Night's Pawn (2 page)

This time he didn't smile. "You still aren't sure." Their drinks arrived as he spoke, making her gape in surprise at the Firedrake. He took his Blind Reaper in one gulp and touched her arm.

"That's your favorite drink." She looked up at him, eyes still wide. "And your name isn't Karyn, either with or without a 'y't And you're not from anywhere near here." Fear swam in her eyes now. "But no matter," he told her. "Tonight you're with me."

He brought her hand up to his face, gently kissed the palm, then closed the fingers one by one. "I have business. It may take some time, but I want you to hold something for me." Power danced quietly behind his eyes and she gasped. She'd felt the change.

As she slowly opened her hand, a jumble of brilliant red silk unfolded, first forming a flower, and then falling open in a drape that covered her hand. He gathered it up and tied the flare of color around her throat. She touched it and stared at him, an odd glistening in her eyes. The corner of her mouth twitched slightly.

"You can give it back to me later." His voice was low, barely audible, and she strained forward to hear it.

She'd felt the silk appear in her hand, but still wasn't sure if he'd used bar-stool sorcery or the real thing to put it there. She'd think about it, and then think about it some more, and then want to know. Later, he'd let her.

He brushed her cheek and then her hair with the fingers of one hand, then moved away without looking back. If his business went well, he'd be alive enough afterward to need to disappear somewhere,
pronto
. And if he'd read the girl right, she was the bored daughter of some equally bored ultrasilk-suit type. Weary of the macro-glass scene, she'd become enraptured by the rhythm and color of the streets, but remained blind to its workings. Afraid of being rejected for her real identity, she'd gandered herself up the way they did it in the trids. By following the templates to the letter, she'd given herself away.

The quadruple ramps spiraled downward around the outer edge of the club, mimicking the curve of a DNA spiral. Deeper and deeper into corruption he walked as each level echoed the names and places of Dante's nightmare: the author's and the owner's. He ignored the screams and the other sounds, preparing himself as he descended.

Below the lowest dance floor, down a short, winding ramp, was Hell. No sign marked its location. One had to know it was there. Flanking its entrance were a pair of scantily clad, androgynous figures who watched every step of his approach with a near-feverish interest. He stuck his hands into his pockets, and the twins twitched. He flashed them a grin. "Shavan is waiting for me?"

The one on the left nodded, and the one on the right spoke. "Indeed," it said in a tone of menace. "You are expected." The bodies of the twins were perfect, scar-less, some say the best ever made. He doubted that, but they were the ideal guards for Hell.

Flash the fat credstick and you could rent Hell and be assured of complete privacy. It was swept magically and electronically before and after every meeting. Once the participants were inside, no one else got in. No magical eavesdropping was possible: the astral shield prevented that. No way in through the higher planes, either, which was what Shavan would be counting on.

Hell's designers had been kind enough to include a sizable foyer just within the outer doors to allow one a moment of preparation. Unfortunately, there were few spells he could raise and sustain that she wouldn't detect. Keeping her calm until just the right moment would be the key to walking out of this meet alive. He checked his gear once, then dropped down into a lotus position on the floor. The rhythm of his pulse released him, and he gave the shield-lattice and his surroundings a quick astral once-over. Everything was quiet, but it was still early. His senses returned to his body and he prepared himself.

Shavan was an enigma. The leader of a policlub known as The Revenants, she wielded great power. Little was known about her, and less than a handful had ever actually met her. The only description he'd ever heard was that she was of Nordic descent, but in this day and age only a DNA test could tell for sure. She was a powerful sorceress, an adept perhaps, and had relied on that to conceal her trip to Seattle. She needed to speak to someone, and that individual was not about to come to her. What she hadn't counted on was that someone else knew how to look better than she knew how to hide.

Shavan had been surprised that he'd known she was in Seattle, let alone that he knew where to find her. She'd believed that her business was deeply buried in the shadows. That was her first mistake. Her second was believing that what he offered her was sincere.

He'd chosen the meeting place, one known for its security, and she'd chosen the time. His only guarantee was her word that she'd be there, and that was enough. They both had reputations to live up to.

He stepped through the inner doors to find her waiting, exactly according to the plan. He was late.

"Alexander," she said, a slightly wicked smile crossing her face. "Fancy meeting you here."

The sight of her was so different from what he'd expected that he scanned the room to hide his surprise. In startling contrast to the woman, the room and its accessories were pure white. Everything about Shavan was dark. Her clothes, her skin, her eyes, even her voice.

She laughed. "I believe this is yours." Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out a wad of bright red silk and let it drift gently onto a sofa.

The odds against him walking out of here in one piece suddenly fell radically. His mind raced through the possibilities of how she could have gotten the silk, and he rejected every one just as quickly. There was no way she could have gotten it and still beaten him here. Regardless, she'd used the ploy to good purpose: his momentum was broken. With his options already halved, he was still at least five minutes away from playing his real cards. Until then, a bluff would have to do.

He picked up the silk and tied it around his throat. "Like it?" he asked, keeping his voice as level as he could manage.

She seemed amused. "Like what?"

"The silk."

Her amusement grew. "Ah, yes, it's lovely, I must admit. And real no doubt." Keeping him in view, she turned slightly to mix a drink.

"One hundred percent."

"Only the best for Alexander."

He let several long moments pass as he wandered over to the audio-visual console and casually scanned the selection menu. "Only the best for Gunther Steadman," he said, pressing on the touch-sensitive screen. He cued the first selection to fade up midway through and the second to follow it after a short pause.

The mention of the name Steadman gave Shavan such a start that he caught her surprise even as she mastered it. She already knew that Steadman was dead. He sensed the fear and anger that washed over her before she regained her calm. For someone of her power, Shavan was proving far too easy to read.

Nonchalantly, she finished mixing her drink and turned to face him directly. "Red was never Steadman's color," she said coolly.

The music he'd selected had begun to play, giving her another pause and him another opening. Choosing the piece had been a gamble. Hearing it now, he wondered briefly if he'd overplayed his hand.

"It is now." He said, letting the music almost drown his words. She heard him, though, for he sensed another wave of tension wash over her.

"This wouldn't be some kind of threat, would it?" Only her eyes followed him as he moved to sit on a nearby float sofa. "I think Mozart's
Requiem
is hardly suitable background for a business meeting." Her voice was flat, expressionless.

He shrugged. "I like it. It relaxes me. Just think of it as being in honor of Steadman."

She relaxed fractionally and said, "So, he's
dead
."

He nodded, stretched his arms out across the back of the sofa, and told her what he was fragging sure she already knew. "Three days ago in Hamburg. Bullet to the skull. Nasty, very nasty."

"So who's running Der Nachtmachen now? Who do you represent?" She was studying him intently.

"It's not really important," he lied casually. "The offer's still the same."

"On the contrary. It's very important." She crossed the short distance between them, and gracefully lowered herself onto the sofa opposite him. "I want to know."

As the first part of the
Requiem
was coming to an end, he knew his five minutes were slowly ticking away. Standing up, he placed his left boot on the low glass table and adjusted the straps. He moved slowly and carefully so as not to alarm her, wanting mainly to annoy her with the delay in his response. When he'd finished, he sat back down exactly as before.

He smiled before speaking. "Technically, I'm the one who's running things now."

Her eyebrows shot up. "You!" She was incredulous. "You're lying. The Nightmakers would never accept you. You're a runner and too fragging close to what they hate most."

He shrugged slightly. "Think of it as a kind of military coup," he said, staring her straight in the eyes. "Besides, I said 'technically.' I issue the orders, but they come from Steadman's mouth. Rather, what's left of it."

False understanding glinted in her eyes. "You're playing on that fanatic edge the inner circle always had, aren't you?"

He nodded, aware that the "Introitus" had ceased. The next selection was about to begin after the pause he'd programmed. It was time to play his cards. He stood up.

"Enough talk." His movement, pitch, and inflection snapped her onto the defensive. "We've made a decision. Der Nachtmachen no longer finds it acceptable for you to be the shadow-liege of The Revenants. Our unification offer is withdrawn."

Shavan stood up to face him, her eyes taking on a Medusan quality. "No longer finds it acceptable?" she hissed. "You think you can bully me? Bully us?" He didn't need his astral sight to see the power building. "Saeder-Krupp has already agreed to the funding, my stupid friend. With their nuyen, The Revenants will yank the reigns of the Restoration out of the hands of the bureaucrats and put them back in the hands of the people!"

He shook his head, turned, and step-vaulted over the float coach, putting it between them. Landing with a turn, he said, "Didn't I read that in your last propafax?" He pushed back his leather coat and jammed his thumbs into his pants pockets.

Her voice and anger rose together. "You of all people know I'm right!" Her left hand shot out to point at him. "How many trillions have already been spent so that the contractors and analysts can build their villas?"

He shrugged again. "I don't know, but I was always fond of The Revenants' little hideaway on the Riviera. Great view."

Shavan's anger solidified as her arm slowly came down. "Why now? Der Nachtmachen has always supported our view. Steadman did, his people did, even you did—when you cared to comment. Why have you changed your minds now?" Her tone was clipped and hard, and without realizing it she'd shifted into German.

"Why? We haven't changed, and you haven't been listening." Alexander slowly spread his hands wide. He walked clear of the furniture and dropped into lotus position again, in doing so declaring a duel. "Der Nacht-machen firmly believes in Europa Dividuus," he went on. "No question. You, however, made the wrong move."

Standing about ten steps away from him, she dropped down too, mimicking his position. He nodded, they breathed, and the world changed. The furniture, devoid of life, became dark, hollow shadows and the boundaries of the room vanished to become walls of scintillating green energy. The shield that kept out prying eyes would become the limits of the astral battle, Alexander thought. Nothing could get out and nothing could get in. Nothing expected, that is.

"You went to Saeder-Krupp," he said. "You wanted the nuyen, but you could have gotten that from just about anyone. You kept it quiet because you didn't want anyone to know you were getting backing from a corp." The glare in her eyes was blinding, and her aura left no question that she was prepared for battle. Alexander knew he had to keep talking, keep her interested just long enough. The music of Mozart's death mass surged, still audible, but now coming to their astral hearing as the anguish and the tears of its composer rather than the musical notes the physical world heard.

"More than money, you wanted the dragon, and you wanted him enough to come to Seattle to see him." Alexander paused and her eyes narrowed. "You wanted Lofwyr behind you," he said.

"So?" she snapped. "With the dragon backing us, we could rally the apathetic Awakened."

"Saeder-Krupp is one of the controlling corporations of the Restoration. Why would Lofwyr betray it for a bunch of street hustlers?"

Her eyes glinted as she saw an opening. "I've spoken with him. You forget how
old
he is. A Restored Europe would quickly become a concrete and steel Europe. He wants to return it to the way he remembers it."

"Damn it, Shavan! Haven't you ever looked at Saeder-Krupp's profile? They're Saeder-Krupp
Heavy Industries
, for god's sake. Who the frag do you think is going to be pouring all that concrete and casting all that steel? Who do you think pumps more toxins into the air? Who do you think pollutes more rivers?"

"Those are all companies he's bought. It takes time to bring them into line environ—"

"Don't you know that wonderful American saying?" Alexander said, cutting her off. " 'Never deal with a dragon'? Don't you know why that's true, Shavan? It's because the likes of you and I could never hope to understand them. They have more secret motives, more plans, than we could ever suspect, and to them we're just along for the ride. Trust me on this."