The Dark Lady (15 page)

He shrugged. “Who knows?”

“I think I would like to speak to Mallachi,” I said.

“Why?”

“To find out if she really exists.”

“I already told you: She was his mistress.”

“But you never saw her.”

“That's right.”

“Do you know anyone who did?” I asked.

“No.”

“Then he might have been lying.”

“What reason would he have had to lie?” asked Heath.

“It is my observation that Men frequently lie without a reason,” I said.

“True,” agreed Heath amiably. “But why do you care if she exists or not?”

“Her portrait has appeared throughout human history, frequently as a myth-figure. If she does
not
exist, if by his statement Mallachi meant that because of his profession he embraces the Goddess of War or Death, then he must have had some source or inspiration for her portrait— and if I can find it, I will attempt to purchase it for Malcolm Abercrombie.”

“And he'll buy it sight unseen?” asked Heath.

“Yes.”

“He's really that obsessed with her?”

“Yes.”

A predatory look crossed Heath's face. “I have a feeling that there's a handsome profit to be made out of all this.”

“You are making one,” I pointed out.

He offered me another of his disarming smiles. “Yes, of course I am.”

“Where is Sergio Mallachi now?” I asked.

“Hopefully he's on Quantos IX,” said Heath. “Let me make a quick vidphone call to a mutual friend and I'll make sure.”

He left the room, and I spent the next few minutes thumbing through the three leather-bound books on the floating table. Two of them were different editions of the Bible, and the third was a translation of the works of Tanblixt, the great Canphorian poet. I was perusing the latter when Heath reentered the room.

“We're out of luck,” he announced. “Mallachi's on some Inner Frontier world named Acheron.”

“I am not acquainted with it.”

“Neither am I, but allow me to hazard the guess that it's one of the nastier planets out there.”

“Why?”

“Because Acheron is another name for Hell.”

“Can you find out its coordinates?”

“I'm not sure it's worth the effort,” said Heath.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because Mallachi was due to return to Charlemagne two weeks ago.” He paused. “Given his profession, that could mean he's dead.”

“I see,” I said.

“Your color is darkening,” noted Heath.

“It reflects my disappointment.”

“Don't give up yet,” said Heath. “I'll contact my friend every day. There's always a chance he'll show up before you return to Far London.” His gaze fell on the book I was holding. “Are you interested in poetry?” he asked.

“I am interested in books,” I replied.

“Lovely things,” he agreed. “Terribly anachronistic, though. I could probably keep the entire library of Oceana in a bubble module half the size of that book you've got in your hands.”

“Doubtless,” I agreed.

“Still, they're nice to have around— if one can afford them.”

“I was surprised to find that you possess two copies of the Bible,” I remarked.

“Oh? Why?”

“With no offense intended,” I said, structuring my observation in the Dialect of Diplomacy, “you seem an unlikely student of your race's codified moral precepts.”

He uttered an amused laugh. “I don't
read
them. I just collect them.”

“That answers my question,” I said.

“You're really quite good at this, Leonardo,” he said admiringly.

“At what?”

“At slipping the verbal knife between my ribs in your quiet, self-effacing way.”

“I assure you that— ”

“Spare me your assurances,” he interrupted. “I'll let you know when I'm offended.”

I could think of no reply, and so chose to remain silent.

“Tell me more about the Dark Lady,” he said at last. “Has she got a name?”

“I have no idea,” I replied. “I would have thought
you
knew.”

He shook his head. “Mallachi only referred to her the one time, and all he said was that she was his mistress.” He paused thoughtfully. “I wonder how she got in all those paintings of Abercrombie's?”

“I do not know,” I said. “My original premise was that she represented a mythic war figure, but that theory has been disproved.”

Heath grimaced. “Here we are speaking of her as if she never existed, and yet I know for a fact that she was alive less than a year ago.”

“That is untrue,” I said. “You have never seen her. You know only that Mallachi claims she was his mistress.”

“Why would he lie to me?” demanded Heath. “I had no interest in her.”

“Why would she appear in more than thirty works of art dating back almost eight millennia if Mallachi were telling the truth?” I replied.

“How should I know?” he said irritably. “Coincidence?”

“Do you truly believe in such a coincidence?”

“No,” he admitted. “But I do believe that there's a logical explanation, even though we haven't come up with it. Maybe— ”

At that instant he was interrupted by a high-pitched beeping sound.

“What was that?” I asked, startled.

Heath was already on his feet. “That was James, signaling me that we're no longer alone.”

“The police?” I asked.

He nodded. “I fear we're going to have to make a rather abrupt exit.”

“But why?” I asked. “If, as you say, you came by the Mallachi painting legitimately, you have nothing to hide.”

He looked amused. “In this room alone I can see three books and more than a dozen alien sculptures that are in need of hiding— and you haven't seen what I've got in the bedroom.” He paused, staring unhappily at his art objects. “I don't suppose I've got time to pack them and take them along, more's the pity.” Suddenly he walked decisively toward the door. “All right,” he said. “Let's go.”

“Why do you not simply disguise yourself as your other identity?” I asked.

“Because my makeup's in the sixth-floor apartment,” he said. “Do hurry up, Leonardo.”

“I have nothing to fear from the police,” I replied.

“You want to meet Mallachi, don't you?”

“As you say, he may be dead by now.”

“He may also be alive.”

“Then I shall find him in my own good time,” I said. “The police are my friends, not my enemies.”

“Don't bet on it,” said Heath. “You might find it difficult to explain how an alien came to be alone in an apartment with all these stolen goods.” He grinned. “They might even think you were the thief.” He must have seen my horrified reaction, because he continued, even more persuasively: “At the very least, they'll think you're involved in all this, and unfortunately the building's security system will confirm that I described you as a business associate and that you didn't disagree.”

“No Bjornn has ever been arrested! I will disgrace the House of Crsthionn!”

“Then stop wringing your hands and come with me,” said Heath.

“But even if we escape, they will still know I was here.”

“So what?” he said. “Tai Chong ordered you to inspect the painting. She'll explain everything to the police.”

“The painting!” I exclaimed. “We cannot leave without it. That is my purpose for being on Charlemagne!”

“All right,” he said calmly. “Pick it up. We've still got a minute or two before the police get through the security system and figure out which elevator to take.”

I raced to the painting and carried it back to the door.

“Now follow me,” he ordered.

He stepped out into the corridor and walked rapidly to a service lift. I had to adopt a shuffling run to keep up with him, but twenty seconds later we had ascended past the main floor.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“My other apartment,” he explained. “It would be just a bit awkward to try to take the painting out past the police, so we'll store it there for the time being.”

“And then what will we do?”

“You worry too much, Leonardo.”

We got off at the sixth floor, walked down a corridor, and stopped before a door. Heath stared intently at it for an instant, then walked right past it to the stairwell.

“What is the matter?” I whispered.

“The police are in the apartment.”

“How do you know?”

“Whenever I leave the apartment, I always put a little piece of dark tape, no more than an inch or so, where the door meets the wall. It pulls loose if anyone opens the door.”

“Could it have been removed by a maintenance worker?” I asked.

“Do you want to take the chance?” he responded.

“No,” I admitted.

“Neither do I.”

“What now, Friend Valentine?” I said, falling into the Dialect of Affinity more from terror than any valid reason.

“Well,” he said, “while I've always admired video heroes who bound catlike across the rooftops of a city, I very much doubt my ability to emulate them, so I suppose we'll have to depend on intelligence rather than agility.” He paused, lost in thought. “There's a helioport on the roof, but that's much too obvious. And they've doubtless got men stationed at the rear entrance.”

“Please hurry!” I said urgently.

“We're in no immediate danger,” he replied. “They'll simply assume that I'm out on the town, and will keep a watchful eye on the building's entrance.”

“The security system will tell them you are here!” I said.

“So it will,” he said, surprised. “I had quite forgotten that.” He turned to me, an amused expression on his face. “You know, you have the makings of a truly exceptional fugitive, Leonardo.”

"Please!"
I said.

“Well, we can't go up and we can't go down. I suppose the audacious approach is the best. Follow me.”

We climbed down a flight of stairs and emerged on the fifth floor.

“What do we do next?” I asked nervously.

“We very calmly walk out through the front door,” he answered.

“Surely you are not serious!”

“I most certainly am.”

“But they know I am a Bjornn!” I protested. “They will be looking for me!”

He smiled. “But they don't know what a Bjornn looks like. If they've ever seen one before, which I for one doubt, they probably think that you're green and black with a circular pattern. Believe me, to them you'll just be another alien.”

A set of elevator doors opened. Heath walked over, looked into the empty compartment, but did not enter it.

“I
knew
you were jesting,” I said as an enormous sense of relief swept over me.

“Not at all,” he replied. “I'm simply waiting for a crowded elevator.”

“Why?”

“Because then we'll be members of a group coming down from the upper levels of the building, and the police are looking for two individuals coming up from the basement.”

“And you think
that
will fool them?” I demanded incredulously.

“Let's find out, shall we?” he said as a partially full elevator stopped at our floor, and I had no choice but to follow him into it.

My hue became several shades brighter as my terror increased, and between that and the Mallachi painting I felt hideously conspicuous when we finally emerged into the lobby. Heath had struck up a conversation with an elderly gentleman, and continued talking to him as we came to a trio of uniformed police at the front door of the building. He even nodded pleasantly to one of them, and to my absolute amazement the officer nodded back and paid no further attention to any of us.

As the group split up upon leaving the building, we followed a foursome that had turned to our left— the opposite direction from where the Mollutei was waiting with Heath's vehicle— and rode the slidewalk until we were out of sight of the police. Then Heath took a small communicator from his pocket and signaled to the Mollutei, and a moment later his vehicle pulled up next to us.

“Well done, James,” he remarked as we clambered into it. “I think you'd best take us to the spaceport.”

“Where are we going?” I asked, my heart still pounding rapidly in my chest.

“It will be a few hours before the police realize how easily we fooled them, but once they do, they're going to be very cross with us. When that unhappy moment occurs, I think it would behoove us to be a long distance away— so I guess we might as well try to find Sergio Mallachi after all.” He leaned back on the seat and grinned. “Next stop— Hell.”

My first sensation was one of stiffness. Every joint in my body seemed frozen, and it took an enormous effort of will just to move my fingers.

Then, as feeling gradually returned to me, came the hunger: overwhelming, voracious, insatiable.

Finally there was the light, beating against my eyelids and forcing my eyes to water even before I could open them. I tried to wipe the tears from my face with my hand and found that I could not bend my arm sufficiently.

Suddenly a voice, distant and remote, impinged upon my consciousness.

“Welcome back,” it said. “I trust you slept well.”

I tried to ask where I was, but my lips would not respond to my mental commands and all that came out was an unintelligible noise.

“Don't try to speak or move yet,” said the voice, and now I recognized it as Valentine Heath's. “You're just waking up. You'll be fine in another two or three minutes.”

I forced an eye open and tried to look at him, but my pupil was completely dilated and I couldn't focus.

“Where am I?” I managed to mumble, as more feeling returned to me.

“Aboard my spaceship,” answered Heath.

“Where is your ship?”

“About three weeks out of Charlemagne, or four hours from Acheron, depending on which direction you're facing.”

Finally I was able to reach my face with my hand, and I wiped away the tears and gingerly touched my head.

“What happened to me?” I asked.

“You've had a little nap.”

“For how long?”

“Almost three weeks.”

“I do not understand.”

“I put you in the Deepsleep chamber a couple of hours after we left Charlemagne,” he replied. “You were becoming an emotional basket case. You kept ranting and raving about dishonor and disgrace. When you demanded that I divert the ship and take you to Benitarus II, I decided that the best thing to do was put you into Deepsleep until we reached Acheron.”