A Night Without Stars (38 page)

Ry had visited clubs like Cameron's many times during his interminable astronaut tours. Civic dignitaries and Democratic Unity party officials would invite him and his fellow astronauts along after the formal functions were concluded, their glamour adding to the establishment's prestige. A lot of clubs and pubs on Bienvenido had connections with gangs, mainly because they were perfect for money laundering, supplying drugs, and human trafficking. High-end establishments, like Cameron's, tended to have friends in the local party, so their patrons weren't blatantly shaken down. Nonetheless, they remained the business of choice for gangs, so Ry was sure that whoever Perrick had been taken downstairs to meet was well placed in the Opole underworld.

All the files he'd acquired while he waited on Broadstreet said the same thing—Roxwolf was Opole's major player. No one else would have the audacity to have a man snatched from outside the PSR office—or a reason. So it looked like the gang chief himself was taking an interest in Florian's whereabouts.

That gave Ry two possible routes to Florian: Chaing and Roxwolf. He gathered some torn cushions into a pile and settled down to wait.

Florian gave up on making dresses on the third day in the mod-stable. Essie was now growing so quickly there was no point. Anything he made in the morning was too small by midnight. So instead of dresses he fashioned the cloth into a kind of toga robe that she could button together down the side. That ought to last two or three days.

There was a change to Essie's daily pattern now. She used to eat and sleep with short times between spent playing; she'd never been much of a talker. Now, though, there was no more play. She just cried or whimpered, complaining about the pain. It was more than ordinary growing pain. Every joint was sore, so even the slightest movement made her wince, and her legs cramped constantly.

That afternoon, Florian had spent two hours trying to massage the cramp away with little effect. Exhausted as she guzzled down some paste from the processor, he let tears trickle down his own cheeks in sympathy for her suffering. He felt utterly useless and, worse, completely to blame. He was such a monumental failure. The space machine should have entrusted her to the Vatni; they would have done a much better job caring for her. She deserved better than him.

“Don't cry, Dada,” Essie said mournfully.

He pressed his lips together in shame as he looked at her. That delightful, pretty little face was smeared with gooey paste, her jet-black hair had become matted, and she looked so tired, exhausted by her fight against the pain. Even the weird memory organ fused to her skull was flushed a dark purple, as if it were bruised.

“Sorry, sweetheart,” he croaked. “I don't like it when you hurt, that's all.”

“Do grown-ups hurt?”

“Not like this, no.”

“Then it will stop when I'm old?”

“Yes, sweetheart. Yes, it will.” He was probably lying, because how could anybody know what her strange body was going to do? But his guilt didn't matter, because the lie offered her some hope. Anything he suffered was inconsequential, and probably well deserved.

“Is it time for a pill?” she asked hopefully.

“Yes,” he said. It wasn't, not for another hour, but he couldn't take much more of her woe. He'd been alternating types of painkillers produced by the Commonwealth medical kit, so she could gain some relief. But of course he was fearful what a constant supply of drugs would do to her, if they'd damage her in the long term. The files said no, but still it was against his nature. At least he wasn't so panicky about the salves he rubbed into her joints and muscles, which did give some relief, albeit temporary. The trouble was, there wasn't an infinite amount; he'd already used up 60 percent of the kit's chemical supplies, and he was worried how much longer she'd be suffering.

His u-shadow instructed the kit to produce some basic karacetamin—a lower dose than before because of the shorter time. She'd taken some ibuprofen less than two hours ago.

“Thank you, Dada,” she said as she gulped down some water to swallow the little green capsules. Then she put her arms around him and hugged him until she began to grow drowsy. Florian stroked her gently as her eyes slowly closed.

“I never knew anyone who was a bigger pain than Dudley Bose,” Essie said softly.

Florian gave her a startled look, but her eyelids were shut. “What's that, sweetheart?” he murmured.

“Ozzie took his motile down the Silfen paths. I wonder what became of him.”

“What?” But the girl was finally sleeping, and he wasn't going to do anything that might wake her up and plunge her back into her own private world of torment.

Matthieu arrived ninety minutes later. That was unusual enough to kick off a whole new plague of worry in Florian. It was late in the afternoon, with a single valseed lamp replacing the fading sunlight with a meager yellow glow. The rule was that nobody visited him once the club's staff started to arrive.

“What is it?” Florian asked anxiously.

“They just arrested Terannia.”

“Oh, Uracus.” He stared down at the sleeping girl, close to tears again. “Okay. If I go to the PSR, can you take Essie away from here? I don't want to know where. Just somewhere safe.”

“Florian, just calm down a moment. First off, they are gathering in a whole load of people; there's forty so far. Most of them are Eliters, but we can't work out what the connection is, other than quite a few of them are musicians.”

“They know; they must. Why else would they take her?”

“Because they're desperate. The first group they took in were the ones you knew, or went to school with. Now they're going for an even more tenuous association. This is people who might know people who knew you. Maybe. They won't even know what questions to ask her. You don't know forty people in Opole, do you?”

“No.” He shook his head miserably.

“Then we're probably in the clear. They'll try and intimidate her for a day, and when that fails they'll let her go. Because fail it will.” He gripped Florian's knee and gave him a little shake. “It won't be the first time they've tried to pin something on her, lad. She'll be all right. This time.”

“This time?” Florian asked in a panic.

“I told you, nobody's ever seen a hunt like this before. They pulled in Billop last night.”

“But…he doesn't know Aunt Terannia. Does he?”

“No, but he probably told them about Rasschaert. That might be the connection. The point is, they aren't going to stop.”

“What do I do, Matthieu? I don't know what to do.”

Matthieu was gazing at Essie, his expression uneasy. “She must be over a meter tall now.”

“I guess, yes.”

“Florian, what is going on? Who is she?”

“I don't know. I swear to Mother Laura, I don't know.”

“What happened in Albina Valley, Florian?”

“Please, don't ask.”

“We want to help, Florian. We're not going to turn you over to the PSR.”

“You can't help. I just have to stay ahead of the PSR for a month—well, it's only about three weeks now.”

“You keep saying that. What happens at the end of that month?”

“I'm not sure. I'm guessing that's when she'll be old enough to take care of herself.”

“Florian. Lad, you do get how strange she is, don't you? The way she's growing: It's just not natural. What is she?”

Florian gave Essie a guilty glance. “I don't know. But she was given to me. I have to look after her, I promised I would. She's going to help us all. Really, she is.”

“She's not from this world, is she?” Matthieu asked gently.

Florian shook his head.

“All right. Is she human, Florian?”

“Yes! Just different.”

“And the music. Where did the music come from, Florian? Don't tell me you created that. There are notes played on those tunes from instruments I've never even heard before. They are instruments that don't exist. Not here.”

Florian buried his head in his hands, furious with himself for being so stupid. Of course Matthieu would know the songs were different from anything Bienvenido had produced. “Don't know,” he grunted sullenly.

“Are they here, Florian? Has the Commonwealth found us?”

“No. It was one machine, that's all. I think it was left behind by Nigel. The PSR took it away.”

Matthieu rocked back on his heels. “But it gave you the girl before they took it?” he whispered.

“Yes.”

“Crud!” He ran a hand over his forehead. His fingers were shaking badly. “Uracus, Florian, do you even realize what's at stake here? This is too big for us. This is…This is going to change all of Bienvenido. You must know that.”

“I'm frightened, Matthieu. What if they find me? What if they take her? She can save us. The machine said she can. She hasn't done anything wrong.”

“The Warrior Angel. She'll know what to do. We have to call for her, Florian. We can't do this alone. The Warrior Angel will be able to keep Essie safe.”

It took a moment, but Florian realized Matthieu was waiting for him to agree. “All right. If you think she'll come. But you can't tell anyone else about Essie. You can't! Promise me, Matthieu.”

“I'll not mention her; you have my word. I'm betting the Warrior Angel will be quite interested in the nest alert anyway.”

“How long will it take her to get here?”

“I've no idea. Hopefully not long.”

When he crawled out of the old mod passage into the club's office, Matthieu closed the concealed door. It had been well crafted into the paneling, making it practically impossible to tell it was there. Nonetheless, he still stacked the liqueur boxes back up in front of it. The mod-stable was such a perfect bolt-hole; neither he nor Terannia wanted to risk it being exposed. More than fifty Eliters had used it at the start of their urgent journey out of Opole.

He knew there was something wrong as soon as he went downstairs. The club's bar manager was unnaturally still behind the counter, with a perfectly composed blank expression—which didn't stop him sweating heavily.

“What is it?” Matthieu asked. They still had a couple of hours until the club opened.

“Someone to see you.”

Matthieu turned slowly to find Shaham sitting at a table up by the stage, a shot of hazelnut vodka in front of him. He'd been bracing himself for a PSR officer, but having Roxwolf's senior lieutenant show up at the club was probably worse. Everyone knew Shaham, of course. He was a painfully thin man, with a shaved scalp and narrow wire-rimmed glasses that had strange amber-colored lenses. The little finger from his right hand was missing—from a knife fight as a teenager, according to local rumor. If so, it was probably the last fight he'd ever lost. These days he was the voice of Roxwolf among Opole's gangs, speaking with total authority. So much so that some people had even whispered that he might actually be Roxwolf. After all, no one had ever actually seen the gang boss—not and lived to tell of the encounter.

“We've paid this month's protection,” Matthieu said. He didn't like the way it sounded—all whiny defensive, as if he had something to hide.

Shaham smiled, which made his head look even more skeletal. “Relax, Matthieu.” He drained the shot glass in one gulp and stood up.

It was all Matthieu could do not to take a step back. The lieutenant was a good head taller, and so thin Matthieu was sure he must be ill—either a voracious parasite in his gut or a bad cancer.

“I don't make personal visits for arrears,” Shaham said. “This is almost a social call.”

“Almost?”

“Roxwolf considers Terannia a good partner. This is an excellent club, and you and Terannia are always on time with your payments to Billop. We appreciate that.”

“He's welcome to visit any night and enjoy the music.”

Shaham chortled softly. “I'll tell him; I'm sure he'll be amused by the invitation.”

“So what can I do for you?”

“A favor. It's always good to have Roxwolf owe you a favor, don't you agree?”

“I imagine it's better than owing him one.”

“Indeed. Is Terannia here?'

Matthieu shook his head, wondering if he was being toyed with. Shaham was normally
very
well informed. “The PSR took her in for questioning.”

“Yes. This nest alert is proving rather tiresome. In fact it's the reason I'm here. One of our associates is extremely concerned he might be scooped up in the next wave of arrests. He's a first-class accountant with extensive knowledge of Roxwolf's commercial enterprises, so that would be…detrimental to a great many people.”

“Why would the PSR be interested in him?”

“Apparently this current sweep is for anyone who knew an Eliter called Rasschaert. Are you familiar with him?”

“No.”

“Well, our associate used to be. And once they have him in custody…the questions might not be limited to Rasschaert.”

“Yeah. Right. So where do we come in?”

“He's one of yours, our accountant.”

“What do you mean, one of ours?”

“An Eliter. Probably why he's so good at figures. So Roxwolf and I were hoping you could help out. You've got contacts in the underground railway. We'd like him out of the city.”

Refusal wasn't an option, not with Shaham; even delaying could be dangerous. “I'll see what I can do. There's a friend who knows somebody.”

“I'm sure there is. We want him gone by tomorrow.”

“What?” Matthieu blurted. “I don't know if we can—”

“That's settled, then.” Shaham leaned forward, stooping slightly to give Matthieu a level stare. “We'll bring him around here at ten o'clock in the morning. So if the PSR come knocking tomorrow evening, he won't be here. Is that all right?”

“Yes,” Matthieu stammered. “Yes, okay.”

“Good man.” Shaham turned and walked out.

Matthieu sat down hard in the nearest chair, and realized he was sweating as badly as the bar manager.