Objet d'art
By t.crask
- 800 reads
The names that we impose upon the land have more often than not been bourn out of spontaneity. Far Point, Riviere, the desert towns of Nowhere and Somewhere. Many are Union names monikers of ownership, symbols of possession. Others are designated by Government, little pieces of the desert reclaimed, thrown out against the face of anonymity and therefore demanding of a title.
Then there are those places that are preceded not by name but by reputation. The ruined town of Ballandria for instance, where the Concussion Lance was used in anger for the first time, or the Indigo Eye, now an inland lake, but in the minds of others, always an impact crater.
By the time I arrived in Callabrio, on the shore of the Eye, the week-long Festival of the Dead was already in its final stages. Within a day or two, the festivities would culminate in the traditional committal of tribal dead to the funeral island at the centre of the lake, bringing the town to a standstill, a spectacle of flags, streamers and public celebration, reminiscent of the Mexican El Dia de Los Muertos, the Cambodian Pchum Ben, or the Hindu Tarpana.
Already the harbours and jetties were full of Cortege craft, decked out in their colours, adorned with the tattered and famous banners of their respective houses. The coffins themselves would not be seen in public until the last minute, leading to speculation about who had been chosen as worthy enough to be buried on that tiny scrap of land, off limits to everyone except for the few Unionists undertakers who had been granted access.
The mood among the crowds was hesitant. I had been expecting nothing less. If creating a diplomatic incident was what Markus Tyson had been trying to do, he had succeeded admirably. In the two days it had taken me to get out here, Hatton had held emergency meetings with the representatives of no less than four tribes, who were anxious that Tyson’s Claim on the island, and by extension the Eye itself, was not the beginning of some wider ranging Government policy on the area. Official grievance had not yet been issued, but it was only a matter of time.
I found Markus’ assistant, Josh Lamergyer, waiting with a car at the end of the waterfront, dressed in his trademark white desert jacket, offset by the jarring splash of a Hawaiian shirt. He looked every inch the lounge lizard that I remembered him as, resplendent in his pressed finery, still a man who appeared endowed with far too many teeth.
“Markus thought it best if he met you up at the villa,” he said, “In light of recent events. An ugly scene is the last thing anybody wants.”
I could only agree. Tyson had been courting controversy for years, first by being asked to resign his position of Minister for Antiquity in Hatton’s Council amidst allegations of profiteering and unethical trading, then by making a name for himself as an unlicensed antiquities dealer. His disregard for Union sensitivities had earned him a reputation as something of a brigand, an image he had cultivated for years. I only wondered what had prompted this recent bout of mania. With a history like his, there was little doubt that he would have been surprised by the uproar his Claim had caused.
As Lamergyer drove I watched the tourists. Although primarily a Unionist ceremony, the festival had in recent years become more inclusive, a way for everyone to remember those who had died when the Eye had been formed all those centuries ago. There had been a rumour that the final series of internments would begin that afternoon. All morning the tribes had been erecting additional colours, decking the waterfront in banners and house flags until the air literally thrummed in anticipation.
We passed through the Bedouin quarter, where the Kasbahs hid narrow alleyways, secret corridors and concealed gardens, heading for the higher ground, where the more expensive villas and estates nestled against the hillside like flocks of sheep. A sea of terracotta tiles and roof terraces stretched away on either side. The lake below became an unblinking mirror, an abyss, home to a sister sky.
Tyson’s villa was in every way the opulent manor that I had been expecting. Whitewashed, set amidst courtyards, gardens and verandas. The man himself was waiting for us as we arrived, middle-aged, in his late fifties, with greying hair and a close-cropped beard. His appearance was smart, no different from when I had known him in Babel. He wore a loosely cut suit and a cotton shirt, not the image of the pirate that I had been expecting.
"I hope Josh didn't keep you waiting,” he said, “The town is full of tourists. It helps the economy of course, but to be honest, we’re thankful when they leave.”
He led me through into the lavishly decorated lobby. Evidence of his activities occupied every available surface. Here were Samurai war masks next to antique firing pieces, Katanas from ancient Japan accompanied by fragments of Grecco Roman pottery. I recognised a few tribal objects among them, colour seals, burial plaques, given pride of place. There was no narrative to the collection, no natural flow of history.
He had the housekeepers fix us drinks and we retired to the veranda. From the rear of the house, one could look out over the whole of Callabrio, take in the majestic sweep of the dunes and the unblinking cerulean Eye in one great panorama. It was a beautiful view but ego stroking was not what I had travelled over two hundred miles for.
Markus got straight down to business.
"This grievance against me, possible action,” he said, “is it likely?"
I nodded, “It’s simply a matter of time. You must have suspected as much.”
“Can it be prevented?”
“Hatton is doing all he can, but my presence here is about damage limitation, not prevention.”
Tyson smiled. "Government has no jurisdiction over the Unions. They like to think they do and as long as everyone persists, the charade is upheld."
A breeze blew up from the gardens, setting amongst the wind chimes.
“So why the Claim?” I said, “What possible declaration could you have over that island?”
“I have a cause.”
“I’m glad. I’m glad this isn’t just some stick to beat Government with, because you’re going to need a damn good one to placate those who will soon be out for your scalp.”
“You know, the Unions may never have tacitly given their approval for what I do, but they’ve never tried to stop me either. That’s not to say that they haven’t had opportunity. They could have issued Grievance when I excavated their burial mounds at Painted Wound, or when I started archaeological digs at Riviere. That says a lot about their motivation. I stood up to them on their own territory, and won. Government would do well to adopt a similar stance.”
“Some would say the fact that you’ve been unmolested for so long is evidence of a longer term plan?” I said, “Besides, you know the island is sacred. Why persist in something so inflammatory?”
“What about Government interests?” Markus muttered, “When the Unions follow their own agenda, the powerlessness of Government is made clear for all to see. It’s time that was readdressed. The balance of power has to shift. It swings too far in one direction.”
“Is that why you made the Claim, as some sort of protest, some sort of revenge play? Is this where your revolution starts, at the Eye?”
“Sometimes you have to shake the hive just to get at the better honey.”
I spent the early part of the afternoon attempting to explore the grounds of the villa. Even if Markus wasn’t concerned about the consequences of his actions, I thought it wise to familiarise myself with the layout. Markus, however, seemed reluctant to give me an opportunity. Instead, he had Lamergyer show me around his collections, around the basement museums and surrounding halls. Although pleasant, I was only too aware that these distractions were intended purely to keep me out of the way, to keep me at arms length.
Finally, after much frustration, I confronted the issue directly and persuaded Lamergyer to take me on a tour of the estate.
The lawns shimmered, quietly suffering in the afternoon heat. Cicadas hissed and spat like cornered cats. The sun burned the tiles and over the roofs, hints of cirrus clouds graced the horizon, a playground taunt of moisture that would remain forever out of reach.
"I'm sorry if Markus seems a little abrupt." Lamergyer said, "You've got to understand he's an intensely private person. He rarely accepts visitors."
"I’m honoured?" I said.
We followed the line of the perimeter wall with its ornamental ramparts and follies. The architectural style of the place owed more to appropriation than any conscious design decision. The hidden courtyards and secluded outbuildings were a security nightmare.
"You honestly think that there is a credible risk?"
"The island has been a Unionist burial ground for nearly twenty years.” I said, “Ignoring for a moment that it is the resting place of almost every important Unionist figure who died during those years, Markus’ Claim seems to have been timed to cause maximum offence. The festival is the highlight of the Eye’s tourist year. It benefits not only the Unions, but the entire population of Callabrio."
"Power cannot come from sheer belligerence alone.” Lamergyer snapped, "At some point the dialogue has to satisfy both sides.”
“Which is why Claiming such a sacred area is only going to achieve one thing. Can you not see what Markus has done here? He rails against the injustice of it, yet he tries to readdress the balance by maintaining that injustice in an opposite direction. It’s a no win situation. He hits them. They’ll hit back, twice as hard. Everybody ends up bruised.”
“If Grievance is issued it will only prove him right.”
“And if they fail to address the insult, it will only provide a template for future Government interaction with the Unions.”
Lamergyer sighed.
“Markus is lucky.” I said, “Hatton is fighting his corner. He has a window of opportunity in which to right this wrong. I only hope that he sees sense and uses the time constructively.”
15:00, frustrated by Markus’ lack of cooperation, I walked back into town for a meeting with one of his old business partners in an attempt to understand the psychology of the man. It wasn’t just his motives that had been confusing me. Markus seemed so resigned to the inevitable, that I was unsure if he even recognised that reprisal was virtually assured.
Down on the waterfront, several Corteges had left the tribal moorings, determined to get to the island and claim the choicest locations for their distinguished cargoes before all else. It made no difference. They would be forced to turn back before long under threat of anonymous cremation. Their sponsors would now be involved in furious negotiation, trading Favours or land rights in an attempt to let the burials stand.
At 15:30 I found myself in the Byzantine quarter, outside Andrew Farrent’s antique store. The shop was a treasure trove of objects found and objects lost, many of them deliberately. It was different from Markus’ museum only in the fact that the items he sold were fakes, resin and pewter replicas of tribal miscellany, Unionist cast-offs. Before opening the shop, Andrew had spent three years as an employee of Tyson’s. It was because of this closeness to Markus that I had looked him up in the first place.
He was busy serving customers when I entered. All the shops in the quarter were doing a roaring trade. He saw me and indicated that I should give him five minutes.
I looked around, amazed that a man could make a living from such flotsam. Here were imitation Link Men, faux Automica, several reproduction Teknik heads mounted on wooden display stands, even a Viennese Soothe Sayer, all priced up as if antiquity was a virtue granted by price alone. Still, the tourists loved it.
Finally, Andrew joined me on the pavement outside. We crossed the road to a café and ordered drinks.
I thought he looked pensive, and I realised that most of the traders were probably feeling the same. This was the price they paid for one of their number over-stepping the mark. Government concessions at the Eye had been hard won and were still a tenuous affair at best. I had to remind myself that it wasn’t all that long ago that the whole area had been off limits, a sealed necropolis precinct, open only to the funeral cartels and their Unionist sponsors. It could all so very easily change again in an instant.
Down the line, a cheer went up from the crowd. I looked across to the island, saw the flag at the shoreline that indicated a completed burial, saw the response in the form of a further flag from the Callabrio side to signify that the burial would be allowed to stand. The negotiations had obviously reached a satisfactory conclusion. There was to be no exhumation this year, no cremation.
Farrent regarded the spectacle with a look that I could only interpret as ridicule.
"I fear for his life." he said, "He's too old and too tired for any more confrontations."
"He's taken a lot from the Unions over the years." I said.
“He's made a career out of it. His past is rapidly catching up with him. He's so set in his ways, so stubborn, so naïve in a way.”
"Were there threats before?" I said, “I’m trying to build up a picture, put together an illustration of a man who is so fed up with Unionist intrusion that he will do anything to get back at them.”
Andrew smiled, “The man as desperate fool. A more accurate representation than you would care to realise. There were numerous threats, but only two that we took seriously."
"How were you involved?"
"We were friends, we worked together. We were … close." Andrew looked out over the lake blankly and I realised why he had agreed to see me.
"You were lovers?" I said.
He sighed heavily.
"I grew tired of protecting him from his follies, of pleading with the Unions, begging them for mercy, agreeing penalty. "
"It must be painful to revisit."
"It's terrible to see him like this, so bellicose, so resigned, so the same. It would be great to see him a changed man, great to see that he could leave the past behind. But he can’t or won’t, and I fear that that will be the death of him."
“There’s only so much you can do for somebody who doesn’t want to be helped.” I said.
“He had to do it.” Andrew’s voice grew quieter. He was obviously holding something in check. “What I can’t work out, though, is how he honestly thought he could hide it, how he thought that things wouldn’t turn out this way?”
When I got back to the villa later that evening, the atmosphere of the place had changed considerably. Markus seemed calmer, more aware now of what was happening. Whether Lamergyer had managed to persuade him to utilise diplomacy instead of his usual belligerence, I could not tell, but it seemed to be working.
“There’s something you should see,” he said. He led me through the house, up to a promenade that jutted out from the highest point of the villa. There was a roof terrace here, equipped with a telescope that afforded fine views of the town and the lake beyond.
Markus proffered up the scope, adjusted the controls.
“Take a look,” he said.
I peered down the eyepiece, looked past the funeral boats, the streamers and Soul Lanterns on the water front, past the line of trees arranged along the edge of the island like a stockade, saw the odd shapes here and there that reminded me of pepper pots, ornate chimneys in the style of Gaudi’s Witch Scarers, recognised them for what they were.
“The Objet d’art,” I said, not sure of what I was meant to be seeing. The strange, immobile Constructs had always mystified. Living sculptures were growing increasingly rare now. The funeral island was one of the last places where they could still be found, outside the grasp of Government of course, but ironically protected from tribal anti-Construct sentiment by the strange set of preservation laws that the lake was subject to.
“Count third in from the right.”
I did as he directed, saw the jarring misplacement of blue tarpaulin.
“They left it unwrapped until last week, just before preparations for the ceremony began. It had split open, like ripe fruit, like a peach.”
“And what of the stone?” I said.
Markus stepped back abruptly, nodded to someone standing behind me.
I must have been aware that we hadn’t been alone on that promenade, that there had been someone else there, must have identified whoever it was as another of Markus’ housekeepers, thought nothing of it.
Now, at the click of Markus’ fingers, the figure that had been watching removed the hood of the robes that it wore, revealing exquisite features, androgynous, sexless. His, her skin was smooth and entirely hairless, as white and as flawless as bone china, an impression only exacerbated by the failing sunlight. Its eyes were almonds of impossible green, an echo perhaps of the lake.
“My God!” The exclamation had left my lips before it had even registered. The Polybandro smiled, aware of the consternation its appearance caused.
“Can you see why I made Claim now?” Markus whispered, “She is the only reason.”
“She?”
“Technically she’s an ‘it’, self fertilising, a true autogamate.”
“You wouldn’t believe how rare.” I marvelled like a child.
The Polybandro smiled back, unable to communicate, eager nonetheless to display some form of understanding. She was a pure form, containing no hints of the usual archetypes, no reptilian or marine D.N.A. traces, no avian remnants. She reminded me of the White Hart, the legendary beast of the forest.
“She’s intelligent?”
“Of course.”
I looked away, paced the veranda, looked back again at that exquisite face.
“She doesn’t conform to any of the recognised standards.” I said.
“A one off perhaps?”
I didn’t know what to do. We were in uncharted territory now. I didn’t know whether to be angry with Tyson for his brazen behaviour, or to thank him for such a wonderful revelation.
“You should have declared this.” I said.
Markus shrugged, “I read your report on that A.I. incident. We hear about such things, even out here.”
“This is far more serious than any reconditioned Teknik.” I said, “We can protect Constructs. We have procedures in place, agreements that even the Unions adhere to. It still doesn’t explain why you laid a claim on the funeral island. Your actions here have only caused embarrassment and indignation. What were you thinking?”
Markus turned away, saying nothing. The Polybandro met his gaze.
“They reproduce.” He said, “The Objet d’art produce life. Do you understand? They are like the Biology Houses. They are true life, not vat grown, not the biological dead end that most Constructs are, but a true species, self-sustaining, self-populating.”
“There have always been rumours.” I said, “You’ll need proof if you’re to convince Government.”
“Isn’t the Polybandro proof enough?”
“All the Unions will say is that you’ve been concealing a failed experiment, a defect.”
“To hell with the Unions. I did it for its own protection. You know what the Constructs mean to them. You know what they do. I’m not too young to remember the pyres you know.”
“They’re safe here.” I said, “The funeral island and everything associated with it is protected by tribal law.”
“That can change overnight. Just the possibility should be enough to cause concern. With a Claim, Government would be forced to follow it through, forced to fight for the island. The presence of a fully sustainable Construct ecosystem simply reinforces that Claim.”
“And the burials? The festival?”
“The Unions would have to accept their loss, find another place to declare as sacred.”
“They would just as prefer to close down the lake again,” I said, “expel us all. Callabrio would become a ghost town, the necropolis that it once was. They might even choose to destroy the island, contravene their own directives. Would you drive them to such extremes?”
“We must try.”
I shook my head, “There’s still time to go public. We can protect the Polybandro, but you must declare that the Claim was a mistake. Admit stress, pressure of work, anything to throw them off.”
“You think they’d accept that?”
“Possibly.”
Markus shook his head, “From anyone else, Sam, but not from me.”
Markus avoided me for the remainder of the evening. He had Lamergyer request that I refrain from venturing back down to the museums and galleries, as if such petty schoolboy antics could alleviate what was coming. More and more I was becoming aware that Markus had been hiding his true nature, the jealous, confrontational side that was only now beginning to make itself known.
I could have left, could have cut my losses and started back for Babel, abandoned them both to their fates, but there was something in that course of action that seemed suspiciously like giving up. There was also the Polybandro to consider. It would be an act of cruelty, not to mention negligence, to leave her here, plus the longer I was here, the longer the Unions would delay in taking action. If I left it would certainly be noticed and interpreted as Hatton rubbing his hands of the matter.
As the sun set over the lake I went out to the veranda, found Markus watching the lights on the water, the Semaphore Runs and Flash Harries of the cortege craft.
I joined him at the rail.
“My father used to fish this lake.” He muttered, “He had a fleet of boats, men working for him. He made a good living. The lake is full of fish. Restructs of course, but people ate them nonetheless. He built that business up from nothing. He started with a boat and a net, and over the course of twelve years he added to it. He bought more boats, employed men to crew them.”
I had a feeling that he was building towards something. This wasn’t conversation for the sake of passing the time.
“Do you know how long it took them to destroy his business?” he said, “Three hours. The morning they Claimed the island, their cartels went building to building, serving eviction notices. We were told to leave, abandoned to the desert. We lost everything. My father hung himself three months later.”
“I’m sorry.” I said.
“Are you? Are you really sorry? This area seems to attract tragedy, but does Government even acknowledge those who lost their livelihoods here?”
“Things have changed Markus. Things could never go that way again.”
“But they do, all the time, in little desert towns, in the Water Stills and farmsteads. They even happen in the Coastal Towns, in those so-called centres of civilisation. It goes on right under your noses. The Unions see something they want and they take it with no consideration. They attach imaginary or made up significance, fake religious sentiment, and Government turns a blind eye.”
“Is that what people believe?” I said.
“People believe what they want to believe, but one thing has become plainly clear: government is a toothless tiger. Some of us need to make a stand on our own.”
Despite the fact that a sort of clarity was beginning to present itself, the conversation changed nothing, made nothing right, soothed no insult. It would lead to nothing because Markus lacked the one and only element that could save him: the willingness to accept the wrong-headedness of his actions.
“Are you armed?” I said, “Do you possess a weapon?”
Markus laughed, “You mean aside from the antiques downstairs?” He nodded, “Of course. Do you think I’d be foolish enough not to?”
“I’m going to offer you one last piece of advice.” I said, “When the time comes, a firearm will only be a first resort. There’s still a chance that you could walk away from this, arrange penalty, but not if you wound or kill. There would be no walking away from that.”
Markus reflected for a moment.
“Thank you for the advice.” He said, “but this …” he opened his jacket, showed me the Polymer Five Shot that nestled in its holster, “… this stays.”
I didn't sleep well that night. I had visions of Mimics in my head, of Union war bands cresting the dunes, silhouetted against the brilliant sky. My dreams were spiced with the flavour of retribution and feud, reprisal and vengeance.
At 02:00, unable to rest, I went out into the hall, made my way to the living area, found the Polybandro standing at the window, gently murmuring away to itself like a small animal. I waited in the doorway, watching her, aware that I couldn’t help but bestow upon her a degree of humanity. I wondered what processes went on in that strange mind. Did she think of the future, did she possess a sense of self? Did she dream? Was she even aware of the trouble her presence had caused?
Presently, she turned and noticed me. Far from being alarmed, she beckoned me over. I joined her at the window, curious about what she was attempting to show me, unsure of whether I was meant to be watching her or the garden. Despite being highly intelligent, like all Polybandros she lacked the basic ability to communicate. She possessed no language, other than the lexicon of clicks and soft, animalistic murmurings. She tapped the glass with her finger, drawing my attention outside.
I looked down into the darkened gardens. The estate was shrouded in shadows, unfamiliar. The arrangements appeared wrong. The trees breathed in the night, intoxicated with the breeze. I searched the darkness looking for something familiar, a reference point, the housekeeper's quarters, the main promenade with its rows of lanterns.
It was then that I saw what she was trying to show me.
At first I was unable to place it. I thought I had familiarised myself with the layout of the estate. I had asked Lamergyer to show me around precisely so that I might be aware of any holes in the villa's security. Here though, was something I had missed, something new.
Possibly it had been hidden by the geometry of the garden itself, invisible from anywhere other than this window, this point of view. It was an enclosure, perhaps thirty-five feet on a side, with walls of dark stone. There was no roof.
At first, the interior was hidden by shadow, a perfect square of night. Presently the wind stirred and something within that patch of jet glinted in the moonlight, something stirred as a whole, now here, now there, now gone.
"A garden." I whispered, suddenly resolving the moonlight catching the tops of palm trees, "A hidden garden."
I studied the patch of deeper night as it shimmered with occasional undersea brilliance, trying to make out what lay concealed among the branches.
On the veranda, it was as if the perspective of the garden had changed. Of the walled enclosure, I could find no trace. I looked around, took in the farthest perimeter, saw nothing but more trees and plantations of shrubs, no obvious means of egress. A breeze rustled the leaves, strumming the fairy lights that dangled amongst the branches. The trees, adjusted, restless like wind chimes.
I tried referencing the location against the other landmarks, the promenade, the far perimeter wall, but couldn’t recognise the angles couldn’t resolve the way the lines interacted. I paced up and down, tried viewing the area from a different perspective, all the while growing ever more frustrated. Eventually, I headed down into the gardens themselves in an attempt at a closer inspection, resolute that I would not be beaten.
The Polybandro followed me like an errant child, deliberately staying five or six steps behind, curious perhaps or simply eager to make sure that I had understood.
I followed the line of those walls, tracing the moonlit finery of the contour, already expecting disappointment, yet somehow not surprised when I finally saw it.
Roughly fifty yards ahead was a small ornamental fountain, built into the perimeter wall. I had seen it on my previous trip around the garden but now I noticed something odd about it, something not entirely right with its perspective. The outline was abnormally skewed, as though the sculptor had made a mistake with the foreshortening. I approached at an oblique angle. The distortion became more pronounced. It was a Tromp L'ouei, an illusion. I had been over here before but had always stayed on the pathways that criss-crossed the garden. Now as I left the path, viewed the object from a different angle, the deception was revealed, along with the narrow passageway that it had been employed to obscure.
I stood for a moment, marvelling at the simplicity of it, at the elementary way in which something so large had been hidden. The Polybandro made approving noises, suddenly excited.
Evidently I had been looking in the wrong place. The enclosure hadn't been inside the estate at all but rather attached to the outside of the perimeter wall, hidden by the height of the ramparts and guarded on three sides by the steep drop that bordered that side of the estate. No wonder I had had such trouble in finding it.
I started down the passage, flanked on either side by high perimeter walls, descended a flight of stone steps and came up against a door.
It was locked of course, but from the other side of that wood something came to me, a loose-leaf tremor, an echo in the dark. I searched for some way up those sheer walls, reluctantly realised that the only way in was through that door.
It gave way on my second attempt. The noise was jarringly loud amidst so much silence. I returned to the top of the passage, waiting for raised voices, for lights to appear in the house or the housekeeper’s quarters. Nothing happened. After five minutes, I returned to the door, pushed it aside, and entered the garden.
It was an arboretum, a domain of trees, quite unlike anything I had ever seen. The grass lay at ankle height, uncut, green and lush. The rushing night framed the enclosure walls and a fine mist hung upon the air, poured forth by a network of sprinklers. The darkness played off the walls in curtains, slipping forward on oily heals, beckoning me further. Ten metres in, something up ahead began to resolve, something that shimmered in the silky light, solid and large amongst the trees. Finally, I came to a clearing. Only then did I fully realise the extent of the lies that Markus had fed me. I had been misled since my arrival.
In the centre of the enclosure, resting amongst the under growth like a polyp, like a piece of avant-garde sculpture, was an Objet d’art, perhaps eight feet high and six feet wide, luminous and radiant in the moonlight. The Polybandro peeled off to my left, approached its birth mother. I could only interpret the gentle sounds it made as expressions of grief. The thing was quite dead, already starting to sag in its carapace. It was obviously old. Numerous scars ran across its cracked and pitted surface, the growth of past seasons perhaps.
I walked slowly around the circumference, found the great tear at the rear where the Polybandro had clawed its way out to freedom, to life. That final act of reproduction was what had killed it.
The Polybandro squatted off to one side. The moon played tricks with the light and for a moment I was almost certain that she was crying.
I felt the old anger re-establish itself, felt the offence that I had first experienced upon hearing of Markus’ Claim. He had known all along that the Objet d’art on the funeral island were not responsible for his strange guest, knew instead that it had come from this old and obviously ailing impostor, probably purchased from some illicit auction, at some illegal Life Market.
With the benefit of hindsight I could see now that I had been a pawn in a power game, a poker chip in Markus’ high stakes wager, and the thought of it made me sick.
I made my way through the villa, leading the Polybandro by the hand, moving carefully, making sure that nobody was waiting for us in the courtyards and internal spaces.
The house was unnaturally dark. Even the ambient glo-lights had been extinguished. Whatever had been building over the last few days was now in the process of happening.
I didn’t wait to bid farewell to Markus. I couldn’t find him in his room and I didn’t have the energy to search for him. The housekeepers too, were nowhere to be seen. In all probability they had been given prior knowledge, warned perhaps of what was going to happen.
I shivered in spite of the warm night.
In the lobby, I found a dustcoat for the Polybandro, placed the re-breather mask over her face, as good a disguise as any, then exited through the main door.
I crossed the road, taking the steps that led between the buildings down into Lower Town, down towards the Eye. The shadows lengthened, grew ominous, gathered around every corner, hid a multitude of threats. The night remained innocent. Nobody stepped forward to challenge us. The watchers, if they were there at all, remained hidden, let us pass.
It was the shot that stopped me in my tracks, a report that tore the night in two, channelled by the narrow alleyways, clattering off the stone houses and shop fronts like thrown gravel. The silence that followed was infinitely worse and I knew then that it was over, knew that one shot was all he would have been able to get off. I only wondered who it had been, whether it had been someone he had known, one of the housekeepers, or perhaps even Lamergyer, offered clemency in exchange for his friend’s life, a tidy solution to what had become an intricate problem.
Several streets away a dog began baying frantically. The Polybandro hummed quietly to itself, an answer perhaps, a primitive attempt at communication.
We left Upper Town and headed for the Byzantine sector, for Andrew Farrent’s antique store, and as we passed the last of the hill top villas, the Lake finally came into view.
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