“I’m sorry that your case was not considered. It would appear that the hearing today was something of a formality.”
“You’re on the Council.”
“Yes. Well, in an advisory capacity-that’s all it’s really here for now.”
“Maybe with more preparation-more evidence…”
“Actually, it’s nothing to do with preparation. You could do as much work, amass as many studies as you like. The outcome would be the same. It always has been, ever since the earliest attempts of the WRM-the Western Repatriation Movement, back in seventy-four.” I know who they were, thought Vikram, but he refrained from interrupting.
“Not that the NWO has helped your cause, sadly.” The Councillor paused, apparently musing over the issue. “I’m Linus, by the way. And I know who you are. Obviously.”
“Linus, nice to meet you,” Vikram muttered. Introductions weren’t really his thing; perhaps it was there that he had stumbled. Choosing the wrong name, or something. They pressed wrists anyway, his own skin fish-bone dry with the cold, the material of Linus’s glove smooth and unidentifiable. “I have to ask-why do you say that? About the Council? When you’re on it, I mean.”
“Oh, there’s many reasons. What you’re proposing-radical social reform-it doesn’t really sit with the Council any more. They tried it already.”
“They used to be more philanthropic.”
“They used to be younger,” Linus said. He must be quite young himself, in his late twenties, Vikram thought. Fourth generation, anyway. Linus seemed to sense the scrutiny, because he raised one eyebrow. “You don’t agree?”
“If you mean that age affects resolution and liberality, then yes, I suppose you’re right.”
“You’re what-twenty six? Twenty-seven?”
“Twenty-five.” The age Mikkeli had been.
Linus laughed. “Young, anyway. That’s the thing. You remind these people of themselves a long time ago. They know they lack that conviction now and it shames them. And just in case you’re wondering, the man I was duelling with earlier is Feodor Rechnov. My father.”
Vikram did not mention that he already knew the connection. He was not confident that he could keep his voice free of emotion.
Linus seemed unaware of any tension. “Then again, you have to remember what some of them have been through. What they’ve lost.”
“That’s too convenient an excuse. At least let someone else try.”
“Someone like you?”
Vikram shrugged. “Maybe.”
Linus retrieved a silver case from his coat pocket. He took out two cigarettes and offered one to Vikram.
“Thanks.” Vikram slipped his own packet away.
“Not a problem.”
Again the lighter was passed. Vikram cupped the flame and drew deeply on the cigarette. It brought on a rush of light-headedness. Evidently tobacco was rolled stronger in the City, or it had less junk in it.
Linus inhaled gently. There were no lines around his mouth. Vikram wished he could tell what the other man was thinking. There was something unnerving about the controlled politeness, as though Linus were prepared to tell Vikram anything, secure in the knowledge that if he felt the information were even fractionally at risk, he could have the westerner tossed over the balcony without a second thought.
The cold was beginning to penetrate through Vikram’s thinner coat. The preliminaries were over. He would get no clues from a Rechnov.
“I need your help,” he said.
“After today’s exhibition, I suppose you do.” There was no judgement in Linus’s voice, only dry fact.
“You’re a Councillor. You must have influence.”
“Very little, I’m afraid.”
“But you spoke up today. For the west.”
“I did. As you saw, it was a futile case.”
“Then tell me what I need to do. You know these people. I don’t.”
“Oh, I admire anyone who will stand up and take on the Council. But you’re wasting your time.”
“Thanks.” Vikram stared moodily out. “That’s really useful.”
“There are other routes, of course,” Linus continued. “Less orthodox routes.”
“Such as?”
“Find yourself a patron; someone rich and popular.” Linus finished his cigarette. He stubbed it out carefully on the rail. “Someone like Adelaide Mystik, perhaps.”
“Adelaide Mystik? You mean-” He stopped, confused by the oblique reference. “Why would I talk to her? She’s a-she doesn’t do anything.”
“Exactly. Like most celebrities, she doesn’t do anything. Therefore I would imagine she has time to do many things, if approached the right way. And she’s influential.” Linus looked thoughtful. “Yes. Talk to her. Don’t say I suggested it-just turn up as if it was your own idea.”
Vikram felt wrong-footed, but could not pinpoint where or how it had happened. Instead he asked, “Why would a Rechnov support the west?”
Linus’s smile was slow and closed. “An interesting question. One that would require time to answer. I don’t have time. But I do have a query for you. Did you know Eirik 9968?”
“Would it make a difference if I did?”
“Not to me.”
“Well, I didn’t know him. Not to speak to.”
The lie slid easily off his tongue. It occurred to him that if he said it enough times, he might begin to believe it, that knowledge of another person was as frail as mist.
“He was wrongly numbered, I believe. Assigned a 68. He should have been a 65, for Tasmayn. Not that it makes a difference now. Funny the way that our origins are disregarded nowadays.”
The snippet of information could only have been dropped as a test. Vikram kept his face impassive.
“What’s the name of that stone, inside the Chambers?”
“Stone?”
“Yes. The pillars.”
“Oh. It’s called marble. Rather beautiful, isn’t it. Mined in quarries over a century ago. Finally shipped across from Patagonia. Quite a feat.” Linus paused. “Ah yes. This might help you-I won’t need it.” He handed Vikram a card. “Good luck. Don’t freeze out here.”
The door closed on him before Vikram could reply.
Find yourself a patron. Linus’s turn of phrase rang oddly in his wake. Not someone like my sister, but someone like Adelaide Mystik. As though Adelaide were a completely separate entity. It didn’t sound like a recommendation. Then again, what did Vikram know about these people?
He recalled the Rechnovs, gathered on the balcony to watch the skadi execute Eirik. Their family portrait seemed even stranger now than it had done last week. There were four fourth-gen siblings, he knew. Vikram wondered if that had been calculated prescience in light of the later population control laws. Linus was evidently on the Council. There was the other brother, and then the infamous twins. Axel, the ex-jet set boy who’d disappeared. And the daughter. Beautiful, catastrophic Adelaide, who refused to use her family’s name and headed up socialite group the Haze in a whirl of parties and social misdemeanours. Crazy Adelaide, mad like her brother, mad in the way that could only end badly. Last famously captured necking from a bottle at Axel’s remembrance service, or whatever the feed had called it, because the kid was surely dead. And Linus was suggesting that Vikram solicit her help?
Vikram looked at the card. It sat snugly in the palm of his hand, about the size of a playing card, but thicker. The card was red with a pink rose motif, and running across it in gold type was the inscription.
Adelaide Mystik invites you to Rose Night at the Red Rooms, to be held on the second Thursday of the month, attendance after the hour of twenty-one.
The back was watermarked. It had an Old World feel to it, pre-Neon, even.
