Nosferatu s-14

by Carl Sargent

  Michael was halfway through his drink when the ork bouncer practically threw the girl into his room. So this was Kristen. Her appearance was appalling, with the crude stitches in her ear and her clothes covered with dried blood. Her hands also showed heavy graze marks and she looked like a frightened child expecting a beating for some guilty secret. Which, he suddenly realized, wasn't so far from the truth.

  "I'm Michael," he said. "Serrin will be here soon." He was trying to be soothing. "I'm sorry if you suffered some rough treatment being brought here." She just stared at him, trembling slightly, neither speaking nor moving.

  "Please sit down," he said, smiling. "We've come all this way to find out what you know. It's important."

  That seemed to help. No one had ever made Kristen feel significant in any way until this moment. Looking slightly less terrified, she sat down slowly in the rickety

  chair next to the table by the window, but still didn't speak.

  "The pocket computer you mentioned, the one where you got the names. Do you still have it?" he asked. She was halfway through shaking her head when Serrin appeared in the doorway, apparently not noticing the presence of the girl.

  "Michael, you must be out of your mind paying to stay here. When I put my shirts in the cupboard, the top shelf collapsed and I got a faceful of whore's underwear and a couple of roaches. Frag it, can't we stay at "

  His voice trailed away as the Englishman shook a finger reprovingly at him.

  "Watch your language, old boy. There's a lady present."

  As Serrin took a step into the room and looked around, it was his paleness and the gray eyes that she recognized. The slope of his forehead. The limp in his movement, the bad leg. Then she realized that she could have seen the eyes, the pallor, the brow, in the photograph. Nasrah could have read her the detail about the leg. But she couldn't have known the way he moved from words and pictures on paper, and yet she did. She knew exactly how he favored his one good leg, how he tried to compensate, because she recognized it. And that truly frightened her.

  "I'm sorry," he mumbled, "I didn't mean

  "It's all right," she managed to say, her own voice sounding distant and faint to her ears.

  As he came into the room, Serrin was disturbed by the brief, uncanny sensation that he'd lived this exact moment somewhere before. But the feeling was short-lived, no more than fleeting. Her appearance was so startling, like she'd just been in an argument with a truck.

  "I'm Serrin Shamandar. We spoke," he said. "Have you been here long?"

  "Just got here. Sunil was checking my stitches," she said.

  '"Are you all right?" the elf said, alarmed. "Is it anything serious? We can

  "Stop fretting," Michael said coolly. "Kristen was able

  to walk in on her own two legs. I don't think she's going to keel over imminently.

  "But we should find somewhere safe to talk," he said, looking disapprovingly at the open door. "Kristen, we could do with coffee and some real food, but let's go somewhere we can talk without being overheard. Do you know a place like that?"

  She smiled a little. "It's still a little cold at the waterfront, but we could sit outside and it'll be quiet. Won't be many people around. I don't have much money, though," she said a little defensively.

  Spirits, Serrin thought, she thinks we're expecting her to invite us to breakfast. His heart warmed to her.

  "Not to worry," he said quietly, smiling at her. Suddenly he was aware of how intently she was staring at him, for all the world like someone studying a portrait in a gallery, searching for something hidden.

  "We'd better worry about it," Michael said laconically. "We've got a hungry troll to feed, for one thing. Let's get Tom and finish the introductions. Then we'll go and talk. There's a lot to find out."

  Kristen changed her mind as they were leaving Indra's. Suddenly, she didn't want to take them to any of her usual haunts on the waterfront. Part of her wanted to show off in front of her chummers on the street, but that might only stir up resentment against her later on. Some of the harder cases might not look kindly on an uppity kaffir girl afterward. So, mischievously, she took them by cab to one of the plush places off the Strand. The money there would find her offensive, but with the company she was keeping today they wouldn't dare try to throw her out. As they walked along past the flower market, she stopped to buy a tiger lily orchid, an absurd extravagance. She put it in her hair, over her untorn ear, as if it were something she did all the time, using her reflection in a shop window to position it just right. At least my face didn't get ripped up, she thought. I don't look too bad.

  When they finally sat down to eat, Michael ordered most of the dishes on the breakfast menu, daring the staring waiter to say anything about Kristen by simply being

  as polite as hell. They were seated in a secluded corner that offered both quiet and privacy. By the time the coffee, juice, cereals, and toast arrived on a silver tray, he'd learned what had happened to the computer. He tipped the waiter generously to stop his glaring at the girl, then ordered bacon and eggs for Tom, who was staring at the healthy stuff on the tray as if it were a dead rat.

  "You know where to find this man again?" he asked the girl. She nodded.

  "But the machine will be in pieces by now," she said sadly.

  "Maybe, maybe not. It's worth a train ride down the coast to find out." He tucked a linen napkin into his shirt collar to keep any errant preserve off his tie.

  "I've got this," she said brightly, drawing out a ragged and dirty scrap of paper from her bag. She handed it to Serrin, who looked through the names, then passed the sheet to Michael.

  "There are more names than the ones you gave me on the phone," he said to Kristen.

  "I couldn't get them all read out," she said a little worriedly, as if afraid she'd missed something important.

  "It's fine," Serrin reassured her. "It just means we've got more than we thought."

  "There are some odd code symbols here too," Michael said slowly. "More than just names and numbers. But you say the computer got glitched up somehow?"

  Kristen explained again how she'd played with the little box and how it had suddenly seemed to malfunction. She also had to explain that she couldn't read the messages flickering on the screen, and she felt bad about that. It showed, all too obviously.

  "Ain't nothing to be ashamed of," Tom told her after chewing the last of the bacon. "We live in one of the richest countries in the world and half the people there can't read nor write their own names. If nobody gives you the chance, it ain't your fault. Don't make you stupid."

  By the time they'd breakfasted, Michael had gotten everything he could from the girl. Her account of the kidnapping and killing made Serrin nod at the remembrance of some details, but she couldn't give any close-up descriptions of the men who'd made the hit. There was no way of knowing if it had been the same people who'd tried to snatch him in Heidelberg, and he said so.

  "Heidelberg?" She was confused. "But I thought you only just came over here. From America. You were in Azania a few days ago?"

  Now Serrin looked confused, until Michael explained it to him. "You've forgotten your time in Johannesburg, term. Part of the megaplex is the old town of Heidelberg to the south. There's a Middelburg out east too. Easy to get mixed up.

  "Look, I'm going to get to work on this stuff," he continued, tucking the paper into his top pocket. "My deck's over at the Hilton in the hotel safe. I didn't want to leave it at Indra's. I took a room over there as well so I can work, and it's a place we can hole up if there's any trouble at Indra's. Not that I expect any, of course. Come on, Tom, we've got work to do."

  He gently kicked the troll in the shin under the table. Surprised, Tom gobbled down the last of his muffin and stood up beside the Englishman.

  "You're not going to get picked off here," Michael said, looking around at the crowds growing along the street outside. "See you for lunch and a lovely siesta afterward, I think. Later!" Before the elf could respond, the English
man had taken Tom's arm and they were out through the doors and into the street.

  "What was that all about?" Tom asked.

  "She spent the entire time looking at Serrin," Michael explained. "She wants to talk to him. We're the extras. We got what we wanted. Now let's leave them alone."

  The troll was looking away, and Michael followed the direction of his gaze.

  "Ah, the mountain," he said quietly.

  "What's up there?" the troll inquired. He could see that the huge, flat-topped peak was a place of power. Anyone with a shred of talent would have registered that.

  "The Rain Queen. The dragon Mujaji. If you want to go up top, you've got to be very careful and very polite and not go anywhere you're not supposed to. The shamans up there are weird people. You can take the cable car up, but keep quiet and stay to the roped-off areas."

  "Hmmm," Tom grunted. "You didn't ask the girl about the mage. Urn, Shakala?"

  "For a very good reason," Michael said, fiddling with his tie. "She's Xhosa. Mixed race. It's not polite to ask about a Zulu."

  "I don't get it."

  "If you lived here you would or else you'd be dead," Michael retorted. "Take the Rain Queen for starters. Xhosa myth says she protects them against their great enemy, the Zulus. She sends torrential storms to ruin their crops, to make it impossible for their armies to march on the Xhosa. In her earlier manifestations as a woman, she played the Boers and Brits off against each other too."

  "I still don't scan. Is she a dragon or a woman?" Tom asked.

  "Both. The Xhosas distinguish between the Great Spirit of the Rain Queen and her manifestations. Both the woman and the dragon are manifestations of the same thing. But she's theirs and she protects them against their enemies. No Zulu would be allowed to set foot on that mountain."

  "I want to put my feet on the ground up there," the troll said slowly. The sense of power drew him, despite this sinister and forbidding tale.

  "Then do it," Michael replied. He hailed a cab and gave the driver instructions.

  "The Hilton, please. Then please take my friend to the cable terminus for Table Mountain."

  Martin had finished the last of the analyses by the time the steel trunks arrived. He was stiff across the shoulders from hours hunched over the work station, and his eyes were sore from the night's ponderings of printouts and screen displays. But the data looked pretty complete; the PET scans and NMR data from Azania were producing results that confirmed each other very closely. There just wasn't enough in the way of an elven sample. Curious of Luther to be squeamish about that at this stage, Martin thought. Especially given what his hunger had demanded he do of late.

  The phone from upstairs told him of the arrival. Excited, he almost knocked over his swivel chair as he raced for the door and up the stone steps of the old crypts. When he reached the hallway, its beautiful mosaic floors were half-hidden by the trunks. What they contained wasn't that big; most of it had to be padding and packaging to protect their fabulously valuable cargo.

  "His Grace instructed us to call him as soon as these arrived," one of the footmen said hesitantly.

  "Take them to the east wing. I shall unpack them and call him. I will take responsibility," Martin said. He had no idea whether Luther would want to be disturbed right now, but didn't want to take the chance. It would require a couple of hours to unpack everything, and the more time he gave Luther to calm down the better. Besides, he knew that Luther wouldn't want to sit fretting for two hours while this stuff got unpacked.

  The footman hesitated still. Someone else taking responsibility was only acceptable if he could be certain that Luther approved. It did not do to disobey orders.

  "Just do it. And use the trolleys. If you drop any of them, you'll wish you were dead," Martin snarled. Delaying no longer, the men scurried off to find trolleys for the trunks.

  Martin left them to it and returned to his subterranean haunt to issue the last order to the Azanians. Hopefully, it wouldn't be too messy. It would cause a furor, for a while, but it could all be disguised as an accident easily enough and no one would investigate that closely, not immediately. He had run the simulation enough times, and he knew exactly where a cigarette butt dropped beside the right leaking pipe would do the job. It was time to cover their tracks.

  Kristen was able to make two coffees last an hour, learning everything about him that she could. Serrin, however, could barely keep his eyes open anymore. Ten o'clock here was three in the morning back home, and jet lag was as unfriendly as ever. But she was unwilling to let him go, her questions a torrent, and he was too tired to be careful in his replies.

  Finally, he held up one hand, as if defending himself from yet another onslaught.

  "I've got to get some sleep," he pleaded. "I'm bagged." He called for the bill. She looked guilty, but was unable to control her great excitement. Completely on impulse, she suddenly leaned forward and attempted to straighten the fraying knot in his tie. Almost reflexively, he raised one hand to stop her. Fingers touched.

  His hand registered something like a static shock while his heart seemed to tighten like the feeling he got from too much coffee and one cigarette too many late at night. Startled, he found himself looking into her deep brown eyes, so full of concern for him. It didn't feel like a warning of falling in love, though Serrin's memories of such things were foggy. It felt more important than that; something better, more durable.

  She didn't say anything and he didn't ask. He wanted to sleep on it and think it over. When they got back to In-dra's, he determinedly resisted Kristen's attempts to fuss over him.

  "I'm going to shower," he said tiredly. "If you want, you can use Michael's room. He won't be back for a while. Um, if you want to stay, you're welcome." He realized that he'd barely asked anything about her, so intently had she interrogated him.

  "I got time," she said simply and went off to find him some towels. Serrin sat down on the bed, shaking his head and wondering what on earth he was getting himself into.

  "You took a risk by coming here. Even with Mathanas along," the young elf reproached Niall. Seated on one of the largest stones among the castle ruins, the morning just risen around them, he watched idly as a small group of leshy played in the ivy-covered trees at the foot of the slope.

  "That's why I need your help," Niall explained. "I am bound to my own place. I cannot move without the Families knowing it. But there are things I will have to do,

  places I must go. Events are moving rapidly now. They have brought the seed from Azania, I think. It will not be long before Liitair takes the final steps. Once it is released "

  The flaxen-haired young elf sat quietly, rocking to and fro almost imperceptibly. "Are you so sure this is your task?" he asked.

  "I cannot sit idly by and allow it to happen," Niall replied.

  "Is it more important than your life?"

  "Certainly," Niall said without hesitation.

  "Is it more important than the calling of your Path?"

  "It is more important than all of my lives," Niall said softly. He had thought long and hard about how to say that. When it came time, speaking the words was much simpler and easier than he'd expected. How easy it was to nullify his own being.

  "Indeed that is so," said the youth imperturbably. "But I have other visitors who say this is the Ascension." He didn't tell Niall what he thought of that.

  "It is wrong," Niall said passionately.

  "Are you so much wiser?" the youth said, idly picking at a blade of long grass.

  "Lutair is a poisoned spirit," Niall argued. "The Ascension will not spring from one such. He extinguishes the very lives he intends to exalt. That alone is proof that he is a false spirit. If Liam were still among us, acceptance of this evil would be inconceivable."

  "Ah, so you know Liam's mind," the youth said cheerily. "Then everything must be so clear to you. Others of us, of course, are not so presumptuous."

  "That is not what I meant," Niall pleaded. "Can you help me?" He didn't want to pla
y cat-and-mouse with the Fool any longer. Time was growing too short for his elaborate games.

  "There will be a storm tonight," the Fool said with a complete lack of concern. Niall knew what he meant. In the physical world, there would be torrential rain, thunder, lightning, to be sure; but the Fool meant the doineann draoidheil, the terrifying surge of uncontrollable magic that broke into the world at the sacred places, unpredictably and violently. His heart sank as he understood what help the Fool was prepared to offer; only the deliverance of the storm itself. It would be left to Niall and whatever spirits he could find to help him to draw down the power itself.

  "Rathcroghan," the Fool said. "At the Palace of the Medb. There will be few of your Family there, I think. Enough to object to your presence, however. On the other hand, they might wisely choose to take refuge from the storm."

  Niall knew better than to beg for anything more direct in the way of assistance. Few ever found the Fool in such a generous mood. In his own way, he was a renegade from the same hermetic order Niall had long left behind him, but it didn't do to push too hard. He had pointed Niall to the solution, drawing on the awesome forces of the storm, and now it was left to the mage to take that counsel into himself and use it.

  Realizing that his chances of surviving the night were a lot poorer than fifty-fifty, the dispirited mage returned to his spirit and began to plan how to evade the housemages of his Family. Once the storm had begun, they would not dare to approach him. Providing, of course, that none of them was insane enough to be channeling it for his own purposes.