The Book of Air: Volume Four of the Dragon Quartet (48 page)

Smiling to herself, Paia keeps pace with him as he turns away, following respectfully in his wake. She’s made her point, and she doesn’t want to be left behind in this salesman’s palace. Despite its luxury and scale and the omnipresent security cameras, it doesn’t feel safe.

Just short of the gilded doors at the end of the corridor, a wide crossing hall intersects. Fire wheels right, his sharp heels resounding with military precision. Paia represses a grin. How the dragon must be enjoying this new ability of his man-form to make sound in the material world! Another tool of intimidation added to his arsenal, to compensate for his sudden vulnerability to the heat. She follows him cheerfully around the corner.

A broad staircase rises ahead of them, its elaborately carved newels sporting twin logos in polished brass. The bottom step is flanked by two beefy guards, smartly
dressed, despite the humidity, in close fitting black and gray. Their collective gaze is fixed on one of the nearby wall screens. Their jaws are slack with fascination. Paia cannot see the screen from her sidelong angle, but she hears cries and weeping, and a woman’s desperate begging. The sentries snap to quick attention as Fire cruises to a halt in front of them.

“General! Sir!” exclaims one, saluting so abruptly that Paia is surprised he hasn’t broken his wrist. “You are welcome! Sir!”

“I should hope so.” Fire breezes past to mount the stairs two at a time. Only at the top does he wait for Paia to trudge up after him, by which time the sentries have returned their attention to the screen. At the top of the stairs, more guards and more wall screens, this time offering a selection of programming: the battle scene again, and a young girl being beaten, then an elaborate costume drama where only the women go without clothing. Paia glances at the final screen and away again, shocked. Surely this is far too intimate to be viewed among strangers! Worst of all are the actress’ screams of pain. So convincing. The soldiers watch in avid silence, their eyes constantly flicking from one screen to the other. Behind them, several doorways lead into other huge rooms and brightly lighted hallways, with other open doors beyond that.

Again, the uniformed sentries snap to with brisk salutes. They are boys, really. Sweating beneath their chic uniforms. While the rest stare openly at Paia and make whispered suggestions among themselves, the oldest steps forward.

“Welcome, General. Are you expected?”

“Expected?” Fire offers a lofty but complicit grin. “Mr. Baraga would soon grow bored, Lieutenant, if I showed up only when expected.”

The young man nods politely, but Paia can see he’s repressing a frown. He can’t bring himself to meet the man/dragon’s glance directly, so he stares intently at the middle button on Fire’s red tunic, taking another step forward to lean in and murmur, “Begging your pardon, General, but it’s His Excellency, the President, now.”

“Really? I’ll be sure to remember.” Fire turns to Paia with a sly wink. “Didn’t I tell you he’s come up in the world?” To the lieutenant, he says, “Yes, it’s been a while.
Sorry I missed the coup, but I gather it all went as planned. Is
His Excellency
about?”

The frown mutates into a tight and awkward smile. “His Excellency is shooting live at the moment, sir.” The lieutenant waves vaguely at the screens, then slides his gaze past Fire’s chest to where Paia has stopped the prescribed two steps behind. “Perhaps you would care to join him.”

“Perhaps I will.”

The other guards have turned away from this mundane conversation, and the passing diversion of a merely live woman. And though the lieutenant steadfastly faces front, his concentration is faltering, drawn away by the bright, beckoning screens and the promise of drama. “Shall I accompany you to the studio, sir?” he asks unhappily.

“No need.” Fire moves past him, beckoning Paia to follow. “I know the way.”

A succession of gilt-ceilinged salons leads to a parquet-floored ballroom and rows of gold chairs with plush maroon velvet upholstery. A larger chair resembling a throne rests on a dais at the far end. The ubiquitous wall screens are even larger here, with each sound track trying to overwhelm its neighbors with excesses of volume and pitch.

Passing out of the ballroom into another corridor lined with doors, Fire gestures into the wedding cake of cornices and chandeliers. “There’s an entire wing down that way I’m sure he’ll be happy to give us.”

Paia smiles up at him. He’s looking damp and a bit disheveled. She’d like to wipe his forehead, and maybe nibble a little on his perfect, chiseled mouth. “Perhaps you can negotiate for air-conditioning.”

“Stop looking at me like that!”

“But why, my Fire?”

He looks away. “It clouds my thinking.”

Paia laughs delightedly.

Fire scowls, looming over her. “You don’t realize how limited our options are, do you?”

“Perhaps I don’t.”

“Then let me do what I must to find a place for us! There’s time for pleasure later.”

Paia damps her seductive grin. “Forgive me, my Fire. I will.”

More corridors and rooms, then, and finally, a large door,
distinctive by being steel-plated and closed, and by the group of men who stand around outside it, drinking and smoking. A few of them watch the bank of screens that lights up the entire adjacent wall, but most of them are chatting, or playing cards or e-games. Above the door, a lighted panel reads: ON AIR.

The men glance up at the click of Fire’s boots across the polished marble. These are not spiffy, boyish soldiers. They are older, and casually dressed. Their pragmatic, world-weary expressions remind Paia of the Tinkers she has met. They observe Fire’s approach with mild disinterest, and yet ease imperceptibly aside so that a passage is cleared to the door without anyone actually greeting him or even acknowledging his presence.

“You see how they know me,” Fire murmurs, and though Paia is steps behind, she hears him as if his lips were at her ear. “Perhaps I should have made my kingdom here.”

He processes grandly through the crowd of men and stops at the metal door. By habit, Paia steps up to open it for him, as she has ever done when the God wished to pass through a closed door without the awkwardness of vanishing on one side and reappearing on the other. Then she hesitates. Perhaps he’d like the novelty of opening it for himself, now that he’s material enough? But he nods, as if granting her permission.

“Let it be as usual,” he says quietly. “That way, I can surprise him.”

The space inside is cavernous and cool and dark, filled with the bustle of men and machinery focused like bees around a central, brightly-lit hive. Paia actually shivers in the draft from the huge vents pumping in cold air. A mist of condensation rimes the trusswork below the ceiling.

Again, space clears magically as Fire moves among the rolling scaffolds and lighting instruments and the thick bundles of cable snaking across the smooth gray floor. But soft catcalls and laughter follow in their wake, dark male laughter that Paia does not like the sound of. Hands reach for her uninvited. Not like the soft touch of the Faithful of the Temple. These hands are rougher, grasping, and presumptuous. Paia closes the gap between herself and the man/dragon until she’s nearly treading on his heels.

“Don’t be concerned,” says his voice in her ear. “They will not harm what belongs to me.”

Paia twists away and into him with a cry of pain as a stray palm cups her breast and squeezes hard. Fire turns. It’s not hard to pick out the perpetrator. He’s guffawing and moving in for more. Fire glares at him, and instantly, the man yowls and doubles over to cradle his arm in pain and terror. The grabbing, rubbing hands withdraw.

I AM STILL YOUR PROTECTOR, AM I NOT, BELOVED?

Paia nods, knowing it would be unproductive to point out to him his penchant for putting her into situations where she will
require
a protector. “I don’t like it here,” she mutters instead. “But it is cooler.”

“Like I said: get used to it.” He continues onward, toward the center brightness.

Peering past him, Paia sees a short but powerfully built man in a crisp white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He’s talking to a man with a clipboard, describing something with impatient, expressive hands. The bright lights fall on him as if besotted by his hair, which is pure black and glossy and straighter than any Paia has ever seen. She knows instantly that this is Kenzo Baraga, once a big-time media baron, now (apparently) president of his country. And more significantly, once N’Doch’s hero and role model, now the scourge of his entire family. She studies him carefully as they approach. The man doesn’t look like a murderer of helpless old women, even though she knows he is. He’s neat and clean, and looks to be stylish within the standards of his era. Nor does he look insane, as is said of Fire’s other known henchman, the “hell-priest” of Erde’s time. Baraga looks like . . . a businessman. Paia’s father used to entertain such men—powerful and rich—at the Citadel in the days before the Final Collapse. But they were never his particular friends.

If Baraga senses the dampening of the bustle that Fire’s sudden punishing of the grabber has caused, he gives no sign. He continues his emphatic explanation to the man with the clipboard, who notes Fire’s advance with slightly widened eyes but keeps nodding at his boss as if nothing else was on his mind. Only when Fire has come to an august
and expectant halt several paces away, does the Media King glance up.

“Well, look who’s here!” He offers a faint but genial bow. “El Fiero. It’s been a long time.”

Paia searches for fear in him, and finds not a hint.

“Kenzo.” Fire nods in greeting. “Congratulations on your recent . . . elevation. I hear you’re running the place now.”

Baraga laughs. “Somebody’s got to maintain order around here. Got so I couldn’t get any work done. And so, you see? Here I am, back in the traces.” He spreads his arms to embrace men, equipment, and studio, then brings his palms together to rub them jovially, looking Paia up and down. “What have you brought me?”

“Ah, my old friend, this one is not for you. Personal property, I’m afraid.”

Baraga eyes him as if suspecting a joke. He laughs, but sees no answering gleam in Fire’s golden eyes. “But, your pardon, old boy . . . what will
you
do with her? A waste of a gorgeous woman, if she cannot feel your touch and thrust, eh?” He nudges the man with the clipboard, who’s frozen to the spot by the man/dragon’s proximity.

Paia’s distaste deepens.
At least the rest of these creeps have the sense to be afraid of him!

“Kenzo,” says Fire. “You presume too much.”

Baraga laughs. “I do, I do! It’s your own fault, Fiero! What man could resist such beauty?” He elbows the clipboard man aside and steps past Fire to walk around Paia as if contemplating her purchase. Unlike his underlings, he keeps his hands to himself, though he does lift her chin with his thumb to appraise her face. He seems intrigued by the cool dislike in her gaze. “Hmmm. A live one! Surely you don’t really mean to keep all this to yourself!”

Fire says, “Kenzo, we need to talk.”

“Such perfect skin! Café au lait! My favorite! Looks marvelous on camera, you know.”

Appalling that a mere thumb can feel so possessive! Paia looks away, distracted by the sounds coming from behind Baraga, in the circle of bright light. Somewhere over there, a woman is sobbing.

“Kenzo, a word in private, if you please.”

“Let me guess: you’ve come to claim your piece of the action.”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“No problem.” Baraga shoves gently against Paia’s chin, simultaneously a gesture of challenge and dismissal. “But let’s talk over dinner, when I can concentrate. Okay by you, Fiero, old boy?” He gestures toward the light and the sobbing, screened from Paia’s glance by a barricade of men and equipment. “I’m right in the middle of the final sequence, the devil to get right, you know, under the circumstances. Stick around and watch, then we’ll talk. You’ll enjoy it. I’ve revived an old industry tradition to stir up those jaded pricks out there. It’s right down your alley. I’d have a chair brought for you, but . . .”

“Kenzo, I need your full attention right now.”

Paia is amazed by how reasonable the man/dragon is being. A flash of hot temper is more his style, rather than this calm insistence.

But either Baraga does not hear the menace building in Fire’s tone, or he chooses to ignore it. “Five minutes. No more than ten. Soon as I get this shot. Time is money, y’know, and we’re in a real time crunch here. I can’t afford to have our star, ah . . . leave us . . . before we’re finished.” He walks away, waving various subordinates into line, and the crowd flows after him, opening a view into the center of the studio. What Paia sees there makes her start violently and bury her face in Fire’s side.

A young woman, no, a girl, just a girl, lies naked on a blood-soaked mattress. The mattress is raised off the floor on a sturdy wooden platform so that the cameras can cozy in for close-ups. The platform also carries the metal rings to which the girl’s manacles are fastened, hands and feet. A big man stands beside the bed with a knife in his hand. Both hand and knife are as blood-drenched as the bedding, but the man isn’t looking at her, though she’s sobbing and moaning, and has been sliced in several awful and private places. He’s turned away to a mirror, gazing at himself intently while a makeup man blots and powders his face, and touches up his hair.

Paia takes refuge in the assurance that it’s all make-believe, truly inspired special effects. But the cameras are currently at rest, and the girl on the bed still wears the
terror-stricken glaze of a trapped animal. What did they used to call it? Method acting? And now Paia notices the two men crouching on either side of the bed, whom the first shock of revulsion had hidden from her. They’re wearing white lab coats. One applies a pressure bandage to the deepest wounds, while the other monitors the girl’s pulse and other vital signs. Well, the girl must be all right if the medics aren’t rushing her off to the nearest hospital. But the sticky-sweet smell of carnage under the hot studio lights is nauseatingly real. In her stomach-turning daze of horror, Paia can only wonder how they’ve kept their white coats so clean.