Bone Song (23 page)

“Ixil Deltrassol,”
Harald's unwilling informant Birtril had said.
“He's an ex-army driver. Keeps to himself.”

Working in the embassy, unaware of the true nature of the Black Circle he ultimately worked for, this Deltrassol was probably a lowlife. He was a driver who scarcely ranked as a foot soldier in the extended army of morons and deviants (though their mid-rank officers could be real pieces of work: witness Sally the Claw) manipulated from above by unseen individuals.

But no one would dare to investigate their own police commissioner. If Harald had been halfway sensible, he wouldn't have considered it either.

They're going to pay.

It was Sushana who made the difference, Sushana who had always made the difference in Harald's sometimes bleak world.

Away from the ornate old town houses with polished brass railings, Harald slowed the Phantasm. They entered a pentangle fronted by former mansions long transformed into decaying hotels. There was a five-sided garden that was no longer safe to enter at night, not unarmed or alone.

Then he took the bike down a series of narrowing and darkening streets until the lights brightened once more, this time with garish blues and reds predominating. He was into an area that the old rich lady they'd nearly run over would be shocked to realize existed, only half a mile from where she lived out her grand existence.

A tiny chained demonic form fluttered its leathery wings over Sid's Scar Parlor, the curlicued rune-and-knot patterns across its body a testimony to One-Eyed Sid's considerable skill with a straight razor.

Here in Quarter Moon Alley, Sid's artistry was well known, but Harald remembered the days of his and Sid's youth, when they had run the streets in the same gang and Sid's use of the razor had been for more immediate purposes than fiscal gain or artistic recognition.

Or perhaps there
had
been a kind of artistry involved in the way Sid wielded the ultrasharp blade.

Slowing right down, the Phantasm mumbled with its engine close to idling as they slipped past the black multifaceted windowless building known as Nameless, past a betting shop, and past a nightclub whose failing business was driving it inexorably toward the status of hot-pillow house, strictly illegal in Tristopolis and always present.

Had there ever been a large city without prostitution? Harald had often wondered at the nearness between this and the Courts of Mercy, less than two miles away yet worlds apart. At least, any supreme judge caring to walk down Quarter Moon Alley to sample its facilities left his robes of office back at the courts.

Past the glowing signs of three more establishments on the right, Harald could see the ephemeral beckoning hand that came through the wall and hung above the sidewalk, inviting passersby inside. The See-Through Look 'n' Feel appeared classier than many of the surrounding nightclubs, but there was only one type of person who frequented the place. Some of them turned even Harald's hardened stomach.

There was a purple taxi parked just ahead, and Harald pulled the motorcycle in behind it. The three young Zurinese sailors who tumbled from the taxi were laughing and half drunk, and Harald hoped that whatever adventures awaited them this evening, however sordid, there would be at least the illusion of happiness involved and no traumas to follow them through the rest of their lives.

But in this place, it could as easily be the flash of a blade or the glint of light from a spinning bullet case that would be the last impression to catch their confused awarenesses before darkness slammed in. They might never sense the fingers fumbling for their wallets and ID cards.

It happened here, and it had happened in the foreign ports that Harald visited as a young marine; it seemed to be the way of the world. For a second Harald considered flashing his own ID, his detective's shield, and warning them away, but they would only get in trouble somewhere else.

And then he remembered the state that Sushana was in, and the sailors faded from Harald's awareness. The Phantasm extruded one stand—tentatively—and that allowed Harald to lean sideways to check out the doorway of See-Through Look 'n' Feel.

There were four men standing there in deep-purple cloaks—the club's colors—and the largest of them was Stone. Harald had known Stone for a long time, and knew him only by that name.

The street moniker was accurate enough.

“All right,” Harald murmured to the Phantasm. “I'll be going in the front way. Let's just get you tucked out of sight.”

The motorcycle rumbled in agreement and rolled on, withdrawing its stand.

In a darkened alleyway strewn with broken crates and shards of blue and brown glass, Harald brought the Phantasm to a halt. As it extruded both stands and Harald dismounted, he saw a pale child with reptilian scales across his forehead.

The child looked about five years old but might be as old as eight if his diet was poor.

“Hey,” said Harald. “Could you do me a favor?”

After a second the scaly boy nodded. Harald dug inside his pocket and flung over a handful of nine-sided coins. The boy caught them.

“Keep people away from the motorcycle,” Harald instructed. “And I'll pay you more when I get back.”

A shimmer passed across the Phantasm's bony carapace. The boy's eyes widened.

“Yeah,” said Harald. “It's kinda for their own good.”

The boy grinned.

Harald grinned back. Then, gun held straight down at his side, he retraced his steps along the alleyway, heading back toward the club's front entrance.

Stone saw Harald coming a hundred yards away and stepped out into the middle of the sidewalk. He stood like some massive rock half-filling a strait. Passersby drifted past on either side, avoiding him subconsciously.

“Hey, Sergeant,” Stone rumbled as Harald drew close.

“Hey, Stone.”

“You gonna need that?” Raising one stone-encrusted hand, Stone pointed. “We expecting trouble?”

“I hope not.” Harald kept the gun pointed down. “But I like to be prepared.”

“You're not saying one of our clientele has been a naughty boy?” When Stone frowned, the flanges of interlocking granite that shielded his brow scraped together. “We got a classy establishment here, Sergeant.”

“That's right,” said Harald. “And I'm sure you want to keep it that way.”

“So who's the miscreant?”

“Miscreant?”

“What?” The stones shifted around Stone's grin. “Ya think I can't use big words?”

“You won't hear me say that, big guy. The miscreant is called Deltrassol, though who knows what name he uses around here.”

“Oh, that one.” Stone's grin widened. “He likes the ladies . . . insubstantial. Doesn't wrinkle his chauffeur suit, at least not from the outside, know what I mean?”

Harald knew pretty well what Stone was getting at.

“You ever thought about getting an honest job, Stone?”

“What, you mean like a police officer? Nice uniform, stroll the streets, nab perpetrators . . .”

“We don't actually call them perp—”

“Not since I taught you how to say miscreant, obviously.”

“Right.” Harald smiled at the thought of Stone in police uniform, studying interpersonal skills and criminology at the academy. “So where's our Deltrassol?”

“Top floor,” said Stone. “Right at the back.”

“Nothing but the best for our miscreants.”

“There you go, Sergeant,” said Stone. “You don't do so bad—”

“—for a dumb cop,” Harald finished for him. “Thank you so much.”

Inside, Harald stepped through the ectoplasmic curtain that filled the hallway—it slid wetly across his skin—and then he was inside a corridor furnished in red and black. Tiny flamesprites danced in niches along the walls.

To Harald's right, an archway opened onto the dark interior of the club. Blue-lit booths were sparsely occupied by middle-aged men and their paid companions, some of whom were ordinary humans: the See-Through Look 'n' Feel catered to a range of clientele.

There were three wraiths dancing on the bar, their lower extremities just inside the top of the counter, swaying to the too-loud music. One of them looked over toward Harald, the darkness where her eyes should have been now focusing on him. She gave a slow wink as she danced.

She nodded slightly toward the rear of the building, as if she knew what Harald was here for: to take down Deltrassol. It confirmed what Stone had already said, and Harald tipped his forehead to give a fingertip salute before continuing along the red-lit hallway.

R
eversed words crawled across the
far wall, with Harald's shadow blotting out the center. The light came from the shining sign that floated behind him. Moving to one side so his silhouette would not show, Harald advanced with crosswise steps along the hallway.

At the entrance to the rear lounge, Harald checked inside, in case his target was not where Stone thought or there was other trouble. The Tiplog brothers were here, their backs to Harald, and he made a mental note to find out later what they were up to. No one else of interest.

So he went back into the hallway and crossed to the staircase, where two burning wraiths drew aside. One of them opened her mouth to reveal teeth of yellow flames.

Harald ignored them as he began his ascent. The carpet on the treads was sticky and blackened with dirt. Having got this far, the club's patrons no longer needed the illusory glamour that decorated the bar and lounges: a haze of lust obscured the tacky reality, the faded scents of despair and old semen.

The top corridor was floored with bare boards. Paint peeled from flimsy doors; rhythmic groans came from behind two of them. Harald drew his gun. He would kick in each door in turn, regardless of who might be inside.

But one of the wraiths rose up through the floor, anticipating the damage Harald was likely to cause, and pointed at the end door. She hung in the air until Harald nodded. Then she floated downward and out of sight.

Harald moved fast.

Floorboards creaked beneath his weight, but not in time to warn Deltrassol, as Harald's heel slammed into the door beside the lock. There was plenty of hip thrust, and splinters flew as the door sprang back. Harald swiveled, aiming from the hip—the Fighting Sevens used instinctual shooting, because traditional targeting takes time—then stopped.

“Hey, Ixil.” Harald used Deltrassol's first name because that was basic intimidation. “Is everything coming along nicely?”

On the bed, a pale-faced man in a dark suit lay still, eyes widened. The half-manifest wraith sitting astride him pumped her hips several more times before stopping.

The wraith turned to regard Harald, and opened her mouth—it looked like darkness pricked with stars—in what might have been a grin.

Then she grew insubstantial, and Harald tried not to look at the tumescence revealed inside Ixil Deltrassol's trousers. The wraith faded almost to invisibility.

Harald laughed and took three paces into the room, stopping close to the bed.

“Ain't that always the way, Ixil? Here one second, fading away the next.” And, to the wraith: “Right, darling?”

The wraith was already sinking downward through the floor.

She nodded to Harald and gave a tiny wave in the direction of the bed. In a second, she was gone.

Deltrassol's mouth opened and closed. Then he swallowed and said, “What—”

“I'm arresting you for murder,” said Harald.

“No—”

“Yes. Unless you can convince me there's a reason I should let you go. Then you'd fly straight back to Illurium, wouldn't you?”

“I . . . No, I'd stay here. Honest, Officer. I'd—”

“Wrong answer.” Harald's hand seemed to flicker into motion. “Try again.”

Drops of blood sprang out across Deltrassol's forehead.

Harald raised the weapon again, ready to inflict deeper damage.

“Uh . . . Officer. What—What do you want me to do?”

But Harald's gun was now pointed at Deltrassol's crotch.

“I like tiny targets. It's the challenge, y'know?”

“Look, Officer, I didn't know the dwarves were going to . . . do what they did. I swear, I only heard on the radio afterward what happened. Thanatos . . . I'd never get involved in . . . stuff like that.”

Harald lowered his aim slightly, to appear less threatening. He could still shoot Deltrassol's thigh and destroy the femoral artery with minimal movement.

“I'd like to believe you.” Harald stepped closer to the bed and leaned forward, wrapping the fingers of his left hand around Deltrassol's throat. “But I'm afraid I can't.”

If Deltrassol had had an active hand in what happened to Sushana, then Harald's thumb and finger were going to close, collapsing the laryngeal cartilage. It would take a while for Deltrassol to choke to death.

“No, man . . . Please. Don't.”

“One chance.” Harald tapped Deltrassol on the forehead. “Relax.”

“Please—”

“I don't know whether you know this yet as it's easy to . . . lose control and . . . let go of the body and drift . . . just drift . . .” The tone of Harald's voice deepened and slowed as he looked into Deltrassol's eyes. “ . . . and you can close your eyes . . . that's right . . .as the threat fades . . .”

Deltrassol's eyelids drooped, then closed.

The marines had taught Harald to kill with guns and blades, with hands and feet, and they had drilled him in the use of subtler weapons.

Ixil Deltrassol slid deeper into a trance. Disconcerted by fear, he was totally vulnerable to the unexpected mesmeric tone of Harald's trained voice.

Deeper still.

“. . . so much pain to sit on . . . the fence as . . . defense is unnecessary so . . . you let it go . . .”

As an embassy driver, Deltrassol had received trance training, but it was superficial. After Harald penetrated the initial defense, Deltrassol's training made him
more
vulnerable: he had been in trances so often it was easy to return.

“Policeman,” Deltrassol murmured.

Harald modulated his voice to match Deltrassol's neurophysiology. “. . . because I'm the one who can . . . save you from pain . . . like a windowpane into memory of . . . things you have to . . . tell me . . .as your unconscious knows what it needs . . . to help you as it . . . always has to . . . tell me . . .”

“Police. Our contact. He . . . Setup.”

Harald leaned closer.

“. . . tell me everything . . .”

Laura walked out into the main office area. Donal had been gone ages getting the coffee—he'd offered to bring back a cup for her—and she wondered what was keeping him. The caffeine meant nothing to her black zombie blood, but it was unusual for Donal to take so long.

On the few occasions Donal had drunk alcohol since coming here, he'd drunk raw, cheap whiskey that Laura wouldn't dream of putting in her car—the Vixen was more fussy than that. To a zombie, alcohol tasted like sour vinegar laced with something worse: rats' piss, or the lymph fluid of crushed beetles.

Drunk as a zombie
was an oxymoron that had somehow passed into the language as a simile. Laura used to consider it one of life's ironies, back when she'd been alive.

“Hey, Laura.” Alexa was on the phone, cupping her hand around the mouthpiece. “I've got Harald on the—”

Her expression changed to a frown, then she looked up at Laura and shrugged. “Sorry. He just hung up on me.”

“Is everything all right?”

“He told me to cancel an EPB. The one on the Illurian driver. Er”—Alexa glanced down at her notebook—“Ixil Deltrassol.”

Laura glanced at the door, where Donal was backing in with three cups of coffee clutched between his hands. No wonder he was taking so long.

“What happened? Don't tell me he's . . .” Laura let her voice trail off. “Never mind.”

Alexa stared at her for a moment.

“I don't think Harald's offed the guy, if that's what you mean.”

“No,” said Laura. “I don't think one of my officers would do such a thing.”

“Me neither.” Donal approached with the coffees, wincing as he tried—and failed—to put all three down on Alexa's desktop without spilling anything. “Sorry. What bad thing wouldn't we dream of doing?”

“Taking the law into your hands,” said Alexa.

“Well, Thanatos forbid.”

“In a lethal manner,” said Laura. “Causing a suspect to disappear.”

“Oh.” Donal looked at Alexa. “Who are we talking about, exactly?”

“Deltrassol, Ixil. Wanted for—”

“The embassy driver, right?”

“That's the man.” Laura perched herself on the edge of the desk. “And did Harald give any indication why we should kill an Extended Points Bulletin? Doesn't he know how hard I have to work to get one published in the first place?”

“Yeah,” said Alexa.

“But he doesn't care.” Donal half-smiled.

“I think”—Alexa checked her notepad once more—“he's got the guy and turned him as a witness.”

Laura bit her lip. “All right.”

Donal saw her expression and decided that Harald was in trouble but would probably talk his way out of it. Donal himself had had such arguments with various bosses. You interrogated a witness, an opportunity to lever something out of them came up, and you took it, offering them a lighter sentence or whatever.

The thing was, however spur of the moment the offer might be, the officer had to follow through on it. On the streets, someone who fails to keep their promises isn't “stand-up,” and that is the worst crime of all.

“All right,” said Laura again. “That's fine. If I'm not around when Harald turns up, get him to hang around until I am.”

“I'll try.” Alexa sipped her coffee and nodded toward Donal. “Thanks.”

Laura took a sip of hers, then put the cup back down on Alexa's desk and appeared to forget about it. “Donal, have you got the remaining travel details worked out?”

“Yeah, hang on a sec.” Carrying his coffee, Donal went to his desk and retrieved a pale-green pad. “Here you are. Are you sure we can afford this?”

“I can.”

“Well . . . all right.”

He was an orphan from the wrong side of the tracks, traveling abroad.

Shit. I'm flying to Illurium.

Sister Mary-Anne would have been proud of him.

Harald leaned closer to Deltrassol.

“. . . deeper,” he said, “and then tell me . . . whether . . . any commands lurk in there.”

He was talking about Deltrassol's subconscious, and there was a reason: if the Black Circle had laid hex traps or guards in place, even ordinary mesmeric digging should expose their existence.

A buried wipeout trap would cause Deltrassol to scream, as inlaid hex scoured his memories all the way back to childhood. Harald was willing to risk that. Part of him wanted it to happen.

“. . . cashing in on memory where the . . . bosses cached their commands . . .”

“No.” Eyelids fluttering, Deltrassol shook his head.

His personality was still intact. No mages had buried hex traps in his mind.

“. . . and you want to tell me . . . what shipment the dwarves were stealing . . .”

“Yes. Champagne. The expensive stuff. Crates of it, worth thousands. We had the plans, police-response plans. How they knew to land the pterabat on top of the skull.”

Champagne?

All this for fuckin' champagne?

“. . . and when you saw that the dwarves had a body aboard, when you saw the van . . .”

“I pulled out, man. Aborted. Don't want that kind of trouble.”

“. . . is what we want to avoid as you decide you'll do everything to help me . . .”

“Yes.”

“. . . and I need to know, your boss, Sir Alvan . . .”

“That's right.”

“. . . is he your friend?”

“No.”

“. . . while you spend time in his office . . .”

“The club.”

“. . . because of this place? The See-Through? Tell me . . .”

“Sir Alvan comes here. By chance, I saw him. Recognized him.”

“. . . though he was in disguise . . .”

“Yes, a mask. Ensorcelled. But the way he walked. I knew.”

“. . . that this was Sir Alvan, and you blackmailed him . . .”

“For small amounts, for a man like him.”

“. . . who would do you a special favor if you asked . . .”

“His secret. Would destroy him. If I told.”

“. . . and he could arrange to fly you back to Illurium . . .”

“Yes.”

So Deltrassol was a blackmailer within his own embassy. He was a lowlife, and Harald wanted badly to take him down. But if there were resources available in Illurium, in Silvex City where Donal Riordan was headed . . .

Got you, zombiefucker.

The bastards who'd gotten away with Cortindo's body and the—for Death's sake—expensive champagne had a police contact, someone who'd given them the response plans. By itself the evidence meant little, but it closed the chain of cause and effect that stretched all the way back to Commissioner Vilnar's office.

But first things first.

Riordan. You're dead.

Harald told Deltrassol to sleep for a minute. It allowed Harald time to think.

Then, link by link, he put his plan together.

“. . . and when you return to the embassy, you'll ask him . . .” Harald drew the sentence out, hearing a raucous shout from the hallway outside. It was a drunkard's roar, somewhere on this floor: one of the club's clients had teetered out of control.