Vengeance (2 page)

—We are on time, according to the position of the sun.—

"Good,” she said quietly. “More by luck than judgement."

They slowly climbed the wide, sweeping steps to the front door, Jocasta's skin rippling with the pressure of unseen eyes. She whispered, “Are those wards we can feel?” and resisted the urge to place her hand in the spellhound's huge paw.

—Probably. I suggest no more talking. Everything we say is almost certainly being listened to.—

Her silence was assent enough. She reached up and pulled at the great doorknocker, expecting from its size that it would be impossible to move, but it responded as if it were a feather. They stood and waited, Jocasta trying to breathe easily.

The door swung open, and Jocasta gasped. A zombie gazed at her with lifeless eyes. Its pasty white flesh was tinged with green.
My word
, she thought.
Either Duff doesn't know what a faux pas it is to have one of the dead opening his door, or he doesn't care.
She suspected the latter. Collecting her wits, she said crisply, “Jocasta Pantile from Sirtis and Daniels, Enquiry Agents."

The zombie said in a toneless voice, “Enter, please,” managing to make the three syllables menacing.

They followed it into a wide, spacious hallway made almost entirely of marble. The door swung silently, gently, shut behind them, although none of them had pushed it, and then closed with a loud thud. “Wait here,” the zombie said.

They waited for several minutes, long enough to ensure that they knew who held all the power. Jocasta stood in plain view in the middle of the hallway, while the spellhound lurked, hidden by the walls of a vestibule. She watched it examine a corner, adding every little fact that it could to its store of knowledge: what the walls were made of (white pseudo-plaster, reinforced to be spellproof), how long the hallway was (at least as long as the added height of ten tall men), and whether the animal heads mounted on the hallway walls were real (undoubtedly, Jocasta decided).

She passed a mirror and straightened her tunic, hoping that its threadbare look was some trick of Duff's mirror meant to unsettle visitors. She suspected not.

The woman who stared back was grey haired and so frail she looked as if she would snap like a twig in a strong breeze. Her make-up could not hide what Jocasta preferred to call ‘laughter lines.’
You look your age, woman,
she thought.
At a hundred and thirty, you might only be half Duff's daughter's age, but I'll wager she has no lines, laughter or otherwise.
Her eyes looked bruised, they were set so deeply in their sockets. Movement out of the corner of her eye took her mind off her shabbiness.

A girl seemed to drift down the long, sweeping flight of carpeted stairs. She took Jocasta's breath away.
Enhanced or not,
Jocasta thought,
she is stunning. How must it be to be a Demoiselle, to sail through life having every door that's closed to us lesser folk swing open effortlessly for you? Even in a world of beauty—and let's be honest, I'm not ugly—you are breathtaking
. Jocasta wished she could afford the girl's rejuvenation consultant.

The girl's shimmering, raven-black hair cascaded down over her shoulders, her marble-white skin matching her simple, yet elegant dress perfectly. The only colours in her face were dark eyes and crimson lips, full, inviting, and parted to show perfect white teeth. “You must be here to see Papa,” she said in a soft voice that still carried across the hallway.

"Oh. Oh, yes,” Jocasta said, hating herself for sounding so flustered.

"I'm Sinhalese, his daughter,” she said. Jocasta saw how dowdy and old she must look by the faint way the girl's nostrils flared. “I'll show you to the library.” Sinhalese caught sight of the spellhound and jumped back a fraction, her eyes widening momentarily, before she regained her self-control.

Jocasta often forgot how intimidating the spellhound was, and how powerful and awesomely dangerous it could appear to a stranger. She tried to look at it as if she had never seen it before. It was well over two metres tall, and although it walked upright, it looked as if it should be more comfortable on all fours. Pitch black from head to toe, it wore a simple belted tunic with pockets crammed full of various small objects, shorts, and calf-length boots with armoured toecaps. The hands were clumsy paws, and the head was massive, with a blunt snout about twenty centimetres long, from which lolled an enormous pink tongue between serrated teeth the size of small knives. It surveyed its surroundings through red eyes that burned like hot coals.

"This is my spellhound,” Jocasta said to break the silence. It gazed at Sinhalese with ferocious intelligence. She looked away as it yawned, its jaw making an audible crack.

"Come this way,” Sinhalese said, radiating disapproval—though Jocasta was unsure which of them she disapproved of.

Sinhalese led them into a dark little room that was lined with books. “I'll have the servants bring you refreshments,” she said with a small, insincere smile. “Please. Sit."

Jocasta sat, but the spellhound stood, immobile but for its eyes studying the room. Sinhalese left them although Jocasta guessed that she would still be hanging around outside.
She looks,
Jocasta thought,
like the kind of girl who loiters outside doors, listening to what's being said on the other side.

Jocasta still felt watched, so they sat in a silence punctuated by the gentle ticking of an antique clock.

Sinhalese led another zombie in. He was breathtakingly handsome, only a vacuous expression and a huge scar from his left ear to the base of his throat marring his features. He carried a tray of tall glasses holding a frothy drink. Sinhalese positively purred. “This is my prize possession, Damon Task. Isn't he striking?"

Before Jocasta could reply, a male voice blasted through the silence, and a shaggy, shambling ogre of a man filled her sight. “Demoiselle Pantile? Sorry to keep you.” He bowed, kissed Jocasta's hand, and held it a moment too long. She felt a fiery blush spread up her neck.

"Oh.” She fiddled with a lock of hair, and catching a look of disgust on Sinhalese's face, let it go. “Oh, good morning—no—well, good day."

"We'll say good day, if it makes you more comfortable,” Duff said kindly, but Jocasta caught a faint hint of mockery and blushed. As he covertly waved Sinhalese out, Jocasta studied him.

His laugh, she guessed, would echo around the socialite parties they attended like a shock wave. He was as dark as his daughter was alabaster and as heavy and ugly as she was lithe and beautiful. A jet-black shrub of beard half-hid crooked, misshapen teeth that had to be a deliberate gesture of defiance at the arbiters of fashionable beauty, for he could easily have had them corrected. His large head appeared small compared to his monolithic body. Beauty is for the herd, his attitude shouted—only the great are ugly.

But the eyes that glared at the world were small and mean and gave him away even when he charmed. Jocasta had spent weeks preparing for this meeting, studying the gossip and collecting snippets of information. They had all warned her about his temper.

She swallowed, tried a little flirty smile. “I'm sorry,” she said. “You're so—such an ... individual."

Sinhalese turned wide-eyed in the doorway, shaking her head and making a retching gesture. Jocasta noticed but ignored it, instead gushed, “Your beard is very black. So full of vigour."

Duff almost purred. “Flatterer.” He poured drinks into two glasses, held out one, and when she took it, raised the other.

"Your good health,” he said.

"And yours,” she replied. “May your problems soon be over."

He smiled his snaggle-toothed grin, but his eyes narrowed. “What do you know of my problems?” His voice was level, but had an edge to it.

"Only that if you didn't have problems, I wouldn't be sitting here drinking this lovely drink. What is it?"

His smile was definitely nasty now. “It's perhaps better that you don't know."

She put her glass down and sitting, placed hands on knees and leaned forward. “I've heard, as I'm sure everyone else has, that you've misplaced something or are looking for something, or...” She laughed nervously. “The rumours vary more than a spoilt child's moods, but the fact that you've graciously accepted my petition to offer assistance means that there's something that you need and that only an enquiry agent can find for you."

"Admirably put.” Duff clapped his hands together and sat facing her. “That you know I have a problem confirms my suspicions. That no man, no matter how discreet, can move through life without leaving a trail.” His gaze shifted to the spellhound. “A fine beast. What's his name?"

"
It
has no name,” Pantile said gently. “It's neutered. No sex interfering with its abilities."

Duff nodded. “No, we wouldn't want sex interfering with our abilities, would we?” he said to the spellhound but winked at her, and she felt her cheeks burn. He added, “You don't look like the stereotypical enquiry agent, Demoiselle Pantile."

She tittered nervously. “Please call me Jocasta, Ser Duff."

"Then you must call me Stanislav,” he replied. “It seems to me that you'd be far more at home at a club, watching some bravoes duelling, or playing a round of baton-ball."

"Unfortunately.” She despised herself for simpering but couldn't help responding to his sheer animal magnetism. “One cannot afford such luxury. One must work for one's bread."

"So Sirtis and Daniels employed you?"

"Not quite,” Jocasta admitted. “I'll let you in on a little secret. Neither Sirtis nor Daniels actually exists. Ess and Dee: service and discretion, you know."

He nodded. “Ah.” He rubbed his hands together and said, “To business,” with the air of a pirate bent on rape and pillage. “You've worked extensively with and around magic?"

"Indeed,” she twittered.

Duff frowned, clearly having trouble taking her seriously. “It can be rewarding but very dangerous,” he said pompously.

"Less for me than for my associate here.” Jocasta signalled the spellhound, who joined them. “Look,” she said in answer to Duff's puzzled frown.

Duff peered at the creature's fur, which close up was less black than an intensely dark blue. There was a slight movement, and Duff recoiled.

Jocasta said, “It doesn't have fleas. Don't worry.” She passed Duff a lens.

"It looks like a firefly,” Duff breathed, “though it's the very absence of light, more like a dark-fly. What is it—some bizarre offspring of man and cockroach? There are dozens—no hundreds of them. They're tiny!” He looked up, comprehension dawning. “Midgies,” he breathed.

"Midgies,” Jocasta agreed. “They'll eat any magic thrown at the spellhound. In time, if they have nothing else to feed on, they'll eat it alive. Monthly injections take care of that."

"What's your protection? Magic petticoats?” he teased.

"A lady couldn't possibly answer such a question,” she said primly.

Duff looked impressed. “How much do you want for this splendid creature?"

"It's not for sale."

"How much?” Duff pressed. “I've heard spellhounds are unrivalled at tracking magic. I must have it."

"And when you've finished with it?” she said. “You'd have a surplus spellhound, and I'd be minus our prime asset. We aren't a bloodstock agency. It isn't for sale at any price."

She added, “Please excuse me, Ser Duff. I have other business to attend to."

"What?” he exclaimed.

"I have to be at the bank in an hour. If you wanted merely to buy a spellhound—well, I must be going."

"Nonsense!” he snapped. “We're just starting. Come now, to the real business at hand."

Jocasta wanted to let out a long sigh of relief but knew that Duff probably had spy-eyes round the room, watching her every move and breath. Instead, she exhaled gently. The bluff had worked! She asked gently, “How can we help you, Stanislav?"

"This is difficult,” Duff said haltingly. “I need absolute discretion.” He looked at the spellhound, who was watching them with interest. “It won't gossip?"

"It can't talk,” Jocasta said. “And not one word will be said by me to anyone alive about this conversation or about any investigation you decide to hire us for.” She looked at him steadily. “Stanislav,” she urged. “Whatever the problem, it can't be worse than some we've tackled in the past. Our discretion is absolute.” He must know that it was true—a talkative enquiry agent would soon be without clients.

"Very well,” Duff said. “Where to begin?” He waited while a servant entered with another tray of drinks, which she placed on the table. Jocasta sipped hers. The glass was chilled, and where it had sat, it left a ring of condensation.

"Suppose something was stolen,” Duff ventured. “And I wanted it back without fuss?"

"How important is it?"

"To me?” He thought. “Very. But it's equally important my enemies don't know our security can be breached. I've already had to rectify something that could seriously damage my reputation..."

"Good heavens,” she said.

"Good heavens,” he echoed. “So I'd rather people you ask didn't know what you were asking about. Does that makes sense?"

"Yes.” She pondered. “It depends how rare what we are looking for is. If it has many components such as an old watch, we can enquire separately. If it is something specific, we could admit what it is but lie about our client. For example, instead of a mage, our client could be a famous actor, or something else.” She smiled, waved a palm. “But without some form of clue, you're asking me to work in the dark, Stanislav."

"Yes. I am.” He grinned and changed tack. “Just how good is this spellhound at tracking magic?"

"The best.” The finality in her voice was eloquence enough.

"I would have expected no other answer.” He smiled. “Do you know how many spellhounds there are?"

"I believe less than a hundred,” she ventured.

"Eighty-five. Every one of their owners—like you—says they're not for sale."

Jocasta noticed the implication.
So I'm your last resort?
She wondered if he was exaggerating about asking every single enquiry agent with a spellhound, but dared not take the risk that he might go elsewhere.