Endgame (14 page)

“I need to get back.” Niall set his cup on the drainboard. “I sent off a quick missive to Roshi, but I need to prep the one with all the details.”

They encountered several clinic staffers in the corridor. Jani fielded words and gestures, meeting sympathy with sadness, and tears with a touch or handshake. And all the while, something roiled within. Restlessness. And anger, looking for a place to land.

Niall ushered her into the lift, then waited for the doors to close. “I'm guessing Pascal sent something to Roshi as well. Maybe I'll intercept it and see what he has to say about me.”

Jani forced a smile. “Would anything surprise you?”

“I can think of a few things that would piss me off.” Niall flipped his lid from one hand to the other, then ran his sleeve over the smudged brim.

The ground floor proved to be the clinic writ large. Thalassans came from the demirooms, the courtyard, and the offices. Then word traveled, and they hurried down from the three upper levels. The line formed in orderly silence, and Jani walked along it and accepted the words and the hugs and wondered if there was any way to trade all that grief to
Tsecha's gods for five more minutes. For a chance to say good-bye. To say anything at all.

Niall hung by her shoulder the entire time, monitoring her every move. When the impromptu receiving line petered out, he herded her to a table, then filled a plate for her from one of buffets.

“I will call later. I'll go through the office so that I don't wake you in case you're sleeping.” He set the food in front of Jani, then unwrapped some cutlery from its napkin wrap and handed it to her. “‘His life was gentle, and the elements so mixed in him that Nature might stand up and say to all the world, “This was a man.”'” He spread the napkin across her lap. “The end of
Julius Caesar.
Not completely appropriate, but it says what I mean it to say.” He kissed the top of her head, then turned and clipped across the courtyard.

Jani ate a little, then passed the time tearing a roll into tiny bits and feeding the lizards that had taken autumn refuge in the courtyard. Eventually, she heard distant thunder, then the rain spatter against the skylight roof. Looked overhead, and watched the roiling dark through the glass.

“You'd think it would be cold, but it's not.”

She tore her attention from the rain just as Lucien emerged from the garden shadows. He wore civvies, brown trousers tucked into low boots and a tan shirt with the sleeves rolled up. A slingbag hung from one shoulder, and he had tied a weatherall around his waist. “I thought you'd be back at the base.”

Lucien shrugged. “I showed up for an emergency staff meeting. But I couldn't get into the room—my coding hadn't been entered into base systems, and according to regs, I cannot attend certain types of meetings unless I have been entered into base systems.”

Jani tossed a bit of bread on the floor, where it vanished amid a rustle of leaves and a flick of green and red striped tail. “You have the right security clearances?”

“Yes,” Lucien said with a sigh, “but I am not officially in systems. Pierce's admin told me that initialization can take up
to a week. She was smiling when she said it.” Another shrug. “I could bitch to Mako, but what would be the point? He's in Chicago—any communication he sends Pierce ordering him to give me access would be lost or garbled. They're experts over there at losing and garbling. It's the Elyan way.”

“What did you expect? You know he can't stand you, and you forced yourself down his throat.”

“Doesn't matter. I've been keeping myself busy.” Lucien studied her through narrowed eyes. “I thought you'd have meetings of your own to attend.”

Jani looked around the courtyard, then up toward the walkways, where Thalassans milled, chatted. It could have passed for a normal enclave evening but for the pall that hung in the air. “I've been allowed time to grieve.”

“How considerate of everyone.” Lucien met her low tone with his own. “I have a skimmer parked out on the beach. If you have some time, I'd like to show you something.”

Jani eyed his face, rain-damp and drawn. His clothes and boots, mud-streaked and spattered. He'd been looking for something. Would he have come looking for her unless he'd found it? “I have time.” She fingered the edge of one red cuff. “Give me a chance to change clothes.”

The Service two-seater coursed over the water like a seabird. Whitecaps swelled close enough to touch, spray mixing with rain to spatter across the vehicle's windscreen. Lucien had shut down all lighting both exterior and interior, leaving as the sole illumination the sickly green safety string that ran along the bottom of the dashboard.

Jani huddled against the heated cushions, fixing on the distant lights of Karistos, their yellow-white flicker like stars against the churning dark. “Does Niall know you're here?”

“I don't think he gives a rat's ass.” Lucien's voice emerged measured, his native French provincial accent muted to nothing, a sign that anger and humiliation simmered into stew just below the surface. “I spent part of the day filling out forms. Then we heard the news. I tried to get into the staff meeting, like I said before. When that fell through, I pulled some strings at the Communications center, which for some strange reason
did
have me in systems. Poked around. Intercepted some chatter. Changed clothes, gathered gear, signed out the skimmer, and went to have a look around.”

Jani rode the silence for a time, listening to the dull hum of the motor and the occasional splash of water against the hull. “What sort of chatter?”

“Details about Tsecha's death.”

Jani's heart tripped as Lucien maneuvered the skimmer off the water and along a narrow strip of rock-strewn shoreline, held onto the armrests and squeezed as the vehicle shuddered and bounced. “What bothered you?”

Lucien remained silent until he had steered the skimmer onto the comparative smoothness of a steep incline. “The speed.” He paused as he executed a hairpin turn. “I heard folks mention stroke. Hemorrhage. Aneurysm.” He shook his head. “I didn't think that Tsecha would allow any condition he developed to advance until the point of crisis.” He tore his attention from the narrow snake of a road to look at her. “John didn't discuss this with you?”

“Not in any detail.” Jani folded her arms and concentrated on the road ahead. “We were right in the middle of it. John had to focus on treating him.” She felt her face heat as Lucien's deceptively gentle laugh filled the cabin.

“Did he really think you wouldn't find out?” He steered around the final turn and up over the edge of the cliff, his voice shaking as the skimmer fought to stabilize over a stretch of rocky scrub.

“Find out what?” Jani closed her eyes and waited.
They were just giving me time to adjust.
Her gut ached.
They were being kind.
She opened her eyes.
Since when?
She saw the lights of Karistos, brightening the horizon like sunrise.
They wanted to talk to me.
And then they didn't.

The sounds of argument remembered…

Why the hell didn't you spot it before?

Because it wasn't there before.

It's growing.

“He was killed.” Jani heard her voice echo in her head. A barely detectable sound, like the first pebble in the landslide.

“I think the word is ‘assassinated.'” Lucien clucked his tongue. “How much time did it buy John? A few hours, at most. Now here you are, hot on the trail.” His lips curved in the barest trace of a smile. “You're very angry with him now.”

“That's none of your goddamn business.”

“If you say so.” Lucien fell silent, half smile fixed in place, and steered the skimmer over rock formations and across ravines with practiced ease.

Still several kilometers from the Karistos outskirts, there was little to see besides bare land. Jani took note of the odd house that broke up the monotony, but these appeared un-inhabited and, judging from their ruined appearance, uninhabitable.

“This area's prone to quakes,” Lucien said, as though reading her thoughts. “The land around here has shifted over the years, and some people didn't choose their building sites very carefully.” He pointed out a one-story white stone box that had collapsed in the center as though a giant had stepped on it. “A two-meter crevasse opens up beneath your sitting room—there goes the couch.”

Jani heard the skimmer motor hum lower in pitch as the vehicle slowed. “You didn't bring me out here to show me wrecked houses, did you?”

“Just one wrecked house in particular.” Lucien slowed to a stop near yet another one-story white box, this one half buried thanks to the collapse of a sheltering overhang. “Although I checked out every abandoned homestead in this general area.”

Jani popped her gullwing and disembarked the skimmer. Despite having lived the last two years in the thick of Commonwealth society, she still saw things through the eyes of the fugitive she had been.
Secluded, but half the view blocked by rocks…couldn't see someone approaching from the direction of Karistos…the outcropping offers too good a hiding place for an intruder.
She would have struck the place from her list, but knew she wasn't looking at it the right way.
Look at the place through the eyes of a killer.
The blocked views still bothered her, but the seclusion seemed more desirable now. “Where did they park their skimmer?”

“Up the road a little. There's a niche with some overhanging shrubbery. They broke off branches and used them
for coverage.” Lucien drew his shooter and activated it. The high-pitched hum sliced the air, highlighting the quiet. “There are a few sets of footprints around the place. Some bits of trash.” He stopped in the doorway, examined the interior, then stepped inside. “Careful what you touch. It's been wiped with a protein bomb, and there's still some of the residue about.” He drew a lightstick from inside his weatherall and activated it. Soft illumination rose slowly, casting weird shadows on the walls and ceiling.

Jani trailed him into the house. The interior proved even less inviting than the outside. Cracked walls. Rubble-strewn floors.

But at the far end, a window that allowed an expansive view of the bay and the curve of cliffs beyond, trimmed by a wide, rock-strewn sill.

Jani walked to the spot, on the lookout for disturbances in the dust, anything that could serve to confirm her surmise. “They stood here.” She stepped around to gauge the view through the window. “Not the best angle.”

“The only alternative is the sill,” Lucien said as he stashed his shooter. “They would have had to clear the rubble, though, and beyond some smearing of dust, it shows no signs of having been disturbed. It seems the better choice—more stability for the weapon. But standing allowed more mobility, not to mention a better view of the doorway.” He reached into his slingbag, removing a fist-sized ball that looked like crumpled metal foil. “Secondary spotter courses overhead, relaying information on the target back to the primary sight in the weapon's eyepiece.” He tossed the ball out the window. It hovered for a few seconds, then shot upward like a shooting star in reverse, vanishing into the dark.

“We'll give it a chance to reach altitude.” Lucien reached into his bag once more, this time removing a flat, hand-sized display. “A few hundred meters is usually high enough.” He flipped open the display lid and motioned for Jani to join him, holding out the device to her so that she could see the screen.

She found herself looking at an aerial view of the Main House, centered on the balcony outside her and John's bedroom.

“I can zoom in and out at will. I can even record sound.” Lucien touched a spot on the display pad and the secondary zoomed in. In a blink, the bedroom window filled the screen, the image sharp enough to discern the outline of Jani's desk and chair through the gauzy curtains.

“As I mentioned,” Lucien said as he deactivated the display and closed the case, “the secondary relays images to the weapon sight. In addition, the assassin wore an audiovisual array much like the ones reporters use to record events. In either case, it serves as an archive. Snipers call them their ‘books.' They record what is seen through the weapons sight, and it serves as proof of the kill.” He tucked the display back into his bag, then walked to the window and waited. Within seconds the secondary flitted through the opening and settled into his hands.

Jani touched the rough globe. “Why didn't enclave security systems pick up on this?”

“It scans as an organism. Systems would identify it as a small bird, or a very large bug.” Lucien tossed the device into the air, caught it, then stuck it back in his bag. “Security's a fiction that dissuades only the laziest killers. If someone really wants to get to you, there's nothing you can do to stop them.”

Jani looked out the window, imagining the scene beyond the water and the cliffs. Tsecha emerging from the meeting house and walking across the street. The secondary monitoring him, relaying his image to his killer, who lay watching, waiting for the perfect time to strike. “You know it was a sniper. Do you have a name or two that you can offer?”

Lucien hung his head and put his hands in his pockets. Time passed. One minute. Two.

Jani stepped away from the window and walked around the room, pretending interest in examining the rubble. She had known since their days together in Chicago that Lucien's
Service career served as cover for his true profession. He had once arranged it so she found his souvenirs, the items he took from his victims and kept as mementos. A casino chip. A scarf. A whiskey glass. Fifteen items in all, each resting atop a clean, folded cloth inside a dresser drawer. How many had he added to the collection since then?

Lucien raised his head. Cleared his throat. “You know what I do.”

Jani leaned against the remains of a smashed couch frame. “I've known for a long time.”

“And you love me anyway.” He glanced at her beneath his lashes, but his heart wasn't in it—he straightened and started to pace. “What's said here, stays here.”

Jani shrugged. “Likewise.”

“I'm serious.”

“And I never am.”

Lucien stopped. Looked about the room, focusing on nothing. “I've never talked about this before, with anyone. What I tell you may not seem important, or vital, or secret, but that's not the point. It's talking out of school.” He stopped fidgeting and fixed on her. “We don't do that.”

Now it was Jani's turn to remain silent. She listened to the wind whistle through the cracks in the roof, branches scrape against the rough stone exterior. “You know what I am, how I think.”

Any other time, Lucien might have offered a flirtatious response, or rolled his eyes in irritation. Not this time. This time, he watched her hands, the way she held herself, as though unsure of what she might do. “I've known for a long time.”

“Then you know my answer.” Jani patted her trouser pocket, and wished she had taken the time to dig her shooter out from its place in the bottom drawer of her dresser. In this house that had apparently sheltered one assassin, in which she conversed with another, she would have taken some comfort in its presence. “I don't care about your assassins' code of silence, or your fears for your future, or your friends
in high places. If you know who killed Tsecha, I expect you to tell me. If you know how to find them, I expect you to help me. If you know and you don't help me, be prepared to deal with the consequences. Do you understand what I'm telling you?”

“The definitions of ‘rock' and ‘hard place.'” Lucien walked to the window. “I don't know who killed Tsecha. I know the type.” He turned and leaned against the wall. The half-light conspired with the layout of the room to shadow his face in a way that obscured his age and left him looking too young. “We all have our specialty. Mine is accidents. Mechanical and systems malfunctions. Vehicle crashes. These are the neatest killings, in my opinion. If executed properly, they don't attract undue attention. They look like tragic mishaps to most people. The only ones who know otherwise are those who know how to read the signs.” He looked up, eyes fixed on some middle distance, some event in his past. Some target made. “Some of us specialize in explosives. A few prefer poison.” He shook his head. “God knows why.” He folded his arms, flexing his hands every so often, as though they pained him. “Then there are some who will only employ projectile weaponry, blades, strangulation, a method that requires them to remain in contact with or close proximity to their target.” He straightened, then moved to the side, let his bag slide down his arm to the floor, and perched on the edge of the sill. “That's the sort of killer I believe we're dealing with here.”

Jani watched Lucien continue to flex his hands.
He's never been one to fidget.
The last time he showed such restlessness, he had just learned that the Haárin he would meet in the circle the next morning planned to kill him.
He was in danger then—is he in danger now?
Was what he told her that important, or had the mere fact of telling it put him at risk?
Do I care?
“Close proximity to the victim. Close-in weapons. You've just described a Service infantryman.”

“Infantry's a
job
.” Lucien nudged a small chunk of rubble with the toe of his boot, then kicked it across the floor. “The
ones I'm telling you about…they consider assassination a calling, like medicine, or the clergy. Every aspect of preparation is ritualized, from the researching of the target to the choosing of the weapon.” His eyes narrowed. “The kill…needs to be personal.” He let his arms fall to his sides, then hunched his shoulders and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Most of us work for money, for position. Tangible rewards, if not always material. It's a job, like any other, for which we receive payment for services rendered. But with them…” Again the hesitation, the sense of words being pulled out with pliers. “They see beauty in the act, an affirmation of whatever it is they believe in. I'd be more inclined to believe that one of them killed Tsecha rather than someone with a more commercial bent.”