Parabolis (18 page)

“Enlil Fairchild. He is a wealthy man. A mining mogul.”

“‘A mining mogul?’ Is there no limit to Shaldean hypocrisy?”

At the command of Magog’s glance, the Vengian pierced Omar just below the skull, severing his cervical vertebrae. And like a marionette snipped of his strings, he crumpled to the floor into a contorted pile.

The lone Shaldean standing guard outside was already dead when Magog and the Vengian exited the building. The Stoyanov-guard-disguised Rogue was waiting anxiously by their carriage.

“He tried to run when he heard the shots,” he explained. “What happened in there? Where’s Trevor?”

“He was killed,” Magog curtly replied. “Now set it ablaze.”

Despite lingering questions, the Rogue was under strict orders from Remy to minimize his interactions with their Samaeli guests and obey their every command. He quietly carried a keg of kerosene into the warehouse while Magog and the Vengian boarded the carriage.

“I will find you, Yusef,” Magog thought aloud.

Then came the low, unexpected voice from the hidden mouth of the Vengian. “
Tsarevet
, I have a favor to ask you.”

For a moment, Magog was at a loss for words. It was one of the few times he had ever heard the Vengian break his silence, let alone reveal himself as vulnerable with a personal request. Intrigued, Magog replied, “Certainly.”

The afternoon Dale had run to the bakery from his meeting with Detective Graham Lei, he had been relieved to find everything as it always was—Mosaic behind the counter reading, Cora Tess and Turkish in the back making preparations for the following morning.

Aside from an occasional walk-in, the bakery had been as empty as it usually was in the afternoons. After Dale caught his breath, they gathered around the table next to the kitchen. And after some unconvincing chastisement from Cora Tess, they sampled the winter pears together.

Dale had been quiet that afternoon; he’d done his best to keep his troubles hidden. It required no less effort today. Three days had passed and Cora Tess was still raving about the delicious winter pears. Mixed with her exuberant comments were admonishments to never waste that much money on fruit again.

“Are they gone?” Dale yelled back into the kitchen.

“Those things don’t last around here. Between Mosaic and your aunt, I barely saw one,” Turkish said with a smirk.

Dale sat at the table with his uncle, some tea and a warm baguette. He kept quiet, stealing glances out the window. The late autumn sky was already darkening.

“I’ll get some more tomorrow,” he called to his aunt.

“Don’t you dare,” said Cora Tess, storming out of the kitchen. “I’ve had my fill for this season. Don’t ruin ‘em for me. Not having them is part of what makes them so good.”

“Okay, okay,” Dale relented.

“You two want anything else? Something to drink?” his aunt asked.

“Why don’t you come on out here? Sit with us,” said Dale.

“Almost done. I’ll be right out.”

Once Cora Tess returned to the kitchen, Uncle Turkish said, “Just don’t get too many. She really does feel bad about it. She counts the money as she eats them.”

“Okay, I won’t. Just a few,” Dale said with a smile.

“Hey, is everything okay with you?”

“Yeah, why?”

“This is the third day in a row you’ve visited.”

“You getting tired of me already?” asked Dale, trying to make light of his uncle’s question.

“Nonsense. But you do seem a bit anxious. I wouldn’t have said anything, but I notice you’re wearing steel.”

Dale forgot he was armed. When he was in the service, it had become second nature to him—an extension of his uniform. It didn’t take more than a day to get re-acquainted with that familiar feeling. Ever since his meeting with Detective Graham Lei, the short sword from his office bureau was sheathed at his side. Every morning, he’d wake up, brush his teeth, shave, slip into a pair of trousers and boots, button up his shirt, arm himself, and throw on a coat. By the third day, it had become so comfortable that he forgot to conceal it at the bakery.

“You in some sort of trouble? Mosaic told us you were asking strange questions about a train accident or something.”

Dale laughed. “Everything’s okay, Uncle. Don’t worry.”

“Don’t you lie to me, boy. I have a sense for these things.”

“I’m fine. Honest.”

“Then explain to me why you’re armed.”

“I’ve had this thing buried in my drawer since I got back. I took it out recently to give it a polish and I’ve been wearing it since. I’ve got all the papers for it. Nothing to worry about.”

“You’d be a man and tell me up front if there were some sort of trouble now, wouldn’t you?”

“Of course.”

Turkish examined him for any sign of withholding. Cora Tess came out and took a seat at the table. “What’s this about?” she asked.

“Nothing. Uncle thinks I’m in some sort of trouble. I’m not. And I’d tell you both if I were.”

The rusty bell on the door jingled as Mosaic entered. She was wearing theatre prop dragonfly wings on her back, her nails painted a sapphire blue.

“What in the Maker’s name are you wearing?” asked Cora Tess.

“What?”

“Those!” she said, pointing at her wings.

“Oh. It’s for the concert. I’m a sprite, see? Hi, Dale!”

“Hey.”

“Bring any more winter pears?”

“Nope.”

“Rats.”

“We have one left in the icebox,” said Cora Tess.

“Mine!” Mosaic ran over and snatched the orb from the cooler and bit into it. “So good,” she said, wiping the juices dribbling down her chin with the sleeve of her shirt. “This the last one?”

“Yes. And Dale is under strict orders not to purchase any more. At least not again this season.”

Seeing a frowning Mosaic, Dale shrugged his shoulders.

“So, you coming?” Mosaic asked.

“Where?”

“The Harvest Festival concert,” she said, showing off her wings.

“Maybe,” Dale replied. “When is it?”

“Um, on the day of the Harvest Festival.”

“That’s two days from now.”

“I told you about it last week.”

“You did?”

Mosaic rolled her eyes.

“I’ll be there,” Dale finally replied.

“Good. Because I’m singing lead this time. And don’t forget. The actual show’s going to be at the Flora Crystal, not the Concert Hall.”

“Where’s that?”

“Here.” She handed Dale a flyer. “Oh, and wear a costume.”

“A costume?”

“It’s the Harvest Festival.”

“Precisely why we’re not going,” said Turkish. “Hooligans will be out in throngs, no doubt. Never understood why we have to celebrate the Harvest like a bunch of crazed lunatics.”

“By the way, your friend stopped by today.”

“What friend?”

“Some Azuric guy. He didn’t leave a name.”

“Was he Shen?”

“I don’t know. I can’t tell.”

“Did he have a braided tail?”

“I don’t remember. He just asked how you were doing. That’s about it.”

“And he came by the Concert Hall?”

“Yep.”

Dale thought it peculiar.
Why would Detective Lei visit Mosaic at the Concert Hall?
He knew where Dale worked. Probably knew where he lived. Dale checked his watch.

“Thanks for the tea. I have to get going.”

“You barely touched it.”

“I know, but there are some things I need to take care of.”

“What about supper?” Cora Tess asked. “Will you be joining us?”

“No, not tonight.”

“Well, you know where we are if you change your mind.”

“Thanks. I’ll see you later.”

The chill in the air penetrated to the bone. Dale pulled his jacket tight around himself and propped his collar up. With the recent breaker contract signed, he could afford a cab ride to the City Guard Headquarters, but he didn’t mind walking. It gave him time to think. He stuck to the back alleys, a straight shot from the Waterfront District to Central, streets he’d taken countless times since he was a child. A few blocks from the bakery, alone in one of these back alleys, he got the feeling he was being followed. He quickened his pace. The feeling intensified.

As he turned the corner of Chesterlink Pass, a T-intersection that led north into Chesterlink Avenue and south toward Trivelka Square, he darted around half-expecting to catch a figure slipping behind a building wall or some conveniently placed waste crate. There was no one. The alley behind him was empty. All he heard was the soft hum of the Steam Powered Electric Generator in the distance.

He turned back and realized his hand was still on the hilt of his sword. He thought about what he must have looked like. Spinning around, wide-eyed. The spin, the stance, declaring into the nothingness, “Aha!”

With a nervous chuckle, Dale turned back in the direction he was headed. Standing before him was Remy Guillaume in his top hat and brass-handled cane.

“Shit!” Dale blurted.

“Good evening, Mister Sunday. It is a pleasure to see you again.”

“You scared the hell out of me.”

“Please, come with me.”

“Where?”

“There is a carriage waiting for us this way.”

He began walking north toward Chesterlink Avenue.

“I’d rather not.”

Remy sighed, turned around, and faced him. “Once again, this is not a request, Mister Sunday.”

Dale drew his sword. “Like I said, I’d rather not.”

He felt a prick on the back of his neck and swatted it, half expecting a mosquito or a bee. There was a needle. He removed it and was looking at it when something moved in his periphery. A figure. He couldn’t focus on him. His eyes were failing him, not to darkness, but to dreams. The walls of the buildings along Chesterlink Pass came alive, expanding and contracting with each breath. He was hallucinating.

“Do not fight it, Mister Sunday,” said Remy.

He tried to speak, but his words came out in a low drawn-out moan. His legs turned to liquid and he folded under his own weight. Two men appeared next to Remy. They looked like black voids—holes in the shape of men cut out of canvas. They grabbed him and dragged him into a carriage.

Then it all went black.

H
ow many hares in a hat?

None if you are blind as a bat.

The ring of hammering steel in the distance stirred Dale into a limited form of consciousness. He could not move his extremities. He couldn’t speak. It felt to him like sleep paralysis. Interspersed with the hammering, he heard strange voices.

Enlil Fairchild is preparing to leave the city, Master. His assets and operations have already been moved to Brookhaven. We must make haste.

Dale slipped back into dreams. Coming in and out of consciousness, he could not distinguish between his dreams and the waking world. Hours could have been years, the minutes like days. When he finally opened his eyes, there was a sudden rush. The world took shape before him. The various sounds became defined. He was weak, but he could feel his body. He was awake.

Beneath him was a soft, comfortable sofa. The air was damp. There were wire-guarded barn lights hanging from a high ceiling directly above him, a halo of fog around each. Dale blinked several times and rubbed his eyes. He tried to connect his present circumstances to his last conscious moment. He was in need of some context. Groping into a cloudy mind, Dale suddenly remembered Remy at Chesterlink Pass.

He shot up, flushed with anxiety, like a child in a bazaar who discovers that the hand he is holding is not his mother’s. Dale swung his head from side to side to take inventory of his surroundings. Rusty pipes, valves, and mossy vents cut into caverns composed a contrasting backdrop to the office furniture, imported rugs, and oil paintings. The nearest door was made of cast iron. Standing guard on either side were two Rogues.

“Eat.” The voice reverberated off the walls of the hollowed cavern.

Dale saw a meal set on a small, wooden table in the middle of the room. The table was set for two.

“Where am I?”

“You are in the lair of the Carousel Rogues.”

Dale again looked into the lights and saw the halos.

“Something’s wrong with my eyes.”

“Effects of the somnidrone,” Remy replied. Remy Guillaume was sitting at the other end of the room behind the large, granite desk, once belonging to the departed Fat Fox. “It will wear off soon.”

“Somnidrone?”

“An opiate. Unfortunately, reactions to the alkaloids found in the pods can have varying effects. You have been unconscious for thirteen hours.”

“You drugged me.”

“Poisoned, technically. And it was not me.”

Remy made his way over to the small wooden table and took a seat.

“I apologize for the discomfort,” he added, “but we could not risk compromising this location. You understand.”

“Something wrong with a blindfold?”

“You are a trained combatant. You were armed and appeared reluctant.”

Dale noticed he had been disarmed.

“Come, join me. You must be famished.”

“Where’s the Fat Fox?”

Remy smiled. “All responsibilities concerning this organization have fallen to me.”

It’s true.
But Felix Eglon’s death was no consolation for Dale. Remy Guillaume’s treatment of Dale was proving far less cordial than his predecessor’s. As far as he knew, Remy was capable of the same ruthlessness with which Felix had conducted his business. And he had yet to figure out who was behind all that Detective Lei had told him. In the quiet days following their meeting, Dale did not know what to believe.
Were all these men really killed? Was Arturo Lucien dead? Who killed the Fat Fox? The assassins?
He couldn’t piece it together. There were too many gaps. Sitting in the bakery, the possibility that none of it was true had dawned on him. The detective could have been trying to squeeze him for information.

Now, Dale knew the Fat Fox was dead. And that Remy, at least in part, had something to do with it.
If the Fat Fox was dead, then Arturo was probably dead too
, thought Dale as he got up from the sofa and walked over to the table.