Stealing Life

by Antony Johnston

  “I don’t have it. I never did. You’ve got the wrong man, Bazhanka. Now let me go.”

  Bazhanka shifted his weight and the high-backed chair’s leather seat creaked in protest. “Ah, Nicco. You should know by now that I am not in the habit of being wrong. Wallus Bazhanka does not grope around in the dark.”

  Nicco grimaced at the image that came into his head.

  “You say you have the money to settle your debt? Should I be surprised if it is once again in cash?” He shivered visibly as the word passed his fat lips. “I wonder how you might have come by such a sum so quickly.”

  “None of your business.”

  “Oh, I think it is. I think it is very much my business. And not just mine...”

  A short, dark-haired women with tanned olive skin stepped out from behind Bazhanka’s high-backed chair to stand beside the mob boss. She fixed Nicco with an angry scowl, and his stomach suddenly felt very tight.

  “Of course,” smiled Bazhanka, “You’ve met Mirrla Werrdun, the governor’s daughter. When the necklace was stolen, she came to me. One of the things she remembers very clearly is the doctor who treated her father’s illness, a doctor who seemed to have magically disappeared when the Astra landed.”

  “Maybe it was magic,” said Nicco nervously. “You can’t trust those wizards, you know.”

  “Perhaps, perhaps. Of course, had he been a wizard, this doctor would almost certainly not have needed to drug one of Werrdun’s own bodyguards before leaving the governor’s suite in such a hurry. And yet, despite pleas, he has not come forward to our esteemed police. What a mystery it is!”

  Nicco felt sick. What on earth connected Bazhanka to Werrdun? He was sure Bazhanka hadn’t been on the Astra himself.

  “I don’t have it,” he said again.

  “A mysterious doctor, whom no-one recalls ever meeting before. A thief who suddenly comes by a large amount of money. And library logs that show various terminals made an exceptional number of searches for information on Hurrunda, and Governor Werrdun himself, scant days before the theft.”

  Nicco knew Bazhanka was trying to provoke him, surprise him with his connections to the police and city officials. But it was a bluff. The doctor could have been anyone; Mirrla Werrdun was very ill when she saw him on the Astra; the money could have come from anywhere; and the citi-card he’d used at the library was stolen. Nicco couldn’t resist a smirk as he imagined that stupid cop Patulam eagerly chasing down the citi-card’s real owner, only to lead a squadron of armed police through the door of an 87-year-old retired fisherman with one leg.

  “You find this amusing, dear boy?”

  Nicco suppressed the smirk. “No, of course not. A terrible crime has been committed.”

  Bazhanka snorted. “I wish to complete this puzzle, Nicco, and I don’t care what it takes. I don’t even care how or why you stole the necklace. All I require is the loot itself, returned to the governor through me. And then we shall consider the jigsaw complete, and this silly game concluded.”

  Nicco sighed. “You’re not listening to me, Bazhanka. Even assuming I stole it in the first place, I don’t have it. You can turn me and my entire place upside-down, but you won’t find any bloody necklace! And you still haven’t told me why you care. What in the fifty-nine hells is she doing here? Why not go to the police?”

  Bazhanka chuckled. “Ah, sometimes you can be so naïve... Very well, Nicco. To understand, you must know that my family tree is very large and very complex. I myself have six brothers, eighteen half-brothers, forty-five cousins... no, excuse me, forty-six... and too many uncles, aunts, great uncles, great aunts, second, third and fourth cousins to count. Our clan is spread far and wide, and we are an ambitious family. Most of its members are, of course, in the family business. Many of us run entire cities, behind the scenes... including Hurrunda.”

  Nicco groaned. “Oh, no.”

  Bazhanka smiled. “Oh, yes.”

  “But still, so what? Why does your brother or whatever give a flying squid about Werrdun?”

  “This theft, this one thoughtless action, could destabilise the city. Many are concerned that the Kurrethi—do you know anything about Hurrundan politics?”

  Nicco nodded.

  “The Kurrethi may be able to take advantage of this situation, to stir up unrest and religious fervour. Without Werrdun to calm the waters, Hurrunda may face revolution.”

  “All because he hasn’t got his necklace? Rubbish. You’re having me on.”

  “Without the necklace, there is no Governor Werrdun.” It was Mirrla who spoke, for the first time since stepping out from behind Bazhanka’s chair. “Haven’t you seen the news streams, you idiot? Don’t you know how unwell he is?”

  “Look, it was just dope, he’ll be fine...”

  Nicco stopped. Why couldn’t he just keep his big bloody mouth shut for once?

  Bazhanka leant back in his chair and pursed his lips. “Ah, dear boy. So we come to the truth at last.”

  Mirrla Werrdun continued. “He will not be fine, you fool. You’ve heard the rumours that the necklace is magical? Well, they’re true. Not completely true, of course—all that nonsense about him consorting with Ekklorn—but the necklace is enchanted.”

  Bazhanka held up a hand for Mirrla to stop, and leaned forward. “Nicco... I know you better than you may suppose, and one thing I am sure of is that you are no killer. That is, after all, the very reason you were in my debt.”

  Nicco didn’t like where this was going. “I don’t see the connection.”

  “In a week—perhaps a day more, perhaps a day less—you will. Jarrand Werrdun is ninety-three years old. Do you suppose he looks so well for his age because he takes long walks on the beach and eats plenty of seafood?”

  “Without the necklace, my father will die,” said Mirrla. “You have not just stolen his necklace. You have stolen his life.”

  Bazhanka leaned forward to fix Nicco with a hard stare. “And that, dear boy, is murder.”

  Nicco reeled. Murder? But he wasn’t to blame, it was Xandus who wanted the necklace stolen. He should be the one standing here now. But even if Nicco called Xandus right now, what would he care? Nicco didn’t even care all that much.

  But he wasn’t about to take the rap for it. He had no choice—he’d have to get the necklace back. Except he’d already given Bazhanka half the money, which removed the possibility of simply buying it back from the equation. And even if he had the money, Nicco had a feeling Xandus wouldn’t be too enthusiastic about a refund.

  “I see the gravity of the situation is not lost on you,” said Bazhanka. “Now. Where is the necklace? And don’t say you don’t have it.”

  “I really don’t. It’s already been delivered.”

  “Ah.” Bazhanka tutted and shook his head. “Then you will have to get it back, dear boy.”

  “Don’t be stupid. The client’s not just going to give it back because I ask nicely. He doesn’t care about Werrdun.”

  “Then we will persuade your client that the governor’s well-being is in his best interests.” Bazhanka pressed a button on his desk phone. “Clarrum, please come in now.”

  Nicco looked over his shoulder as the door opened and the big bodyguard stepped into the office.

  “You will leave immediately, and take Clarrum with you. Let him do the talking.” Bazhanka chuckled. “Not that I imagine much conversation will take place.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  NICCO HADN’T HAD the nerve to tell Bazhanka that the only contact information he had for Xandus was a phone number. Or that Xandus had made it quite clear he expected never to see Nicco again. Nicco had a strange fondness for life, and at that moment he figured admitting to any obstacles was tantamount to suicide.

  So he stayed quiet and sat very still as Clarrum guided the skycar through the city’s towering avenues of steel and glass, past blaring neon holovid signs now in full flow as night fell across the island. They were heading North to Nicco’s apartment so he could get some cl
othes on and call Xandus. Bazhanka didn’t have any clothes that would fit him, not that Nicco would have accepted them if he did, and Nicco had deliberately not stored Xandus’ number on his own phone. But he still had the scrap of paper the wizard’s thinmen had left in his backpack, and that was back at his place.

  Clarrum was a big man—Nicco wasn’t sure how he crammed himself into the small driver’s cabin—and he didn’t speak much. Nicco wasn’t really in the mood for talking either and, apart from the occasional mumbled direction, they soared over the city in silence.

  Nicco didn’t want to talk because he was desperately running through his options. What could he say to Xandus? What possible reason could he concoct to arrange a meet that wouldn’t arouse the wizard’s suspicion? He had to think fast, but his apartment was approaching faster than he could formulate a plan.

  The roof of Nicco’s building wasn’t strong enough to hold a skycar, but there was a public landing pad just a couple of blocks away. Clarrum found a space and landed. Nicco hopped out, shivering from the sudden cold outside the air-conditioned skycar. Clarrum killed the engine, unfolded his bulk from the interior and took Nicco’s arm.

  “Lead on, and don’t even think about running.”

  HIS APARTMENT WAS freezing. It required constant heating to stay warm in the winter, and the system was so old that Nicco didn’t dare leave it running when he was out for fear he’d come back to a tepid lake where his lounge used to be. He told Clarrum to stay by the elevator door while he found some clothes and made the call, then took a fresh shirt and trousers from his wardrobe and changed in the bathroom cubicle.

  The scrap of paper with Xandus’ number on it was still in his backpack. Nicco sat on his couch and made the call. Listening to the ring at the other end of the line, he ran through what he would say to the wizard one last time. He couldn’t tell the truth—that would scupper any chance of Xandus meeting him. He decided to bluff instead. Tell the wizard he’d found something else that might suit his collection, that Nicco wanted to discuss it and maybe make a deal to steal it for the wizard. It wasn’t a great plan, he knew. It could very easily make Xandus suspicious. But it was all he had.

  The line kept ringing. And ringing. Great, thought Nicco, it’s going to go to voicemail. That’s all I need.

  But it didn’t. It just kept ringing. And ringing.

  Nicco cut the call and dialled again. Same thing. Did Xandus recognise Nicco’s number? Was he deliberately ignoring the call? Were his suspicions already roused?

  “Well?” Clarrum said.

  Nicco jumped, startled by the bodyguard’s sudden appearance over his shoulder.

  “I told you to wait by the door.”

  “And Mr Bazhanka told me to make sure you didn’t pull a fast one. So what’s going on?”

  “He’s not answering, is what. It’s just ringing out.”

  “Then we’ll just have to pay him a visit, won’t we?”

  “But I don’t...”

  “What?”

  Nicco hesitated. Should he admit he didn’t know where Xandus lived? Plead with Bazhanka to wait a while, until the wizard decided to answer his phone?

  No. Bazhanka wouldn’t like it, and Nicco could find himself in even worse trouble with the mob boss than he already was. More than that, he needed to find Xandus for his own peace of mind. He couldn’t sleep with another man’s imminent death on his conscience.

  “I don’t understand why he’s not picking up, that’s all. He normally answers really quickly.”

  “Maybe he’s on the toilet. Maybe he’s getting laid. Whatever. I’m sure he’ll be more attentive once I break his legs.”

  “You’ve got a one-track mind, Clarrum, you know that?”

  Clarrum grunted in response.

  Nicco stood, picked up a jacket and slung the phone in one of the pockets. “Come on, then, hardman. We’ll need to go by my lockup first, though.”

  THE NISSAL RIVER ran from the north-east of Azbatha to the south-west, dividing the city into two unequally sized islands. The north side had everything; downtown, Riverside, Azbatha International airship port, the seaport and docks, the Lighthouse Tower, the central shopping area, even the red light district. South of the river there was nothing but residential ghettos, run-down malls overtaken by armies of squatters and enormous storage and warehousing districts. Nicco’s lockup was in one such district, well away from his own apartment, Madame Zentra’s place and anywhere else he might be known to hang out. Secured with both electronic and mechanical locks, it was an ideal stowaway location.

  “You won’t find a landing pad anywhere around here,” said Nicco as Clarrum swung the skycar over the warehouse district. “You’ll have to land on the street.”

  Clarrum slowly turned to face him with a level gaze that made Nicco regret speaking.

  “Do I look like I grew up northside?” said the bodyguard.

  Nicco mumbled a quiet apology and sank into his seat.

  The sun had set completely by the time they left Nicco’s apartment. By now the streets round here were populated mainly by pushers and streetwalkers, all of them hollering and calling to colleagues, rivals and the addicts and marks that made up the remainder of the street traffic. Compared to the north side of Azabatha it was practically empty, but the room to move with ease came at a social price. Nicco didn’t associate himself with street criminals like these. He was a better class of crook. But they were one more element to draw attention away from his lockup.

  Clarrum took the skycar down to ground level. He found a space on the kerbside between two wrecked groundcars and lowered the skycar down expertly. As soon as they landed, the car was mobbed by streetwalkers, pushers and at least one probable carjacker, but the sight of Clarrum—and the large blaster under his shoulder, which he deliberately exposed as he exited the car—gave them all second thoughts.

  Then Nicco climbed out and one of the streetwalkers said, “Hey, Grissul! Fancy ride! You stepped up in the world, or what?”

  Nicco smiled back at the emaciated, pale-skinned hooker and nodded. “Yeah, Nurra. Bought myself a batman. And you should see his brother.”

  The streetwalker looked Clarrum up and down and whistled. “I’d see ’em both. I do group discounts, you know...”

  Nicco laughed and walked to his lockup entrance. Clarrum locked the skycar, grunted at Nurra and followed him. “Grissul?”

  “Because I’m really going to rent a lockup full of tools and use my real name. I thought you said you grew up around here?”

  The big man grunted. “Time was a man could use his real name without fear.”

  “Time was a man could steal jewellery without having the mob breathing down his neck,” snorted Nicco as he opened the locks. “But that’s progress for you.”

  He slotted a security card into the last lockpod and pushed the door open. “You should probably stay here and keep an eye on your car.”

  “Nice try.”

  “Have it your way.”

  They entered a small, non-descript vestibule. Nicco had built it himself out of sheet metal, to keep prying eyes out of his store-room when the main door was open. He waited till Clarrum pulled the door closed behind them, and heard it lock again automatically. Then Nicco flicked a switch and opened a makeshift door into the lockup proper.

  The store room was a treasure trove of burglar’s kit; grav units, omnimag grips, monofilament wire, black noise generators, traditional lock picks, infrared visors, radio snoopers and more. Unlike his apartment, it was also well organised. Steel shelves, wooden workbenches and wall hooks held everything in its place. Easy location and quick retrieval were vital to Nicco’s working methods, with nothing left to chance.

  He moved quickly to a metal shelf holding deep glass trays. The trays were unlabelled, but Nicco didn’t need labels. He knew the location of everything in this lockup, down to the last diode or lock pick. He could find a tool with his eyes closed. Which was just as well, because what he was about to do had the s
ame feel of floundering around in the dark.

  He pulled one of the trays off the shelf and rummaged through it, hoping he had a spare. He did, and pulled it out of the tray with a smile.

  “What’s that?” Clarrum said.

  Nicco took a deep breath. Xandus’ refusal to answer his phone had left him with no choice. He had to explain.

  “It’s a burner phone. I’m not using my own phone for this.”

  “You’re heading for a smack, Salarum.”

  “All right, listen to me. I don’t know where the client lives. I was blindfolded the whole time. But I do have his phone number, and that means I can locate him.”

  Clarrum was already pulling out his own phone. “You lying sneak,” he said. “Come on, back in the car. We’re going home to Mr Bazhanka.”

  “You can’t call him from here,” said Nicco. “No signal.”

  Clarrum checked his phone, but Nicco wasn’t lying. The switch he hit on the way in wasn’t to open the door, or switch on a light—it fired up an omniscrambler loop embedded in the walls, just like the one at Allad’s place. Black noise prevented anyone from calling in or out. Clarrum stomped through the door into the vestibule and pulled on the outer door.

  “You can’t get out, either,” said Nicco. “The door locks itself automatically.”

  Clarrum stormed back into the lockup. “So give me the cards.”

  “No. Besides, you need the codes as well, and I’m not telling.”

  “Oh, you’ll tell me.” The big man advanced on Nicco, fury in his eyes.

  “Watery saints, grow up and listen to me, you big oaf. It might be my neck on the line here, but think about yourself for a second. If I’m wrong, if I can’t find the client, what have you lost? A few hours of your time, that’s all. But if I’m right—if we find him, and get the necklace back—then Mr Bazhanka will be very grateful to you for a job well done. Think of the trust you’ll earn from him. Who knows, he might even promote you.” Nicco could see Clarrum was considering it. “I’m the one with everything to lose, here. It doesn’t matter if we go back right now, or first thing in the morning. Either way, it’s my arse Bazhanka will burn if we don’t have the necklace, not yours.”