Sidhe-Devil Page 11

  "It took careful coordination between the model maker, Wenzel of House Daython, and a deviser with some artistic skill," Teleri said. "I think the effect is worth it."

  The library turned out to be three stories of books with a central atrium. Dust was heavy in the air, and Alastair began sneezing almost at once.

  Teleri pointed out the cabinet holding the catalogue of books, then the phone on one of the ground-floor tables. "The museum has its own switchboard; simply ask for my office if you need me. I'm also the resident expert on the settlement of Neckerdam, which nationalities contributed to the settlement, that sort of thing, so if you have questions along those lines you have merely to ask."

  "You've been very helpful already," Doc said.

  After Teleri left, Ixyail snorted. "Not as helpful as she wants to be."

  Doc gave her an admonishing look. "Now, Ish."

  "You are sometimes too appealing for your own good."

  "I shall remember to complain when I'm old and withered. Very well, everyone, let's start looking."

  * * *

  Doc pulled books referring to the construction of the Danaan Heights Building and magazines showing its decor. Alastair found volumes on the settlement of the neighborhood around the building; he and Noriko looked for anything pertaining to unusual phenomena or events occurring there before the building was raised. Harris fetched city plans showing subway routes, sewers and other utility construction, while Ixyail and Gaby pored over business articles and financial reports on the consortium that had owned Danaan Heights.

  Zeb, lacking enough knowledge of Neckerdam to feel particularly useful, found a recent travel guide to the city and settled in to learn what he could.

  "It wasn't on the ley lines," said Alastair, "and I'm not finding any unusual stories related to the site. It was a hotel thirty years ago, a livery service a half century before that."

  "Good construction," Doc said. "No sheathing on the steel supports, but a lower than usual incidence of iron poisoning because of good maintenance."

  "The underground didn't come any nearer than a block," Harris said. "Normal sewer and utilities, but it'll be hell to find out if there was anything going on there; it collapsed when the building fell down."

  "No indication of crime-family ties," Ish said. "Danaan-Gwernic Limited owns real estate from here to Nyrax. Very solid."

  "I don't understand." That was Alastair, who, if anything, looked worse and more tired than he had earlier in the morning, despite a bath and change of clothing. "Why did the ball of fire hit the base of the building? There are two primary ways to get the ball to the building—aim, or plant a beacon and send it toward the beacon. Either way, assuming there's any skill involved, it's probably easier to hit the building a few floors up—and just as effective."

  The talk-box chimed. Zeb, not taking his gaze from the book before him or much of his attention from the conversations going on all around him, picked up the handset. "Hello. Uh, I mean, grace."

  "Is this the Sidhe Foundation?" The voice was low, raspy, and familiar.

  Zeb covered the lower portion of the handset with his palm. "Doc, it's Albin Bergmonk."

  Doc and the associates all scrambled toward Zeb. Zeb took his palm from the handset. "Yes, it is. To whom shall I direct your call?" He kept his voice light and pleasant, like a phone operator's, and saw Harris suppress a snicker. Doc leaned in close and Zeb held the handset so both of them could listen. Gaby sat at the table, grabbed the talk-box cradle with both hands, and closed her eyes.

  "Shut up and listen. You saw what we could do at the Danaan Heights Tower. That was a free demonstration. Now it starts to cost. Fifty thousand silver libs in two bells' time or the Gwall-Hallyn Building comes down the same way. Do you understand?"

  Doc nodded.

  "Sure."

  "If you start to evacuate the building, we bring it down ahead of schedule. Do you understand?"

  Doc nodded again and mouthed the word "Where?"

  "Where do you want the money?"

  "We'll call the Monarch Building in a bell and a half with further instructions." Bergmonk disconnected.

  Gaby jerked as though she'd been slapped and her eyes came open. "Not enough time," she said, apology in her voice. "Somewhere in this district, though. Very close."

  Zeb set the handset down and blinked at her. "You were tracing the call? Just by concentrating?"

  "One of my little gifts."

  Alastair said, "Three possibilities. We were followed here, they had an observer here already, or they were tipped off by someone in our organization."

  Noriko said, "We weren't followed."

  Alastair's voice took on a soothing tone. "I have every confidence in your driving. But are you sure we weren't followed by anything? A bird? A little liftship like the Outrigger?"

  She considered it and shook her head. "No, I'm not."

  Harris said, "We vetted pretty carefully after Fergus turned out to be a traitor. It's unlikely they were tipped off by someone at the Monarch Building—especially as we didn't announce our destination, we just took off."

  Ixyail nodded. "It is asking much to assume they had someone here watching for us. I think we can strike that choice from the list."

  Gaby said, "I'm not so sure. This would be an obvious place for us to do research, obvious to someone who knows our methods. And they do—otherwise they wouldn't have known how to capture Doc. But why would they just call us here with a threat and not send in the Bergmonk Boys with autoguns?"

  Doc waved the subject aside. "Not important right now. I'll have our office staff get the money. Alastair, what you and I need to do is find some way to put a devisement beacon on it. And since they'll be expecting that, and obviously are working with a deviser, we need to find a way to do it they won't easily find."

  Harris caught the associates' eyes as he addressed them in turn. "Okay. Gaby, I want you on-station at the switchboard at the Monarch Building to get a trace on their call when they tell us where they want their money. Noriko, Zeb, you and Ish and I will go on over to this Gwall-Hallyn Building—"

  "It's a residential tower," Doc said. "Very new, very forward-looking. The first few floors are offices and shops. Take both cars in case you have to split up. Alastair, Gaby and I will take a taxi back to the Monarch Building and pick up more transportation there."

  "Right," said Harris. "We'll check Gwall-Hallyn out, see if we can spot any anomalies. Not try an evacuation; I feel like taking these guys seriously. Any questions?" There were none. "Let's go."

  Chapter Eight

  The wind attacked Ixyail's hair as though they were longtime enemies, mercilessly whipping and tangling it. Seated in the passenger seat beside Harris in Doc's two-seat roadster, Ish could only pull her safari-style hat tighter on her head and glare at Harris. "You chose Doc's car to torture me," she shouted.

  He grinned and put the roadster through a hard right-hand turn that cut the vehicle ahead of two cars turning in a more leisurely fashion onto the same side street. He shouted back, "You could have ridden with Noriko and Zeb."

  "You knew I wouldn't. I think she likes him. Though she is still tense in his presence. Perhaps it is because she likes him. But they should have some time together."

  "How romantic. A high-speed drive to stop a building from being destroyed. That's where love blossoms, all right."

  She merely sighed.

  Harris pointed forward. "That's it ahead."

  The Gwall-Hallyn Building was just coming into view, thirty stories of gleaming chrome and brass, with a pointed summit, curving lines and arch-topped windows that suggested to Zeb a cross between the Chrysler Building and a spaceship from a 1950s movie.

  Up two floors and left from the elevator was building manager Eamon Inksel's well-appointed office. Inksel, middle-aged and unamused, invited them all to sit, though he made no eye contact with Zeb. After hearing Harris's request, he said, "May I ask why you want to know?"

  Harris said, "It's better i
f you don't."

  Inksel took off his wire-rimmed glasses and methodically polished them. "The Sidhe Foundation's activities are widely reported, you know. The last news of you concerned the Danaan Heights Building. Now you're here asking if anything odd has taken place at my building. Is Gwall-Hallyn in any danger?"

  Harris kept his gaze steady. "Yes."

  "Like the Danaan Heights Tower?"

  "Yes."

  "Then my first order of business is not answering questions, but arranging for the building to be emptied."

  "No. If you do that, we go from it being a possibility that the building will be destroyed in a couple of bells to a virtual certainty that it will be destroyed right now."

  "Ah. Well, then." Taking the news that he was under a death sentence with the same imperturbable calm he'd exhibited on their arrival, the building manager took a moment to consider. "Odd incidents. In the last two days, we've had a wallet lifted from a patron of a ground floor restaurant—very upsetting for the restaurant, as the thief turned out to be one of their staff; we've had some vandalism in the lobby; and we had an expectant mother faint in the lift."

  Harris sat up straight. "Vandalism in the lobby. Don't tell me: Someone damaged the building's dedicatory plaque."

  Inksel's eyebrows rose toward his receding hairline. "Yes. A single deep score. It happened this morning. How did you—"

  "Did anyone see the vandals?"

  "Yes, the lobby guard. The vandals were two men spending time reading the plaque. Both burly. You'd have to ask the guard for more exact descriptions. He didn't think anything of it until he heard a screeching noise; that must have been the damage being done. And then the men ran outside to a waiting car before he could confront them."

  "Is that guard still on duty?"

  "Yes. I'll take you to him if you choose."

  Harris nodded. "Ish, call Doc or Alastair and tell them this. The vandalism he's talking about precisely matches some that took place over at Danaan Heights. This is our first procedural link between the two sites, which is probably really important to Devisers. Call Lieutenant Athelstane at the guardhouse and ask him to check into similar reports of vandalism—top priority. Then join us downstairs. Zeb, Noriko, let's go."

  * * *

  The lobby guard, a large dark named Lekkin, described Jorg and Albin Bergmonk to Harris's satisfaction.

  They looked over the dedicatory plaque. It was bronze, some three feet by two, with upraised letters describing the philanthropic qualities and financial genius of the millionaires who'd erected this building as a testimonial to their own worth. A deep gouge along one edge of the text marred the stately appearance of the plaque.

  "What about the material cut from this gouge?" Zeb asked.

  The guard shook his head. "There was nothing to sweep up. What they cut out, they took with them."

  Harris frowned over that. "Okay, get a prybar. We're going to take this thing right off the wall."

  The guard hesitated, but Inksel nodded permission and the man trotted off toward a side corridor.

  "Let me guess," Zeb said. "This plaque is the `beacon' Alastair was talking about?"

  "I'm not sure." Harris scowled at the plaque. "I don't do devisements; I just keep running into them. But that would answer a question or two. Like, why the fireball hit Danaan Heights at ground level—"

  "Because it was drawn to the plaque in its lobby."

  "Right. I think."

  * * *

  Ish finished writing on her notepad. "Thank you, Lieutenant." Her Castilian accent was back in full force. "If you think of anything else, you will notify us? Yes? Grace." She hung up.

  And immediately felt a blade point pressed against her back.

  Her breath caught. Did not hear anyone enter the office. Raise hands, present no menace. If I—

  The blade thrust home. She felt it enter her back, shearing through one of her vertebrae, angling down to pierce her stomach instead of her heart.

  The pain was unimaginable, flashing out from the injury to burn through every cell of her body. She dimly heard the sound of her own scream. Then the wooden floor rose to slam against her body and darkness drowned her.

  * * *

  The guard was back in the lobby within minutes and pried the plaque free from the marble wall behind. His exertions bent the plaque out of shape and snapped the bronze pegs that held it to the wall. The way Harris held it told Zeb that it was heavy, forty or more pounds.

  "Next," said Harris, "we go out a back way in case the front's being watched, take a cab over to the river, and hire a couple of boats to get us out into the center of the river."

  "A couple of boats."

  "Right. One we leave the plaque on. It'd be better yet if we could get a buoy to leave the plaque on, but I want it on the water as fast as possible. We don't throw it overboard because if the fireball doesn't come, Doc and Alastair are going to want to study it. Where the hell is Ish? She should be here by now."

  Inksel said, "I'll find out," and headed off to the talk-box at the guard's station.

  He was back a moment later, a touch of distress, or perhaps only regret, in his expression. "Goodsirs, my secretary informs me that the young lady has collapsed. She is unconscious. My secretary has summoned an ambulance."

  Harris swore. He held up the plaque. "Zeb, can you get this out on the river? Take the roadster, a cab might not stop for you."

  "No problem . . . Unless the cops hassle me for being a black man in an expensive car. Unless the people with boats to rent have objections to—"

  "Point taken. You and Noriko take care of Ish. I'll deal with this. Goodsir Inksel, thanks."

  "Thank you."

  * * *

  Despite his imperturbable manner, Inksel moved fast when he wanted to, leading Zeb and Noriko a quick trot up the stairs rather than waiting for the lift. In his office, secretaries crowded around Ixyail where she lay.

  She was curled in fetal position, her chair lying toppled behind her. She twitched constantly as though she were undergoing electrocution. Zeb could see no sign of injury.

  He swore and knelt beside her head. "Inksel, give me that cushion off your chair. And your jacket. Noriko, dial the Foundation for me."

  He had Inksel's cushion beneath Ish's head and the jacket over her a moment later, and had Alastair on the line shortly after that. In few words he described Ish's condition.

  Alastair's voice was strained with worry. "Have the ambulance take her to Thown Hospital. Keep her warm—"

  "To reduce the chance of her going into shock. I'll get her there, Doctor."

  "I'll be there before you." Alastair hung up.

  Ish's eyes opened, unfocussed. She gave a full-body shudder, cringed from the pain it obviously caused her, and looked up without moving her head. "Zeb. Noriko." Her voice was a rasp.

  "We're here. We're getting you to the hospital. Just hold yourself together."

  "No, Zeb. I'm dying. Too deep a wound for Ixyail." A single tear escaped the corner of her eye. "Tell Doc. He knows I love him. Tell him he was all I thought of when my time came."

  Zeb and Noriko exchanged a confused glance. "What wound?" asked Zeb. "Ish, you don't have a mark on you."

  She coughed; maybe it was a laugh. "Do not patronize me. I'm run through. The blade is still in me. I'm almost there."

  A chill of fear ran through Zeb; her voice was so weak, so agonized. "Dammit, Ish, there's no blade. No blood." He carefully ran a hand across her back.

  She jerked and bit back a shriek. Then he held his unblooded hand before her eyes and she stared at it in dull confusion.

  "A devisement," she said. "Killed by devisement . . ." Her eyes closed.

  Zeb's fear became a hard knot of panic. He heard Noriko cry out, a noise of helplessness and despair. He drew in a deep breath, then roared, "Open your goddammed eyes, sister!"

  Ixyail's eyes snapped open. She stared at him in pain and surprise.

  Inksel made a noise of protest. "Goodsir, your
language is not appropriate—"

  Zeb twisted to glare at him. Whatever was in his eyes was sufficient to convince the man to shut up, and more; Inksel drew back, to the far wall of the office, and stayed there.

  Zeb returned his attention to Ish. He let no mercy, no sympathy creep into his expression. "Ish, repeat after me. I am not wounded. I will not die."

  Ish shook her head helplessly. "The hurt—"

  "The hurt is a lie. You have to fight through the pain. You're going to fight through the pain. Fight it. Hit me."

  She shook her head.

  "Hit me, by God, or I'm going to hit you, and you'll die with some grimworld asshole beating you!"

  She slapped him. It stung. Her movement dislodged the jacket lying across her and caused her to cry out in more pain.

  "Again. `I am not wounded. I will not die.' "

  She slapped him again, and cried out again. Then, the words forced past her teeth, "I am not wounded. I will not die."

  "Again. `I have to fight through the pain.' "

  She struck him a third time, and he actually felt dizzy from the strength of her blow. Her voice was a moan. "I have to fight through the pain."

  "You're getting stronger. Again." He tensed himself against the blow to come.

  She didn't lash out this time. "It doesn't hurt as much."

  "It should be getting worse. You thought you were dying a second ago. What's that mean?"

  "The pain is a lie. I have to fight through the pain." She grimaced and Zeb felt another wave of agony ripple through her. "Ai . . . oh, that was bad. But it's just . . ."

  "Pain. Just pain." As gently as he could, he pulled her up so that she leaned against him. He could tell it hurt her, but was just as sure she could stand to have arms around her. "Pain's a signal. It means something's wrong. But you can't let just the signal kill you. Distance yourself from it. Don't ignore it: Just understand it. Ish, I used to be boxing champ for my regiment. You know what that means? You have those on the fair world?"

  She regained some focus, glanced up at him. "Yes. In an army. You fought unarmed for sport, boxing." Her voice wavered but was a little stronger.