Bone Song (27 page)

Another country.

A huge grin stretched Donal's face as he watched the nighttime cityscape grow larger and more amazingly detailed while the plane came in to land. Soon there was touchdown. Donal's head rocked back as the tires spun across the roughened opaque glass that formed the runway. Then the aircraft was braking, a controlled deceleration down to taxiing speed.

Only the final ground maneuvers remained before Donal could walk inside Silvex City itself.

Finally the plane rolled to a halt parallel to a terminal building, one of seven spread out in a star-shaped configuration. An oval detached itself from the wall and moved toward the aircraft, dragging behind it an elongating tunnel formed of overlapping metal leaves.

“We would like to thank you all for choosing Air Illurium for your journey, and we look forward to . . .”

While the first officer's announcement sounded over the speaker, even the most jaded first-class passengers were murmuring their appreciation. One heavyset woman pulling on a fur stole said to her husband, “Wonderful time, dear. Shall we do it again soon?”

“. . . seeing you next time. Thanks again, everyone.”

“I think we absolutely should.”

None of the stewardesses blinked at this, not even the young lady with the bandaged hand. How would she explain the wound to herself? Handling a broken glass?

The steward with the broken leg was out of sight. And the black drapes were pulled across the witch's cubicle, though Donal was sure she was inside.

Everyone's happy.

Donal waited until the last, pretending to take time getting his belongings from the under-seat storage, though it consisted only of his overcoat and the battered paperback of
Human: the Heretics,
the next volume he'd intended to read.

The black drapes concealing the witch did not even twitch.

Donal waited. He was the last passenger on board.

“It was a great flight,” he told the effeminate steward. “Apart from the interesting stuff.”

“I know just what you mean, sir.”

Donal stopped by the drapes, considering whether to pull them back. If the witch were in some kind of trance, an interruption might be dangerous.

The amulet, now inside his shirt, felt cold and hard.

Do you—

Shhh.

Three black-robed men were coming aboard the aircraft. The tallest of the trio stared at Donal with eyes that seemed to expand as they focused.

“Who are you?”

“I'm Donal Riordan.”

One of the other mages pointed at Donal's chest, straight toward the amulet concealed beneath Donal's shirt and tie. “It was passed on, not stolen.”

“Truth,” said the third mage.

And all three mages bowed at once.

“You are blessed,” their leader said. “Go with our blessings added to hers.”

“Er . . . Right,” said Donal. “Thanks. Especially . . .”

Donal glanced back at the drapes.

“I'd better let you go.”

None of the mages moved until Donal had left the aircraft.

There was a five-sided bronze clock powered by waterwraiths. It was ornate, hanging from the ceiling via a braided cluster of bronze chains, encrusted with faceted glass drops, like jewels. The floor was tiled in some lustrous dark-green mineral, through which dark spirals swirled.

And this was merely the baggage claim.

Donal's fellow passengers were waiting for their cases to come down the glass chute set high in the wall. As Donal reached the chute, it was his case that came sliding down. Some of the other passengers stared at Donal as if he had arranged it.

Obviously that was nonsense, but Donal smiled as if it was his due anyway, picked the bag up, and looked around. He could not see a sign, but from the way some of the people were standing around the hall, he intuitively deduced which archway to use.

He walked through, saw the floating flamewraith pointing the way to Customs, and followed that corridor.

It was decorated in something like the Gothic–deco style that Donal was used to, but heavier in its use of glass and bronze. The air smelled clean, almost antiseptic. At the final gates leading to the open concourse, Customs officials were checking documents and nervous people were standing in queues, waiting to be called.

But a white-gloved officer beckoned Donal forward and nodded as Donal began to raise his passport, waving him through.

“Welcome to Illurium, Lieutenant.”

“Um. . . Thanks.”

Everything was easy.

In an office off to one side, almost hidden, a figure in a dark robe that might have been black or deep-purple made a tiny hand gesture. A good feeling swept down Donal's body at the sight of that benediction. Whether it was a mage or a witch that had cast the hex, he could not tell.

Do you—

Soon. Soon enough.

Donal walked through the barrier and into the vast domed edifice of the concourse. He found an exchange bureau, since he hadn't had time to buy Illurian currency back in Tristopolis, and winced at the smallness of the pile he received for his florins.

There was a bank of red pay phones, and he used the nearest, pushing two fourteen-sided coins into the slot before dialing. The line hummed and hissed, then a switchboard wraith answered, and Donal told it the extension he needed.

Five seconds later, Laura came on the line.

“Guess what, sweetheart? You're off to the opera again.”

O
verhead, crystal shone amid steel
spars, among which amber shapes encapsulating flamewraiths floated. Shops and eateries, glistening and clean, were arranged across a bewildering array of stacked tiers, the floors mostly of glass. The sound of two thousand chattering voices washed over Donal, echoing back and forth in the great space.

A coffee bar caught Donal's attention. According to the hand-painted sign, they offered twenty-three varieties of coffee and seventeen of tea. Donal smiled at the sight and the dark aroma.

He carried his bag across and sat down at a table against the wall. A small translucent sprite rose up from the table and hovered there, beating her almost-invisible wings to stay in place. Donal pointed at the Choco Zurinese and said, “I'll have a medium—no, make it large.”

The sprite smiled, or gave what passed for a smile on those tiny, delicate near-human features, then she slipped back inside the tabletop for a second. She reappeared and glided toward the counter, where three ordinary humans worked.

It was the prettiest of the waitresses who brought Donal's coffee, and he gave a brilliant smile and said, “That looks fantastic.”

Responding to his cheerfulness, she beamed back.

“You'll enjoy it.”

Everything was peaceful.

When the waitress returned to the counter, she smiled at one of her colleagues, who was cutting a piece of cake from a dish.

The colleague was serving a portly middle-aged man, who responded to the little joke she made—Donal couldn't quite catch the words—with a gentle remark of his own, then sat down at a corner with his cake and tea. Cutting a piece of cake with the side of his fork, the man raised it to his mouth and closed his eyes in pleasure.

Somehow it seemed to Donal that his simple pleasure in receiving the coffee had communicated itself, spreading among three more people in the space of seconds. And wouldn't it be wonderful if life could always be like this?

So why can't it be?

The only thing Donal knew about the future was that it hadn't happened yet.

And the one thing about the recent past he was sure of was that he hadn't felt this good when he got on the plane in Tristopolis, but he'd been feeling fantastic since he woke up high above Silvex City. Could it be something to do with the altitude? Or even the makeup of the atmosphere here?

After he'd finished the coffee, Donal took the cup and saucer to the counter himself and thanked the waitresses. Their eyes crinkled up as they smiled in genuine happiness, and they voiced cheerful farewells as Donal left.

This was not seduction. They were far too young for Donal.

And if there was one thing about the present he was sure of, one melancholic fact marring the perfection of this moment, it was that he would have loved to share this adventure with Laura. Provided it could be safe.

Craning his head back, Donal looked up at the glass dome and the perpetual blackness pressing against it. Unused to sky that was anything but purple of varying hues, he wanted to see what things were like here. Was the black sky featureless, or was there some kind of visible topology? Visible to the naked eye?

He looked around at the exit signs.
Ground Transportation,
one of them read, which Donal assumed meant taxis and buses. A separate sign for trains pointed down a flight of stairs.

What Donal wanted was a place where he could—There. A sign for
Observation Lounge
directed him to a moving strip that began horizontally and then rose to form an escalator. It carried him up past two levels of restaurants and clothing stores.

At the top he got off and passed a glass bar, ignoring the inviting drinks, and walked to the exit that led outside. Most of the people were content to sit beside the glass walls and look out, but there was a door to the exterior patio, so Donal opened it and stepped out into cold darkness.

There were tiny points of yellow in the black sky. Here and there, pale-blue orbs were scattered.

It's true night.

This was what you could not see from Tristopolis or any part of federal airspace. This was humanity's glimpse of the greater universe, of starlight that had crossed the void over epochs.

As Donal watched, a crimson meteor streaked across the sky, followed by another, and then a third.

He spent a long time drinking in the vastness.

When Donal returned to the concourse, his two bags in hand, it was past twenty-five o'clock. He'd been outside longer than intended.

Alexa had arranged a hotel room for him by phone, not relying on the department's travel office: it had been painful enough getting them to authorize the foreign travel, even though Laura had paid for the air ticket. Whether the Nova DeLuxe would let Donal check in during the early hours of the morning, he had no idea.

Descending a helical escalator, Donal passed through seven stories of concourse until he came to the ground-transportation level. There, among families waiting for relatives or cheap unofficially booked taxis to arrive, stood a disconsolate group of drivers. Some wore dark uniforms and held up placards on which visitors' names had been written.

E. Aalsighsen; Councillor Livko
read one; a scrawled legend that might have been
The Family Labrusvhjo
—however that was pronounced—was another; a sign that just read
LexCo Inc Reprezentativ,
which was either a foreign language or bad spelling; and
D. Riordan
—

Donal went up to the man with the peaked cap and the
D. Riordan
sign.

“Who sent you?”

No one is expecting me.

“Ah, Mr. Riordan. Can I take your bag?”

Concentrating on his breathing, allowing his vision to become very sensitive to motion on the periphery of his awareness, Donal said, “But who is your employer?”

“Sorry. I was supposed to say—Don Falvin Mentrassore, sir, is a friend of Harald Hammersen.”

“Ah. Right. Lead the way.” So this was one of Harald's contacts. “And I'll carry my own bag, thanks.”

“Yes, sir. We're headed that way.”

“Were you here when the flight landed?” Donal checked his watch. “That was nearly an hour ago.”

“Um, yes, sir.”

“Sorry I kept you waiting. D'you need to take a break or anything before we travel?”

Donal knew what it was like when you were on stakeout, which was why every car or nondescript room needed at least one large empty bottle, if not several, in case it became an observation point.

The driver hesitated, then said, “I'll just be a minute.”

Donal grinned at him. The driver headed off toward the restroom. Donal put his bags down on the polished tiles and looked around the concourse.

There were shops selling trinkets and ordinary foodstuffs and even pharmaceuticals. Perhaps, if this place was easily reached from the city's lower levels, it served as a shopping center for local people. And for airport staff.

A shabbily dressed young man with a lute hanging from one shoulder by a leather strap was heading toward Donal.

“Excuse me, sir.” The man's complexion was ivory, his eyes bore epicanthic folds, and his accent was Shorinese. “D'you know how to get to Dalishville Range?”

Donal's knowledge of Illurian geography was shaky, but he knew the place was hundreds of miles away at least. “Not really. The railroad station's that way.” He pointed back toward a ramp.

“That's the cheapest way to travel, I think.”

“Yes, no buses here.”

He meant long-distance buses.

“Good luck,” Donal told him.

“Thank you, sir.”

The youth headed in the direction of the ramp.

“Who was that, sir?” It was the car driver, returning. “Someone bothering you?”

Everyone was calling Donal “sir.”

“Not really. He was just looking for directions.”

“Oh. And he came to you first.”

Donal shrugged. If you looked calm and watchful, people assumed you were at home. But this was a city like any other, however polished and gleaming it—

Do you feel the bones?

No, but there's something nearby.

Donal stared at the sign for the train station.

“Sir? We really—”

“What's your name?” Donal asked. “And you can call me Donal.”

“I'm Rix.”

“Well, Rix, how about if you take my luggage, after all?” Donal picked the bags up and offered them. “And take them to Don Mentrassore's house.”

“Er . . .”

“Right, just the bags. I'll be along later. What's the address?”

“Of Don Mentrassore's home?” asked Rix, as if unable to believe someone could not know where the don lived.

“Uh-huh.”

“It's in Upper Kiltrin North,” said Rix. “The road spirals down from Pulkwill's Hill, and the don's mansion is—”

“What's the name of the road?”

“Pulkwill's Hill is the main public road. The house is on a private street with no name.”

Donal wondered how the mail was delivered, but for now all he had to know was how to get there. “A taxi will know the way, I presume. What do I ask for, Mentrassore Mansion?”

“Sure, and it's easy to find,” said Rix. “Drive slowly down the road until you see the place with the three steel gargoyles out front, usually with their wings spread out like this.” Rix gestured wide with both hands. “Or maybe you'll see two gargoyles and an empty whatchamacallit. Plinth.”

“The don's renovating?”

“No, it's just . . . things move around, you know? Just never while you're looking.”

Rix held Donal's bags with no more effort than Donal had.

“Sir—er, Donal, what do you need to do? The don's got every facility.”

Donal glanced back at the storefronts. “Just a few supplies I forgot to bring. Might poke around for a little bit and see some sights.”

Do you—

Get a move on.

Rix looked at his watch. He wore it inside his wrist, like Donal. Ex-military.

“Don't worry about me,” Donal added. “I won't be sleeping on the streets.”

“Okay then.” Rix tipped his cap. “Good luck, sir.”

Donal watched Rix go, then headed toward the storefronts. When he reached them, he glanced at his watch as though remembering something, then turned back and followed the path that Rix had taken. Looking down to a paved area where limousines and dark-green taxis waited, he saw Rix climbing into a low black limo.

The limo pulled out smoothly and followed the roadway, disappearing from sight beneath a ceiling of opaque glass.

Do—

Yeah.

Donal headed for the ramp that took him down to the rail station. In Tristopolis, it was the bus depot that attracted lowlife predators. Here, subtle indications of geometry and cleanliness told him to make a different choice.

Down in the subterranean station were seventeen long dark platforms. The air was cold; everything was bathed in the silvery strangeness of fluorescent lights. Three of the platforms, at the far ends, had ramps that led up to the roadway level.

A taxi was ascending one of those ramps as Donal watched, leaving behind a platform on which only bales of sacking-wrapped goods were left standing. A couple of railway workers walked past the train, whose car lights winked out one by one.

Few passengers waited at this hour. As Donal descended to the nearest platform, he noticed a police cruiser pulled up behind a large pillar close to the nearest ramp. Two uniformed officers came from behind him and walked slowly past. The larger man, his shoulders huge and his neck thick with muscle, slowed further as he looked at Donal.

Pretending he had not noticed the officer's regard, Donal slid his ticket wallet out of his inside pocket and opened it, then glanced up at the platform sign—a moving wraith hand was repainting the next train's destination in a cursive purple script—and nodded to himself, as though confirming his travel arrangements. The officers walked on.

Examining the small knots of passengers and the individuals standing with hands in pockets or huddled alone on cold benches, Donal began to think he had this wrong.

Still, he noted the young woman—girl—on one of the benches. Had the officers questioned her on their patrol? She looked to be about fourteen years old and alone, therefore vulnerable.

The officers were getting into their cruiser and pulling the doors shut. Donal watched as they reversed, made a screeching U-turn, then accelerated too fast up the ramp, heading for the roadways above.

Seconds after they were out of sight, a lean, unshaven man came out from behind a pillar and began to walk along the platform, his too-big eyes staring at everyone in turn. Donal subtly bent over as he looked away, feigning the body language of uneasy fear.

Most ordinary citizens
would
feel fear at this hour, in this place.

The man uttered a low growl as he passed Donal, and Donal hunched up tighter inside his overcoat. Then the man was past, heading for the lone girl sitting on the bench.