Order of the Air Omnibus: Books 1-3 (105 page)

"Like Pelley?"

"Pelley doesn't talk to the Dead. That's why he needs to hire a medium." Stasi looked out the window, east toward the snow-covered plains. "I've told you everything I know about his plans, darling."

"He's running this paramilitary organization called the Silver Legion," Mitch said. He nodded toward the folded up paper in the map pocket. "I picked up his newspaper in Salt Lake day before yesterday. Like the Blackshirts in Italy, I guess. He's got a thing about Alexander the Great and he says Nostradamus said that the next big crisis in world affairs is coming in 1939. The guy I got the paper from laughed off all the occult stuff, but there's some stuff in there that's real. You can take Nostradamus that way. It's a legitimate reading."

Stasi looked at him sideways, seeming unsurprised he'd read Nostradamus. "Do you think there is a crisis coming?"

Mitch took a deep breath and let it out, giving himself a moment to put his thoughts into words. "I think so much has changed so fast in the last two decades. I mean, look where we all were in 1912. The ordinary things we take for granted -- movies and cars and planes and telephones in everybody's house -- you couldn't even imagine it when I was a kid. Empires crumbling, monarchies ending, whole ways of life disappearing…. Something's got to give. It's like a huge piece of ice has broken off, and it's got to go somewhere. It's going to roll downhill."

"I don't want to be under the avalanche, darling," Stasi said. Her face was unreadable. "That's my priority."

"Nobody wants to be under the avalanche," Mitch said. "But we can't pretend there isn't one. That doesn't make it go away."

"So you run," Stasi said.

"Or you try to steer the avalanche."

"No one steers an avalanche, darling."

Mitch shook his head. "Yeah, they do. You can build snow racks or put up nets, plant trees to protect structures. No, you can't make anything perfectly safe, but if you live in terrain like this, you learn how to live with it. There are things you can do to protect places where people live. You don't have to run away or be smothered. You can be a good steward."

Her eyebrows twitched. "And that's what you're doing? You and your Lodge? Trying to be good stewards?"

Mitch nodded. "It's a little section of forest, but it's ours." He risked a sideways glance at her. "You could help. You could do this too. Your job is the Dead, but it's a complimentary line of work."

She was quiet for a long time. "Pelley," she said at last.

He glanced at her again, but her eyes were on the snow-touched peaks below.

"Pelley believes that souls are bound forever by their past oaths. I can't say whether that's true or not. I don't know how it works. But there's a reason that marriages are 'til death do us part. You're not supposed to be bound after death, held to fidelity in lives to come when you may never even meet this person again. But Pelley believes that there are some oaths that endure death, whether through the person's choice or not. He thinks that you could summon people by those oaths."

"To do what?"

"I don't know," Stasi said. "And I don't know if it's even true. I thought it was just one of those things people go off on. I didn't think he'd actually do it."

"I'm more concerned about this Silver Legion of his," Mitch said. "And yeah, he's got some good ideas like medical care for vets, but…." It was hard to even get his head around it, hard to even get close. "I don't want to live in Pelley's world where everybody hates each other and every group is out for themselves."

"Darling, you don't always get to choose," Stasi said. "Having the liberty to choose is an enormous privilege."

"I know," Mitch said. "Believe me, I know I'm lucky." And he could choose whether or not to take Henry's job offer. It was a lot of money and potentially a lot of power to do good. But how much time would he actually spend in the air? And how much of that would be real flying, cross-country in all weathers? How much time would he spend supervising and writing reports instead of working on the plane himself? How much of it would he love? But the money was enough he could take care of someone beautifully, if there were someone to take care of, who'd never want for anything again.

"What was the story?" Mitch asked. "The story your grandmother told you."

Her face lit, and for a moment he could see the mischievous girl she must have been. "Queen Esther," she said. "It was my favorite."

"The bridge between worlds," Mitch said. "Who made enemies into friends with her love."

"Don't forget her terrible revenge, a massacre in reverse. Kill all your enemies' children lest they kill yours. That's how it works, darling. Even God says so," Stasi said. "And don't discount what it cost her, a lifetime in the king's bed."

"Do you think she hated the Persian emperor so much then?" Mitch asked. "The Bible doesn't say."

Stasi shook her head. "I think she loved him. And used him too."

"Maybe he didn't mind being used."

"Maybe not, darling," she said. "Some don't."

I
skinder had always thought that one of the great advantages of the Astoria was that its outrageous rates included a good deal of discretion. If a guest wanted to light candles and burn incense in his room it was his own business. If, of course, he had actually had any incense. Iskinder nodded for the waiter to remove the table with the remains of their dinner, and once he had gone, locked the suite door behind him.

Jerry looked up from his place on the sofa, and took a last drag on his cigarette.

"It's time, I suppose."

Iskinder looked at him. "If you're having second thoughts —"

"No, not at all." Jerry still looked unhappy as he ground out his cigarette in the crystal ashtray. "I just wish I understood what was going on."

"So do I," Iskinder said. "But what I do — I can't say I like it."

As he had hoped, Jerry smiled at that. "This Pelley. Apparently I haven't been paying enough attention."

Iskinder felt his own smile fade. Pelley was a symptom, he thought, the most extreme version of something that had gone terribly wrong with the world. His own country was facing an increasing threat from Italy, despite the League of Nations, despite all the treaties proclaiming a twenty-year friendship and the renunciation of war, and his careful overtures to American leaders — men he'd been to school with, men who in many cases he'd counted friends — had gone precisely nowhere. No one wanted to see another world war; the average man was too worried about keeping his job, or finding one, to have much sympathy left for a bunch of Africans. Especially when Mussolini cloaked his own imperial ambitions in concern for a peasantry enslaved and oppressed by a feudal nobility. The most progressive Americans could hardly be expected to support a regime of slaveholders….

But that was his business, not Jerry's, and Jerry had been nothing but supportive throughout the visit. Now it was his turn to give. "Nor I," he said. "But surely it will pass. Shall we begin?"

It didn't take long to shift the furniture enough to clear space for the circle and to lay out the ritual tools, candles at the cardinal points and in the center, and a crystal wineglass filled with water set beside a single cigarette. Not the standard equipment, and neither one of them had proper robes, except of course for Iskinder's most formal traditional garments, and he wasn't surprised when Jerry sighed.

"Just once I'd like to do things properly."

Iskinder paused, setting the last candle in place, momentarily overcome by memory. Jerry had been made journeyman during the war, one of the few times the Lodge had managed a formal gathering. Count Udolpho swore that the so-called music room had been designed as a meeting place for an earlier lodge, and certainly there seemed to be niches for candles at each of the cardinal points. The heavy velvet drapes closed out light and sound, sealing them into sacred space. They had all been properly robed, each according to grade and patron; the air had smelled of beeswax and frankincense, heady as church, and the circle had leaped into existence almost as they called it. He could still see them there, Alma with her fair hair loose on her shoulders — she and the Countess had been the only two women in the Lodge then — Mitch at her side, both robed in apprentice's white as Iskinder was himself. The ritual had been long and intricate, and Gil had presided over it with unusual solemnity. Only at the end, when Jerry emerged acknowledged, had Gil allowed himself to smile, and the air between them had very nearly crackled with the heat of their connection. It had not occurred to Iskinder until later to consider how carefully Gil had worked, how complicated it must have been, to create the formal elegance that was Jerry's nature.

"The Astoria isn't fancy enough for you?" he asked, and Jerry grinned.

"You have to admit it's not their usual style."

"Nonsense. If I'd asked the concierge to provide me with the necessities for a Hermetic ritual, I'm sure he could have managed."

Jerry blinked. "Now I almost wish you'd tried." He pulled the medallion from his pocket. "Are we ready?"

Iskinder nodded, and took a deep breath to center himself. It was his task to support the ritual, to cast the circle and then lend energy, and he was glad to do it. He had brought his ritual dagger with him — one could be excused much when one was a barbarous African — and he drew it gently, the ancient iron blade dull in the electric lights. He turned to the east, hand lifted in salute, then drew the familiar cross. "Ateh malkuth ve-gevurah ve-gedulah le-olaham, amen."

He bent to light the eastern candle, then traced a pentagram in the air above it. The faintest breath of wind caressed his face, and he traced the circle to the south, crossing behind Jerry to light the second candle. The flame leaped in answer to his call, a spark in his soul, and he moved on to the west and to the north, returning at last to the east to close the circle.

"Before me, Raphael, behind me Gabriel. On my right hand Michael and on my left Uriel. About me shines the pentagram, and within me the six-rayed star."

He closed his eyes for a moment, seeing the archangels robed in white and scarlet like icons in the church, stern beautiful faces beneath spreading golden halos, wings outstretched to shape the circle, familiar comfort. At the circle's center, Jerry lit another candle, then unwrapped the medallion. He held it above the flame and then the water, purifying it for the ritual, then passed the cigarette over the water and lit it from the candle's flame.

"In the name of the Lord of the Universe," he began, "and of He Who is on the Mountain, the Lord of Bows, Anubis, and of Raphael who protects the Tree of Life from those unworthy, I conjure thee, O Shroud of Darkness and of Mystery, that thou encirclest this creature of earth so that it may become invisible, so that seeing it, men see it not, neither understand, but that they may see the thing that they see not, and comprehend not the thing that they behold. So may it be."

He drew in a lungful of smoke, then exhaled it over the medallion. For a moment, it seemed to Iskinder that the smoke lingered, wrapping around the worn metal, blurring it further.

"Shroud of Concealment, long hast thou dwelt concealed," Jerry said. "Quit the Light, that thou mayest conceal this creature of earth before men. Let it receive thee as a covering and a guard, according to my will, in the name of Jehovah Elohim."

Iskinder saw him take a breath, marshaling will and focus.

"This medallion shall remain safe within the keeping of the Metropolitan Museum until I come for it," Jerry said. "The image on its reverse shall remain unnoticed and unremarked, its puzzle shall be unsolved, until I return to solve it. The Emperor's last resting place shall remain concealed until it may safely be uncovered. So may it be."

Iskinder looked up sharply. Those were not the words that Jerry had originally written, and for an instant he thought he saw Jerry standing elsewhere, torchlit, the air filled with dust like floating gold. The shape of rams' horns seemed to frame his long face. And then the vision was gone, contextless and unhelpful, and Jerry had finished the last invocation, setting the medallion carefully aside. Iskinder bowed, and they stood for a moment in silence before Iskinder moved to open the circle.

When it was done, and the furniture returned to its proper place, all evidence of the ritual tidied away, Iskinder poured them each a stiff bourbon. Jerry took it gratefully, stretching his leg as though it pained him, and Iskinder settled himself at the other end of the sofa. They touched glasses and drank, Iskinder feeling the familiar sense of effort that came from any working, and Jerry shook his head.

"I hope that will be enough."

"It should be." Iskinder spoke without thought, and Jerry looked up sharply.

"What did you see?"

"Nothing of particular use," Iskinder said. That was the trouble with his talent, it often came without enough hooks to let him stitch it into the fabric of the known. A year from now, ten years from now, he'd see the connections, and realize what a vision meant. "But I believe it will work. And, anyway, it's what we can do."

"It's all we can do," Jerry answered, and lifted his glass again.

L
ewis stared at the Tarot cards in front of him with dismay. He'd just done a reading for Stasi, but it didn't seem to make any sense. She, however, was serenely lighting a cigarette. "It's gibberish," Lewis said.

"I know." Stasi took a long draw. "My question was impossible. I asked what will happen tomorrow."

Lewis blinked. "Why is that impossible?"

"Lots of things will happen tomorrow, darling. To lots of different people. The question is too broad and not specific enough. What will happen to you? To Mitch? To Alma? To some guy in New Jersey? In regards to what? Hundreds of thousands of variables, darling. It's worse than my example before about driving to Denver and the sheep truck. Even if I'd narrowed the question to just what will happen to me, that depends on too many things that haven't been determined yet."