'You could always come with me.' It doesn't hurt to offer an olive branch.
Neti grins wryly. 'Oh, to walk the streets of Brisbane again. To terrorise and shop. Hm, what sort of parasol is in fashion these days?'
I start to frame an answer and she laughs. 'Mr de Selby, these rooms and my gardens are enough. But I appreciate the offer. Besides, what you need to do is a private thing, and best shared only with your Ankou. That is, if you trust him.'
'Of course. Absolutely.'
Neti swings a set of eyes towards the grandfather clock that takes up a large chunk of wall space between two doors. 'You're best away. You don't have much time.'
I wipe my lips with a linen napkin on which little black spiders have been stitched, far too realistically. I stroke one for a moment, and I swear its legs flutter. I drop it, pick up the knives and leave Neti to her parlour. I feel every single one of her eyes watching me as I walk back down the hallway.
'She's not kidding,' Wal says, his eyes fixed on the Knives of Negotiation. 'You be damn careful with those.'
'I will,' I say, but he's already a tattoo on my biceps again. And it's just me and the knives.
I walk through the offices, the naked blades in either hand. I've got nowhere to put them and they're certainly not the sort of thing you slip in your pockets. My staff keep their distance. Maybe it's the slightly manic expression on my face. No, it's definitely the knives. It gives the concept of staff cutbacks a certain, well, edge. I feel every eye on me and I try not to look menacing, but with the Knives of Negotiation it's impossible not to. The knives, too, seem curious. They're mumbling and somehow staring at everyone and everything. I can feel that rapt attention running through my wrists. They want to jerk this way and that. I don't let them. Though part of me wants to. Part of me knows how easy it would be to re-create my dreams of blood and cuts.
Once ensconced in my office, I take a deep breath and call Tim. Tim regards the knife in his hand with a look that tells me he's wishing he was back working in the public service. 'So, how do we do this?'
We're standing in the middle of my office. My back's to my throne, but I can feel it there, the bloody thing a constant presence.
'I know you haven't done a lot of pomping, but the cut has to be shallow and long. Just like you would if you were stalling a Stirrer.'
Tim hasn't stalled anything since we faced off against Morrigan's Stirrer allies in these very offices a couple of months ago. I've kept him away from all of that. He's much better at administration, at getting people to do what needs to be done. Lissa's the opposite. She leads by example; people follow her because she gets down and does it, too. I've fallen down on the leadership front, but that's going to change now.
Tim's knife hand shakes.
'I wouldn't ask you to do this,' I say, 'if I didn't need you, and believe me there are much more confronting ceremonies than this one in a Pomp's repertoire.' I remember the binding ceremony I'd once performed with Lissa's ghost. That had involved arcane symbols and a few good dollops of semen. 'From what Mr D says, the knives will guide us.'
For a moment I feel sorry that I've pulled Tim into all this. But then he grins at me, and it's just like old times.
'Fuck it, let's do this now.'
I find myself grinning back. 'Pub afterwards?'
'Absolutely.'
As one we slice our hands. My cut burns, a flaring burst that wrenches its way up my arm. These are the Knives of Negotiation, after all, they are edged in a multitude of ways and all of them are cutting. The blade bites deeper than I intended. Blood flows thick and fast. Tim reaches out his bloody hand, and I grip it.
And then.
Tim's eyes widen, in sync with mine, and we realise what we are about to do. Both of us struggle, but the ceremony is driving our limbs now. There are no brakes that we can apply to this.
We slam the knives point first into each other's chest.
4
I die for a heartbeat then.
So does Tim. I can feel it.
I cry out, but my lips don't move. The air tightens around us. The One Tree's creaking becomes a roaring. Great dark shapes loom and cackle. Then, out of nowhere, I see the Kurilpa Bridge. Its tangle of masts and wires. Mount Coot-tha rising in the north-west. Lightning cracks, a luminous finger trailing down.
And then the knives are back in our hands, bloodless. The wounds gone.
Sometimes I would like a job that involved less stabbing.
Tim coughs, his fingers scramble desperately over his chest. 'What the fuck was that?' He waves the stone knife in my face. 'Christ. Christ! Christ!' I snap my head backwards to avoid losing my nose.
Then he seems to realise what he is doing, breathes deeply, slowly, in and out, and puts the knife down carefully on my desk, as though it's a bomb.
And it is, I suppose. I follow suit, and the knives mumble at the both of us. They sound happy.
'Shit, I don't know,' I say. 'It wasn't what I was expecting.'
'Wasn't what you were expecting? What the hell were you expecting?' Tim's looking down at the front of his shirt.
There's no blood. I haven't bothered checking, I'm an old hand at these sorts of things now.
'No one told me that would happen, believe me. Not Mr D or Neti.'
'I can see why.' Tim drops into one of the chairs at my desk. He grins a little though, surprising me. 'It was a bit of a rush.'
'So Kurilpa,' I say. 'Yeah, the new pedestrian bridge.'
Kurilpa Bridge sits on the curving Brisbane River just on the edge of the CBD. It's a wide footbridge; steel masts rise from its edges like a scattering of knitting needles, and between them are strung thick cables. You either love it or hate it.
Can't say that I love it.
'How do you hold a Death Moot on a bridge?' I move to sit in my throne, shaking my head. The moment my arse touches the chair the black phone on my desk rings. I jump then look from the phone to Tim.
'Well, I'm not answering it,' he says.
I snatch it up.
This is no regular phone call. Down the line a bell is tolling, distant and deep. I keep waiting for some slamming guitar riff to start up.
Instead a thin voice whispers, 'You have engaged us, across the peaks and troughs of time. And we will serve you.'
There's a long pause.
'Thank you,' I say at last.
'We are coming,' the voice says. 'The bridge has been marked with your blood. The bridge has been marked and we are coming. Oh, and there will be a set menu. And canapes.'
The line goes dead.
'They're coming,' I say, looking at the handset.
'Who?' Tim looks at me blankly.
'The Caterers.'
'Excellent,' Tim says, taking this whole being-stabbed-in-the-chest thing very well.
'Oh, and there will be canapes.'
'As long as there aren't any of those little sandwiches, then I'm happy.'
'But when do these guys arrive? I forgot to ask.'
'That I know,' Tim says. 'Four days from now. We'll take them out to the bridge then.' He gets to his feet.
