Aurorarama (25 page)

“My real name, you will be interested, if not pleased, to know, is Adam Arkansky. I am the son of Ananias Andrew Arkansky and I have come to claim my inheritance,” he said, putting in his own pocket the mask Brentford handed him back.

“Your inheritance?”

“The greenhouses my father ran.”

“I do not own this place, Mr. Arkansky, and neither do you. A lot of things have changed since your father ran it. For one thing, it is now a branch of the Arctic Administration. Even if I were inclined to give it back, it would not be in my power to do so.”

“I know that, of course. But were you to resign, I have reasons to think the Council of Seven would consider my application with benevolence.”

“I do not doubt they would,” Brentford said, darkly remembering the presence of that cumbersome Gentleman of the Night in front of the backstage door. “But I am not sure you would like the job. I spend most of my time calculating ratios of sand, ashes, local soil, compost, and nitrogen, making sure steam pipes or Tesla coils warm the soil sufficiently, finding ways to fan out or recycle the heat when it’s too hot because of the long periods of daylight. It bores me as an engineer, and I doubt it would have for you the glamour of stage magic.”

Actually, Brentford delegated most of those tasks, but he wanted to know what Handyside, well, Arkansky, was aiming at.

“Stage magic is more math than glamour. But anyway, there’s one word you said that sums it all up for me: sand, Mr. Orsini.”

“Sand is not that fascinating, I assure you.”

“But imagine we replace it with local psylicates. Would not that give a certain flavour to our local production?”

That was it, then. A return to Ananias Andrew Arkansky’s old way of using the Greenhouse as a drug factory. When affordable
food
was so damn hard to find for everyone. Brentford frowned.

“I can see you are your father’s son. But the days of Pineapples and Plums are long dead and gone. Welcome to Scarcity City, Mr. Arkansky.”

“My father was a great man, a visionary, but he had not the time to fully develop his plans. The Council, as becomes the living memory of New Venice, has not forgotten them, and that is why they have searched and found me. Pineapples and Plums, for all its virtues, was mainly a local resource. And psylicates are too precious to be simply wasted on those useless Boreal Bohemians. The Council seems to think that
exporting
is very much the future. Imagine the fortune
we
could make out of it. Importing more down-to-earth food would be then quite easy, I suppose.”

“You have no notion of the costs of importing food here.”

“I’m rather well informed on the current situation. I have for instance read an interesting book, lately,
A Blast
or something … You probably do not know it,” Arkansky Jr. added, with a wink that Brentford pretended not to notice. “I’m quoting from memory and I don’t imagine you would have a copy here to check the exact wording, but I seem to remember that it said that in New Venice, the real wealth was the imaginal wealth, the generosity of dreams, the ever springing fountain of the inner eye, coming from sensory deprivation in the night and in the snow, a culture of
fata morgana
and
aurora borealis
. Well, that is exactly what I am aiming for, Mr. Orsini.”

“I never said it was for sale,” Brentford answered too quickly.

“Oh? You did not write the book, by any chance?”

Damn, thought Brentford, placing mental hands over his mouth.

“That’s lesson two. Always watch what the other hand is doing.” Arkansky was smiling wickedly, very happy with himself. “You see, if the Council were to learn your passion for
les belles-lettres
, you might have to resign for good.”

Brentford tried to look relaxed.

“As little as I know them, I still think they would need more proof than a magician’s word.”

“Let us make this a footnote to lesson one. A proof is what people will believe. Every night, I see people whose will to be deceived is matched only by my will to deceive them. This is precisely why they come and see magicians. And this is why my ballot box trick makes special sense, even if you did not like it, as I noticed.”

“But I thought the blackmail was about Ms. Springfield,” said Brentford, who did not feel like discussing poletics.

“We are coming to that,” Arkansky kept on. “The Greenhouse is one thing. Much to my surprise, and to my displeasure, I must add, I have other matters to discuss with you.”

Arkansky sat back in the armchair, lost in thought for a while, seeming even a bit nervous, though Brentford could not see why, for he had all the cards in his hands. The magician finally spoke.

“How did you like the show, Mr. Orsini?”

“Would you be fishing for compliments, by any chance?”

“Ha! As an artist, I make a living out of compliments. So they are always welcome, I suppose. But let me rephrase my question. Did you think there was anything special in the show tonight?”

“I found everything rather impressive, I admit.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but you seemed to have been especially, shall we say … troubled by the walking ghost.”

“I was not the only one, I suppose. It is a powerful illusion,” Brentford said diffidently. He still failed to see how any of this could involve Sybil.

“But you are the only one she made a sign to.”

“Because you made it so, I suppose.”

Arkansky leaned toward Brentford.

“Mr. Orsini. Have I, since this conversation began, given you the impression that I deserve to be spoken to as if I were some sort of dimwit?”

“Not really,” admitted Brentford, regretfully.

“Well, then. Let us behave accordingly, if you don’t mind.”

He took a deep breath and went on.

“Who is this girl?”

“Which one? The Princess? The Ghost?”

“The Ghost or God knows what it is.”

“I do not have the slightest idea.”

“You are sure you have never seen her before? Because
she
had seen you before.”

“How can you be so sure?”

Arkansky got up, took a few steps to and fro, biting his lips, visibly wrestling with some inner dilemma Brentford had no inkling about. Then, he suddenly turned toward Brentford, seemingly pacified, or at least, with his mind made up.

“As much as I regret it, it seems that the best way to deal with this is to be relatively sincere with you. Needless to say, were you to abuse my trust, and inform a third party of what follows, you will place yourself in a rather unenviable predicament.”

“Your secret is as safe with me as my authorship of the book is with you.”

Arkansky pondered this for a moment, and then said, “Let us both believe it. Belief can work wonders. Are you a connoisseur of magic?”

“Not in the least,” admitted Brentford, still at a loss as to what Arkansky had in mind.

“That is a good thing. We magicians have a rather equivocal relationship with connoisseurs. It is the paradoxical nature of magic as an entertainment that it dreads the capacity of its public to understand the tricks, while, to be appreciated as an art, it requires exactly such understanding. However, and frustrating as it can be, I may be one of the rare magicians to be wary of connoisseurs on both accounts. Not because I am a bad magician, but precisely because I am, as you have noticed, and I say this with all objectivity, a little above average. The tricks I did tonight, I admit, are mostly standard, and the stage was as rigged as a three-masted ship, but some of these tricks, frankly, I could not have done in Paris, London, or New York, possibly in front of other magicians.”

Brentford felt it was time for his cue. He sighed and delivered, so as to get more quickly to the point.

“And why is that?”

“Because, Mr. Orsini, a fellow magician would certainly see that such tricks are not
really
possible.”

“This is, I presume, what every magician would like his audience to suppose.”

“It’s more complicated than that, I’m afraid. There is nothing that is more despised among magicians than a fellow conjuror trying to pass himself off as some sort of sorcerer or magus with supernatural powers. As you know, some of us also make a living by trying to prove such people are frauds. On the other hand …”

“On the other hand?” Brentford forced himself to ask, remembering that he should watch that other hand closely.

“Magic as a trade would be the best cover for someone with such abilities, don’t you think? Pretending his supernatural feats were but vulgar magical tricks.”

“What would be the point?”

Brentford noticed that Handyside was now levitating about a foot or so above the ground while staring him right in the eyes.

“That could be one of your tricks,” said Brentford.

Arkansky rose another foot, just as if he were full of hydrogen, his quiff almost touching the frosted-glass globes of the ceiling light.

“Yes. But the point would be that … you would not know.”

The magician returned to the ground. Brentford noticed how flushed he was. But it meant nothing. Arkansky was, after all, in the grip of the famous paradox: who would believe a man who calls himself a liar? The magician had paid for his talent to deceive by losing any credibility, whatever he might say or do. That seemed to Brentford like some infernal punishment, the true meaning of selling your soul to the devil.

“You see, Mr. Orsini. There are two sides to what I do. Some of it I admit is trickery, and that’s where some of the beauty lies. Some other things cannot be explained so simply, even by myself. And tonight, something happened that not only can I not explain, but that I could not control at all, even though I pretended to.
I swear I do not know who this Ghost Lady was.”

He leaned toward Brentford almost threateningly.

“But she knew you and … you … know … her.”

Brentford saw the light at the end of the tunnel.

“I’ll tell you when I see Sybil back at home and safe.”

Arkansky sat back.

“Which home? You forget I have only to tell the Council that you wrote the book for you to lose the Greenhouse.”

“You are bluffing. The Council already suspects I wrote the book. What they need is some tangible proof which you do not have. Besides, I remember we have already made a deal about our mutual discretion. Forget about the resignation. Sybil comes back intact and I’ll tell you who the Ghost Lady is.”

“I could still trade Sybil against your resignation.”

“You could,” Brentford bluffed, offering his position as a gambit to protect the information he didn’t have. “But then you won’t learn anything about the lady who comes and goes through your performances as she pleases.”

Arkansky was thinking hard. But it was too late. He had forgotten he wasn’t the only one to have two hands. As Brentford would have bet, the magician’s curiosity, or fear, eventually got the better of his ambition. Well, for the moment, that is, before he plotted a new way to uproot Brentford from the Greenhouse.

“The name, then. But you’d better not
trick
me, Mr. Orsini.”

“Would I make such a mistake? And I won’t make the mistake of telling you the name before I get Sybil.”

“You will have your Sybil back. But not tomorrow, I’m afraid.”

“Why is that?”

“I doubt you’re interested in this, but another singer disappeared today. Apparently the Council seemed to think that it would be a good idea that not all the headlines speak of this incident. Ms. Springfield’s disappearance could not be more welcome in that respect, if you’ll allow me to say so. You will see her
a lot
on the front page, I suppose.”

“I’m used to it,” said Brentford. He still found it hard to believe that the Council of Seven had had a hand in kidnapping his bride.

“Take advantage of the Greenhouse as long as it lasts, which will not be long. For the rest, let’s clinch the deal,” said Arkansky, offering his hand to Brentford.

“I suppose that if I take it, it will come off and stay in my hand.”

“Do not be mean. Do you think I’m some cheap conjuror for children?”

Brentford took the hand, which stayed in his.

Arkansky chuckled and turned his back to leave.

But then the magician saw something through the open door of the bedroom that made him start. Before Brentford could react, Arkansky strode into the bedroom. Brentford followed quickly and found him standing still in front of the mirror Blankbate had given him and Sybil had stolen from him.

The magician turned toward Brentford and, indicating the mirror, spoke with a hissing voice.

“What is this
thing
, Mr. Orsini?”

“It’s called a mirror. I thought that as a magician you would be familiar with the notion.”

Arkansky cast a dark look at Brentford and advanced toward the mirror, as if to reach for it. Brentford quickly opened a
bedside table and pulled out Sybil’s Browning, which he pointed at Arkansky.

“Do not touch it, unless you’re ready for some bullet catch.”

The gun was uncomfortable to hold with a bandaged hand, but Brentford felt confident that his opponent would get the drift. Arkansky turned toward him, frowning as if to hypnotize him. Brentford staggered under the malevolence of the look, the sheer will power that oozed from the green eyes. But when it comes to mesmerizing, few things rival the barrel of a gun.

“Oh, yes,” Brentford said, “my finger feels
really
heavy.”

“You wouldn’t do that,” said Arkansky, still trying to force his crowbar stare into Brentford’s brain.

“Perhaps I’ll just shoot your fingers off.”

For a conjuror, this was worse than a death threat. He could see Arkansky take in the blow of the image: the torn, bleeding fingers dangling from the palm, simply held by bits of charred skin and broken bone shards. The magnetic stare went off like a light bulb.

“I’m on my way,” said Arkansky, with a tone that sounded more like “I’ll have my way.”

Brentford took a step back, following Arkansky’s retreat with his gun. He heard his steps cascading down the stairs, like an avalanche of poisoned apples, and the door slammed shut. He bent over the stairwell to make sure the magician was gone for good. At least he would know how Arkansky got out.