Nightingale lament

back's turned. But Dead Boy pulled his car of the fu­ture in to the curb, just down the street from Caliban's Cavern, got out, and walked away without even a back­ward glance. I went with him, but couldn't help look­ing back uncertainly. The shining silver car looked distinctly out of place in the steaming sleazy streets of Uptown. Already certain eyes were studying it with thoughtful intent.

'It will take more than automatic locks to protect your car here,' I pointed out.

'My car can take care of itself,' Dead Boy said eas­ily. 'The onboard computers have access to all kinds of defensive weaponry, together with an exceedingly nasty sense of humour and no conscience at all.'

We strolled up the rain-slick street, and the crowds parted in front of us to let us pass. The blazing neon was as sharp and sleazy as ever, and hot saxophone music and heavy bass beats drifted out of the clubs we passed. A small group were sacrificing a street mime to some lesser god, while tourists clustered round with camcorders. A teddy bear with his eyes and mouth sewn shut was handing out flyers protesting animal ex­ perimentation. Cooking smells from a dozen different cultures wafted across the still night air. And more than one person saw Dead Boy coming and chose to walk in another direction entirely.

We finally stopped and studied Caliban's Cavern from a discreet distance. The exterior of the nightclub had been thoroughly trashed during the riot, and a team of specialist restorers were on the scene, clearing up the mess and making good with style and speed and un­canny precision. The Nightside has always had a ten­dency to mayhem and mass destruction, so there's never any shortage of firms ready and willing to under­take quick repairs and restoration, for the usual exorbi­tant prices. Most of the big concerns were still busy dealing with the chaos and devastation left behind after the recent Angel War, but it seemed the Cavendishes had been able to raise enough cash-in-hand to get some firm on the job straight away. Three builder magicians were using unification spells to put the facia back together. It was quite fun watching the broken and shat­tered pieces leaping up from the pavement to fit them­selves neatly together again like a complex jigsaw. Some other poor sod had the unenviable task of putting the front door back on its hinges, while the simulacrum in the wood cursed him steadily as an unfeeling incom­petent, in between lengthy crying jags.

A crowd had gathered to watch, Nightsiders always being interested in free entertainment, and other people had arrived to sell the crowd things it didn't need, like T-shirts, free passes to clubs no-one in their right mind would visit anyway, and various forms of hot food. This usually consisted of something nasty and over­priced in a bun, that only the most newly arrived tourists would be dumb enough actually to eat.

Dead Boy sniffed loudly as some fool in a grubby dressing gown handed over good money in return for something allegedly meat-based in a tortilla. 'Proof if proof were needed,' he said loudly, 'that tourists will eat absolutely anything. Truth in advertising, that's what's needed here. See how well that stuff would sell if the vendors were obliged to shout the truth. Some­thing wriggling on a stick! Pies containing creatures whose name you couldn't even spell! Food so fast it will be out your backside before you know it!'

'Buyer beware,' I said easily. 'That should be the Nightside's motto. Nothing's ever what it seems . . .'

We watched interestedly as one of the builder magi­cians used a temporal reverse spell to restore some damaged woodwork, then joined in the general jeering as he let the spell get away from him, and time sped back too far, so that the wood started sprouting branches and leaves again. Dead Boy looked the night­club over with his professionally deceased eyes.

'There are new and really nasty magical wards all over the place,' he said quietly. 'They're well disguised, but there's not much you can hide from the dead. It's mostly shaped curses and proximity hexes, an awful lot of them keyed specifically to your presence, John. We're only just out of range here. The Cavendishes really don't want you anywhere near their club again.'

'How nasty are we talking?' I said.

'Put it this way - if you were to trigger even one of these quite appalling little bear-traps, they'll be scraping your remains off the surroundings with a palette knife.'

'Ouch,' I said. 'I still have to get in to see Rossignol. Any ideas?'

Dead Boy considered the matter. People saw him frowning and moved even further away, just in case. 'I could walk in,' he said finally. 'Those defences are only dangerous to the living.'

'No,' I said. 'First, Rossignol wouldn't talk to you, only me. And second, you'd be bound to set off all kinds of alarms. I really don't want to attract the Cavendishes' attention if I can help it. They've got a Power on their side. The Jonah.'

'Ah yes, young Billy. Nasty piece of work. If he ever grew a pair, he could be really dangerous.'

'The odds are, Rossignol is still in her room over the club, guarded by a couple of heavy-duty combat magi­ cians. I bluffed them once, but twice would definitely be pushing it. And who knows what other surprises they've got set up in there . . .'

'So what do you want to do, John?' said Dead Boy, just a little impatiently. 'We can't just stand around out there. Word will get around. How are we going to get to your deadly little songbird? Come on, think devious. It'swhat you do best.'

'If we can't get in to her,' I said slowly, 'she'll have to come out to us. We'll send her a message. Most of theclub's staff will be kicking their heels somewhere close at hand, keeping out of the way and waiting for therepairs to be finished. All we have to do is track themdown and find someone we can bribe, convince, or intimidate into passing Rossignol our message.'

'They could be anywhere,' Dead Boy said doubt­fully. 'What are you going to do, use your gift to locate them?'

'No,' I said. 'I don't think so. I've been using my gift too much, too often, lately. And every time I open up my mind, my thoughts blaze like a beacon in the night. My enemies can use that to find me. And you know some of the things they've sent after me. No, I've pushed my luck as far as I dare. It's time to be sensible and stick to simple deduction. All we have to do is check out the local bars, cafes, and diners, and we'll find the club. Theatricals never can go for long without their creature comforts.'

We found them all just a short walk further up the street, at the Honey Bee, an overly lit but very clean theme coffee bar, where all the waitresses were obliged to wear puffy black-and-yellow-striped bee outfits, to­ gether with bobbly antennae and spiked heel stilettos. They didn't look too happy about it as they tottered unsteadily between the tables, reeling off the specials through practiced smiles. The chorus girls from Cal­iban's Cavern had wedged themselves into a corner, nursing their cups of distressed coffee, chattering loudly and smoking up a storm. Also present was one Ian Auger, roadie and musician, and the only one who seemed at all pleased to see me as Dead Boy and I ap­proached their table.

'Oh it's you again, is it?' said the platinum blonde backing singer, flicking her ash disdainfully onto the floor. 'Trouble on legs and twice as unfortunate. Everything was fine until you turned up. Then you show your face, and we get a suicide in the front row and a riot in the house. The Authorities should ban you, on general principles.'

'It's been tried,' I said calmly. 'And I'm still here. I need someone to take a message to Rossignol.' 1 looked around, hoping for a sympathetic smile, but it was all glowering faces and curled lips. I couldn't really blame them. One of the problems of having a carefully cultivated bad reputation like mine is that I tend to get the blame for everything that goes wrong around me.

'Who's your pale friend with no fashion sense?' said the blonde.

'This is Dead Boy,' I said, and the whole coffee­house went suddenly quiet. Ian Auger pushed back his chair and stood up.

'Let's talk outside,' he said resignedly. 'You mustn't mind the girls. They're never keen on anything that might put their jobs at risk.' We moved over to stand in the doorway, while the other customers and staff stud­ied us warily. Ian Auger looked at me, frowning. 'I'm worried about Ross. The Cavendishes have been all over her since the suicide, telling her what to do, what to say, what to think. All they seem to care about is what spin they can put on the suicide for the music media. Ross is practically a prisoner at the moment, under armed guard. Are you still interested in helping her?'

'Of course,' I said. 'Can you get a message to her?'

'Maybe,' said Ian. 'At least, one of me might be able to.'

'Which one of them are you?' I said.

'All of them,' Ian Auger said cheerfully. 'I'm a temporal triplet. One soul, three bodies, no waiting. Close-part harmonies a speciality. Me mum always said Destiny stuttered when I was born. Right now my other two selves