The man on Agnes' left opened his mouth, raising an objective finger, but he was cut off by the sound of a shrill bell.
"Oh, the games!" exclaimed Agnes, craning to peer above the surrounding heads, then walking toward a room on her left. Angel and Julian exchanged looks as the sisters pulled at their hands, dragging them with the flow of the crowd.
There was a square of the floor fenced off in the center of the room, about thirty feet wide, behind which were front row chairs labeled with the names of more prominent guests. Mary slid into one, gesturing to the chair marked as "Guest" for Angel.
"Welcome," said Lingston from the front of the room once the audience had settled, "to my estate. Come. Eat, drink, be merry, for life is short. So let's be glad we have many to spend!" The crowd erupted in applause, and he continued, "Remember the cohesion we share through the world council. Let no man stand between us and order. And let us remember the times before—times when wars raged across the land, when so many souls were sent to the Void that Jamil, bless his name, started the council. Which brings us to tonight's entertainment, as a remembering of past violence. As usual, the prize is three hundred thousand dollars to the winner. Due to the difficulty of finding and identifying the runner ups, no prize will be awarded to them. And so, may the games begin!"
Angel and Julian watched as two boys entered the fenced-in square, each holding a dagger as long as his forearm.
"Damn," Angel whispered, "a cyclescrap? Aren't those illegal?"
"So? Haven't you ever been to one?" answered Mary.
"No, can't say I have."
"Rules are simple—fighters opt to be trained from the day of their third birthday to participate in the game. At ten years of age, there is a tournament, and the winner takes home the prize. The losers, well, the losers start over as babies.”
“I know the rules,” responded Angel, just as one of the boys lunged, opening a gash in the other’s arm as the assembled crowd cheered, “I just didn’t realize that it would occur at a convention of world leaders and celebrities.”
“Please, Angel, don’t be so naive. The rules are to keep everyone else from doing it. It’d be chaos if everyone was allowed to do this. For the son of a senator, sometimes you surprise me. Rules need not apply to everyone, they’re just there to keep order for those who wouldn’t be able to keep it otherwise.”
“Watching this, it doesn’t bother you? After all your work with Fost-and-Found?”
“Please, Angel, they chose to fight.”
Angel opened his mouth to reply, but Julian nudged him, nodding toward Lingston, across the room. In his hand, his drink was nearly finished, only a sip or two left in the bottom of the glass.
“If you’ll excuse us,” he said to Mary, standing, “we’ll be needing another drink. Take care to inform us of what we missed when we return!”
“Another drink? Angel, is that necessary?”
“It is a party, isn’t it?” he said, turning to leave with his twin as a dagger slid between the ribs of one of the cyclescrap’s boys, slicing upward to where his heart would beat only a few more times, and the crowd began to cheer.
Chapter 36
"What I'm saying," Angel said, letting the influence of alcohol soak into his voice and dull the edges of his speech, "is that there's going to be all sorts of art there. Things that haven't surfaced in years, mind you. It's the real deal."
He raised his scotch to his lips, inhaling deeply before taking another sip, willing them to help him smell more intoxicated than his actual condition. Julian was beside him at the bar, a bar at the very back of the estate, one that they had scouted out right after arrival for a particular bottle of scotch occupying a shelf toward the back.
That bottle was McEll’s, renowned by critics to be the absolute best and second to none when it came to scotch. A single sip of it cost more than an entire double glass of its closest competitors, with an empty bottle alone worth more than theirs filled. Even for Lingston, McEll’s was so expensive that it was only practical to keep a single bottle on hand at a time. And even if he should want to procure two of the bottles, they were so rare that the act would be considered akin to hoarding.
Naturally, due to its prestigious nature, McEll’s was the only scotch he ever drank, which meant that whenever his glass ran low, there was only one bar that he would return to for a refill. And Lingston always watched the bartender refill his glass, savoring the stream of amber liquid spilling forth more than he would molten gold.
Seconds earlier, Angel and Julian had been alone at the bar save the bartender, the rest of the party watching the entertainment two rooms over. But Angel had begun speaking when another presence entered the room, and though Angel had his back to the door, he knew immediately who it was.
Lingston. For his scotch.
"Ah, that's just hearsay," responded Julian, waving his hand. "I haven't heard a word about it."
"That's because it's so hush hush, brother. It's a secret auction—they're keeping it quiet, since many of the paintings were stolen. It's dirty money, but money all the same."
"And how did someone such as yourself find out, then?"
Angel puffed his chest as he heard the bartender start pouring a new glass behind his back. "Oh, come on now, brother. Surely you're not jealous that I have more friends than you? But no—I was searching for a gift for Mary. Something special for her upcoming birthday, and I heard the rumors."
"You'll show up to pure trash. I'm telling you, there will be nothing of value."
"Nothing of value?" objected Angel incredulously as he heard the now-full glass being taken from the table, and the figure behind him start to leave. "Ridiculous. I've seen pictures. It's like nothing you've ever seen. A black market auction for the ages to remember." Then he paused, and delivered the next line clearly so that it carried to the other side of the room. "I hear there's even an Elesni painting in the midst."
Behind him, the footsteps stopped, and the nearly priceless glass of scotch clattered onto a nearby table, drops spilling over the lip to stain the tablecloth.
"Excuse me, gentlemen," came Lingston’s voice. "What exactly is the subject of your conversation?"
Angel whipped around, his face blushing, offering a quick bow.
"Lingston, er, sir. I apologize, I didn't know you were standing there. Forget about it, it's nothing. Just a rumor or two I heard on the street is all. Nothing important."
"Come now, come now—surely you can let me in on the secret?"
"I really mustn't," replied Angel. "I'm not entirely sure of it's legality—oomph." He coughed as Julian elbowed him in the ribs, and he promptly shut his mouth.
"Councilor, I do beg your forgiveness for the buffoonery of my brother. The liquor has addled his head. We apologize for disturbing you, and will be on our way."
Together they stepped back, toward the door, but Lingston held up a hand and stepped between them and their escape.
"Please, don't leave just yet. I am most interested," he looked to the bar, and held up two fingers to the bartender, who pulled the McEll’s down from its high shelf with two glasses. "I see you have scotch in your hands—could I interest you in more?"
"McEll’s!" sputtered Angel. "For us? Surely, Lingston, you wouldn't want to—"
"Oh, but I would," he said, his smile widening a little farther than natural as he clapped a hand over each of their shoulders and led them to a nearby table. The bartender deposited a glass in front of each of them, and neither had to fake their appreciation upon their first sip.
"Much better than that forty-year-old wash that you had before, eh gentlemen?" he said, laughing. "Come, let us drink!"
Together they emptied their glasses, almost a sin considering the fine quality of the liquor. And soon there was a second glass, and a third. Lingston’s questions became more prying as Angel's words became less filtered, and Julian let up his mock guard.
"I am, as you know, a great collector of artifacts," Lingston said on their fourth
glass. "And it troubles me so that I appear to have siphoned the country dry of the best of them. But tell me, young man, you mentioned an art exhibit? Somewhere I could find more?"
Angel hiccupped, his face bright red.
"More? More than more, sir. Supposedly there are going to be loads." Then he held a wavering finger at the councilor, a gesture so bold that is was only excusable due to the drink. "But you didn't hear it from me, no you didn't. I'd have my tongue cut out."
"And you mentioned that among these, there might just be an original Elesni?" Said Lingston, holding Angel in his stare, like a snake watching a mouse.
"Supposedly it's the highlight of the night, sir.” Said Angel, fidgeting, “But I've said too much. Please don't close down the auction, sir. I was going to buy a present there."
"No worries, no worries! I can let this one event slip. Now, you haven't spoken of a location, or a date, or a contact."
It took two more glasses of scotch before Angel was willing to give up that information, in slurred speech that was hardly decipherable, mentioning he knew that the prince of Angway had received an invitation, and couldn’t tell art from the splatter left over after a crime scene. Minutes later the councillor was gone, leaving for his duties to the crowd as the event ended, the twins so drunk that their foreheads rested on the table and their snores were the only sound in the room apart from the sighs of the bartender as he mourned wasted scotch.
A half hour later their dates found them, Mary scolding them as she slapped their faces awake.
"Embarrass me like this again, drunkard, and you'll be single!" she hissed, escorting them out from the party to a waiting limousine. But Angel and Julian only giggled, elbowing each other, sharing knowing winks that only served to confuse Mary and her sister more.
Because Mary and her sister were no longer necessary and the threat of a break up had little effect on the twins, especially in their current state. The seed had been planted.
And their most important role in the plan was complete.
Chapter 37
“It’s done,” Angel told me. “He’s in, hook, line and sinker."
"You mentioned Elesni, then, right?"
"Just as you ordered," said Angel, putting his feet up on the table. "And he bit. I think, that is."
"You think?"
"Well, yes, I think, Frederick. I was actually quite drunk at the time, and I do admit I have trouble remembering when he left us."
I swore, my face turning red. "You were drunk? How do you know you didn't give away a key detail or scare him off?"
"Because I'm a very good drunk, Frederick. I’m even a little drunk right now. Practice makes perfect, after all, and we've certainly had our fair sure of practice. Trust me—it’s all going to be alright. And what was it about Elesni that drew his attention, anyway? Lingston probably has more artifacts in his junk drawer than the rest of the country combined. What's he want with that painting?"
"It's significant to him."
"Well no shit, of course it's significant. Everyone knows that Elesni was one of the greats. I'd bloody love to have the picture too, if it was on table."
I sighed, shaking my head. "No, you don't understand. It's more than that. He painted it. He was Elesni."
Angel looked at me, then laughed, the mirth trickling to a stop when my face remained unsmiling.
"You're not joking, then. How do you know this?"
"Lingston took a small vacation from the council in its three hundredth year. He claims he was born mentally deficient, that his memories never returned to him for the entire cycle, so he could never visit the Passkeepers. Anyway, the year he died was the year Elesni was born. And the year he was born to return to the council was the year Elesni died."
"Sounds like coincidence to me."
"I would agree, but for the next two hundred years, Lingston spent nearly half his fortune collecting Elesni’s paintings, buying them back at ridiculous prices—sometimes double or triple their value. And of these, he was never able to find the one that was most valuable, the one that had disappeared forever."
"The one you intend to sell at the auction?"
"Yes. Which I have kept safe for the past five hundred years, preserved and locked away in a vault. His life's greatest work, one that likely eats away at him because he cannot remember by now how it appears. I suspect that he lost his painting abilities after Elesni’s death as well, and knows he will never be able to create a suitable replacement. Though he's now a politician, he peaked in art. And I own his peak."
I smiled, thinking of the vault where Elesni’s, and therefore Lingston’s, greatest work was hidden.
"So since he knows the whereabouts of his other paintings, since this one is identified as an Elesni, he can only assume it is the missing work?"
"Exactly. And he certainly considers it worth risking his life to claim it."
***
"Here's the deal," said Pete, his back away from me and toward his most recent contact as he spoke. We were seated in an abandoned subway car, the renovated engine pushing the cart along long-unused tracks. Just moments before, the customer had hopped on at Glensworth station, though under Pete's instructions, he could have reached the car from anywhere on the circular track loop. "As instructed, you came here for a deal. I gave you the option to join us wherever you deemed necessary along the loop, provided you were not followed. Upon the conclusion of our deal, you may exit this loop wherever you desire, such that you know we are not trailing you."
"Understood," came the gruff voice of the man in front of him, a hood and black plastic hockey mask obscuring his features. "All very professional."
"Sir, I am only professional. We conduct these dealings without threat to life or property, with the safety of our customer coming first and their profits as a close second. Now, tell me, what do you wish to sell?"
"I have two Lilianos," said the man, pulling two separate pictures from within a small pocket, "Both from early in his career. They've been validated by my own inspector—the paint chemically analyzed, and the brush patterns identified."
"You are aware," Pete said as he studied the pictures, and the subway car engine wined around a rusted curve in the track, "that attempting to pass counterfeits will result in your swift and immediate death?"
"I'm aware," answered the man, "but I assure you, they are real. What price can you offer?"
"At auction, I'm willing to start them each at twenty-five thousand. I anticipate that they will sell for sixty-five. As a commission I require fifteen percent."
The man paused, and his mask shifted.
"That's a little steep for an auction."
"You are more than welcome to do business with my competitors then," said Pete, his nose high in the air, "but is it necessary to remind you of the risks involved?"
Just last week, four men had died in the art black market, men that were known to be professionals in their trade. It was common knowledge among the community that they worked for Pete's rival, Amir Flagstaff, a man who did not share the same views as Pete on customer safety. Neither Pete nor I mentioned that, over the past week, three of those deaths had been engineered by Pete, but had rather let the black market community reach their own conclusions and propagate their own rumors.
"Ten percent," came the masked man’s counter.
"Fifteen, before I consider myself insulted and issue an additional ten percent fee," Pete answered, his face stone.
The man hesitated, then cursed under his breath, extending a hand.
"Deal."
"Glad to do business with you," said Pete, cheer returning to his voice. "You will soon receive instructions for payment receipt methods, as well as how to handle the paintings themselves. Please remember that all information is confidential, and the disclosure of such information is considered to put the lives of other patrons at risk, which will not be tolerated."
"Is that a threat?"
"It's a statement of policy," Pete answered, and the man left at
the next stop as I scribbled down “Two Lilianos” on the list in front of me before handing it to Pete.
"That makes thirty-four paintings, fifteen sculptures, a collection of correspondence letters, plus a few knick knacks," said Pete, reading off a list in front of him. "More than enough to make the greatest black market sale of the decade. Expected attendees are princes, moguls, tycoons, senators, and of course, our dear Lingston, after his precious Elesni." Striding to the front of the car, he pulled a lever, and the subway car began to decelerate until it stopped in front of an ancient, forgotten terminal. "That's what I love most about the black market, Frederick. Everyone comes in wearing masks, and hiding identities, but they’re the ones you see on television every day wearing the vestiges of honor and virtue. You'd think that eventually they'd give up the act—it's not as if everyone doesn't already know."
"In my opinion, the best of them have," I answered, and I stepped off the subway, heading up toward the light above.
Chapter 38
"I've identified five escorts," Smokestack reported to me as we stood outside the airport. In a little under an hour, he had a flight scheduled aboard the Ann Swann, a luxury airliner reserved only for the top of society. He, of course, was to be the pilot, and was delivering a foreign prince and his entourage in luxury.
"And?"
"And I think we can bribe them to work with us. Three of them, at least. One of them has already conspired against Lingston, but was unable to find anyone to help her because, well, because he's Lingston. Everyone knows you don't mess with him, or kill him, because when he comes back alive you'll be in for a world of hurt. Cigarette?"
He offered me a pack of Almarettos, and I shook my head.
"What of the other two, then? Can we use them too?"
"Look, Frederick. You're talking about whores here, and I've had my fair share of them. And if there's one thing whores love," he said, taking a puff of his cigarette, "it's money. Loads and loads of money."
Til Death Do Us Part Page 11