Vengeance (15 page)

Colours and smells and sound returned, and it drifted, panting, its breath bubbling in the water, the strangeness of its surroundings eclipsed by the sheer pleasure of being alive. Unlike the aliens, it could return to its own world.

The succubus, a spell made flesh, drifted lifeless alongside the aliens. The spellhound recovered the sheath for the spell and went to join Ben, who was waiting nearby.

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The building was shabby, with cracks running the length and breadth of its fascia. The stonework that peered through the coating of black was of rich-hued sandstone. Only careful observation of its proportions gave a hint of past glories. It was narrow-fronted, although still wider than it first appeared, and immensely deep. That depth was obscured by the more modest properties that flanked it, though those properties were in a better state of repair.

Few approached the building. Those who did felt the hairs on the back of their necks rise and their guts twist with naked fear. Only one man, desperate for shelter from a freezing winter's night, had ever disregarded the warning and forced his way in. He died slowly and in torment.

He'd seen what every person sent from the grand palatial buildings on Tallmantle Street saw when they were re-assembled by the power of the Spell of Sending. But the high-ceilinged marbled halls within, which were so completely at odds with the exterior of the building, were only to be seen by those sent personally from the public and accessible office occupied by the Council of Mages.

The public offices on Tallmantle Street were a façade. The council had made so many enemies over the years that one particularly percipient leader had decided that a decoy was necessary, and the real headquarters had been allowed to fall into apparent disrepair so total its purpose had been forgotten.

Duff thought it completely right that the persistent fool should die. If anything, they'd killed him too slowly—he hadn't suffered enough for his presumption. But at least they'd added the broadcast of his death throes to the warding spells that ringed the building.

Here was where the real decisions were taken, and he always felt a thrill when he appeared facing the Roll of Honour. One day soon his name would be there as Council Leader. It was so near he could almost taste it. Especially with Maltby out of the way.

The other walls were each covered with psychokinetic murals that began to swirl turgidly the moment Duff arrived. The paintings reflected the character, the intellect, and the mood of those around them, so of course they didn't react at all to the pair of Garths who stood framing the doors. Impossibly huge, these warriors were selected, nourished, trained, and honed to be the sword arm of the council. Then they were killed and revived to serve again but were now nearly immortal as well as hugely strong and well trained. As they were dead, they had no impact on the paintings.

The spells the paintings also contained would, however, have reacted to the Garths. Without their matte black exoskins, the warriors would have been reduced to giant bags of skin, flesh, and bones, the spells animating them neutralized. Their skins also served to make the Garths even more intimidating, but that wasn't their main purpose: Duff suspected their exoskins contained something similar to the viridium parchment every visitor to the building wrapped themselves in if they had any residue of magic about their person. Duff's body, particularly the parts covered with spells, was wrapped up like that creature he'd once seen in a museum. The Mummy, that was it. His eyes, his only completely unprotected area, itched as if he were allergic to the place.

The spells in the paintings were only a fraction of the protective magic in the building. The air
thrummed
with its presence. Duff thought that at times he could see brightly hued afterimages of his or others’ movements, as if they left trails in a medium thicker than mere air.

When his mentor had first brought him here, he had been given a stern warning which he could still remember. “Using a spell there, particularly an offensive spell, would be as clever as letting off a firework in an echo chamber lined with mirror tiles—if the firework doesn't blow your hand off, and the noise doesn't blow your eardrums, the glare'll melt your eyeballs."

Duff had no intention of finding out if the man had exaggerated.

Footsteps rang out through the silence, and another pair of Garths appeared at the head of the corridor, flanking the outgoing leader, Farnsby Hobken. “Ah, Stanislav.”
His voice rustles like the parchment he's wrapped in,
Duff thought sourly. His eyes were raisins set deep in wrinkled leather, and from time to time his body trembled with age. Hobken opened his arms wide, bowed from the waist. “I'm so glad you were able to spare me a little of your time."

"Farnsby.” Duff opened his arms as well, to show he had no concealed weapons, and bowed in return. He'd forgotten how much Hobken reminded him of Maltby. Oily and false. Still, he'd better be polite to the oil slick. He needed his vote in council if he was to take over from him. There were only fifteen of them, and the rules forbade Duff from voting for himself. With Maltby dead that left seven votes needed for Duff to be elected as the next council leader.

"Shall we go to my rooms?” Hobken interrupted his plotting. “We can sit comfortably."

They walked slowly down the corridor, as if measuring the impact of each footstep. Duff knew that was to drag out the wait until he was ready to be told the reason for the exquisitely worded summons, so he made sure he gave no sign of impatience. The Mummy was waiting for the whippersnapper to show weakness in that way, so he wouldn't. These games were necessary, each trying to gain a fractional advantage.

"Is your daughter well? Mmm? Sinhalese, isn't it?"

"She's fine."

"Here we are, Stanislav. After you."

Hobken's rooms were sparse, functional rather than comfortable. The chairs were rigid, not moulding themselves as usual to the sitter. There was a single desk strewn with papers. The only decoration was a pic of a much younger Hobken looking smug. A door led into another room. Duff guessed it was his bedroom. The room was much warmer than the corridor.
The lizard needs to warm himself,
Duff thought.

"Something to drink?” Hobken was still maintaining the charade that this was some kind of social visit.

"No thank you. I must be back in the City of Light soon."

Hobken nodded, then took the hint. “I asked you to come here today because a serious allegation has been made."

"Oh?"

"It's about your duel with Maltby.” Hobken referred to the extremely edited version of the fight that Duff had publicized. “We had no problem once the death-dues had been paid.” He paused, gauging Duff's reaction; when none was forthcoming he continued. “However, since then certain allegations have been made, which we're duty bound to investigate."

"Really?” Duff tried to sound innocent.

Hobken nodded. “We have received information that Maltby had filed for leadership of the council. Of course, the official dates aren't yet due."

"Of course."

"However.” Hobken took a deep breath. “Should you in turn file for leadership as well, then that technically means you have eliminated a rival. There are of course, very strict rules about dueling, especially between candidates.

"This is arrant nonsense,” Duff snorted. Still, there was a cold feeling at the base of his stomach.

"Nonsense or not.” Hobken was no longer smiling, no longer genial, and for a moment Duff saw him as he must have been in his prime. No one became council leader without a modicum of talent and a great deal of ruthlessness. “We must follow the protocols. You will be suspended from council meetings until this investigation has been resolved. Unless you can give me an assurance you will definitely not be standing. Such an assurance would need to be witnessed."

Duff was on his feet instantly. “How convenient.” He breathed deeply. “And doubtless in the absence of any candidates, you would need to extend your period of leadership. Even if that provokes a constitutional crisis?"

"Certainly not!” Hobken appeared genuinely shocked. “I take it from your reaction, you will be standing?"

"I will,” Duff snapped. “This kangaroo court won't bully me into giving you a free run."

"Please.” Hobken held up a hand. “We will make sure this investigation is concluded promptly. Let's reconvene in three days’ time. Yes?"

"Very well.” Duff bowed. He turned to go.

"Stanislav,” Hobken called.

"Yes?” Duff had to bite off an angry retort.

"I'm genuinely sorry about this."

To his credit, Duff felt his sentiments were genuine. “So am I.” He added more gently, “Am I permitted to know who has made these allegations?"

"Not at this moment.” Hobken held out a placating hand. “Let's reconvene when we've all had a chance to think. Yes?"

"Very well."

As Duff turned to go, Hobken spoke again. “Have you heard anything about an investigator hunting spells?"

"No.” Duff stopped, wondering if Hobken could hear the sudden banging of his heart. “What's this about?” He was amazed by how level his voice sounded. If they knew about the Pantile woman...

"Seems some woman is gathering spells,” Hobken said. “There have been an awful lot of death-dues being paid over the last few months, almost a normal years’ worth. Paid for by a woman with a spellhound.” He chuckled. “She's being very tight-lipped, but you know how these things get noticed."

Duff forced a laugh. “Let's hope she isn't planning to join the council."

They both laughed, but Duff was thinking furiously as he did so. He would summon the Pantile woman for the next day.

The spellhound lay in a transparent coffin full of gel.

Its organic part was prone to such poesy, it thought disapprovingly. To be precise, it lay in a stasis capsule, modified from its usual function of maintaining corpses for the loved ones of the rich. The gel was to stop the orbiter's enormous acceleration from turning its internal organs into meat paste. The picture it watched dance in front of its eyes was either shot by a ground-eye or was simply a replica.

Magic was too subtle for long-distance travel. The brute muscle of primitive technology worked better. It was simple. At takeoff the orbiter was a delta-winged fusion-ramjet packed full of people, hurled in a parabola into low orbit, squashing the passengers beneath tens of gravities for thirty seconds. Even afterwards it kept accelerating at several gravities for maybe ten minutes. Then it coasted in weightlessness until it reached the apex of the arc. At which point the passengers were squashed again during deceleration, as the orbiter switched from missile to glider to screaming juggernaut trying to stop.

The spellhound watched the orbiter deliberately overshoot its target and swing out over the sea, still decelerating. If the orbiter had to ditch it would be in the Sahar Sea.

The Sahar Sea had been the penultimate great terraforming project. The last had been the controlled thaw of the ice caps. When that spiralled out of control, the world's sea level rose more than fifty metres; millions died, tens of millions lost their homes, and the great dinosaurs of environmental engineering were doomed to extinction.

The earlier Sahar flooding had been exemplary in its precision. The flooded area had been uninhabited and fit for nothing. Vineyards ran the length of the coastline to the north, and by the sea the climate was quite temperate, while to the south were date and olive groves. On the slopes of the western mountains were thick, crowded pine forests. Only to the east and southeast did the desert still hold dominion. There the land was as harsh as it had always been, and temperatures soared high enough to cook raw meat on rocks.

The spellhound watched the orbiter swing back over the butterscotch-coloured rocks and hover over the seared rock bowl that was the landing cradle before settling with one last thud into its berth. A ramp rose telescopically from the terminus to the orbiter body. That was the last image before the pic vanished and the gel was slurped out of the capsule. The spellhound was sprayed with a quick shower, bringing back memories of Atlantica—its mind slid away from such memories, especially of the alien.

The lid swung open, and the spellhound shuffled through the thirty or forty pairs of capsules, through the telescopic tunnel, through the terminus, and into the open air, where the heat hit it like a hammer blow.

At this time of year the prevailing wind blew from the southeast, bringing sandstorms from the desert and covering every surface in a fine mantle of sand. But today the wind blew from the west, cooled by the two thousand kilometres of fresh water it crossed. Even so, it was considerably hotter outside than in. The spellhound felt sweat prickle along its body and began to pant.

The spellhound was fit, but it had suffered during the flight. It thought,
It's little wonder people so rarely travel long distances
. It was a mass of aches and pains.

One of the little huts that basked in the fierce white sunlight had been set aside as a massage booth to ease the aches of incoming passengers. When the spellhound attempted entry, a heavyset man as wide as the door blocked it. He wore permed ringlets to his shoulders, and the sick-sweet smell of his cologne made the spellhound's eyes water. “We're full,” he said stonily, even as another client left through another door.

—Perhaps I could take his place?—The spellhound pointed to the departing man.

"I said we're full.” A second man, almost as big, appeared beside the first. The spellhound left.

It was equally difficult getting transport to Meroë. To the spellhound, all cabs were full, all flitters busy. The natives were most unfriendly. It missed Ben and wished the lad had come as well, but he'd refused, admitting he'd had enough adventure.

Amongst the palms and yuccas around the landing cradle, on one side an impromptu bazaar fleeced the travellers. Beside the trinket trestles there were food stalls and a lone stand claiming, ‘Flying carpets for hire’ in bold letters. After protracted haggling, the spellhound chartered a homing carpet for the short journey to Meroë. It discovered that it was not only threadbare and dirty, but the carpet also had an alarming tendency to demonstrate its independent spirit by intermittently lurching to the right.