“Right.”
“Off to the left, half a meter, stop.”
“’K.”
Jani pointed to the left and down. “The shot is going to come from there. I’m in position for it now, but I’m falling.” She bent over and to the right, a slow-motion version of her head-first tumble. “You want me to get hit—what do you do?”
“I—” Steve reached out and grabbed her around the upper arm. “Hard to get a bloody grip. Nothing else to hold on to if I want to pull—” His hand fell away. “Jan, what the hell—?”
Jani turned on him. “If Lucien wanted to drag me back into the line of fire, he’d have grabbed my arm and pulled, like you did. But he pushed, down and away. Hard. He almost dislocated my shoulder—it still hurts.”
“So?” Steve took a step back. Another. “He pushed you down on the ground so you’d be a sitting duck for the shooter. So you couldn’t run.”
“The pulse was aimed here, Steve.” Jani held her arm straight out, her fist marking the spot where the shot impacted Lucien. “This was a quick ’n’ dirty attempt. The shooter only had time to fire once. The set-up was supposed to do the work. Lucien botched the set-up.” She turned, and saw Angevin standing at the top of the ramp, her hands over her mouth. “He found out about the hit on me. Not soon enough to stop it, but soon enough to screw it up.” He couldn’t afford to stop it. He owed a certain amount of loyalty to someone in L’araignée, and Lucien always took care to cultivate his loyalties. No one ever questioned you when you took care to appear unquestionable.
“You can’t say you believe that!” Steve hurried after Jani as she mounted the ramp and fled the garage. “You can’t say he’s got you believin’ that!” He picked up his pace as they burst onto the sidewalk, which was lit by late afternoon sun and clear of pedestrians. “He’s a bloody damned liar, Jan—he’s been one all his life!” He shouted after her as Angevin grabbed his arm and tried to drag him across the street and into the quiet, calm lobby. “Jan! Jan!”
But Jani didn’t answer him. She walked down the street, toward an office building that contained a bank of public comports. She concentrated on the call she needed to make to John, on the wording she’d use, so that no one who happened to overhear would think she talked about her parents. So no one would think her questionable, or wonder at her loyalties. She didn’t think about anything else. Or anyone. Or so she told herself. She’d had lots of practice in telling herself things, just as she’d had practice in avoiding them. Things she didn’t want to hear, didn’t want to know. Didn’t believe, despite the evidence to the contrary. Of damning testimony that disappeared. Of a sore shoulder that wouldn’t heal, and a shooter pulse that cracked half a meter up and to the side. Stood to reason. She could be a bloody damned liar herself when she needed to be. So she knew a lie when she heard it, and knew the truth when she heard it too.
CHAPTER 29
A harried-looking Neoclona staffer answered Jani’s call. No, Dr. Shroud was not available. No, Ms. Kilian, he didn’t leave a message for you. Yes, Ms. Kilian, I will tell him that you called.
Jani tried the code to Val’s flat, and found it still blocked. That bothered her. Blocking was a viable method for silencing talkative mothers for the short term, but it lacked elegance when employed for too long. In other words, it blared to one and all the fact that something highly unusual had occurred at Chez Parini. Maybe Val just forgot to lift it. She hoped that didn’t mean that her parents still remained with him. She hoped John had the presence of mind to move them, or that Niall had overstepped the boundaries she had imposed on him and stuck his nose where it needed to be stuck.
Jani sat forward, elbows on knees, and thumped her head against the wall of the comport booth. “John, you’re not an idiot—couldn’t you have left me something?” When this was all over, she’d have to ask Roni McGaw to give him lessons in veiled communication.
Roni McGaw. Jani checked her timepiece. She still had an hour to wait before she met with Roni. Did you check Anais’s calendar? What did you find? Proof that she had met with Lucien on Amsun during the time L’araignée formed? That she had approved plans, authorized expenses, requested assassinations?
Jani called Niall’s flat, received no answer, left no message. She struggled to slow her racing mind, to keep the crazy thoughts from leaping to the fore. That Niall had been waylaid on the way back to Sheridan, and now lay trussed and drugged in a shielded room in an anonymous house somewhere in Chicago. Or that he had taken her distrust of the Service and turned it into distrust of him, and instead lay in a bed in the Sheridan Main Hospital, turning ever more inward as the psychotherapeuticians labored yet again to bring him back.
Jani thumped her head against the wall again, as though she could pound the thoughts from her head via brute force. An overactive imagination is a terrible thing. The OCS instructor who had given voice to that gem had referred to excessive overstrategizing, but he could have been referring to the fix in which she found herself now. Out of the loop, dependent on others’ skills to protect what meant most to her, with only her own questioning mind for company. Drives you crazy, doesn’t it…? If Lucien had appeared before her now, she would have struck him.
Her stomach interrupted with a grumble, and she debated returning to her flat to get something to eat. But she didn’t want to face more of Steve’s protests, his arguments delineating Lucien’s guilt. Instead, she dug into her pockets and collected all the vend tokens she could find. Somewhere in the building there was a vend alcove, and somewhere in that alcove’s coolers and hot boxes was something she could eat. Then she’d find a quiet corner, a place where she could close her eyes and clear her head. And wait.
The clip of Jani’s bootheels on the scancrete echoed along the alleys she cut through, sounded more softly within the wider brick canyon of Armour Place. She passed few people on the way to the garage during this dividing time between day and night. She recognized some of the faces, and watched them just as warily as the ones she didn’t. When she finally reached the garage, she kept walking, circling around the renovation and down the next street so that she could enter the garage from the rear.
Jani surveyed the space as she had on the night of the shooting, on the lookout this time not for returning assassins, but for Roni, or for her skimmer, if she had used one.
She paced, suddenly self-conscious and wary of being seen. She knew she could pass for an employee from a nearby shop waiting for her ride, for an impatient girlfriend waiting for her date. She wished Niall could have shadowed her. She wished augie would show up to calm her nerves. She—
A thud sounded as something heavy hit the floor above. Jani patted her coverall pocket for the shooter that wasn’t there, and headed for the stairwell she and Niall had used to gain access to the garage’s upper level. As she approached the door, she looked down and saw a metal wedge lying on the floor nearby. She picked it up, hefted it, then swung it by the narrow end. A doorstop, hollow-forged and badly dented. It was barely heavy enough to serve as a suitable weapon, but it would have to do.
She crept up the stairs, her eyes on the door above. She heard another sound as she neared the landing, the scrape of a sole against the smooth scancrete. Whoever it was, they made no effort to hide their presence. It’s probably just someone come to collect their skimmer. This is a garage. Her hand tightened around the doorstop anyway.
She stopped in front of the door and debated how to go in. Slowly wouldn’t work. The safety lighting in the stairwell couldn’t be quenched—she’d be perfectly backlit as soon as she cracked open the door.
Jani crouched low. In one smooth motion, she pushed open the door and drop-rolled into the shadow of the same column she had hidden behind during her foray with Niall. She hugged the base and scanned the area, staying low so she could look beneath the skimmers. Row after row hovered silently in the half-light, the hum and click of the charge units the only sounds Jani heard but for her breathing. Someone must be throwing a party tonight. That
would explain the number of skimmers. She felt like a child trying to see around a roomful of furniture.
She heard the running steps before she saw motion off to her right, partially hidden by broken rows of skimmers. She darted after the sound, because the innocent didn’t run, because a chase gave her something on which to focus her twangy nerves. She kept her head low, gaze flicking above and below the vehicles, and caught the shadowy reflection of someone on the enameled surfaces.
There were three exits, not counting the do-it-yourself doorway that the construction crew had made—the door Jani had used, another door at the far end of the space, and the ramp used by the vehicles. The shape headed for the far door, but it had a great many skimmers to dodge around to get there. Jani heard the slide of shoes on scancrete, another thud as her quarry tripped and fell, a gasp of pained surprise. She rounded and cut in an intercept pattern, so she could head them off before they made the door.
As she drew closer, she heard the slide of cloth over smooth floor. One of the skimmers trembled, a four-door sedan that covered a lot of floor space.
She circled back behind the skimmer, in the hope that whoever had crawled beneath would still be looking toward the door, and that if they’d been armed, they’d have shot at her by now. When she reached the rear of the vehicle, she ducked down, tossed the doorstop aside, reached out, and grabbed. Her hands closed around two thin ankles. Kids! She dragged the squirming, struggling form into the light as she squelched the urge to howl. Kids playing—!
Then the garish clothes struck her—sapphire and glaring orange—the liquid flow of the cloth—long brown hair bound in a horsetail, but something wasn’t right—damn, this is a tall kid!
Her quarry twisted around and goggled at her, cracked amber eyes catching the dim light and holding it fast.
Jani let loose the Haárin’s ankles and stumbled backward, falling against a late-model sports skimmer. The vehicle’s proximity alarm emitted a warning chirp—she fell to her hands and knees and scooted across the floor to get out of range before the tiny sound erupted into a blare. Something in her right knee shifted as it impacted the scancrete—she fell onto her side and clasped her hands around the throbbing joint.
The Haárin boosted herself into a crouch, ready to dart away. Then she eased back on her heels and looked Jani in the face, openly and boldly. “You are—ná Kièrshia?” Her English sounded crisp, as though she’d spoken it for a long time.
“Yes.” Jani tried to straighten her knee, stopping in mid-flex when she heard the near door open and a jumble of footsteps pad toward them. She looked up, and almost gave voice to her howl as eight more Haárin heads regarded her over the top of the sedan.
Then the door opened again. More footsteps. Two more heads, the sight of which stopped the howl in Jani’s throat. Dathim Naré, and next to him, Nema. “NìRau?” She boosted to her feet and limped toward him. “What’s going on?”
“Ní Tsecha,” Dathim interrupted, giving the title the long “a” twist of the Haárin. “He is nìRau no more. He has joined us now, and truly.”
“NìRau,” Jani repeated with feeling as she ignored Dathim and confronted her silent teacher. “Why have you left the embassy? Did Shai lift your restriction?”
Dathim tossed a Low Vynshàrau hand twitch of dismissal. “He does not answer to nìaRauta Shai anym—”
Jani swung around to face him. “I am not talking to you!” Her knee complained at the rapid movement, and she turned back to Nema more slowly. “NìRau? Did Shai give you permission to leave the grounds?”
“No, nìa.” Nema looked down at her, his expression so somber that she feared him ill. He didn’t wear the marks of the sickbed, however, the black-trimmed overrobe or the single hoop earring in his right ear. In fact, he wore no overrobe at all, only his usual off-white shirt and trousers, topped by a brown knee-length coat made from the idomeni equivalent of wool. He wore no earrings, either—the multiple holes dotted his lobes, more glaring in their emptiness than the most complex goldwire helix. Strange that Jani could see his ears—he must have bound his braids in the brown scarf he had twisted about his head in imitation of Dathim—
Jani raised her hands to the sides of Nema’s head and pushed back the scarf. The pale brown stubble that covered his scalp shone in the soft light of the garage. She brushed her hand over it as her breath caught. She felt the tears course down her cheeks, and made no effort to wipe them away. “Did you do this?” She spun toward Dathim, and used the pain in her knee to stoke her anger. “Did you!”
“Are you talking to me now, ná Kièrshia?” Dathim bent low to look her in the face. “No, I did not cut ní Tsecha’s hair.”
“I did it.” The female whom Jani had pulled from beneath the skimmer stepped forward. “He bade me, and I did as he bade. He chose his own way, ná Kièrshia, and truly.”
“Ná Beyva speaks the truth, nìa.” Nema gripped Jani’s chin between his thumb and forefinger. “I have chosen to declare myself as Haárin, to declare my faith in the future as I know it must be.” He tilted her head to one side, then the other, his eyes searching hers. “We have come here to request that you do the same, that you appear at the conclave as a supporter of the Elyan Haárin, that you show your faith in the future as well.”
Jani tried to pull back. “I begged you to wait. The problem I told you about—I took care of it. Another day or two, and all the fuss over the shooting would have dissipated. Shai would have had no choice but to release you to attend the conclave.” She knew Nema attempted to discern her eyes through their filming. Dathim must have told him about the incident in the kitchen, and the glimpse he had managed to steal. If he could see them for himself, he would be so happy. But she had no film with her to cover them again. What if one of the partygoers chose that moment to return to their skimmer? But, but, but…She tried to concentrate on policy, to veer away from the personal. “NìRau, it is much more important that you participate in the conclave rather than me. You’re the Haárin’s religious dominant, as well as Cèel’s.” She touched the side of his shorn head. How old he looked, without his braids and his jewelry. “Have you stopped to think how the Elyan Haárin might react to this?”
“They will rejoice to see it. The Elyan now cut their hair as well.” Dathim stepped to Nema’s side, an action that made him look for one surreal moment like a Cabinet press aide intercepting an inappropriate question. His chill attempt at a humanish smile only served to reinforce the image. “Ah. My apologies, ná Kièrshia. You did not ask me.”
“NìRau.” Jani took Nema by the elbow and steered him away from the hovering Dathim. “Cèel and Shai have begun to act as humanish leaders. They have chosen to treat your attempts at open disputation as an affront, a threat to idomeni solidarity. The fact that your suborn had challenged you must have infuriated them. How do you think they will treat your adopting the appearance of their most rebellious Haárin?”
A lick of the old fire flared in Nema’s eyes—he bared his teeth. “They will be most as outraged.”
“They may recall you to Shèrá.”
“Yes, nìa.”
“They may execute you.”
Nema paused. Then he pulled the scarf from its tenuous perch on his head and regarded it thoughtfully. “It occurred to me that when the gods informed me of the future, they did not also guarantee my presence in it.” He turned the scarf over in his hands. “But you will live, I think, nìa. John Shroud would split the universe in half rather than allow you to die. And you will ensure that the future develops as it must.”
Jani glanced at her timepiece, and swallowed a curse. “I must meet with someone. It is important that I see her. What we discuss will affect what happens at the conclave.” She looked up at Nema’s face, and blinked as her eyes filled. “I wish you would have discussed this with me. I wish you would have waited.”
“The time for waiting is past, nìa.” Nema unknotted his scarf and wrapped it around his head. “You must attend the conclave.”
Jani sneaked another look at her timepiece. Roni must be awaiting her in the garage’s lower level, pacing and muttering to herself. It struck Jani that she might be the searching type, and that if she was, she could burst through one of the doors at any moment. And wouldn’t she get an eyeful. She had to get Nema and his band out of sight and out of reach. Now. “If I do, will you take nìRau Nema back to the embassy?”
“No. I will not return nìRau Nema.” Dathim stood with his hands behind his back and his head cocked to the side. He hadn’t learned to match the humanish gestures and postures he had learned with his attitudes—his pose of innocent question warred with the challenge in his voice. “But I will take back ní Tsecha.”
Nema watched the interplay with an expression of contentment. “He is most vexing, is he not, nìa?”
“Most.” Jani took Nema by the arm and steered him toward the same door through which he had entered, herding the rest of the Haárin ahead of them as she did.
“I assume you came here in one of the embassy vehicles?” An image flashed of eleven idomeni crammed into a sedan, arms and legs jutting through open windows, like teenagers on a spree. “Where did you hide it?” she asked as she pressed her fingertips against her tightening brow.
“In plain sight,” Nema replied, “something I have learned during my time in Chicago.”
“Define ‘plain sight.’”
“On the street next to this one, with some other skimmers.” Nema looked at Jani, head tilted in question. “Are you unwell, nìa?”
“I’m just fine, nìRau.” And I’ll feel even better when I know you’re on your way back to the embassy. She felt the pressure of the other Haárin’s stares. Ná Beyva, she noticed, watched her particularly, her horsetail whipping back and forth as she tried to keep from trodding on the heels of the Haárin ahead of her.
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