Mickey Zucker Reichert - By Chaos Cursed (32 page)

At the next landing, Larson burst through the door. He raced down the left hallway, nearly trampling a young secretary juggling three styrofoam cups. She gasped, dodging so abruptly she sent coffee sloshing over herself and Larson.

Without wasting time on apologies, Larson sprinted past. Finding an office he believed was directly above Taziar, he shoved through the door without knocking. He found himself facing a wide, wooden desk with a matching leather chair. There was no one in the room.
Thank God.
Larson careened around the desk to the window beyond it. He slammed his hands against the frame. The window jolted ajar, one pane shattering beneath the blow. Larson crammed his head through the opening just in time to see glass rain down on Taziar.
Shit. Still don’t know my own strength.
Larson ducked back inside hating the seconds lost but knowing the sprinkle of glass on pavement would draw every eye. He counted to himself, wasting a full twenty seconds for the shards to land and the crowd to glance up, see no one, and refocus on Taziar.

Larson eased the window farther open, poked his face through it, and glanced downward. He caught a solid glimpse of Taziar’s black mop of hair and small, callused hands. The Climber gripped the bricks with a lax ease. “Shadow,” Larson whispered.

Taziar did not move.

Larson raised his voice slightly. “Shadow.”

Taziar looked up, staring blankly.

Expecting a welcoming grin and not receiving so much as a glimmer of recognition from his friend, Larson hesitated. Then he remembered how different he looked from the tall, skinny elf Taziar Medakan had come to know. “It’s Allerum.” He gestured Taziar to him.

The Shadow Climber remained still, clearly doubtful.

Those cops will be awake and alerting everyone any moment.
Larson’s patience evaporated. “Taz, you stupid little bastard! Get the hell up here!”

Apparently, the words and voice were enough identification for Taziar. He scrambled to the ledge.

Larson retreated, leaving Taziar space to clamber inside.

Taziar leapt lightly to the floor, studying this friend in the body of a stranger. “Allerum, you’ve changed.”

“Hurry!” Larson whirled, charging for the door. His hip struck a corner of the desk, jarring pain through his leg and knocking the desk askew. Papers scattered to the floor, spiraling in the breeze from the window. “We’ve got to get out of here, and we can’t get grabbed.”

“Relax.” Taziar caught up to Larson at the door. “I do this for a living, remember?”

Larson grabbed Taziar by the arms. “No, listen. You don’t understand. I don’t do this climb, dodge, and leap around buildings thing. If we get separated, we’ll never find each other again.”

“It’s not a problem.”

Larson blinked, stunned. “There’s seven and a half million people in New York. Finding one would be like finding a needle in a haystack. A
big
haystack.”

“I found you this time, didn’t I?”

Larson groaned, unwilling to go into a long explanation now. “Luck. If we get separated, I’ll meet you....” He trailed off, realizing he could never explain city blocks and taxicabs in a reasonable amount of time. “Never mind. Just stay with me.” Releasing Taziar, he pulled open the door, emerging into an empty hallway. Contradicting his last command, he raised a hand to still Taziar. “Wait right here. I need to check something.” Larson crept down the hallway to the right, retracing his earlier route.

Seconds ticked by in silence while Larson’s mind raced, trying to relate the corridors to his memory of the building’s outside.

Suddenly, pounding footsteps echoed from the stairwell. The elevator whirred. Its display clicked from “3” to “4.”

Here they come.
Larson spun back toward Taziar. Even as he moved, an ear-piercing hiss split the air, followed by a crash that shook the hallway.

Larson’s heart leapt. He dove for cover, rolling flat against the wall.

A fire extinguisher rocked hollowly on the floor. A pool of white powder settled around Taziar’s feet. Dust swam crazily through air.

The stairwell door clicked.

“What are you doing? What the hell are you doing?” Larson ran. Grabbing Taziar as he passed, he bolted up the corridor, skidding around a corner into a perpendicular hallway.

“This way!” someone shouted. Footfalls thudded through the hall they had just left.

“What... were you doing?” Larson whispered as he ran.

“Just looking for something to help us get away.” Taziar kept pace, his arm mashed in Larson’s desperate grasp.

“That wasn’t it. That only works on fires.” Larson careened around the next corner, coming suddenly upon a second bank of elevators. He hammered at the down button. The numbers changed with maddening slowness. The footsteps drew closer.

Larson slammed the button repeatedly with his fist. “You better know this. Silme’s trying to kill me.”

Taziar studied the chemical residue on his hand. “I know. I saw her league with Bolverkr.”

“Bolverkr? Oh, shit! He’s here, too?” Suddenly, running from the cops seemed a miniscule annoyance.

The pursuit grew louder. Larson could pick out at least six separate sets of footsteps.
Damn it! That elevator’s going to get here just in time for them to use it. Nice work, Larson.
“Come on.” He charged for the stairwell, turning the knob with one hand while his shoulder struck the door at a dead run.

The panel swung open, revealing concrete steps. Larson shoved Taziar, sending the Climber hurtling down the stairs, the little man’s agility all that saved him from a fatal fall. Not bothering to silence the door, Larson plunged after his companion. “Move! Move! Move!”

Taziar and Larson whipped headlong down several flights. On the seventh floor landing, Larson ripped open the metal door. “Follow me.” Surging through, he fled back in the direction they had come, now four floors lower.

As they whipped around the corner, Larson and Taziar discovered a cluster of four milling, chatting office personnel in the center of the corridor.

Larson did not slow.

The group scattered to the walls. Larson raced through, Taziar swerving between the people behind him. “Excuse me,” he said in heavily accented English.

Without looking back, Larson tore around the next corner. Finding the stairwell across from the elevators that he and his police escort had used, he again hit the door, running and turning the knob simultaneously. Taziar balked, apparently not wanting to get thrown down the steps again. But this time, Larson did not hesitate. He galloped down the concrete steps, hearing no sound beneath the slap of his own sneakers, yet certain Taziar had followed.

As Larson rounded the third floor landing, he heard the click of a door opening below.
Uh-oh!
Leaping the last half flight to the landing, he ripped open the door and exited onto the second floor. Finding the corridor empty, he waited for Taziar to dart in, then took the time to ease the door closed quietly.
Letting them know our location after all that maneuvering would be stupid.

Taziar waited, breathing softly but deeply.

Larson realized he was panting and tried to control each breath. He made a throwing motion to indicate the need to travel up the corridor and back around the first corner. There, he knew from his memory of Sears and Roebuck, they would find a set of escalators.
Hopefully unguarded.
Larson shook his head, aware New York City’s police force would mobilize swiftly.
But it’s only been a few minutes since I punched the cops. Most of what’s out there is rescue forces and crowd controllers. They had no reason to expect violence, especially from a translator.
Larson headed for the corner at a brisk walk.

“What now?” Taziar said in the barony’s tongue, pawing his hair from his eyes and pulling his cloak more securely over his mangled climbing outfit.

Larson answered in the same language. “We’re going to join the crowd in the shop. Try to blend in as best as you can, but be ready to turn and leave if the area’s crawling with ... city guardsmen. Follow my lead.”

Braced for action, Larson started around the corner. The area opened into a central lobby with soda and candy machines. Several people lounged on chairs arranged in clusters, smoking, talking, and eating. They paid no heed as Taziar and Larson walked past and onto the down escalator.

Taziar stared at his feet, hands well away from the conveyor belt railings.

“It’s an escalator,” Larson explained, gaze playing over the people in the store below, trying to pick out police officers. “Careful when we get to the bottom. The steps sort of disappear, and you have to watch your balance.”

Taziar cast his glance to the bottom of the flight. “Are we safe now?”

“I wish.” Larson searched his memory for the location of the men’s rest room.
I need a secure place to think.
“We’ve got to get out of the building, at least. Even then, they’ll hunt us all over the city.”

“Mardain,” Taziar muttered a curt blasphemy. “I never would have guessed climbing was that serious an offense.”

Larson flushed, anticipating the end of the escalator ride, still seeing no policemen in the store. “Climbing’s not that serious. Just a city ordinance thing. A misdemeanor probably.” He stepped down, turning to help Taziar do the same.

But the Climber took the sudden flattening of the mechanical steps in stride.

“Unfortunately, assault and battery is a felony. It’s me they’ll mostly be chasing.” Through the doorway to the main entryway, Larson could see milling policemen. He slipped through the aisles in the opposite direction. “All right, we have to sneak out of here without being seen. Or at least without being recognized.”

Taziar gawked at the rows and shelves of merchandise.

“Most of them won’t know you.” Larson thought aloud. “Some of them had binoculars. But most of those people were probably the fire rescue crew, not cops.”

Taziar shrugged. “I’m not understanding you.”

Larson switched to the barony’s tongue. “I’m just saying you were too high for many of the city guards to get a good look at you. You might be able to walk out right under their noses.” Larson studied Taziar doubtfully. “If you weren’t wearing that burned, shredded, crudely-sewn, centuries out of date, black outfit that practically has ‘weirdo’ stitched in neon.”

Taziar fell easily into Larson’s sarcastic rhythm. “Oh, well. Excuse me for not dressing for the occasion. What is the proper attire for being attacked by a dragon, hit by an exploding bone, tortured, and flung through time?”

Larson continued toward the rest room.

Taziar asked the obvious. “Why don’t we just change clothes?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Larson discarded the idea, threading through the sporting goods section. “I’m a foot taller than you and twice your weight. We couldn’t switch.”

“Switch? Who said anything about switch?” Taziar stared at the equipment, gaze sweeping up to the fluorescent lighting. “Now, I admit I’m a bit confused about your customs, but I do know what to do in a shop. I saw some racks back there that looked like clothes. Why not buy some?”

Larson sighed. “I’ve got this odd, moral thing about limiting myself to one felony a day. I’m not stealing, and the four dollars in my pocket would barely buy a decent T-shirt.”

“I have money.”

“You don’t understand. The gold and silver you’re carrying would probably bring decent money from a coin collector. Here in Sears, they’re worse than useless. They’d draw attention.”

“Will this?” Taziar displayed a fat roll of bills that stopped Larson in his tracks.

“Where did you get that?”

“I—” Taziar started.

Larson pocketed the money and waved Taziar quiet. “Don’t tell me. I’m sure I don’t want to know.” He led the smaller man around the end of the row and down a short corridor to the men’s room. They pushed inside.

Six porcelain urinals lined the walls, and three stalls filled the area beyond them. Sinks and a paper towel dispenser jutted from the opposite wall. A man used the farthest urinal.

Taziar watched with unabashed wonder.

The stranger looked over casually, then glared at the little Climber.

Larson smacked Taziar’s shoulder with the back of his hand. “Don’t stare. It’s impolite.” He motioned to a corner.

Taziar wandered to the indicated location. “I’m sorry. I just never saw a man piss in a fountain before.”

Larson shook his head in frustration. “I’ll explain later. For right now, you stay in one of those with the door closed.” He inclined his head toward a stall. “I’ll be back.
Please
don’t start any trouble.”

The New Yorker zipped his pants, throwing Larson and Taziar a hostile glance before leaving.

Probably thinks we’re gay.
Too harried to see the humor in the situation, Larson headed back into the store without bothering to see if Taziar had obeyed.