Read The Children of the Company Online
Authors: Kage Baker
Tags: #General, #Fiction, #Science Fiction, #C429, #Extratorrents, #Kat
The Children of the Company (23 page)
“So you will get someone into Aegeus’s confidence. I want a link to Amaunet. And we need a cell in Africa.”
“It’s possible we might be able to turn certain members of Aegeus’s cabal,” admitted Labienus. “He’s not well loved.”
“Then do it,” said Budu. Labienus nodded. He cleared his throat.
“Father,” said Labienus, “I must be honest with you. Gods know you were honest with me, when you told me what things would come to in the future. I’ve watched the mortals crowding into their stinking cities. Their coal-soot advances on the clean sky. The forests go down before their axes and the whales are pulled in and butchered alongside their ships. But, father, it’s not war or crime causing these things. It’s peace. Prosperity. Civilization!”
“We will go after the industrialists, too, when we’re ready.”
“But when will we be ready, father? How badly must it all deteriorate before we move at last?” demanded Labienus, pinning his hopes on sincerity. “You want to exterminate the murderers and generals, but they do the work we should have begun by now. The survival of the world is no longer a moral question, if it ever was. It’s a mechanical question. A matter of numbers.”
“You think we ought to go after the mortals indiscriminately, to protect the earth,” said Budu.
“Yes!”
“You are overruled. There is only the moral question.” Budu loomed over him. “Whether the fields are green or black matters nothing. Whether the mortals live or die matters nothing. What they are, while they live, is the only thing with which we are concerned.”
Labienus blinked ice crystals from his eyes, looking up at the giant in furs. He made his decision in that moment.
“You’re right, of course,” he said. “Thank you for putting it in perspective.”
He blinked again and Budu was no longer there. The wind was screaming across the snow at ankle-level, obliterating his footprints.
Labienus looks up sharply as the bell rings. Exhaling in annoyance, he reaches for the amplifier.
It is the latest thing in field technology, a crude mechanism which compensates for its crudeness by a wealth of ornamental detail. Gold vines and flowers twine over its surface of gleaming black wax. It looks almost, but not quite, like a Victrola hooked up to a candlestick telephone. There is a headset, of sorts. He slips it on.
Ave!
He recognizes the voice at once. It is Nennius, sounding quietly gleeful.
He recognizes the voice at once. It is Nennius, sounding quietly gleeful.
Ave. Executive Section Head for the Northwest—
Yes, yes, I know it’s you! Listen to me. How many stones does it take to kill a large fat self-important bird with delusions of grandeur?
If he’s immortal, there aren’t enough stones in the world,
Labienus replies.
But I’d still like to get Aegeus with a good sharp one, right between the eyes. You’ve had a stroke of luck?
Labienus replies.
But I’d still like to get Aegeus with a good sharp one, right between the eyes. You’ve had a stroke of luck?
An unbelievable stroke of luck,
transmits Nennius.
How quickly can you come to Bucharest?
transmits Nennius.
How quickly can you come to Bucharest?
What the hell are you doing in Bucharest?
Attending a street fair. You remember the old green house next door to the Unirii Square HQ? It’s a café now. I’ll look for you there in twelve hours.
Lesser immortals would be obliged to hike south to the nearest seaport, book passage on a ship as far as Panama, disembark and take a train across the isthmus, travel by ship again across the Atlantic to France, there to travel east, arriving eventually by a series of unreliable stage connections in Romania. Facilitator Generals, however, merely hop a transpolar flight, touching
down at a Company transport station in the Carpathians, and enjoy a leisurely ride in a nicely appointed private coach.
down at a Company transport station in the Carpathians, and enjoy a leisurely ride in a nicely appointed private coach.
Being considerably older and wickeder than any vampires, werewolves, or mysterious blue flames that might dare to cross his path, Labienus arrives unmolested at the Unirii Square HQ, precisely twelve hours after having received Nennius’s call.
Nennius is sitting at a street table, looking expectant. A waiter has just set down two glasses of slivovitz.
“Have a seat,” says Nennius, reaching into an inner pocket. As Labienus sits, he tosses a field photograph on the table.
Labienus stares. He lifts his glass, with elaborate unconcern, and takes a long slow drink before permitting himself to reach for the photograph.
The image before him is of a small mortal man.
The mortal wears the coarse uniform of some institution, and his big head has been shaved. His slender hands were in the act of rising to his face when the shutter snapped, his weak mouth opening in protest as he turned from the camera. His eyes are wide, dark, wet, blind-looking. Labienus is irresistibly reminded of the little figure in
The Scream.
The Scream.
Nennius tosses another photograph on the table.
Here is a formal studio portrait: the mortal is wearing a suit now, though it is a badly-fitting one, and he has closed his eyes against the camera flash. He has a curiously inanimate appearance, like a corpse or a waxwork that has been dressed up.
“Homo umbratilis,
” murmurs Labienus. “Who is he? How did you get him?”
” murmurs Labienus. “Who is he? How did you get him?”
“His name is Emil Bergwurm,” says Nennius. “And I haven’t got him. We do want him, though, don’t we?”
“Yes,” says Labienus. “Our own tiny freak of genius? Oh, yes. What do we have to do to get him?”
“Take him away from Amaunet,” says Nennius.
Labienus says something so unpleasant that were it written down, in the ancient pictographs of its own language, the little symbols would smoke and snake and spit venom on clay tablet or papyrus.
“It’s not as bad as all that,” Nennius says hastily. “She’s keeping him a secret from Aegeus. You asked me to have her monitored; well, I got word she bribed the director of the lunatic asylum here, three years ago. When I investigated, this is what I found.”
“How do you know she hasn’t shipped the thing off to the Cévennes?” Labienus demands.
“Perhaps you’d better come and see for yourself,” says Nennius
They leave without paying for their drinks. The waiter watches them go, sadly. He is uncertain exactly what variety of stregoi they might be, those two sneering gentlemen; but he knows it is as much as his life is worth, to demand payment of something with that particular cold and glaring eye.
Nennius leads and Labienus paces close after him through the narrow streets. Blind cobbled alleys, deepset doors, handsbreadth windows behind which one candle gives faint light, and even the light has a certain quality of gloom, as though it were no more than gold paint on an interior. Night and fog come down.
When they emerge on the open field where the fair has been, any sense of festivity has long departed. Vendors are taking down their booths by lantern light, dropping tent poles. The menagerie has already hauled its wagons into the night, leaving only a reek of exotic manure. But at the far edge of the field, one place is still doing business, still has its banner out on a tall leaning pole. MOTHER AEGYPT, the sign reads. There are two wagons behind the sign, taller and narrower than the vardas of the Romanies. They are painted black.
How frightening,
Labienus transmits.
What’s next? Bats swooping out of the mist?
Labienus transmits.
What’s next? Bats swooping out of the mist?
No. The rats haven’t finished
yet, Nennius responds, nodding at the patient mortals who wait in a line that stretches from darkness into the circle of lamplight before the lead wagon’s door. Their impassive faces are turned up to the light. They are hard men, all but the last, who seems to be a peasant woman.
yet, Nennius responds, nodding at the patient mortals who wait in a line that stretches from darkness into the circle of lamplight before the lead wagon’s door. Their impassive faces are turned up to the light. They are hard men, all but the last, who seems to be a peasant woman.
These aren’t here to have their fortunes told, guesses Labienus.
Of course not. They’re thieves. They bring stolen goods to her; she pays them handsomely, and forwards the loot on to Dr. Zeus. Jewelry, porcelain, plate. It’d be stolen in any case, and this way it won’t be melted down or hacked apart. Everyone wins! Except the rightful owners, of course, but that can’t be helped.
Ah. The usual story. Shall we take our place in line with the other thieves?
They stroll across the dark field, and step into line behind the woman. As the queue progresses forward, they can hear murmured conversation, the clink of coin. There is surprisingly little talk, no haggling at all. One by one the thieves emerge from the caravan, each face lit for a second by the lantern over
the door, and each face bearing the same expression of profound relief to be gone from Mother Aegypt.
They stroll across the dark field, and step into line behind the woman. As the queue progresses forward, they can hear murmured conversation, the clink of coin. There is surprisingly little talk, no haggling at all. One by one the thieves emerge from the caravan, each face lit for a second by the lantern over
the door, and each face bearing the same expression of profound relief to be gone from Mother Aegypt.
The mortal woman is the last to go in. She alone bears no loot. Three minutes later she emerges, and her square heavy face is white as paper.
“Didn’t you like your fortune?” inquires Labienus.
“She told me I am dying,” the woman whispers.
“Why, so you are,” says Nennius. “But don’t you believe in eternal life? You must have perfect faith!”
The woman looks at him, and looks at Labienus. With a shudder she makes the sign of the Cross, and hurries away from them.
Dead silence from the wagon.
“So much for surprising her,” says Labienus. “Let’s pay a call, shall we?”
They step up, and go in.
Stifling warmth and all the perfumes of Arabia, myrrh and frankincense and spices to make the eyes water. Amaunet looks up at them sharply, from the cheap folding table at which she does business.
She gives the impression of great age. Her skin is smooth, but seven millennia of contempt and despair look out of her eyes, and her dark face could cut diamond.
“Hello, Amaunet,” says Labienus. “Can you tell our fortunes?”
Her lip curls. “You’ll get what’s coming to you, in the year 2355,” she says. “How about that?”
Labienus chuckles, and closes the door behind him. He lounges there, blocking the exit, and Nennius moves to lounge in turn in front of the one window. This is all largely psychological, of course, because Amaunet could exit straight through a wall if she chose, but a threat is a threat.
“You’ve been playing a double game, haven’t you?” Labienus says. “I don’t imagine Aegeus would be happy to learn you’ve kept a secret from him.”
“What do you want?” asks Amaunet.
“Emil Bergwurm.”
Amaunet closes her eyes. “Hell,” she says. The logic is inescapable: two immortals can overpower one, and even were she to escape them, she’d be unable to take her prize with her.
“You’d better tell us the whole story,” Labienus says.
She opens her eyes and looks at him in a way that makes even Nennius flinch, but he just grins at her.
“My slave choked to death on a chicken head. I went to the nearest asylum to buy another. Imagine my surprise when I found Emil,” she says.
“Does he cost you much in chicken heads?”
“No. He does other tricks.”
“Such as?”
“Magic potions.” She smiles now, and it is more frightening than her expression of anger. “That’s his little streak of genius, you see. Not machines; chemistry. If the mortals need to abort a child or poison a spouse, little Emil can fix them up with something tasteless, odorless, and untraceable. He’s useless at anything else, but now I make double my operating budget from the elixirs I sell.”
“And that’s why you’ve kept him from Aegeus?” Labienus takes out a silver case, withdraws a stick of Theobromos. He offers the case to Amaunet. She hesitates a long moment, then takes a stick herself.
“Partly.” She peels back the silver paper. “I’ve had him working on a project of my own, if you must know.”
“The Holy Grail, I suppose,” says Nennius, and Amaunet nods sadly. She has been trying to die for five thousand years.
“Once a month, he brings me the black cup.You’d be amazed at how close he’s come; his last batch stopped my heart for five minutes. The damned thing started up again, alas, since it’s as stupid as he is.”
“I’ll make you a promise,” says Labienus. “If we can get him to produce an elixir of death that works on an immortal, we’ll send you a bottle.”
“How chivalrous of you,” she says, leaning back. “Theobromos and promises, my my. You must want something else. And what do you need with my poor little maggot-baby, anyway?
You
don’t long for the grave, not an ambitious bastard like you.”
You
don’t long for the grave, not an ambitious bastard like you.”
“Why, Amaunet, it’s elementary! My rival has a fabulous weapon, so of course I want one just like it. That’s been the rule of the game since the monkeys discovered fire. And if you betrayed Aegeus once, I’m certainly curious to know whether you’ll betray him again,” says Labienus.
“Don’t count on it,” says Amaunet with a snarl. “I haven’t forgotten Carthage, Labienus.”
He shrugs. “I wouldn’t respect you if you had. But we’re planning our endgames now, dear Amaunet. I love cleansing fire; you know how well. What will Aegeus do, if he seizes power in 2355? Make the world a vast extension
of Eurobase One? Pink carpets and gilded chandeliers! Think of all those immortal gourmands and lechers and esthetes, battening on the monkeys like so many vampires. What will you do in that world, lady?”
of Eurobase One? Pink carpets and gilded chandeliers! Think of all those immortal gourmands and lechers and esthetes, battening on the monkeys like so many vampires. What will you do in that world, lady?”
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