worth the name. He studied me as I studied him, and at roughly the same instant I was reaching my conclusions about him, he said, “My, yes, but the resemblance is extraordinary, isn’t it?”
“Resemblance?”
“To our sadly departed dead sorcerer, Matthew Swift.”
“Ah.”
“Although as far as I know, he had no brothers.”
“I don’t.”
“Of course, of course,” he said. “You don’t. In fact, if I recall correctly, you have no living relatives?”
“I have a grandmother in a nursing home.” A sudden pang of guilt that I hadn’t even thought of her until now; alive, dead?
“Do you?”
“I did when I last checked.”
“See her often?”
“She only likes talking to the pigeons,” I replied, honestly enough.
“I see. Such a shame.”
“The pigeons let her fly with them. They bring her all the news. It is not sad.”
He smiled again, but this time the smile was tighter: less friendly but somehow more honest for it. “Indeed, indeed,” he mumbled. “But forgive me; I’m going about this terribly rudely. We should introduce ourselves before digressing to personal matters.”
“You know who I am.”
“I know who you say you are. And I know what you appear to be, which is quite different. But for the now let me say that I am Dudley Sinclair, and that it is my honour to make your acquaintance.”
He held out his hand. I shook it, after only a moment’s doubt. The cold clamminess of his grip clenched hard around my fingers and lingered a second longer than politeness required. We pulled our fingers away.
“You know the fortune-teller?”
“Dear boy, I know
I didn’t have anything to say to that, so resumed my quiet study of the two men’s reflection against the glory of the city.
“Yes, yes,” he muttered, not particularly for my attention. “Of course.” The smile reasserted itself, broad, but somehow not revealing any teeth as it ran from ear to ear. “Well, yes, this is a remarkably fortuitous encounter. Indeed. Shall we dispense with the boring questions for now and say that yes, indeed, you are Matthew Swift, a sorcerer in every form, way, and guise. Yes, I think this is best, don’t you?”
I shrugged.
“A man of few words; I can respect that, although personally I find you can discover a lot about a fellow even in the meaningless detritus with which he may litter his speech, an unconscious, perhaps, symptom of who he really may be, beneath his conscious mind. But you, sir, seem to play a close game – well, good. Yes, very good.”
“There was talk of mutual benefit,” I said. “The fortune-teller said… there were people who can help me.”
“And, I believe, there was talk of revenge, yes?”
“I can manage my own affairs.”
“Of course you can, yes! A very capable gentleman, certainly – indeed, to be Matthew Swift and to have survived when so many others have died would suggest quite how capable you may indeed be!”
“Who died?”
A flicker in the eyes, a tiny movement around the corners of his mouth. “I take it you are unfamiliar with current events.”
“I’ve read some newspapers.”
“I was thinking of events within that… special area in which you and I both happen to dabble.”
“You dabble, but he” – I nodded at the silent young man by the door – “does a bit more than that, I think.”
A moment’s hesitation; hard to tell whether the tightening around his eyes was surprise, or pleasure, or both. The young man showed no feeling – we could have been talking about a dead stranger as far as he seemed to care. “A man of insight, sir,” murmured Dudley Sinclair finally, his voice quieter and deeper than before. “I can see why she thought you curious.”
“Who died?” I repeated. “I tried calling some… who died?”“A list? Crude, certainly crude, but perhaps necessary. Very well – as far as I’m aware, you – I mean Matthew Swift – were the first, although we do not entirely know whether your death fits the pattern since, as of course you know, no body was ever found. Alfred Khan died shortly after – the theory goes he had visions of your death, and of his, and knew what was coming for him, but could not stop it. Imagine that, if you will; imagine that.”
I said nothing.
“Patel went missing, but they assumed he was dead when they identified his thumb and part of his left hand by its fingerprint. Awan was found partially flayed – thankfully, I believe, the shock killed him first; Koshdel had been strangled with his own intestines; Akute’s head was discovered on her bedroom floor, we’re not entirely sure where the rest of the body went; Pensley was set on fire. Ah, now Dhawan managed to put up a bit of a fight, which unfortunately collapsed the entire building he was in, making identification a tricky process – dental records, eventually. Did you know Foster? A young sorceress, perhaps not really in your circle, but her death was by…”
“Did the same person kill them all?” I asked breathlessly, the words running like sand between my fingers.
“We assume so.”
“Why?”
“Oh, the violence of the crime, the focus on practitioners of the art, the ritualistic nature of the death, the prolonged …”
“I meant why kill them?”
“We don’t know. We have theories.”
“Who’s ‘we’?”
His eyes shifted away to the city, his right hand twitched. “We are… concerned citizens.”
“Urban magicians?”
“Some of us, yes.”
“Why do you think they were all killed?”
“Now that’s really very tricky to say.”
“Try.”
His eyes flashed for a moment, glancing at me and away. If he’d felt anger, though, he hid it well. “You must have views yourself. You were one of them – until today.”
“I have an idea of who may have had motive.”
“Then you must have an idea who sent the litterbug after you this morning.”
That surprised me – that he could have known, and so soon. I tried to hide it, but I’m sure he saw through my half-hearted grunt and tight expression to my unease.
“We found the burnt core,” he explained, almost nicely, “and the local council was inundated with complaints about rubbish on the streets near one of its stations. I’m sure you understand why we made the leap of judgement – there are only so many practitioners of our unique profession who understand the summoning of such a creature, or indeed know the best way to break such a powerful spell.”
When I didn’t say anything he shifted his weight slightly and said, “May I suggest something to you? I don’t wish to influence your own personal views in any way, or even imply a course of action. I merely wish to throw an idea out, sir, and see if you find it in any way conducive.”
“Well?”
He leant in close until his breath almost tickled my ear and whispered, “Robert James Bakker,” and leant back with a smile to see how I reacted.
I rocked the sole of my left shoe idly across the floor of the capsule. I ran the index finger of my right hand in and out of the dips between the knuckles of my left. I watched the city. I said not a word.
Not a word seemed ample, for Mr Sinclair. “Very good,” he said, “very good. You are a man who does not
