So he sat and fretted silently, wondering why the others weren't as concerned. Dodger sat in his habitual corner, eyes closed as he meditated. The elven decker looked entirely too serene. Gray Otter stood in the opposite corner. The beadwork was almost the only thing that made her stand out against the dirty wall. Her position would have given her a clear view of the squat's one window, but her eyes were turned to her counterpart among the Sylvestrines. For all his religious devotion Brother Paulus was a soldier, armed and wary. The burly Sylvestrine monk showed no sign of affiliation, save for a black enameled chi-rho belt buckle on his armor-lined coat. A datajack was embedded into his temple and induction pads in bis palms; when in motion, he moved with the occasional jerkiness of those with cyber-enhanced reflexes. Like his companions, Brother Mark wore no obvious sign of his religious calling. But while his somber, austere expression, and the unrelieved black of his suit and coat, might hint at his clerical nature, they concealed his puissance as a hermetic magician. Like Dodger's, Brother Mark's eyes were closed. Unlike the elf, he
was working, warding the apartment while the third member of his order studied the fire opal.
That good priest sat slumped in his chair, hands folded around the gem that rested on the rickety table. Father Pietro Rinaldi was an adept, able to read the auras of persons and things. Though incapable of other magicks, he was superb in his specialty, far better than Sam, Hart, or Brother Mark. He had been at his examination for over an hour now. Occasionally, he muttered. Usually the words were unintelligible, but Sam had made out "curious" and "fascinating." He wished the priest would remember that other people also wanted to know what he was finding out.
Time moved with the speed of a slug. At long last Rinaldi sat back, lacing his fingers behind his neck as he stretched. When he relaxed, he sat unmoving and breathing deeply.
Unleashed by the obvious conclusion of the priest's studies, Sam leapt up. "Well?"
Rinaldi gave him a shrug and a smile. "It's powerful, my friend. Of that there is no doubt. But it is most unusual as well. The stone shows no sign of having been worked by tools, yet its aura indicates that it was made. Also, the residual structures of some potent spells linger on it. I think it may have been molded by magic."
"Who cares how it was made? Is it usable?" "Usable? I should think so." "Good. I would hate to have wasted the trip." "The trip only cost you time and money, and only the time was of real value. But perhaps I know you well enough to see your real concern. Do not hang yourself about with guilt. Any adventure in this world has dangers, and those who undertake such activities must expect to face their share of them. Your allies are dead but you are not at fault, and you have not squandered their lives to gain a pretty bauble. I suggested you acquire a magically potent artifact to focus and amplify your power, and you came back with something more powerful than any of the talismans in the armory of the Sylvestrine monastery at Saint Luc."
"Then it will work?" Sam asked eagerly.
Rinaldi looked at the table, avoiding Sam's eyes. "I didn't say that. As I have told you often enough, this whole operation is speculative. The stone will channel an enormous quantity of power, but as you know, tools alone are insufficient. The form of the ritual must be exact, and the will driving it must be pure and focused. I would not wish to raise false hopes."
^Indeed," Brother Mark agreed. "Success is not likely. The transformation you seek is beyond the bounds of magic as man understands it."
"And who is to say that man understands all magic?" Hart smiled sweetly and lifted a hand to brush back her hair in a gesture that revealed one pointed ear.
"Implying elven secrets is a poor ploy, Ms. Hart. Elves are but a subspecies of mankind, a mere subset of the genetic pool awakened to phenotypic expression in these latter days. Your race's higher-than-average predisposition to magically active individuals gives no special magical abilities or knowledge."
"Art thou sure, good brother?" Dodger asked. "Elves once ruled your ancestral Ireland, and once again hold it as their domain. They say they have only returned from the sunset lands to reclaim the lands they walked of old. Art thou of such a great age to dispute their claim with certain knowledge of your own?"
"I need be no older than I am to dispute such foolishness. Save for a few isolated cases in the decades preceding the so-called Awakening of 2011, there were no elves. Or dwarfs, for that matter. Elven and dwarf phenotypes are quite distinctive. How could the exis tence of such persons never have been noted in centuries of historical and scientific records?''
"How indeed, good brother?"
"Dump it, Dodger. Brother Mark is here to help. He doesn't need your foolishness."
"My apologies, Sir Twist, to both you and to Brother Mark. I sought but to lighten the mood with this idle talk.''
Sam sighed. "How come every time you get bored, you start looking for trouble? If you can't be useful, Dodger, at least try not to insult guests and start feuds."
"Be charitable," Rinaldi suggested. "Dodger has little to offer in this endeavor. His idleness chafes at him. It's no sin. His attendance is a sign of his concern and support."
"You're right, Father. It's not his idleness that's the sin. It's my own. While Janice remains as she is, every day puts her closer to damnation."
"We're all aware of that, Sam." Hart put her hand on his shoulder. "We've got the stone now. We don't have to wait anymore."
"I-know you understand. Without your connections we would have lost her after she left England, and I'd have no idea where she had run to or how she was doing."
"And how is that?" Mark asked. "Are you sure that she has not succumbed to her wendigo nature? Her sins are already great, but if she has given in to despair and freely embraced the way of the wendigo, she has gone beyond salvation. How do you know that she has not abandoned her humanity? Have you spoken with her?"
Sam shook his head. "She wouldn't speak with me in Vancouver, and she refused to acknowledge any of the letters I had waiting in towns along her path. She hasn't taken any communications equipment, and I can't send electronic mail because the Matrix doesn't reach where she is now. Too few people."
' 'There are no reports of wendigo predation in the area," Hart said.
"Which is a good sign," Rinaldi said. "Her chosen retreat places her far from temptation. Everything seems to indicate that she still retains some vestige of humanity. Her success bodes well, for denial of the wendigo nature would be a strong factor in reversing the curse.''
"If it can be done," Mark said.
"I fervently pray that it is possible," Rinaldi said. "For her sake, as well as for others whose souls we might unburden if we succeed."
"Do you fear the loss of her soul, Father?" Dodger asked. "Or are you having second thoughts about letting her go in England? Do you feel the weight of innocent, eaten souls?"
"I mourn the straying of any soul from the path of righteousness. She has eaten manflesh, but that can be forgiven in the light of her body's perverted needs. As far as we know, she refrained from actually killing in order to feed. That, I believe, would be the point beyond which the wendigo nature would rule her and she would be lost to us and to God."
' 'What about those who have died to feed the wendigo? And who might yet die? Do you feel the weight of their murders on your own soul?''
Before the priest could answer, Sam cut in. "That's enough, Dodger!"
"Peace, Sam. Dodger was in England, too. We all let Janice leave. What she does or does not do is our shared responsibility. All of us. But the past is done and we must look to the future. We took no action against her in hope of her salvation, a salvation that we work toward now. That is what must concern us. Have you given more thought to the ritual site?"
"I thought we'd settled that. You said that the ritual needs a place of power, one associated with change, and Mount Rainier seems ideal. As one of the volcanoes activated by the Ghost Dancers, it was one of the first places where heavy-duty magical power manifested in the Sixth World. Th
e Indians' campaign to rid North America of non-Indians wasn't successful, but it was one of die biggest changes of the century. Only the return of magic and magical beings was bigger, and the Ghost Dance was part of that, too."
Rinaldi shook his head. "I find no fault with your symbolic logic, and the site is indeed a place of power. But I still think that a place more convenient to Jan-ice's refuge would be safer. She must be physically present for the ritual to work."
"Still worried about the temptation to her wendigo nature among people?" Hart asked. Rinaldi nodded.
"It's a chance I'm willing to take," Sam said. "She's strong. She'll deal with it."
Rinaldi sighed. "You may be willing, Sam. What about her? It's her soul that will be tainted if she's not strong enough."
"Here or there, she has to agree to participate," Hart said. She held out Sam's fringed synthleather jacket. The long tassels shifted restlessly, jangling the assorted amulets tied to them.
Sam reached out and fingered some of the intricate knots. "I'm not going out. At least not physically."
"Mindset," she reminded him. "You're doing sha-manistic things, and this is your shaman suit, right?" "Right. Worried?"
She ran her fingers through his beard. "This is a major projection you're planning. You haven't tried contacting anyone on the mundane while projecting before. You may need the help of the little friends in the jacket.''
He was touched by her concern. As usual, she was thinking ahead. He gave her a kiss and put on the jacket.
Dodger cleared his throat. "Struth, I am as necessary here as a mirror to a medusa. If you would not be overly distressed to lose such a valued member of your audience, I might attend to other matters."
Now that they were actually doing something, Sam felt more charitable toward Dodger. "Null perspiration. Don't get into anything you can't handle alone." "Jenny's gotten her hands on a new Korean icecut-ter, Dodger. She's going to test it on a run tonight. Maybe she'd like some company."
"Fair Jenny is a big girl. She has no need of my supervision. The Matrix holds other matters of more interest. Render unto her my best wishes," Dodger said as he opened the door.
Hart waited a few moments before commenting, "He's awfully preoccupied still. Teresa?"
Sam shrugged. "Who knows? He hasn't mentioned her for months."
"He hasn't said much of anything for months. At least nothing of importance. But it's clear that something is bothering him."
"Perhaps he finds it a strain to work with both you and that other group you've told me about, the one run by Sally Tsung," Rinaldi suggested.
Sam gave a rueful chuckle. "That's not the problem. Sally's got almost as little use for Dodger these days as she does for me."
For a moment Hart looked ready to comment, but she didn't. In private Hart had little good to say about the way Sally vilified Sam for his alleged fickleness, but in public she refrained from speaking against Tsung herself. Sam was sure he would hear about it later. "You need me?" Gray Otter asked. Sam answered, "Magic time, Otter. No need for muscle."
"I'm gone." And she was.
"Brother Paulus and I shall leave as well, Father Pietro. As you know, this ill-disciplined shamanic business makes me uncomfortable. You will join us at Saint Sebastian's?"
"As soon as we finish."
"Very well." Mark turned to Sam. "I wish you luck."
The brothers left. Sam locked the door behind them before lying down with his head in Hart's lap. Father Rinaldi took the drum from its cupboard, seated himself out of Sam's sight, and began to play. The beat was strong, steady. Sam felt Hart extend herself, using her power to relax his body. He released his astral self to fly down the tunnel and through the hole to the other world, beginning the journey north.
Joining the kulpunya, Urdli stared down at its victim. The small man was torn beyond recognition. His blood spattered the disordered furnishings and spread in a growing pool around his body. Urdli didn't know who the man was. It didn't matter; he had paid for his crime.
Urdli looked for the missing stones with his deep sight. He detected a hint of power from a locked box, hidden in a hollow in the wall. He tossed aside the dresser screening the badly patched panel and tore open the cache. He didn't care if he left traces. A simple spell blasted the padlock open.
The guardian stone was not there.
Recovering the stone was not going to be so simple.
With a word, he unleashed the kulpunya again. There were two more thieves to be hunted down.
He was cramped by the confines of the ducting, but that didn't particularly bother Neko Noguchi. His training had inured him to discomfort. This once, his small size had proven an unmatchable asset. No dwarf could have done what he had done tonight; dwarfs were too stocky to negotiate the twists and turns of the ducting. No elf either. Elves might have the necessary slimness, but they were too tall for the tighter turns of the ducting. Nor could an ork or a troll hope to squeeze through where a norm couldn't pass. Neko's passport into these forbidden realms had been his short stature, slight build, and rubbery suppleness. Who said norms were outmoded in the Sixth World?
The tall corporate was leaving now, walking up the stairs. The old woman continued to work at her loom. They never knew Neko was here, listening. He was glad now for the decision to leave all electronic devices behind. When the suit was descending the stairs Neko had seen the flicker of an electromagnetic emissions detector, and again as the man had left. He was sure similar sensors watched the ducts. Yet he had evaded the defenses that had blocked other hopefuls even without any high-tech tools or cyberware. Betting on his personal skills alone had been a calculated risk, but it had paid off.
Neko had crouched in his hidden place all through Grandmother's last three interviews. But none had been as interesting as the one with the black-haired corporate; the others had only brought news of the shadow world of Hong Kong. Save for the business about Mitsuhama hiring Greerson for a sanction, Neko's own prowls had already earned him the rest of the news he had heard today. If whispered in the right ear, the Greerson info would be worth something.
But the suit. What was his name? Saito? No, Sato. That was it. Neko would have to remember that name.
Sato was playing in a bigger arena. All that stuff about an AI. Neko had decker friends who would know what that stuff was worth. If he stepped carefully, he could turn all that innuendo and speculation into nuyen.
What a coup! His first time eavesdropping on the infamous Grandmother, and he had scored. That would make his name in the shadows. Neko Noguchi was on his way to becoming a big man in the biz.
But he was no fool to waste this opportunity. With absolutely no hint that he had been detected, he could afford to stay for a while longer. No telling what else he might learn.
He settled himself to wait for Grandmother's next visitor. The rhythmic clatter of the loom had an almost hypnotic quality that lulled him. His mind drifted, dreaming of the juicy bits he would gather while listening in on the doings of Grandmother. Then he started back to full awareness, unsure of what had changed.
Grandmother continued her weaving. No one had come to disturb her. But there was something. Yes, there it was. A noise in ducting.
A maintenance drone or a rigger-run cleaning robot? Either would be a problem. The dog-brain in a drone wouldn't be bright enough to recognize him, but the stupid thing might try to clean him out of the duct, a process that would be most painful. If it were a robot, a rigger could ID him as an intruder and would report his presence. That would make departure much more complicated and cancel any chance of returning another day. He did not want his hole through Grandmother's security sealed; it was his doorway to fortune.
The scraping sound came again, accompanied by a softer brushing noise. It was not a scrubbing rotor. What was it? It didn't sound mechanical. The important point was that it sounded nearer. Discretion being the better part of profits, Neko decided to leave.
His joints had stiffened less than might have
been expected. A brisk crawl would have them loose again, He moved quietly from his perch. Once away from where he thought noise of his movement could be , transmitted to Grandmother's sanctum, he moved more briskly. Several turns later, he heard the sound again. Was it following him?
He was not far from his exit, but increased his pace anyway. He had no desire to be caught in the duct. Those dark confines left Neko no room to use his justly famed agility.
He twisted himself through the last turn and saw light slitting through the grating by which he had entered. Pausing only long enough to assure himself that no one occupied the storeroom beyond, he dug loose the putty holding the panel in place. He held it with one hand as he shimmied his torso clear. His free hand held him up as he worked his knees clear, then his feet. He dropped nearly noiselessly to the box beneath the opening.
He was out, unconfined. He grinned. Whatever roamed the ducts of Grandmother's fortress had not caught him.
As he reached up to replace the grating, something black, glistening-hard, and studded with coarse hairs reached through the slats. In startled reaction Neko jerked back, hands still clutching the duct cover. There was a rasping sound as metal slid along the twitching thing, then Neko was jerked back toward the wall. The black thing clamped onto the grating and Neko let go. The panel slammed crossways across the opening, crumpling as it was withdrawn into the darkness.
As it disappeared a second black thing scythed out of the duct, sweeping toward Neko's head. He ducked into a crouch. While the sharp, hooked end of the thing scraped along the wall, he uncoiled into a back flip. He landed surefooted, ready to run but unwilling to turn his back on the unknown thing in the duct.
An ominous silence descended on the storeroom.
Neko bunched the muscles of his left forearm as he twisted it, triggering the release of the carbon-fiber blades from their forearm sheath. Four monofiber-edged cutters slid forward to project seven centimeters past his cocked wrist. In close they would make sushi out of muscle and tissue, but he had seen the strength of whatever it was. He was not sure he wanted to get that close to it. He rejected his pistol; noise was as much his enemy as the whatever-it-was. His right hand slipped a throwing spike from among the half-dozen sheathed along his thigh. At ranges under five meters, his skill made the silvered steel as deadly as the pistol. Thumb holding the spike against his palm and fingers, he raised his hand into throwing position.
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