Vengeance (5 page)

He apologised later, but it was too late; the damage was done. She'd no desire to ever suffer another such tirade and would now answer only direct questions, with monosyllabic reluctance.

Over dinner he tried to fill the awkwardness by behaving as if nothing had happened, but he finally gave up and fell quiet.

In the silence she studied him covertly. The weeks hadn't been kind to him. His skin hung in sagging folds; she suspected his red eyes were from smoking Kish, and he'd started to wiggle his bushy eyebrows. Sinhalese was used to the peculiarities of mages and others who used powerful magic for long periods. Since the burglary his nervous habits seemed to have worsened, and now he often rolled his eyes and paced while muttering continuously. Sometimes he had whole conversations with invisible friends.

Maybe it isn't nerves,
she thought.
Perhaps he's summoned a freelance imp.
It wasn't a pleasant thought. Such creatures, owing allegiance to no one, gave nothing away. Whatever its price, it was probably more than Duff could afford.

Task entered and gave a message to Duff, who, muttering excuses, pushed his chair back and rushed to the hallway.

Sinhalese stared at Task with one eyebrow raised in silent enquiry. She heard her father boom, “Demoiselle Pantile! What a pleasant surprise!” She scuttled to the door to sneak a look, but they'd gone to the library.

In the library, Jocasta could almost smell Duff's despair. She felt momentary pity but squashed it. She'd seen what he'd done. That warranted nothing but fear and revulsion.

"You haven't returned my messages.” He giggled. “I hope you haven't been avoiding me."

"Alas, Ser Stanislav,” she said. “We've been so busy, had so little time. We've been working so—"

"Yes, yes!” He interrupted. “You have news for me now?"

"I have news!” she said breathlessly. “The spellhound has tracked one of the spells to a Sargasso."

"Only one?"

"At least one,” she said. “They're being sold piecemeal so they're unlikely to all fall into hostile hands."

"It also increases the chances that others will find out about their providence."

"But it increases the chance of us finding the rest,” she insisted. “People talk. The more they talk, the more we can bring a suspect back, I—"

"You will bring the villain back.” Duff wagged a finger sternly at her.

"—
If
I can bring the suspect back.” Jocasta drew herself up to what there was of her full height.

"You
will
bring him back."

"If I can't and he's guilty, should he live?"

Duff smiled unpleasantly. “There was once a religion called Balsam or something. Their creed was, ‘If you catch a thief, cut his hand off.’ I prefer to cut his head off."

She nodded, already leaving. “As you wish."

Outside the house, once she was away from the square, she leaned against a wall, her heart pounding, and muttered, “Oh gods, what have I become involved in?"

Duff staggered to his room. His tirade had left him exhausted. He glanced in the mirror and looked away quickly, not wanting to confront the innumerable telltales of stress. “Thought you'd managed to leash your temper, fool,” he muttered.

He knew Sinhalese snooped in his room. He didn't mind. She knew nothing about the little hidden compartment by his bed which blended in with the rest of the wall. Keyed to his breath only, it held just one item, which he put on his bed. He waved his hand over the crystal.

His wife's image was grainy and flickered intermittently. She turned and gazed at him, and putting her finger to her lips hushed him. “I shouldn't have left you alone,” he whispered, his eyes glinting wetly. “I vowed to protect you, dear heart. I won't make the same mistake with Sinhalese.” He sighed. “Better save power.” He waved his hand, and the image vanished.

Jocasta stared out of the skimmer's window at Lantresant, a Sargasso. It was a messy blotch of green and grey sprawling over several miles of sea, which drifted on the cold current, using manoeuvring gyros only when the city risked striking a reef.

Breakwaters radiated from the city's hub. From them groups of men and women fished with nets, while scores of gulls hovered, swooping and squabbling and lunging for titbits. Out to sea fishing boats bobbed up and down.

The skimmer landed close to the breakwater, its wings unfurling to increase drag. Its long neck lifted to increase visibility from the cockpit at its tip, and the pumping of its floats slowed to a walk. It dropped into the water and settled deeper, using the sea itself to break its momentum.

The skimmer settled beside the breakwater and lowered steps for the few passengers to climb. Jocasta suspected there weren't many visitors to Lantresant. It had a raw feel.

Nearly midday; she'd made better time than she'd expected. When she'd left Duff, she had gone to bed early, risen before daybreak, and made her way to the harbour where the skimmer waited to depart at dawn. It was the same service as the spellhound had taken a few days before.

She shivered in the chill breeze. The walk along the breakwater was invigorating, ending with steps up to the city proper, where the spellhound waited for her with lolling tongue. Its ears pricked; in its own reserved way it was pleased to see her.

—We must walk. They don't have public transport around here.—

"No matter,” she said. “You can tell a lot about a place by walking around it. Are the locals friendly?"

—As friendly as they ever are. To you they may be positively hospitable.—It was an observation, not a complaint. The spellhound was too stoic to be disturbed by hostility from the locals, but she knew it had no illusions about the fear and resentment it engendered.

While they walked, she craned her neck to look at the buildings. Uniformly grey, they seemed to be made from recycled plastic and were covered with friezes of gargoyles and other creatures. Fruit-laden vines and ivy crawled across walls.

The natives were as ugly as their buildings. Most were pallid, as if they rarely ventured outdoors. “They're a dour bunch,” she said, “maybe due to all the fish and seafood they eat.” She shuddered. “Ugh. Imagine eating food that's actually been alive at one stage!” The locals in turn dived into doorways at the sight of them or made gestures as if to ward off demons.

"What's the man we're looking for called?” she asked when she wearied of craning her neck and brought her mind back to the job. They'd worked together for so long, the spellhound knew if it allowed her to act as a tourist for a few hours when she arrived, she would work with greater enthusiasm afterwards.

—His name is Kehmet Aristides. I believe Kehmet is his family name. I know little of him, except that he's a small-time fence. I don't believe he has the wit to be the actual thief.—

"Indeed.” She sniffed. “I think we need to have a little talk with Aristides, of the Kehmet family."

The bar the spellhound led her into was packed with the type of customers found in dark, dirty bars everywhere. The women wore garish make-up and were either professional prostitutes or enthusiastic amateurs. One straddled her man's lap; they coupled in full view of anyone who cared to watch. Jocasta had to tug the fascinated spellhound away.

—Is
that
how you do it?—

There were two sorts of men—prostitutes and prospective clients for either sex. All were dirty and unkempt. Most drank seawater beer, a vile lilac-coloured concoction, from long, tall glasses, sucking through a long, thin, clear tube joined to the base of the glass.

The bar's walls were lined with cabinets full of preserved sea creatures. Jocasta's skin crawled. Bad enough that these people ate actual flesh, but this glorying in death was worse. She wondered if they mounted their dead relatives in their homes.

"You might be advised to drink someplace else, Dem,” the barman warned her, not unkindly. He was short but broad, with the build of one who exercised or took muscle potions. His hair was cut into two parallel lines running from side to side, one at the front, one at the back, with the areas between shaved. An earring shaped like a local beer glass hung by a chain from his left earlobe, its weight negated by a levitation spell. His jerkin was marked with stains so old they could have been antiques.

"I don't want a drink.” Jocasta smiled. “I'm looking for a man—"

"Ain't we all, sweetheart."

"—seen in here last night."

He shook his head, and she held up her hand. “I'm trying to do this the easy way. I know he's upstairs, because we've had the place watched. We could have just barged in and forced our way upstairs. And we'd have probably killed a few."

The barman nodded. “Appreciate that. But I can't let just anyone muscle in here, otherwise every uppity li'l git would think he could work me over. And I can't go giving out information to anyone who wanders in off the street, now can I?"

"I appreciate that, too. Do we try bribery or threats? Is there anyone you'd want removed?” She smiled her friendliest smile. “His name's Kehmet Aristides."

"Oh, him.” He shook his head. “To be honest, Kehmet's the snottiest one round here. There ain't nobody I'd like offed, to be honest witch you."

"So, it's bribery, then?” She was secretly pleased. Death-dues in Lantresant were notoriously high, even for the lowliest life. “How much?” She raised one eyebrow and grinned wickedly, looking completely different from when she'd visited Duff. “In kind?"

She could almost see the wheels turning as the barman thought. Until then he had probably just seen her as a middle-aged woman of no great looks, albeit with a nice figure. But she guessed he was wondering whether maybe she might know a thing or two more than her prim exterior let on.

A big, florid hooker with four enormous breasts and a spinal ridge had shown a disturbing interest in their conversation. Now she leaned across: “Off it, cooze. This patch is taken."

The spellhound had stood a little apart. Now it rumbled threateningly, deep in its throat. Jocasta stared hard at the other woman and said, “Go away,” very clearly.

The woman stiffened and turned, like an oceangoing ship. “Didn't know it was witch you.” She sailed away.

Jocasta saw the barman's interest flag as he looked at the spellhound.
Yes
, Jocasta thought.
You've just decided that maybe bedding me might not be too safe.

"How much?” Jocasta asked again.

He named a price so high she should have argued it, but it was still cheaper than paying death-dues. “One last thing,” he said. “We'll have to put it around that you threatened to harm me and my family.” He seemed embarrassed. “It don't look good if they think the hired help sings to anyone who waves a song sheet, so play along a bit. You promise there won't be no problems? I don't want no one else hurt."

"You'll barely know we've been,” she promised.

They raised their voices loud enough to be heard all around the bar. She theatrically threatened mayhem and torture to a chorus of catcalls from the onlookers. The barman conceded with obvious bad grace and shouted, “He's up there, but don't blame me if he slits yere throat!"

She climbed the wide stairway, the spellhound slightly behind her, watching her back. The spellhound had retreated quickly once it had identified Kehmet and had watched the place all night, but the man could easily have fled while it was meeting her.

—He carries the Spell of Summoning.—The spellhound had scrolled on the way over.—Whoever sold him the spell must have altered it so it responds to his command.—

Thinking of all the things that might now confront them, her answer had been a staccato burst of expletives, then: “You're right. We have to assume whoever stole them has the art to rework these spells so they are no longer locked into their true owner's voice."

She remembered Duff's briefing. “The spell's misnamed,” he'd said. “It summons, for want of a better word, only what's in the spellcaster's mind. More accurate would be to say that it
creates
what's in their mind.”
The logical solution,
she had thought,
is to kill the user before they get a chance to summon anything.
But she had to maintain a difficult balance. Either she spared Kehmet's life and risked his summoning something fearful, or she killed him. She needed him alive to name the supplier.

There were doorways all along the corridor, on either side. Here it was. Her heart banged in her chest. She swallowed. The next few seconds would be critical. While she waited in case of ambush, the spellhound charged the door. With a bang, the hinges gave, the spellhound crashing to the floor with its momentum.

Kehmet hauled himself upright using the rumpled sheets of the bed, his eyes still focussing while he struggled to wake up. He was a little ferret of a man, clothes dirty and torn and rumpled where he'd slept off last night's drinking. His moustache was pomaded and gelled into two vertical spikes, and the neatness of them was oddly incongruous with the rest of his appearance. It looked as if he had slept in a drunken stupor, the room littered with bottles and clothes. Jocasta guessed he'd had a woman with him, but she'd probably gone to work elsewhere.

Jocasta shot Kehmet in the shoulder with a stun dart, but not before he called out, the word dying unfinished in his mouth.

Within moments, the temperature plummeted as the spell sucked energy from the room. Hoarfrost formed on the surfaces. In one corner a leaking pipe froze, the dripping water forming a stalactite. The bed collapsed into dust, forming a spinning vortex that sucked everything, even light, into it. They dragged the unconscious man from the room, their hands sticking to his frozen clothes. As the spellhound cleared the doorway, a loud noise came from in the room, and the pile of dust that had been the bed exploded. A shape coalesced and grew in the vortex.

The whole process took only a microsecond from beginning to end. Jocasta stared aghast at a demon a metre taller than the spellhound, which trumpeted in rage. Vaguely man-shaped, it had compound eyes like a fly's and long canines that drooped over its lower lip. Every time it stood erect, its head bumped the ceiling. When it straightened, its four horns ripped through the thin ceiling. It waved long double-jointed arms, catching the stalactite and shattering it into dozens of needle-sharp shards. It roared, and fire rippled across the room, setting hangings and doorframes alight. In seconds the room was ablaze.