by Andrew Smith
The sun was getting lower. This was Voz’s favorite spot in the city. She summoned a striped blanket, nearly as colorful as her hair, and laid it out, parallel to the bank of the River. She looked out over the Egyptian landscape, only a tiny strip of blue and green, surrounded by desert. Voz could see no buildings, no great pyramids, or Sphinx, but she suspected there was something out there. If not, she reasoned, this place would simply have appeared in the deserts beyond the sea. Voz imagined the buried tomb of an ancient queen, somewhere below the shifting sands.
The sands never left their patch of Egypt, and at the edge, depending on the wind, there was sometimes a bizarre effect where a half a dune would pile up, then suddenly end with a steep drop off into the bordering forest. Likewise, the forest branches could not pass over and would be pushed up or down as though growing against an invisible wall.
Voz laid herself down on her blanket and watched the darkening sky. The desert gets cold at night, and quickly. She wore knee-high leather boots with heels, shorts, and a long-sleeved shirt that exposed her midriff, but the cold didn’t bother her. She let it wash over her. The sky darkened, and the stars appeared. There were no man-made lights for miles and miles.
The Milky Way appeared. In Egypt of this time, it paralleled the great river, directly overhead. Voz spotted the autumn stars of Orion, his belt marking the place where the three great pyramids might have been.
Someone approached. Voz didn’t move. She couldn’t hear the footsteps: whoever it was had used magic to make sure of that. But Voz could hear the magic.
“Good evening,” said a voice behind her.
“I hope you weren’t expecting me to be startled,” said Voz, infuriatingly calm
Women, thought Ruin, but said, “I did go through some trouble so that you would.”
“Try harder,” she replied shortly. Voz did a kip-up to get to her feet, because they looked impressive. She looked the necromancer over. “Do I know you?”
“They call me Ruin,” he said, in his best necromantic voice
A tart smile pulled up one corner of her mouth. “Imagine that,” she said.
Ruin glared. He had heard Voz was difficult, but he was determined to make his proposal. “I’m here-” Ruin began, but Voz jumped in with the precision of much practice.
“I know why you’re here,” said Voz, at her least cordial. “You’re here because you’ve got some brilliant machinations going, and you want my help, and you’re going to promise me power and riches beyond my wildest dreams, or maybe a place as your queen in the and fantastic Kingdom of You that you’re building.”
“Ah, but this is-”
“Different,” they said at the same time.
“It’s always different,” said Voz, giving him the benefit of her one-eyed glare
“Really,” Ruin insisted. “It could-”
“Change everything,” they said in unison.
“Never heard that one before,” she said, the air around her thick with sarcasm. “Take your wide, darkly sorcerous ass out of here-”
“I’m a Necromancer,” he interrupted.
“Whatever,” Voz growled. “Just leave, and never, never bother me again. Especially here.”
“What if,” said Ruin, unctuously, “I forced you to do what I wish..?”
At that point she had had enough. Voz rounded on him. Voz screamed. The air was torn open and a blackness darted upon it. Ruin sank to his knees. He began to bleed from the ears and eyes.
Voz stopped screaming and the world returned to its usual state. Just for good measure, she walked up to him and kicked him in the face.
* * * *
In an alleyway between a manor house and an old Japanese temple, to the casual eye at least, there was nothing happening. To Delilah Runestone, there was also very little happening. One of the perks of the darker sorceries was relative invisibility, when you wanted it. Anyone watching would see a slight flutter of black on black. Delilah saw the black wrought-iron chair on which she sat, and the similar cafe table which held her steaming black cafe au lait mug.
She took a restless sip and leaned back to watch the window above. There hadn’t been so much as a flash from McLenen’s window all night. She gritted her teeth, while the words ‘I am so sick of eavesdropping’ flashed through her mind. It seemed as though this was all she ever did anymore. But there was just so much going on, and so much yet to figure out.
Wyyla was at it too, sitting on the windowsill on the outer side of the recently-replaced glass, and humming quietly to herself. Delilah was worried that if she moved she would be spotted. Sorcerous creatures tended to have special vision.
The rest of the night passed much the same. Evidently, Damon didn’t feel quite up to testing his luck again. At dawn, Wyyla fluttered disconsolately away. Delilah rose, dusted some invisible lint off her dress, and sent her table and chair back whence they came. She had to get back to Suerte headquarters.
Wyyla made her way to Mme. Rumella’s. Sprites were naturally tiny creatures, but had learned over the years to metamorphose themselves to greater heights of up to two feet. Otherwise they’d never be able to pull open doors.
Wyyla grew, and entered the shop, and immediately shrank again. She was always more comfortable in her natural state. She informed Mme. Rumella that she had no information and settled down to a thimble full of tea.
The morning rush came and went. Tina Virtue and Mary, who nearly always arrived around the same time, arrived around the same time. Mary said she had heard nothing from Grace Owen, but then it had only been a day. Tina ordered her hot chocolate, and stayed for a few minutes, since she had no morning appointments.
“I wonder,” mused Mary, “whether Damon and Delilah aren’t in on it together...” The others, being Benny, Mme. Rumella, Tina Virtue, Wyyla, and Jason, all regarded his curiously and waited for her to explain. “It does happen sometimes, two of the dark ones working together. Damon obviously has some sort of device working. It would be pretty thick of us to assume that it’s the Standard, but it could very well be. And Delilah is running around all over the place, warning us away from involvement with the same.”
“And their names pair up so nicely,” Benny quipped. “Damon and Delilah; Dark Sorcerers For Hire.”
Mary raised an eyebrow at him. Benny mumbled ‘sorry’ and went to wipe down the tables.
Tina Virtue remained silent for a moment, then spoke as diplomatic a version of the truth as she could. “It is almost certainly a conspiracy rather than one individual, but it would be a mistake on your part to assume that you know all the players yet.”
Mary narrowed her eyes at Tina. “Do you know something?”
“I know many things,” said Tina truthfully.
“I hate you.”
“No you don’t,” said Tina.
Mary’s jaw dropped. Wyyla fluttered to Mme. Rumella’s ear and whispered, “That shut her up.”
Mme. Rumella excused herself to help a new customer.
Through clenched jaw, Mary growled, “That’s as may be, but if you do know something relevant, you should share it.”
“No. I should not. I take my clients’ privacy seriously.”
“Even in an emergency?”
“It’s not an emergency yet,” said Tina succinctly, and left.
“She drives me absolutely up the wall,” Mary told Jason, who shook his head sympathetically.
Having attended to the customer, Mme. Rumella proceeded to prepare a fresh blueberry scone with jam and a large cappuccino. “Come, Benny, we’re going to visit a friend.”
Mme. Rumella handed him the food and drink, and remembered this time to remove her apron. She threw her Focus in her purse and they exited.
“You’re taking me to the museum?” Benny inquired as they crossed the cobblestone street.
“No, Benny, we’re going to see Leila. No doubt she been scouring the city for information about this mess and hasn’t slept or eaten.”
Mme. Rumella and her neph
ew entered the museum and asked to see Leila. She was down at her usual place by the card file. She lay slumped forward over her desk. Her pen had rolled from her loose fingers and was hovering precariously at the edge, over the dust bin.
Mme. Rumella sighed. “At least she managed to get her glasses off. I don’t know how she afforded all the replacements for the pairs she broke falling asleep on her desk in the normal world.”
She tapped on Leila’s shoulder. The archaeologist jerked awake, spun round in her chair and pointed her empty hand threateningly at Benny. Then she realized she was no longer holding her Focus. “Oh,” she mumbled and grabbed it off the edge of the desk. “Hello,” she said, when her visitors identities clicked in her brain
“A tad jumpy, are we, pet?”
“No,” Leila lied.
“We brought you a coffee,” said Benny helpfully
“Oh, thanks,” Leila blinked twice, and realized she wasn’t wearing her glasses. She examined her desk until she found them. “That’s better.” She accepted the plate and the cup and saucer gratefully and set them down. She took a big bite from the scone and launched straight into a report of what she had been working on. “So, I went down to the Mulhoy earlier. There weren’t many people there yet, and they were pretty tight lipped-”
“Perhaps you could swallow, and then speak,” Mme. Rumella suggested. Benny looked guiltily away, as though he had heard the same admonition more than once in the past
Leila complied. “Anyway, they just weren’t talking to me. The atmosphere is pretty tense though. It’s like they’re all in total denial, but just waiting to wig at the first available opportunity.”
Mme. Rumella looked to Benny and mouthed the word ‘wig’? Benny mouthed ‘later’ in reply.
Leila took a gulp of cappuccino. “Ow, hot. Anyway, I went to the Peelers at Old Scotland Yard. The Assistant Commissioner, guy by the name of O’Leary, wouldn’t tell me anything. He said they don’t give out information on missing persons cases. Except to family of course. And he didn’t believe I was the guy’s sister. Or cousin. Or girlfriend.”
“Next time try that last one first,” Benny suggested.
“Yeah. So it’s basically been a total bust for me. I’ve been searching through the records for anything that the Ur neighborhood might have devised as a counter to the Uruk Standard, but the only thing I found was this...” She trailed off and scanned the surface of her desk until she found a notecard.
She picked it up and handed it to Mme. Rumella, who read it aloud: “The Dowsing Rod of Ur. Used to find water in ancient Mesopotamia when the Tigris and Euphrates shifted suddenly.” She paused and looked to Leila. “As they often did?” Leila nodded and Mme. Rumella went back to reading. “Geological samples indicate that the River was much less stable in the early days of the city, as it was comprised mainly of those two rivers at the time. Cuneiform tablature indicates that the River disappeared in its entirety on two separate occasions. Note that the River’s status in the Forest is unknown. Markings on the rod, housed in Green Room Seven, indicate that its origin may not be entirely local.” Mme. Rumella handed the card back to Leila, who tapped it with her Focus. It flew away to reinsert itself in the file box whence it came.
“Interesting,” Benny commented.
“Very interesting,” Mme. Rumella concurred.
“But as for helpful,” said Leila, “it’s not so much.”
* * * *
Delilah Runestone perched under the window to the main office at Suerte campaign headquarters. The candidate himself was not in, but he never stayed away for very long. Delilah produced a nail file and began filing her nails. She held up one hand and blew. It had been a while since she had last had a manicure, she noted. She knew she looked good in black, but could never quite bring herself to go all out with the black nail polish and eye shadow and such. Terribly cliché for one of her type. She registered the office door opening behind her and stopped to listen.
Eight or nine pairs of feet shuffled in. Suerte and his bodyguards, and who else? A chair being dragged. Suerte was sitting behind his desk.
“You,” said Suerte. “How am I doing?”
Delilah stood up until her head was just below the windowsill
“Er,” came a small, threatened voice, “very well. You’re complying with all the rules. People know you’re running, and seem to realize that you’re the only candidate. The dated posters and podiums will evidence your campaign. All you have to do is wait for election day.”
Delilah frowned: she was sure she recognized that voice from somewhere.
“Which is next Thursday?” Suerte asked in the tone of someone who knew the answer to his own question, but still wanted to hear someone else say it.
“Yes, sir. By the city charter, no one actually has to vote for you. Since you’re the only candidate, and the general public knows this, you’ll become mayor by default.”
“Perfect,” said Suerte darkly. “And no one has come to search the city records for anything related to the election?”
“Er, not since the last one, sir,” came the reply.
Delilah’s chest tightened. The man at the front desk of the city records building. Suerte knew she was checking up on him. She fought down her panic, and listened.
“Security man, whatever your name is, have we gotten any communiqués from Holden?”
“Mr. Trainer sent a carrier. He says he has located Miss Lien and Mr. Villa...”
“Viellenave. Waht did Mr. Trainer say?”
“He seems to think they will join. As for the others, he hasn’t gotten a definite answer yet. Apparently they have other plans.”
“Send the bird back to him with a note saying that they should both come talk to me. I will convince them.”
Suerte ordered someone to escort the man back to the Library of Congress building. Then he dismissed all but one bodyguard. Delilah knew he was distracted when puffs of cigar smoke filtered out the window. She took off as quietly as possible over the fence.
Walking casually down the street, she bumped into Grace Owen, quite by chance this time. The private detective stood examining the gates to St. Vrain manor. She pulled on the closed gate. It didn’t budge, but Grace narrowed her eyes calculatingly at it, as though contemplating knocking it down. Delilah grabbed her by the arm.
“Excuse me, miss, but I don’t think you have the right address. This is the campaign headquarters of that man who is running for mayor.”
“I can read the sign,” said Grace, puzzled
“And I don’t think you want to bother him,” said Delilah, her voice heavy with warning. For a moment, Grace said nothing, and Delilah gestured urgently away with her eyes.
“Alright,” said Grace slowly, and continued on down the street.
Delilah continued the opposite way.
Hunter Blue watched from across the street.
* * * *
Grace Owen, still not sure what had just happened to her nonetheless moved on. St. Vrain hadn’t been on the list, just on the way. The next on her list was a few blocks further outwise even that St. Vrain, which itself was already on the early fringes of the manor building era. Today was really a dual-purpose outing, one to do a survey of manors as both her client and Delilah suggested, and second to further familiarize herself with the city. As she walked, she pondered her approach to the case. Normally, she would conduct interviews first. Ignoring the fact that the man had no real friends or family, she knew that interviewing with his coworkers was a logical first step. The truth, and it irritated her greatly, was that she was afraid to talk to people here. She never felt like she had the upper hand, or feltsecure, in the handful of cases she had taken on since arriving in the city. Most of the people she had tried to talk to had threatened her away, or creeped her out until she excused herself. She looked up to find that she had arrived at her destination
Grace’s assistant, Van, had told her about this place. It had no name and was not on any of the maps in the office, b
ut he had passed once, just walking by. It had caught his eye and he remembered it when she had told him about the manor-checking tip. The place had a partial yard, and was set back a ways from the street, but had no wall or gate.
Grace Owen strode up to the house and halted at the base of the small stair that led to the door. It was creepy in a very serious way. The windows were all covered with exterior shutters. She could reach one if she stood near the door. She extended her arm and pulled, confirming her fear. They were nailed into place.
She removed her Focus and leveled it the door. She willed herself to step forward, but it still took a moment for her legs to acquiesce. Grace knocked politely on the door, on the off chance someone lived here. There was no answer, for which she was thankful. She did not want to contemplate the sort of person that would live in this place.
The door opened immediately at her touch, which was unsettling. It swung open. Creaking all the way, naturally
Grace Owen stepped inside against the will of virtually all her instincts and internal organs, which were signaling their displeasure at her decision. The interior was dark. Low autumn light filtered in through the shutters, illuminating the thick swirls of dust. Grace’s throat rebelled, but she didn’t cough for fear of inviting attention. Of course, as she just realized, her knock on the door would have done just that.
She made her way slowly across the entryway, testing each consecutive floorboard with a tentative foot to make sure it didn’t squeak under her weight. The next room was a parlor. The ancient furniture with wasn’t covered with white sheets, which Grace had been expecting, for what she knew was no good reason. One end table had a broken leg and leaned against the sofa. The upholstery of all the pieces was decaying.
She glanced back across the entry way. There was a similar parlor on the opposing side of the house. Nothing appeared to be in there either, from this vantage point. She decided to press forward. On the far side of the parlor, a hallway lined with doors. Most of them must be closets, Grace judged from their frequency. With the absence of muffled cries for help, she decided to bypass the closets for now.