‘That would be wonderful,’ Isidore says. Antonia nods, and suddenly his head is full of complex mechanical and quantum computing design diagrams, along with another headache jolt. As he blinks at the pain, Antonia smiles at him. ‘I hope Justin did not scare you,’ she says. ‘This is a lonely profession – long hours, not much appreciation – sometimes he gets a little carried away, especially with young men like you.’
‘Sounds like being a detective,’ Isidore says.
Isidore has lunch at a small floating restaurant in Mont-golfiersville and gathers his thoughts. Even here, he is recognised – apparently his involvement in Unruh’s carpe diem party has been prominently reported by the Herald – but he is too preoccupied with the Watches to hide from every curious glance with gevulot. Hardly tasting his pumpkin quiche, he goes through the designs in his mind.
They are all identical, except for the engravings. Bonitas. Magnitudo. Eternitas. Potestas. Sapientia. Voluntas. Virtus. Veritas. Gloria. Goodness, Greatness, Eternity, Power, Wisdom, Will, Virtue, Truth, Glory. None of them qualities he would immediately associate with Jean le Flambeur. But they do suggest that the Unruh affair was not some random impulse to play games with Oubliette barbarians, as the millenniaire suspected. Clearly, le Flambeur has some connection to Mars, one stretching back twenty years at least.
Drinking coffee and looking at the view of the city below, he spends an hour ’blinking at the words. In combination, they appear in medieval texts, Raymond Lull’s Dignities of God from the 13th century, with some connections to the sephiroths of Kabbalistic tradition and the lost art of … memory. One of Lull’s followers was Giordano Bruno, who perfected the art of memory palaces, of storing mental images in physical locations, as if outside the mind. That, at least, is a connection that resonates. The Oubliette exomemory does the same thing, stores everything thought, experienced and sensed in a location in the ubiquitous computing machinery around it.
The shape of it feels right, but he is not sure if it is just pattern matching, like seeing faces in the clouds. Then the memory fragment about the architectural drawings comes back.
Another ’blink – looking for memory palaces – reveals that there was a series of architectural pieces commissioned by the Voice twenty years ago. Nine reflections on memory, by an architect called Paul Sernine.
All the palaces are located in the Maze, relatively close to each other, but the public exomemories about them are old, and Isidore is forced to do some footwork to find them.
The first piece he comes across is near a Maze marketplace, squeezed between a synagogue and a small public fabber centre. It is completely bizarre. The size of a small house, it is made from some black, smooth material. It consists of geometric surfaces, planes, cubes, stuck together in a seemingly haphazard fashion: still, he can sense that there is some order to its structure. And the surfaces do form spaces resembling rooms and hallways, only oddly distorted as if by a funhouse mirror. A plaque near what could be called an entrance has a small plaque that says Eternitas.
The structure looks like something designed by an algorithmic process, rather than a human being. And parts of it look fuzzy, as if the surfaces continued to fork and divide fractally beyond the human range of vision. On the whole, it looks rather forbidding. Someone local has made the black interior slightly less sinister and tomblike by placing a few flower-pots inside: vines have grown to curl around the jutting spikes and surfaces to find light.
There is a little local exomemory that opens up while Isidore studies the structure. It describes Eternitas as an ‘experiment in transforming exomemory data directly into architecture and livable spaces.’ The Oubliette is full of similar art projects – indeed, many of Isidore’s fellow students work on considerably stranger things – but clearly there is something deeper here, something that is or has been important to the thief.
On impulse, he takes out his magnifying glass. He gasps. When he zooms in, the surface reveals immense complexity, black leaves and spikes and pyramids, whole architectures with alarming regularity that go all the way down to the molecular level. And the material is something the glass does not even recognise, something resembling what it calls zoku q-matter, but denser: in spite of its relatively small size, the structure must be immensely heavy. Underneath, it looks less like a piece of architecture than a part of some unimaginably complex machine, frozen in time.
And there are nine of these? Isidore takes a deep breath. Maybe I really am out of my depth.
*
Deep in thought, he starts walking towards the next Reflection piece, only a few hundred metres away, trusting his sense of direction to guide him through the Maze.
How is all this related to Unruh? he thinks. Time, memory castles, Dignities of God? Maybe it doesn’t make sense: maybe le Flambeur is insane. But his every instinct tells him there is a logic here; that everything so far is a sliver of some larger iceberg.
He jumps at a sudden noise. There is the silhouette of a parkrouller on a nearby rooftop. This is one of the parts of the Maze where construction was started and then stopped when the drifting of the city platforms moved it to an unfavourable position: everything here is half-finished and deserted. The buildings lining the narrow streets look like decayed teeth. As he watches, the parkrouller disappears, becoming a gevulot blur. He quickens his pace and keeps walking.
After a minute, he hears the footsteps, following him. At first, he thinks the sound belongs to one person. But when he stops to listen, it is clear from their echo that there are several followers, marching in perfect synchrony, like soldiers. He walks briskly and turns away from the main street, into a small alley, only to see the slow drift of the Maze close the other end and turn it into a dead end. When he turns around, he sees the four Sebastians.
They all look like Élodie’s boyfriend: sixteen, perfect features, blond hair, a young Martian’s zoku-influenced, tight-fitting clothes. At first their faces are expressionless. Then they all smile in unison, mouths twisting into cruel, mirthless lines.
‘Hello, copykiller,’ one of them says.
‘We recognise you now,’ says the second.
‘You should have—’
‘—minded your own business,’ finishes the last.
‘Foolish to come to our domain, smelling of the underworld.’
‘Foolish to come near the places the hidden ones have told us to guard.’
Like trained soldiers, they take a single step forward, and draw out small knives.
Isidore turns and runs, as fast as he can, looking for handholds to climb up the obstacle that has closed the alley.
The parkroulling Sebastian takes him down in a flying tackle. Air escapes his lungs, and he slams both elbows at the pavement, followed by his nose. The world goes red for a second. When his vision returns, he is prone on his back, and four perfect porcelain faces loom in a circle above him. There is something cold and sharp, pressing against his throat. Hands hold his limbs down. Desperately, he opens his gevulot, reaching for the police Quiet’s emergency feed. But it feels distant and slippery: the gogol pirates are doing something to stop it.
Upload tendrils dance above his face like the firework snakes at the party: he imagines them hissing. He feels a little pinprick of pain at his throat. One of the Sebastians lifts up a small injection needle. ‘We are going to have your mind, copykiller,’ he says. ‘It was such a blessing to find out what you looked like. We praised Fedorov when we saw the paper. You are going to scream now, just like the chocolatier in my brother’s memories. Pray that the Founders in their wisdom give you a part of the Great Common Task. As a missile guidance system. Or food for the Dragons, perhaps.’ The tips of the tendrils feel like sharp, electric kisses on his scalp.
‘Let him go,’ says a rasping chorus voice.
The Gentleman stands at the other end of the alley, just at the limit of Isidore’s blurring vision, a black shape with a glint of silver.
‘I don’t think so,’ the first Sebastian says.
Some of the tendrils peek out of his mouth like a bouquet of glowing snakes. ‘I am touching his brain. Even your witch fog is not faster than light, bitch.’
Light. The Sebastians are looking at the Gentleman now. With a thought, he dissolves the q-bubble that holds the thief’s rose in his bag. I hope it works fast enough. I hope it works on them. He opens his gevulot to the Gentleman, enough to show his surface thoughts. Fireworks, he thinks at the tzaddik. Light.
‘In fact, you can listen to his screams—’
There is a flash of light, and then a long fall, down somewhere dark.
Eventually, the light comes back. Something soft cradles Isidore. The faces of the Sebastians still flicker in his vision, but after a moment he realises it is his own, reflecting from the Gentleman’s mask.
‘Don’t try to talk,’ says the tzaddik. ‘Help is on its way.’ Isidore is floating in the air, on a soft cushion of something: it feels nicer than his bed.
‘Let me guess,’ Isidore says. ‘That was the second stupidest thing you have ever seen?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘That was good timing,’ Isidore says. ‘We could have used you at the party last night.’
‘We cannot be everywhere. I take it that this foolish pursuit of yours involves the infamous uninvited guest?’
Isidore nods.
‘Isidore, I have been meaning to talk to you. To apologise. My judgement after our last case was … harsh. I do feel that you have what it takes to be one of us. I never had any doubts about that. But that does not mean that you have to be. You are young. There are other things you can do with your life. Study. Work. Create. Live.’
‘Why are we talking about this now?’ Isidore asks. He closes his eyes. His head is throbbing: a double dose of the optogenetic weapon in less than a day. The tzaddik’s voice sounds hollow and far away.
‘Because of this,’ the tzaddik says. ‘Because you keep getting hurt. And there are more dangerous things than vasilevs out there. Leave the thief to us. Go home. Sort things out with that zoku girl of yours. There is more to life than chasing phantoms and gogol pirates.’
‘And why … should I listen to you?’
The tzaddik does not reply. But there is a gentle touch on his cheek, and, suddenly, a light kiss on his forehead, accompanied by an odd sensation of a silver mask flowing aside. The touch is so light and smooth that, for once, Isidore is prepared to admit that Adrian Wu was right. And there is a perfume, smelling faintly of pine—
‘I’m not asking you to listen,’ the tzaddik says. ‘Just be careful.’
The kiss burns on his forehead when he opens his eyes. Suddenly, there is a bustle of activity and voices around him: Resurrection Men and red-and-white medical Quiet. But the tzaddik is gone. Lights flash in Isidore’s eyes again, and he closes his eyes. Like fireworks, he thinks. And with that, just before the dark, comes a question.
How did the tzaddik know about the fireworks?
15
THE THIEF AND THE GODDESS
Mieli and I stare at the stranger. He gets up, putting on his jacket. ‘Would either of you like a drink?’ He walks to the fabber and fills his glass. ‘I’m afraid I went ahead and helped myself while I was waiting. I understand you are celebrating, and no wonder.’ He takes a sip. ‘That was quite a little coup you pulled. We followed it with interest.’
Come on, I nudge Mieli. You can take this guy. Let’s make him talk.
Mieli gives me a strange look.
The man nods at Mieli. ‘Thank you for the invitation, by the way. My associates and I appreciate directness.’ He drops his cigar into his glass: it goes out with a hiss. ‘But where are my manners? Please.’ He gestures at the couch. ‘Do have a seat.’
I grab Mieli’s shoulder. Invitation? She shakes me off. Later. The Oortian singer from the Red Silk Scarf is gone, and her features are flint-hard again. Recognising that she is not in the mood to argue, I sit next to her. The man perches on the edge of the table, raising his eyebrows.
‘By the way, Jean, I’m surprised. Back in the old days, you would have been much more direct. You would not have waited for someone to die voluntarily, you would have made bodies where you needed them. You must be getting soft.’
‘I’m an artist,’ I say. ‘Bodies do not make good art. I’m sure I would have told you that even in the old days, M.?’
‘My apologies,’ he says. ‘I’m not wearing my own body. This young man came back from Quiet earlier this morning, and I appropriated it for the purpose of having this meeting to avoid any … temptations to cause me harm.’ He takes out another cigar, wets its tip in his mouth and smells it. ‘Besides, it is nice to try on something new every once in a while. You can call me Robert. We have met before, although I understand you may not recall it. And we have both moved on in our careers since. I have become … one of the enlightened individuals your friends the tzaddikim call cryptarchs, whereas you, apparently, became a prisoner.’
Robert the cryptarch lights the cigar and puffs on it. The tip glows red. ‘Makes you wonder about karma, doesn’t it? I’m thinking that should be a feature in the next-generation resurrection system.’
‘What do you want?’ I ask.
He raises his eyebrows. ‘Well, now. Your associate here had a very interesting proposition. Perhaps the lady wants to repeat it for your benefit.’
Mieli looks at me. The light makeup she is wearing looks odd in the harsh light of the room: it makes her look like a corpse.
‘You stop interfering with our work,’ Mieli says, ‘and we give you the tzaddikim.’
‘It’s tempting, isn’t it?’ says Robert.
The rage wells up in my chest, hot bile and brimstone. The alcohol does not help. I take a deep breath and squeeze it in, making a mental fist to hold it, saving it for later. I smile at the cryptarch.
‘You know, Jean, we have been watching you since you came. For a professional, you were quite conspicuous. We still remember the last time. You did not make any friends here. Such a shame: we go back such a long way. But then loyalty was never one of your strong points. Just look at what happened with that Raymonde girl.’
I stop myself from rising to the bait. ‘So why all the pussyfooting around? Gogol pirates, the Unruh letter—’ Something flashes in his eyes: he tries to hide it with gevulot hastily, but it fails. He does not know about the letter. He waves his cigar dismissively.
‘Just a little game to spice things up. We are old and get bored easily. But now it is time to get down to business. The answer to your offer is no.’
Mieli frowns. ‘Why?’
I answer for him. ‘Because you already know who the tzaddikim are. One of them is yours, maybe more. They have all been Quiet. And they are convenient. They keep the streets clean.’
‘They are flashy and ineffectual and sometimes a little annoying, but yes, they help us to deal with the small problems. But that is not the point. Jean, I always loved the way you are so quick to see everybody else as monsters. We agree with the tzaddikim. We want this place to be free and special and safe, a good place to live free from the burden of past sins.’ He shakes his head. ‘It’s not the tzaddikim we have a problem with, it’s who’s behind them. And we want to feed them a little misinformation.’
‘The zoku colony,’ I say.
‘I’m glad you take an interest in our local politics.’ He takes a small object from his pocket: a round, egglike thing that looks like a zoku jewel. ‘There is a little co-memory that comes with it, prepared for your tzaddikim friends – something that you could have plausibly discovered in your little exercise with M. Unruh, but more useful to our purposes.’
‘That’s it?’ Mieli asks.
‘Of course not.’ The cryptarch grins again, teeth stained by cigar juices, an old man’s grimace in a young man’s face. ‘Of course it’s not enough. Jean, we want our share.’
‘What?’
‘We let you leave here all those years ago. You were going to come back. You were going to
share all your offworld treasures with us. Remember that? Of course you don’t.’ Robert shakes his head. ‘You really should not have come back. We have had a long time to think about the bad old days.’
He gets up. ‘Here is our offer. One: you deliver this to the tzaddikim, with conviction. Two: whatever data crumbs you dug out from that poor boy’s mind, you share with us and destroy – we can make arrangements about that later. And three: when you find what you are looking for, we get our cut. With interest. Come on, Jean, don’t be greedy. Surely your fabled treasure has enough for all of us.’
‘You know what I think?’ I say. ‘I think you are bluffing. I don’t think you are nearly as powerful as you claim. I think you are scared of what we found. And you should be. The answer is—’
Mieli freezes my body. It feels like a cold hammer blow to the head.
‘Yes,’ Mieli says. I want to throw my hands up and scream and jump up and down, but I can’t shake her mental kung fu grip. I can only watch helplessly when the cryptarch bows to Mieli.
‘My employer recognises you as valuable allies,’ she says. ‘We will share some of our … findings with you, as a token of good faith. And she will consider what she can do to help with your zoku issue.’
‘Delightful,’ Robert says. ‘I’m glad we understand each other. A pleasure doing business with you.’ He leans on his knees and pats me on the cheek, sharply. ‘Looks like the lady has you under her heel, Jean. But then, that was always the way with you and women, wasn’t it?’
Mieli escorts him out while I sit still like a statue, pounding my temples with imaginary fists of rage.
‘I can’t believe we are doing this!’ I shout at Mieli. ‘You want to work with them? What happened to vows? Your koto’s honour? The tzaddikim are the good guys.’
‘He did have a point,’ Mieli says. ‘It’s not our place to judge.’
‘Hell it isn’t.’ I pace around, stop and press my forehead against the window to cool it. ‘And you forget something. They know me. That makes them bad guys by definition. We can’t trust them.’
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