Needle Rain (3 page)

“Lila Harare. Yes.” He nodded as if it were nothing, took an orange from a bowl of fruit on the table and began to peel it. “Pardon me for eating in front of you but I have not yet broken my fast.”

He doesn’t offer us any.
For the Sungese that was a definite insult. She looked at him. He smiled.
Ah, and he knows I know it.
The deliberate perversion of social etiquette fascinated her. Thrilled her a little even. She barely kept herself from smiling back.

Keep it professional. Stop admiring him.

“Sir, I am here to inform you that we require a payment from you, in full by the end of this week with an initial payment of half the day after tomorrow. I’m sorry to be so abrupt, but we have our instructions. Here is an affidavit signed by our client stating the full amount.”

“That’s a large sum to produce in such a short time.”

The orange spurted juice onto the table. Two of his fingers were sunken into the flesh up to the first knuckle. As though he had meant to do it, Thom Drager pulled the orange apart into several chunks. “And if I cannot do this?”

“Then you will sign over the deeds to this building.”

“I see. I will have to consult my accountant.”

“Of course.” Heloise rose to her feet. Sonja followed suit.

Second step: End the conversation when you wish to, not when they expect you to.

Thom Drager pushed the uneaten pile of orange into a neat heap, wiped his fingers with a cloth and stood.

“May I say what a pleasure this has been to meet you.” Despite everything, he actually looked as if he meant it. Now that was poise. He held out his hand – long yet thick fingers and neatly trimmed nails.

She could smell him. Her imagination perhaps.
Damn. Stop breathing like you want to bed him.

There was one last thing she must say. She braced herself. Uncle had been adamant. “Mr. Drager, please bear in mind that you have a young daughter. I’m sure you don’t wish any harm to come to her.”

His eyes narrowed. Then he pushed his hand a little closer.

“I will remember you said that, Miss Heloise.”

Oh, dear.
“Good.” When she clasped his hand, she felt a twinge that lasted after he let go. Her hand was numb and her fingers would not move. If she told Sonja or Bull, they would do something physical to Drager.

Rule twelve. Don’t hit clients at the first meeting.

She smiled and said nothing.

On the way out her hand was tingling and by the time they reached the door feeling was returning. The man had not liked her threatening his daughter and he had an intimate knowledge of the nerves of the hand. Unsurprising, considering his profession. She didn’t blame him, he didn’t know what she did, that Uncle Bruno never allowed anyone to hurt children. It wasn’t exactly a rule, but she knew it was so.

****

What a curious woman.
Thom sat with his face in his hands. As he relaxed, the twitching started with his neck muscles. If he left it too long, his fingers would go the same way. He couldn’t work if he couldn’t control his fingers. After a few minutes he slid out a thin drawer that nested under the square table. He stared at the small blue box inside it. Scratching sounds came from within. He slammed the drawer shut. Calm. He must seek calmness. If he could stave off the need for long enough, he could do without it. It was eating him up, bit by bit, until he no longer was sure what was his doing and what was the somm.

There was the practice dummy in the outside yard.

The sun slanted in over the wall, casting deep shadows onto the grass. He surveyed the yard – a few elegantly pruned blood orange trees, a circular area of raked white pebbles, two garden benches near the wall and the chipped timber practice dummy.

The beautiful discipline of the Sung-tai fighting art had been his best refuge during the last few bleak months.

Breathe deep and slow. Exhale. Inhale. He stripped off the suit jacket and his undershirt, leaving just the long pants, felt the cool air on his skin, flexed his shoulders, the muscles moving smoothly. He fell into the ready position. Balance, clear the mind...ah, but the jitters came back and his hands moved. He shook his head, hard, making things blur.

Relax, balance, clear the mind. His hands trembled again. He half-bowed his head and felt the clench of muscles tightening.

He couldn’t do this.

“Yah!” He launched an attack. Hands shifting, spin on the leg. Kick. The dummy’s head bounced back. Spin to the other leg, and he tripped, not much, just enough to miss the second kick.

Rage boiled through him. Red-hot, it stripped away reason, rendered him almost blind. Vision narrow and white-fogged, he kicked and punched and stomped until, at last...at last, he wound down and stopped and found the dummy in several pieces strewn across the white pebbles.

Sweat dripping off him, hands throbbing, jaw aching from clenching his teeth, he crouched defeated, wondering where he was going, because nothing seemed worth doing anymore.

Nothing.

He mopped the sweat with a towel and pulled on the shirt and the jacket.

And somehow he found himself back inside, staring at the drawer.

He wouldn’t open it until he counted to ten. One... Two...

On ten he yanked it out, snatched up the box, opened it and plucked out the beetle, holding it between finger and thumb. Like most poisonous creatures it was brightly colored. Flame orange body, black legs and a swirling green splotch on its back. The mandibles were large and wickedly sharp, with a needle-like proboscis poking out between them.

He pulled up one leg of his suit, placed the beetle above his ankle, and let it bite him.

Within seconds the soothing rush of the somm suffused his body and the susurrations of many whispers filled his head.

No longer did it bring him the presence of his wife’s ghost, for she had moved on to where he could not reach her. He saw ghosts but never hers. The addiction, the
need
, had stayed.

He returned the beetle to its box.

Eyes half-closed in pleasure he recalled the visit by the debt collectors. He shouldn’t have hurt the girl. No...woman. Younger than him by five or six years, he guessed. It had happened before he could think. A flash of anger and it had been done. Not, at all, like he should behave. Not him. Another failure.

Ah...but those long legs in the red leggings and that angel wing tattoo that trailed down the outside of her forearm. She’d been so businesslike and proper. Yet all the time he’d been wondering what she’d be like with her clothes off. Fine sculpted face, short hair that he would die to run his fingers through, and breasts... Yes, admit it, he’d imagined running his tongue over those. Gods. He never thought, that way, about other women, not since Ami.

And then she’d threatened Leonie. Unforgivable, even if she was only doing her job. Who but the most evil would say such a thing? Evil on gorgeous, long legs. But he hadn’t meant to hurt her. Where had his control gone?

“Sir?”

He started. It was Grace, standing at the door, staring down at him.

“I knocked three times, sir. I’m so sorry.” She ducked her head.

“No. It’s okay.” He took a deep breath. “What is it?”

“Miss Leonie has come to say goodbye before she goes to school, sir. As she always does.”

“Oh.” He’d forgotten. Gods blast him to hell, he’d forgotten. The sea of warmth from the somm made the room swim and he blinked to chase it away. “Let her in, Grace. Please.”

His daughter peeked around the door – her dark hair in pigtails tied with green ribbons, her dress neat and decorated with far more ribbons than he thought necessary on anything but a Godsday Tree.

“Dada!”

“Leonie.” He hugged her close, inhaling the comforting scent of his child.

“Give me a kiss.” She presented her cheek and he kissed her, once, and again on the other side. “Will you come to get me this afternoon? Please.”

“Yes, of course I will.”

“You will!”

When she began jumping up and down, he smiled. The jumping continued as she was shepherded out the door by Grace, and half the way down the corridor from what he could hear. With the back of his hand, he wiped along the bottom lid of each eye.

“What have I done?” he whispered.

He climbed wearily to his feet. He’d known this day was coming. This just made what he would do today inevitable. He sniffed, cleared his throat, and pulled straight his suit. Time to organize the clinic appointments. If it hadn’t been for the somm, he would have sat there forever. If it hadn’t been for the somm he would never have survived Ami’s death.

Even so, the price was proving too much.

Samos looked at the sign on the leftmost of the double doors. The clinic closed in five minutes. This was a respectable district populated by practitioners from all the branches of magience. Most of the buildings were white-washed two-story offices, like this one, with little brass signs on their walls. There were no carriages parked nearby. No horses tied up. If he was lucky, there were no patients inside. He pushed on the door and it swung inward a little.

He glanced at the two hulking soldiers flanking him a step behind. Pressed uniform kilt and tabard over their cuirasses and all stuttering and drooling over him if he so much as asked one of them for a coin for a raisin bun. They wouldn’t be a problem, if he handled them right. If it ever came down to it, he could whip them in a fair fight. Or an unfair one. He prayed it wouldn’t come to that.

“This is it. Wait outside. You’ll just be in the way. This was almost my wife. Understand?”

The commander’s clerk hadn’t questioned it. Surely these two wouldn’t suddenly decide to check out his story.

The red-haired one nodded. “Sure, sir. But we’re not allowed to leave you alone inside. Sorry, sir.” He swallowed.

Samos sighed. One hurdle passed, and he’d expected this. “All right. Come in, but no further than the waiting room. And don’t let no customers through until I’m finished.” It was funny, being a ‘sir’ all of a sudden.

Inside was a square room with a counter at one end and gold and green wallpaper. Benches swamped with plush brown cushions stretched along the walls. A young woman in a soft blue dress and bodice stood behind the counter.

“Could I speak to Mr. Drager?”

She studied his uniform and his two military escorts and seemed to decide he was someone important. “Yes, of course, sir.” She rang a little bell.

A year ago almost to the day, he had met Pela. He clamped down on the tide of sadness.

Through a beaded curtain came a man in a slick blue suit that looked as if it cost more than Samos made in a year. “Mister Drager?”

“Yes.”

He bowed his head slightly then rushed into the rest of his speech. “I have come to see your daughter, as I’m about to become an Immolator. I’m allowed an hour to talk to her.” He lowered his voice. “My name is Samos.” This was where it could go so very wrong. He stared so fixedly at Drager that the air might well have erupted into flame.

Surely this man knew what happened when an Immolator was created? The moment stretched into a long silence. Perhaps Punka was wrong and Drager had no idea as to why he had come to see him. He should go.

Thom Drager inclined his head. “Yes, Mr. Samos. Please, come through. I will get my daughter.”

The two rankers relaxed and sat down on one of the benches. The young woman gave him an odd look but said nothing.

The room at the back of the clinic was well out of earshot. A servant approached and Drager whispered in her ear. “Tell Grace...” The rest was too quietly spoken. She scuttled away.

“And your last name, sir?”

Samos shook his head. He wouldn’t be tricked so easily as that.

“Then I shall call you Mr. Samos. Please take a seat, Mr. Samos.” He indicated two low settees with the usual cushions and throw rugs on them and they sat down opposite each other. “Tea and refreshments are coming. I gather you do not truly wish to see my daughter. Perhaps that is wise considering she is only nine, though no doubt you would have made a good son-in-law.”

“Hmph.” Was the man joking? “Not as an Immolator, and that is my problem. I was to be married. A young woman named Pela bears my child and...I love her greatly. What I am going to say next will make me a traitor.” He took a few slow breaths. Was Drager willing to go further than was strictly legal? “I cannot avoid being turned into an Immolator. A partial Immolator anyway, and I don’t want to be an Immolator of any sort.”

“As I understand it, the Imperator might want you fully needled if there is an emergency, such as a war?”

There was a light tap outside the door. Drager rose and opened the door just enough to take a tray from the servant. After pouring a tiny cup of the fragrant tea for both of them, Drager sat on the settee again. “Please, continue.”

“Put simple – can you reverse it? I will pay whatever you want.” He leaned forward. “Anything.”

“Ahhh.”

After a few long minutes, he held up four fingers. “There are four obstacles. One, Immolators are imprinted and have almost no free will. Though the good side to that is that they are trusted. No one would imagine an Immolator would do anything wrong. Two, if an amateur managed to withdraw the needles you would die, instantly. Three, if I am found to have helped you I will be executed. There are ways of dealing with all of these but there is number four. You do not possess anywhere near enough money to pay me.”

Those last words swam round and round in his head.

“Oh. Oh. I see.” He blinked. He would not beg. “Then I won’t waste your time.” He gathered his feet under him and stood. Real life wasn’t like the theatre shows. Sometimes the worst things happened and there was nothing you could do about it. To even think of doing this had been like stepping off a cliff. He had never known he would turn traitor if given the right shove at the right time.

He had his hand against the door when Drager spoke again.

“Stop. Wait. Let me finish, Mr. Samos.” Drager paused again so that Samos stood there with his back to him, waiting, knowing he was being rude but fearing to turn around.

“If you want this enough...there are other ways that you can pay me.”

Hope came rushing back in a wave that almost swamped reason. When he turned, for the first time he saw the red rims around Drager’s eyes and the dullness of his gaze, and he wondered if the man before him might be more than a crooked businessman and magience practitioner.

“What other way?”

Drager took another sip of tea. “There is the secret the Imperator holds. The secret of the creation of Immolators.” He turned his brown eyes on Samos, who felt like a mouse being eyed by a cat. “You let me uncover that and, you have a deal.”

Samos cleared his throat. “That would be treason.” He curled his fingers round the hilt of the dagger at his waist.

Drager tilted his head to the side, as if he had seen some strange and rare animal. “But so is what you propose. We might both lose our heads if either one of us betrays the other. You must not think me weak, Mr. Samos.” His deep voice didn’t waver but there was a sheen of sweat on his face and, every now and then, a twitch in a muscle on his neck.

Is he afraid?
And here he’d thought the man ate ice for breakfast, lunch and dinner.

“I take precautions.” Drager clicked his fingers.

A square of the ceiling slid quietly back to reveal an olive-skinned bald man with hooded eyes. A loaded crossbow rested in his hands. The man’s forehead shone with perspiration. A shifting of the shadows meant there might be more than one man up there.

This was not the ceiling of an honest man or even the ceiling of a man who was a zhenjui Needle Master.

“Let me show you how we may both achieve what we wish to. Come.”

What have I done?
Yet he followed Drager through a door the man fumbled to unlock, as if the keys were something new. They went down a dog-leg flight of stairs. He’d been foolish. Punka had always told him he needed to think before he leaped, though this time he had thought, maybe just not for long enough.

They entered a low room beneath ground level. The air was cold. The walls were stone and mortar. In the center sat a heavy timber table well provided with manacles. It looked unscratched and the manacles bright, unrusted. Fear shuddered through Samos, clean and chill.

A yellow light came from a cone-shaped trink light dangling over the table on a silver chain. Dainty, beautiful, and the product of a master trinketologist. Round the edges of the cone was a procession of wolves in onyx, each chasing the others’ tails. It would have cost a tall stack of grints. Maybe Drager judged that a light that lasted until its maker died was worth it.

“Sometimes, when inserting needles I need my patient absolutely still.”

He nodded.
You lying bastard.

The room smelled of cleaning fluid and a flowery fragrance, and menace oozed from every corner, every brick. Slowly, a smile spread across his lips. Violence he knew. It was his profession. If Drager meant to scare him, it had not worked. He felt like a horseman settling into the saddle, like a sword sliding from the sheath at the start of a battle.

Drager had been kneeling before a small chest. He rose, pocketing a set of keys. A wooden box rested across the palm of his hand.

“This is the fulcrum to our success.” He laid the box on the table and slid back its lid. The inside was divided into two sections. One section contained several thin golden needles – so thin they were almost invisible.

“These are memory needles, and with them go these – memory worms.” Using finger and thumb he picked out a brown wormlike thing as long his thumbnail. It squirmed and whirred and Samos could see the lines where it articulated.

“I must insert the needle so that it goes deep into your brain, and the worm is then threaded onto the part of the needle that remains on the outside. It will record all that you see and feel and hear for about thirty minutes. Long enough for the precise insertions of the Immolator needles to be recorded. These worms are trinkettons, like my light up there.” He pointed at it. “Made by a trinketologist to exacting specifications. Flesh and steel fused into one mechanism. Each segment of them holds an identical memory. All one needs to do is swallow one segment to know what the worm knows. You understand?”

He would not show fear. “Are they...safe?”

Compassion flickered across Drager’s face. His neck twitched several times. “I’ve...not used them before, but yes, I believe they are safe.”

Drager clicked his fingers. The three men Samos had known were waiting just out of sight came swiftly down the stairs. Kengshee and two others – Sungese from their olive skin and tilted eyes. “Kengshee, could you show your needle.”

It was the balding red-faced man. He bent over, displaying the back of his close-cropped scalp. Peering at him, Samos saw a skin-colored bead just above the neck line. Kengshee reached back and the bead popped off – revealing the end of one of the needles.

“You look skeptical, Mr. Samos.”
     He scoffed. “Because I am.”

“Hmmm. This needle, like some of the Immolator needles, goes through the cranium bone as well as the brain. The metal of the needle is magically fused to the bone. Without a Needle Master using magience they cannot be removed. Without knowing every single detail of the twists and angles these needles go through you will die when they are withdrawn.”

“You said they were safe!”

“They are, if you follow instructions.”

“You’re joking.” But Drager only stared back. “You’re not.” Samos sighed.

Drager returned to the table. “As you can imagine, you must not move when I insert or extract these needles. This is why I will have to restrain you.”

Samos stared at the table, at the manacles and the bolts that secured them to the table, knowing that even as a partial Immolator he would not be able to break free. Not without ripping the metal straight through his arms.

“Very well.”

Drager blinked. “I applaud your courage. The last problem. The imprinting. Simple. Hypnosis. Using zhenjui needling to reinforce it, every time you see a photograph of the Imperator or hear a certified order from him you will instead think you see a mouse.”

“A mouse? Won’t that...”

There was a twinkle of humor in Drager’s eyes. “I know what you are thinking. No. You will not obey mice but neither will you be compelled to obey the Imperator’s orders.”

The three men of Drager’s chuckled until Samos swung his head and looked at them. They knew a threatening glance when they saw one. Kengshee put a hand to his sword. The others, he noted, were similarly armed along with an assortment of throwing knives. He lined up those facts and filed them away for the future.

This was, Samos thought, very...organized. Like they knew he was coming. An Immolator with a change of heart. He supposed that this was like a big fat present being dropped into their laps. Maybe Drager was only one of many that the Sungese Kingdom had out, like the tentacles of an octopus groping for prey.