Robert Charrette - Arthur 03 - A Knight Among Knaves (18 page)

Could she trust them in this matter?

"I don't believe that we can ignore this problem," she said. "Whatever this thing is, it is killing people
and
it is headed this way."

Hagen glanced at the map, repeating what he had been telling her all along. "Its path is unpredictable."

"But suggestive. I think, Mr. Hagen, that this is one of those situations in which you know more than you are willing to tell me. Am I right?"

"No," he said. She wondered if he had forgotten about the stress monitors in his chair, or if his people had found some way to beat the technology. The chair registered agitation, but didn't confirm a lie.

"I don't care what your people tell you. What do
you
think? Do you believe that it is coming here?"

"Unknown. For your peace of mind, we will institute precautions. However, I believe you are worrying unduly. If this phenomenon is related to Quetzal—an unlikely circumstance—then I believe that its attention will be centered on the artifact recovered from the site of Quetzal's death."

"But we don't have that."

"So you need not worry. The best information indicates that the artifact is still in the possession of the Federal Security Agency, classified under their Project Dark Glass. If anyone need worry, they are the ones." Hagen cleared his throat. "This may be an important manifestation, but it appears a minor one for now. There are other matters more deserving of our attention lest more problems like the
Wisteria
killer be spawned." He tendered a disk. "As I was starting to tell you, I have updated the files on the Pend Foundation, and I believe that you will find their programs more interesting than ever. Especially illuminating will be Dr. Gower's evaluation of certain correlations between Quetzal's projects and certain of the Pend Foundation's environmental programs that seem to be alleviating some aspects of the damage caused by the monster's magic. This is a situation that, I need not remind you, Mitsutomo abetted and must atone for."

Pamela took the disk, but laid it on her desk rather than slotting it. "I've already made my decision. I will allocate no Charybdis funds to the foundation."

Hagen looked crestfallen, but he wasn't ready to give up. "Please, Ms. Martinez. Read the reports. Let me bring Gower in if you have doubts. This is a vital matter."

"I agree," she said, savoring the confusion that appeared on his face. "The Pend Foundation will be receiving major funding from Mitsutomo NAG. Mitsutomo is, as ever, public-spirited. Mitsutomo-sama believes that such a worthy foundation deserves our support. Protecting the environment and reclaiming blighted parts of it are worthy goals. There is no need to be secretive about it. Mitsutomo-sama himself has approved the Keiretsu's support for the foundation." She smiled at Hagen. "He was most impressed by my presentation."

The creeping chaos that threatened the world threatened Mitsutomo as well. And what threatened Mitsutomo threatened her. Evolve or die, the old saw demanded, and she was not yet ready to roll over dead.

Mitsutomo, large as it was, couldn't survive the changes wracking the world alone. Allies were necessary, agents and intermediaries, dedicated entities that could concentrate on specific aspects of the problem. The Pend Foundation would be one of those entities, ready to do some of the work that needed to be done. Helping them might drain some of Mitsutomo's coffers, but it was only money going to the foundation—the Keiretsu's other resources would remain available to be directed at other problems. Even the money wasn't totally lost, the tax relief for charitable contributions compensated quite nicely.

But long-term plans didn't solve today's problems. Her eyes drifted back to the wallscreen. Her mind worried at the nature and goal of the
Wisteria
killer.

Hagen's reassurances weren't enough.

She set her secretarial agent onto the files to purge them of Mitsutomo proprietary material, package the remainder, and post it to the attention of Detective Charles Gordon, NEC Special Investigations Unit. If she was to have allies, she needed to support them, otherwise they would not form the bulwarks that she needed against the chaos of magic.

If one wished to have allies, one had to choose them carefully, perhaps even more carefully than one's enemies. The wrong allies were a greater liability than most enemies. On the whole, Anton Van Dieman thought, he was doing well.

The windstorm raging outside the skyscraper made little impression on the building. At least to ordinary perceptions. He was no ordinary person and was attuned enough to feel the structure sway. As it was meant to do—nothing unnatural there. A capricious shift in the air currents directed a hard gust against the outer wall of his office, rattling the Perspex™ panes. Nothing unnatural there, either. A storm, just a storm. He consulted a weather feed on his comp to confirm his impression that the storm would soon pass. The comp agreed with him. He smiled. His grasp of the natural world had improved immensely over the last year.

A bit over a year ago he had departed Clemsen Bio-research, leaving behind the empire he had built there. Letting go had been a hard but necessary step in improving his corporate standing. Of course, he hadn't let go completely. The personal, immediate control was gone, but his influence remained through the carefully built network of managers and executives who, through cultured loyalty, intimidation, or coercion, believed their best interests were aligned with his. Most of those he'd left behind considered themselves his allies. He didn't see how any of them could believe that they offered him a tenth of what he could do for them, but he was willing to take advantage of such belief. It made them more useful to him.

He, of course, knew better. There was a vast difference between allies and vassals. An alliance could only be based on mutual and commensurate advantage. Not that there was anything dishonorable about vassalage. Indeed, being able to acknowledge a superior in power or influence was a survival trait that had served him well within the ranks of the followers. But vassalage was not
his
destiny, as his fellow followers were learning. Had not the
telesmon
come to him?

He gazed across the room at the case in which his treasure lay. The
telesmon
gleamed in the soft light, its sinuous curves drawing his eye seductively along its coiling beauty.
Such a delight!

The Key to the Glittering Path!

It was his!
The artifact had already opened for him new glittering paths to power, and had become his window to secrets of magic undreamed of. The more he worked with the
telesmon,
the more he learned and the greater became his rapport with the energies growing in the world. The secrets he pried from the
telesmon
set him apart from the herd, even from his fellow followers. As the followers had done for so long, he continued to work in secret, or nearly so. He had given his fellow followers a taste of his new power and they, at least, had begun to recognize the new order. Hadn't they elevated him to the second circle in recognition of his mastery? His status in the mundane world was rising as well, though he was more circumspect there in displaying his power.

And ail this was just the beginning.

He checked the hour. Ten minutes before midnight. Almost the so-called witching hour. Even the uneducated knew that time had power. He needed time, time to consolidate his power, time that his nightmares told him he might not have.

He had not understood the visions at first. How could he? Brief flashes of sensation. A sight, a sound, a smell, all disjointed and meaningless, like the fading fragments of a chaotic dream. It had taken him almost two months to understand that he was receiving clairisensory impressions of killings. Magical killings. He hadn't understood why he was cognizant of those deaths, but he'd been disturbed. Not by the deaths themselves, of course; they were unimportant. His concern arose when he discovered himself drawn to the
telesmon
after each episode. The connection had puzzled him until he realized that the magical killer was connected to the
telesmon
as well. He began to suspect that the entity was what the sacred writings named a harbinger, one of the scourges of the unbelievers, one whose kind would abound on the earth in the final days of the man-blight.

While he conducted his own research, he had set hunters on the trail of the suspected harbinger. When Benton, the best of them, started to get close, Van Dieman had given him a special tool. Drawing upon his rapport with the
telesmon,
Van Dieman had created a resonator to aid the man in detecting the presence of the entity. The hunter had successfully used the device, locating a kill to match each of Van Die-man's clairisensory dreams, but because Benton had never been timely enough to capture it—or even see it—Van Die-man remained in the dark as to its true nature while the entity continued its wandering path across the continent.

Until the most recent kill in Stamford. In the surge of energy when the thing had taken its prey, Van Dieman had felt a jolt that had woken him from his dreams and had left him sure not only that the entity was connected arcanely to the
telesmon,
but also that there was a goal to its wanderings.

It was seeking the
telesmon.

Was that a knock on the door? No, it wouldn't be. Ms. Emery was under strict orders not to allow any disturbances. Less than competent Ms. Emery might be, but she understood that part of her job. Besides, who would come calling at this hour?

He knew who, or rather what. The harbinger—if that's what it was—was coming to him.

His office was superbly soundproofed, fitted with the most modern materials and technology to absorb unwanted sounds, and it was quiet now. So very quiet. When he tapped on his desk, the sound seemed to come from far away.

His eyes roved the room, searching. He had done what he could to be ready for its arrival, but had he done enough? Was he prepared? He disliked the trepidation he felt; so demeaning an emotion should have been a thing of his past. Still, he could not help but shudder at the growing feeling that he was no longer alone. His darting glances swept the room, searching for—for what? He wasn't sure, but he felt that something had changed.

There! Through the archway into the bathroom. Had that shadow been there before? Nothing in the room would cast such a long, narrow shadow. A gust of wind rattled the win-dow, distracting him. When he looked back the shadow was

gone.

Had he imagined it?

A soft, scratchy sound from the bathroom. Was that the sound of claws scraping against porcelain?

Breathless, he waited, watching. Something moved near the crcdenza. A dark shape, more shadow than substance, lithered across the floor, moving directly toward the pedestal on which the
telesmon
sat within its protective transparent sheathing.

He let go the breath he had been holding. The fear that it would seek him out first ebbed away. A new dread arose. Had he understood correctly? Soon he would know. He touched the prepared function key on his desk. As the panels opened on the
telesmon'
s case, he dropped the wards guarding the prize.

The entity, a serpentine shadow, flowed up the pedestal and began to entwine around the
telesmon,
coil matching coil. The being had an insubstantial quality to it, echoing the translucency under light that was the barest manifestation of the
telesmon'
s power. For a moment, entity and artifact seemed to merge. It was time.

He triggered his trap, finger stabbing the button that dropped the cage of silver wire around the
telesmon.
The metal rang as it struck the base of the pedestal. The magnetic clamps embedded in the cage's wire and in twists inset in the pedestal held the two parts tight, preventing any rebound. As last as he could, he pronounced the last bit of the formula to quicken the spells woven into the intricate mesh.

The entity surged against the barrier of silver and spell. Through the medium of his spells, he felt the thing's chill touch, knew the potency that it radiated.

What he could do with such power!

"Greetings, Harbinger."

He felt the entity's attention turn to him. That cold eyeless regard threatened to freeze his blood. He wanted to run screaming from the room, but he suspected that would be the

worst thing he could try. He faced the entity. After all, what had he to fear? Was he not the Chosen of Quetzal? Was the Key not his? He stood his ground.

Barely.

Keeper,
the entity said in a voice with no sound. The word seemed as much statement as interrogative, but its next statement was unambiguous. A command:
Unbind me.

"Not just yet, I think." There was an order to these things.

The entity tested his spells. Though he would never admit it to another soul, he was surprised that they held.

I remember,
it said.
Other times. Not so weak then. Other times.

Weak? He could barely hold the bindings. He must not let it know that.