Vengeance (27 page)

Outside, the evening was clear but humid, glow-worms bright green in the shadows, crickets rasping in the dark, the smell of cinnamon and jacarandas on the warm evening breeze.

Firenze and Helen each wore an eyepiece with Truesight as custom dictated. Some of the guests posed as animals, even wearing horn and antler grafts. Others played at being historical figures, with varying degrees of accuracy, Helen thought wryly. Others wore cloaks and posed as each other. Quite a few coupled discreetly or otherwise, the extramarital liaisons subtly encouraged by the aphrodisiacs gently wafting from the carefully placed incense burners around the edge of the floor, placed to add a little extra spice to the evening.

The Truesight allowed Firenze and Helen to see who their guests really were, in case there was ever trouble of any sort—rare, but it had been known to happen. How good the cloaks were determined whether Helen caught merely a flicker or saw right through the disguise.

There were people Helen hadn't seen in years and some she hoped not to see for years more. In the first group were some of Firenze's friends from his younger days. Vipond, from one of the orbital banks, cloaked, in the orbital fashion, as a Galactic, talked to someone under a bear image who didn't look very happy, whatever Vipond was saying to him. She was entertaining some of Firenze's more mature and less appealing friends, those with beer bellies and thinning hair. It was her duty as hostess to stop little disgruntled knots from forming in the corners and complaining that, “Firenze's parties weren't what they were."

The old boy with his hand clamped on her ass had probably been a fine stud in his prime but now had bigger breasts than she did, wheezed, and still thought of himself as gorgeous. She was losing patience and was about to tell him to get his hand off her bottom when their slow, stately rotation brought another part of the room around. There
he
stood. Tall and lean and lithe, dressed to the minimum, new antlers grafted to his head, watching her intently, as he was watched in turn by the other women.

He hung his cloak on the clothes rack, making sure the woman folded it just so. She knew the look he gave her, from just under his eyelashes, to see if she was checking him out. He couldn't help it—did it naturally as breathing, and if the woman had shown any interest, he'd have rebuffed her anyway.

He'd done something to his war paint in the few weeks since she'd started avoiding him. She didn't like it. But then nothing he could have done would have been to her satisfaction, whether he'd kept it the same or changed it. She simply didn't want him around anymore. Resentment boiled in her. She had to be careful not to let something slip.

She looked around for Firenze—he was across the floor and hadn't seen the other man yet, but it was only a matter of time. She wheeled her partner to the side and parked him by a waiter with a drinks tray, flashed a smile and a “Thank you,” at the astonished old fool, and left him with his wounded pride.

She was by
his
side as fast as she could move without drawing attention to herself. Her heart was beating a crazed tattoo, more from hate than love, but she calmed herself. “I told you what I'd do if you dared to show your face in here.” Her voice was level but low.

He pretended he hadn't noticed her before. “Helen, how good to see you!” He looked at her again, and she wanted to beat his face in with a stick until he couldn't look at her that way any longer. “Shall we go in?"

"No, Maurice.” She motioned to the waiter hovering in the background. “Those people look in need of drinks.” She turned back to Maurice. “You won't get away with this."

"With what?” His eyes were wide with fake innocence. He'd always had great composure. Tonight he needed it to carry him through. “Do you know, I could have sworn that waiter was a zombie. It'd be a major gaffe, hiring the dead to serve your drinks.” His gaze swept the room. “That must be Firenze,” he murmured. “He's far better looking than you told me. You've done him an injustice.” For a moment he almost convinced Helen he was serious, then she saw the little twitch at the corner of his mouth, and at that moment she could have done anything to him.

For a moment she lost Firenze and panicked momentarily. Where was he? There, dancing with an old woman and looking elsewhere. “Will money take care of it?” Her voice was buzz-saw harsh.

"Take care of what?"

"Whatever you came for. Stay here and talk to no one."

"I never do, unless I'm properly introduced.” He smiled again. “Shall I present you to my companion?"

She stopped short. “Who is she?"

"Just some old girl from out of town, needing company for a couple of evenings. The club gave me a call, you know how it is. A boy's got to work."

She did know. That was how she'd met him.

He whispered, “Honestly, I don't think she knows what to do with me. She's more hooked on the idea of sex than on the act itself, if you know what I mean.” He winked.

She almost fainted with relief—she had an alibi for his presence. “Firenze must've invited her. What's her name?"

"She's called Jocasta Pantile."

Helen almost fainted again.

When she'd regained her nerve, she sailed through clumps of people in the corridor to the study, smiling at those she needed to smile at. She passed a woman she loathed but who was a necessity for any Meroë party to be a success, who smirked and said to her companion, “-writhes like a tap-dancing centipede on a hot plate if you hit his pleasure centers—"

Vipond said to the Kaufmans, “So the fool pumped loads more money into the Third Spice Mercantile Bank, thinking it would be taken over. That rumour's been around all summer, and now the scam's been exposed, all those greedy investors suddenly found themselves out of pocket. You should have seen his face when I told him...” They roared with laughter.

The study was dimly lit, and thinking it was empty, she was opening the safe when a couple emerged from behind the settle, sweaty and rumpled, and slightly sheepish.

"Do you mind?” Helen said sharply.

"Not at all.” The girl smirked. “Don't mind us."

Helen snapped, “Would you leave, please?"

The boy nodded at the safe. “It's her house."

The girl made an ‘o’ of comprehension. “Didn't realise it was off-limits.” She sniffed, taking the boy's hand.

When they'd left, Helen opened the safe, took out a small bag of rubies, and emptied half out. She looked at the invisibility spell Maurice had bought as a gift, paid for with her money, and toyed with using it—but no, save that for another time. She returned to the lobby and gave him the rubies. “You'll never do this again."

He pocketed them and smiled. “I'll fetch my companion."

"I don't want to see you again, not with her or without. She's not someone I want to see, either."

"You know her?"

"I was at school with a Jocasta Pantile."

"Can't be the same one,” he laughed. “She's much older."

She ignored his mock gallantry, then saw him look up and utter a theatrical groan. “I think I must have eaten something.” He groaned again. “Demoiselle Pantile, please forgive me. I may have to offer my apologies.” He sat on a chair by the clothes rack. Picked up a walking stick and hefted it.

Heart beating, Helen turned around. “Hello,” she said to the stranger. “It looks as if your companion is unwell."

"Oh, how sad,” Jocasta said. “I was so looking forward to this evening, you know.” Her hands fluttered like birds flying. She gave the impression she could easily become a dreadful bore. She watched the stick her companion hefted—she seemed more interested in it, than him.

"Do you know Mercis?” Helen asked.

"School or village?” Jocasta replied.

"Both."

"Yes, I know them.” She paused, as if waiting for a cue.

"Mmm.” Helen nodded. “I studied there."

The woman's face seemed to close, and Helen wished she'd said, ‘I went to school with Jocasta Pantile, and we were a lot younger than you.’ It would have been interesting to watch her reaction.

"We'd better take you home, Maurice.” The Pantile woman shepherded him toward the door. “Don't forget your stick,” she called to Maurice and picked it up.

Helen took it from her and smiled. “Sorry, that's mine."

The woman stammered an apology, but Helen gently though kindly cut her short and shooed them out. When they were gone she breathed a sigh of relief.

Outside, Jocasta's companion leaned against the hibiscus hedge while they waited for their ride. She was about to tell him that he could cut out the theatricals but decided against it—it might warn him she wasn't as dim as she pretended. Tonight was already complicated with meeting Duff and his entourage all chasing the sunrise party around the world. Jocasta only just managed to warn him in time to pretend they were strangers before they gave her away.

But she had the remaining pieces of the jigsaw, which had only been a forlorn hope when the spellhound had vanished. She'd sat shocked in her rooms for a day before rousing herself, and saying to Gabriel, “We need to track down that woman the spellhound pointed out, before we levitated onto the roof."

In the spellhound's absence, Jocasta talked to Gabriel instead, though the zombie lacked the spellhound's sardonic wit. “It's tried to explain how a spell looks and smells and tastes,” she said and laughed. “It might as well try to describe purple to a blind man or a concert to a deaf one. As far as I can work out, each spell's unique, even if it's the clone of another. However, spells of a similar type can be identified in the same way coffee or tea can be. Each person affects a spell differently, so it's possible to tell who's handled a spell once it's been isolated.” She sighed. “Not that you care."

Jocasta had instead had to use a crude mechanical that lit up and buzzed when it matched the spell it was set for. She'd already tracked four invisibility spells, quartering the city until the device lit up and buzzed. She eliminated the first three. When she tracked a fourth spell, she watched a building until a woman emerged. As well as being the same woman that the spellhound had identified, she seemed faintly familiar, but Jocasta often thought she recognized people.

Finding Helen D'Acosta had been easy. Meeting one of Meroë's elite had been a tougher task. Jocasta hinted to an acquaintance that she wanted a good-looking man with few scruples who knew the right people in town. Her acquaintance introduced her to her present companion. To her unexpected delight, the mechanical buzzed. She switched it off. “Sorry,” she said, simpering, and realised that she'd gained a bonus, finding Helen's accomplice. He had also handled the spell.

She snapped out of her daydream and sneaked a look at him. She was sure he was the same buck the spellhound had sketched in O'Malley's emporium. “You seemed to know Helen well,” she said.

Maurice laughed bitterly. “Yes, I know her very well.” He waited then added, “I'm surprised you didn't. She seemed to recognize your name."

"Oh, yes?” Jocasta's heart beat faster. She frowned, remembering Helen's reaction when they met. Something to do with Mercis. She'd thought the locally made Truesight lenses mere baubles and not bothered with a proper shadow-casting spell. Perhaps she should have. She shrugged. It was too late to change what was done.

"Said she was at school with Jocasta Pantile. That it wasn't a common name."

"My daughter.” She laughed, “No, not a common name.” She clicked her fingers. “That's why she looked familiar!"

"I thought you said you had no partner,” his drawl was still lazy, but there was an edge to it.

He smells money,
she thought. She wouldn't be surprised to learn he was also a blackmailer. “I fostered her,” she said. “We don't see each other much. It didn't work out.” She added, “Here's our ride; I'll share it to your place and take it from there.” She was fairly sure he wouldn't let her go that easily. But then, she didn't mind.

When the Gloms went, there were only the Kaufmans and the Grahams left. It was Firenze who coaxed them into staying, he who was normally keen to be rid of the stragglers after a big party.

"One for the road,” he said, stretching out on a couch and lifting his legs to rest them on the seat. He waved for drinks, and one of the waiters took their orders.

"Who was the old woman with the gigolo?"

"I thought she was one of your guests,” Helen said.

He shook his head, looking blank. Shrugged “There's always one gatecrasher. Though she seemed very forward for a crasher."

"Her gigolo was certainly striking.” Marguerite Kaufman drawled, her smirk and the dreamy look in her eyes showing her thoughts as clearly as if Helen were able to read the other woman's mind.

Helen fought down a flash of jealousy. He was out of her life for good if she had anything to do with it.

"The Duff girl was pretty,” Heggard Graham said. “Though a little effete for my taste.” Helen suspected he was saying that out of duty, rather than because he meant it.

"Her servant seemed vaguely familiar.” Firenze stifled a yawn, added, “Can't think why, but I'm sure I've seen
him
somewhere before. I was talking to Duff, but he couldn't shed any light on it. I don't think he cares for the creature. Said it was his daughter's toy."

Helen rubbed her eyes, wishing they would go home. On cue, Marguerite Kaufman stood. “We'd better go. Senate meeting tomorrow.” She giggled, said, “I mean this morning.” She kissed Firenze. “Lovely party as always."

Minutes later, the Grahams followed.

She had gone to bed even before Firenze had ushered them out. She rubbed her eyes again, knuckled her forehead, then washed her face using her palm as a flannel. Her thoughts were miles away with Maurice. What was she going to do about him? She'd paid him off once, but he'd be back for more. He couldn't help himself.

"Well.” Firenze rubbed his hands. “One of our better ones don't you think?"

"I'm sorry?” She jerked her attention back to him.

"The party, silly.” He rubbed her shoulders, but she shrugged away. “You're as stiff as a board. What's wrong?"