Part 14 (1/2)
”We've only got so many Watch, Director. We can't block off the hounds and maintain a city-wide search for the rogue esper.”
”I know. Just . . . do the best you can.”
”Yes, Director.”
”What are the early casualty reports like?”
”Bad. The hounds are slaughtering everything that moves. The Watch are slowing them down, but that's all. Still, it could have been worse.”
”I don't see how.”
”At least the Watch was there, Director. If you hadn't posted men to watch the boundaries, the hounds would have taken us completely by surprise. There's no telling how many they would have killed, running unstopped through the city.”
”Yes. I suppose so. We've got Councillor Darkstrom to thank for that. I take it there's still no sign of her or the Bloodhawk?”
”Not so far, Director.”
”And Donald Royal?”
”Still missing, sir.”
”That just leaves me. The last Councillor. Ironic, in its way, I suppose.”
Steel sat in silence for a while, staring at nothing, his eyes far away. John Silver waited patiently.
”Duty esper.”
”Yes, Director?”
”I'm going home. Re-route any messages, and . . . let me know if anything happens.”
”Of course, Director. Not much else we can do now, is there?”
”No. You look tired, lad.”
John Silver smiled. ”I think I'll stay a little longer. I couldn't sleep anyway.”
Steel nodded. ”I'll see you later.”
”Goodbye, sir.”
The screen went blank. Steel rose slowly to his feet and looked about him. Beyond the gla.s.s walls, the technicians sat unmoving at their posts, tense and silent. Steel looked away. He'd done everything he could. ”I did my best,” he said softly. He hesitated a moment, as though waiting for an answer, and then he turned and left without looking back.
Twelve espers lay side by side on comfortable couches, and spread their thoughts across the city, searching.
Tarpaulined barges drifted down the River Autumn, steel-lined bows breaking through the newly forming ice. Outleaning timbered buildings bowed to each other like tired old men, upper stories no more than a hand's-breadth apart. Watchmen patrolled the lamplit streets, s.h.i.+vering in their furs. Cats darted along the low stone walls of a back alley, appearing and disappearing in the thick fog like dusky phantoms.
The espers found Mary in less than an hour, and made contact with her mind. She killed them all.
Typhoid Mary had been programmed.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.
Heroes and Villains The building itself was quiet and una.s.suming, almost anonymous, and the sign above the door said simply blacksmith . Donald Royal smiled grimly. He knew better. During his many years on the Council he'd read a great many reports on Dr. Vertue's body bank. It was one of Donald's old familiar angers that he'd never been able to raise enough evidence to close the place down. He should have tried harder. If he had, Jamie might still be alive today.
Donald sighed quietly and pulled his cloak tightly about him. The fog was thick and heavy, the snow had been falling for hours, and it was still barely morning. It was going to be a hard winter. Donald glanced at Madelaine Skye standing next to him, unrecognizable as usual in her thick fur cloak with the hood pulled well forward. She seemed calm enough, but Donald could tell from the set of her shoulders that her right hand was resting on her sword hilt. He wasn't surprised. He'd heard the open rage in her voice on the few occasions she'd spoken of Dr. Vertue.
”Well,” said Donald. ”This is the place.”
”Yes,” said Skye. ”I know.”
”You've been here before, then?”
”Yes.”
Donald waited a moment, and then sniffed when he realised Skye wasn't going to say any more. He had a strong feeling there were things going on that Skye wasn't telling him about. It didn't really matter. If it was important, Skye would tell him eventually. Vertue was all that mattered now. Donald Royal looked at the closed door and felt a slow, cold anger build within him. Leon Vertue knew how and why Jamie had died, and one way or another Donald was going to learn the truth. He glanced quickly at Madelaine Skye.
”Ready?”
”Ready.”
”Then let's do it.”
Donald stepped forward and tried the door. It wasn't locked. He pushed the door open and moved cautiously forward into a quietly tasteful lamplit hall. Skye stepped quickly in behind him and pushed the door shut. It felt good to be in out of the cold. Donald pushed back his hood and beat the snow from his cloak as he looked about him. The short, narrow hall was completely empty, and ended at the only other door. Donald started towards it, Skye at his side. He took off his gloves and tucked them into his belt.
He flexed his hands slowly. Gloves just got in the way when you used a sword. He checked the walls un.o.btrusively as he pa.s.sed. He couldn't see any security cameras, but he a.s.sumed they were being monitored. Both the walls were covered with ostentatiously expensive paintings and tapestries. Donald smiled suddenly as he recognised a forgery. He knew it was a fake, because he owned the original. His smile slowly faded. At least, he'd always a.s.sumed he owned the original. He arrived at the end door in a thoroughly foul state of mind, and scowled fiercely when the door handle wouldn't turn under his hand.
He hammered on the ironwood door with his fist and waited impatiently. There was a hiss of static from a small comm unit set into the door frame.
”Dr. Vertue thanks you for calling, but regrets to announce that he is unavailable today. We apologise for any inconvenience this may cause.”
”Get that recording off the line and talk to me,” growled Donald. ”Or so help me I'll call in a company of the Watch and have them turn this door into kindling. I am Councillor Donald Royal, and I have business with Dr. Vertue.”
There was a pause, and then a hesitant female voice issued from the comm unit. ”I'm sorry, Councillor, but the doctor left strict instructions that he wasn't to be disturbed for any reason.”
”Your boss is already in trouble,” said Donald coldly. ”Unless you want to join him, I suggest you open this d.a.m.ned door. Now.”
The door hummed quietly to itself, and then swung smoothly open. Donald smiled grimly, and stalked forward into the doctor's reception area. So much for the first line of defence. A gorgeous redhead was rising nervously from behind a huge steel-and-plastic desk. Donald nodded briskly to her, and glanced about him. There was no sign of Vertue. Highly polished ironwood wall panels gleamed richly under the overhead lightsphere, and the carpet was thick enough to hide a good-sized snake. Any other time Donald might have been impressed, but right now he wasn't in the mood. He had other things on his mind.
”Vertue,” he said bluntly. ”Where is he?”
The secretary tore her eyes away from the bulky, fur-wrapped figure of Madelaine Skye, and glanced quickly at the closed door to the right before answering Donald. ”I'm afraid you can't see him just at the moment, Councillor; he's in conference. He was most emphatic that he wasn't to be disturbed. If you'd care to wait . . .”
”He'll see us,” said Donald, and headed for the right-hand door.