"So what do we have to pay them?"
"One mil each for their cooperation. Five mil each for them to collect, ahem, DNA samples from him. And another five mil for their silence when all this is said and done. Considering they're whores, I'd advise you to pay this in installments, and tip on top of that."
"Of course," I said. Thirty-three million was a drop in the bucket compared to the money that was at stake. And it was even less compared to the justice that was at stake.
I left Smokestack as he approached security, watching as he met his co-pilot, a skinny man with "Dennis" embroidered above his left pocket. As I drove home, something bothered me in the back of my brain. Something that I couldn't quite place until I pulled up my driveway.
Smokestack had offered me an Almaretto during our discussion, a brand he had specifically hated at Carcer. One, now that I thought of it, I’d seen his smoking occasionally throughout our limited time together since he had arrived at the orphanage.
Maybe his tastes had changed when he entered a new cycle.
Or maybe they hadn't.
***
Lisa sat beside me in the empty room, though technically it wasn’t empty. On the three beds before me lay the bodies of those who had gone to the Void, those who I had sworn to avenge. She held my hand in hers, staring at my face while I stared at them.
“They’re gone, Frederick,” she said after minutes of silence, the words staler than the air in the room. “Let them go. Damn, how long have you kept track of them like this anyway? How many years has it been? How many cycles?”
“Too many,” I answered, frowning. “And I can’t let them go yet. Not until this is over.”
“What, is it because of her?” Said Lisa, pointing to the comatose woman on the bed. “I know who she is, Frederick. I know that you loved her. Love her.”
“No, it’s not like that. I don’t love her anymore—I just want to do right by her. I have to settle the score.”
Lisa sighed, and closed her eyes.
“Frederick, do you remember that time I killed you?”
“Which one?” I answered, consulting my memory over the past few hundred years.
“All of them,” she said, standing up and walking to the door, “I don’t care what I said, I didn’t do it to collect insurance. I didn’t do it to steal your money, or because I wanted you out of the picture so I could see someone else.”
She stood in the doorway, and I walked over to her, seeing the moisture accumulating in her eyes.
“I did it because of her, Frederick. I did it because I know there isn’t room in your heart for two.”
“There doesn’t have to be, Lisa,” I said. “After this is done, I can drop it. I know she’s gone.”
“And if your plan doesn’t work? What then, Frederick? Do you expect me to wait around another hundred years while this eats you from the inside out? There’s a reason I enjoy tormenting you, Frederick. It’s because you torment me.”
“Look, I promise that if it doesn’t work, that will be the end of it. But it will work. It always does.”
She smiled a little then, raising her eyes to meet mine.
“I know.”
We kissed there, her just outside the doorway, I standing with half of my body in the room and the other half out, and the three bodies within the room motionless.
“You never did tell me,” she said, pulling away and gesturing toward the bodies, “how this happened. How they became like this. Losing souls to the Void isn’t exactly a common experience, as you know. Especially with the oversight of the world council.”
“The world council overlooked this occasion,” I said, jaw tight, “and they did it on purpose.”
“How, exactly?”
“Are you sure you want to know?”
“Humor me, Frederick. I’m a big girl now, yet again.”
So I told her, whispering in hushed tones so low that they didn’t reach the corners of the room. Her eyes widened, and she subconsciously took a step back, looking me over.
“You know,” she said, “If it was anyone else but you, I would call bullshit.”
“Frankly, I’m surprised you haven’t.”
“There’s still time,” she answered, and she took my hand, pulling me from the room. I shut the door behind us, looking inside to the corpse of my first bride.
“Sleep tight,” I said, knowing that she couldn’t hear me, “and know the price will be paid.”
Chapter 39
Jamil Kolinder paced the inside of the maphouse, his wooden sandals clicking against stone as he contemplated. In front of him, spanning the entire wall, a map was carved into the marble, the borders of countries cut in thin grooves with their names scrawled in golden ink. Splotches of white mortar erased lines and names that had changed since the map’s inception, covering the countries that no longer existed or had morphed boundaries.
It was the official map of the world council, kept since Jamil initiated the organization. It was higher than the law, an authority of definition that no king could contest without stirring the other nations to war against him. It erased the gray areas from existence, clearly partitioning country from country such that there was no question where one began and another ended.
And thus ensuring that no souls were trapped in the Void.
Two assistants on ladders crawled over the wall under his supervision, one carrying a chisel, and the other, mortar. They were the only two authorized to make changes to the map, as the bordermaker and the bordersnuffer—even Jamil himself was not permitted to touch the map, let alone make a change. He could only direct.
“The nobles are complaining taxes are too high,” came a voice behind him, and Jamil turned to see that one of his advisors had entered the room.
“There are no nobles here,” he answered, choosing his words. “The point of this city is that everyone is born on equal ground. They contribute, and are compensated for their contributions.”
“You know what I mean,” said his advisor, his voice annoyed. “The merchants. The artisans. The high classes. They’re unhappy with the rates, and claim it is thievery.”
“I suppose it is thievery, of a sort,” answered Jamil, “which makes me a thief. But a necessary one. I built the city, and should they choose to dissent, there are many others they can travel to. But they won’t, because they know the clear advantages of life here.”
“Members of the council hold grievances too, Jamil. They’re kings and queens—their citizens have taken note of your government here and are putting pressure upon their rulers to institute similar rules.”
“That’s because they’re good rules. Clear transparency on the allocation of funds instead of a direct line to the royal coffers. Open forums. The ability for any citizen to decide his own worth in society. The purpose is to create a society for all, not a society for few.”
“It’s a dangerous goal, Jamil.”
“I know, Lingston. But what’s the worst that could happen, they kill me? I’ll be back.”
***
I watched as the guests arrived at the gala, arriving from all points of the compass. Just forty-eight hours before, Pete had released the location’s coordinates, contacting each of the interested parties personally via secure phone lines and assuring each of them of the safety of their person and valuables.
The island Pete chose was the location of a deserted military base, runways and docks already developed for easy transportation. If the invitation recipients did not have their own personal jet or yacht to attend, chances are they would not have received the invitation. The event was reserved for those only of the highest tiers of society, those who were likely saving money by attending rather than participating in their normal activities.
For the past two weeks, Pete had supervised the conversion of one of the island’s warehouses into a high class establishment. Bars were built and stocked, proper lighting and sound systems installed, and a semicircle of curtained booths for the bidders erected. In the
se booths were buttons for bidding, red velvet tables with ice buckets for champagne, and pull cords to summon waiters. But most importantly, the booths were shielded such that the participants could not identify one another—discretion was of the utmost priority, and should the bidder choose to obscure his person, identification would be next to impossible.
At the center of the semicircle was a podium at which Pete would stand, and a display for the current piece of art to be viewed. Personal inspections were permitted, requiring that the bidder contact the auction with at least twelve hours prior notice, whereupon the piece would be escorted to the booth in question for the examination. Inspections were limited to five minutes apiece, the bidder was to be supervised at all times by no fewer than three members of the staff, and for no reason was personal contact permitted. The attempted breaking of any of these rules would result in removal from the premises, at minimum.
“Just a few more touches and it’s finished,” said Pete when there were two days left, speaking to me in the empty warehouse. Thick, fresh carpet had just been rolled over the concrete floor, and the paint was still wet on the warehouse walls. Screens and projectors were placed at convenient locations about the room, sparkling chandeliers swayed from the ceiling, and a fountain had been constructed near the entrance.
“Fit for a king,” I said, surveying the set up.
“It’d better be,” Pete laughed, “we’re expecting four. And their wives of course, so it’d better be fit for a queen too. In my experience, they’re the harder ones to please.”
“You’ve hit the mark. What about security?”
“I’ve got it covered,” said Pete with a smile. “Anyone who attempts thievery, bribery, or a full on attack will reconsider their plans. There’s too much at stake for them, too much of their property that I personally have no problem losing if it means preserving the integrity of the auction. There are deals to be had, and they won’t dare missing them.”
“And the second island—you’ve confirmed it’s location?”
“Without any issues,” Pete answered. “It exists on no map, and it will continue that way.”
“All according to plan,” I said. “The trap is set and baited. Now all there is to do is wait for the bite.”
“What if Lingston brings guards?”
“Then don’t let him in, and he’ll send them home. There is no reason for him to be suspicious. He didn’t even receive an invitation; rather, he bought one off of someone else he knew received one, the prince of Angway, who would have thrown his in the trash anyway. Ten thousand dollars he paid for that slip of paper, a slip that will cost him so much more.”
“What if he sends a representative instead of coming himself?” asked Pete.
“He won’t. This is too important to him, and he’s been waiting for hundreds of years for this moment. He’s ready to revel in it. And we’ll give him his moment. But one moment only.”
Chapter 40
“Welcome!” Pete’s voice boomed above the crowd from his position on the podium, his microphone held in one hand as the other swept across the warehouse. Whispers hushed, silenced by his command, and he smiled as his eyes sparkled.
For the past few hours, a horde of personal jets had circled above the airfield Pete had prepared. One by one, his staff brought them down, stowing them in military hangars and escorting the occupants by carriage to the warehouse. Arrivals by yacht received the same treatment, their luxury vessels bobbing a few hundred feet from the beach, rushed ashore by small motorboats.
They came in masks and cloaks, disguises and pseudonyms designed to protect their precious reputations. They were given drinks and hors d'oeuvres and were waited on by the most professional staff Pete could find. Their invitations were checked at the door before they were led to a booth by personal attendants and instructed to wait for the auction’s opening while enjoying more drinks and appetizers. By the time the warehouse was full, it appeared to be more of a masquerade ball than a gathering of criminals.
I had watched the arrival of Lingston closely, seeing his personal jet land, then watching him depart. Dressed as a waiter, I tailed him into the warehouse, observing the twins crossing directly in front of his path on cue, their disguises flimsy enough for him to see through without any effort. They served as a confirmation for him, a proof that the event was real, and that he was in the right place.
“Welcome!” said Pete again, to the now silent crowd, “to the first Top Tier Art Exchange! Ladies and gentlemen, the numbers are in, and the net value of what you see is greater than all but one museum in the world. We have pieces as ancient as time itself, pieces that predate even the oldest of souls in this room, pieces so infused with meaning they will change the perception of your life, or lives, forever. To call them priceless would be an underestimate—yet that is what we are here today to do. To name a price, and to keep the flow of art alive.”
Pete waited as the crowd clapped softly, heads craning forward in anticipation.
“As stated on your invitations,” continued Pete, “we have taken the utmost precautions during this event. I assure you, your safety is in our hands. Look up, high above you in the rafters. Do you see those small dots of light? Gentlemen, wave to our guests, if you would.”
Hushed whispers echoed about the crowd as men in black high above removed their dark gloves, waving with one hand, and balancing scoped rifles with the other. There were fifteen of them in all, harnessed and ready to shoot, the barrels of their guns aimed just above the tips of the booths.
“You’ve already met some of my staff tonight, ladies and gentlemen. Those are the rest. I assure you, they are most professional. And I assure you, at a moment’s command they will unleash fire upon anyone causing what I deem to be a threat. Which is why I ask you to remove the firearms you brought, against the instructions on your invitation, and allow my staff to collect them. Especially you in booth twenty-two, we know about the pistol in your jacket, the machete up your sleeve, and even the smoke grenade nearly tucked up your ass, and we are not amused.”
“This is outrageous!” stated a man behind a tiger mask in booth eleven, standing with a fist in the air, “I won’t compromise my—”
He fell silent as the barrels of fifteen rifles swiveled in his direction from above, and fifteen safety’s clicked off.
“Pardon me, sir,” said Pete, “but if you have an issue, you may leave. The door is behind you. You will receive your pieces back, and you will not be invited back next year, or any of your remaining years. Do you wish to finish your statement?”
“No,” huffed the man as he sat back down, arms tucked across his chest and the tiger mask managing to scowl. “Proceed.”
“Good. Now, place your weapons on the table. Please, don’t try to hide anything, we are most thorough. You will receive your weapons back when you leave.”
Everything from pocket knives to sawed-off shotguns clattered to the tables, and Pete waited for the staff to collect and tag the weapons before continuing.
“Now that we are all unarmed and cooperative, I must introduce you to the second order of business, the safety of your art. Ladies and gentlemen, the island that we are currently situated on is owned by Munia. I’m sure you are all familiar with the country—it reeks of poverty, diseases are rampant, and violent crime is their most popular business. It’s a terrible way to spend a life, as well as terribly difficult to escape, considering they’ve walled themselves in. I’d estimate it would take three or four cycles to get out.”
Then Pete reached into his coat pocket, and raised a device high into the air, a red button flashing at its tip.
“One press of this button, and this entire warehouse explodes. If any foul play is expected, if anyone tries to steal the art and manages to make it past my riflemen, we’re all going to Munia. Trust me, none of you want to go there. It’s even worse than it sounds. And if you’re the one who results in the rest of us being reborn there, I will hunt you down for your next ten cycles and pe
rsonally ensure you cannot leave.”
The crowd was silent as Pete lowered his hand, but kept the device in his palm, his thumb just over the button.
“Your cooperation is essential. We leave here together; either alive and with the deals of the century, or dead. I’d prefer the first. Now, let’s begin.”
Chapter 41
“The first item,” began Pete, wheeling a canvas up to the front, “is a mere thirty years old. The painter a tortured soul with a beautiful mind. His work, The Darkest Clouds, relates the water cycle to the cycle we experience with each new life. We’ll start the bidding at eight thousand dollars. To place a bid, press the button at the center of your table. All bids over two hundred thousand dollars will require proof of liquid assets, so be prepared to provide documentation of your current financial status.”
As he finished speaking, the screen behind him flashed red and the first bid appeared, eighteen thousand dollars. Underneath was a timer set for forty-five seconds, and it was refreshed moments later by a fresh bid of nineteen thousand, followed by a jump to twenty-five. After four more minutes, the bid settled at a steady fifty-two thousand, the counter ran down to zero, and Pete spoke after the closing buzzer.
“Congratulations! Our first auction is over. The winners will be kept confidential, and can pick up their merchandise in unmarked containers after the auction. The end price is fifty-two thousand dollars, plus tax—who am I kidding, there’s no tax here! In fact, I’m willing to bet tax paid for that item! Well spent!”
The comment was met with laughter as a second canvas was wheeled to the center, uncovered, introduced, and the initial bid set to nine thousand.
I watched the events take place from my disguise as Pete’s staff, loitering near a side table filled with empty drinks and plates, a napkin draped over my arm. And at the nineteenth painting, after the crowd had had enough time to consume at least two drinks, I reached behind me and poured a glass of red wine, instructing another waiter to take it to booth four. As soon as it arrived, the inhabitant within emerged, keeping her eyes directed away from me, knowing I had sent the signal.
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