Vengeance (28 page)

"Nothing,” she said. “Just a bad headache, I've had it all night.” She stretched her neck to ease her tension. She noticed grey in her braids in the mirror.
I ought to get something done about it,
she thought. Maybe visit a shaman and block her ageing. At least for a while. Tan her coffee-coloured skin to a more fashionable shade. Nubian Black perhaps, like Firenze and the apparatchiks. But then, Firenze was always in the lead in any new fashion.

"Take a tablet?” Firenze suggested. “No, it wouldn't help, would it?"

What does he mean?
She decided against asking.

"I'm going to get a breath of air,” she said. “See if it will clear my head a little."

"Very well, dear.” He studied his reflection in the mirror as he removed his war paint. He looked older without it, she decided, but more vulnerable. The little horns that sprouted from either side of his head weren't a patch on the antlers of the young buck, but they were, well, him. He was aging gracefully, rather than trying to be something he wasn't—unlike some she'd danced with tonight. She squeezed his shoulder affectionately.

He looked up. “Are you all right?"

"I will be once I've had a walk,” she said, kissing his head. “Don't wait up for me."

"Don't forget to take a key will you?” he said. “I've let the servants go early—they've worked hard tonight."

She stopped in the study on her way to the dropshaft on the side of the building, opened the safe, and took the invisibility spell
he'd
bought her as a memento of their time together. She'd give it back to him tonight.

For the first time she thought about the contradictions of Meroëse society. If they'd had sex at the party, no one would have raised an eyebrow—but an affair was different. Even then it was quite acceptable for Meroëse women to have a lover—if he was the right sort. But her lover should have been a young man from Meroë's elite—not someone of Maurice's kind. Shady, almost certainly an unsavoury character. For all they'd been lovers for three years, she knew little about him beyond hints, but she guessed from even just those hints she'd be finished, her political career over before it really started, if Firenze ever found out.

She took the spell and a ceremonial dagger hanging on the wall. Just to frighten him with. She grabbed, almost as an afterthought, a walking stick with gold knob on the end.

It was cooler now, and she set out at a brisk pace to stay warm. She drew her cloak tighter and fingered the spell.

The ring road circling the city was brightly lit, and the night was dry. To the north the lights of the city hovered like ghost ships above the deeps. Beyond them an occasional meteor cut through the stars. Toward the south side, the road edged onto marshland. The pavement just stopped, and what grass there was turned to water reeds. On a clear night the Skyhook could just be seen to the south, a thin white line rising to the heavens, but tonight was too foggy. On one side of the road was the harsh light of the street lamps giving the fog a metallic sheen, on the other the inky blackness of a subtropical night. The fog that hovered over the marshes wrapped itself around the city, an eerie blanket lending the place an unearthly quiet, its fingers reaching out across the road with grasping tendrils.

While she walked she heard a booming noise echo across the lapping water, and minutes later the shadow of a wraith as tall as a house strode across the marshlands, its legs scissoring with intent, deep in its purpose.

She saw no one else for some time, until two figures stepped out of the darkness, walking quickly toward her. Her nerves were taut after walking past the marsh, and she stepped back, stifling a whimper.

The two women wore Watch uniforms. “Evening, Demoiselle,” one said. Her concern at meeting a prowler in a quiet part of town showed in her voice. She could almost read their minds:
Is she a thief?
She felt foolish, wished she'd used that damned spell.
Stupid woman,
she cursed.

"Good evening. Or rather, good morning.” As soon as she opened her mouth, they recognized her, relaxing slightly.

"Good morning, Senator. It's a little late for a walk.” The second woman was a little friendlier.

"Taking a breath of air. We had a party tonight, and I just can't unwind,” she said. They wished her goodnight and walked on.

Maurice lived in a self-contained bungalow set in a small patch of weed-encrusted ground. He wasn't a gardener or any other sort of handyman. He'd never said where he got the money to afford the villa, and she'd never asked. Better not to know.

She activated the invisibility spell and crept up to the house, then wondered why she was being so coy and finished the last few paces in a purposeful stride. She let herself in with her key and murmured, “Lights.” She knew the place so well. It had once been her second home. Funny how things change in a few months.

One night when they were both a little merry, she'd toyed with the idea of leaving Firenze, but Maurice had talked her out of it. She knew why, of course. “Better to leave things the way they are,” he'd said, talking her down from what, in terms of her career, would have been a suicide leap. He'd been right. But it didn't help. And her decision to stay had been the beginning of the end of the affair. “Lights,” she said loudly. They cast stark shadows as she took the knife from her pocket, feeling her rage return, rage at his presumption in crashing the party. Rage that from being kept, he would turn on her. “Such an ugly word, blackmail,” he'd said, smiling cruelly.

The wall of his bedroom was one big mirror to feed his vanity. She looked through the doorway at herself, saw her reflection smile wryly. She watched him sleeping in the shadows cast from the bright light of the lounge.

He lay on one side with his back to her. At least he was alone. She'd half expected to catch him with someone. She held the knife, took a deep breath and stepped toward him. Then stopped. She couldn't do it, didn't have the guts. At the end of it all, there were still enough traces of affection or love left.

"You win, you shit,” she whispered. She stroked his shoulder. He didn't stir. She rolled him over, expecting to see him looking shocked at her invisible touch. Where his face should have been was a bloodied pulp.

She fought hard to keep nausea under control. She succeeded, but in fighting to stay upright, leaned against him, getting blood on her cloak. She felt his pulse; nothing.

She thought furiously. She mustn't be found here. If she were linked to his death, it would be catastrophic. No, she had to get out.

The room dissolved in her tears, and then she was out the front door, running, running for her life, grief at his loss subsumed in the need to survive.

Gasping for breath from the long run, she let herself into her own house. Drenched in sweat and shaking, she slouched against the wall of the dropshaft while her metabolism slowed to normal. All the way home, that monstrous ruin of a face kept pushing itself into her thoughts. At last she felt strong enough to totter down the corridor.

She peered around the doorframe. Firenze slept, lit dimly by the nightlight—or he appeared to. She took a cloth and wiped her face to try to calm herself. She cried a little, and though she told herself it was grief, it was more nervous release of tension than genuine anguish.

She lay awake for what seemed hours, replaying the night over and over again. Especially Maurice's face, that bruised pulpy mass, sticky to the touch. Sleep finally arrived as reluctantly as a bridegroom at a shotgun wedding. When she awoke she felt as if she hadn't slept at all, and the very first thing she remembered was that Maurice was dead. It should have pleased her—she'd wanted him dead. But when dream became reality, she found that after all she wanted him back.

Firenze lay snoring with his mouth open. She felt guilty about waking him, but he had to know. The militia would want to talk to her soon. So it was better he knew now. She shook his shoulder; his eyelids fluttered, and he grunted but didn't stir, so she shook him again, and his eyelids fluttered open. He looked up at her muzzily.

"Firenze, we need to talk."

He stared at her, then gazed blearily at the clock by the bed. “It's a little early, isn't it?” he groaned. He gazed up at her while she looked away, biting her lip. “What's wrong?” he asked at last.

"I've got something I need to tell you."

"Isn't a little early for the confessional?” He shielded his eyes and winced when he moved his head.

"I'm serious,” she said. “There was a man at the party last night."

"You mean your friend?” He sighed again. “It's too late for pangs of conscience isn't it?"

"What do you mean?” She was on her feet, gazing down at him.
How can he know?

"Well, I thought you'd broken off with him. Unless you've changed your mind again and decided it's him you want after all?"

She realised they were talking at cross purposes. “How long have you known?"

"Almost three years.” He bared his teeth in an attempt at a smile. “It's my business to know. His name is Maurice Hellesgaard, though he probably wasn't born with that name. He's been convicted for numerous petty offences. They were mounting at such a rate that if I hadn't intervened, he'd probably be in serious trouble now."

"You intervened?” He knew. Every time she thought she'd run out of surprises, there was another one. He hadn't asked for a divorce. It was as if she were falling through trapdoor after trapdoor. He'd even protected Maurice.

"My friends have powerful wives.” He had the right to sound smug, given the current situation. “A few words in the right ears can smooth most things over. Once he knew he was onto a good thing, he stopped his tricks. I hope you give me credit for not seeking a divorce, though I must admit to being tempted sometimes."

"You knew,” she breathed, still amazed.

"I knew,” he said flatly. “For someone as clever as you are, you can be remarkably stupid. You left enough clues."

She probably had. Maybe a part of her hadwanted to be caught. Whether to leave Firenze or not would be decided for her. At one time she had thought she loved Maurice. Even now, she wasn't sure.

"Why?” she asked. “Why didn't you do anything?"

"Because I thought if I pushed you, I'd lose you. But if I waited, you might come back of your own choice. Now, if that's all—” Firenze turned over, letting her know the conversation was over.

She sighed. “No, that isn't all. It's just the start.” She rubbed an eye with the heel of her hand. “I wish that was all there was."

He sat up. “Tell me.” He grasped her shoulders. “What have you done?"

"Nothing.” She shook her head. “That is, I—” She stopped.

"Yes?” He searched her face for clues.

"I went to see Maurice last night, when I said I was going out for a walk."

"I guessed as much."

"I wanted to pay him off.” She lifted her head defiantly. “I thought it wouldn't be enough though, and I decided if he wouldn't be satisfied with one payment I'd kill him."

"And did you?"

"No.” She sighed. “When I got there, someone had killed him already.” She told him everything. When she finished, she had a thought. “You didn't pay someone to do it?"

"When my wife is already ending the affair?” He laughed scornfully. “You must think I'm mad or stupid."

"No, I don't.” She pressed her finger to his lips. “I'm sorry. I'm scared and not thinking straight."

"Easy, now.” He climbed out of bed and dressed quickly. “I can't shield you, you know that? Even rich, influential Firenze who can whisper in powerful women's ears can't shield you from this."

"I know,” she said miserably. “If someone wanted to wreck my career, they couldn't have found a better way to do it."

"Maybe they did,” he said. “You wouldn't be the first."

She snorted. “I'm not that important."

"You need an advocate, and you need to visit the militia. Tell them your side first."

Helen knew the advocate faintly. She had a reputation of being cool and capable. She told her everything from first meeting to infatuation to disillusionment. To last night's soiree and the aftermath.

"I'll arrange an interview with the Chief of Militia.” The woman steepled her fingers together. She had short grey hair and a hard face, but she was sympathetic. “Until then, stay at home, say nothing to anyone. Wait for me to call you."

But the next morning two uniforms and an officer from the militia called first. The officer was a nondescript woman who seemed to have difficulty with Helen's story. She took Helen over it again and again, apologising profusely when Helen became frustrated, never pressing too hard but never relenting. Helen wished she knew what they were looking for.

Caught by surprise, she and Firenze decided not to call the advocate and before long began to wonder whether they'd made a mistake. But calling her halfway through might look bad, so they carried on. When Helen called her afterwards, she looked unhappy, but shrugged it off. “We should still talk to the Chief of the Militia, to regain the initiative. Go over their heads and show them you have influence."

Helen didn't feel as if she had much influence. Maurice's death seemed to have drained her. Firenze called Paolo, her chief assistant, and advised him she'd be out for a few days. She could imagine Paolo's face when he'd heard the news. Despite Firenze's efforts to play the whole thing down, she had no doubt the news would be all over town in hours.

She spent a restless day pacing her rooms like a caged animal, feeling that she had lost the initiative and had no idea how to regain control. Simply sitting and waiting was almost impossible to bear.

Firenze was patient, only losing his temper with her once. He was immediately contrite. “You're upset,” he said. “It's quite understandable, and you don't need me to get rattled as well—it'll only make things worse."

"Thanks,” she said. He beamed at her simple but heartfelt acknowledgement.

The day was hot and humid, the air barely moved. The air seemed charged as if there were a storm coming, seemed to positively crackle with tension. At one point she decided that it was so hot in the house that she'd go for a walk anyway. Damn them all. She donned a cape and reached for the walking stick with the gold head.