Dangerous Gifts (11 page)

“Mokraine? Do you know of any magicians who work for the Section? Someone called a Scholar?”

“No. Why would I? Scholar is only a few steps above Initiate. Those lacking sufficient imagination remain Scholars all their lives.”

“Unlike you.”

“As you say.”

“But why would someone choose a Scholar for an important mission?”

Mokraine shrugged. “Perhaps because they require someone without imagination. Why do you ask me?”

“Because you know things. Because you’re a First Adept.”

He looked at me, and I caught a glimpse of the man he’d been. The First Adept Doctor of the Arcane, famous across a dozen planes; arrogant as an eagle on a crag, and just as touchy. Then the arrogance was gone, as swiftly as it came, and a sort of bleakness took its place. “I don’t know what I am,” he said. “Go away, Babylon.”

I felt myself sweating slightly with relief.

“All right. Try and take care of yourself, Mokraine.”

He only waved his hand impatiently, staring out to sea again, his ravaged face and dimmed robes bathed in portal light, his gaze fixed on something far out of reach.

CHAPTER

SIX

I
T WAS A
dim, foggy evening, smelling of woodsmoke and wet wool. I walked back via Glimmering Lane, which is packed with tiny shops, the sort known as ‘exclusive’; that is, they’ll only let you in if you happen to be in possession of a ridiculous amount of money. Even when I’m solvent I can’t afford to shop there. There was a woman there who ran a magical shop who had provided me with useful information before, but the place was closed.

I looked in a few windows. A jewellery shop caught my eye – not because of the merchandise, most of which was of the vanishingly discreet sort (I’ve never understood the point of jewellery that’s so tasteful you can hardly see it, myself), but because of the neatly lettered notice tucked into the corner of the window.
Excellent prices offered. Every discretion applied.
Next to it was a tray of rings, more striking and varied stuff than further up in the window; some were fairly new, others had that smooth gloss of things that have been long-worn.

So they bought old, as well as new. I ran my finger over one of my rings, a square-cut emerald in a setting of that iridescent black gold that only comes from Disla, in the far eastern quadrant of the Perindi Empire. It was a present from a client. Lovely, and unfortunately instantly recognisable, should the client happen to wander down here, which they might.

And even pawning all my rings wasn’t going to get us out of Laney’s mess.

There was a woman at the counter with long blonde hair spilling out of the hood of her cloak, showing something to the proprietor. I caught a glimpse of gold before he shook his head. She shoved whatever it was back in her pouch and turned, pulling up her hood, tucking her hair away, pale against the pale-green lining. I felt I’d seen her before, somewhere, but Scalentine’s like that, full of half-known faces.

Then something truly horrible in the next shop caught my eye.

It was probably meant to be a couch. It was hard to tell under the gilding, flags, fruit, furbelows and cherubs. It looked like one of the most uncomfortable things I’d ever seen, as well as being quite astonishingly ugly. I was tempted to go in and ask the price, just so I could laugh.

A customer emerged from the back of the shop, and ran a hand over one of the gilded swags. Now him, I knew. Trader Heimarl. ‘Difficult times.’ Obviously not
too
difficult. The way the Dra-ay proprietor was twisting his brow-feelers together, he’d not had to slash the price.

I heard hasty footsteps behind me, and turned; but it was only the woman with the hood of her cloak pulled around to hide her face, hiding all but a crescent of skin.

She hovered outside the shop. Heimarl caught sight of her, and the sides of his full mouth pulled tight for a moment with irritation, quickly smoothed over.

He said something to the proprietor, who flickered his feelers outwards in a quivering fan – translated into human, it would be a greasy, hand-rubbing bow.

I slid around the corner of the building, not wanting to be spotted. It’s always embarrassing meeting someone you’ve turned down. Behind me I heard the door of the shop close, and Heimarl’s voice. “Did you finish your business, my dear?”

“No. Thasado, you
promised.
I’ve done everything...” Her voice was a peculiar and ugly combination of arrogance and whine.

“Soon, Suli, dear. We’ll have our justice, I promise you. Now, look at this stain on your cloak. What is that, fruit? You’ve not been taking care of yourself.”

“I shouldn’t
have
to.”

“Let me walk you home.”

T
HE FOLLOWING DAY
was busy. The sheets were barely on before they were off again. We got through more laundry... but I’m fastidious that way. It was one of the reasons I’d chosen this site; there was a wash-house just around the corner, and we gave them enough business to get a discount.

Laney kept, rather unnervingly,
doing
things for the rest of us; my dressing-gown whisked itself to the hook almost before it was off, I found a cup of tea on my dresser with enough golden in it that if I’d drunk it I’d have been unconscious. Very goodgolden, too, by the smell, maybe even Levantish, which was the worst of it. Golden like that you don’t put in tea, at most you wed it to a very small amount of pure spring-water, after making the proper introductions. Wincing, I poured the dreadful concoction away. I heard a yelp of horror that had me belting downstairs, only to discover Flower holding up his favourite chopping knife, which now had a solid gold handle.

He looked at me. “It’s ruined the balance,” he said.

“I’ll talk to her.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it, shaking his head. “No, don’t. She’s just trying to make up. And besides, it’s gold; it’ll be back to normal tomorrow.”

Laney, in typical Fey fashion, can’t actually make gold that lasts. If she could, we wouldn’t be in this mess. Although theAll knows what it would do to Scalentine’s economy.

I heard Jivrais wail, “My hair! It’s gone purple!”

We looked at each other. “When are you going to Incandress?” Flower said.

“Tomorrow.”

“Can I come?”

I
TOOK A
shortcut to the Midnight Rose through the Sleeping Gardens. They’re at their best at night in summer, but even now, with winter getting a grip on the city, they have a sparse sort of charm. Stone nymphs doze with silvery webs in their hair. The stream mutters to itself like a small child happily absorbed in some quiet game. Berries, chalky blue and blood red, cluster on the bare-stemmed bushes, and the dried grasses, leached pale gold by the chill, rustle and whisper. But all the little moths that dance there in the summer sleep in cocoons underground, waiting for spring.

The Midnight Rose is in a prime site, on a hill near the centre of Scalentine, close enough to the gardens that in summer the scents drift in through the open windows. A nice looking house, although very pink. There was a laughing stone cherub perched on the steps. Jillifai was on the door: a slim, pretty, fragile fella with brilliant green and scarlet feathers on his head that marked him as a Thrail, one of the Perindi Empire races. I could lift him in one hand, but I wouldn’t try it. I’ve seen those long slender legs of his pop a rib with a kick.

“Babylon.”

“Jillifai. How’s it going?”

He tilted his head and made a clicking noise. “Much as usual.”

“Betty around?”

“She is.” He bowed me in.

I blinked, as always, and waited for my eyes to adjust.

Sometimes Betty likes pink. A
lot
. And not just any pink. The sort of pink that plants a big loud sloppy kiss right smack on your eyeballs. She also likes sequins. And feathers. And just about anything that sparkles, or glitters, or is fluffy. Walking into the Midnight Rose is a bit like being inside a giant cupcake on its wedding day.

One of her girls appeared out of a side door, a dark-skinned lass in soft green. She’d have been easy on the eyes in any setting; in this one she was like a cool drink of water.

“Hi, I’m here to see Betty?”

She smiled and motioned me through to Betty’s parlour. Heat and pinkness enveloped me like a big sugary blanket.

In the middle of a room like an exploded carnation, Betty was lounging on the coral satin sofa, dressed in a raspberry velvet concoction adorned with shrimp coloured lace, drinking from a cherry-blossom-and-gold cup and contemplating the tarot hand lying on a table the colour of a highly polished pig. Until I met Betty, I didn’t even know you could
get
wood in that colour. I wondered if the forest it grew in looked like Betty’s parlour.

“Babylon.” She waved at me without looking up. “Have a look, see what you think.”

“I’m no tarot reader.” I squeezed in next to her. She was currently built on generous lines.

“Oh, come on, have a go.”

I stared at the cards. The layout wasn’t familiar to me, but then, as I said, I’m no expert. The Jester, with his little dog, and wide-eyed grin. The Gravida, heavily pregnant, with a shawl over her head, and a cup in each hand. The Double-Headed axe.

“Um... You’re going to be fooled into thinking you’re pregnant with twins?”

“Hmm...” She stared down at the cards, then swept them away decisively. “No, I don’t think so. What can I do for you, Babylon?”

She brushed long bronze hair out of her face and smiled at me. Her eyes were both brown, at the moment.

“You got any space over the next couple of days?”

“You overbooked?”

“I’m away for a bit.” We chatted about the clients. Not all of mine would want to be referred: but it was good to have something set up for those who did.

There was always the risk, of course, that they’d find someone they preferred, and not come back – but that’s the business. Mostly they just seemed to appreciate the courtesy.

“Oh, I referred someone else to you. Lady who likes weres. Anxious type, so I don’t know if she’ll turn up.” I described her.

Betty nodded. “I’ll keep an eye out for her. Now, I really
must
change – I’ve a client due.”

A tide of yellow poured over her hair, as though someone were standing overhead with a bottle of gold ink, and kept flowing as it grew down over her shoulders. Her skin paled to ice-white, her eyes elongated and became sky-blue with dark rims around the iris. Her ears shifted and grew points, and her voluptuous frame straightened. Standing in front of me now was a slender male Fey, with straight blond hair flowing back from a widow’s peak, and a finely-drawn mouth.

“You like?” he said.

“Wow. Very pretty.”

“
Very
popular,” he said, grinning. He glanced down at the wrap. “I’d better change. This one likes woodsy colours. Subtle. Dull, in fact. More Fey, you know.”

“They haven’t
met
Laney, I take it,” I said.

“Oh, darling Laney, I haven’t seen her in a dozen moons! Tell her to come to tea.”

“If you meet her looking like that, you’re not going to have time for tea.”

“Does she
do
Fey? I thought they bored her.”

I laughed and turned to go, and my sword in its sheath caught the tarot pack, tumbling them on the floor. I bent to help Sometimes pick them up, and one slender white hand clamped my wrist so hard I almost hit him.

“What the...”

“Babylon.” He pointed at the cards. Four had fallen face up. The High King, the Empress, the Masked One, and the Five of Cups.

“What?” I said.

“Have you been playing with the powerful, Babylon?”

“What makes you say that?”

“Please. There’s a
reason
why they’re called the High King and the Empress, you know.”

“Sometimes you sound just like a real Fey,” I said. “Full of yourself.”

“This isn’t a joke, Babylon.”

“They’re just
cards.
”

“The High King. A man of great power and influence, reversed. The Empress: a great power, a creator power. The Five of Cups, difficult decisions, a choice to be made, regarding those you care for. The Masked One: change, a chance to choose the right road. Great matters are about to intersect in your life.”

I thought of what Mokraine had been saying, on the docks. I rubbed the scar on my jawline, realised I was doing it, and snatched my hand away.

“I don’t want great powers intersecting in my life, thank you. I’ve got enough problems.”

“The cards aren’t about immutable fate, Babylon,” Sometimes Betty said. “They’re about the paths open to us, the decisions we choose to take. That’s all.”

“That’s more than enough for me for one day. Go have fun with your client.”

“Tell Laney about tea. And Babylon?”

“Yes?”

“Be careful.”

I walked out into a low, chilly drizzle.

I
PULLED UP
the hood of my cloak. I was high enough up, here, to see a good portion of Scalentine. I stood for a moment, watching the rain make everything glimmer. I could see the glow above the open portals: it looked as though Carnival was still open, carmine and emerald flaring up suddenly to shocking pink and the vivid green of new leaves.

Spirita, over to the north, was a low bloom of grey that shivered like moonlight on water. Spirita’s one of the fixed portals, like Bealach: it’s always there and always open, but the plane on the other side of Spirita isn’t fixed. Not much comes through, and no one in their right mind would go through it from here, since you can’t tell what’s going to be on the other side if you do. It’s where Sometimes Betty turned up.

Whether she remembers anything of where she was before, I’ve never asked. She was very ill for a while. Out of her mind, and flipping shape randomly. She got better.

Nightwind wasn’t open tonight: when it was, its light was murky green and bruise purple. Nor was Crowns, with its brassy yellow. Throat portal, which links to Nederan among other places, was hidden from view by the buildings behind me; it’s the loudest of the portals. They all hum, but Throat roars. Its light is a cold steady blue. Eventide, over to my left, the portal to the Fey lands, casts intertwining colours of dawn at sea and dusky woods, silvered with magic, and its hum shivers with distant bells and faint far singing.