seems that you are.”

“How can I help you?”

“Are you able to contact Lieutenant Riordan,” asked Feoragh, “before he departs for Illurium?”

“I'm not sure.” Laura turned to Alexa. “Get the commissioner's office and ask Eyes to call the—”

Laura broke off as Harald shook his head.

“Scrub that,” Laura continued. “Do it yourself, via the ordinary switchboard. Call the control tower or security, whoever you can get in touch with. Keep them on hold.”

“I'm on it.” Alexa tugged the receiver from the hook and spun the wheels to all zeroes. “Switchboard? I need to—”

But Laura was already leading Feoragh through the doorway to her office and pulling it shut behind them.

Alone with Feoragh, Laura asked, “You have information from the Archives?”

“From deep in the Lattice,” answered Feoragh, “having searched far. Lieutenant Riordan was working on a conspiracy case, or the possibility of one. That was what brought him to your attention, I'm guessing.”

“That's right. And you know about the diva.”

“Yes, and of the precedents. The famous performers who died prematurely so that others might enjoy their bones.”

There was a silky tone in those words that made even Laura shudder.

“Am I missing something?” Laura said. “Those performers weren't even in Tristopolis, they were—Oh, shit.”

“The Illurian connection is strong, otherwise Lieutenant Riordan would not be going there. But there is more. Have you heard of the Tringulian Triplets?”

“No.” Laura thought back to visits to the theater with her parents, when she was young and the world was warm and bright and simple. Her mother had followed the newspaper columns about theatrical stars. “Wait—they're opera singers also, is that right?”