Vin of Venus (13 page)

"This is a pub?" Vin said.

"Built inside the wall. Goes back to Roman times, or so I'm told."

Vin held the door as Karen rolled inside. The ceilings were low, with worn rafters. Glasses clinked. Laughter and easy conversation drifted over the smell of frying chips. Karen threaded her away among the tables and found an empty one next to a clot of tourists.

"Get me some claret, will you?" she said. "And a bottle of mineral water, please. No gas."

Vin came back from the bar minutes later balancing her order, plus a Beamish and a plate of Glamorgan sausages for himself. The prosthetic arm was earning its keep. He set the claret and water down in front of her, unsure of what to do next. Was he supposed to hold the glass to her lips?

"There's a drink bottle in my chair's side pocket. Mix equal parts of the water and wine, there's a love."

He got the bottle out and poured as instructed, then clipped it to an attachment next to her neck brace. She sucked the mixture through a plastic spigot. "That's the stuff. Sit down, already. Your sausages will grow cold."

He took a couple bites, feeling guilty.

"I'm not hungry, if that's what you're worried about. I've got to keep my consumption low, else I'll grow to fit this chair. Moving your head about doesn't burn many calories."

Vin sipped his pint. "I'm, ah, new to Oxford."

"Never would've guessed."

"Though I've been here before, I'm pretty sure."

"That doesn't make a whole lot of sense."

The tourists at the next table erupted into laughter. Someone had just finished a joke. A drink spilled; more laughter. Karen rolled her eyes. "Americans," she muttered.

"I lost part of my memory when I lost my limbs," Vin explained. "Not long ago. I'm still getting used to the process."

"It's taken me all of six years, but I manage."

"How did ...?"

Her smile became forced. "I'd rather not go into it, thanks. I came here to study art at Eltonbridge College afterwards. But being handicapped can get enormously expensive, and tuition aid only goes so far. So I periodically have to drop out and re-enroll. Mark helps me with the day-to-day things."

"You've got real talent."

"Thank you. Took me awhile to develop. I've a couple paintings in the local galleries." Her head drooped; she glanced down at the scarred tabletop. "They sell much, much better when I'm around and people can see how they're made."

"That bothers you?"

"Makes me feel like a novelty act. I'd rather people like my paintings because they
like
them, you see."

She sipped long at her claret.

"I need your help," Vin said. "I was a writer before my amnesia. I'd lived here in Oxford for a time. Late '70s to early '80s, at the least. But I don't know where and I don't know who I might've associated with. If I could find someone who knew me then, I might be able to piece more of my memories together. Does that make sense to you?"

She nodded. "I wouldn't get my hopes up much, though. Oxford is a transitory place. People come here, stay awhile, then move."

"Maybe I knew a couple English professors. Other writers."

"It's a thought. I could ask Dr. Gallagher at Eltonbridge. He's been here since the '70s."

"That would be a start."

"Like I said, don't get too excited." She grinned, but it was lopsided. "I feel somewhat guilty for all this. Twenty pounds and a free drink, just to ask my old prof a question."

"Even if he's never heard anything about me, he might know where to look next. That sort of information is priceless."

"I suppose if I'd lost a chunk of my life, I'd be keen to get it back as well. Cheers to you, then, Vincent."

He held up his pint. "Cheers. You've already done more for me than you know."

The hotel Muroc had arranged was called The Magellan, crammed between a bookseller and a Boots drugstore. Eltonbridge College, it happened, was only a block away, looming among the stone spires of half a dozen other schools.

His room on the ground floor looked like an afterthought. Someone had paneled away part of a corridor and attached a bathroom along one wall. A tiny stall for a shower. The window afforded a view of the dumpster out back. For the price, Vin had been expecting something a bit roomier than his previous bedsit.

But he perked up when he found the lounge. Furnished with mongrel settees and battered chairs from the turn of the century, oriental folding screens, and an enormous scarlet chenille worn to ruts, he felt the same kind of English hominess he'd had at Muroc's cluttered estate. A bar with three stools stood next to the fireplace. The barkeep, an ancient gentleman in black and red livery, drew Vin a short glass of cider as soon as he sat down.

"Compliments of the house."

Vin tipped him a two-pound coin. He set his cane against the bar and surveyed the room. There were two other guests, sitting across from each other over a low table. Both young men, wearing drab sweaters. Slavic features. One was thin with a narrow face and shaved head. By contrast, his companion had the shoulders of a wrestler, a square jaw, and shoulder-length dark hair drawn back in a queue. They hunched together close, speaking in some fluid-sounding language. Two untouched glasses of cognac occupied the space between them.

"Romanians," the barkeep said, under his breath. "Not much better than gypsies. Whole country's thick with 'em."

The thin-faced one glanced over at Vin. His gray eyes narrowed. The ruby bracelet bucked so violently Vin almost spilled his cider.

"Something the matter?" the barkeep said.

"Just a chill." Vin turned around. The bracelet tingled, which meant the two men were still looking at him.

"Around evening I'll draw a proper fire. Hot toddies. Irish coffee."

"Sounds tempting. Is there a place to eat around here?"

"Two buildings down, on your left when you're coming out. Sandwich shop. They do good breakfasts, too."

"Thank you. I'll check it out."

Vin finished his cider. The bracelet stopped tingling when he left the room.

An hour later, walking back to the hotel with a bacon sandwich neatly wrapped and tucked under his arm, he felt the bracelet surge again. A white panel truck had just pulled up in front of the Magellan. The two Romanians got out. Cigarettes dangling from their lips, they walked around the truck, inspecting it. The thin-faced one kicked a tire and said something venomous to the wrestler. Both men argued. Vin caught the name 'Emilian' in the exchange.

He hurried past and entered the hotel. Something less-than-legal was happening, he sensed. But it was none of his business. And he felt sick of criminals, after his involvement with Charlotte and Tony the Paki.

He ate the sandwich in his room. The stump on his left hip chafed from all the walking he'd done. A check on the C-Leg's batteries showed that two were nearly drained. He swapped them out for fresh ones, removed the prostheses, and pored over his tour guide until he fell asleep.

The clouds are so thick they blot out the sky.

But not the heat. The choking, stifling heat.

Rhadma sits on the shore. Her son, grown wan and pale in this new world, curls beside her, struggling to breathe. He is less than two seasons old, but 'seasons' have lost all meaning.

Before her stretches the endless mud-flats that were once the Sea Clan's domain. The Singular Sea is gone. Gray skeletons of former reefs jut beside the bones of long-dead leviathans. Farther out, the Deep Folk's fantastic cities lay exposed. Rhadma's people had eked out a kind of existence looting those once-hidden ruins, eating the lichens growing on the porous stones. Now the lichens are dead. All food has been exhausted. Only Rhadma and her son, fed from precious stores by her loyal subjects, have eaten anything in the past few weeks.

The Mainland has fared no better. Behind her, beyond miles of desiccated jungle, the mountains have split and pour black smoke into the swirling skies. Those tribes that remain hunt each other for meat. The Crimson Men, proud among their crags and hilltops, were the first to die.

Rhadma's son finds the breath to wail. She runs her fingers across his bare scalp. Hairless, like his father. There isn't much time left for him, but the thought brings more relief than sorrow. His brief existence has known nothing but pain.

She scans the horizon, wondering about the Southern Continent for what could be the final time.

"Vin," she says.

The skies rumble and a soft rain falls. But the drops, when they strike, burn like scalding water.

Two cups of espresso failed to take the pall from the morning. Vin had woken early with no appetite, purple-black ellipses beneath his eyes. He sat in the longue sipping caffeine, reading
The Oxford Journal
. The newspaper was running a full-paged spread on global warming.

No sign of the Romanians. There was that, at least.

He wandered the streets until noon, hoping a landmark might jump out as familiar. The skies turned leaden, but no rain came. He found Karen Lesange near the steps of the Ashmolean Museum. She had a charcoal pencil in her mouth this time, sketching out the portico columns with hazy strokes. Mark crouched motionless nearby. He wore sunglasses despite the overcast weather.

"Stoned to the gills," Karen explained, as Vin approached. "He's been into my meds again."

Her sketchpad was attached to a brace mounted on the wheelchair's arm. Vin examined the drawing. The smudged gray and harsh black lines somehow captured his mood.

"What's happened to you?" Karen said. "Sleepless night?"

"I would've preferred that to dreaming."

"I'm an insomniac myself." She ventured a smile. "Some good news for you, then. Dr. Gallagher's finishing a lecture on genre fiction in an hour or so. He agreed to speak with us when it's over."

Vin checked his watch. "Excellent." But he wasn't feeling hopeful; despair seemed to rise up from the weathered flagstones. Coming to Oxford was a mistake. What did he expect to find? His old flat? A few of his drinking mates? How could any of that reconcile the horrible visions he'd had?

Karen nodded towards the museum. "You want to poke inside for a bit? They've got a new Egyptian exhibit. Plenty of mummies."

"No, thank you." Looking at the remains of a long-dead culture was the last thing he wanted right now.

"We could take the scenic route to Eltonbridge instead. Go past University Parks."

"What about Mark?"

Karen hissed. "This one? He's good for all day, he is."

Mark said nothing. Vin noticed the pair of white buds screwed into both his ears, the cord trailing down to an IPod.

Vin helped Karen detach her easel and stow the art supplies in a bag slung over the chair's side. They traveled in silence, taking a busy side-street and winding up on a paved trail running parallel to the park. Birds called. Karen's power-chair made a familiar hum. Vin felt a prickling at the back of his neck, like someone was watching him. The ruby bracelet seemed to warm a few degrees. Or was that his imagination? He looked around and saw a tan coupe speeding off. The sensation passed.

"I don't want to dampen your spirits," Karen said, "but Dr. Gallagher sounded a little ... dubious when I mentioned your name."

"How so?"

"He wouldn't explain. You're a man of mystery, aren't you?"

"I'm a mystery to myself."

"That almost sounds romantic."

"Quite the contrary. It's a pain in the ass."

Another thirty minutes and they'd reached Eltonbridge College, a collection of yellow-hued stone buildings surrounded by wrought iron. The gate bore an elaborate coat of arms. Karen led him around to the side entrance, where several service vehicles were parked. Vin thought he recognized the Romanian's white panel truck along the curb, but the make was pretty common.

The entrance led into a pretty courtyard with ancient yew trees. "Amherst Hall," Karen said, nodding towards a three-storied building. "Gallagher should be finishing up in there."

They took a wheelchair ramp inside. Class had just ended, and students came streaming out of the lecture halls. The building's interior smelled like wood polish. Karen turned into room 104, a high-ceilinged chamber with triple rows of ascending seats. Behind the podium, a stooped man wearing an argyle sweater riffled papers. He had a shock of steel-wool hair and a boy's unlined face, belying his age. A screen had been pulled down over the whiteboard, and projected on the surface were a number of old paperback covers, painted in lurid reds and yellows.

Karen cleared her throat. "Dr. Gallagher?"

The man looked up. He curled his lips in a half-smile at Karen, before turning to Vin. The smile melted away. "When you told me about Mr. Smith's arrival," he said, his voice thick with brogue, "I decided to refrain from comment until I had ascertained he was
the
Vincent Smith. Now I see that is clearly the case."

Vin didn't know what to say. He hadn't counted on a bad reaction from his old acquaintances.

Gallagher stuffed his papers into a folder. He glared at Karen. "In the future, I would advise you to seek out a better class of friends."

"Uh, doctor ..." Vin began.

"Piss off." Gallagher stalked from the room.

"I'm sorry, Vincent," Karen said, whirring up alongside. "If I'd known he was going to act like this, I would've never—"

"It's alright. You stay here. I might be able to find out something more if I talk to him alone."

"He seemed mad enough to strike you."

"Then I'll hit him back. Stay put."

He hurried through the door, into the hallway. Gallagher's steel-gray head was already bobbing through the courtyard. Vin started to bolt after, but nearly collided with a cluster of students reading a bulletin board. He stepped to one side and smacked his cane against a young man's shin. "You wanker," the boy said, turning red. Vin pushed him aside. He reached the courtyard. Gallagher disappeared behind the corner of a far building.

Vin broke into his lope-run. Three-quarters of the way across the courtyard the bracelet hummed and sent a splinter of fear up his forearm. He shuffled to a stop. The two Romanians had just exited what looked like a dormitory. They were escorting a girl with long dark hair and broad cheekbones between them. Her skin gleamed pale as birch. She kept her eyes straight forward, not looking at anyone in particular. Her mouth trembled. The narrow-faced Romanian held something pressed against the small of her back.