Justice and Utu (7 page)

No! I didn't mean …

Asher Grieve darted around the side of the building and was gone. But Mat only had eyes for the man he'd set alight. With an inchoate cry, Mat lurched towards the soldier, dampening down the flames, desperate to undo what he'd done. Too late. Charred skin and raw flesh appeared amidst the smoke. He tried to beat at the flames, while beside him Donna bent down and picked up a fallen musket. Mat saw the movement too late. As if in slow motion, the butt of the gun hammered into his temple, and the lights snapped out.

A
KARANA
, F
RIDAY

T
hrobbing bursts of pain scraped at the inside of Mat's skull, while at his feet a burning man dripped melting flesh as he begged for mercy. Then water splashed over his face and washed the ghastly visions away.

‘He's waking, Guv'nor.'

Mat opened his eyes to a world of blurred shapes in black and brown and white. Jarring noises overrode distant cries of pain. Then a cold voice cut through the noise.

‘Open your eyes! Tell me what you knew of this!' George Grey blared at him.

Mat tried to remember, to make sense of all this … the explosion … Asher Grieve … fire pouring from his hands, that awful fire …

‘Sir—'

‘Don't “Sir” me! Speak! Speak, damn it!'

Mat was in the front office again, on a wooden chair with Grey towering over him. Hobson was drinking whisky like it
was sacred. Beyond them a clutch of officers watched, hands on guns and sword hilts. Distant cries of pain seeped through the walls.

The memories came reluctantly. ‘There was an explosion, while I was in the cell with Donna Kyle. She hit me. That's all I know.'

Grey pounded the table. ‘There's more! How did you come to be alone with her? How did you get outside? Who burnt the warden? Who put a ball in his brain? Where is Donna Kyle now? Where is Asher Grieve? Who set the bombs?'

‘I don't know! I don't know anything!'

‘Damn it, boy, I'll have the truth if I have to beat it out of you!'

‘Sir,' put in a man in a medical coat, with thick-rimmed glasses and a straggling beard. ‘The boy has concussion from the skull-trauma. He should be given time to recover.'

‘There is no time, Doctor! Asher Grieve and Donna Kyle are loose!'

‘The constabulary are mustering, sir. The fugitives went south, we know that. They'll run straight into Von Tempsky's irregulars south of the Bombay Hills.'

‘Von Tempsky, pah!' Grey spat. ‘Insufferable glory-hunter! Venn'll just buy him off. That's if they've not gone to Auckland — for all I know, they're already jetting off to Venn's lair in the Ureweras!' Grey straightened. ‘When I want your opinions on non-medical issues, I'll ask, Doctor. Now, out!'

The next half-hour was worse than the questioning at the trial. Grey was furious. He shouted in Mat's face, he cursed and pounded the desk, and even threw things. But he never
actually struck Mat, despite the dozen or so times it seemed he would. Mat could tell him little, and wanted to reveal less: he could hardly tell the man he'd been told of the bomb and done nothing but protect Donna. He still didn't understand properly why he hadn't. There had been no time to think, just to act. And the memory of burning that warden was harrowing, even though the man had been helping Asher.

As if sensing Mat's omissions, Grey kept pressing him, demanding more, his temper rising inexorably, until Mat feared he would never be released. Then Wiri and Tama burst in. ‘Governor!' his father shouted, while Wiri shoved an officer aside and stood protectively over Mat. ‘Control yourself! This is my son!'

‘And I've no reason to trust you either,' Grey retorted.

‘Then trust this.' Tama slammed a wedge of papers onto Grey's desk. ‘These are copies of Donna Kyle's confessions to me. After she was sentenced, she revealed hidden caches of information. This includes data that implicates Sebastian Venn in corrupt financial practices in our world. I've sent it anonymously to our police, and there is already a warrant out for his arrest.' He came to stand between Mat and Grey. ‘Would I do that if I was collaborating with Venn?'

Grey faced him, rigid and quivering with anger. Then, abruptly, he turned away. ‘Why would she not have fed this data to police earlier, when she was free and at war?'

‘She still hoped to win, then claim his assets as her own.' Tama dusted down Mat, and examined the swelling on his temple with concerned eyes. ‘The death sentence removed her motivation for secrecy. Would she have confessed this to me if she was planning on being rescued by Venn?'

Grey clenched and unclenched his fists. ‘Possibly not,' he conceded grudgingly.

‘My son is foolish and reckless at times, sir, but he is not in league with Donna Kyle or her ilk.'

Grey glowered at him, then nodded abruptly. ‘Damn this! Damn you all. If there is nothing else you can tell me, then go. Get out of my sight!'

Tama and Wiri led Mat away in silence. Outside, the crowd had been herded away from the bombsite. Wiri was able to lead them to a building next door that contained a gateway back to the real world, through an unused cupboard. They emerged into the untenanted floor of a Queen Street apartment. ‘You OK, chief?' Wiri asked softly.

Mat took a few tentative independent steps. ‘Yeah, I think I can manage.' He felt utterly spent, dead on his feet.

‘Tama, you're due to see that detective in Auckland to confirm those documents in quarter of an hour. I'll see Mat to bed. Damien's waiting to keep an eye on him, and I'll join you at the station.'

Tama nodded, then hugged Mat. ‘Being your father is a trial at times, son,' he muttered. ‘Good thing I'm handy at trials, eh?'

Mat squeezed his dad back, battling tears.

The next few minutes were a blur, and then a huge soft mattress enveloped him.

 

Mat woke up to find himself in his underwear beneath a thick quilt, in his hotel room. Damien was slumbering in the armchair, his mouth half-open, rhythmically snoring.
Damien's fencing bag was on the floor with a pile of motorbike leathers. Mat blinked and sought the alarm clock. Its glowing orange LEDs read 13:17, which befuddled his tired mind until he realized it was on twenty-four-hour mode. Seventeen past one in the afternoon. His head was throbbing, but a thought surfaced.

Lena! Our date!

He thrashed about, leaning half in and half out of the bed, fumbling among his clothes until he found the pocket with his cellphone. He rang repeatedly, but Lena's phone was apparently off. He groaned, rolled over, and was asleep again in seconds.

When next he woke, the room was shadowy but not fully dark, as if it were late afternoon. He could see the silhouette of someone sitting up in the armchair, and Damien's snoring had stopped. The alarm clock now read 16:02. Just after four. He sighed, and tentatively sat up.

The figure in the armchair stirred. ‘About time,' said Donna Kyle.

A
UCKLAND
, F
RIDAY EVENING

H
oly crap!'
Mat exclaimed, leaping backwards and falling off the other side of the bed in a tangle of sheets and quilts and legs. Then, fearfully: ‘Damien?' The light blazed on, and he saw Damien lying on the floor beside the door, unmoving.

‘He's fine,' Donna said in an atonal voice. ‘He'll wake when I permit him.' She had a gun in her hand, a flintlock. The cuffs were still about her wrists, although the chain linking them was broken. She was wearing Tama's raincoat over her prison overalls but still smelt like a sewer.

‘How did you get here?' Mat asked, buying time.

‘There are many gateways, if you know where to look. Now get up, and get ready.'

‘Ready for what?'

‘To hunt my father.'

‘What …?' Mat blinked at her, dazed.

She sighed. ‘Must I explain everything?' She waved a hand,
‘Dress as I speak, boy.' She nudged Damien with a foot, and he groaned. ‘Get up, you.' Damien sat up and looked about, bewildered, then saw Donna and backed up against the door.

Mat slowly stood, letting the sheets tumble away. ‘I could burn you like I burned the warden,' he warned.

She met his gaze levelly. ‘Yes, you could. Or you could overpower me and take me back to Grey so he can hang me. What's stopping you?'

Mat sucked in a deep breath, trying to think. ‘How did you know about the bomb?'

Her lip curled. ‘One of their accomplices tipped me off.'

‘Why would they tell you about it?' Damien asked.

Donna grimaced, then shrugged. ‘Because I gave something in return,' she replied in a bitter voice.

Damien winced in distaste. ‘Why did they try to blow you up? Grey was going to hang you anyway.'

‘Because my father likes to be the one taking the actions. He wanted to be the cause of my death, not Grey. More fool him. When I realized what was planned, I did two things. First, I told Tama Douglas some incriminating secrets about Venn, enough that if he goes back to your world he'll be arrested. And then I asked Mat to come and see me, so I'd be warded from the explosion. Father fears you, Mat, and rightly so.' Her voice held a challenge as she said the last words; it prickled him. She was manipulating him, he knew it, yet her praise made him feel stronger.

‘Mat saved us both, as I'd hoped, then drove Father off.' She looked at Mat. ‘I had to hit you then, of course. You wouldn't have let me walk away without lengthy explanations.' She shrugged indifferently. ‘Anyway, if I am the one to bring
back my father's head, they will have no choice but to pardon me.'

‘You shot the warden I burned …?' Mat asked weakly.

‘He needed to be put out of his misery, don't you think?' she replied sarcastically.

Mat swallowed. He saw Damien peering at him at this last exchange, and his first thought was to avoid the subject, but he suddenly felt that it was important not to. ‘Dame, I burnt a man alive this morning, at the gaol. He was Venn's man, but …' He felt his voice catch. Damien nodded, his face ashen.

‘You're too soft-hearted, boy,' rasped Donna. ‘Now dress! Hurry! You and I need to collect a few others and then move quickly if we are to recapture my father.' She eyed Damien. ‘What about you? Are you any use?'

Damien straightened. ‘I was at Waikaremoana last summer when we screwed things up for you and Bryce,' he answered evenly.

Donna's eyes narrowed. ‘You were the lanky clown with the sword?'

‘Not how I'd have put it, but yeah.'

She nodded slowly. ‘Alright, you're in.'

Mat groaned. ‘He's not coming with us.'

‘The hell I'm not!' Damien retorted. ‘I've got your back, man. All the way.'

‘No! This is too dangerous.' Mat looked at Donna. ‘Tell him.'

‘It's his life. Now hurry up, before your father gets back.'

He dressed under her cold gaze, a little self-consciously, and stuffed spare gear into shoulder bags. As he did so, his airline tickets spilled onto the floor. He was due to leave for
the airport shortly. Well, that wouldn't be happening. Mat mentally kissed the Green Day concert goodbye, and carried on. He had brought his taiaha with him — the one stained in the blood of Te Iho. But he'd left his feather cloak, the flying one gifted to him by Kurangaituku the Birdwitch, back in Napier. He wished he hadn't. ‘What about Wiri?' he asked.

‘Not yet,' Donna Kyle replied.

‘We need him,' Mat replied.

‘I said: not yet.'

‘Could I remind you that you've got no power here,' Mat snapped. ‘Ngatoro locked up your magic to make you safe to imprison.'

‘And yet somehow I'm still in charge,' Donna replied acerbically. ‘It must be a girl thing.' She stood. ‘If you're both ready, then let's go.'

She led them out into the corridor and down the stairs, all the way down to the basement and then out the in-ramp for cars into a backstreet behind Queen Street. The sun was westering, but thanks to daylight saving still high in the sky. ‘Where are we going?' Mat asked.

‘Victoria Park Market,' Donna replied. ‘We need to pick up someone.'

A
UCKLAND
, F
RIDAY

E
veralda van Zelle took the Devonport ferry every morning from her parents' home on the North Shore across the harbour to central Auckland. From there it was a twenty-minute walk; well, ten minutes really, but she liked to veer off-route to grab a takeaway coffee from the trailer-vendor outside Britomart. Then she could sip her drink while trudging west along Fanshawe Street, before cutting across Victoria Park to the market. Evie opened her stall sometime between nine and eleven, depending on how well she had slept the night before. She lived at home, so her costs were low — it tended to kill her love life, such as it was, but at least she could afford drinking money.

‘Hello, Evie!' Mrs Hong would always call, even if serving from her Chinese goods booth, and she'd always say ‘Hi' back — that was the limit of Mrs Hong's English except when cutting a deal. Sometimes Carly the tattooist would swing past with a smoke to share as she set up.

It was always slow at first — it seemed people didn't like to deal with mystical things too early in the day. After lunch, though, things usually picked up. Tourists would come through, nudging and jostling each other into her booth. She'd do their cards, or maybe palms, and if there was something big going on for them, try to talk them through it without freaking anyone out. Including herself.

In truth, she felt more like a social worker than a seer. If she watched a person carefully, reading the clues Sherlock Holmes-style, she could learn enough. Add it to the type of question they asked, and she'd usually got half their life story and an idea of what they wanted to hear — people generally came to her to hear what they wanted, not some unknown future. Her main challenge was then to fit the cards to their story, not the other way around.

Today Carly didn't make it over, but Ted from the smoke-shop filled her ears with gossip, mostly about Carly. Evie didn't pull a customer until after two, a Brit guy travelling alone who looked uncomfortably at her eyepatch (she was back on patches at the moment, after Carly opined that they were sexier than sunnies). The guy's cards were a mess, but as she wasn't really trying, that didn't matter. What was clear was that he didn't want to go home; he wanted to stay on with some chick he'd met in Hamilton. She gave him some waffle about ‘seizing opportunities', and hoped he got the hint. Then old Aggie Joyce came in for her weekly feel-good session, handing over a fifty for assurances that her dead husband was happy. (Evie didn't know why, but she had a feeling that ten-year-dead Jack was fine, somewhere.) This was what she did, really: told people what they needed to hear, and left them
feeling relieved, and resolved. It was like being a psychologist, but less well paid.

Just occasionally she met someone where the cards or palms told her a lot more. Too much more — rushes of visions and impressions that blazed into her sightless left eye with cruel clarity. On those occasions all she could do was suck in air and hold steady until the moment passed, and then see what she could make of it. She was half-expecting one such experience today, because that morning she'd drawn the Queen of Spades from her bedside deck. She'd never lost that habit. Spades no longer signified school work: they meant work, the visions themselves. The Queen of Spades was an ominous card.

‘Hey, Evie, y'up for coffee?' Carly poked her head through the curtain, all bushy black hair and shiny metal bits. Her bare, muscular arms were tattooed in bright koi-carp and Chinese dragons, every inch. ‘My shout.'

Evie smiled up at her and yawned. ‘Hey, gorgeous. Hell yeah! If I'm gonna get through the late night tonight I'll need a double shot.'

‘Back in five, honey!'

Carly was back in three minutes as it happened, with two double espressos and a brownie for herself. She was getting a bit of a tummy on, but didn't seem at all concerned. Carly worked for a guy called Blitz who owned the parlour and took a twenty per cent cut for rent. Everything else was paid through her own books. Nice arrangement, Evie always thought.

‘How's the ink biz today, Carly?'

‘Hnnh. Blitz is doin' up this fascist dork in heavy metal tats, even though he looks like a strong wind'd blow him across
the harbour. Git.' She sniffed. ‘Slow day for me; just this one chick wanted a butterfly on her ankle. Who gets flutterbyes these days? Jeez.'

Evie sighed sympathetically.

‘All I ask for is a challenge,' Carly went on. ‘And a massive tip. Or some weed under the table.' She wrinkled her nose. ‘How's your day?'

‘Slow. Just two so far. Need four to cut even.' She fiddled with her eyepatch, which was sitting awkwardly.

‘Here, let me,' Carly offered, putting down her coffee and reaching across, lifting away the patch (a new one with black velvet and gold Chinese embroidery that Mrs Hong had given her) and tightening the straps. She'd seen Evie's milky-white left orb so often it didn't rate a second glance anymore. ‘There. That better?'

‘Uh-huh, suppose so. Still feels awkward — I'm thinking of going back to sunglasses.'

‘We've had this discussion a hundred times, Evie. During daytime, sunnies make you look blind, and after dark they make you look like a fashion victim. Whereas the patch makes you look mysterious and mystical. Guys like that.'

‘What do you know about what guys like?'

‘Huh, I get hit on by guys all the time, trying to convert me. Yick. I know what guys like, I tell you. Stick with the eyepatch, honey. You coming out tonight?'

‘Umm, dunno. Like, all your girlfriends are, well, dykes … It puts me at a disadvantage.'

‘Are they hitting on you?'

‘Not really. It's just … we only go to gay bars. Spot the out-of-place person!'

‘Heaps of breeders go to gay bars. Not all the guys are gay. Try chatting up the badly dressed ones.'

‘Whatever.' Evie rolled her eyes good-naturedly.

‘Anyways, you're coming out with us tonight, right? Ted might come — he's sweet on you.'

‘He's thirty-something! And he's keener on you than me.'

‘Pity the fool. Hey, gotta go, Mister Three O'Clock is due any mo.'

They downed their coffees like they were vodka shots, theatrically toasted each other, then Carly was gone. Evie sat back, waiting for someone to decide they needed their future unravelled and were prepared to part with cash for the privilege. To pass the time, she picked up a book (the fifth in sci-fi queen CJ Cherryh's ‘Foreigner' series) and headed for galaxies far, far away.

At five the curtain was tentatively pulled aside and a tall ginger-headed galoot in an outrageous knee-length jacket stepped in. ‘Welcome,' she said brightly, putting her book down. Then the curtain was pulled aside again, and a young part-Maori boy stepped in. Her skin quivered as if she were naked in a wind tunnel. There was something about him, some radiation of energy that she'd felt only when in the presence of Donna or one of her stronger acolytes.
Oh no
, she groaned inwardly, fighting for composure. ‘Um, sorry, I only see one person at a time.'

Then another person stepped into the suddenly crowded booth, and pulled the curtain across behind her.

‘Hello, Everalda,' said the person she least wanted to ever see again in her whole life.

Donna Kyle, her own personal Queen of Spades.

 

While Evie tried to compose herself, the newcomers looked her up and down; the two boys with obvious distaste, and Donna Kyle with a kind of possessive malice.

‘What do you want?' Evie stammered.

‘What do we need one of these frauds for?' the part-Maori asked in a cutting voice, while his eyes measured her. ‘We don't need her,' he concluded dismissively.

‘Everalda is no fraud,' Donna said in a low voice. ‘I know what you are doing, but belittling her isn't going to change my mind. She's coming with us. Everalda, close up and come with me.'

Evie hung her head, hiding behind her curtain of frizzy blonde tresses. Her back was pressed to the walls of her booth; she wondered if she could create enough fuss that Ted or Carly would come.

‘Evie,' Donna repeated, ‘I said: close up, and come with me.'

Evie bristled. She'd so hoped this woman had left her life. ‘Why?' she asked, testing the boundaries.

Donna Kyle glowered, as if the notion that a lesser being could question her was a foreign one she'd never got used to. ‘Because it is required.'

The tall white boy stretched a hand towards her. ‘Hey, we're not going to hurt you.'

She shrank from his grasp. She'd had to touch these ‘warlocks', as they liked to call themselves, before. It was like letting a giant slug crawl over her skin while sordid images flashed through her blind left eye and into her brain. ‘Don't touch me!' she spat.

To her vague surprise, this one retracted his hand apologetically. Usually they seized her gleefully, knowing what they were subjecting her to. Perhaps he was new.

Donna Kyle stepped in front of her. ‘Evie, I'm here to help you. If you do something for me, I will restore your eye.'

Evie felt her jaw drop.
Restore my eye!
The thought was enough to make her weak at the knees. Not just for the 20:20 vision, but for what else it implied.
To be free of this damned curse. Free to get on with life
… She stared at the blonde witch, not sure whether to believe. The witch was clad in an overcoat and what looked like workman's overalls, which totally reeked. ‘Do you mean that?'

Donna nodded. ‘I do.'

‘I'll hold her to it,' the part-Maori boy put in, making Donna Kyle scowl. The tiny interaction surprised Evie, hinting at hidden tensions between them.

To be free …
She sat down, picked up her tarot deck, split the Major Arcana off and fanned out a quick and dirty three-card reading. ‘Girl—' Donna began, then shut up, as she realized what Evie was doing.

Evie thought to herself: PRESENT / INFLUENCES / GOAL, flipping the top three cards over in turn. In the present slot she'd drawn The Magician, reversed: weakness, wrong use of skills …
OK, I guess that's hard but fair
…

Influences — The Tower: sudden change, disruption …
Ominous, but not all bad
…

And the future — The Devil, inverted: Jeez! … Release from bondage … Her heart thumped and her mouth went dry. The reading seemed clear, and when she wanted a reading to be clear, it usually was. She stood up: ‘Alright. I'm coming.'

She took the Queen of Spades out of her top pocket and left it on the table, replacing it with a full playing-card deck. She hummed and hah-ed for a few seconds over a stack of tarot decks, eventually selecting the Rider-Waite deck (a touch obvious, but a good general tool when she didn't know what she was getting herself into) and slipping it into the inside pocket of her leather jacket. She added a velvet bag of Nordic rune stones. She pulled her jacket over her hippy-dippy sweater, and checked herself in the cracked mirror. A tanned face marred by the patch. One solemn haunted eye, and a cascade of rippled gold hair. She pulled a determined face, and turned off the booth light.

She says she will restore my eye, and I'll hold her to that!

Evie stepped from the darkened booth into the market. The three warlocks were waiting for her outside. She held up a finger, and then went into Blitz's parlour. Blitz was piercing some guy's nipples, which made her wince. Carly looked up from where she was hunched over an Asian man's shoulder. ‘Hey, Carly, I gotta close early. I might be gone a few days. Can you look after the booth, make sure the Hongs don't let it out to someone else?'

Carly blinked, and put down her stylus and came to her. ‘Sure, babe. You OK? Something happened?'

‘Just got to do something. Family stuff.'

Carly peered past her, out into the market crowds. ‘That's the blonde bitch who used to come past and bully you, innit?'

Evie nodded. ‘Yeah, but it's OK. She's taking me to an eye clinic down south.'

Carly raised her eyebrows sceptically. ‘Pull the other one, Evie. What's going on? Do you really want to go with her?'

Evie bit her lip, and nodded.

Carly took a heavy breath, then pulled her close, squeezed her and kissed her cheek. This caused three or four metal piercings to jab Everalda in various places. ‘Come back safe, girl.'

Everalda nodded. ‘I will.'

She felt Carly's eyes on her back as she walked away.

‘I still don't understand what we need her for,' the part-Maori was arguing as Evie rejoined them. Evie eyed him curiously. He didn't seem the type Donna had brought to her stall before, and nor did the ginga. They seemed too … well, soft and humble. Her usual acolytes were brash, and eager to bully and look tough. These two seemed the opposite.

‘We need her to track them, Mat,' Donna replied as they veered towards a clothing stall. She began leafing through the mounds of clothing with a martyred air. ‘Look at this crap.'

‘I have ways of contacting Kurangaituku. Her birds could find Venn in a matter of hours.'

Donna snorted. ‘Kurangaituku can't keep a thought in her head for longer than a minute. If you're relying on her favour just because of what happened in Rotorua last September, you'll be disappointed. I spent a year trying to keep her focused on the struggle and it was futile. She's more bird than person.'

‘Rotorua changed her,' Mat replied.

Donna shook her head. ‘She's unreliable. And Father knows ways to elude her birds.'

‘Then we could scry them,' Mat insisted. He'd been learning scrying that summer with Ngatoro: the art of seeing things that were far away.

‘Father could block any scrying
you
tried,' Donna replied contemptuously. ‘You're just a half-trained neophyte, Matiu Douglas. And blocking scrying is easy. Any fool can do it.'