Parabolis (14 page)

Built a century ago by its founder, Petra Le’Viscante, the Carousel Rogues’ secret lair was an intricate subterranean network of tunnels. Only sworn members knew of its existence and, once within its catacombs, how to navigate the maze.

Remy led the Ghost and the Darkness through the sewers until they arrived at a dead end, a bare concrete wall. One of the Rogue henchmen turned various wheels attached to a piping grid on an adjacent wall in a dizzying array of combinations. When he finished, Remy approached the wall, pressed down on a barely visible button along one of its many fissures. Steam began to spit from one of the pipes. The entire wall rotated clockwise twenty-five degrees, with grating sounds of cogs and chains. An opening wedge appeared to the right. One by one, the group slipped through and collected in the next chamber. Once the wall shut behind them, they were trapped. Only an iron portcullis now separated them from the lair of the Carousel Rogues. On the other side was a vault where a guard sat beside two levers: one black and one red.

“Mister Guillaume, how many hares in a hat?”

“None if you are blind as a bat,” Remy replied.

Upon hearing the passphrase, the guard pulled the black lever, raising the portcullis. Had Remy or any other person appearing before the guard spoken the wrong words, the guard was to pull the red lever without any further consideration. The red lever triggered a mechanism designed to open the entire chamber floor, the contents of which would then drop into a collecting pit with no access, to be sorted and dealt with appropriately.

The thieves manning the passage watched and muttered to one another as the guests were ushered in. The lair was a large fortress carved into a cavern, complete with storage spaces, sleeping quarters, a bathhouse, and training rooms. One of the training areas built into a large recess of the cavern was a life-size replica of a surface street corner. Designed with no detail overlooked, the replica served as a staging area for final “run-throughs” of various Rogue exploits. Beyond these features, at the heart of the fortress was a heavily guarded cast-iron door, the entry to the den of the Fat Fox. Two elite guards stood watch.

“Mister Guillaume, we’ll have to confiscate all weapons here.”

Remy looked back at the Ghost apologetically.

“This is the first time outsiders have been permitted to venture this far into our lair,” Remy explained. “In light of your, ah,
unique skill-set
, you must understand my employer’s cautious disposition.”

The Ghost turned to the Darkness.

“
Azash et a’boujan
.”

The Darkness reluctantly pulled his prized blade from its scabbard and surrendered it to the guard. He did the same with his throwing knives. The Ghost held open his coat and performed a slow pirouette to show that he was unarmed. Then they followed Remy through the cast-iron door into a narrow hallway marked by floor lighting. At the end of it was another thick cast-iron door with a view hole at eye level. Remy knocked. The view slid open and a set of eyes peered out. They darted between Remy and his two guests. Then it closed. There were three clicks and the heavy door slowly opened. Two of the Fat Fox’s most trusted bodyguards showed them in.

The den was spacious with high ceilings. It was furnished with the finest oak cabinets and bookshelves, modern sculptures, and paintings. A beautiful tapestry adorned one of the concrete walls. Imported fur rugs covered the cold cement floor. From this main room, other doors led to multiple chambers: bedchamber, dining room, cigar room, and personal toilet and bathing quarters. At the end was a large granite surface desk behind which the Fat Fox sat on a tall, leather chair. As always, he was impeccably dressed in a smart three-piece suit, pressed and prim, polished shoes, hair oiled back, cleanly shaven.

Remy removed his hat, walked over to the Fat Fox and whispered in his ear. Then he took his place beside the enforcer, behind the guild master.

“Gentlemen, please take a seat.”

The Ghost took a seat on the small wooden chair in front of the desk. He crossed his legs and appeared at ease. The Darkness stood beside him, mirroring the guild master’s enforcer.

“You must be Felix Eglon,” came a muffled voice from below the eerie porcelain mask.

“Yes. And you must be Magog Siberion. It’s good to finally put a face to the name, so to speak. Is the mask really necessary?”

Magog glanced over his shoulder at the men standing guard and replied, “Are you in the habit of discussing privileged matters so openly?”

The Fat Fox smiled. With a wave of his hand, he dismissed his two bodyguards at the door. When they stepped out into the narrow hallway, Felix replied, “You’ve met my counselor and personal liaison, Remy Guillaume. And this is my chief executor, Vicente. They are my most trusted confidants.” Then the Fox looked up at the Darkness. “What’s his story?”

“He’s not your concern.”

“He can’t speak for himself?”

“He’s not your concern,” the Ghost repeated.

Felix opened his drawer, pulled out a cigar, slid it under his nostrils and clipped the end. He placed it between his lips unlit and took in the flavor. All the while, he kept his eyes fixed on the silent Darkness. Neither averted their gaze. He attempted a condescending smirk, but the muscles in his cheek quivered, pulling the upper lip into shaky lift. With his face betraying him, Felix thought he had better start talking.

“So, what’s this all about?”

When Magog didn’t immediately respond, Felix shifted in his seat, lit his cigar, and filled the silence. “Let me guess. You want me to invest in your Machina Group.”

“The Shaldea have contacted you. Why?”

“Excuse me?”

“Why have the Shaldea contacted you?

“That’s my business.”

“Mister Eglon, you have led me down into this—this monolith you call a home. Into your elaborate paranoia. Tell me, do you suppose all of this will keep you safe?”

The Fat Fox’s eyes took on the look of a lost child. His lips turned pale and dry. “Is there a problem?”

The Ghost removed his expressionless porcelain mask. His face was the same shade of his mask—cold, white porcelain. He had a crimson handprint tattooed over his mouth. His menacing face, barely human, solicited the same response that it had years ago in the desolate Emmainite village. At the sight, the Fat Fox recoiled in his seat. Vicente felt his legs go limp.

“We require a base of operations and a temporary funding stream. Your little club of thieves here will suffice. Unfortunately, you will not survive the acquisition.”

With Magog’s words still hanging in the air, Remy Guillaume pulled his cane apart revealing a single-shot pistol, the grip of which was its brass handle. In one fluid motion, he pressed the barrel against the side of Vicente’s head and pulled the trigger.

Magog extended his hand toward the Fat Fox as if he were signaling him to stop. The Fat Fox, with horror in his eyes, back-pedaled in his leather chair, his short legs kicking frantically, ineffectively. From within the sleeve of Magog, a needle laced with paralyzing poison shot out. It pierced the guild master’s chest.

At the sound of gunfire, both elite bodyguards rushed back toward the den. The Darkness, anticipating their response, was already positioned at the door. He grabbed the first from behind and snapped his neck while simultaneously relieving him of his dagger. Before the first hit the floor the dagger was plunged into the second.

The Fat Fox’s gasping for air was amplified by the sudden silence that befell the room. He was slumped in his chair, a small crimson speck on his shirt where the needle had penetrated his skin, his teeth clenched, straining. His cigar was on the floor, slowly burning through the rug. Remy stamped it out and stood before the Fat Fox.

“Everything casts a shadow, Mister Eglon,” he said. “Even a sewer rat like you.” Then he unbuttoned the top half of his shirt and pulled it open. In the center of his chest was a cogged compass tattoo like the one on Magog’s wrist. “I am and have always been a Shadow of the Samaeli.”

He got up close and gave the Fat Fox a consoling look. Then he picked up Vicente’s blade and stabbed the Fat Fox in the neck.

Magog sat once more in the small wooden chair.

“Vengian,” he said, summoning the Darkness over, “take the first train to Pharundelle in the morning. Treat the senator quickly and return. We have much to do here.”

The Darkness nodded in the affirmative.

“Master,” said Remy, wiping his bloodstained hands with a handkerchief, “our Shadow in the north has confirmed your suspicions. The Shaldea have involved themselves.”

“Secure your position over this guild,” Magog ordered. “Once you have established your leadership, meet with the local cell.”

“Yes, master.”

“We will kill them all.”

NO 03

Please, follow me.”

An Emmainite messenger led Remy Guillaume into a web of narrow alleyways cut through the slums beyond Trivelka Square. Eyes peered out of sandstone buildings. Children played, half-naked in sewage run off. Older women with gaunt faces and hollowed eyes crouched in doorways. A young mother among them nursed her babe. They all took notice of the stranger. No one spoke a word. After a series of turns, they came to the door of an old pottery shop.

“Saffi!” the guide shouted from the entryway.

An old Emmainite man poked his head out. He glanced up at the guide and then at Remy. Then he showed them into his shop. Without a word, he led the two through the store lined with barrel-sized clay pots. Remy recognized them as storage pots and cisterns. Once they were at the back end of the building, the old man pointed to the section of the storeroom partitioned off by a makeshift curtain, a printed fabric hung on a wire strung along the ceiling. He left the visitors there and returned to the front. Standing guard at the partition were two men, their faces covered by black keffiyehs, each armed with a janbiya. Without bothering to frisk Remy, they pulled back the curtain, admitting the two visitors.

The air in the back of the storeroom was pungent with tobacco and spice. The smoke from a long-stem pipe danced in the streak of the late afternoon sun beaming through a single stained window. The cell leader sat against the far wall.

Omar Basiliech had rounded, dark eyes with heavy lids set deep below his thick brows. Under his prominent nose was a thick, black mustache to match his brows. Around him stood a retinue of armed men.

“The Maker’s peace be upon you,” he said, after excusing the guide. “Welcome. Please, sit.”

Remy sat in a leather chair that had been brought out for him.

“Care for some tea?”

“No, thank you.”

One of his guards poured Omar a glass from a tea set resting on top of an adjacent bureau. The rising scent of sweet mint added to the strange medley of smoke and spice.

“Mister Guillaume, is it?”

“At your service. And you must be Mister Omar Basiliech—am I pronouncing that correctly?”

“Perfectly. But please, call me Omar. You’ll forgive me for making you come all this way. But we have not managed to elude the Eagles’ eyes for as long as we have by any lack of caution.”

“You preach to the choir, Omar.”

Omar smiled.

“Not to sound rude, Mister Guillaume, but we were expecting the Fat Fox.”

“Yes, well, he regrets not being able to be here in person. He is tied up at the moment. But rest assured, I have been given authority to speak on his behalf. Now, what can we do for you?”

Omar gave his words careful thought before replying.

“We have a shipment coming in next week. We would appreciate it if the local authorities were preoccupied during that time.”

“Give me a name and the Fat Fox will make sure your shipment is safely delivered,” offered Remy.

“Cain Stoyanov.”

“The Lecidian arms dealer?”

“Yes. We are always in need of arms.”

“Of course. Is that it?”

“There is one other thing. On the night of the Harvest Festival, we need you to shut down the Spegen.”

Remy sat back in his chair and folded his hands over his crossed knees. “That is quite a request.”

“But not beyond your means. We are prepared to pay handsomely for it.” Omar waved his hand. A large duffle bag was brought out and placed on the table. “In that duffle bag, you will find one-hundred thousand marks.”

Remy cocked his brow. “An impressive sum.”

“For both the Spegen and our shipment.”

Remy removed from the bag a bundle of banknotes and studied it under the afternoon light. “I would be remiss if I did not ask for what purposes you are making this request.”

“I’m afraid I can’t say.”

“I see.” Remy tossed the bundle back into the duffle bag. “You will have your shipment of arms. And the Spegen will be shut down on the night of the Harvest Festival. You have my word. But keep your money.”

The men in the room exchanged glances and muttered in disbelief.

“What I want instead is information,” Remy added.

“Mister Guillaume, I can not tell you the nature of our business.”

“I already know the nature of your business. You are terrorists. The information I speak of is the whereabouts of one Yusef Naskerazim.”

Omar went silent.

“Surely you have heard of him. He is a former
Rajeth
of your Riders.”

Omar emptied his pipe and set it down and took a sip of his tea. “I don’t know anyone by that name,” he replied.

“We are intelligent men, Omar. Let us not insult each other with falsehood.”

“Who is asking?”

“Men even the Fat Fox cannot refuse. The Samaeli.”

The name got Omar’s full attention. He studied Remy like a card player studies an opponent who has pushed in a sizable bet. When he could see that Remy was not the bluffing sort, his face sank. Unable to hide his distress, through clenched teeth he whispered, “
Zaal’mavorte
.”