Wilful Impropriety (10 page)

•   •   •

The warlock Elden Marinus lived far uptown in a large suite of rooms in a recently completed apartment building called the Mazeppa. The Mazeppa represented the last word in esthetic dignity, with black marble hallways, block-printed wallpaper from France, and awnings of verdigrised copper. This earnestness, touching as it was, was only slightly debased by the concession to the practical—modern elevators and bountiful steam heat were present but not excessively touted, as they might be in a less high-minded establishment. The building turned one shining marble face toward Central Park, but the building’s focus was undeniably inward, toward the large interior courtyard where sunflowers nodded and children and dogs were strictly forbidden to play.

Oesterlische and Nussbaum were handled by no fewer than four individuals on their way to see Marinus. The apartment’s doorman bowed them respectfully through the wrought-brass entrance, a sober reception clerk guided them the three steps to the elevator as if he were a native guide leading them through hostile territory, an elevator man with gold braid on his shoulders whisked them swiftly up to the fifth floor. They were greeted at the door, relieved of their coats, and ushered into Marinus’s consulting room by a young Japanese man who wore an impeccably tailored livery of crisp white linen.

The room was quite large, with tall windows that looked onto the park. It was decorated with elephantine palms in enameled Chinese pots, black lacquered furniture, and embroidered silk throws. It was masculine, meticulous, and mysterious. It not only made certain promises about Elden Marinus, they were far more interesting and ambitious promises than anyone would think to bring in all on their own. It was an astonishing effect, and for one not used to it, overwhelming.

“All a bit much, eh?” Nussbaum suggested timidly, as if afraid the draperies might contradict him.

Oesterlische, settled deep in a comfortable leather chair, said nothing. Of course it was too much. That was how Marinus made his living.

But the best was yet to come. The room, spacious as it was, suddenly became crowded when Elden Marinus entered it. A tall and fleshy man, with the build of someone who could afford to eat well, he moved with exceptional briskness. He had fierce eyes and a nobly hooked nose. He wasn’t any older than Oesterlische or Nussbaum, but he was obviously far superior in all regards. He was able to wear a red velvet fez and a satin-lined smoking jacket without looking the least bit ridiculous. He had graduated with a degree in Corporate Sorcery and had since commanded higher and higher consulting fees, scrying competitive motives, summoning servile djinns who could foretell the movement of the marketplace, casting glamours on advertising campaigns of particular importance.

“Welcome, welcome!” Marinus boomed, arms wide. “How pleasant to have you come, Ostrich! It’s been far too long. How have you been keeping? Well, I trust? You’ve met Bob Ghent, haven’t you?”

Marinus gestured to the corner of the room, where a small man, whom both Nussbaum and Oesterlische had entirely failed to notice, sat on a wicker chair, the rim of his bowler clenched between nervous-seeming fingers. The turning of attention onto him was like an electric shock. He jumped to his feet.

“I was just going,” he said, in a soft and cultivated voice, bowing apologetically to Oesterlische and Nussbaum. He edged toward the door, but Marinus clapped him on the shoulder and drew him forward.

“No, no! You must meet Peter Oesterlische, one of my oldest and dearest friends. Fantastic fellow, wonderful old family, doing marvelous things for himself down on the street. And this is . . .” Marinus let his voice trail off as his gimlet eyes raked Nussbaum, lingering on his shabby suit jacket as if to gauge its capacity for hiding things under.

Introductions were made all around, but they were not enough to calm the nervous Mr. Ghent—he tipped his hat over and over then hurried from the room under the tender care of the Japanese butler.

“Nervous constitution,” Marinus said, annexing a divan like a large invading army. “Bad digestion. Poor fellow. Now, Ostrich. Let’s get down to cases. I got your telegram. You say you have some kind of wonderful artifact to show me?”

Oesterlische nudged Nussbaum in the ribs. Reluctantly, Nussbaum drew out the vellum and handed it to Marinus.

Marinus spread it out on a low brass table, holding down the corners with a pair of chased-silver incense burners in the shape of writhing dragons. He perched a pair of gold-rimmed pincenez on his hawkish nose and peered down at the parchment for quite a long time before speaking.

“Well, this is something
quite
different,” he said. “Moorish. Second century, if I don’t miss my guess. I can tell you, I’ve never seen one like it. Most of this writing is in ancient court Arabic that has been dead for twelve hundred years. The Latin incantation was appended much later.” He looked at Nussbaum. “You’ve recited it?”

“That’s how I made the scroll work.” Nussbaum said. “I mean, I knew the scroll was magic. So I read the Latin aloud, and it transported me to different places in the wink of an eye.”

“You’ve quite an empirical streak!” Marinus stared at Nussbaum in horror, letting his glasses dangle helplessly from his long fingers. “How did you know it wouldn’t blow you up or turn you into some variety of slime mold?”

Nussbaum scratched his chin, shrugged.

“I guess I never thought about it.”

“Well, all’s well that ends well.” Marinus shook his head as if he didn’t believe it. “So. You were transported to different places. What kind of places?”

“Just . . . places,” Nussbaum said. “I always arrived somewhere completely random. I couldn’t control where I showed up.”

“No one makes a scroll like this just to travel randomly,” Marinus said. “There must be some kind of control mechanism, but to find it, the writing on the front of the scroll must be deciphered. I can pick out a few words here and there—‘beloved’ and ‘longing.’ They hardly provide me with much to go on. I’ll have to take more time in my translation.” He rolled up the scroll, and was tucking it away as he said, “I will need to keep this for a day or two.”

“Absolutely not,” Nussbaum said, reaching for the scroll. “Out of the question.”

“Not a problem at all,” Oesterlische interposed himself between Nussbaum and the scroll. “We can trust Marinus.”

“What if he copies it?” Nussbaum hissed. He thought he’d hissed it low enough, but Marinus laughed.

“Oh, there’s little chance of that, Mr. Nussbaum. To recreate a scroll like this would require a huge amount of magical energy of the type typically generated by the sacrifice of innocent human life on a most grotesque scale. While that wasn’t out of the question in second-century Araby, it is in modern-day New York.” He paused, looked at Oesterlische. “Your colleague’s concern, however, does raise a point of importance, Ostrich. My services come with a price. I want a piece of the action.”

Oesterlische lifted a cool eyebrow.

“What
action
might you be referring to?”

“Please. I can’t say I have the pleasure of a long acquaintance with Mr. Nussbaum here, but I do know
you
, Ostrich. You wouldn’t be involved if there wasn’t the possibility of money—a lot of money.”

Nussbaum knit his brow, his eyes darting nervously between Oesterlische and Marinus. “I already have one partner I didn’t expect . . . I can’t just keep adding them on willy-nilly!”

With a shrug, Marinus handed the rolled-up scroll back to Nussbaum.

“Then I’m afraid I can’t help you.” He looked at Oesterlische. “Sorry, old buddy. But I have my money needs, just as you do.”

“Oh, I know all about your
money needs
,” Oesterlische said. “And we were thinking of paying you for your services. How does two hundred dollars strike you?”

Marinus barked a laugh.

“Two hundred dollars! Two hundred dollars wouldn’t pay my tailor to stitch a hole in my pants. How does two hundred dollars strike me? It strikes me as a vile bargain indeed!”

Oesterlische shrugged, examined his nails. His diffidence made Marinus draw a deep, indignant breath.

“Listen, this isn’t some simple business you’re talking about here! I’ve never seen a scroll like this. And other than a very old gentleman in Cambridge who
might
be able to puzzle out the ancient Arabic—if his eyesight held out, that is—I’m the only man in New York City who can read it. Thus, I want a piece of the pie.”

“And yet you won’t get a penny more than two hundred dollars,” Oesterlische said. “I believe the Board of Inquiry still hasn’t returned its report on last year’s . . .
events
, has it? I believe there might still be an opportunity for interested parties to provide further testimony?”

The color drained from Marinus’s face. He fell dreadfully silent, and when he spoke next, it was through clenched teeth.

“That’s low dealing, Ostrich.”

“We’ll be back tomorrow afternoon with the agreed-upon fee,” Oesterlische said. “You’ll have some findings for us by then, I trust?”

“You know, there’s an old saying in my business, Ostrich.” Marinus’s voice filled the room, rich and heavy with menace. The power of it made the room’s silver-hinged skulls, brocaded Tibetan hangings, and vases of peacock feathers rattle and tremble and sway. Marinus’s fierce eyes glowed with light, and strange eldritch flames seemed to illuminate the folds of his smoking jacket. “You don’t
fuck
with warlocks.”

“Save it for the showgirls,” Oesterlische snapped. He gestured to Nussbaum. “Come on,” he said. “It’s getting
thick
in here.”

•   •   •

“I can’t take you anywhere!” Oesterlische scolded, once they were back on the street. Snow drifted down from a lead-dark sky. He lifted his collar against the cold. “If you can’t follow my lead, I don’t know how we’re going to do any business at all.”

Nussbaum was still pale after the demonstration of Marinus’s power. But the recrimination made color rise in his cheeks as he jammed his hands deep into his pockets.

“That scroll is all I have!” He said. “My golden fortune is back in that overdecorated apartment with that warlock! I don’t know Elden Marinus, I certainly don’t like leaving my scroll with him to do who knows what with it on his own time!”

“I have Marinus under control,” Oesterlische said. “He will do what I say, and he will not double-cross me, or he knows what will happen.”

“Yes, what was that all about, anyway? He went pale as a sheet when you referred to whatever it was you referred to.”

Oesterlische looked around for passing pedestrians.

“You remember the Great Blizzard we had last year? Snows like the town had never seen, buildings buried in a hundred feet of snow, trading ships frozen in the harbor, thousands of dollars of commercial damage, et cetera?”

“Well, of course I do,” Nussbaum said. “A strange series of events during that time resulted in me being locked on the top floor of an abandoned pickle factory. I nearly lost a foot!”

Oesterlische frowned at him.

“You do know how to steal one’s thunder, don’t you?” He pressed his lips together tightly and walked on. Nussbaum jogged to keep up.

“Aw, come on.” He said. “Don’t be like that. I get locked in abandoned pickle factories all the time.”

“I know,” Oesterlische said. “Which is why I wish you wouldn’t ruin the dramatic impact of the few good stories I have to tell with your incessant pickle-factory adventures. I was leading up to quite a bombshell.”

“All right, fine,” Nussbaum said. “The Great Blizzard of 1888. Buildings buried in snow, commercial damage, shivering young men locked in pickle factories burning empty boxes for heat and fending off rats driven crazy with some kind of strange disease they picked up on an Indian cargo ship. Go on.”

Oesterlische sighed.

“Marinus did it,” he said, curtly.

“What do you mean,
did it
?”

“Caused it. Made it happen. Was the instigator of.”

Nussbaum stared at him.

“No.”

“He was fiddling around, summoning some kind of weather elemental. He was trying to impress a showgirl. Surprisingly, the fez doesn’t always do the trick.”

“I am astonished to imagine that it might not.”

“Anyway, things got a bit out of hand. So I helped him hush it up, got the girl back to the cabaret . . . which was no small task, with raging weather elementals storming around.”

“My goodness.” Nussbaum rubbed a hand over his mouth. He turned nervous brown eyes onto Oesterlische. “And you can prove this?”

“Prove what?”

“His involvement.”

“It wouldn’t be hard,” Oesterlische said. “The only reason no one’s accused him of anything is that no one’s thought to look. If someone went to the Commission and called their attention to poor Marinus, got them asking some questions, the jig would be up. But I wouldn’t do that to a friend. Marinus is a good egg. Fez notwithstanding.”

Nussbaum thought some more.

“And you’ve just gone and cheesed him off. You heard what he said. Not wise to . . . well,
annoy
a warlock. You sure we want him as an enemy?”

“Who,
Marinus
?” Oesterlische raised an eyebrow. “Marinus is all black lacquer and enamelwork and consulting fees. The dust that runs through his veins occasionally catches a glitter. His whole game is to overawe you, but you mustn’t let him.”