The Neon Court (8 page)

My smile grew strained.

“As a token of her appreciation, her ladyship will bestow upon the protector of this city honorary access to the palaces of the Neon Court within this city, where he may partake of the many wonders of the Court at his leisure.”

There was a polite round of applause at this, and the business duly intoned, the party turned to move away.

I raised my hand. “Excuse me?” The party stopped. Lady Neon’s head didn’t turn, but the man in crimson spared me a glance. “Sorry,” I added. “But I think there’s been a basic misunderstanding. Now, it’s not
that I’m not cheering for the continued friendship and stuff, but I haven’t yet seen any proof that the Tribe did what you’re accusing them of. I haven’t seen any proof that this entire affair isn’t just another, with all due respect, factional bust-up going down in my streets on my watch. So, all things considered, you might want to hold off on that honorary membership thing, because I haven’t said anything about fighting a war.”

Silence.

Then the man in red turned on the spot and intoned, “Her ladyship wishes to remind the protector of the city that by the terms of our defensive alliance …”

“I must help you if you’re attacked. As I understand it, if you start this war unduly, I don’t have to do shit.”

“Her ladyship wishes to remind you of the consequences of not honouring our alliance: the very … unwelcome consequences of such a breach.”

I smiled, looked down at my feet, looked up at the sky. “OK,” I said. “Sure. I get that. But then again, have you looked at it the other way? You go to war with the Tribe in my city without my help, sure, it’ll be messy, it’ll be blood on both sides, blood in the gutter. You go to war with
us
and your blood will become dust before it even has a chance to spoil the carpet. This is
our
city. You can lay on this exciting show of strength for me, sure. You can say, ‘come here, jump when we say jump’ all you like, but if you step one little toe out of line, we will be there, and you will see a war like nothing you can conceive. We are only human in our flesh; burn that away, and underneath you will find blue electric fire. We do not think Neon Court, nor Tribe, nor the fists of hell have the strength to extinguish that. Do we understand each other?”

Silence. That special silence that can only happen when there are armed men thinking long and hard about the use of weaponry.

Then a whisper between Lady Neon and the man in red.

He bowed.

At us.

“Her ladyship appreciates the difficult position you are in. We appreciate that you desire to avoid undue bloodshed; we acknowledge your compassion. Her ladyship will, in light of this, make you an offer, to minimise the casualties of this … regrettable conflict.”

“I’m quivering like a feather in a storm.”

“Her ladyship expresses the wish that, if you can find the girl and secure her release from the Tribe within twenty-four hours, conflict may be prevented.”

“Girl? What girl?”

“The chosen one, of course.”

“Come again?”

“The chosen one, the one who will end this war.”

“Sorry,” I mumbled, “I could have sworn I just heard the words ‘chosen one’ uttered without laughing.”

“Find her, bring her to us, and this war need not escalate further.”

“Where should I start?”

“The prophets know of whom we speak.”

“Yes, because prophets are so good at giving out mobile phone numbers and a postcode – and if I don’t find your ‘chosen one’?”

“Then the Court will have no choice but to utterly destroy the Tribe, and anyone who stands in our way.”

I sucked in air through my teeth. “
Right
. I get it. Sure. Um … I don’t suppose you have an address?”

Then Lady Neon stepped forward. I thought I saw a glimpse of a face beneath the veil, a shadow beneath the shadow. She spoke. There was a hint of an American accent, a hint of something else, a voice like moonlight through bare branches. She said, “You have very beautiful eyes.” And turned. And walked away.

The delegation from the Neon Court got into no fewer than seven black limos and drove away. They didn’t offer me a lift, and I didn’t ask.

I headed for the Underground. As I walked off, a team of men and women in orange overalls came out of a lorry and started mopping the snake-dragon down with grease and engine oil. It rumbled its satisfaction.

As I headed towards what I hoped was the underground station, I got out my mobile, and dialled Leslie Dees.

She answered within a ring and a half.

“Mr Mayor.”

“Please don’t call me that.”

“Mr Swift,” she replied without dropping a beat. “How is everything?”

“Lady Neon’s come to town!” I said cheerfully.

“I did inform you …”

“I’ve just met her.”

A note of alarm entered Dees’ voice. “You didn’t permit her to touch you, did you?”

“No, Dees,” I sighed. “I neither touched her, nor kissed her, nor shared drink with her; I am, in fact, fully in charge of my own faculties and not under her spell, in fact, I think she’s a rather peculiar little woman who’s not afraid of mucking me around during a trying time. Oh – and I have beautiful eyes.”

“I can’t say I ever really looked.”

“Thank you for your lack of interest.”

“Mr Swift, if it’s any comfort to you, I can promise that were I not a happily married woman with a husband I love well,” sighed Dees, “you would definitely be in my top two genders of choice.”

“You know how to flatter a guy.”

“It seemed important to you to hear it.”

“Thanks a bundle,” I growled. “Serious business, if you please?”

“I can’t tell you how long I’ve waited for you to speak those words, Mr Swift.”

I resisted the temptation to hit the phone, as a substitute for something more sensitive. “I’ve just heard the words ‘chosen one’ spoken out loud without giggling.”

“I see. And who spoke these mystically vague and somewhat portentous words?”

“Some tit in a mask. But he was holding Lady Neon’s hand.”

“I
see
.” Say what you will for Dees, she knew enough about magic to know when to be upset by its misuse. “A ‘chosen one’?”

“Yep. Apparently” – sarcasm dripped off the end of my tongue – “there’s a ‘chosen one’ who is going to end the war between the Court and the Tribe, and I have twenty-four hours to find her – hey, she’s a girl, I know that much; in fact, that’s all I know – before the Neon Court goes to war with the Tribe and anyone else who stands in their way. Which might include me. It’s all up in the air. But you never know.”

There was a long, judicious silence from the other end of the line. Finally, rather than let the air waves languish, Dees said, “I
see
. Any more information?”

“Apparently we have to talk to the prophets.”

“Which prophets?”

“I don’t know. I was under the impression most of them were dead after … because of Bakker and … well, you know. Incidentally, did you know that the Neon Court kept a 747 dragon?”

“No, I did not,” was Dees’ irritated reply, and I sensed, for a moment, paperwork yet to come. “Obviously I’ll have a look into this prophet business but …”

“Have you heard anything from the Tribe?” I asked. “I mean, since some of their guys are dead too. Are they threatening hellfire?”

“If they were, they probably wouldn’t tell us.”

“Is the Tribe one of the many institutions that would happily kill us and drink our blood?” we asked. “Or do they have a sense of self-preservation and perspective?”

“Mr Mayor, I really cannot recommend direct overtures to the Tribe without taking some serious precautions.”

“That’s me, Serious Precautions Swift.”

“You are aware that the Court may have a case, that this could be just what it seems – an act of aggression by the Tribe against our ally …?”

“Dees,” I began, and then cut myself short. “Yeah. Maybe. Doubt it. Lady Neon arrived too soon, she had to be in the air by the time all this was happening, and the Court found me too easily, which probably means they were looking.”

“You are aware, Mr Mayor, then when casually scrying the streets of London, you stand out like a giraffe on roller skates, yes?”

“And even leaving that aside,” I snapped, “what the hell’s with this ‘chosen one’ bollocks? You’re a cynical lady, Dees.”

“I take that as a compliment,” she sighed.

“You believe any of it?”

Silence. Then, “No. But we need proof. The Aldermen cannot risk a war on two fronts; we can’t be fighting the Court and the Tribe and guarantee the safety of the city from all the other threats that hammer against our walls. Not even you, Mr Mayor, would survive that.”

“See if you can find someone from the Tribe to have a chat with,” I said. “See if we can have a conversation that doesn’t involve the syllable ‘ugh’.”

“I make no promises.”

“Fair enough. What time is it?”

“Eleven ten.”

I looked up at the black, plane-speckled sky. “Already?”

“We’ve all been busy.”

Something wrong.

Badly badly wrong.

I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.

“Where’s the girl?” said a voice, and for an instant, I didn’t realise it was mine.

“What’s that, Mr Mayor?”

“Just thinking out loud.”

Oda.

Where’s the girl?

Oda with a hole in her heart, Oda who should, by all reason, be dead, and who I’d left sleeping, unwatched, unguarded, in a hotel in Greenwich. Oda who’d stuck a sword into the back of a man who might or might not have been (but probably was) Minjae San, daimyo of the Neon Court, on a burning tower in Sidcup, while I’d stood and watched and done nothing to make it stop. And I’d been summoned to that tower; someone had summoned me. It takes clout to summon a taxi, let alone a sorcerer who doesn’t want to go. And Oda despised magic.

‘Where’s the girl?’ she’d said.

And now Lady Neon had come to town.

Find the girl.

I became vaguely aware of Dees making sounds at me, and mumbled, “Look, I’m going underground a while. Call me if you get anything.”

I hung up, and went in search of the Piccadilly Line.

There was something wrong with the Piccadilly Line.

There was something wrong with the map.

I stood inside Heathrow Terminals 1, 2 and 3 station and stared
long and hard at the map, and couldn’t quite name what it was about it that made me feel uneasy. Tourists with great bags on wheels that snipped at the ankles of strangers jostled around me to look and find their destination; men in sharp suits put away their mobile phones in expectation of going downstairs. Travellers who’d never seen the city’s Underground at work tried to stick their Oyster card into the paper ticket slot, and swipe their paper tickets over the Oyster card readers. The attending staff, having seen too many tens of thousands pass through speaking too many languages to ever be learnt, looked on, and made no effort to help. The barriers were extra wide to accommodate the luggage, the escalator a frustrating disorder of tired, bleary-eyed wanderers who hadn’t yet come to realise that London was, more than anything else, about neat queues and always standing on the right. The platforms were wide, the board with the orange indicator sign read:

1
Southgate – 2 mins

2
Southgate – 5 mins

3
Turnpike Lane – 8 mins

Beneath it rolled a continual line of text. I watched it; I was the only one who did.
Please keep your luggage with you at all times. The lights are going out. Any unattended items must be reported to a member of staff immediately. It’s waiting for you.

The train was relatively new, the seats still padded, the windows still mostly unscratched, the white paint on the outside only somewhat grey from the passage through the tunnels. I sat down in a small puddle of half-read used free newspapers, picked one up, flicked through it.

‘Fire in Sidcup; arson suspected’
had made a footnote on
page 7
. I read the few words. Fire brigade called; tower block due for demolition; haunt of local kids and homeless; locals reported bodies; opposition councillor calls for inquiry into failures etc.

The train rumbled through west London past stations of half-glimpsed pale faces in the platform light, not bothering to slow down for the corners as it sped towards Hammersmith and the City. I read about footballers and their indiscretions, the plight of pensioners and the failure of local government, about a disgrace in the NHS and Charleen’s operation to have her bust size increased to change her life. No one ever said that free newspapers were any good.

At Hammersmith I changed to the District Line, a slow, cumbersome rumble of a train that seemed to sit forever at Sloane Square and was for ever delayed by signal failures. The crowds that boarded at Victoria were a strange mix: men and women in suits, carrying briefcases and smart shoulder bags, girls in sparkly shoes with bunny tails on their backsides, young men in hoodies bopping along to an invisible beat, broad-necked blokes red-faced from the pub, theatregoers in pearls and stiff beige jackets earnestly reading the programme notes written for some profound piece. A woman with the ‘mug me’ bum bag and camera of a tourist sat down next to me, a frown on her face, clutching a bag from the Science Museum close to her chest. I watched her reflected in the opposite window, and she watched me, eyebrows knitted for a long while. Then she turned, and looked me straight in the eye and said in broken, lisping English, “‘Scuse me?”

I smiled the patient smile of all Londoners tolerating tourists.

“‘Scuse me,” she repeated. “But you know where son’s gone?”

My smile wavered.

She half shook her head, and looked away. “Sorry,” she added. “Sorry. English not good.”

At Westminster, I changed to the Jubilee Line, a swish new extension, the train cut off from the platform by a great glass barrier with doors set into it, against which the driver had to meticulously align. The platform was growing empty; I could taste the hour of the Last Train nearly coming, the perpetual last train that went round and round the Circle Line for ever, never stopping, and almost never seen. The Jubilee Line carried me to London Bridge, a grey low slab of a station set only a few metres back from the river, whose platforms stuck out from its back like a raccoon’s tail. The shutters were half up, half down over the platforms, the men in blue waistcoats blowing the final whistles for the final trains.