Julia Vanishes (13 page)

“Don't be frightened,” she says in that voice like falling icicles. “My name is Pia. Sit.”

She gestures with one gloved hand at a sofa. Heart hammering, I sink into the cushions.

“Would you like a drink?” she asks me.

“Coffee,” I say.

She rings a bell near the door. It is connected to a little wire going into the wall.

“I thought it time we met face to face,” she says. “It's very interesting, this skill of yours. Have you always been able to do it?”

“Yes,” I say. “It doesn't work on everybody, though. It didn't work on Mrs. Och.”

“I suppose that is not terribly surprising.”

I want to ask why not, since I myself was terribly surprised, to put it mildly, but there is a knock at the door. Pia swings it open. The uniformed man there looks petrified.

“Coffee,” says Pia. “And mango, uncut.”

She closes the door again. I do not know what mango is but presume it to be some kind of foreign drink. The way she speaks, I do not think she is from Frayne, though her Fraynish is flawless.

“Can you do anything else?” she asks.

I'm not sure how to answer this. “I'm a decent lockpick,” I say. “I can read and write well. I can scale a wall, carve out a window; I know some good knots if it comes to tying someone up, and how to use a knife and fire a pistol.”

Pia waves a hand dismissively. “Anything unusual,” she says. “Like being unseen.”

“Oh,” I say. Half-swallowed by the plush cushions, looking up at her, I feel about five years old. “No. Just that.”

Her goggles swivel out with a whir, and then back in.

“Tell me about the woman who arrived from Nim recently,” she says.

I describe Bianka as best I can, and she taps her fingernails against the knife as I do so, which is most disconcerting. When I tell her about Bianka practically hurling me across the room with one arm and no apparent effort, she smiles thinly.

Another knock at the door. She opens it, and the terrified man in uniform wheels in a silver cart with a pot of coffee, a cup and saucer, and a large piece of red-orange fruit.

“Take away the tray,” says Pia imperiously, removing the items to a lacquered side table. The poor man slips out again. Pia pours my coffee and hands it to me. I wonder if Gregor is still in the hall and if she decided to scalp me and I screamed, would he come and save me?

Pia unsheathes her curved knife, nearly giving me a heart attack, and begins peeling the fruit, letting the peelings drop to the lush carpet. She slices off a piece of orange fruit and takes it straight from the knife between her small white teeth. I watch, enthralled, while she eats the entire piece of fruit this way.

When she is finished, she tosses aside the pit and says to me, “You are to find out everything you can about this Bianka Betine. My employer believes she may be of particular importance.”

“Your employer?” I say faintly. “I thought
you
were the client.”

“No,” she says, and grins. “I am a slave like you.”

“I'm not a slave,” I say.

“We're all slaves,” she says. And since she is holding a long and very sharp knife, I don't argue with her any further.

“What does…your employer want to know about Bianka?”

“She may have something that belongs to him,” she says. “Go through her things. See what you can find.”

“What am I looking for?”

“A shadow.” Pia gives me another horrible grin, and her goggles whir in and out. “That's what it used to be. It could look like anything now. Bring me a list of everything she has.”

These people. They are just terrible when it comes to specifics.

“What about Mr. Darius?” I ask.

She waves a hand dismissively. “I've read your reports. He is obviously a wolf man and they are trying to cure him. Trying and failing, it would seem.”

I nearly fall off the sofa at this. “He's obviously a
what?
”

Pia answers as nonchalantly as if she were talking about the weather: “Savage wolves, terribly strong, with human intelligence. During the period of transformation, in the first months following a bite, the man becomes a wolf only by night, but once the transformation is complete, he will be trapped by his wolfish form and appetites forever. Unlucky fellow. Or perhaps lucky, depending on your opinion of being human.”

“What is he doing at Mrs. Och's house?” I ask.

“The desperate often find their way to Mrs. Och,” says Pia.

“But she said to Frederick…I heard her say that they
needed
him.”

“Ah.” Pia takes this in. “That is interesting. Yes, that is very interesting.” Her voice turns sharp. “You should be telling
me
what he is doing at Mrs. Och's house. Find out.”

“He couldn't be…I mean, he's locked in his room at night, so he couldn't be behind the murders in the city,” I falter.

“No. That is something else.”

She knows.
My blood chills, but I force myself to ask: “What kind of something else?”

“The kind that will not rest until he finds his prey or is killed himself,” she replies.

At least she says
he
and not
I.

“Who is his prey?” I ask. “He seems to have a lot of prey.”

She looks at me for a long time and then says, “I want a list of all Miss Betine's possessions, and I want to know about the wolf man. If Miss Betine leaves the house, follow her. She is your priority. We will speak again soon.”

I flee the room. Gregor is pacing the hall outside. He grins with relief when he sees me and claps me on the shoulder so I stagger a bit.

“All right, then?” he asks, and I glare at him. I'll give it to him later for not properly warning me about her, but right now I just want to get out of here. I am relieved that she didn't ask me about the witch smuggling, and that I didn't get my head sliced off. Still, I don't have a good feeling about whoever employs such a woman, and I suspect things won't end well for Bianka Betine.

T
he boy stares up into the snow. It's late; he shouldn't be out, but nobody at home will notice or care. It's just that it isn't safe. Especially not now. He knows that. But the silent, snowy rooftops beckoned, and he couldn't resist. No one is out but him, and so he is king of the sleeping Edge up here. The sky is black and starless, and the snow comes down heavily, soft on his upturned face. He whispers the forbidden word, the one his mother made him promise never to say, when she took him to the tiny shrine in the woods beyond the cemetery: “Arde.” More daring now, loud and clear: “Blessed be Arde.” He giggles and then jerks to the right, seeing movement.

Something is crossing the rooftop, coming toward him through the snow. A shadow bearing a weapon. It comes close, eyes glinting in the dark. Terror roots him to the spot, and the hand at the back of his neck is very soft. When he sees the blade, he can only think this is his punishment.

“I'll forsake…,” he whispers, but does not finish.

“I
'm looking for Torne,” I say, all too aware of the eyes on me.

“Are you, now?”

Raucous laughter comes from the dark corners of the room. The woman at the bar leans across, her tremendous wrinkled bosom nearly spilling out of her dress. She has only a few teeth in her stinking cavern of a mouth, one of them bright gold, and a purple scar running from temple to chin, right down her face, shutting one eye. She is not, I mean to say, a beauty, and she is the only other woman here. A beefy fellow has moved to block the stairs I came down—the only way back out to the street, as far as I can tell. His bare, tattooed arms are folded over his massive chest. One tattoo on his bicep is a triangle with a line through the tip of it—the symbol of the air spirit, Brise. They are element worshippers, then. An old man at the bar has a ferret draped over his shoulder. He strokes it methodically, grinning at me with blackened teeth.

“I've come on behalf of Professor Baranyi,” I say, hoping his name will carry some weight here. Frederick was unhappy about my going to the Edge again, but I convinced him I knew the address, that it was just a bar with a harmless reputation. He didn't know any better, of course. I am beginning to regret my powers of persuasion. “He told me Torne would have something for him.”

“Torne might have something for him,” says the woman, and one of her breasts finally does fall right out of her dress and onto the bar. She shoves it back into her dress as if it were nothing. “But that'd be between him and Torne.”

One of the shadows from the corner emerges into the dim light of the bar. It is a man in a stained shirt, reeking of gin, scraps of food dangling from his long gray beard.

“Why didn't your professor come hisself?” he demands. “Why'd he send his mule girl instead? Are you a peace offering, then?”

A peace offering? I have no idea what he's talking about, and I don't like the way he is looking at me. I have five silver coins from the professor but don't like to say so when I've seen no sign of Torne yet. Whatever I am getting for the professor today, it is not cheap.

“I'm just here to collect,” I say evenly.

“Here to collect, says she!” he cries. “Not here to give?”

His arm slides around my waist. I step away quickly and find myself in the grip of the tattooed fellow who had blocked the door.

“Easy there,” he growls at me.

“This professor of yours,” says Graybeard. “He works for the lady in the Scola, that right?”

I nod, truly frightened now.

“See, I'm thinking they sent you 'cause they feel bad not backing Torne when he asked 'em to. Sometimes you think you're all on the same side and then turns out your friends ain't there for you at all. I'm thinking they sent you along to cheer us up.”

“G'wan,” says the man with the ferret, with a glimmer of what I hope is sympathy in his eyes. “They got him out of prison, didn't they?”

“He was asking more'n that, and deserved it,” spits Graybeard. “What are they doing, hanging about in the Scola, living like rich farts, eating ham and drinking fine brandy? I hear things about that lady. Why doesn't she help us?”

The man with the ferret shrugs. “It's all just stories, about her,” he says. “Still seems to me they've done us no harm.”

“No harm at all!” says Graybeard. “And now they've sent us this lovely piece of arse.”

He yanks my coat open.

“I have money!” I cry.

“She has money!” crows the woman at the bar.

Brise Tattoo reaches into my pockets.

“Not there,” I say miserably, sliding a hand inside my coat to the hidden pocket I sewed there last winter. I don't know if the professor will believe the silver was taken from me or if they'll all assume I stole it myself. The silver may yet be the least of my worries. I pull out the purse and toss it a few feet away, hoping Graybeard will scurry after it. But nobody touches it. Graybeard tears my coat at the shoulder seam getting it off me while I struggle uselessly in the iron grip of Brise Tattoo.

“It's known I'm here! If something happens to me, you'll be punished. You'll all pay!”

“Yes, your dreaded professor,” mocks Brise Tattoo.

I wrench away from him, enough to kick out at Graybeard, who grunts angrily, and I pull the knife out of my boot. Brise Tattoo twists my wrist sharply and has the knife before I can even think how best to use it. Graybeard hits me across the face. I hear myself scream. Brise Tattoo clamps a hand over my mouth. I bite him hard and he cries out, an ugly, rage-filled sound. He shoves me into the wall and for the second time in a week I am on the floor, reeling with pain. But I still have my stockings on and my wits about me. Even before I've properly got my balance, I make a mad scramble for the stairs and the door. Somebody else is there now, a ghoul, his face a blob of melted scar tissue, lashless eyes peering out from his shiny burnt skin. His fingers are webbed. He shoves me up against the wall, pulls at the front of my dress. I kick him hard in the groin and then Graybeard has me again. The woman at the bar is clapping and cheering now, and the raucous laughter from the corners is a chorus, more men pouring out of the shadows to join in the sport until I am surrounded, a dozen hands pulling at my dress, ripping the front right open, buttons popping, scattering.

“You'll be punished!” I'm screaming as I fight. “My mother is a witch! She'll curse you all to Kahge! I work for Pia! Heard of Pia? She'll cut you to ribbons!”

“Hold up.”

The voice is not loud, but immediately all the hands drop away. I fall against the wall with a long, shuddering sob.

“What is this, then?”

A blond man in pajamas is standing over me. He has a horsey face, long teeth, drooping gray eyes. One ear is missing, a whorl of scar tissue in its place.

“Sorry to wake you, sir,” says the woman at the bar. “This little thing come looking for you, and the boys was having some fun of it.”

“Looking for me?” he says to me. “You?”

“You're Torne?” I can hardly get control of my voice. I hear more laughter. If I ever have a chance, I vow to myself, I'll come back here and burn this place to the ground with every single one of these bastards inside it. I button up the front of my dress as best I can, though most of the buttons are broken and I can't find them in the dark. Lucky for heavy winter petticoats and stockings is all I can say.

“Yes,” says Torne. “Who are you?”

“I'm here for Professor Baranyi,” I say. “I had money, but they took it.”

The purse is not on the floor anymore. Torne looks around and somebody comes forward and hands him the purse. He empties the silver coins into his palm and looks at them carefully.

“I don't know where my coat is,” I say. “These men are animals.”

“Men are animals,” he says. “Women too.”

That's so helpful and illuminating—thank you, good sir. I think I'll leave him in the place too when I torch it.

“I need my coat,” I say.

“She's a spitfire, sir,” says Graybeard. “She works for that bitch in the Scola, the one who didn't want to fund your arsenal. Go on, shall we have some sport with her?”

Arsenal?
Perhaps Gregor is right that there are still a few revolutionaries left in Spira City. I can hardly blame Mrs. Och for thinking it unwise to arm this rabble.

“Hush,” says Torne, and looks at me again. “Who did you say you work for?”

“Professor Baranyi,” I say.

“No, when I came in. You were a bit overwrought, perhaps. You said you worked for…Pia?”

Does he know her? I wonder whether to deny it or not, whether it might get back to the professor. I am guessing the professor is not on chatting terms with this man, whoever he is, and I am curious to know his connection to Pia. “Yes,” I say at last.

“You don't mean…? No, of course you don't. Do you?”

“Do I what?”

“You work for Professor Baranyi,” he says.

He is so uneasy that now I'm really intrigued. “I'm a freelancer,” I say. “I also work for Pia. With the mechanical goggles.”

He goes very still at that. “Casimir's Pia,” he says.

I nod slowly, remembering the letter in Mrs. Och's desk.
Casimir, what have you done?…the green lake has dried up; my tree is gone….I fear you have gone mad, or worse.

“Do you know her?” I ask.

“Do
you
?” he returns, studying me.

I fold my arms over my chest and stare him down.

“What do you do for Casimir?” he asks me.

“That's not your concern,” I reply, sensing my advantage. He's shaken. “I'll just say Pia knows I'm here. She always knows where I am. Because she needs me, and she needs me in one piece, so I'll thank your nasty friends here to keep their stinking hands to themselves. I'm here for the professor now, and if you breathe a word of this to him, you'll have to answer to Pia. Do you have something for him or not?”

Torne nods his head, still staring at me.

“Nobody touch her or talk to her,” he says, and disappears through a door behind the bar.

Now everybody is very subdued.

“My coat and knife, please,” I say imperiously. The burnt man brings them to me. I tuck the knife back in my boot and wrap my coat tight around me. The men all slink back to the shadowy corners, and the woman behind the bar busies herself wiping glasses with a filthy rag. My heart is still thundering in my chest, but I feel almost triumphant at having so powerful a name to throw out and terrify them with.

Torne comes back with a small steel box. “Be careful with this,” he says. “They aren't easy to come by anymore, with all the nests being destroyed.”

“It's going straight to the professor,” I say, staring at the box. There is a raised star on top of it—the symbol of witchcraft, or magic, the signs of the four elements combined. Air, or the spirit
Brise,
represented by the triangle with the line through the top; Earth, the spirit
Arde,
an upside-down triangle with a similar line through it; Water,
Shui,
an upside-down triangle; and Fire,
Feo,
a plain triangle; all brought together to make a star. Whatever he's up to, the professor has moved well past roots and poison. I put the box in my coat pocket.

“You're very young,” says Torne. His voice is almost kind. “Too young for this.”

Whatever that means.

“Tell Pia that Torne sends his regards,” he says, touching one hand to the place where his missing ear had once been. I don't bother to answer. Once I've got a clear line to the stairs, I point a finger around at the men who attacked me, skulking in the shadows now.

“You lot, I wouldn't shut my eyes at night, if I were you. I won't forget this.”

Satisfied by the fear I see on their faces, I bolt up the stairs to the street and run for the Twist. Once I'm at a safe distance, I take out the little box Torne gave me and open it carefully. Inside, there are six silver bullets and, next to those, a glass vial holding two spiders, each the size of my thumbnail, with great long legs. The spiders are a bright, poisonous green, with a single gold line down their backs. They crawl around the inside of the vial, looking for a way out. I snap the lid back on with a shudder and shove the box deep into my pocket.

I need to stop at home to change and clean up, or Frederick will have a fit. I let myself into our flat, which is cold and dark, and nearly have a heart attack when I see the figure slumped in Dek's chair.

Wyn looks up when he hears me gasp.

“Hounds, Wyn, you scared me half to death!” I shout. “What are you doing in here?”

Then I see the look on his face. There is a bottle of cheap wine on the floor next to him, sitting on top of a scrap of paper.

“What's the matter?” I go to him, dropping to my knees and taking his hands in mine. His face is shut tight like a steel trap, the smell of booze a thick haze all around him. I've seen Wyn drunk and jolly, but I've never seen him like this, and it frightens me. “Talk to me, Wyn.”