“Only, and I’m guessing, here, when I was released from prison, you got worried. Less about me, because even if I could find out who was behind Nasa, who’d believe a convicted traitor?” He flipped the knife again and started to pace the room. “But still, you worried—probably about how poor old Jessup would react. Maybe he’s starting to feel a little bit guilty about killing those six soldiers—sorry, five soldiers.” He paused in his perambulations and looked at her. “Turns out your husband failed to murder my lieutenant.”
“That’s not all he failed at,” she said tightly.
“Guess the mourning period is over,” he observed, resuming his pacing. “Anyway, you’re worried, and being a sensitive, you’d have known you were right to worry. What to do? What to do?” He spun from the hearth and started towards the window. “Why not solve both potential problems at once? Jessup is becoming a liability, and I’m already—”
“Troublesome,” she inserted, sliding to the edge of the bed, drawing Gideon’s attention back in her direction. “The word you tend to inspire is, ‘troublesome.’”
“And I’m troublesome,” he echoed, pausing in front of her. “So why not take out two dracos with one stone? Send your lackeys out to fetch me, and once they do, you drug me, murder your husband, and leave me to wake up in his blood. How am I doing, so far?”
“Impressively accurate. I would pay as much as two starbucks to see you at the Circus.”
He gave the slightest bow, though his eyes remained locked on hers.
“So accurate, in fact, I wonder if you’ve a touch of sensitivity as well?”
“Doubt it.”
Despite the casual tone, his eyes darkened with the desire Celia kindled. Encouraged, she prodded him further, psionically stoking the fire of his need as she asked, “And why is that?”
“Sensitives don’t do well around live crystal,” he told her, his voice pleasingly rough. “Something you’ll be finding out, soon enough.”
“No.” She shook her head once, slowly, “I’m afraid I won’t.”
Outside, a bird of some sort keened a low and mournful note.
Celia felt her control of Gideon slip.
At the same time Nahmin, whose presence she’d sensed outside the window, swept like smoke through the billowing curtains, his blade slicing through the air between himself and Gideon.
Celia slid to the floor as Nahmin leapt into the room, fully expecting to see Gideon, Nahmin’s blade in his back, falling to the carpet at her side.
What she saw, instead, was Nahmin’s dagger rebounding off the bedpost, before dropping to the carpet with a dull thud.
Then she saw the pair of long legs in rough spun trousers, facing the window.
Looking up, she saw Gideon, his eyes glittering dangerously, his left hand extended, and empty.
Her gaze tracked the direction of that hand to see Nahmin, standing just inside the window, his expression blank, and a knife—her knife, which had been in Gideon’s hand—lodged in his throat.
Slowly, as if time had slipped out of synch, Nahmin’s head dropped in her direction.
His mouth fell open but no words could pass the obstruction of her blade.
Still, she felt what he felt, and surprised the both of them with the tears that wet her cheeks. “Your service will be remembered,” she told him.
Her words seemed to act as scissors, for on hearing them Nahmin’s legs buckled, and he dropped to the carpet where, after a soft sigh of release, Celia felt him no more.
She blinked away the tears to see Gideon, already crouching to retrieve Nahmin’s knife from where it had fallen.
“You should run, now,” she told him, her voice strange and flat in her own ears.
He looked up from his study of the blade. “Why?”
She stared at him, so calm so… smug… in his righteousness. “You’ve just murdered my servant, have you not? That’s two men in two days, dead by your hand.”
“I didn’t kill your husband.”
“You killed Nahmin.”
“In self-defense.”
“That may be true, but we both know when it comes to your word against mine, the widow of a decorated general trumps the ravings of a convicted traitor.”
“Yeah,” he sighed, “I guess you’re right.” Then he rose and crossed towards one of her display tables. “Which makes it a good thing I left this on, so the police could hear our conversation.”
As she watched, Gideon picked up a battered Stolichnayan radio from amidst the cans and music boxes and ancient shoes. “Quinn to Hama,” he said into the device, “did you get all that?”
“DS Hama is on the door, but rest assured, I got all of it,” a woman’s voice, dry and crisp despite the static, came over the radio.
“General Satsuke.” Gideon rolled his eyes. “So glad you could make it.”
“I sincerely doubt that,” the general replied. “Still, that was an… enlightening conversation. Despite a few moments of static, we heard more than enough to take Madame Rand into custody, if someone will unlock the door.”
“We’ll be right there. Over and out,” Gideon said, then set the radio down and held out a hand to Celia. “Coming?”
She looked at that hand, then at Nahmin—specifically at the dagger protruding from Nahmin’s throat.
She could, she was certain, have the knife out of his throat and into her own heart before Gideon could stop her.
“If you do that,” she heard Gideon say, “you’ll be admitting you lost.”
“I have lost.” She looked up to see him watching her. Hatred and—something else—burned in her heart.
“You’ve lost the battle,” he agreed. “But as you said yourself, the war’s not over.”
His hand was still out, still waiting.
“Suppose I still choose to exit the field,” she said, unmoving, “why would you care?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted, after a beat.
Being what she was, she could feel this was so.
She could only speculate on what caused the emotional conflict. “Maybe you wish to see me suffer for my crimes.”
He held her gaze. “Maybe.”
“Or maybe,” she said, holding up her own hand and allowing him to pull her to her feet, “you’ve come to accept we really are much the same.”
His gaze sharpened, then he looked away.
Celia took it as a triumph, small though it be, to have rendered him speechless.
47
Erasmus Ellison had had a very bad day.
He was willing to take some of the wax for it, as it was him that put Mia after Gideon Quinn in the first place.
That had turned out to be a bad move on his part, no getting past it.
But for the rest? That was on Mia, as the little hornet had cost him his hive of dodgers, his retirement fund, and quite likely his freedom, should the coppers catch up with him.
It was also, a very small voice pointed out, on Quinn, but Ellison ignored that little voice because listening to it would mean facing up to Quinn, and that was far, far outside Ellison’s comfort zone.
Dealing with Mia, however, that was spot in the middle of his comfort zone, and that was why he’d followed the coppers here, to the poshest neighborhood in all of Nike, where something mighty important seemed to be going down inside the estate on Chaucer Street, if the military presence meant anything.
Not that he could see much from the stables, which he’d slipped into while the coppers and soldiers had been busy storming the front of the house, but he could hear the rush of footsteps and voices.
Some were angry, some questioning, but all were excited.
The most excited voice was also higher than the others, and younger, and one he knew well, even though he wasn’t used to the sound of Mia’s laugh.
Just hearing it made his innards tie up in angry knots, and it took every bit of his limited self-control to remain hidden with the stinking horses while the coppers and soldiers finished whatever t
hey were up to in the big house.
Eventually, things quieted some, then a few sets of boots left the house, and some vehicles started up and drove off.
But he didn’t hear Mia’s voice among those departing, and there was still a deal of noise from the main house.
The suns lowered.
More vehicles arrived, with more voices, which also headed indoors.
Ellison hunkered down between the stalls, and waited.
“I don’t know whether to commend you, shoot you, or send you back to Morton,” General Satsuke told Gideon.
“Due respect,” DS Hama said, “but I believe there are a few civil matters for Mr. Quinn to answer for, first.”
The two, along with Gideon, had retired to Jessup Rand’s study, while a fresh influx of police officers worked the crime scene upstairs, and a handful of recently arrived CIOD officers processed the rest of the house—paying particular attention to any and all confidential data Celia Rand had in her possession.
Celia herself had already been removed by a pair of eager young Corpsmen, with the hastily deputized Ohmdahls as backup.
No charges had yet been declared, but Gideon figured there were enough to keep both civil and military law enforcement agencies busy for some time.
“You’ll have to be more specific,” Gideon said from where he sat—legs stretched out and eyes closed—in the leather armchair that had once been Jessup Rand’s favorite.
“Certainly,” Hama replied. “Would you care to hear the charges in chronological, alphabetical, or statute order? Both myself and the Chief of Police are particularly curious as to why you had a ruffian from Lower Cadbury break into Minister Del’s home?”
“Someone broke into Minister Del’s house?” Gideon’s eyes didn’t even open. “I’m shocked.”
“Perhaps this is a matter best dealt with at a higher pay grade,” Satsuke cut in. “In fact, I am quite certain your Chief and I will be able to facilitate the more complicated aspects of Mr. Quinn’s—situation.”
“And won’t that be fun?” Gideon asked, suddenly opening his eyes and pushing himself from the chair with a surprising amount of verve. “In the meantime, if you don’t mind, I’m going to find my coat. And my draco.”
With this he strode from the room, intent on his purpose.
Hama looked at Satsuke, who shook her head at the ex-soldier’s whimsy.
They’d both started for the study door when Gideon popped back to ask, “Has anyone seen Mia?”
Mia was outside, perched the step used by the gentry to climb in and out of their carriages, watching Elvis chase pigeons over the rooftop as the suns broke free of the clouds, just in time to drop below the skyline.
She didn’t think the draco was hungry. It looked more like he was having fun.
For sure he was enjoying himself more than Mia.
Oh, it had been exciting enough, earlier, when she’d been huddled with Officer Prudawe and DS Hama at the front door, waiting for the general lady to say it was okay to go in.
And when Elvis had gone stiff and still on her shoulder, then flown straight up to the second floor, she’d gone all tingly with fear, and raced out of hiding and onto the street to see the draco hovering outside the same window Gideon had jumped from that morning. She hadn’t been able to see anything amiss, but if Elvis was keening, Mia knew something bad was happening inside.
She’d raced back to the others, to tell them they needed to get inside, that Gideon was in trouble, but by then the general lady was with them, telling Gideon over the radio to unlock the door.
Her heart didn’t even think about slowing down until Gideon opened the door, and handed the fancy lady-murderer-spy over to the police.
After that, it had been a rush of coppers and soldiers pouring in and out of the house. Gideon had managed to give her a quick grin and a raised fist of triumph before being herded off by DS Hama and the general, leaving Mia and Elvis to their own devices.
She supposed she could just scarp.
It wasn’t as if Gideon owed her anything.
One might have said he owed her his life, but having facilitated the hive out from Ellison’s control, she supposed they were dead even now.
Still she remained, making designs in the gravel with her heels, and watching Elvis perform a series of aerial gymnastics, until the moment Ellison’s shadow crossed her line of vision.
48
It had gone full dark by the time Ellison‚carrying an overlarge burlap bag liberated from the Rand stables—entered the boathouse, where, until about three hours past, his hive used to reside.
The decrepit building was black as pitch, but for the wavering circle of light provided by the lantern Ellison had lit upon entering.
Since the lamp’s crystal was old, the illumination it provided was uncertain, shrinking or expanding at random, so Ellison’s view of the boathouse varied by the moment.
Not that it mattered as Ellison, carrying both lantern and bag to the center of the room, knew every centimeter of the place by heart.
The bag had ceased bucking some time back, probably to avoid the pounding and slapping which was Ellison’s response.
Once he dropped it onto the warped boards, however, it immediately commenced wriggling again, so he gave the sack a touch of the boot.
He was gratified to see the little shape curl up on itself with a soft whimper.
“There’ll be more o’ that and you don’t mind yerself,” he told it. “You savvy?”
The top of the bag gave a subdued nod.
Satisfied, he set the handheld lamp on a crate that, like the rest of the boathouse, had seen better days.
Then he opened the sack and pulled Mia out by the hair.
“You and me,” he said, kicking the sacking aside, “we’re gonna have us a little talk.”
“About what?” she asked, arms crossed in front of her, defiance trembling in every bone.
“All kinds o’ things,” he said, looming over the dodger. “Like ingratitude.“
“Sorry, didn’t I thank you for the back of your hand last night?”
For which he, of course, was forced to give her the back of his hand, again.
“Now, now,” a dry voice reproved from the darkness, “that’s no way to treat your dodgers.”
Ellison and Mia both froze.
“Who’s there?” the fagin asked, drawing a blade from his belt with one hand while the other snagged Mia by the throat.
“Let’s just say I’m a man who has had a spectacularly bad day.”
Ellison turned to the left, cursing. He’d been sure the speaker had been at his right.
Mia tried to take advantage of the distraction by slamming an elbow into Ellison’s gut, but she hadn’t enough force to penetrate the layers of clothes, fat, and muscle.
“Ease off, girl,” he snapped, knocking her up against the crate with enough force to daze.
A heart-beat later he was ducking as something screeched and dove at his head, then sped past to knock the lantern to the floor, where it gave a last, valiant sputter before fading to black.
Ellison silently cursed the moment he’d ever set eyes on that draco.
“I hear you met Elvis, already,” the voice in the dark said. “Which means you should have figured out he doesn’t like people messing with kids.”
A screech from the pitch dark above confirmed this.
“I don’t like when people mess with kids, either,” Quinn’s voice (Because who else could it be?) continued.
Except now he was behind Ellison.
Ellison spun, lifting Mia up as a shield and pressing the blade against her throat. “Back off, Quinn, if you don’t wanna see how much blood’s inside this little girl.”
“What did I just say about messing with kids?” Quinn asked.
“Not just a kid,” Ellison said. “A dodger. My dodger.”
“Not anymore,” Quinn told him. “Tell you what, you put her down right now, and I’ll let you walk out that door.”
“Or,” Ellison said, “you walk out that door right now, or I give the poppet a Midasian necktie.”
There was a pause, just long enough to be gratifying to the fagin.
“Huh,” the voice said at last, “it seems you have me at a disadvantage.”
“Damn right, I do. So unless you want to see this bit o’ gutter filth bleedin’ out onna floor, you’ll be handing over that draco of yours, and backing outta here.”
“And then you’ll let Mia go?”
“Mia, is it?” Ellison’s grin slid into a leer. “Looks like I was right about her bein’ ripe enough for the night trade.”
His dark words (and darker thoughts) were cut off as a flash of light, just a brief prick of brightness in the black, seared his eyeballs.
The sudden, unexpected, glare froze him, and left him momentarily blind (or, more blind, being besieged by little white dots, rather than big black shadows), so he never saw the blade that flew from the darkness beyond all those white dots.
But he felt it.
With a gurgle of pain, Ellison dropped the girl and slumped to his knees. His own small blade slid from numb fingers to clatter on the floor as his left hand rose to find the wedge of a knife buried in his shoulder.
He tried to speak as a deeper shade of dark filled the air in front of him, but could only emit a guttural denial.
This had to be the worst pain he’d ever known.
No, he realized a moment later, as a tall shadow yanked the blade out, with just enough twist to graze bone, this was the worst pain he’d ever known.
He let out a whimper, while his unseen nemesis re-activated the pocket torch he’d used to blind Ellison.
He gave Ellison a look, then handed the torch to Mia, already sitting up.
She took the light, but was staring at Quinn. “You came after me.”
“Of course I came after you. Well, technically Elvis came after you, and I followed him. You okay?” he asked.
She gave her head a testing shake. “I dunno.” She pushed herself to her feet. “Does right pissed count as okay?”
Soldier of Fortune (2nd ed) Page 25