Law of Survival (26 page)

“We sometimes leave out food, but it's covered. The production is tightly controlled and the food itself is treated, so there are no parasites.” Jani gestured around her. “Do you see any insects?”

Dathim shrugged. “The Oligarch would say that the insects come out later. For each question, he has a ready answer.” He looked at Jani. “You limp. You were hurt in the shooting?”

“I fell on my knee. It is as nothing.”

“Lieutenant Pascal was hurt.”

“Yes. He was shot in the lower abdomen. As you saw, he is weak, but he will recover.”

“He stares at me.”

Jani racked her brain for the right words. “He has never
seen an Haárin with short hair.”

“Ah.” Dathim brushed his hand over his stubble. “You have damaged your eye?”

“Yes.” Jani probed behind the dispo to wipe away a film fragment that had slithered down her cheek.

“Then you must be in pain.”

“No.”

“Eyes hurt when they are damaged.”

“I'm all right.”

Dathim's lips curved in a disturbingly human-like smile. “You have eyes like mine, but you do not want me to see them. You are my dominant according to nìRau Tsecha, but it shames you to look as I do. Just like nìRau Tsecha. He takes an Haárin name, but he lives as born-sect, because to live as I do would shame him.”

Jani shifted her footing to take the weight off her aching knee. “Shame has nothing to do with it, ní Dathim.” She waited for her knee to stop throbbing before she risked speaking again—the pain made her voice shake. “I am not your dominant. I am a humanish female who had an accident. The way my doctor chose to repair me resulted in genetic changes that have led to my looking a little like you. That's all.”

“NìRau Tsecha chose you before you had your accident. He believed you could lead us through difficult times. Those are his words. I have never led, so I must submit to his experience in such things.” Dathim took one step farther into the kitchen, then another. He opened the cooler, removed a dispo of grapefruit juice, and studied the label.

Sarcasm.
Jani hoisted her lemon tonic to brave another sip—

“You look most odd standing there with one hand over your eye.”

—and brought it back down just as quickly.
“Ní Dathim—”

Before Jani could finish, Dathim strode across the narrow kitchen, grabbed her wrist, and yanked down.

“You—!” Jani threw the dispo into the sink and let the bag slide to the floor, then used her freed hand to try to loosen
the Haárin's brutal grip. She wanted to use her legs and teeth as well, but she didn't want the sounds of a fight to reach the sitting room.

Then she looked up into Dathim's face, saw his bared teeth, and stopped struggling. “Let. Me. Go.”

“Green. Not a common color for Vynshàrau, except near the north where our lands border those of the Oà. Many Oà have green eyes.” Dathim pushed up Jani's sleeve, revealing her healed
à lérine
scars. Then he released her and took a step back. His air of self-satisfaction dissipated.
“Which eye is the fake, Kièrshia?”
He lapsed into his language. The pitch of his voice turned guttural. His shoulders rounded.
“Decide, or leave the Haárin be. Leave nìRau Tsecha be. He fights his suborn because of you. He fights everyone because of you.”

“Sànalàn?
He's fighting Sànalàn?” Jani massaged her right wrist, which bore the imprint of Dathim's fingers. “It's because of what he said at the meeting, isn't it? I knew she'd be angry, but I didn't think she'd challenge him.”

“It is another incident.” Dathim resumed both his English and his examination of the kitchen appliances, opening the door to the oven and looking inside. “In truth, Shai will not approve this fight, but nìRau Tsecha will not retract his acceptance.” He ran a finger along the inside of the oven, like a chef performing inspection. “He does this for you. What do you do for him?”

“I never asked him to do this for me. I never asked him to do anything. He never asked me, either. He just told me, ‘This is what you will be!'” Jani heard her voice fill the small room, knew it carried to three pairs of ears beyond, and didn't care. “I am unfit to lead. I have no skill in government. I have a past that makes me dangerous to know. I want to be left alone.”

“You want to be left alone.” Dathim opened another cupboard and removed a prepack dinner from the shelf. “Yet when nìRau Tsecha gives you documents and says, ‘Dispose of them,' I do not hear you say no. Such causes me to think that you do not wish to be so alone, no matter what you say. Such humanish confusion—it is not sound. You need to de
cide, Kièrshia.” He stood quietly and read the back of the package, as if he had no interest in Jani's reply.

Jani watched him study the container, return it to its place, and remove another. “What do you want, ní Dathim?” Her fatigued brain traveled in loops and whorls, driven by anger and confusion. “Why are you doing this?”

Dathim closed the cupboard and turned to face her. Over the past minutes, he had performed acts that would have earned him expulsion from his enclave, yet he seemed as relaxed as if he had just arranged his tools or worked some tile. “I tire of sneaking off the embassy grounds in the night. I want to visit this damned cold place in the day. I want to sell my tilemastery here. I want to live here. Many of us wish the same.”

“You want to leave the embassy grounds?” Jani watched as Dathim nodded. “Cèel will never allow you to establish an enclave in Chicago, and neither will my government.”

“What Cèel wants is of no consequence. And if the things we offer please humanish enough, they will let us come, because they want what pleases them. But if they hesitate, you will persuade them, Kièrshia, that such is the proper thing to do. They will listen to you, because your past makes you dangerous to know, and because they smell the blood of Knevçet Shèràa when you speak.” Dathim offered another close-lipped smile. “It is past our time to establish an enclave here. Even when humanish lived outside Rauta Shèràa before the war, they did not extend us an invitation to live here. And many of us wanted to come.” He looked around the kitchen as though it were land he wished to purchase, then at Jani, his smug attitude returned. “Surprise, ná Kièrshia. You will soon not be alone.”

Dathim left quietly, a reluctant Steve at his back. Angevin, rattled unto silence, adjourned to Jani's desk and poked through the dwindling stacks. Lucien remained in his chair, gaze moving briefly to Jani before settling with eerie concentration toward the door.

Jani sought refuge in her bedroom. She refilmed her eye, then focused on the mechanical task of transferring the Exterior documents from the idomeni briefbag to her duffel. When Dathim's parting words threatened to punch through her thought barrier, she dropped a file or fussed with a clasp to ward them off. The ploy even worked the first few times she tried it—

You will soon not be alone.

—but it couldn't work forever.

She sat on the edge of the bed and pushed up her right sleeve. Her scars caught the light like silken threads. She could imagine the skin reddened where Dathim had grabbed her, even though the impress of his fingers had long since faded.

Which eye is the fake, Kièrshia?

Jani blinked slowly, mindful of the fresh filming. “They both are, strictly speaking.” She tugged the sleeve back into place, then dragged her duffel onto her lap and closed the fasteners. “That's what happens when your doctor builds you from whatever he finds in his basement.” She tried to smile, but Dathim's words persisted in her head.

They will listen to you…because they smell the blood of Knevçet Shèràa when you speak.

Jani sat quietly. Then she pushed her duffel back onto the bed, rose, and walked to her closet.

Her knee griped as she stood on her toes to reach the toiletry case, which taunted her from its resting place in the rear of the shelf. She tested the hanger bar for strength, then braced her left foot against the wall and pulled herself up, a move to which both her lower back and sore shoulder took vigorous exception.

She opened the bag slowly, as though she expected the contents to leap out at her. She put on the redstone ring—it slid easily on the third finger of her right hand, as it had for months. The soulcloth, she looped around her left wrist like a bracelet in the manner of a Vynshàrau soldier reclaiming his soul after a battle. Her long-dried blood had stiffened the fabric, making the tying difficult. She finally settled for winding the loose ends around the length and tucking them.

She stood and regarded her changed hands. John had switched out her left arm several times that summer, for reasons he had refused to make clear at the time. But now she could see—he had needed to play catch-up with the rapid changes her real arm had undergone. The longer, thinner fingers. The narrowed palms. The brown skin tinged with gold, as though she suffered from liver disease.

Jani held her left wrist up to her nose and sniffed the bracelet. The cloth smelled old, musty. Cold, if an odor could be classified that way. “The blood lost its smell long ago.” She pulled the cloth from her wrist and the ring from her finger and thrust them back in the bag. Then she shoved the bag as far as she could into a dark corner of the shelf.

 

The night had grown cold and crisp; the dry air pulled the moisture from her eyefilms. Jani tugged up the field jacket collar, wishing she'd thought to stuff a pair of gloves in the pockets. Her stomach grumbled, and she rummaged through her duffel for one of John's meal bars. The fact that she had crammed the Exterior files into the bag complicated the search, already made difficult by the dark and her fatigue-dulled attention span. She pulled up beside a chrysanthemum-filled planter to search more easily.

She didn't catch the movement at first. A passing skim
mer obscured matters, followed by the rowdy procession of some Family progeny out on a prowl. But as Jani returned her attention to her duffel, she caught the shadow flicker in the doorway across the street. The fidget of someone who thought themselves better hidden than they actually were.

Jani freed a meal bar from the morass with a flourish and removed the wrapper. Bit into it with apparent relish and continued her saunter down the street. She had traveled two blocks south of Armour Place. Her original destination had been a people-mover stop that she didn't often use. Now, however, she veered west toward an area of commercial buildings.

The quality of the safety lighting deteriorated quickly. Soon Jani could only track her stalker by the occasional distant footfall. Whoever it was remained on the other side of the street, well back and out of sight. During daylight, Jani conceded, they could have tracked her for blocks without her knowledge, since they seemed to possess a decent grasp of basic shadowing. But night had proved their enemy rather than friend, as their step echoed along the deserted street.

Jani continued to wend deeper into the commercial pocket until follower and followed were the only two people to be seen. When she encountered a narrow alley between two shuttered buildings, she slipped down it. Once she reached the end, she nestled into the shadows, and waited.

For a time, all was silence but for her breathing and the beat of her heart. Then Jani heard the staccato scrape of leather sole on scancrete; the sound stopped at the mouth of the alley, then began again, drawing closer and growing louder as her follower approached. She reached into her duffel for her parchment opener, then let the bag slide to the ground. Her hand tightened around the blade's handle. She waited.

The steps quickened as they approached the end of the alley. Stopped as the stalker surveyed the darkness. Then they resumed, slowly, one long, low crunch after another, drawing nearer.

Jani waited until the sounds drew alongside. Slightly ahead. She tensed to spring—

“Jani? Are you back here?”

—and pulled the knife back just in time as she barreled into Roni and they tumbled onto the hard, cold scancrete. “You
jackass
!” She rolled away from her and swore again as she banged her right knee against the sharp corner of the building. “Why the hell didn't you announce yourself!”

Roni lay flat on her back. “I trusted you.” She tried to lift her head and shoulders, groaned, and sagged back down. “I let you have a look at the idomeni ambassador's letter, and you fed me back a fake. I want the real letter back.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Bull.” Roni struggled to a semi-sitting position and pressed a hand to the back of her head. “To add to my joy—I've spent most of the day in an emergency meeting—concerning some missing documents.”

Jani braced against the building and worked to her feet. “Are you all right?”

“Don't change the subject.” Roni looked dazed; her hair stuck straight up in places. “I waited for you by the bookstore for over three hours. When you didn't show, I hung around. I saw the Haárin tilemaster enter your building carrying a bag. I saw him leave without it. I know you have those documents. Where are you taking them? I'm not too thrilled with you right now, so I suggest you give a straight answer.”

Jani freed her duffel from its hiding place and hoisted it to her shoulder. The blade, she slipped into her jacket pocket for easier access—she had never seen the glittery look in Roni's eyes before, and she didn't want any surprises. “Like I said before, I don't know what you're—”

“Jani.” Roni produced the female vocal version of Declan Kilian when he had had enough. “You and Tsecha are being set up. Now do you want to get to the bottom of this, or don't you?” She handcombed her hair, to little effect. “Look, you show me what you have, and I won't flag down the first green-and-white I see and have you arrested for possessing stolen property. Favor for favor—what do you say?”

 

“I just want to find out what the hell is going on.” Roni lurched in her seat as the people-mover pulled away from the curb. “The Exterior Exec Wing has shut me out for
weeks. I can't raise Ulanova on the 'port. And forget Beddy-Boy Lescaux. He's much too important to deal with the likes of me.”

Jani looked up from her examination of her duffel. Her self-appointed partner had suffered a good scuffing from her tumble in the alley—cheek scratched and reddened, chin coated with a smear of blood. She'd cracked the back of her head against the scancrete, as well—a tuft of blood-matted hair marked the site of a scalp injury. “I still think you should stop by Neoclona to get your head checked out.”

“Will you stop changing the subject?”

“Are you seeing double?”

“I can see you as clear as day.” Roni glared at her sidelong. “Why did you duplicate that letter?”

Jani looked out her window in time to see a ComPol skimmer pull alongside. “I wanted to flush out whoever wrote it.”

“Well, you sure flushed something, didn't you?” Roni probed the back of her head, and winced. “You know what was the main comment I heard around the offices today? That it was a shame that the wrong person got shot.”

“I didn't realize Lucien was that well liked.”

“He isn't.”

The ComPol skimmer dogged the people-mover for half a block before speeding up. Jani watched it flit ahead of the lumbering vehicle and accelerate, warning lights flashing. “Like you said, someone is trying to set up Nema. I wanted to take the heat off him—whether people thought he'd actually composed the precis or not, they'd still use it as they saw fit. I thought the faked Brandenburg Progression would work, at least for a week or so, until I could figure out who was going after him.” The ComPol lights disappeared into the distance, and she relaxed. “I took the chance that you wouldn't scan it as soon as you got your hands on it again.”

“I scan that damned thing daily. It's become a hobby.” Roni yawned. She wore a burgundy band-collared shirt beneath her charcoal trouser suit—the vivid colors accentuated her wounds. “I mean, it was a great idea. Take a Commonwealth document and twist it just enough to make it look as though an idomeni tried to fake it. Folks get so excited about
catching an idomeni forgery that they don't stop to think whether the information in the document is worth a damn.” She glanced at Jani a little less angrily. “What tipped you off?”

“I don't believe Nema would bother to sneak that sort of information. He'd tell us outright, and blow the consequences.” Jani twitched a shoulder. “You?”

“I think he'd have done a better job. Any idomeni would have—they sure as hell wouldn't have tripped up on the damned initiator chip.” Roni lifted one of her feet so she could study her shoes. “You even scanned the soles. You really are paranoid, aren't you?”

The Registry tower loomed ahead. Jani gathered her duffel and stood carefully. She had sustained less obvious injuries than Roni—a battering to her sore knee and a bruised elbow—but they combined to make her every movement a pleasure. “We're getting off at this stop.”

Roni caught the view out the window, and shot Jani another hard look.

Jani shouldered her duffel as defiantly as she could with an elbow that delivered sparks along the length of her arm every time she moved. “I'm completely within my rights as an investigator-at-large.”

“Oh, I'm sure you have an explanation for everything.” Roni stood, and dabbed at her chin. “How do I look?”

“Like you just got rolled in a darkened alley.”

“Gosh, I wonder why.”

 

“Do you have an appointment?”

Jani looked around the waiting area that served the private side of Registry, which was empty but for her, Roni, and the bright young face that asked the question. “No.” She forced a smile, and gazed down at the receptionist with as much benevolence as she could muster, considering. “But as a member of Registry, I am entitled to use the labs whenever I wish.”

“Oh, I'm not questioning that, Ms. Kilian!” The young woman offered more of the wide-eyed Registry homage that Jani had not yet gotten used to. “But you've been through so much with the shooting and all and our lab staff is on meal
break now and I'm sure one of the supervisors would be happy—”

“Jani?”

Jani restrained the urge to lay her head down on the desk as the familiar drawl wafted through the air. Instead, she turned and did her best to look wide-awake. “Dolly.”

“We've heard all kinds of awful things. Glad to see none of them are true.” Dolly walked toward them from the direction of the lift bank. “That being said, what
are
you doin' here?”

Jani glanced at the wall clock. “I could ask you the same question.”

“I'm on-call this week. Resident expert to all and sundry at any time of the day or night.” Dolly looked a little rousted herself. She wore another flowing outfit, crystal blue silk that matched her eyes. Not what Jani would classify as stay-at-home clothes—somewhere in Chicago, an expensive dinner grew cold on its plate. “I saw your names come up on the entry board and realized you're just the people to help me with my own little dilemma.” She held her hand out to Roni, her gaze flicking over her roughed-up visage and disheveled clothes. “Hello, Ms. McGaw. You're the Exterior Chief.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Roni bubbled. “It's a pleasure to meet you at last.” She grinned in starstruck rapture, then winced as her damaged face complained.

“Well, Doll, you tell us your dilemma and we'll tell you ours.” Jani laughed, a single short hack. “Dolly's Dilemma. Dolly's Dreadful Dilemma. Dolly's Dastardly Dreadful Dilemma.”

If Dolly felt any trace of good humor, she kept it to herself. “I remember a few times in Rauta Shèràa when you pushed yourself until the exhaustion made you silly. That never boded well for anybody.” She turned and headed for the lift. “Let's adjourn to my office, shall we?”

 

“I was in the middle of a lovely supper when I received a call from Registry Security. The bottom has apparently dropped out at Exterior. They're missing some paper.” Dolly walked to her sideboard and took a decanter from the liquor service. “The most interesting thing they had to say was that
you were involved.” She turned to look at Jani. “You and a staffer at the idomeni embassy.” She poured a generous serving of gin, then dropped in a slice of lime and a few cubes of ice. “Does this have anything to do with that other matter you came to see me about?”