Night Season (16 page)

And that, Cynna thought, was not a question.

Cullen frowned. "What about Gan? She wouldn't have any qualms about getting sex whenever and wherever possible, but she didn't seem to be in a postcoital glow."

"Cynna, you're on good terms with her," Ruben said. "Ask her when you have a chance. Right now, I'm curious about the way this was handled. We were each assigned a servant of our own sex who then offered to engage in sex with us. Apparently same-sex relationships are regarded differently here than in our culture, but why would they be specifically encouraged in our situation?"

"Babies," Cynna said suddenly, then flushed. "Well, it makes sense. They think it's okay to expect servants to give sexual pleasure, but not okay to risk making babies with them."

Ruben nodded. "Very good. That fits with other observations I've made… I believe it's time for private discussion. Mr. Seabourne, did you find that Agent Weaver's rooms are as we expected?"

"Just like yours and mine. The hall, too, for that matter."

Cynna frowned. "Does what you saw have something to do with the way this place feels? Kind of creepy, I mean."

Cullen shot her a glance, his eyebrows lifting. "You feel it?"

"The air is oily."

Ruben looked at McClosky. "Mr. McClosky, if you would get the door, please. Mr. Seabourne, are you able to secure our privacy?"

McClosky closed the door. Cullen closed his eyes and began chanting softly.

They'd discussed this, too, while on the barge. The shield spell might have been a ruse, but the gnomes were obviously aware of many forms of eavesdropping. They'd decided the chances were good their rooms would be magically bugged… an assumption that had proved accurate.

In less than a minute Cullen tossed up both hands. With a quiet
poof
the lights went out.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

"Not again," McClosky moaned.

"One moment." That was Cullen, and a second later four mage lights bounced into place in the center of the room, making it about half as bright as before.

The room felt better. The air was just air—cool and dry and tinged with unfamiliar smells, but no longer oily. Cynna lifted a hand to run a diagnostic, curious about what kind of spell he'd used.

"Don't," Cullen said sharply, taking a seat on one of the floor cushions. "We're in a magical dead zone. It's temporary, and I left a loophole so I could pop out the mage lights, but if anyone else tries to use magic before the effect fades, the results could be… unpredictable."

"But what did you do? You didn't have time to set wards."

"No. They wouldn't work. The walls of this place are crawling with shaped magic—that's why you were uncomfortable, by the way. Gnomish magic is not a good mix with Air."

"That makes sense. It doesn't answer my question."

"The gnomes have had centuries to fine-tune the spells in these walls. They've got an abundance of power. I couldn't outpower or outfinesse them, so I shorted things out."

Cynna snorted. "Magic is not electricity."

Cullen grinned. "Which means I had to be clever, doesn't it? Congruencies, Cynna. At the moment all the spells for about thirty feet around us are confused about where to draw power because of a little chaos I introduced in the system. It won't last, but for now no one can eavesdrop."

But how could… her breath caught. He was playing with raw magic again. That was the only way he could have done it. He'd sent a surge of power through the walls, disrupting the spells they contained. He'd shaped it some, she guessed, with that chant, but it was still dangerous.

He must have read her expression. "It worked, didn't it?"

She wanted to point out that the spells he'd disrupted might have other purposes—like, say, holding up the walls. But nothing seemed to be crumbling, and if it was temporary…

Ruben interrupted her worrying. "We can't be overheard now?"

Cullen gave a graceful shrug. "Not by the spells they had in place. I won't guarantee anything more."

"Very well. First, I want everyone to be clear on our roles while we're guests here." He gave Cullen a small smile. "However we define guests. We represent the government of the United States. We expect to be treated as such. They will likely concede to our demands with many smiles. They will patronize us… with the possible exception of Mr. Seabourne, They tend to discount humans. He is both lupus and sorcerer, and consciously or otherwise, they will expect him to be in charge."

"We're supposed to act important?" Cynna was dubious about her ability to pull that off.

"Don't act," Cullen said. "Their lives and the lives of everyone here depend on you. They know it. You just keep that in mind and leave the acting to the rest of us." His smile was chilly and not pleasant. "I'll play to their expectations. Brooks, I suspect, will confound them."

She wasn't sure what he meant, but Ruben often confounded people. She nodded. "Is that why we were supposed to turn down the clothes? Because we're important?"

"Not exactly. The gnomes are trying to own us."

Ruben's eyebrows lifted. "You caught that, did you? Yes, though I'd say 'claim' rather than 'own.' They want to isolate us, then present us to the rest of Edge as if we'd already allied with them. Part of their plan involves dressing us in clothes that speak with their cultural voice."

"Yes," McClosky said slowly. "That makes sense, given what I've learned about the economic situation here."

"Please summarize for the others."

McClosky's suit was dirty and wrinkled; his tie, missing; his shoes, scuffed. Add that to his three-day beard, and he looked more like a drunk coming off a bender than the pressed and proper diplomat she'd first met. He still sounded like an asshole sometimes, but not as often.

At the moment he was earnest, leaning forward with his forearms on his knees. "There are many factions in Edge, as I'm sure you've all realized, but the gnomes are top dogs. They control the City and the gates. Gates mean trade, and trade is the realm's lifeblood. Their entire economy is based on it. They even import a percentage of their food, which may be out of necessity. Given the limited amount of arable land, short growing seasons, and relatively small number of crops that have adapted to conditions here, I suspect they'd have a hard time feeding their population without the gates."

"So the gnomes are power players," Cynna said. "I get that. I don't see what that has to do with dressing us up like their oversize cousins."

"We're game pieces. The Turning changed the political situation here. I'm not sure how—no one would speak of specifics to me. But the balance of power is shifting, or they think it will."

Cullen was playing with one of the mage lights, sending it up and down with little pats of his hand. "Maybe the gnomes are afraid the Turning somehow made it possible for one of the other groups to open a gate. They'd hate to lose their monopoly. Though all this speculation and gamesmanship is moot, isn't it? If we don't locate their missing jewelry, no one is opening any gates… or so we're told."

Ruben looked intrigued. "You have reason to think they're deceiving us about the medallion's function?"

"Aside from the gnomish reverence for a good lie, well told, you mean?" Cullen shrugged. "Not really. Under the circumstances, we have to proceed as if they're telling the truth about it. But I'm reserving room for a doubt or two."

"A sensible precaution. I do feel strongly we must locate it… though that's an incorrect usage of first person plural.
We
will not find the medallion. Agent Weaver will." Cullen and McClosky looked at her, but Ruben didn't give them a chance to ask how she expected to save the world. Instead, he asked her, "What have you learned about the various races here?"

"There's a lot of them," Cynna said promptly. "And like you said, humans rank pretty low on everyone's list. We're seen as useful but weak because we aren't of the Blood. Also, I've got the impression not many humans here have Gifts. I don't know why that would be true. Maybe it isn't. But they don't have a good Finder, do they?"

Cullen gave her a thin-lipped look. "Quit with the modesty. Your Gift isn't rare, but you are. I don't know of another Finder on Earth with your strength and training, and there aren't that many humans here. I'm not surprised they don't have a Finder of your caliber. I do wonder why they don't have any spells that can locate it."

"Have you asked about that?" Ruben said.

He snorted. "Bilbo turns purple when I mention the medallion at all. Tash says she doesn't know much about gnomish spells. Wen says the Ekiba have only the most basic search spells—their abilities lie elsewhere."

"What about the Ahk?" Cynna asked.

"The what?" McClosky said.

"Ahk. Large, tusked, bipedal, don't like anyone who isn't an Ahk. Warrior types with a closed culture and one of the power players here. They live in some mountains to the south. Tash's father was an Ahk."

Cullen shook his head. "Guess I didn't ask the right questions. No one mentioned the Ahk."

"What about brownies?" McCloskey said. "I saw some on the street. They're supposed to be good at finding lost things."

He'd surprised her. Most people didn't know squat about brownies beyond
oh, aren't they cute
. "They are, but their range is real limited, and they have very little power outside their own territory. Not much power, period, which is why they aren't considered major players even though there's a lot of them. They're territorial but not aggressive or acquisitive, and they can only use their innate magic."

"Meaning?"

Cullen answered for her. "Brownies don't cast spells, and spellcasting is Edge's technology. Power, wealth, prestige—they're all tied to magic here. Innate magic is respected, but if you don't or can't shape it, you don't get to play with the big boys."

Ruben spoke. "And the big boys are the gnomes, the Ekiba, and the Ahk?"

"Those are the ones everyone agrees on, yeah. And the elves, of course." Cynna darted a glance at Cullen. "There aren't many of them, and they mostly stay on their estates, but they've got power. Sometimes they use it, sometimes they don't."

"So we have a pastiche of power," Ruben said, "once we leave the City. No common laws, no central authority, yet the various races trade, travel, and mingle freely. Are they culturally or inherently averse to violence, or is something else keeping them from war?"

"The elves," Cullen said. "Though we need to get in the habit of calling them 'sidhe.' They hate being called elves."

McClosky frowned. "She? They're all female?"

Cullen looked disgusted, but spelled the word for him. "Pronounced 'shee.' I'm not sure which group of sidhe we're dealing with here, but not the high lords—they'd be running things openly, not covertly."

"You believe they use their influence to prevent war?" Ruben asked.

"Wars they don't want, anyway, or at least most of them don't. They disapprove of war on aesthetic grounds. The various factions here have probably learned the hard way to avoid open warfare."

"They have that much power?" McClosky said dubiously. "Cynna said there aren't many of them."

"It doesn't take many. Think of them as the guys with the stealth bomber and the A-bomb. No one wants to piss them off."

No one said anything for a moment, then Ruben spoke slowly. "Surely, if the sidhe are as powerful and proficient as you believe, the gnomes tried to enlist their aid to find the medallion. The sidhe live here, too. They must need this medallion restored, if it operates as we've been told."

Cynna had a highly uncomfortable thought.

"Maybe," Cullen said. "Sidhe are hard to predict, but some of them can cross without a gate, so…" He stopped, cocking his head. "We're about to be interrupted. Any last instructions?"

"Do any of them have hearing like yours?" Ruben asked.

"Tash," he said promptly, "which suggests that the Ahk do. None of the others I've met. Gnomes definitely don't."

In the pause that followed, Cynna heard the thud of many feet coming their way quickly. Cullen heard something more, because he grinned at Ruben. "That works."

"Good. Everyone, if you need to pass information privately, subvocalize to Mr. Seabourne. When—"

The door slammed open and half a dozen angry gnomes spilled into the room.

None of them were Bilbo. There was a great deal of babble, hard to sort because of the way the translator charm ran everyone's words together. The basis of their ire was, of course, Cullen's tampering, which had done something to other spells, not just the ones in this room. Some kind of chain reaction, Cynna thought. And something about toilets?

Yes. He'd made the plumbing all over the Chancellery stop working. Oh, my.

Cullen was polite in a way that turned courtesy into insult. He apologized for the inconvenience. He offered to help them fix their spells—the inference being that they needed help. Ruben was bland and immovable. Surely their hosts didn't expect them to leave eavesdropping spells operating in their private rooms.

In the midst of the commotion, Cynna edged closer to Cullen.

Subvocalizing felt awkward. You had to talk sort of deep in your mouth and throat without moving your lips, which mangled some of the consonants, but she did her best: "
Maybe the gnomes didn't ask the sidhe to search because they think one of the sidhe took it
."

He looked at her, and behind the arrogant mask he was wearing for their hosts, she saw grim agreement.

Gan didn't expect to enjoy the Council meeting, but she enjoyed
going
to it. She liked walking past the guards and sitting at the big table on a pretty embroidered cushion with all the other important people.

One cushion was left empty. Gan felt the bite of disappointment. She'd hoped…

"So what have you been up to?" Cynna Weaver said to her.

Cynna Weaver, like the lupus and the other humans, was wearing her same old boring clothes. Gan wondered why they hadn't changed into the pretty things they'd been given. "I've been at the market. They use money here, too. I want to get some money."

"I hope that means you didn't steal anything."

"Didn't you get a copy of the rules? In the City they cut off people's hands for stealing." Gan was pleased with herself. She hadn't quite been able to lie, but she had deceived the human woman.

"Thanks for the tip. I haven't seen any rules. I see you've got both hands, so you didn't get caught. What did you take?"

Gan looked at her, indignant. "Why do you think I took something?"

"Because I'm smart. How come you told us your minder's name earlier, if names are such big secrets?"

"Stupid. I didn't tell you Jenek's real name. I only know his call-name."

"Aren't those reserved for family?"

"Jenek is Hragash, not Harazeed. The Hragash aren't stuffy about call-names the way the Harazeed are." She sniffed. "They've hung around with sidhe too much. When I—"

"We is starting now." Thirteenth Councilor—the one Cynna Weaver had nicknamed Bilbo—glared at Gan and the human beside her. He didn't like either of them, but he had to put up with them. Gan stuck her tongue out at him.

The meeting started out like she'd expected—talk, talk, talk. The humans wanted the gnomes to get rid of the spy-spells in their rooms. They wanted clothing that suited them—they didn't like the clothes they'd been given. Humans had no taste at all. They also wanted a copy of the City rules that Gan had mentioned, and a map and more stuff like that. The councilors pretended everything was a big deal, but of course it wasn't, so they agreed.

Except about the baths. Humans were weird about clothes and being naked and all, but they couldn't expect the councilors to make everyone else leave the baths just so no one would see a naked human. That was just silly.

Finally Ruben Brooks said, "Very well. Let's proceed to the problem with your medallion. We have several questions."