Shadow of the Swan (Book Two of the Phoenix Legacy) (21 page)

Alex Ransom left the transit plaza, riding a crowded pedway toward the Planetary Transystem terminal Where the Hild Robek cock-and-serpent crest was displayed over the entry mall. Above him through the soaring escarpments of the buildings, the webs of elevated pedways, the glinting streams of aircars, he could see fragments of Castor’s indigo sky. The height of the buildings still amazed him, and his body hadn’t entirely adjusted to the lighter gravity.

The morning work shift would begin soon, and he was using the crowds. At the terminal he crossed to another ’way, attracting not even a disinterested glance from the people riding it: Fesh, mainly, with the closed faces typical of city dwellers. The ’way took him into the heart of the terminal, toward the giant subtrain shafts that gave access to the underground sections of Helen where the industrial complexes were located, and where at the deepest levels the Outsider’s district flourished. The meeting with Vandyne would take place somewhere in the Outside.

He left the ’way and crossed to a row of call booths, grateful for the cessation of sound when he stepped into one of them and switched on the S/V screens. He put his suitcase on the floor and fed a half ’cord bill into the slot. The screen and controls activated, but before he punched the ’com seq, he attached a jambler to the speaker. When he punched the numbers, he turned and looked out into the terminal, watching the Conpol patrol officers lounging around the ramps.

“Harv Vandyne on line.”

There was no visual image, and that surprised him; he had no way of making a VP ident here. His visual screen was on, and he felt peculiarly exposed.

“You must be busy, Fer Vandyne.”

“I have plenty of time.”

Alex paused. He couldn’t be sure of the voice, but the code response was right.

“You’re clear at your end, Fer Vandyne?”

“Yes, Commander. Where are you?”

“That doesn’t matter. I won’t be here long.”

A brief hesitation, then, “No, of course not. Sir, are you all right? We were concerned about the delay.”

“Yes, I’m all right, and the delay was unavoidable, but we can’t talk on screen. Where am I to meet you?”

“There’s a float in the Outside; it’s called the Tamborin. Level D-3, on a ’way corner; 47 NS and 115 EW. I’ll reserve a pod in the name of Charles Harris.”

“What time?”

“I can be there in an hour.”

“Very well, Fer Vandyne. One hour.”

It was always night in the Outside wherever it might be, a night made garish by flashing, glittering signs, crude but imaginative masterworks of light and color designed to draw the Insiders to the floats, serallios, gambling casinos, and other quasi-legal or illicit attractions.

Alex stood in the shadows of a recessed doorway. A private entrance, apparently; no lights advertised its existence. He was suspended on a tridemensional continuum of light, color, and sound, an illusion typical of an illusory world; the levels seemed to go on indefinitely above and beneath him. He studied the gaudy facade of the Tamborin across the ’way junction with its huge, projected images of barely clad dancers moving with jerking, jarring color shifts; ampspeakers shrieked music to blend with the blaring sound from competitive businesses. The people moving along the ’ways seemed curiously unreal against the surge of color and sound, living shadows, most of them face-screened as he was.

He was late for his meeting with Vandyne. but purposely so. He watched the ’way-level entrance of the Tamborin, studying the crowds, wishing he had an Outsider’s nose for Poles and Shads, and regretting that he had no direct means of contacting Jael; his nose would be useful now.

The focus of his attention shifted abruptly.

He felt the man’s presence first, and his left hand came up, ready to snap the X
¹
into his palm. He made no other movement except to turn his head toward the man.

An Outsider. No face-screen, eyes with the sheen of ten-steel; a tough, ageless face set in a squint of cynical indifference. He stood perhaps two meters away, but now he moved closer until only an armsbreadth separated them.

Still Alex didn’t move, but every muscle was tensed.

“Hey!” The Outsider’s voice was a husky whisper. “You eyeing out for Vandyne?”

Alex felt the hard beat of his pulse. This man wasn’t Phoenix; he was exactly what he seemed, and Vandyne’s name on his lips did nothing to reassure him. He made no response, watching the man, waiting.

The Outsider frowned, menace behind his annoyance.

“Listen, tooky, I ast you a question. You want Vandyne, I can line you in on him.”

Alex asked levelly, “Did I say I wanted anyone?”

“What the hell’s your gim? You slippin’ the Poles?” He paused and, when Alex didn’t answer, added conspiratorially, “Hey, I can maybe give you a door. You got the passkey? Double-deuce ’cords, friend. That’s all it takes.”

Alex watched the shadowy figures passing, wondering if the Outsider had accomplices nearby.

“How much will it cost to line me in on Vandyne?”

A low, sardonic laugh. “No tax on that, tooky.” And his arm shot out, his hand locked on Alex’s neck.

Alex twisted free, snapped the gun into his hand, vaguely aware of a sharp prick at the back of his neck, but he didn’t understand it until he felt himself falling.

The lights went out around him, the sounds blurred into a roaring wail that died in black silence.

A burning smell, sweet and rich: tobacco. Music at low volume; minor key, a heavy, insistent rhythm. His eyes were open, but they refused to focus. He waited, gathering sensory impressions. Wherever he was, it wasn’t an SSB DC.

He lay cushioned in some beautifully buoyant material, his eyes registering fragments of color that gradually coalesced into a dome of glass or plasex, a glowing mosaic of stylized floral patterns. His gaze shifted slowly downward; slowly, because his head was pounding and even the movement of his eyes set them aching, too. He lost his focus, and when he recovered it, wondered if he were actually conscious or simply dreaming. Or hallucinating.

It was a small, circular room of profligate opulence, teeming with exuberant colors, textures, and patterns. The walls were lined with fine tapestries and brocaded draperies of silk velveen in an abundance of patterns and hues, at intervals drawn back in swashes to display art pieces in ornate niches. Fanciful sconces held lights refracted in crystal starbursts, and each piece of furniture was a masterpiece of whimsy and craftsmanship, cast metal or carved wood, filigreed with exotic floral designs and beasts mythical and real. The chairs and couches were upholstered in a potpourri of colors and patterns, piled with plump cushions; the floor was rich with Ganistan carpets whose cost Alex could guess, and it was unnerving to see them layered one on the other with such abandon.

The man who lounged in the huge, cushioned chair in the center of the room, his feet propped on a footstool supported by bronze mermaids, seemed so much a part of his milieu that Alex didn’t even see him at first. It was a leisurely puff of smoke sent out from a jeweled cigar holder that brought him into focus.

A rotund jinni of a man ballooning under brocaded and furred robes befitting an elder Lord, a jowled face marked with negroid characteristics: full lips, flared nostrils, black, heavy-lidded, somnolent eyes, curly gray hair carefully coifed. He returned Alex’s scrutiny with a bemused smile, the cigar holder balanced precisely in one pudgy, beringed hand, and at length Alex realized this wasn’t a figment of his imagination.

Alex was lying on a couch as richly figured as the rest of the furniture, his head cushioned with pillows in a manner indicating some consideration. He started to rise, then groaned at the pounding ache in his head.

“Ah. He wakes at last.” The man reached for an intercom on the table beside him. “Yuba, isn’t my son here yet?”

Alex couldn’t hear the reply. He concentrated on levering himself into a sitting position, then paused to recover, cradling his head in his hands.

“You must forgive us the headache, Commander, but you might have suffered more than an aching skull.”

Alex looked up, trying to make sense of the man as well as his words.

“Who should I thank for this lesser of evils?”

The jinni-man only grinned, displaying in a brief flash a set of gleaming solid gold teeth.

“All in good time. However, I’d advise you to move slowly for a while. Ah—” He turned as a segment of drapery slid back and with it the door behind. “Here comes one with your answers.”

Alex rose abruptly, staring at the man entering the room.

“Jael!”

But now he regretted the sudden movement as the pain in his head closed in. He swayed, grateful for the ready arms that eased him back onto the couch. When his vision cleared, Jael was bending over him solicitously. And his eyes hadn’t deceived him; it
was
Jael, the Outsider. He straightened and went behind the couch out of Alex’s line of sight. When he returned, he had a glass of water in one hand and an enameled pill vial in the other.”

“Here, take one of these, Commander. It’s only a mild analgesic.”

Alex downed a tablet, then leaned back. “Thank you.”

Jael nodded, turning to the man in the chair.

“How long has he been conscious?”

“A matter of minutes; no more.”

“Good. Commander, I’m sorry this was—”

“Holy God, Jael, will you stop calling me Commander?” He pressed his hands to his head. “It sounds so damned pompous.”

Jael laughed. “You lay the lines, brother. I don’t suppose you’ve had a proper intro with my old Ser yet.” He gestured toward the man ensconced in the chair. “Alex, meet my father, Amik.”

Alex shifted his gaze distractedly. Amik the Thief, master of the Brotherhood, the Lord of Thieves. It could only be
that
Amik.

The man puffed out a cloud of smoke, golden teeth glinting in a sly smile.

“Ah, yes, Commander, Amik the Thief.”

And Jael’s father. It seemed ironic somehow.

Finally, Alex laughed. “Yes, I’ve . . . heard of you. Well, now that we’re properly introduced, perhaps you’ll dispense with the ‘Commander,’ too, and perhaps one of you will tell me why or how I’m—wherever I am.”

Amik flicked the ash from his cigar into a platinade minisyntegrator on the table.

“You’re in my HQ, Alex, at my son’s behest. It seems he was concerned for your safety and found it necessary to look to me and the Brothers for reasons that aren’t entirely clear to me.” He gave Jael a sidelong glance. “And I assume will never be clarified.”

Jael ignored that blunted barb and said to Alex, “I’m short on time now; there’s an SI staff meeting up soon and I can’t slip it. I’ll have more info after that, anyway, but Vandyne got himself pinned. He’s dead.”

Alex stared at him, then glanced questioningly at Amik.

“It’s all right,” Jael assured him. “The old Ser’s conditioned just short of a full TAB. I don’t usually make him incluse on Phoenix business, but I was up to the edge on this gim.”

“I trust your judgment, Jael. What about Vandyne? How and when did he die?”

“ ’Car accident—the planned kind—about four hours ago.”

“I see.” Alex rubbed his eyes wearily, feeling the familiar anger as he thought of his blind conversation with “Vandyne.”

“You were put up, brother. I still don’t know the whole story. I didn’t find out about the pin until an hour ago, and it didn’t come through the local SI.”

“Where did it come from?”

“Vandyne’s wife. They came into the Phoenix together twenty years when. Anyway, she saw something was out of joint and took it on her own to ’com me, and that got me a little hackled about you. I knew you were due today, but that’s all. I tapped the Phoenix in-lines to the Shads and found out they were planning a catch at the Tamborin, and since we use it for a meet, I thought it might be you they had their nets out for. Time was running close, and finding you on the ’ways wasn’t a one-man play, so I had to ring in the old Ser.” He frowned, obviously less than pleased at that. “He sent the hounds out, but it was a sticky gim. All we could tell the Brothers was to find an Insider eyeing for Vandyne in or around the Tamborin.”

“One of the Brothers was quite successful. And fast.”

Alex rubbed the back of his neck, then tensed, searching vainly for what wasn’t there.

Amik laughed, one hand moving lazily to the table. “Is this what you’re looking for?” he asked, dangling the medallion on its chain. Then he tossed it to him, his movements surprisingly deft. Alex caught it and fastened it around his neck, asking no questions.

“A lovely piece of work,” Amik commented, smiling benignly. “Interesting symbolism, the wolf and the lamb.”

Jael took a step toward him, his face taut with anger. “Father, who made the pickup?”

“Gamor. Don’t worry; I searched him thoroughly. He also took your gun, Alex. I have it here. And your suitcase.” He reached down on the other side of his chair and pushed the case into view. “The locks are apparently untouched. I don’t think Gamor had time to open it.”

Jael’s anger hadn’t abated. “Damn it, I laid edict! I’ll have the price in Gamor’s blood for this!”

Amik only smiled patiently. “I took care of it, Jael. Personally. But, Alex, I owe you an apology. The Brothers are too often creatures of habit.”

“No apology is necessary. I owe you my life.”

“You owe
me
nothing. My son owes me, and you owe
him
. That debt you can settle between yourselves.”

Alex looked up at Jael. “All I can offer now is thanks. Perhaps the day will come when I can settle it.”

“There’s no debt between brothers.” Then, with a glance at his watch, “Alex, I’ll have to ex out now; this is one gather I won’t miss. I’ll leave you in the old Ser’s hands until I get back, and maybe I should lay you a warning.”

Amik’s eyes widened innocently. “Ah, Jael, you’ll give your friend the wrong impression.”

Jael sent his father a wry smile. “He’s a gentleman born; he might be in too deep with you.”

Alex laughed and said, “I think I can hold my own.”

“Fortune, then.” Jael paused regarding Alex soberly. “I don’t know the lay of your course, brother, but I told you once I’m on stand-by. It still holds. But we’ll line that out later. Father, remember, I call this man friend and brother.”