Robert Charrette - Arthur 03 - A Knight Among Knaves (22 page)

Luckily.

What he had done was stupid. The blind, stumbling transition he'd made could have gotten him into big trouble. Loreneth had told him once about an elf who hadn't made it across. John could have been caught that way, trapped in the dismal gloom between the worlds, until his mind frayed and he became a gray wraith haunting the edges of the worlds, never able to touch anything real.

The bubble dreamer laughed again.
Like that,
John thought. He could have ended up like that, without anything to anchor him to the real world—either real world. It scared him, and made him want to find another place to be.

He gave up his attempt at bandaging his back as hopeless. The shreds of his doublet would have made a poor bandage anyway. Maybe it was better that the wounds not be covered.

The wind was rising, rooting among the trash for scraps and fluttery things to carry off. Its touch on his skin wasn't unpleasant—another benefit of
shai:
he didn't feel the cold the way he used to—but it did remind him that he was not dressed for the streets. Being so obviously wounded made him a target for predators, and he'd been abused enough for one night.

The sprawl scut who had tried to roll him was wearing a coat, some kind of outback duster a couple of sizes too big, its hem frayed and stained from dragging on the ground. Once it had been a nice coat. It had seen hard wear, but it would do for him. As he stripped it from the scut, John told him, "You tried to steal from me. When I objected, you tried to kill me. I think I deserve some compensation, don't you?"

The mook didn't answer. Probably couldn't, even if he'd been conscious, the way his jaw was swelling. Well, he'd gotten what he deserved.

John checked out the coat but found nothing of interest beyond the sheath, roughly sewn into the lining, where the scavenger had kept his knife. Careful of his back, John shrugged into the coat. The fit wasn't bad. A little short in the sleeve, but not all that much. Most of the buttons were gone, but even hanging open it would serve his purpose. He dug the disk case from beneath his waistband and dropped it into one of the pockets. It was good to have pockets again. He hunted up the scut's knife and slipped it into the sheath.

There didn't seem any reason to hang around.

He headed toward the prefab hut. By the way that the streetlights outside the fence threw splinters of light on the ground over there, he guessed that there was a gate in that

corner. The damned thing was probably locked, but the fence

was lower there if he had to go over it.

Walking across the rubble-strewn ground wasn't fun. Each step reminded him that he was no gray wraith. No ghost ever I had a back that hurt like his. He really did need someone to
look
at it. Going over the fence started looking more and
more
like a bad idea.

Naturally the gate was locked.

John scowled at the loops of composite chain and the pad
lock
securing them. It didn't take him long to find a hunk of rebar. In the course of his search he noticed a sign leaning against the hut. Big block letters proclaimed reclamation SITE. The picture showed a park, all trees and shrubs and grass. There even was a little pond with ducks on it. Half the space of the sign was devoted to a list of corporate sponsors. John didn't get it. How long did the suits think such a thing
would
last in a neighborhood like this one? Shaking his head, he slipped the rebar into the padlock's hasp and popped if. He left the gate swinging wide behind him.

Walking along the fence, he saw that the outside was already so defaced with graffiti that he could barely tell the inspirational reclamation site posters from those offering corp-sponsored public services. One, less trashed than the others, caught his eye. It touted an open clinic sponsored by the Pend Foundation. John had seen that corp name on the sign by the hut, but other than that it was new to him. The poster claimed "No questions, no turnaways."

That was what he needed.

The poster had a map, complete with a you-are-here, and enough of it remained unobliterated that John figured he could find the place. A few minutes of walking proved him right. He was just congratulating himself on his luck in getting to the clinic without running into trouble, when he caught his reflection in the mirrorlike surface of the smoked TransShield™ doors.

He stared. It was John the elf, pointed ears and all, walking up to the clinic. John might have left Faery, but Faery hadn't left him.

He couldn't go into the clinic looking like he did. The poster's no-questions policy was for wonkheads, bubble dreamers, and shady sprawl scuts—people who had reasons to avoid treatment for fear of coming up in somebody's computer—and not for elves. How could it be? Elves didn't belong in this world. A living, breathing elf walking into a clinic for treatment would be big-time news, scientific as well as pure tabloid. There would be no escaping the media.

Maybe his back wasn't so bad. He'd be okay. He'd always been a quick healer. He turned and kept walking, hoping he wasn't lying to himself.

He'd been so glad to have the disguise spells broken and his true face revealed—and now, here he was, wishing he could hide it again. The darkness did its bit, and he pulled up the collar of the coat to help, but it wouldn't stay dark forever. He'd have to find a place to go to ground. He really didn't want to end up as the star attraction in a media freak show.

There was one place where no one would be surprised to see that he was an elf—his slump in Providence. If he could get there, he'd be safe. Then he could get in touch with Dr. Spae; she'd had some medical training and she'd helped Bear. She'd help him. All he had to do was get back to the slump without any more trouble and everything would be fine.

He
wasn't
lying to himself, was he?

CHAPTER
18

They had lied to him.

That was one thing of which Holger was sure. Hell of a thing to be sure of. It didn't tell you anything. Not what was really going on. Not why it was happening. Nothing. The inily thing it assured was uncertainty.
He was loyal to the Department!
Yes. Yes, he was. Or at least—he had been.
Loyalty is the greatest virtue.

Loyalty
was
important. A very great virtue. But the greatest? What about honor?
Loyalty. Loyalty to the Department. The Department was

his life.

Pankhurst staring at him over the sights of a police-model Arisaka Enforcer. Non-reg pistol. Undeclared. The image in his mind wavered. Not a street, but a firing range. Familiarity training. Everyone had an Arisaka and Pankhurst was firing. I lolger was confused. It happened on the range. No, on the mall. Shooting at him.
The Department was his life.

If Pankhurst was an indicator, the Department
wanted
his life.

Loyalty to the Department sometimes demands sacrifice.
On
occasion, the ultimate sacrifice. He was loyal to the Department! Loyal! He would sacrifice himself if needed.
But what was needed?

He didn't have an answer. He wasn't even sure what questions to ask. Was he doing the right thing? Had he
done
the right thing? What
had
he done? The images were jumbled in his mind, and the voices had no answer for him. People who heard voices were not considered quite sane. What was the verdict on people who argued with those voices?

The people around him on the street were casting their verdicts. They stared—unobtrusively, of course—and gave him a wide berth, avoided him, made him an outcast. They marked him, as well they should. Prudent of them. He was a marked man. He was a killer, after all.

He stalked through their midst, the way opening for him.

He had come to this city for Elizabeth Spae.

Elizabeth Spae is a renegade. Elizabeth Spae is your target.

She was a specialist. He knew that. Specialists were spooky, untrustworthy. He hadn't had a lot of experience with them, but he'd had more than enough. He'd had experience with Spae.

A clarity of image: Magnus, briefing him. L'Hereaux was there. They were giving him his chance to get back into the active ranks of the Department, giving him his assignment: a renegade specialist by the name of Spae. The name meant nothing to him.

Nothing? But he had known Spae before.

Elizabeth Spae is your target.

That's what they'd told him. But Spae wasn't what they had said she was. He had memories. Then again, maybe she
was
what they said. He remembered her with Mannheim, his mentor. No, that wasn't right. Mannheim was dead. Had been dead for years. He had been killed by magic. Why did Holger think Spae was involved in that? He'd met her after Mannheim was dead. Or did he only think that now? Could she have altered his memories? That must be it. She was a renegade; Magnus had told him so. She had betrayed him, betrayed the Department.

Rogue agents are disloyal.

but he wasn't.

What about Linkwater? An accident, like the other one. Like Leftenant Barkins. That's all, just an accident. Holger wasn't a renegade. Spae was the renegade.

Renegades must be recovered or eliminated.

Department policy. It was a hard policy, but fair. Couldn't jeopardize all for one weakling. You had to do something about renegades. You had to act as soon as you knew who they were.

E lizabeth Spae is a renegade.

Yes, that was right.
She
was the renegade, not him. The Glock nestling in his armpit was the answer for
her.

Authorized sanction is correct.

There was no magic he'd heard of that a specialist could
use
to stop a bullet. Specialists were scary, but they weren't untouchable. Not like those things, those nightmare things from the other place. Bullets couldn't hurt them. He couldn't do anything about them. But he could do something about her. Needed to. Spae was responsible for what was happening to him.

Elizabeth Spae is your target.

Target! He was fast, very fast. She'd never see the Glock leave the holster, never notice it until it was pointed in her lace. Then it would be too late for her. She'd scream. He could hear her screaming, knowing there was nothing more she could do to mess him up.

But the face wasn't hers. A stranger's face. Not the target, lie looked for the target. She was out there. He knew she was! One of the crowd, hiding. He was ready, ready for her. She wouldn't trick him anymore. One shot, one clean shot, and she'd be out of his head forever.

Out of his head.

What the hell was he doing?

He stood in the middle of a crowded street. People were running away. Some just stood and stared like stupid animals. Most cowered or sought cover as he wildly swung the pistol around. What in hell was he doing, pointing his weapon at innocent people?

He slipped the weapon back into its holster and ran down the first side street he found, away from the crowd, away from what he might have done. He had been ready to shoot, he knew he had. He'd seen the face of the enemy on the faces of those innocents.

God, what was wrong with him?

No one followed him. There were no heroes in the crowd, for which he was grateful. After the first block he slowed to a fast walk. This street was less crowded, and no one here knew what he had done. He was a little surprised to find that he was headed toward the lot where they had left the car. On instinct, he guessed. Heading for the escape route.

Not a bad idea.

The car remained where they had left it. He unlocked the door and got in, thankful to be sitting, thankful to be quiet. He needed time to think. Rearming the security systems, he opaqued all the windows, activated the surveillance mask, and made himself an island of isolation in the midst of the city.

But it was only a temporary refuge. He knew that the car could be tracked, and sooner or later they would come looking for it. He doubted that it would be a good idea for him to be found with it.

Just what
had
happened?

Temporary insanity? Natural or induced? And if induced, by whom?

Spae was the obvious candidate. Spae was pivotal in this. But what role was she really playing? He only had the Department's side of the story. Maybe it was time to hear the other side. He checked the chronometer. She would not have had time to reach her apartment building. He could intercept her.

He made the plan into action, spotting her as she approached her building. She was more wary than she had been earlier in the evening, but there was nothing about the car to

alert her. Still, she turned and looked at it as he slowed and pulled up to the curb. She didn't run, not even when he opened the door and greeted her.

"I was wondering if I'd see you again," she said.

"I hope we can talk."

"That wasn't talking, back there."

"I... know, but I think that it may be important that you and I talk. This street isn't the place to do it."