Trapped

Maybe a little of both.

But she had kept her daughter near her. When Rosalind came to Feliss Academy, Mother Tzekich must have moved in with Warwick Xavier — Xavier, who was district manager for the Ring, in charge of smuggling and miscellaneous skullduggery. Had Knife-Hand Liz crept near the academy from time to time in hope of catching sight of her daughter? Or had she stayed away, never trying to see the girl but staying close in case something happened?

In case the girl got in trouble. A mother wants to be there.

But she hadn't been.

Tzekich asked, 'How did Rosalind die?'

Dreamsinger shrugged. 'Perhaps an OldTech bioweapon. My brother is investigating.'

'But it was murder?'

'That seems likely.'

'Who was responsible?'

Dreamsinger cocked her head to one side. 'That's my question for you. Do any of your enemies have bioweapons hidden in their vaults?'

'Not that I know of — otherwise, I'd report the bastards for possessing banned substances. I'm a loyal subject of the Spark Protectorate.'

Dreamsinger smiled. 'Of course. Dear sister.'

'So why are you here? Just to tell me my daughter's dead?'

'Oh no. That was an unexpected pleasure.' Dreamsinger smiled again. Such a sweet smile. 'I came to ask Mr. Xavier about a boy who's gone missing.'

'I don't know any boy,' Xavier said. His voice was tired; I suspected it wasn't Xavier's idea to be awake at this hour. Knife-Hand Liz had to be the one simmering with nervous energy, perusing papers long into the night.

'Who is this boy?' Tzekich asked. Her voice was sharp; she obviously had guessed this was connected to Rosalind's death.

'The boy intended to elope tonight. These people…' Dreamsinger waved toward the three of us at the window. 'They believe he chartered a fishing boat to go somewhere. I believe the boat's crew would let you know what they were doing.'

'Why would they?' Xavier asked. 'It's no business of mine if some brat runs away.'

Dreamsinger waggled a finger in his direction. 'But it is your business if a boat goes smuggling without permission. I'm sure you deal harshly with those who try to turn independent. To avoid such suspicions, any captain leaving port after dark likely sends you a note. Gentle master, I'm just taking a passenger somewhere, so please don't break my knees when I get back.'

Xavier looked surly, as if he wanted to deny Dreamsinger's words. Tzekich slapped him hard on the arm. 'For God's sake, tell her anything you know!'

The old man's expression didn't change… but he turned his scowl on Tzekich. 'In the old days, we didn't let outsiders deal with our problems. Your daughter is murdered? That's our business, not the Sparks.'

Tzekich slapped him again. 'Spark business is what they say it is.'

Dreamsinger chuckled. 'Despotism is nice that way.'

'Besides,' Tzekich continued to Xavier, 'we can't deal with anything if a Spark kills us for being uncooperative. Stop stonewalling!'

Xavier paused another long moment, making sure no one missed his disgust. A man of the old school, I thought: responding to every obstacle with brute force, and if something didn't fall down, he'd just hit it harder. It explained why a man Xavier's age was still just a minor lieutenant, living in a backwater like Dover-on-Sea; he could be trusted to keep people in line and maintain a basic revenue stream, but he'd botch any job that called for finesse.

After one last glower, the old man turned and shuffled across the room to a grand piano shoved against the wall. The piano was placed wrong-side-out: if you opened the lid above the strings, the sound would be deflected into the wall rather than to the room at large. Perhaps Xavier had seen pianos in other people's houses and decided to buy the most expensive one he could find. Clearly he didn't care about music — the cover was closed over the keys, and stacked with piles of paper, mostly unopened envelopes. Xavier's filing system: toss incoming mail onto the piano, and deal with it whenever.

The message Dreamsinger wanted had just arrived that night, so it must be on top of a pile. Xavier realized that we all would know that — otherwise, I could imagine him shuffling through papers with sullen slowness, while Tzekich grew more and more livid. But he found the note soon enough; then the only delay was the time he took unfolding the page and moving the paper back and forth until he established a distance where he could read the words.

'It's from Ian Nicoll of the Hoosegow,' Xavier said. 'Nice little boat, the Hoosegow. Ian gave it the name because he says it feels like a prison, but if you ask me—'

Tzekich snapped, 'Just read the damned note!'

Xavier tried to hide a smile, clearly pleased he'd got under her skin. 'All right, let me see. Let me see. Let me see.' He squinted and shifted the paper a little closer to his eyes. Then a little farther away. Then back to its original position. 'Got some passengers tonight,' he finally read. 'Two kids from that school in Simka. Eloping, the idiots. Going to Niagara Falls, to get married then fuck their brains out. Pathetic. But I get paid, so who cares? I'll be back in time for…' Xavier stopped reading and folded the page. 'The rest is just private.'

Dreamsinger held out her hand for the note. Xavier only stared at her until Tzekich heaved an exasperated sigh. 'Either you give it to her or she takes it from your cold dead fingers.'

'If you want me to kill him, dear sister,' Dreamsinger said, 'just say the word.'

Tzekich gave a humorless laugh. 'No thanks, milady. That might sound as if I was giving an order to a Spark Lord… or asking for a favor, which is possibly more dangerous.'

'Spoilsport,' Dreamsinger pouted. She looked back at Xavier, her hand still held out for the message. With a grumpy look, he plodded across the room and gave her the page. Dreamsinger unfolded it and studied the message briefly. 'What time did you receive this?'

Xavier said, 'A few hours ago. From my man Ripsaw.'

'When did Ripsaw receive it?'

'He walks around the port every night after supper. Between six and midnight.'

'I want the exact time.'

Xavier smiled as if he'd been hoping she'd say that. 'Ask Ripsaw yourself.' He pointed at one of the men who'd been standing too close to the windows when Dreamsinger blew them in — a man with more blood on his clothes than in his veins. Dreamsinger peered at the corpse with calculation in her eye; perhaps debating whether it was too late to try a Twinning, whether the brain was still intact or just soggy sweetmeats. After a moment, she sighed with regret.

'So,' she said, 'we don't know whether this note got written before or after passengers arrived at the Hoosegow. If it was before, the captain simply expected 'two kids from that school' — which doesn't tell how many really showed up. If it was after, and the captain was looking right at the two teenagers as he wrote his message… that would make things more interesting.' She looked at Xavier. 'Do you know if Hoosegow actually left port?'

The old man made a sour face. I suspected he did know, but disliked providing information that might actually be useful. Before he could vacillate on an answer, one of the two surviving enforcers spoke up. 'I was on harbor watch tonight. Hoosegow left its slip at 11:05.'

Xavier gave the man a dirty look; the enforcer ignored it, keeping his gaze on Tzekich. Obviously, the bully-boy had decided that pleasing the top boss helped one's career far more than humoring a surly deputy.

'So,' Dreamsinger murmured, 'the boat is on its way. No reason for that if it didn't have passengers; so Sebastian must have showed up and said, 'Let's go.' He wouldn't do that unless Rosalind was with him.'

'Rosalind?' Knife-Hand Liz repeated. 'I thought you said…' Her voice trailed off.

'Dear sister,' Dreamsinger said, 'one version of your daughter is dead. Another may be sailing to Niagara Falls; and now I'll have to follow.' She shuddered. 'Pity me, friends. Such a dreary place. So conventional and crowded. Why do people come from around the world to see water falling over a cliff? And all the hideous 'attractions'; they should be called dis tractions, built to prevent newlyweds from realizing the banality of what they've just done. I hate it all. Hate it, hate it, hate it. Hate it, hate it, hate it, hate it…' She stopped herself with an effort. 'But, I suppose while I'm there, I can check—'

Her voice choked silent. Her face froze — as if some inner reflex held her expression immobile so we couldn't guess what was going through her mind. An instant later, she whirled to face the three of us at the window. 'This Sebastian was a powerful psychic?'

We all nodded.

'What was his power?'

Impervia and the Caryatid looked at me to answer. I chose my words carefully. 'Our psionics teacher says Sebastian can talk to the world: as if land, sea, and air are full of happy puppies, eager to fulfill the boy's tiniest wish. So his powers cover the whole spectrum.'

'The boy talks directly to nanites? And he's headed for Niagara Falls?' Dreamsinger's voice had gone shrill. 'With a creature that can make itself look like Rosalind?'

Mother Tzekich stirred at her daughter's name, but didn't have a chance to speak. Dreamsinger surged toward the window where Impervia, the Caryatid, and I still crouched. The Spark Lord grabbed me by the jacket and heaved me up as if I weighed no more than a rag doll. 'Fool!' she whispered, so softly no one else could hear. 'Those curds weren't a bioweapon. They were cast-off cellules from a Lucifer.'

'But I thought…' Opal had said the flake-away bits of Lucifer were like grains of black gunpowder. Dark and dry. I suddenly remembered that both Dreamsinger and her brother had asked if I was sure the curds I'd seen were white and wet, not dark and dry. They both must have suspected there was a Lucifer in our neighborhood, but my talk of a bioweapon had made it seem like something else. 'It looked like cottage cheese,' I said. 'Honestly…'

'The Lucifer mutated,' Dreamsinger told me in another furious whisper. 'It's been trying to do that for decades. It knows Spark Royal can track its life-signs… so the blasted thing finally managed to change its metabolism. And now it's going to Niagara Falls with a psychic?'

She tossed me aside in disgust. Pure luck let me grab a corner of the window frame and catch my balance; otherwise, I would have fallen onto the broken glass that littered the floor. Dreamsinger didn't care — she was already stepping over the sill, out onto the dark lawn. At the same time, she tapped her pearl necklace: the one that was actually a radio transmitter. 'Spark Royal, attend,' she snapped. 'I need immediate pick-up, this location.'

'Please activate anchor,' a metallic voice said from the necklace.