by Steven Brust
“More than a connection, this time. He was one of their sorcerers, doing much the same thing as your Ms. Sullivan, although they aren’t organized the way we are.”
“He was good, though?”
“Very. He specialized in defensive and protection spells, against both sorcerous and mundane attacks. Whether that is significant, of course, we do not yet know.”
“And yet, they managed to kill him.”
“Indeed they did, Mr. Longfellow, unless you want to put an impossible amount of weight on coincidence.”
“All right. What else can you tell me about him?”
“Pure mercenary, Mr. Longfellow. He had accumulated immense amounts of wealth, although we don’t know how. He lived in New York, but traveled at least half the year. He owned two yachts, though he rarely used them—”
“You know a great deal about this one, Mr. Becker.”
“Yes.”
“Then perhaps you know this: Is there a connection between him and Mr. Lundgren?”
“In fact, there is, Mr. Longfellow. I was about to mention it. They’re friends. They grew up together in Chicago.”
“I see.”
“And in looking into this, we discovered something else. Mr. Lundgren owns, in secret, considerable interests—especially real estate, in California.”
“Let me guess: San Diego area.”
“Exactly.”
“You’ll email me the exact address and so on?”
“I already have, Mr. Longfellow.”
“Very well, Mr. Becker. I’ll get back to you as soon as I have something to report.”
He checked his email, then made the calls, reaching everyone with no trouble. He was pulling things out of the closet when his cell rang.
“Jeffrey, my hero. What’s the word?”
“Lots of words, Captain, starting with ‘thanks.’”
“You got paid?”
“Yeah, and the check didn’t even bounce.”
“They sent you a check?”
“No, direct deposit. I sort of meant virtually didn’t bounce.”
“Yeah. Anyway, glad to hear it.”
“You’ll like the next bit even more.”
“Okay, I’m listening.”
“All those names you sent me connect. All of them. Like a chain. Lawton-Smythe to Blum, then Blum to Wright, then Wright to Lundgren.”
“What’s the timing of the calls?”
“Starting with the one a few months ago, all of them within forty-eight hours.”
“No shit?”
“No shit.”
“So it’s like moving up a ladder or something.”
“Exactly.”
“That is going to help, man. I don’t know how yet, but that’s huge. Send me a bill, and look up one more name.”
“I will, and what?”
“Alexander Young, two-one-two area code.”
“Okay, on it.”
“Jeff, you are the best that ever was.”
“Fuckin’ A right, man.”
Donovan disconnected, checked his pockets, locked his apartment, and headed down to the laundry room. Andrea from 204 was there doing laundry, so he had to wait and make pleasant conversation with her for twenty minutes before she wandered off and he could safely use the slipwalk.
* * *
Marci stood up from her computer and shut it.
“Uh-oh,” said Lawrence. “I know that sound.”
“What?”
“When you shut the computer that way, you’re going to do something mysterious.”
She smiled. “You know me too well. You might become a security risk.” She wrinkled her nose at him.
“I’m not sure,” he said, “that that’s funny.”
She walked over to stand between him and the basketball game on TV. She leaned over and touched his forehead with hers. “Now you look like a cyclops,” she said. “I would never let any harm come to a cyclops.”
“You’re going to protect me? Jesus. What about my fragile male ego?”
“You’re on your own with that.” She kissed him and grabbed her coat.
“Going to wear something green?”
“What?”
“Saint Patrick’s Day.”
“Oh, didn’t even think of it. Uh, my coat is kinda greenish, isn’t it?”
“Mmmm. I’d call it olive. Hey, Marci?”
“Yes?”
“When you got hurt, you scared the shit out of me.”
“I know.”
“This thing you do. It’s really important?”
“Yes, my love.”
“And is it … no, never mind. Just, be careful, all right?”
“I will.”
She closed the door behind her and wiped her eyes. She went around to the back of the house and let herself into the shed. She took the hand rake and dug into a spot on the dirt floor, pulled back, exposing the trapdoor. She replaced the tool, then went down the door, closing it after her and turning on the light.
She said, “Exterior Seven-three-nine Canal Street, New Orleans, Louisiana, USA,” and walked down the stairs.
* * *
Donovan’s shoulders were tense. He looked around, and, yeah, so were Marci’s. Hippie Chick was fine, but she was a freak. There were a few people in the lobby: a couple having a quiet conversation, a businessman working on a laptop, a little girl who seemed to be waiting for someone, two people in different corners talking on their phones. Nothing indicated that someone had died there earlier that day.
“You’re a freak,” he told Susan.
She didn’t turn around. “Hmmm?”
“Never mind. So, why no crime scene tape?”
“Ruled an accident,” said Susan. “This is New Orleans; they want it to go away as fast as possible. Remember Vegas? Look. See where it happened? You can see the scorch marks. But—nothing.”
Donovan nodded. She was right, of course. “He ran outside, it seems. There isn’t even any smoke damage.”
They were getting a few curious looks from people in the lobby, but nothing untoward.
He walked up next to Marci and spoke softly. “Is it possible for you to do your thing less obviously?”
“Um,” she said. Then, “Yes, I think so.”
“Just, you know, people.”
“Right.”
She strolled into the middle of the lobby, Susan walking with her as if they were having a conversation. It wasn’t a completely convincing performance: Marci’s face went slack, and her eyelids drooped. But it was good enough that no one called security.
After a couple of minutes, they strolled back together.
“Okay,” she said. “I think I have some of—” Her face changed. “Out,” she said. “Move.”
She led them, or pulled them, or pushed them not out the door, but farther into the hotel, past the front desk.
Behind them, the lobby exploded.
A second, a minute, a lifetime. Not enough time to do anything, but too much to do nothing. What now? How long has it been? Seconds? Minutes? Heat of the lobby behind him; were those sirens? Call Becker … no, no time. Has to happen now. Pull it together, boy. You said you could lead this team, and they trust you. Pull it together. It isn’t about the yelling, or the alarms, or the thick, choking smoke behind you, or people streaming out with the is this real? look even though they can see it is. It isn’t about any of that; it’s about making the right move and nothing else. Pull it together now.
Now.
“Marci. Generate some bomb fragments.”
“Out of what?”
“Out of thin fucking air. I don’t care. Where’s the nearest grid? Find it; use it.”
Marci said, “Someone just tried to kill us.”
“Yeah. I know. I need bomb fragments. Convincing ones. Then you’re going to go invisible, and you’re going to put them somewhere that—”
“Jesus, Don. You really think we can fool an arson investigator?”
Susan was lookin
g at him: calm, confident. He took a breath. “I think,” he told Marci, “that an arson investigator is unlikely to believe in magic if given any alternative at all. Marci, don’t argue. This needs to happen now.”
She stared at him, then nodded. “I got it covered,” she said.
“I know you do.”
* * *
“I know you do,” said Donovan, and turned away and got out his cell phone. He was, no doubt, calling Upstairs, and saying, Don’t worry about it; I have my people on this. We can handle it, no problem.
Well then, Marci figured, she’d better handle it.
Invisibility was the first step, and the trouble was, casting invisibility didn’t come naturally to Marci. Bending light was a pain. Drawing from the grid was easy, but maneuvering the light around her felt like trying to scoop up water in a hand with splayed fingers. She knew others who insisted it was one of the easiest spells, but for her it was slow and laborious—and knowing that she had to hurry didn’t make it easier.
There was a line right outside the door, and, thank God, a point less than a hundred feet away. She touched it, caressed it, held it.
In the end, she got about halfway there with the invisibility and decided that was good enough—there was plenty of smoke in the air, and that would do half the job, wouldn’t it? And creating a filter for the smoke and holding it in place while creating the fake evidence was going to be a tough juggling act even without the light bending.
Air had a tangibility light did not; that part wasn’t hard.
She moved into the area, and discovered there was still fire, or, at any rate, heat; she drew on the grid and pulled some of the smoke around her and made it into insulation—and was hit with a wave of dizziness. She stopped for a moment, let her connection to the grid stabilize. She’d be generating a lot of heat by now, but at least that wouldn’t be noticed in all of this.
Where?
Jesus. What did she know about arson investigation? What would they look for? Well, wires and scraps of metal, maybe. Where to put them? She couldn’t see well, and the smoke and the light bending she was doing didn’t help. But, okay, somewhere around—there. Maybe it wasn’t the actual center of the explosion, but it had sure been hit hard.
There was no shortage of carbon all around her, and there was—ah, yes! A hole in the floor had exposed rebar. They’d have to tear the floor up anyway, right? So pull some rebar from a place that wasn’t exposed; no one would notice. And she didn’t need much. Just touch it, feel roughness—hot—and go deep. Deeper—
Flinging whirling speeding, match the motion, match the speed, hello my friends, talk to me come to me whirl differently now just a little and little more molding like wet clay with a form implied by shape, how the lines swirl around you, my friends, and turn turn turn to every atom there is a weight and a form to every molecule under Heaven I cast my loop here and no you haven’t changed, not really, heat from my skin a growing hunger but such a little change to steel, and there’s copper wire in that wall that they’ll have to tear down anyway, shards of metal bits of wire cast around and let go let go before you burn up, the very grid point hot don’t need it anymore, walk, you can walk, don’t make Susan come in and get you, dammit, just walk—
She stumbled out of the smoke, coughing, into the arms of a bug-eyed monster who turned out to be a fireman. He asked if she was all right, and took her to a truck where they gave her oxygen and wanted to take her to the hospital for evaluation, but no, she was fine, really, just caught a bit of smoke, that’s all.
Donovan and Susan were twenty feet away, looking at her. She winked and gave them a thumbs-up. Then a cop came up to her, wanting her name and asking if she was a guest, but she did her these aren’t the droids you’re looking for thing, and she was back with her team.
“You okay?” said Donovan.
“Yeah,” she said. And, “I think I got it.”
* * *
Donovan didn’t let himself start shaking until he was back home and had a drink in his hand. Even then, though, shaking with nervous energy, he held it together; there was something that needed to be done now, because there might not be much time left.
He made another Skype call—one he hadn’t made in close to a year. The face came on after about thirty seconds, so tanned he could tell over the distortion, and smiling.
“Hey, Grampa,” said Donovan. “How’s retirement?”
“Hey, Chump. It’s great. I fish, I watch the Buccaneers, and I sleep like a baby.”
“And you’ve grown a beard. Too lazy to shave?”
“Damn right.”
“So, you don’t miss it?”
“Yeah, I miss it. Every time I go to the bank.”
“Check.”
“You okay, Chumpy? You don’t sound like yourself.” The old man seemed to be staring intently at the screen.
“Yeah, had a bit of a rough time, but came through it okay. You know how it goes—you get shaky after you’re safe.”
Grampa may have nodded. “Got a replacement for me yet?”
“Yeah. A girl named Marci. She’s doing good. You’d be proud of her.”
The old man smiled wide enough that Donovan could see it. “Bet I would. So, you caught a case?”
“A tough one. Nasty. It’s made the news twice.”
“Oh?”
“State Senator in California drowning in her swimming pool?”
“Nope, missed that.”
“Terrorist bombing at a hotel in New Orleans?”
“Oh! Yeah, I heard about that. Everyone’s heard about that.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I thought they caught the guys who did it.”
“They caught bullshit. They picked up two loudmouth skinheads and they’re going to pin it on them so they don’t have to admit they have no clue.”
“We doing anything about that?”
“Not my circus, not my monkeys.”
“Seems kinda shitty to just leave them there, Chumpy.”
“I don’t get to make that call. And, you know, skinheads. I’m not crying with sympathy.”
“That’s what I don’t miss about the job.”
“Yeah. So look, I’m kinda stuck. Can I run it down for you? Just give me anything that comes to mind.”
“Sure. What’s old age for if not dispensing bullshit and calling it wisdom? Let’s hear it.”
Donovan gave him chapter and verse, including speculation and stray observations. Grampa listened, probably nodding from time to time, until Donovan finished.
“So, that’s the story. Anything?”
“Well, it’s pretty clear that there’s an endgame here. Maybe two different ones.”
“Right.”
“You’re going to have to figure out at least one of them.”
“Yep. The question is, how?”
“Okay, Chumpy. I’m gonna get a bit abstract here.”
Donovan felt himself grinning. “I’m listening, old man.”
“Sometimes the reason you can’t make out a shape is that you’ve got all the lines, but they’re blending into the background.”
“Yep, you’re right. That’s pretty abstract. What’s the background?”
“The Mystici. All of this is happening around and through them.”
“So, you’re saying I need to learn more about the Mystici?”
“Yep.”
“What exactly do I need to learn?”
“If I knew that, I’d just tell you. But from what you say, that sounds like the thing you’re missing.”
“So, how do I find out?”
“One thing you’ve always been good at is irritating people. I don’t mean in a bad way, I mean just, you know, staying on them, annoying them until they react. Then you use their reactions. Remember the card cheater in Atlantic City?”
“Yeah. So, your point is?”
“Go bug Upstairs until they tell you the shit they don’t think you need to know. That’s what you need to know.”
/> Donovan felt himself nodding. “Grampa, you’re the best.”
“And don’t you forget it, Chumpy. You’ll let me know how it plays out?”
“Depend on it.”
11
WHAT WE DON’T KNOW …
This time we did the church confessional again. I was going to say something about repeating tricks to see if I could pull another chuckle out of him, but he said, “There’s a problem, Nick.”
“Again, or still?”
“I suppose still. I took a shot at the people investigating us and missed.”
“Damn.”
“Yeah, it’s my fault. They keep being a little better than I expect them to be.”
“Damn,” I said again. “So, what does this mean?”
“I’ve been honest with you from the start, Nick. What it means is we’re going to go ahead, as planned, and just hope we can be done before they catch us.”
“All right. I’m good with that.”
“You need to know, if you get caught, you’re on your own.”
“I know that. That became clear sometime around when you told me why you wouldn’t let me see your face.”
“All right, just so—”
“Charlie, this is it. This is the one. This is the motherfucker who ruined my life.”
“I know. He’s your reward for everything you’ve been doing for me, and I owe you that. But I don’t want you going in without knowing the risks.”
“Yeah, I know the risks.”
“Also, well, there was the last attempt. The first time you tried.”
“Uh, meaning?”
“Whittier’s increased his security, and he now has a bodyguard.”
I suddenly felt claustrophobic in the little closet. “Shit,” I said.
“Don’t panic. It makes things more complicated, and a bit messier, but I still like our chances.”
“All right. You have what I need?”
“Of course.”
“The son of a bitch will suffer?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Charlie, tell me something.”
“What do you want to know?”
“When this is over, are you going to kill me?”
There was a pause, then, “Would you care if I did?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s what I thought. No, Nick. I’m not going to kill you. But there’s a fair chance someone else will before this is done, and it’s far from impossible that someone will kill me, too.”