Vengeance (16 page)

Around the terminus the vegetation was lush, thanks to the sprinklers watering the plants. Inland the flowering hibiscus hedges soon gave way to scrub. By the time the spellhound reached Meroë, the hedges were a distant memory.

Meroë was the sentimental recreation of an ancient city, surrounded on the north side by great hills of sand and to the east by high continuous precipices plunging hundreds of feet in a series of sheer drops. In the higher parts to the south, it was bounded by a confluence of three rivers. Past the marshes to the east the Nil ran serpentlike below the precipices to Aegip and the Central Sea. Most of the plateau was flat, but there were a few places where crags rose over the surrounding terrain, and they lent the place a slightly sinister aspect it wouldn't otherwise have had.

There was an abundance of palm, peach, ebony, and carob trees. Most of the houses in the city were made of interwoven split pieces of palm wood or bricks and were faithful to the original, but the fortified stone wall surrounding the city was an anachronism. The whole place felt unreal, though whether because of the stone and glass palaces that reared up periodically or because of magic from the outside world pushing in was unclear. The spellhound wondered whether the animals roaming through the streets carrying people or goods on their backs were strictly accurate. But then it wondered—did it really matter?

"The City of Light must be unique,” Jocasta mused aloud, a mistake, since the cab was a chatterbox, keen to seize on any pretext to talk.

"It certainly is, Demoiselle,” it replied. “It uses more energy than any other urbanisation on—or offworld. It's got a name to live up to."

"I was thinking about the style of the place. It's not like Frehk,” she said repressively. She resented anything artificial in the spellhound's absence. Resented depending on its steadiness to balance her own greater emotionalism and the way she felt adrift without its presence. She even resented it for making her resentful.

She didn't really want to talk, just to drink in the ambience of the soaring towers, the glass bridges, and the never-ending, never-dimming symphonies of light and colour. But she wasn't to be allowed to view it in peace.

"Oh, it's got style.” The cab was undaunted. “The architecture's pretty good as well.” It laughed at its own joke.

She decided to abandon subtlety. “Does your programming include silence?"

"Some of my patrons prefer conversation.” Jocasta wouldn't have believed a machine could sound offended, but it managed, though it took the hint and fell silent.

A few minutes of painful silence followed, during which Jocasta tried unsuccessfully not to feel guilty and to concentrate on the scenery. Finally she relented. “Tell me about Stanislav Duff and his influence on the city."

"Please clarify,” the cab said primly, still sulking.

"Does he have much influence? Much wealth? Many assets?” She sighed, unsure what she was digging for.

"The Duff family has owned property locally for five generations. Prior records do exist but are incomplete due to civic unrest."

"You mean riots,” she interrupted.

"Their dwelling,” the machine carried on, “is only just within the city's boundaries. They have a majority share in Domestik, an entity reconstruction facility whose head office is in Frehk. The main plant is in the Harbourside area of the City of Light."

"By entity reconstruction, you mean zombies?"

"Correct,” the cab said. “The Duff family has also made a substantial donation to the Thaumaturigical Institute."

"Stroking the hand that fed it,” Jocasta murmured, sinking back in her seat, deep in thought, ignoring any further attempts to lure her into conversation.

O'Malley wouldn't have come to Meroë were it not to deliver the spell he'd promised his visitor back in San Clemente. Then it struck him how unlikely it was anyone would look for him here. He'd never visited the place before. Why not stay?

At first he'd found it difficult. The city had felt simply wrong. But claustrophobia caused by high, steep, windowless walls and narrow alleyways running off the crowded thoroughfares had passed. He'd become used to the heat. He'd even grown used to the melange of smells. But those elements, combined, formed an infernal cocktail of drugs that made him listless, as if he needed his routine at home to give him energy and without which he drifted on a sea of lassitude.

For weeks he groped for a focus to replace his shop. The Café Rimbaud had gradually come to fill his needs, no matter how strange an anchorage it first seemed.

His morning walk now always ended there. He would watch the women sipping their mint tea, inhaling from their hubbly-bubbly pipes and playing sheshbesh, shouting and waving their arms with glee or despair, depending on the roll of the dice and the movement of their counters.

"Morning, Gulane.” He perched precariously on one of the high stools by the bar, and inclined his head at the owner behind it. She grinned, revealing a wide gap in her large white teeth. She'd been born black, unlike many in the city, who instead had been retropigmented for authenticity. She was bigger than he was—his head barely reached her broad shoulders. He'd seen her draw a meaty fist back and then slam an offender flying through the air.

"Good morning, Dezenine.” Her voice was as deep as one of the local mines. She poured him a mint tea without being asked. He'd been coming in long enough to be a regular with his own spot and for the scarfaced, sunken-mouthed women to no longer turn their heads and cast incredulous stares at the man sitting in their bar.

"So what you got planned today?” Gulane asked the ritual joke, elaborating, “A tour of the silver or gold mines or watching the slaves working in the Authentic Meroë Matriarchy Historical Tour? Maybe watch a re-enactment of a battle or two?” There was a pregnant pause, before she added, “Or maybe you going to hunt some elephants?"

"Are you ever going to let me forget that?” He feigned weariness. He never felt it when talking to her—quite the opposite.

"Not every day you see a man go down on his knees in the street.” Her grin broadened, nearly splitting her face.

"Not every day a man sees his first real live elephant.” He'd at least managed to keep on his feet the next time.

"I've dreamt of having a man on his knees like that.” She waggled her tongue suggestively at him and shrieked with maniacal laughter that shook her huge pendulous breasts. She stretched, daring him to look, so he did.

He grinned. “You going to join me? You know this is the limit of my hunting.” He indicated a stool and set up the board. She was still the only person he dared play sheshbesh against—the other women insisted on gambling, and they'd have his hide in no time.

"No thanks, hon.” She shook her head. “I've only Rueben on this ay-em, so I need to keep a closer eye on things than usual. Look at him.” She sighed. “Pretty as a picture, hung like an ox and about as dumb as one. Ain't you Rueben?"

The young man, barely old enough to work in a bar, grinned and, blushing, ducked his head in a nod.

"Kids.” She sighed. “Men."

"Can't live without us.” He laughed.

"Ought to loosen your tunic.” She flicked his chest with a three-inch talon of a nail, and he wondered whether there was a hidden meaning to the phrase. She was both desirable and terrifying. It was ironic—her boldness was so stimulating, but it put him off going further. The women here probably did the asking anyway.

To break the mood before it could get too intense, he joked, “You want to scare your last customers off? I bet you've got a house full of husbands at home."

"I ain't got one for weekends.” She poked her tongue out at him. “And I could use a short one for my collection.” She stared past him and muttered, “Shit."

He swung around, surveying the sprawl of chairs and tables that spilled out onto the street. “What's up?” There seemed little out of the ordinary.

"Nothing.” Gulane waved him away, so he retired to a stool, watching the café.

They had fallen silent, watching three women stride to the bar, scattering empty chairs as they passed between the tables. One of them was a zombie, with the hollow stare and pallor common to the creatures. The third woman, who stood at the back and whose grotesquely developed muscles pulsed even as she stood still, swept the room with a feral glare that only added to the sense of menace she exuded.
If she's there to intimidate, it's working,
O'Malley thought.

Their leader stared hard at Gulane. “Tea.” Her croak could have been from an operation or a severe blow to the throat. She was tall, even in this city of giants. Bare-breasted, as was the custom, her breasts sagged, and she was so thin her ribs showed. Her face was scarred with deep, regular striations on either cheek. The eyes, beneath columns of frizzy hair, were yellow around the edges and restless. O'Malley thought her a deeply unappealing woman, not just ugly but unpleasant.

"Good morning, Nissa.” Gulane's hands shook as she poured the tea.

Nissa caught O'Malley studying her. “What's this?” She sneered at Gulane while glaring at O'Malley. “You serving eunuchs in here?"

"The name's O'Malley,” he said.

"He's
touristi
.” Gulane added hastily, “He don't know any better. He meant no harm."

Nissa took a sip of tea, spat it over Gulane. “What's this, piss-water?” She snarled, “You're behind with the rent, and you serve me his fucking piss?” She grabbed Gulane by her hair.

"I thought you owned the place, Gulane?” O'Malley ignored the way Gulane tried to wave him back, although her head was held low over the bar.

"Who asked you, limp-dick?” Nissa released Gulane's hair and motioned the zombie forward.

"I've got the rent here, plus a little extra,” Gulane pleaded with Nissa while the zombie lumbered toward O'Malley. She thrust the envelope at Nissa. “It's cash flow that's the problem."

"I don't give a fuck about cash flow.” Nissa snatched the envelope from her. “You don't give me shit about cash flow."

O'Malley felt pieces of the jigsaw click into place, his perspective altering slightly with the revelation. “It's not rent—it's protection money, isn't it?” he asked of no one in particular, ignoring the zombie standing by him.

"Shut this fuck-wit up,” Nissa instructed the zombie.

O'Malley leaned backwards on his stool, to ease the sudden pressure on his windpipe. “You know, I'm starting to find you very, very offensive,” he gasped, pressing a finger into the zombie's midriff. A microscopic dart ejected from his fingertip and burrowed into the creature's flesh, seeking vital organs.

Nissa watched, her face twisted with rage. The customers stood, paralysed, while Gulane watched horrified. The other thug stood immobile apart from the twitching of her muscles, smirking at the zombie's hand clamped around his throat. Still O'Malley offered no resistance. A moment passed, and the zombie's eyes widened fractionally, probably the most emotion she'd ever shown; there was a silent flash, and where the zombie had stood was a smouldering ruin of flesh. O'Malley prised the rigored hand from his throat.

"I should take the money,” he said to Nissa. “Before the lady here asks for a refund."

The remaining pair backed away, saying nothing, watching O'Malley steadily. When they had gone, he sighed and slumped on the stool.

"I suppose now I'm supposed to cry ‘my hero’ and throw myself at your feet,” Gulane sneered.

"A simple ‘thank you’ will do,” he said mildly.

Her jaw worked, and she blinked. “Ignoring that you could have been killed.” Her mouth was a thin line. “What's I supposed to do when you're gone? What then, Mista Bloody Hero?"

"Guess I'll have to stay around for a while.” Even as he promised, he wondered if he'd be allowed to.

Beneath the fake tourist attractions, the spellhound had found a different Meroë, a city of genuine antiquity and strangeness. The place was haunted by pythons and other semi-mythical creatures that slunk out of the marshes south of the city toward nightfall as the heat faded. Afreets and elementals stalked the nighttime streets. The majority of the population seemed not to see them, though occasionally someone would start nervously or drop in obeisance.

The spellhound had quartered the city for days, ignoring the evil-eye gestures from the locals, fighting its way through the recurring festivals, all devoted to one animal god or other. Then it chanced on the Café Rimbaud. The sense of O'Malley's recent presence struck it like a physical blow, though the man wasn't there now.

He was at the café the next morning, the only man amongst the ragbag jumble of women, all shouting, drinking tea, smoking their strange pipes, and playing games of chance. The spellhound pushed its way through the throng, following the scent of the man and his assortment of incantations. Like a master taster, it could tell the composition of the scent. Most were there. Some were missing, but it would worry about that later, for now it drew closer, closer, ever closer. It was so near now it only had to reach out a paw.

The spellhound was so rapt in its pursuit, it never saw the squad of zombies and musclemorphs surge through the press, nor the barman duck out of sight. It was about to press the stunner into the side of O'Malley's neck when Gulane shouted from the back of the café, and it was jostled. Before it could react, the squad of women lifted O'Malley bodily, pinned his arms to his sides.

O'Malley shouted for help and struggled in vain against the gang. The spellhound pulled one of the gang away but was shrugged off. It wished, not for the first time, that it could speak. Instead it pressed a card on the shouting woman who had joined the fray.—Call for help, quickly now!—it urged, pointing to the card, and pulled another zombie away, ripping loose one of the dead's arms in the process.

Everything sparkled, a sure sign someone was using magic. The spellhound's wards protected it, but then someone made a more direct, physical assault, and it felt momentary pain, then darkness.

Duff seemed much more relaxed than when Jocasta had last seen him back in Frehk. He wore a loose smock, unbuttoned almost to the waist, and leaned back in a recliner, sipping a liqueur.