I reach her front door and lift my hand toward the brass knocker which is shaped like a particularly menacing spider.
The door swings open.
“Good morning, dear,” Aunt Neti says. Her eyes dart toward Wal, and the little guy almost topples from my shoulder. “Oh, and you’ve brought a friend with you, and not your rude Ankou, this time. How sweet.”
Seeing Neti is like looking at an iceberg and knowing there are immeasurable depths beneath it. More than nine-tenths, I’m betting. And she’s terrifying enough as it is. Aunt Neti is all long limbs and bunches of eyes—eight of each. A purple shawl is wrapped around her shoulders. She straightens it a little, with a spare hand or two, and bends down to peck me on the cheek. Her lips are cold and hard, and the peck so swift and forceful that I’m sure I’ll have bruises tomorrow.
Aunt Neti bustles me inside, all those hands patting and pushing and pulling at once, so I’m not quite sure what she’s touching, just that I’m being moved from doorway to parlor and that my pockets hold no secrets from her. Her nails are black and sharpened to points, and they click click click with her pinching and prodding. It’s all done before I can even put up a struggle. I’ve gotta say it’s not that much of a stretch to imagine that’s how a fly would feel as it’s spun and bound in spider’s silk.
She shuts the door behind her. Wal’s keeping away from those hands, though at least a couple of her eyes follow him. And I’m making the decision that you always have to make when you’re talking to her: which eyes do you look at? I choose a bunch in the middle of her face. The ones with the most smile lines. They’re crinkling now.
“Sit down, sit down.” Neti gestures toward one of a pair of over-stuffed chairs set across from each other, a low table between them.
As we sit in her parlor, I keep to the edge of my seat—as though that would save me. The room is tiny and cozy, the walls papered with an old damask design. The paper’s peeling in one corner and a tiny spider has webbed the gap between wall and curling edge. I can’t shake the feeling that it’s staring at me. And those eyes are no less hungry than Aunt Neti’s.
There are two plates on the table. On both there are crumbs, and butter knives, covered with jam as red as arterial blood. And my seat is warm. Someone was here, only moments ago. I look around, wondering if they’ve really gone. But there’s no one. I look down at the plates. There’s no hint there of whoever I’ve displaced, just crumbs and jam.
Aunt Neti picks the plates up and slides away to her kitchen with them, saying, “Plenty of visitors today, my dear. But none as special as you.”
Wal raises an eyebrow at me. Neti is one of the two caretakers of the interface between the living and the Underworld. The other one is Charon. Both have their unique ways of running things. Charon with his boats; Neti with her residence, which, like a web, is connected to everything. She lives in these few rooms: a parlor that intersects every office of Mortmax in the living world. Like Charon, Aunt Neti’s an RE, a Recognized Entity.
And despite appearances, she’s not that fond of me at all. Mr. D tried to explain why a few weeks ago. Something about the Orpheus Maneuver that I pulled to get Lissa back from the Underworld, and how I should have gone through her, not Charon. At the time I thought I’d had no choice. Seems I did, and it’s made me an enemy—no matter how unknowingly on my part.
Aunt Neti comes back into the parlor, walks past me to a tall cabinet. It’s covered in scrollwork and seems to be carved out of the same black wood as my throne. Several of her hands apply pressure to different bits of the cabinet, a palm in one corner, a finger tapping on a carving, another hand applying pressure at its back.
A door slides to one side. Aunt Neti reaches in and pulls out two stone knives that I’m all too familiar with. She grins at me, revealing a mouth full of crooked black teeth, and drops the knives on the table before me.
“You’ll be needing these,” Aunt Neti says.
I pick them up. They’re perfectly weighted and heavy. They mumble and hum.
I used these on the top of the One Tree in a place the Orcus call the Negotiation, to “negotiate” my way into the position of RM. It had been a bloody reckoning between me and Morrigan—once a family friend, a man as dear to me as any uncle. These knives had slashed his throat and blinded his left eye. They’d cut his soul away from existence itself.
I need these knives for the Convergence Ceremony but seeing them, holding the damn things in my hands, is terrifying.
“Now,” Aunt Neti says, laying down two clean plates, “be careful for goodness sake, or you’ll cut yourself. That’s for later.”
I hold them away from me gingerly, my hands tight around the stony handles. Until this morning, I hadn’t expected to see them again for a very long time, had hoped that it would be even longer than that. They whisper to me.
Hello.
Hello.
“Put them down,” Neti says, and slaps my wrists. “Put them down.”
I drop them back onto the table, cracking one of her plates with a knife hilt. My breath catches. The stony knives grumble.
“That’ll cost you.” Neti’s laugh is shrill and horrible. “Oh, it starts with plates, and before you know it, you’re putting a vast crack in the world.”
“Sorry,” I say.
“Never you mind, Mr. de Selby. Never you mind. Was just having a joke at your expense. I’ve a room,” she jabs a thumb at a door to the left of us, one of many, “a big room crammed floor to ceiling with others, just like them. I make them from the bones of the dead—it’s a hobby. You’d be smashing plates from dawn till dusk for a century or more before you’d put a dint in the size of my collection. And how many have I used in all these ages? Just a dozen or so.” She smacks her lips. “Now I trust you will indulge me, and have a scone.”
I do, and it’s delicious. As long as you don’t think too much about where it’s come from. There’s something too sanguine about that jam. But it’s sweet, and it’s no real trouble to have another one.
Neti looks at the knives. “You know what you have to do with those?”
I nod. “Yes, I have been given instructions.”
Neti sniffs at that, and I wonder if I haven’t fucked up again and offended her. “You’ll have them back before three, thank you.”
“You could always come with me.” It doesn’t hurt to offer an olive branch.
Neti grins wryly. “Oh, to walk the streets of Brisbane again. To terrorize and shop. Hm, what sort of parasol is in fashion these days?”
I start to frame an answer and she laughs. “Mr. de Selby, these rooms and my gardens are enough. But I appreciate the offer. Besides, what you need to do is a private thing, and best shared only with your Ankou. That is, if you trust him.”
“Of course. Absolutely.”
Neti swings a set of eyes toward the grandfather clock that takes up a large chunk of wall space between two doors. “You’re best away. You don’t have much time.”
I wipe my lips with a linen napkin on which little black spiders have been stitched, far too realistically. I stroke one for a moment, and I swear its legs flutter. I drop it, pick up the knives and leave Neti to her parlor. I feel every single one of her eyes watching me as I walk back down the hallway.
“She’s not kidding,” Wal says, his eyes fixed on the Knives of Negotiation. “You be damn careful with those.”
“I will,” I say, but he’s already a tattoo on my biceps again. And it’s just me and the knives.
I walk through the offices, the naked blades in either hand. I’ve got nowhere to put them and they’re certainly not the sort of thing you slip in your pockets. My staff keep their distance. Maybe it’s the slightly manic expression on my face. No, it’s definitely the knives. It gives the concept of staff cutbacks a certain, well, edge. I feel every eye on me and I try not to look menacing, but with the Knives of Negotiation it’s impossible not to. The knives, too, seem curious. They’re mumbling and somehow staring at everyone and everythi
ng. I can feel that rapt attention running through my wrists. They want to jerk this way and that. I don’t let them. Though part of me wants to. Part of me knows how easy it would be to re-create my dreams of blood and cuts.
Once ensconced in my office, I take a deep breath and call Tim.
Tim regards the knife in his hand with a look that tells me he’s wishing he was back working in the public service. “So, how do we do this?”
We’re standing in the middle of my office. My back’s to my throne, but I can feel it there, the bloody thing a constant presence.
“I know you haven’t done a lot of pomping, but the cut has to be shallow and long. Just like you would if you were stalling a Stirrer.”
Tim hasn’t stalled anything since we faced off against Morrigan’s Stirrer allies in these very offices a couple of months ago. I’ve kept him away from all of that. He’s much better at administration, at getting people to do what needs to be done. Lissa’s the opposite. She leads by example; people follow her because she gets down and does it, too. I’ve fallen down on the leadership front, but that’s going to change now.
Tim’s knife hand shakes.
“I wouldn’t ask you to do this,” I say, “if I didn’t need you, and believe me there are much more confronting ceremonies than this one in a Pomp’s repertoire.” I remember the binding ceremony I’d once performed with Lissa’s ghost. That had involved arcane symbols and a few good dollops of semen. “From what Mr. D says, the knives will guide us.”
For a moment I feel sorry that I’ve pulled Tim into all this. But then he grins at me, and it’s just like old times.
“Fuck it, let’s do this now.”
I find myself grinning back. “Pub afterward?”
“Absolutely.”
As one we slice our hands. My cut burns, a flaring burst that wrenches its way up my arm. These are the Knives of Negotiation, after all, they are edged in a multitude of ways and all of them are cutting. The blade bites deeper than I intended. Blood flows thick and fast. Tim reaches out his bloody hand, and I grip it.
And then.
Tim’s eyes widen, in sync with mine, and we realize what we are about to do. Both of us struggle, but the ceremony is driving our limbs now. There are no brakes that we can apply to this.
We slam the knives point first into each other’s chest.
4
Idie for a heartbeat then.
So does Tim. I can feel it.
I cry out, but my lips don’t move. The air tightens around us. The One Tree’s creaking becomes a roaring. Great dark shapes loom and cackle. Then, out of nowhere, I see the Kurilpa Bridge. Its tangle of masts and wires. Mount Coot-tha rising in the northwest. Lightning cracks, a luminous finger trailing down.
And then the knives are back in our hands, bloodless. The wounds gone.
Sometimes I would like a job that involved less stabbing.
Tim coughs, his fingers scramble desperately over his chest. “What the fuck was that?” He waves the stone knife in my face. “Christ. Christ! Christ!” I snap my head backward to avoid losing my nose.
Then he seems to realize what he is doing, breathes deeply, slowly, in and out, and puts the knife down carefully on my desk, as though it’s a bomb.
And it is, I suppose. I follow suit, and the knives mumble at the both of us. They sound happy.
“Shit, I don’t know,” I say. “It wasn’t what I was expecting.”
“Wasn’t what you were expecting? What the hell were you expecting?” Tim’s looking down at the front of his shirt.
There’s no blood. I haven’t bothered checking, I’m an old hand at these sorts of things now.
“No one told me that would happen, believe me. Not Mr. D or Neti.”
“I can see why.” Tim drops into one of the chairs at my desk. He grins a little though, surprising me. “It was a bit of a rush.”
“So Kurilpa,” I say.
“Yeah, the new pedestrian bridge.”
Kurilpa Bridge sits on the curving Brisbane River just on the edge of the CBD. It’s a wide footbridge; steel masts rise from its edges like a scattering of knitting needles, and between them are strung thick cables. You either love it or hate it.
Can’t say that I love it.
“How do you hold a Death Moot on a bridge?” I move to sit in my throne, shaking my head. The moment my arse touches the chair the black phone on my desk rings. I jump then look from the phone to Tim.
“Well, I’m not answering it,” he says.
I snatch it up.
This is no regular phone call. Down the line a bell is tolling, distant and deep. I keep waiting for some slamming guitar riff to start up.
Instead a thin voice whispers, “You have engaged us, across the peaks and troughs of time. And we will serve you.”
There’s a long pause.
“Thank you,” I say at last.
“We are coming,” the voice says. “The bridge has been marked with your blood. The bridge has been marked and we are coming. Oh, and there will be a set menu. And canapés.”
The line goes dead.
“They’re coming,” I say, looking at the handset.
“Who?” Tim looks at me blankly.
“The Caterers.”
“Excellent,” Tim says, taking this whole being-stabbed-in-the-chest thing very well.
“Oh, and there will be canapés.”
“As long as there aren’t any of those little sandwiches, then I’m happy.”
“But when do these guys arrive? I forgot to ask.”
“That I know,” Tim says. “Four days from now. We’ll take them out to the bridge then.” He gets to his feet. “Well, that’s that. The Death Moot has begun. Pub?”
I shake my head. “You and Lissa are right,” I say. “I need to start actually being here. I need to make sure that I’m ready.” I pick up the knives. “And I need to get these back to Aunt Neti. They’re much too dangerous to leave lying around.”
Tim grins at me. “Nice to have you back.”
There’s an angry bruise on the horizon when I get home. It’s six o’clock and a storm is coming. I feel virtuous, and pleased that, after two visits in one day, I won’t have to speak to Aunt Neti for some time. The Knives of Negotiation are safe. The Caterers are on their way, and the Death Moot has a venue. Not bad for a day’s work. I’ve texted Lissa, told her I’ll be waiting at home.
I’m determined to show her I can do this. That I’m not dropping out, and that she isn’t losing me.
She’s right, I do need to practice my shifting, and I want to read as much of Tim’s briefing notes as I can before she gets home. Here, where I’m relatively free from distractions. I’ve been drifting. Dad once said that pomping is for Pomps and that business is for dick-heads. Of course, it didn’t stop him being very good at both. Pomping’s all I’ve ever known, but managing a business is uncomfortably new to me. I like people, but I’m not sure I can tell them what to do. After all, I spent a lot of my time as a Pomp arguing with management. The shit I gave my immediate superior Derek … I almost miss the guy.
Tim’s last words to me this afternoon, after a very quick beer, were: “Meeting tomorrow morning at 8:15. Cerbo. Do not be late. And you would be better off for reading my notes.” Faber Cerbo is Suzanne Whitman’s Ankou. I’ve not had much to do with him. I wonder what he wants?
Tim’s notes are extensive, and amusing. He knows his audience, I guess. And I can understand why he might be hurt that I haven’t read them yet. He’s obviously put a lot of work into making it de Selby digestible.
By the time Lissa pulls into the driveway, I’m a third of the way through the notes and aware of various allegiances within the Orcus or, as Tim has subtitled his report, Who Hates Who. The most prominent allies on the list surprise me: Neill Debbier, South Africa’s RM, and Suzanne Whitman, the RM of North America. Between them they seem to wield the most influence.
It’s fascinating. As is the fact that Cerbo is Mortmax’s resident ex
pert on the Stirrer god. I should have been pushing for a meeting earlier. Tim’s notes suggest that now, with the Death Moot so close, the lobbying is going to start in earnest. Hence my meeting with Cerbo, I assume.
I watch Lissa get out of the Corolla. Her face is pinched with the weight of a day’s work. She pomped five souls today. I felt them all, as I did the stall she performed at the Wesley Hospital.
There’s a bandage wrapped around her hand, and she’s bending over to pick up some groceries. I leap down from the front steps and run to carry them for her.
“You don’t have to,” she says.
“Bullshit.” I take the bags from her. “Let me look at that hand.”
“It’s nothing. Dr. Brooker’s seen to it. Says to say hi.”
Dr. Brooker’s the Brisbane office’s medico. He’s tended to that office since before I was born.
I take her bandaged hand and kiss it, gently. Wrap my arms around her, and hold her tight. Just liking the way she feels. The corporeality of her.
The storm’s coming, dark clouds boiling, dogs howling and barking in response to bursts of thunder. The rain sighing, exhaled from above and beating down on a thousand suburban roofs not too far away. The air’s electric and, with it, my region’s heartbeats are shed from me like a cloak. Steam rises from the road.
Bring on the lightning. Bring on this moment of peace.
“Let’s get inside,” Lissa says.
And we do. Just before it starts pissing down.
I lug the groceries to the kitchen and I’m a few minutes putting stuff away. Looks like there’s cooking going on tonight. For the first time that feels all right. I grab a Coke from the fridge for Lissa and a beer for myself, and we sit out on the balcony. It’s too hot inside.
Lissa holds my hand and we sit there, drinking our drinks, sweat cold against our skin, and watch the rain fall.
Storms build slowly but pass too quickly, and soon the pulse of the world is back.
“What are you cooking for dinner?” I ask.
Lissa arches an eyebrow.
“What are we cooking for dinner?” I offer.
The Business Of Death, Death Works Trilogy Page 29