Vengeance (35 page)

"Every word, every number is true,” she said levelly.

He shook his head, his eyes narrowed. “This is as true as...” he choked.

Merrythought cleared his throat. “I've verified the invoice. And have registered as much,” he said.

"Did you think you were going to get vengeance on the cheap?” She felt her own temper rise; even though she knew it was a mistake and tried to keep a lid on it, it sought release. “Oh, yes, you want the best but you're not prepared to pay for it?” She lowered her voice in parody of him: “'If they handle the spells they are as guilty as those who stole them!’”

Duff roared and lifted his hand to strike.

Merrythought called, “Wait!"

Duff halted but kept his hand raised.

Merrythought said quickly, “There are wards and charms all over these walls. If you blast her or do anything else to her, you'll be hit with enough counterspells to liquefy you."

Duff moved his hand, and Sinhalese flinched. The spellhound leant forward, growling, and Merrythought covered his face. Only Gabriel and Damon Task were unmoved.

"Go on then,” Jocasta urged, calm enough to be frightened again. “If you really think I'm bluffing. But you should know there are spy-eyes here as well. At least a dozen trusted friends of mine will know what happened to me—and it'll be all over town by nightfall."

He hesitated. “You have been busy,” he said at last. His eyes glowed red. She suspected that instead of the adrenaline coursing through hers, magic pumped through his veins.

"I've had a good teacher. The best.” She kept her voice from quavering. “I've hidden an alarm and told my friends that I fear for my life from an unknown assailant. If they hear the alarm they're to open sealed capsules containing my testament."

Sinhalese had sat, watching the proceedings. She reached up and touched his arm. “Papa,” she said. “It's not worth it. It really isn't."

Duff stood immobile, eyes red, panting, quivering with suppressed anger. He slumped into a chair.

At that moment Jocasta knew the crisis had passed. Her bluff had worked.

"Ser Stanislav.” She triggered another spell.

"
This is going to cost a lot of money
.” Her voice echoed around the room.

"
Whatever it takes,
” Duff's amplified voice answered.

"Are those words familiar, Ser Stanislav?” She ran the invoice in front of him again, saying, “Have I completed the contract to your satisfaction, Stanislav?"

Looking away from her, he shrugged.

"I need you to confirm we have done the work you asked us to,” she urged. “You must state specifically we completed the task to your satisfaction."

Sinhalese touched his arm again, eyes bright.

"Yes,” Duff said dully. “Your work was satisfactory."

"So,” Jocasta said. “We must agree to payment. I accept that it's a large sum, but I'm sure you will honour your debts."

Duff took a deep breath, inhaling deeply through his nostrils, all the way down into his lungs.

"We have, um, a slight problem,” Sinhalese interrupted and added hastily, “It wasn't a problem when you started, it's simply the case grew."

"I accept it cost more than we ever expected at the start,” Jocasta agreed. “Death-dues were much higher than expected, some of them for important people. Bribes, informers without whom we'd never have caught O'Malley.” She shook her head. “And we never expected time travel or space travel."

"Yes, yes,” Duff said. “It became a monster. And you refused to stop when I asked you to."

"Which would've left you paying for a replacement spellhound, had it been killed,” Jocasta countered. “We did what we had to.” She turned back to Sinhalese. “What was this problem that wasn't a problem when we started?"

"The Third Spice Mercantile Bank,” Sinhalese said flatly. “We were told there were probably profits there."

"By you, no less!” Duff spat.

"Oh dear.” Jocasta shook her head and looked at Duff despairingly. “You didn't. Please tell me you didn't."

"We did,” Duff said grimly.

"Oh, dear.” Jocasta shook her head. “I put a small amount of my money into it, but then the case started to take over my time and I thought no more of it.” She pursed her lips. “How much did you put in?"

"Five million,” Sinhalese whispered. “I didn't find out until it was too late. By then we couldn't pull out because there were penalty clauses.” Her eyes shone. “If you call this debt in Demoiselle Pantile, we're ruined."

"And if I don't,” Jocasta replied gently, “then I'm ruined."

Merrythought cleared his throat.

They looked at him.

"I have a suggestion."

"Yes?” Sinhalese asked eagerly. Duff looked suspicious.

"Perhaps some spells could be sold to Demoiselle Pantile—"

"NO!!” Duff roared.

"—in lieu of the debt,” Merrythought concluded.

"I'll kill you all first!” Duff raged. “You've cooked this up, you bunch of criminals!” His eyes glowed incandescent, and a blue bolt flashed from his waved hand.

"Down!” Jocasta shrieked. The bolt flashed past her head and caromed off a wall, growing stronger from the wards as it flew back and struck Duff squarely on the chest.

He staggered but stayed on his feet and flicked another, this time at a slight angle. It skidded off the wall and bounced around like a pinball until it caught Gabriel. There was a blinding flash and the smell of burning meat. But the zombie still stood, albeit a ruined, charred scarecrow.

The spellhound seized Duff and pinioned his arms by his sides. Several people shouted together.

"QUIET!” Jocasta bawled. When the hubbub died, she said, more quietly, “I have a suggestion too."

"First of all,” she said. “Ser Duff's reputation shouldn't be damaged, nor should mine. That means neither of us should be impoverished.” She stared at him, seeking agreement.

He nodded, and at a signal from Jocasta, the spellhound released him.

"So the spells should remain in Stanislav's possession.” She added quickly, “at least to the outside world. We'll hold title until the debt is paid. There's a clause in the contract about late payments, and we'll simply add interest."

Duff looked blank. Reading the clause, Sinhalese burst out, “But the interest will take years to pay off! He'll be your employee!"

"Better I lease the spells to you than impound them,” Jocasta said.

"Do it,” Duff said harshly. “We'll find a way to get them back, girl, never fear.” He patted Sinhalese's arm and glared at Jocasta. “You're not what you appear, are you, little mouse?"

Jocasta shrugged. “People seldom are. Have you witnessed the transfer of title?” she asked Merrythought.

"Noted, recorded, and sent to our vaults,” he said.

"There is one last item, if you've the courage of your stated convictions,” Jocasta said.

"What do you mean by that?” Duff's eyes reddened again.

"You paid for the recovery of the spells—"

"Much good it has done me."

"—and for the death of the possessors and accomplices. You claim to have taken care of the thief yourself.” Jocasta waved him back to his seat, and after a moment's thought, he fell back into it.

Sinhalese tugged his arm. “She's just trying to squeeze more money out of you,” she said. “Let's go, Papa."

Jocasta shook her head. “This one is free. A goodwill gesture, if you wish."

Duff stared at her. “Go on."

Sinhalese tugged at him again. “She just wants to cause more pain."

"Not at all,” Jocasta said. “
I'm
not the one who's hurt him."

"Go on,” Duff said.

Merrythought, the zombies, even Sinhalese receded. Now for Jocasta there seemed to be only the two of them in the room.

She said to Duff: “Cast your mind back many years to an area south of the City Of Light, in the Tróia, called the Detritus. The rubbish tip of humanity."

"So?” Duff leaned forward.

"Years ago, you were involved in a massacre."

"I've been involved in a lot of things.” His smile was cruel.

"You wanted a survivor. So the name of Stanislav Duff would be spread around, as a man to fear, a man to respect. You let one girl survive."

He lifted an eyebrow.

"She had a son,” Jocasta continued. “A boy called Damon. The boy's father was named Task."

"Ahh,” Duff breathed.

"There's more,” Jocasta added. “The night the spells were stolen, you were at a party. Do you remember what you said to me afterwards?"

His voice echoed. “All my spells are set to myself and Sinhalese. Though that means little—there are ways around that, if the thief is determined."

"Who could be more determined than a zombie?” Jocasta said. “Who can better withstand a confusion?"

"No!” Sinhalese shouted. “Not Damon!"

"Who a group of children very publicly set fire to, at the party you attended, the night the spells were stolen,” Jocasta continued pitilessly. “Who left the room to rearrange his clothing? How long he was gone?"

Duff's colour was rising. Jocasta continued, desperate to keep her momentum. “Would he have had time to go home and take the spells?” She nodded at his stunned look. “That's why you couldn't break Maltby—because he never had the spells!” She was exultant, could feel the blood surging through her veins. She cued another spell: The spellhound sat with O'Malley, who said:
"Maltby? Who's Maltby?” He looked puzzled. “I've never heard of him."

The spellhound studied O'Malley's note, its Eye recording everything. O'Malley described Damon Task, named in the note.

"Damon wouldn't do such a thing!” Sinhalese cried.

"No he wouldn't, would he?” Jocasta pounced. “Not without instructions."

"What do you mean?” Duff jumped to his feet.

"Who was Damon's mistress?” Jocasta urged. “Who whispered his instructions? Sinhalese is right that he'd never do such a thing. Your daughter's telling the truth, for once. You should know how zombies act and react. Can't face the truth, Stanislav? No zombie would act on its own, as Sinhalese says. That's the one true thing your jealous, spiteful daughter has said, isn't it? Isn't it?” She was breathless from her speech. Before they could react, she continued, “Why, Sinhalese? Were you really that jealous of your father's love of magic?"

"WHY?” Duff bellowed.

Sinhalese shook with panic. “I don't know! It was a joke, and then you got so angry! Please Papa, please."

Jocasta said, “How many times have you demanded vengeance? Or are your principles really so elastic? Unless, of course, the courage of your convictions conveniently ends here."

"I never thought you could hate me so much,” Duff said to Sinhalese, his eyes bulging, his nostrils flared. Then his head drooped.

He stared down at the floor. Somewhere a metronome ticked, counting off the beats of their hearts, counting off the seconds of their lives. Outside in the distance, a child shrieked and a woman laughed.
This is what it comes down to,
Jocasta thought.
A lifetime, hanging in the balance, waiting for one man's decision.

Duff lifted his great shaggy head. His eyes were dull, and he wouldn't meet Sinhalese's imploring gaze. “Papa,” she whimpered.

"Do what you will,” he said, looking at the floor. “She's no daughter of mine.” He shuffled out into the outer office, an old, broken man.

"Papa!” Sinhalese stood petrified by panic. The spellhound walked over and stood next to her. Her face crumpled, and she gazed at Jocasta. Between sobs, she cried, “Who are you?” She shrieked, “No Papa! Please, please!” Her scream was choked off by a snap, then silence.

"Your nemesis,” Jocasta said, answering the dead girl.

She could see Duff slumped against a wall in the outer office as he broke down in huge, helpless sobs. Jocasta waved Damon Task out. He went and stood beside Duff to await instructions, as she closed the door on them. She exhaled and told the spellhound, waving at Sinhalese's corpse, “Clear that away. Duff may want it back when he regains his wits."

She leaned on the desk and stared at Merrythought. He was shaking as much as she was. “Was that really necessary?” he whispered.

"Yes it was,” she said. “If I hadn't kept hammering but given them time to think instead, he'd have convinced himself that it wasn't so bad and maybe she'd have got a smack on the legs at most. If he wants to exact vengeance, everyone should pay."

"So you added one more life to the list,” he said dully.

She laughed bitterly and poured herself a drink. “He's the one who set the rules, Ser Merrythought—I just applied them to their logical extreme."

He stared into space then asked, “The massacre that Task's mother survived?"

"Task had nothing to do with the massacre,” she said flatly. She replayed O'Malley and the spellhound in the restaurant, past where the spellhound read Damon Task's name.
O'Malley said. “I knew the boy's father. He must've taken his mother's name, but he's the image of Wentworth P'Tang, who was in the same year as Duff and myself.” O'Malley added, “I've got a class picture at home. If he's owned by Duff, I'm surprised the old bastard never recognised him as P'Tang's offspring."

Jocasta cut the image. “We found the picture when we rifled O'Malley's Emporium. No wonder Duff never liked him. Even though he didn't recognise him, he was reminder enough of things past to unsettle him.” She stretched her fingers out in an attempt to stop them trembling.

"It's obvious to anyone who knows zombies that Task was only a puppet. But I concentrated on Task to throw Sinhalese as off balance as her father was."

"So you made up the massacre?” Merrythought asked.

She stared at him. “Oh no,” she said. “There
was
a massacre and a survivor. That was true. But she never had a child."

Merrythought stared at her.

"Be still, be quiet,” she whispered, her eyes open, but seeing nothing, at least nothing that was in this room. “Big kids don't cry. Shhh."

She snapped out of it. “No,” Jocasta said, returning partly to the present. “She never had a child. She stole other people's lives instead. Put on identities as other people do clothes; then threw them away. First a cook, then a barmaid. Seamstress, secretary, enquiry agent. Gathering information on them took forever, while we used the right clients to build our reputation. No life but vengeance: She only had one chance, so I had to get it right."