Choose Your Enemies Carefully

by Robert N. Charrette

  Hart shrugged and continued cleaning her weapon. "Don’t know. I’m not a shaman, but I’ve heard that some voyagers encounter a being that blocks the way to the higher planes, some kind of guardian they call the dweller. From the descriptions I’ve heard, it could look like anything, even your Man of Light. The way I figure it, this Man was the dweller—and the dweller, like the tunnel and the totems, is a construct, a way for a mind to wrap itself around the possibilities of magic. All those things are just symbols for a mind structured toward a mystic rather than an hermetic approach."

  That was what Sam had thought before he experienced the Man’s presence and before his last conversation with Dog. How could Hart be so sure? She wasn’t a shaman and had never talked with Dog. More importantly, she hadn’t been there and felt what he had felt. The whole thing didn’t add up unless the Man was telling the truth.

  Sam watched Hart wipe clean the parts of the Crusader and begin reassembling them. Her hands moved with a practiced quickness; those slim fingers, whose touch he knew so well, deftly fitted the pieces together with a precision born of long habit. Any turmoil that might be roiling her mind was submerged in the routine. To watch her was to see a professional machine that matched her reputation in every particular.

  Sam knew better. In their time together he had touched a different Hart, one that yearned for tenderness and love as much as he did. She was hiding that need now, avoiding his eyes and his touch. He wished that he knew what to do, to say, but for all their intimacy, there was a lot he still didn’t know about her. Then there was the doubt the Man had left in him. Her own supposition that the Man was a barrier Sam had constructed for himself made him doubt his own feelings. He wanted reassurance that what he felt was real, not planted in his mind for someone’s perverted pleasure or, worse, a fantasy of his own to hide his guilt over violating Sally’s trust.

  "But if the Man of Light was a construct of my own mind, why would he claim he had altered my memories?"

  "I’m a runner, not a psychologist. Maybe you were projecting your fears and frustrations onto a convenient scapegoat. I know how much you hate that shamanic mumbo-jumbo. Maybe you should just give it up. We could get out of this place; go somewhere else, where you could study hermetic magic."

  "You were the one who suggested I work with Herzog in the first place."

  "So maybe I was wrong. Wouldn’t be the first time."

  Her voice held an unfamiliar note of bitterness; it stung his heart. She had always banished his ill tempers with her sarcastic humor. Trying to use her own medicine, he laid a hand on her shoulder and quipped, "A rare confessional moment from the unequalled shadowrunner."

  "Don't push it, dogboy," she snapped, slapping away his hand.

  Sam was taken aback. She was not acting like herself at all. Something was seriously wrong. The only thing he could see was that she had lost confidence in him. Confidence and more. How did shadowrunning elves brush off their no-longer-interesting paramours?

  "Are you telling me now that you don’t think I can cut it?"

  "No, Sam," she said softly. For the first time since he began the tale of his power ritual, she met his gaze. Her bronze eyes glistened in the twilight. "I know better. You’ll do all you can. That’s the problem."

  Instead of continuing, she dropped her head and concentrated on her weapon.

  "You’re not making sense," he said.

  He watched her bite her lower lip. When she spoke, her voice lacked her usual resolution.

  "It’s too dangerous, Sam. The payback’s just not there."

  "I thought you were a hot-shot runner."

  "That’s not the point and you know it. The Hidden Circle is bad business. We were outclassed before Estios and his people went missing."

  "I’ve got magic now and Dodger cutting a deal that’ll get Willie all the combat drones she can handle. We can do it."

  "We can get ourselves all killed. The druids have resources we can’t match, and we no longer have the element of surprise. If they’ve taken Estios or one of his people, which is highly likely, they know who we are and what we can do. They’ll be ready for us. Is that what you want? Are you trying to get us all killed?"

  "I’m trying to see justice done. I’m trying to see that no more innocent people die to feed some lunatics’ ideas of the path to power. I'm trying to . . ."

  "You're trying to get yourself killed," she said bitterly.

  "I don’t want to die, Katherine. But I can’t let those druids go on with what they are doing."

  "It’s not worth it, Sam."

  She finished reassembling the Crusader, He heard the soft click of plastic as she sought the magazine, Sam took her by the shoulders, but she wouldn’t look him in the eyes. He felt the movement in her arms as she loaded her weapon. The job was done and offered no more distraction. Only then did she meet his gaze.

  "Are you asking me to run away, Katherine?"

  "Would you if I did?"

  "You know the answer to that."

  "Yes, I do."

  He felt her tense and looked down to see the Crusader pointed at his belly.

  "I’m sorry, Sam," she said.

  Sam threw himself violently to his left. He felt the bullet snag his long coat. The smell of propellant harsh and accusatory in his nostrils, he vaulted over the climate control unit onto a lower level of the roof. He ran toward a workshed that offered safety only a few meters away. Her second shot gouged the wall of the shed as he reached it. Sharp fragments of brick spattered into his cheek. He threw himself forward and down, hoping that the sudden maneuver would spoil her aim as he tried to get out of her line of fire. It was a vain hope. His body twisted as he felt a slug slam into his shoulder. Striking the rooftop out of control, he scraped more skin from his already lacerated cheek. He tried to push himself up, but the muscles of his arms failed and he collapsed. His injured arm was numb and cold. He managed to roll over onto his back as she approached him, gun held ready. Her eyes were sad, but her jaw was clenched with determination.

  Feeling betrayed, he blacked out.

  PART 3

  A New Twist in the Game

  31

  The chittering voices of the leshy grated on Hart’s nerves. Hart knew her nervousness was adding to the irritation caused by the humanoids. Irritated or not, she had never liked them or their leafmold smell. However, they were the best choice for the task of carrying the bier on which Sam's body lay. Though the body was concealed beneath a cloth-covered framework, the bearers would know what they carried. The other servants of the Seelie Court would spread gossip. Of course, the leshy would too, but few courtiers ever bothered to pay attention to leshy babblings.

  So far she had managed to avoid undue notice since her arrival in Ireland. Bambatu had arranged for the landing pad to be deserted. No doubt he’d had a hand in ensuring that the passages through which she passed were nearly empty as well. The few courtiers she encountered either were too busy with their own business to pay much attention to the covered bier, or were cowed by her cold stare. No one hindered her passage.

  The designated court was one of a myriad of open spaces in the gloomy half-forest, half-palace that was Lady Deigh’s stronghold. A soft, sourceless light defined a circle just over three meters in diameter. The rest of the court was shrouded in darkness. Its floor was moss-covered earth, and Hart sensed great boughs arching over her head, although she could see nothing in the darkness above her.

  The rectangular doorway through which they entered the clearing seemed to vanish after they passed through. Hart walked to the circle and stopped on the far side. The leshy carrying the bier almost tumbled their burden to the ground in their haste to stop when she did. She ordered them to set it down and dismissed them. Like children released from school, they scattered, laughing, in all directions.

  The clearing grew quiet. The leshy hadn’t used the doorway to leave, but Hart suspected she would find the darkness impenetrable.

  Hart drank in the silence, u
sing its power to calm herself. Before long, a new rectangle appeared, framing an elven woman. The backlighting silhouetted her slim figure through the diaphanous gown she wore. Hart felt a twinge of envy at the perfection of line and form in the woman’s body. For all the illusion in which her court was cloaked, Lady Brane Deigh used none to improve her own appearance.

  The Lady stepped forward and the rectangle vanished, restoring the illumination in the clearing to its original low level. She acknowledged Hart’s bow with a slight nod of her head, but her eyes remained fixed on the covered bier as she crossed through the darkness and into the light. As soon as Deigh reached the bier, she drew back the cloth.

  "He breathes."

  The surprise Hart had hoped to engender was absent from the Lady's voice. Instead there was a slight hint of annoyance. A dangerous hint. Lady Diegh turned her face to Hart, her green eyes almost luminous.

  "Is this how you fulfill your orders, milessaratish?"

  "A milessaratish serves her mistress. I sought only to further your desires, Lady."

  "By disobeying orders?"

  "A good servant fulfills the desire of her mistress rather than the letter of the request. I was told that you wished that the runners stop harassing the Hidden Circle. Was that not correct?"

  "It was correct," the Lady said softly without looking at Hart.

  Hart could feel the chill. The earth beneath her feet felt like ice. Fragile ice.

  "Killing Verner would not have achieved this end. I have worked with them and know them. They would only have redoubled their efforts seeking to avenge Verner’s death. But with him missing, they shall be unsure. More likely they will search for him instead of the Circle."

  The Lady finally turned her emerald eyes on Hart. "So you have arranged for them to bother me."

  "They will find no connection," Hart said hastily. "I used reliable people who have no connection with the Shidhe."

  "If your reputation is half true, you could have made him disappear without bringing him here."

  "Yes. But dead, he has no further use."

  There was the slightest thawing in the Lady’s attitude as she said. "And alive, he does?"

  "Circumstances have changed before; they may again. Verner is a ready weapon to send against the Hidden Circle should their actions fail to fulfill your expectations. If he were dead, you would need to find and hone another tool."

  The Lady was silent. Hart wondered if she had made the wrong play. Deigh did not like surprises, nor did she like subordinates with too much initiative.

  "I do not like being disobeyed. Hart. You were told that Verner was to die."

  "I was told that the actions of the runners against the druids must be disrupted. I took that as the primary goal to be achieved. Verner’s death was suggested as the most expedient method of achieving that end, but I saw another way to achieve the goal and retain options. My evaluation of the situation was that his death would jeopardize the primary objective.

  "Verner’s death would be an irrevocable step. His disappearance could still be just as effective. If he were to remain here in Ireland, no one need know he is still alive, and I can arrange that the world outside your court believe that he is dead. Captivity in place of death maintains his value as a pawn in your schemes. The renegade druids of the Hidden Circle have proven to be resourceful and unpredictable foes. Should circumstances arise in which Verner's skills and talents would be of use. he will be available. If he dies, he ceases to be a factor, and you will have permanently expended a potential resource."

  "You were thinking of my best interests, then?"

  "Yes. Lady."

  "Hmmm." The Lady studied Sam’s face. A sly smile flitted across her lips. "I begin to see possibilities in what you have done. Mortals can be so . . . entertaining."

  Hart found herself bothered by the Lady’s words, and even more by the possible motivations behind Deigh’s fleeting smile. Hart hadn’t brought Sam here only to have him become a plaything for a jaded tart who deluded herself about her immortal elven heritage.

  She was surprised at herself, not just at the emotion she felt but at the very fact that she was feeling emotion at all. Jealousy was foreign to her; the hot, angry thoughts that flooded her now were disturbing. But she could not express her feelings. It would be too dangerous for Sam. And for her.

  "You will let him live?"

  The Lady gave a slight shrug. "Your arguments have some small merit, but I must also consider how it will look. My word is law in the court and you disobeyed orders."

  "Only to serve you better. Such disobedience is no crime in the eyes of a wise ruler."

  Deigh regarded her sidewise. "As long as the servant is wise as well."

  "I believe that I have done nothing to compromise you. And I have my own reputation to consider."

  "Ah, reputation. Such a strange master and servant," the lady said wistfully. "You have staked more than your reputation here. Do you think you know me so well that you can rely on my forgiveness?"

  Hart knew that the wrong answer to the question could be dangerous. Had she read the Lady wrong? Hoping that Deigh was just playing games, Hart steadied her nerves and spoke.

  "I spent weeks in the court before you sent me after the Hidden Circle. I listened to your subjects. Even before I took your contract, I researched you as well as I could. I know you for a strict disciplinarian. But I also know you for an intelligent woman and ruler. You would not throw away an advantage, especially so potentially useful an advantage, over such a small matter as the interpretation of orders. Only your loyal Bambatu and I know the wording of your orders. I have nothing to gain by talking and he has even less. You have something to gain and nothing to lose by accepting the situation as stands."

  "I do not stand in need of a lecture," the Lady snapped in sudden anger. She turned on her heel and strode toward the space from which she had entered. The rectangle of light appeared before her. On its threshold she spun and faced Hart again. "And if there is a problem?"

  "I guarantee my work," Hart said, looking directly into the Lady’s eyes.

  Lady Deigh smiled coldly. "Work such as yours is only guaranteed with lives. Hart. Yours shall stand for his."

  Hart lowered her gaze. T understand."

  "I don’t think you do, but I accept your guarantee. He shall live for now. On my terms."

  Lady Deigh gestured; the bier on which Sam lay lifted from the ground and floated away from Hart into the darkness that surrounded the clearing. Hart’s elven eyes couldn’t pierce the gloom beyond the first few meters. Even shifting to astral senses only revealed the hulking spirits carrying the bier. She watched anxiously as the gloom hid Sam from her sight. When Hart looked toward the doorway, the Lady was gone as well.

  Had she done the right thing?

  32

  Sam awoke to the gentle whisper of someone praying.

  He tried to sit up, but the sudden flash of pain in his head doomed his effort. His return to the horizontal wasn’t fast enough to satisfy his stomach; it lurched and heaved. Sam rolled onto his side just in time to spew the contents mostly onto the floor rather than himself.

  He groaned.

  "Ah, you are awake."

  A man in dark clothing appeared at Sam’s side. The man had a ceramic bowl in one hand and some towels in the other. Without asking, he started to help Sam clean himself off.

  Sam let the man take over the job. His head still hurt, almost as bad as after a long session in the Matrix. That was an old familiar pain. It would pass. His belly felt acid-scorched and his muscles ached. He felt like drek. Through the wool that seemed impacted around his teeth and tongue, he asked, "What happened?"

  "That I cannot tell you. My first sight of you was when the servants brought you here. From your condition, I’d say you had been drugged."

  Hart. In his memory, Sam could see her saddened face hovering over the muzzle of her Crusader. He saw the muzzle flash and felt the slug hit. But it couldn’t have been a slug.
If it had, he would have been dead. She must have loaded her weapon with tranquillizer bullets. Why? What was going on?

  Sam looked around. There wasn’t much to see. Rough stone walls defined a circular chamber about three meters in diameter. A small alcove held a pool of water. The walls were beaded with moisture and spotted with patches of luminous lichen. Puzzled that he couldn’t feel the humidity or smell the mold, Sam shifted briefly to astral senses. The change in sensory input disoriented him; there seemed to be a severe fuzziness to his perceptions, but he learned that the walls’ appearance was an illusion. He and the stranger were being held in a modern cell. The illusory lichens hid lighting panels; the real walls were concrete and embedded with some kind of high-tech circuitry which frustrated his attempts to penetrate with his astral vision. He felt too weak to press the issue, and returned to his mundane senses. If the man with the cloths had noticed Sam’s absence, he gave no sign.

  "Where are we?" Sam asked.

  "In general, somewhere south and west of Dublin. In specific, a holding cell in the stronghold of the Seelie Court."

  "Dublin?" Sam was stunned. His mind didn’t want to work. "Dublin, Ireland?"

  "Yes." The man tossed the dirty cloths into the bowl. "You seem surprised."

  "Confused would be a better word. You’d be, too. I was shot in London."

  "Shot?" The man’s eyes grew concerned as he began to search Sam for a wound. Sam was too spaced to do anything. "Ah, the drug. You were shot with a tranquilizer gun, then."

  Sam thought he nodded in the affirmative.

  "It would seem that you have not slept too long, judging from the condition of your last meal. Who shot you and why?"

  He didn’t want to talk about it. He didn’t want to think about it. Hart had shot him down. Why? Without a word of explanation, she had shot him. Then, he had awoken a captive. Had the bitch sold him to his enemies? They had been lovers; he hadn’t thought she could be so cold. He had loved her. He really didn’t want to think about it. "I don’t want to talk about it."