Enter Stole (Harlem's Deck 3)

by Paul Smith

guys ready?”

  Jaret glanced about for forms sake, each of them nodding. “Alright then Agent, show us in.”

  “We're go in five...” as Dagmer strode towards the doors, the others following briskly on his heels. Smooth as well oiled clockwork the twin panels parted before him, spilling them out into golden light. Shuddering music rose to a crescendo on cue with the announcers voice from the podium to their right. Below, the lush expanse of the hall erupted into applause.

  City hall straddled the ridge line separating the twin valleys the city was spread across. The building's approach climbed one side of the hill, with the main entrance sat almost at its apex. The rest of the structure descended the far side, allowing for the main function hall's floor to be set at a lower level than the corridor that reached it yet still be back along its far wall by floor to ceiling windows looking out over the rear portion of the ceremonial gardens that surrounded the place like place like a lush moat.

  The civic district was big on greenery; no two buildings were ever less than a hundred metres from each other with carefully managed parkland in between. As with the approach steps, the gardens at the rear had been decked with carnival lanterns that mingled with the Orthodox stonework in a mash up that nicely encapsulated the city's parentage.

  Elliot dragged his attention back to the present as Jaret took the lead, stepping off down the broad marble staircase to begin the long ritual of greeting that stood between them and the bar. Elliot followed behind at a discreet distance, used by now to the shift from shield to observer. Many would still want to be introduced, of course, particularly those from other city states that handled the practicalities of the shallows differently. Neppon's Nu Shakya were not ubiquitous by any stretch of the imagination, though there were other communities that had responded to the vulnerability of their world in a similar way.

  So he nodded and smiled, and occasionally got his sword out for the wary or just plain curious, recounting one or two of the anecdotes from his past when asked. He and Jaret had been through this situation countless times over the years, had a well oiled routine worked out that included memories of moments that would play well with the ever present media, without seeming to always refer back to the same things. His encounters were regular and varied enough to provide some fresh fodder for any new major gathering, seasoned of course with references to those of his more infamous exploits that already stood on public record.

  Finally, the last set of hands had been shaken, and the bar stood before them like a blue and golden vision of nirvana. Elliot almost – almost – offered a small prayer, thought Lise looked ready to do the same as the crowd slowly dispersed about them.

  “I'll go find Councillor Chiang,” Wilson said, vanishing into the crowd with his pad.

  “Does that man never just take five?” Lise asked, drawing a smile from her husband.

  “Business is always,” Jaret replied, quoting one of his family's mottos.

  Lise rolled her eyes, accepting a slim stemmed champagne flute from the barman with polite thanks. Elliot took a tall, frosted glass of vodka and mango juice, the second of his three drinks for the evening. The third would be his reward when they were safely home.

  Turning to lean against the bar he scanned the room. With his left hand he gave the local aether a tug, tattoo glowing briefly blue. Across the floor eyes snapped round, some crinkling at the edges as they realised who it was, whilst others simply offered a blank glare of recognition.

  Kya: we can be such stuck up bastards when the mood takes us.

  Not all of his profession were as stylishly turned out as he. It was part of the Nu Shakya tradition that any who underwent the training be allowed to choose what was, in effect, their uniform given that you were expected to be on the ball twenty four/seven. Even in your fucking dreams, he thought, remembering a particularly nasty incident with a clown faced nightmare. Not everyone was the same, though, and there were those of the families rich enough to afford the training that maintained some very conservative ideas regarding their representative's fashion choices. In the end all come down to image, after all.

  For example...He nodded politely to Emerline Chiang, the Mahaian magnate's kya and rumoured mistress. She returned his nodded, head dipping precisely as she stood patiently behind her master and his dainty wife whilst he made small talk with Jaret and Annalise. In her crisp black suit she looked like a talk show host, or one of the extras from that club Sam and Beth frequented. Chiang's PA, and his heir, hovered to one side, glaring about at anyone who looked like they might be about to butt in.

  “He looks like he's about to piss himself with stress, bless him. Someone should give the poor man a joint. Or a blow job.”

  Elliot grinned, turning. “Ruffio! You devil, what are you doing here?”

  The swarthy skinned southerner grinned, exposing teeth white as porcelain. A broken nose when he was a kid had left Ruffio with a slightly puggish expression he'd chosen to augment with a large septum piercing. Thick black hair sprouted back from his forehead in a fat Mohawk and a profusion of rings sparkled on the hand he lofted in the small Mahaian heir's direction. “Maybe we should offer to sort him out?”

  “My stash is at home, but you could always suck him off in the toilets.”

  Dancing emerald eyes regarded him with wounded pride. “Elliot... you know I don't do that sort of thing anymore...” But he was grinning as he said it, pushing the billows of his burgundy great coat to one side; Elliot caught flashes of its bright silk lining, coloured to match the man's eyes. 'Conservative' was not a word one could use around Ruffio. “God it's warm in here tonight. For your neck of the woods anyway. I might have to loose this.”

  Elliot nodded. “Actually getting a summer this year; I see they've even opened the doors onto the deck in honour.” He gestured over one shoulder. “I saw the coat check back that way.” He raised a hand in question to Jaret, who nodded discreetly, his eyes never leaving the earnest Mahaian in front of him. Elliot gestured to Annalise's shoulders, and she passed him her stole with a grateful smile.

  “This is nice,” the southern kya commented, fingering the hem of Elliot's coat. “Annalise?”

  “No, actually. And get your grubby mitts off!”

  “My, someone's tetchy this evening. Not getting any at the moment?”

  “Not since that lass from the coffee place,” he admitted. Much as he hated speaking about his personal life he was unwilling to alienate the other kya. The flamboyant islander was one of the few people in the world he felt genuinely comfortable opening up around. Something perhaps to do with the man's easy good cheer and obvious lack of agenda. Ruffio was a walking advert for why so many people flocked to the Cuaro Archipelagos, even considering the daemon parrot.

  “...yes, where is the scarlet wonder?”

  “What? Oh: Flint. I didn't think we were allowed to bring our handlers to these things?”

  “We're not, but I seem to remember a certain someone laughing in the face of our 'stuffy northern traditions'? At that bar on the west lagoon jetty last spring break.”

  “Was that before or after you threw up your sangria all over that nice young lady in the blue sarong?”

  “...after...”

  “Ah, look, here we are. I won't embarrass you by repeating the story in front of this nice young lady. My friend and I would like to check our coats please, though obviously we'll be keeping the steel...”

  From there the evening continued much as you'd expect. A kya was not expected to shadow his charge at these things, merely be conspicuous in their visibility. The casual reminder, as the saying went. It was considered good practice to have one present if any sort of business were being conducted, just to be on the safe side, but otherwise Elliot was free to pretty much do as he pleased. Being the conscientious young man that he was, this meant never letting either his brother or Annalise out of his sight if he could possibly help it, though that was a little difficult at times, particularly if the councillor from Tree Shades
was present; he and Jaret had a habit of disappearing to do God knew what. Elliot really didn't care what his foster sibling got up to behind closed doors (beyond a certain big-brotherly concern for Lise's well being, if there was fall out). He was more irritated over the stupid risk, given that the man was effectively putting himself beyond ready help.

  He knew others did the same thing: Ruffio had confided on a number of occasions about the times he'd lost track of Maria. They'd eventually come to the conclusion it must be some sort of perverse sport only rich people played: how long can I imperil my immortal soul without actually having it taken away from me?

  He'd been stupid enough to confront Jaret about it once. That had been a bad idea:

  “So you think you can tell me what to do now?”

  “I... no!” Elliot had clenched his fist at his sides, determined he would not loose his temper. “I just... it's frustrating, surely you must realise that?”

  “What I realise is that you seem to feel you get to vet my decisions for me.” Jaret had stood there, chin jutting slightly in that expression he had that wasn't quite belligerence but walked a fine line along its edge. “Anyway, you're making a big thing out of nothing. You know as well as I do there are telltales preceding a physical breakthrough. You'd get to me in time...”

  This last said with