Doc Sidhe

by Aaron Allston

  A man's head rose from the hole and looked around; he didn't spot Harris. He climbed out of the hole. In his hand was something that looked like a sawed-off shotgun. It was Eamon Moon, now dressed in what looked like a scarlet silk robe.

  Harris let him get completely out from the hole. Moon took a couple of furtive steps toward the open office door. His intention was obvious: sneak up on the Sidhe Foundation people from behind. Harris shouted, "Don't move!"

  Moon turned and yanked the trigger.

  Harris felt blind fear as he saw a gout of fire emerge from the weapon barrel. The other side of the car he crouched behind screamed and crumpled in protest.

  Harris fired. Moon jerked as if punched in the gut and stared stupidly at Harris.

  Then he aimed the gun again.

  Harris fired a second time. Moon took a staggering step back toward the hole and fell to the concrete. Harris stared at his unmoving body.

  He'd just shot a man. He paused, expecting . . . expecting he didn't know what. Nothing happened except he found that his mouth was dry.

  What now? If men came pouring out of that hole, Harris wouldn't be able to stop all of them. They'd be able to hit Doc and the others from behind.

  He half turned. "Gaby, get up here!"

  "I hear you." Her voice, coming from right behind him, made him start. He craned his neck to look back. She was standing where he'd been just a few moments ago, at the corner of the building; all he could see was some of her rifle's barrel, protruding beyond the corner, and a little of her silhouette behind the building edge.

  "I have to go block that hole." He grabbed his second handgun and sprinted across the street, stuttering a step to avoid running in the path of a northbound limousine. Once past the brick roadway, he moved cautiously up toward the dark hole, both guns out in front of him.

  Concrete steps leading down into darkness. If he got close enough, anyone down below would be able to see him.

  The thought of somebody lurking at the bottom of the steps, a shotgun ready, drove all the air out of his lungs. He circled around the hole, coming up on it from behind the tilted slab of concrete. That put him right beside Eamon Moon. He took a soccer-style kick at Moon's gun, clattering it up against the side of the building, then put his shoulder to the slab and shoved. It obligingly keeled over and fell back into place, making an enormous hollow boom and stinging his feet through the leather soles of his shoes.

  Situation under control . . . for now. He picked up Moon's gun and trotted back across the street, keeping the slab, the dead man, and the bottom of the stoop in view. He knelt down behind the cover of the car. There were more shots from inside the building.

  Harris could see Moon's eyes staring up at the stars, unblinking. He had the uneasy feeling that if he stared long enough, Moon would look up with a hurt expression and point an accusing finger at him.

  Well, let him. Harris couldn't afford to worry about it now. He kept his aim on the building.

  Noriko found a second-story window, allowing her to look into the cargo house. Immediately below her were enormous shelves piled with wooden crates and cardboard boxes. Below and to the left was the doorway into the office building; Alastair and Jean-Pierre held it, firing short bursts into the cargo house, keeping the Changeling's men under cover. She could see Doc and Joseph, the former leaping clean through a set of shelves to open fire on defenders on the other side, the latter advancing on gunmen with a mangled metal sheet held before him as cover.

  Gunfire sounded from the far side of the building. That had to be the men defending at the exterior door, in battle with Lieutenant Athelstane's soldiers.

  She squeezed through the window and, catlike, dropped to the nearly empty top of the shelving below. The impact made her bruised knee smart more. Thin board bent beneath her feet but did not give way. The shelves themselves, massive and rock-solid, stood firm against the impact.

  She raced forward along the shelf-top, toward the broad center aisle between the ranks of shelving, and gauged her leap. It was fifteen feet, a distance she should easily manage—on an unimpeded dirt track, on an unhurt leg. If she failed, she'd crash into the shelves on the far side.

  She picked up speed in the spare few steps before the end . . . and then she was airborne, flailing the sword in her right hand and the sheath in the left for balance. She heard the whistle of a bullet inches from her head.

  Noriko came down on the far shelf-top with two feet to spare, but stumbled as her hurt knee gave way. She fell forward, slamming down on the cheap wood of the shelf, knocking the wind from her. She heard her sheath clatter to the concrete floor before she realized she'd lost it. But she was up in a second, ignoring the pain in her chest and leg, and leaped for the top of the next set of shelves over, a much shorter jump than her first one.

  Two more bounds and she was at the shelf next to the side door. Below, two men with autoguns stood at the door, firing out through slits cut in the wall. Beside them, two cars, a hardtop sedan and a canvas-topped red roadster, waited—escape vehicles for the Changeling's men. She saw no one through their windows; they hadn't yet decided to retreat.

  She stepped off the top of the shelf and dropped more than a dozen feet, landing on her back on the canvas top of the roadster. It held up against the impact, threw her a pace back up into the air; she rolled, coming down in a crouch beside the car. Her knee held.

  One of the autogunners saw her just in time to turn and take her sword-thrust in the chest. He fell back against the wall. The other didn't have time to turn; her bloody sword-point pricked at his throat just as he realized something was horribly wrong. He stiffened.

  "Drop the gun," she suggested. "Open the door. Or join your friend in your next life."

  * * *

  Out front, the concrete slab levered open again.

  Harris glanced back at Gaby, saw her rifle barrel still protruding from the corner. He brought his revolver up, aimed at the hole again, and sucked in a lungful of air for another shout.

  Alastair's head popped up. The doctor turned for a quick look around, caught sight of Harris, and flinched back out of sight.

  The halls of Aremorcy Waterways were frantic with activity. Blue-uniformed members of the Novimagos Guard hustled captured gangsters through the tile-walled halls. Other guardsmen, guns drawn, burst into darkened offices to ferret out gangsters who might be hiding. Doc's associates collected in the cargo house, prowling among the shelves and stacks of wares, using crowbars to pry open interesting-looking containers.

  Harris walked through the confusion, glancing numbly at the arrests and the searches. Novimagos guardsmen passed him in the hallways, not seeing him. It was as though he were a ghost. Maybe he was close enough to death that all he needed to do was squint to see the spirit of the man he'd killed.

  He passed through the door out of the offices and into the cargo house. Noriko spotted him at once and came to him, favoring her left leg. Something about his expression must have told a story; she asked, "Are you hurt?"

  "I killed a man, Noriko."

  She nodded, sympathy briefly evident in her eyes. "And it feels bad."

  "No, that's just it. It doesn't feel at all. I keep waiting for it to hit." He shrugged. "Isn't it supposed to?"

  "If you hadn't shot him, he would have shot all three of us. I don't think Alastair could see him from his corner. It was the right thing. We owe you our lives, Harris."

  He frowned. "I don't get you."

  "The man with the Klapper."

  "No, the man on the sidewalk—oh." Harris sagged. "You mean I got the guy in the window, too. I shot two men to death tonight." He took a deep breath and waited. Maybe now something would happen to him, some blast of guilt like a lightning bolt from the hand of Zeus.

  Nothing did.

  Doc called, "Noriko? Tell me what you think of this."

  She gave Harris an apologetic look and headed Doc's way. The investigation wasn't waiting for the lightning bolt of Zeus.

  An un
accustomed weight in his coat pocket reminded him that he was still carrying the dead man's gun. He pulled it out to look at it.

  It was strange. It was as long as a sawed-off shotgun, but with a single barrel and a large cylinder like a revolver's. It had a swing-out cylinder like his small revolver. He pressed the catch for it and popped the cylinder out. It held four shotgun shells. He closed the weapon.

  There was a loop of white cord tied to the front of the gun, just under the barrel. The cord continued along the left side of the barrel and was tied off to a knob near the trigger. He could tug on the cord and draw the loop closed.

  Alastair, visible between crates on the far side of a set of shelves, said, "It's a Wexstan."

  "It's weird."

  "Sportsman's weapon. For birdstalkers who liked to get close to their quarry. Also for snakes that get too close." He came around the set of shelves to give the thing a better look. "This is the way gangsters modify the things. See the loop of rope? Drop it over a victim's head and draw it tight over his neck, and you ensure cooperation. If the victim tries to yank free, he'll probably yank the trigger. That's the end of the victim. The gangster can draw the loop tighter to control his victim. It's very good for kidnapping."

  "Charming." Harris handed the weapon off to the next guardsman.

  * * *

  The second floor of the office building had been arranged into bedrooms and barracks rooms. Lieutenant Athelstane reported that the building had, until recently, housed more than the thirty or so men the raid had killed or captured. "We have a singer," he told Doc. "But he won't perform in sight of the others."

  "Let's find him a private office," Doc said.

  One of the offices downstairs was actually set up for business, with a desk and an adding machine nearly as big as an old-fashioned cash register. Alastair brought in extra chairs for Doc's associates.

  Athelstane dragged in one of the captured gangsters. This man had a square face and slack expression under intelligent-looking eyes. His ears rose to a dramatic point; his hair was blond and he was clean-shaven. He was dressed only in trousers, and his hands were shackled in front of him with handcuffs the color of tarnished copper. Athelstane shoved him into the chair behind the desk; Jean-Pierre turned the desk lamp so it shined into his face. The man's eyes watered from the light. He grimaced but didn't complain.

  "You know who I am," Doc said. "You know my reputation. These are the terms: You cooperate. I decide later what it's worth to me. Lie to me and it's not worth much. Give me the keys to the city and it can be worth a lot. That's as explicit as it gets. Yes or no."

  The man said, "Yes."

  "Your name."

  "Swyn Alpson."

  "Who do you work for?"

  "Aremorcy Waterways."

  "You've just insulted my intelligence."

  The man shifted, restless. "My boss is Eamon Moon. I do most of the work he's responsible for. But Angus Powrie gives Moon orders, and he and Darig MacDuncan give each other orders. I don't know which one is the boss, but Angus calls Darig `sir' and Darig calls Angus things like `toad' and `bug'."

  Harris leaned forward to interrupt: " `Bug'? This Darig guy is the Changeling, then."

  Alpson nodded. "He calls himself that, yes."

  Doc said, "MacDuncan. `Duncan's son.' Is he?"

  "I don't know whose son he is."

  "Is Darig a deviser?"

  "No. Don't think so."

  "But you have a deviser in your gang."

  "No. Darig just gets packages with things in them. Books. Instructions. From a deviser. I don't know who."

  "Does Darig show any sign of any Gift?"

  "No."

  "Why do you call him the Changeling, then?"

  Alpson shrugged. "He likes it. He tells us to."

  Doc sat back, frowning. "Where are they? Angus and the Changeling?"

  "Went to the airfield early this evening. Angus went off to fetch Eamon back first. Eamon's supposed to be here when Angus and Darig aren't. Angus came back full of spite about you—" he nodded to Doc "—don't know why, and then he and Darig left. With the old sodder."

  "Who is that?"

  "Name is Blackletter."

  Harris saw Doc and Jean-Pierre stiffen. His own back was suddenly tense.

  Doc drew a long, slow breath. "Tell me about Blackletter."

  Alpson twisted his mouth, an expression of distaste. "Came a few days ago with three big, stupid-looking men, and a bigger, stupider-looking thing. Took charge; Angus and Darig both call him sir. They talked and talked, like getting reacquainted." He gave Doc an evaluative look. "I heard some of what they were talking about."

  Doc waited.

  Alpson shrugged. "Blackletter asked about the list, whatever that is. Darig said it was all done but the new ones. A man and a woman are the new ones, I know that. I know the list is in the safe."

  "Where is the safe?"

  Alpson tapped his left foot. "Just here, beneath my foot."

  Doc turned to Jean-Pierre. "Call Eight-Finger Tom. I'm not going to put anyone less on a deviser's safe. Offer him whatever it takes to get out here right now."

  Jean-Pierre rose and left.

  Doc turned back to Alpson. "What else did they talk about?"

  "Blackletter said his list was done. Taunted Angus with it. Good-spirited, like. `I'm an old, old man and I finished my list first.' This afternoon they loaded up equipment and took it out to the airfield."

  "What sort of equipment?"

  "Don't know. Lots of it, though, all in big crates. Took eight slabside trucks to carry it. Loaded it onto two big airwings."

  "This afternoon."

  "Yes."

  "Where were they going?"

  The gangster shrugged. "Cretanis, somewhere. Some village. Adnum."

  "Adennum?"

  "That's it."

  "What sort of airwings?"

  "Big new Weissefrau Valks."

  Doc sat back, looking distracted; his lips moved, but he didn't speak.

  Harris said, "You mentioned big, dumb guys with him. Tell me about them."

  "Stupid sodders. You can hardly understand their talk. They complain about everything. The cold. The heat. Us. One of them, name of Phipps, said something twisted his favorite firepiece all out of shape. Carried around a big lump of iron he tried to tell me used to be a gun. Stupid bugger."

  "Phipps. Big guy, lots of muscle?"

  "Huge, even more than you. Had a busted wing, but Blackletter sent him off to a doctor and he got that fixed right away. They were all big."

  Doc said, "We'll talk again later. For now, show Lieutenant Athelstane their rooms. Angus', Darig's, Moon's, and Blackletter's."

  The burly Novimagos guardsman seized Alpson by an ear and yanked him up from the chair. Alpson grunted but didn't complain and was led out.

  Doc turned to Noriko. "We might be able to catch up to him in the Frog Prince."

  She shook her head. "It's not much faster than Valkyries, Doc. Oh—you mean a straight flight."

  He nodded.

  Alastair smacked himself in the forehead. "Not again."

  Noriko rose. "I'll have it ready by the time the rest of you get there." She limped out.

  "Alastair?" Doc said. "Tell me what you make of this."

  He knelt beside an upright cabinet in the plushly furnished room Alpson had identified as Darig MacDuncan's. The floor was covered with a colorful rug bearing an intricate geometric design; a four-poster bed surrounded by filmy curtains dominated the room.

  Alastair and Harris moved over to look. Harris could hear Jean-Pierre, Gaby, and Alastair ransacking the room next door, the one Angus Powrie had lived in.

  Doc knelt over a wooden strongbox. The lock had been forced and the lid was up. Harris could see a crumpled mass of gray cloth inside the box; there seemed to be wooden cubes beneath it. Doc held a curious object: a small, flexible brown disk with a loop attached to one side and an extrusion the size and shape of one finger-digit protruding from the ot
her side. It seemed to be made of a translucent material and bent freely in Doc's fingers.

  The context was wrong, and it took Harris a moment to realize that he was looking at something familiar. "Hey, that's a pacifier."

  The other two looked at him, curious. "It's scarcely heavy enough to hurt a man when you hit him with it," Doc said.

  "Huh?"

  Doc mimed an overhand blow with a club. "A pacifier. A rubber or leather envelope filled with lead shot. Hoodlums use them to beat men unconscious."

  "No, no, no. A pacifier is a nipple for babies. Pop it in their mouth and they suck on it. It's made of plastic." He took it from Doc, turned it over to look for a maker's mark. On one side, he found the almost invisible emboss reading "Made in Japan" and showed it to Doc. "Japan is the Wo of my world."

  Harris stooped and rooted around in the box. The gray mass was a downy blanket with a maker's tag still attached to one seam. The cubes beneath it were alphabet blocks identical to ones Harris had had as a child. There was also a plastic rattle.

  "Doc, this is all baby stuff from the grim world." Harris glanced at the two of them and found that each had one eye closed; Doc was looking at the objects with his left eye, Alastair with his right.

  They looked at each other and opened their eyes. Alastair said, "It all has the aura of the man who lived in this room, but very, very strong. They're his baby goods, I'm sure."

  Doc sat back, frowning. "Harris, you said the Changeling was young. How young?"

  "Hard to say, especially here on the fair world. Not a teenager. Twenty, maybe twenty-five." He tried to remember the man's voice, tried to compare his face to what he'd since learned about the way the fair folk aged. "Closer to twenty."

  "I think I have it," Doc said. "We know Duncan went to the grim world instead of dying twenty years ago. My guess, and these objects bear it out, is that he used old, old devisements to take the place and identity of a child of your world, Harris."

  Harris snorted. "Whatever you say, Doc. I mean, I've seen weirder since I've been here. Just the prospect of that old guy crawling around in a crib and crying for milk is pretty strange."