by Heide Goody
“Now,” said Brigit, “to the matter in hand: your interfering with the legal business of our subjects in this city…”
Rod parked up on Margaret Street, got out of the car and looked around.
“They’re not here,” he said.
“Liars and swindlers!” yelled Steve the Destroyer in Morag’s hand, causing a passing office suit to look round in alarm.
“She’s a ventriloquist,” said Rod.
The office suit gave Morag’s bruised face a sceptical look.
“Not a very popular one,” said Morag.
“Everyone’s a critic,” said Rod.
The suit, vaguely mollified, walked away munching on his lunchtime baguette.
“You need to keep quiet, puppet,” Morag told Steve, “or you will get my hand up your rear end.”
“Do that and you will enter a realm of horrors!” he squeaked warningly.
“I’ll be sure to wash my hand afterwards.”
“Maybe Vivian got tired of waiting,” said Rod and took out his phone to call her, only to find a text from Kathy waiting.
“CAPTURED BY MANICURE AT MALKIN MONSOON,” he read.
“What?” said Morag.
“A text from Kathy. Followed by ‘GOING TO SUMMON YOUTH MAROON’.”
“Predictive text. Probably pocket texting.”
“Either that or there’s a new beauty place opened up and they’ve all gone to get their nails done.”
He crossed the road to the Mammon-Mammonson Investment building. The steel shutters were down on the car park entrance at the rear. They followed the pavement round to the front. Even before they climbed the short flight of stone steps, Rod could see that the lights weren’t on inside. There was only the gloom of a business shut for the day. Rod tried the ornate Edwardian door handles anyway.
“Locked.” He peered in, gave it a second’s thought and raised his elbow to smash the window.
“I wouldn’t,” said Morag and dragged her toe along the brass bar inlaid across the tiled entrance. Rod wasn’t even going to pretend to know what the engraved squiggles in the brass meant.
“No?” he said.
“I don’t think you’d get two steps inside. We’ll have to find another way in.”
They stepped back onto the street and looked up.
“I could climb up to one of those windows, although none of them are open.”
Morag’s gaze shifted across to the side, to the nearby Chamberlain Square.
“Did I ever tell you about my Uncle Ramsay?” she said.
“Was he the deep-sea welder uncle who only ever told anecdotes about the Dutch and oral sex?”
“Wow, you do pay attention sometimes.”
“Aye,” said Rod. “Some things tend to stick in the mind.”
“Well, he wasn’t just a diver,” she said.
Rod followed Morag’s gaze.
Nina was picking at the flecks of batter in the bottom of her chip papers when Rod rang.
“Yo,” she said.
“Vivian’s been taken prisoner by the Mammonites,” said Rod.
“They tied me to a tree on Monday.”
“That was schoolkids,” said Rod. “They’re planning to summon Yoth Mammon back to this world.”
Nina tried to imagine a goddess that was all insatiable appetite and mounds of fleshy horror wrapped in spiky, armour-plated death devouring the city piece by piece. But her imagination didn’t have a huge special effects budget and in her mind’s eye she saw something like a body bopper in a sleeping bag rolling across a miniature city made of cardboard boxes.
“When?” she said.
“Today.”
“But I’ve got plans for the weekend.”
“If the city survives until Friday, let’s call that a win. Is Morag still with Yo-Morgantus?”
“Yep,” she said. “Should we tell him?”
“Tough call. He’s not going to be pleased and we don’t want him trying to fix this himself.”
“No.” In her mind’s eye, the sleeping bag monster was met in battle by a giant mattress made of ham. The cardboard city didn’t fare well. “We need to tell her though.”
“Aye. But I need you over here in Chamberlain Square. Morag’s got a plan to get us inside.”
The first floor of Mammon-Mammonson Investments had undergone some changes since Vivian’s visit the day before. Desks and computers still crowded the periphery of the open-plan office, dwarfed by a wall-size display of live financial data. But additional space had been cleared around the giant floor mosaic of Yoth Mammon, and the ritual circle that bounded it was now encompassed by a new ring of tall network router cabinets. Eleven racks of flickering lights (that looked like they belonged in a data centre) were spaced evenly around the magic circle, each with a gagged and bound human strapped to the front of it, as though an entire IT department had decided to play Cowboys and Indians and were preparing for a historically inaccurate and culturally insensitive scalping. Yellow networking cables ran from the cabinets in a swirl about the circle and away to the computers. Vivian observed a few red cables among the yellow ones, then realised they were not cables but intravenous tubing, feeding blood from the eleven wild-eyed sacrifices to the circle. Blood trickled into the cracks in the mosaic, filled the hollows of the Venislarn symbols around the outside with color and transfused life itself into the rendering of the unholy mother of the Mammonites at its centre.
“Mrs Grey,” said Xerxes Mammon-Mammonson, striding across the mosaic, open-armed to greet her. He left smears of bloody footprints under his designer shoes as he came. “Do you know how much you’ve cost us?” he said, smiling broadly as he did so.
Arranged around the circle, collars sharp, cufflinks gleaming, nearly twenty other Mammonites regarded her with hungry, hateful eyes. Vivian recognised some of them as members of the board of directors from the portrait she’d seen hanging in reception. This was, she concluded, an executive meeting; the underlings had been sent home for the day.
“You are an expensive indulgence,” said Xerxes. “I hope you’re worth it. We’ve had to bring our timetable forward because of you.”
“This,” said Vivian, refusing to be cowed by his sinister charm. “All of this is your doing. Everything that happens today will be on you.”
Xerxes pulled a “yeah, so what?” face, distending the rubbery mask of his almost handsome, almost human face.
“You know the difference between winners and losers, Mrs Grey?”
Vivian said nothing. She was happy to let this egotist monologue as much as he liked.
“Timing,” said Xerxes.
“I think that’s comedy,” said Kathy next to Vivian.
Xerxes gave a nod to Lodge-Mammonson. Kathy didn’t even have time to turn. A knife tip jabbed into the back of her shoulder and levered her down to the ground. Cameron turned to object but one of the Mammonites already had his wrist and he was forced down too, grunting in pain as he went.
“People who see someone make it big, make a fortune, say ‘I could have thought of that idea’ or ‘if I’d bought my stock at the same time then I’d be rich too’.” Xerxes gave a knowing shake of the head. “Fools. It’s all timing. And, yes, some are lucky but some are smart – like me – and that’s why they’re a success. If you’re planning to short sell, to bet against the market, then timing is everything. How much has Mrs Grey cost us, Truman?”
“Three hundred and seventeen million,” said Lodge-Mammonson.
Xerxes’s eyes widened. If eyes could laugh, they would be giggling.
“You are an expensive indulgence indeed,” he said to Vivian.
On the floor, Kathy was whimpering softly and putting pressure on the wound in her shoulder. Vivian ignored her for now.
“You are going to engineer a market crash and make a fortune from it?” she said. “I thought this was about summoning Yoth Mammon back to this world.”
“Oh, it is!” said Xerxes. “But we’d be idiots not to take advantage o
f the impact it will have on global finances. Our mother would expect nothing less.”
“Yo-Morgantus won’t accept her return lightly. There will be consequences.”
“There will be blood. And rubble. We’re counting on it. We own a number of construction companies already lined up for the rebuild.”
There were murmurs of approval from the Mammonite directors, the lip-smacking of diners before a feast.
“But now that everyone’s here, the investors” – he gestured to the bound humans – “the witnesses” – he nodded to Vivian – “and, of course, our keynote speaker...”
He gestured across the large room and Vivian realised that the Mammonites and their human captives were not the only individuals at the edge of the circle; there was one more. Standing at a low lectern was a Carcosan word mage. Vivian had never met one before but there was hardly mistaking it for anything else. It was an unpleasantly tall and slender humanoid, albino-pale, an autumn leaf bleached of colour and substance and ready to fly apart at the slightest breeze. It must have travelled from beyond worlds, step by frail step to be here.
Xerxes saw Vivian looking.
“Of course, the other secret to success is knowledge. The be’ae tyez here has been very helpful.”
On the lectern, the word mage’s hands hovered above the pages of a book. The book, little more than a sheaf of loosely bound pages, was less than a centimetre thick but had a substance to it, a gravity of importance. Vivian recognised the stolen pages of the Big Bloody Book.
“Our friend is being paid in mutually-shared knowledge. His stock in trade is a little different to ours.”
The word mage either had no interest in conversation or did not even recognise that Xerxes was speaking. It scratched thoughtfully at the brand mark in its forehead and raised its pen. A blood-filled tube ran from the nib up and away to, presumably, one of the humans.
“I believe we’ll be ready to begin soon,” said Xerxes. “Bind them.” Xerxes reached out and stroked Vivian’s cheek as she was led past. “Gently, but bind them. There can be no deal without witnesses.”
Rod walked towards the police car as it stopped in the sliver of Chamberlain Square that was not fenced off by the demolition and construction crews around the site of the old library. Nina got out, balled up her chip papers and lobbed them at a nearby bin. She wasn’t even close to getting it in.
“I’ve updated Vaughn,” said Rod. “That didn’t go down well.”
“Did he have a right moan at you about pestering the Mammonites?” said Nina.
“Something like that, aye.”
Ricky Lee stood in the open door of the car. “What’s going on?”
“Well, either nothing at all or a goddess of unspeakable power and hunger is going to manifest in the immediate vicinity.”
“They’re quite… different options there,” said Ricky.
“It’s sort of end of the city as we know it. Or not,” agreed Rod. He looked round at the pedestrians filing through the squeezed space, filing between the museums and the council houses and Victoria Square and the shops beyond. “We need to clear the area.”
“You have authorisation?” said Ricky.
“No,” said Rod.
The three of them looked from one to another.
“Where’s Morag?” said Nina. “Your Morag. The one with the face.”
“Up there,” said Rod.
He pointed at the static crane more than a hundred metres overhead. Nearing the top now were two figures, climbing the internal ladder. In their gestures and positions, one could almost imagine an argument going on between them, the man demanding that the woman come down, the woman refusing and climbing onwards to the cabin.
Rod’s finger drew a line along the crane jib arm to the heavy bucket at the furthest end.
“That is so cool,” said Nina.
“Within the context of a potentially city-ending event,” Rod reminded her.
“YOLO,” she said and then, after a moment’s thought, “We could phone in a bomb threat. You know, to clear the area.”
“That would be grossly unprofessional,” said Rod.
“Effective,” countered Nina.
“And your Jihadi John accent is borderline racist.”
“It’s authentic.”
“Authentically racist.”
“What is it you think is happening here?” said Brigit, spokesperson and literal mouthpiece of Yo-Morgantus.
“Here?” said Morag Senior.
“The world is headed for Armageddon, an eternity of exquisite horrors. And here we are, the em-shadt Venislarn, here already. Do you think we are merely slumming it, hanging out until some unspecified moment?”
“I wouldn’t presume to think anything,” said Senior.
“No, you wouldn’t. You are like the Aztecs witnessing the arrival of Cortez and his conquistadors in their incomprehensibly advanced wooden ships. No, you are like the children of those Aztecs, the infants. You cannot look beyond the sea, grasp the distances covered. You cannot know the plans of kings and popes.”
“We’re Aztec babies. Got it,” said Senior, trying to keep the flippant edge out of her voice. “I’m just asking you for a little clemency. There are humans, kept prisoner through no real fault of their own, in an office –”
“And yet you persist,” said Brigit. “If you were not well favoured by Lord Morgantus I would have you killed where you stand.”
“You promised us justice,” said a voice in the darkness.
“There will be justice, Watts-Mammonson,” said Brigit.
Senior peered into the dark distances of the hall. The figure approached slowly, tossing an impractically jagged blade from one hand to the other. His suit was painfully sharp. There was something wrong with his jaws and eyes, as if a trace of crocodilian ancestry couldn’t help but shine through.
“The consular mission must pay,” said the Mammonite.
He passed close to Brigit and ran his fingers over her naked behind, the curve of her hips.
“Remember your place!” the woman snapped.
Watts-Mammonson stepped aside, spread his hands innocently and lifted his head to the ceiling.
“Just admiring the goods, my Lord. It’s a compliment.”
A tendril brushed Brigit’s head and the sneer of affronted disgust was wiped away and replaced with an appreciative smile.
“Do not touch what you can’t afford,” she said with a roguish pout.
Watts-Mammonson gave her a little comic bow and turned to face Morag Senior again.
“We were discussing compensation for the offence we have suffered,” he said, “for the impugning of our fine reputation.”
Vivian tested the networking cables that tied her to the phone box-sized router cabinet. There was a rubbery flexibility to the individual cables but the mass of them was tight about her body. Now that Xerxes Mammon-Mammonson had her tied and pinned in place, he ignored her utterly.
The Mammonites were about the business of their ritual now. Vivian had seen a lot of rituals in her time: weddings, banishments, christenings, summonings, graduations, funerals, initiations, blood libations and Christmas dinners. They all had the same four elements, starting with the set dressing – the flowers in the aisle, the holly wreath, the black robes of Baphomet. Next came the words of preamble that, no matter how you rearranged them, amounted to “we are gathered here today to whatever-it-is-we’re-here-to-do.” Then came the words of the ceremony itself, which could be spoken perfectly well without any of the other nonsense but without which there was no ritual at all – the “I now pronounce you man and wife”, the “the power of Christ compels you”, the “I have no mouth but I must scream.” And finally came the symbolic act that sealed the ritual, made of it a sacrament or covenant – the rings, the plunging dagger, the soil on a coffin lid.
Vivian had no time for pointless frivolities. Nothing as self-congratulatory as the pulling of a cracker was allowed in her home, no mortarboards had been fl
ung at her graduation. If she had her way, all weddings would be “Do you? Yes. Do you? Yes. Then you’re married.” And, because she did have her way, her own wedding had been barely more than that. Mr Grey’s funeral had been a bit more extravagant than practicality required but she forgave herself that moment’s decadence; it had been a trying week after all.
The Mammonites’ tediously self-important ritual to summon their goddess mother from Kal Frexo leng-space contained more superfluous extras than a top of the range sports car. Yes, the circle probably did need to be charged with a slow but constant libation of human blood. Yes, there was probably some key phrase in the word mage’s litany that unlocked the barriers between worlds. But, the router cabinets were impractical decoration, a cheap analogy of a stone circle. The nightmare storm of data on the giant display – in a spiky red font, for goodness sake! – was hackneyed mumbo-jumbo. And the chanting… Why were the Mammonite businessmen chanting? What could they possibly add?
A literally captive audience member, Vivian could do nothing but silently tut and bemoan each theatrical excess. What next? Black candles? Incense? She found small solace in the fact that the more time they wasted on this twaddle, the better chance that someone else might intervene and put a stop to it.
The site manager had stayed in the crane operator’s cab just long enough to a) see that Morag Junior had zero intentions of leaving and b) get freaked out by the capering sack cloth doll she had brought with her. Junior looked at the controls. It wasn’t rocket science: a green button and a red one, and then a nice comfy seat with a joystick on each armrest. She’d need to figure out which one was for the trolley and which one was for the hoist, but there was a little diagram at the side of each, so she was confident that she could master it quickly. Conversations with Uncle Ramsay about his time operating lifting cranes on the rigs covered many of the basics but Junior was aware she still knew no more about crane operation than a person who had never driven a car but knew what the pedals did. Fortunately, this did look as though it had been deliberately idiot-proofed. Having Steve the Destroyer jump up and down on her chair yelling, “Pull that one! Pull that one!” was less helpful.