Conflagration (27 page)

Argo grinned. “Are we?”

“Sure you are. I saw your picture in the evening edition, getting off that battleship.”

Raphael nodded and fell into the torturous sentence construction. “Then them we must be, mustn’t we?”

The daisy-painted girl seemed quite excited. She inarticulately waved in the direction of the dancers below. “I have to…”

“I thought you didn’t like it down there.”

“I have to tell my friends you’re here.”

As the girl descended, familiar hair was coming up the staircase. Country Man’s tuxedo was gone, and he was now in a flowing dashiki. He exchanged greetings with Raphael but made as if to walk on past. Raphael shouted above the band. “We must talk some more.”

Country Man looked uncomfortable. “I dunno, Major Ranger. I maybe talked too much, know what I mean?”

JESAMINE

Jesamine and Madame de Wynter, followed by Garth, emerged onto a broad terrace of white flagstones that ran the entire length of the rear of the house, and was partially illuminated by flames from the stone braziers that stood at regular intervals along the balustrade. “This is where Rudolph shot the dreadful Ciccone woman and then himself.”

“That must have been a terrible shock.”

De Wynter dismissed the incident with a wave of her cane. “I suppose it was at the time, but it was almost certainly the best thing that could have happened to all concerned. Rudolph was not what you would call a nice man.”

Beyond the terrace, an expanse of immaculate lawn stretched back to the dark trees in which colored lanterns had been hung. Jesamine could see dark figures moving on the lawn and in among the trees, mostly in couples or in threes. The band playing in the ballroom was audible, but not intrusive. She caught a snatch of the lyrics. As a musician herself, she had yet to make up her mind about this loud and desperate Norse music.

“They will know her by the wreckage that she leaves

Know her name when they feel the need to grieve.”

When they had first entered Deerpark, Jesamine had assumed the music and dancing was the full extent of the party, but de Wynter had walked determinedly on. “Let the young people go crazy in the ballroom. There are some people I’d like you to meet before Jack Kennedy sends his summons and you go flying off as fast as you can.”

White wrought-iron tables and chairs were set on the terrace, tended by waiters working from a bar and buffet at the opposite end. One of the first tables they approached was occupied by burly men in wide-brimmed hats, long dark overcoats, extravagantly padded shoulders, and a conversational style that was one moment conspiratorial and the next boisterously loud. One individual had leaned back, pointing in guffawing triumph to a companion. “Almost fucking had you there, didn’t I, Cyril?” The move caused his pinstriped coat to fall open, and reveal that he carried an ultra-modern, nickel-plated revolver in an underarm shoulder holster. De Wynter saw that Jesamine had noticed and laughed. “Just local wide boys.”

“Wide boys.”

“I maintain my ties with underworld, my dear. It’s enhances my credibility as a Woman of the People. They can also be incredibly useful whenever the system fails, or is too limiting.”

The wide boys half rose and raised their hats to Madame de Wynter. For a moment Jesamine had thought that these were the people that de Wynter wanted her to meet, but mercifully these criminal gangsters were not. Instead, the two of them continued towards a table that seemed to be filled with other refugees from the reception at the Palace of Westminster, including the same blonde women in the black chiffon and yellow high heels she had seen talking to Argo. Madame de Wynter nodded in her direction. “That’s Harriet Lime. I’m going to park you with her for a little while, while I do some obligatory circulating.”

“What if Jack sends a car for me?”

“Don’t worry so much, my dear. If he does, you will be told immediately. Everything is arranged. In the meantime, I want to you to get acquainted with Harriet. She is not the vacuous beauty she pretends to be in public.”

They reached the table and introduced Jesamine to those seated there. Harriet Lime inclined her head. Gold ringlets dropped, partially concealing her face. “You’ll have to excuse me not shaking hands, the absinthe ceremony has to be done just so.”

Harriet Lime had a small stemmed glass in front of her, over which was suspended a cube of white refined sugar supported in what looked to Jesamine like a tiny silver cage with a spoon-like handle. Taking the most exquisite care, Harriet Lime was pouring a clear green liquid from a chilled flask over the sugar cube and into the glass. When the glass was about half full she removed the sugar, put down the flask and picked up a jug of water. The small splash immediately turned the green liquid cloudy, which was the signal for those around the table to break into quiet applause. Harriet Lime beamed at Madame de Wynter. “Did I make this one for you, Anastasia?”

De Wynter shook her head. “Not now, my dear. I have to shake the obligatory hands and watch out for the less than obligatory knives in the back. Give that one to Jesamine. She is worrying too much and needs to relax.”

Jesamine seated herself, and Harriet Lime pushed the glass of what now looked like green milk towards her. As she extended her hand, Jesamine noticed that the woman’s long fingernails were lacquered in the exact same yellow as her shoes, and that she wore an ornately gothic ring, a polished yellow stone, that also matched the shoes, gripped in the eight legs of a silver-crafted spider. “Here, Major. Try this.”

“I don’t wish to appear rude, but what is it?”

“It is absinthe, Major. The emerald goddess.”

CORDELIA

Windermere had not been particularly taken with the band in the ballroom, and, although Cordelia had wanted to linger, he had taken her hand and led her straight on through a number of rooms in the seemingly endless house, until the two of them emerged onto a broad terrace under the night sky. Flames leapt from braziers and groups of people sat on white chairs at white tables. One entire table was filled with men who could only be part of the local criminal fraternity, but Windermere ignored them, heading instead for a table where Jesamine was sitting, looking decided bored and a little anxious, while the same blonde in the near-sheer black dress who had previously been impressing Argo appeared to be holding court. “Is that Harriet Lime?”

Windermere nodded. “That’s her. Just remember what I told you.”

Cordelia and Windermere had driven to the party in Windermere’s dark green, two-seat Armstrong roadster. The spring night was perhaps a little chilly to have the top down, but she was delighted with the sensation of being in a foreign city with the wind making her red hair stream behind her. While halted at an intersection by a mechanical stop sign, Windermere had placed a hand on her thigh. Everything seemed to be going according to her plan and more. The smallness of the car encouraged such intimacies. Cordelia had quivered and put her own hand over his in happy validation of the unstated-but-promised objective of having him fuck her before the dawn. Gideon Windermere was going to make her night. That had been gloriously and victoriously agreed, even if the agreement was unspoken. She was also elated that the people on the crowded pavements turned and looked as though they were something special, smiling and exchanging unheard remarks as Windermere deftly threaded the car in and out of the nighttime traffic, steering his way around the slow-moving horse-drawn cabs and broughams, the trams that drew their electricity from a network of overhead cables, and the diesel-driven, open-topped, double-decker buses. She was tempted to try one more time to persuade him to forget the party and come straight back to her hotel, or else take her to whatever lair he inhabited and called home, but she knew it was a waste of time. No matter how alluring Cordelia might make herself, attendance at Anastasia de Wynter’s party was nonnegotiable, and she suspected it was the kind of gathering where plots were hatched and devious deals done in dark corners. Windermere as good as confirmed this for her when, as they drove along a broad boulevard that bordered a park on one side, he spoke to her in a tone that was suddenly professional and authoritative.

“You’ll almost certainly meet a woman called Harriet Lime.”

“Harriet Lime?”

“That’s right.”

“And?”

“She maintains the pretense of being the mindless party girl, but don’t let that put you off, or cause you to underestimate her. She may be very helpful. She’s one of our leading authorities on Her Grand Eminence Jeakqual-Ahrach.”

“A leading authority?”

“She’s actually met the woman.”

Cordelia’s eyes hardened. “So have I, darling. I’d advise both you and her to remember that.”

Windermere realized his error. “I didn’t mean…”

“I know you didn’t mean, but don’t underestimate either.”

“I won’t. I’m sorry.”

“Where did she meet her?”

“In Muscovy, before the invasion of the Americas. Back when it was still thought some kind of accommodation was possible between the Mosul and the Norse. Both of them were at a performance of the Nureyev Ballet and talked afterwards.”

Cordelia pouted. “And I met the bitch naked in a Zhaithan torture chamber. I think my insight might be a little more acute.”

Windermere sighed. “Harriet Lime also had a sister, Gina, who was an operative for Morgana’s Web. She was captured, tortured, and buried alive. Harriet Lime isn’t any more an amateur than you are, Cordelia, so don’t be difficult.”

Gideon Windermere was actually telling her off. Cordelia didn’t know whether to be angry, or love him more, and, then, before she had a chance to decide, he spun the Armstrong, rather faster than was strictly necessary, into a hard left, and through the open gates of what would turn out to be Deerpark.

As Cordelia and Windermere approached the table on the terrace, Harriet Lime looked up, directly at Cordelia. Their eyes met, and Cordelia knew by instinct that the woman was going to be a problem.

ARGO

“Who wants a benodex?”

Spinrad’s question elicited an immediate and excited response from the three intoxicated women. Daphne, with the daisy painted on her cheek, and her two friends, Nell and Estelle, jumped up and down like gleeful four-year-olds. “We do! We do!”

Argo looked at Raphael, and then they both turned to Spinrad. “What’s benodex?”

Spinrad laughed. “It’s the crutch of life. It keeps you going long after you should have dropped.”

He produced an ornate silver pill box from somewhere inside his evening coat, and flipped back the lid, clearly a long-practiced, one-handed gesture. Inside the box were maybe a dozen clear capsules filled with yellow powder. “Try one.”

Argo hesitated. He wasn’t in the habit of taking strange pills just because they were presented to him. Back during training, T’saya had given them all kinds of psychotropics to enhance the paranormal experience and help them navigate the Other Place, but this was something else. The Virginia farm boy inside him had doubts, and remembered the old-time country saying about the evils of the big city.
“Don’t take money from a woman and don’t mess around with dope.”
On the other hand, he could only suppose that the effects had to be highly desirable if the girls were prepared to become so totally infantile for one of the pills. Daphne insinuated herself between Argo and Spinrad. “Pretty please, may I have one while he’s making up his mind.”

Nell and Estelle joined in.

“And me?”

“And me?”

Spinrad extended the pill box as though bestowing a blessing. Three greedy hands reached for capsules “Can we take one each for later?”

“No.”

“You’re mean.”

“And you’re all freeloading she-ingrates.”

Nell shrugged off his condemnation and swallowed her capsule with a sip of wine. “There’re times when I think benodex is better than fucking.”

“Both together’s good.”

“That’s very true.”

Spinrad again offered the pill box to Argo and Raphael. “Benodex was originally developed for the NAF, to keep the aircrews alert for longer periods as the operational range of the planes kept extending, but now about everyone just takes it for fun.”

Raphael made Argo’s decision for him by helping himself to a benodex and swallowing it. “What the fuck? We were only going to get drunk anyway.”

Argo sighed. “What the fuck, indeed.”

He took his capsule and waited to see what would happen. Estelle, who seemed to be cultivating a dark wantonness in a corset that severely nipped her waist, leaned an arm on Argo’s shoulder. “You did the right thing, darling.”

“I did?”

“You’ll soon feel very polymorphous.”

“Polymorphous?”

“You know, all flowing and flexible and ready for anything.”

Just how polymorphous the party already had become was demonstrated a few moments later. The three boys and three girls were moving like an expedition down one of Deerpark’s many corridors when they encountered a strange apparition coming like a wide-eyed zombie in the other direction. The man was barefoot and naked, save for a leather thong, an antique Teuton slave belt, and a black leather hood with goggle eyepieces, the lenses of which were a disconcerting red. A small sign was hung around his neck on a chain. It read …

IF
I
DISPLEASE
,
PUNISH
ME
!

To facilitate said punishment, a short but probably effective tawse dangled from a second chain attached to the belt.

Argo glanced at Spinrad. “What the hell is that?”

“There’re a half dozen of them wandering about behaving like waiters.”

“How the fuck did he get like that?”

“Madame de Wynter’s pet perverts. Usually they’re wealthy but confused young men who gravitate to her power, although one is reputed to be a member of Governor Branson’s provincial cabinet. She feeds them homeopathic antipsychotics and has her fun with them.”