Djinn City, page 16
“Thank you, great Bahamut,” Rais said.
“Do not take too long, Hume and Barabas. If the waves start getting big around here, I will be forced to retaliate.”
CHAPTER 19
The Man with Two Tattoos
Matteras’s cabal was moving out of Southeast Asia, and Siyer Dargo Dargoman was in charge of liquidation. It was a job that he enjoyed, for the most part. He was sitting in a cold, airless room on the fifth floor of a semifinished building, a defunct shell that some developer had managed to raise up to five stories before running out of funds. Now it was stuck in legal limbo and a perfect spot for a clandestine office. The cabal had at least two dozen of these dungeons spread throughout the city.
He tapped his cane against the dusty floor as he awaited his next appointment. The cane was white ivory, richly carved, something of an affectation, except when he pulled a sword out of it. During those times, the cane was deadly serious.
He was, in living memory, perhaps the only emissary with two tattoos. The stylized serpent of Bahamut lay coiled on one forearm, slightly forlorn and faded, whereas his entire right shoulder now bore an intricate mark whose placement Matteras had personally supervised.
More important, Matteras had given him entry into the cabal, a shadowy board of a human-djinn conglomerate that sprawled the world, ruling over private equity firms in Brazil and Sri Lanka, oil fields in Mongolia, coal mines in Indonesia, rubber plantations in Malaysia, a supermarket chain in Nigeria, property in London and New York City, half a casino in Macao, and the entirety of a very secretive Swiss bank that was more than six hundred years old. The cabal was also the largest landowner in Bengal and had been since the British Raj.
Matteras was the “High King,” yet every ruler needed a cabinet, and the members carried out his will and their own. Siyer was rich now, powerful beyond his wildest dreams. In fact, after joining Matteras, he had been forced to concede that previously even his dreams had been tattered, poverty-stricken things.
Presently, a couple of men came in, looking like supplicants even though they carried suitcases of money. The lead man was Babur, a real estate mogul, one of the largest developers and land grabbers in the country, a venal hyena kept barely constrained by a skin of education and some distant claim to an effete lineage.
“Sit,” Siyer said, using his cane to push out one of the cheap plastic chairs. He loved being rude to the very rich, to make them come slumming. “The money.”
The suitcase was duly opened. A flunky riffled through the bundles, but Siyer could gauge money with his eyes alone. They would never think to cheat him. On top of that was a bank draft for the rest of the amount. Siyer pocketed that. The official amount was for tax purposes and would be deposited in the bank. The cash would be dispersed to various other cabal purposes.
“Take the deed on your way out,” Siyer said. “I expect you to complete the rest of the sales by the end of the week.”
“It’s thirty-five properties!” Babur said. “Thirty-five! In a dull market…”
“Shut up about markets!” Siyer thrust his face forward, his long nose cleaving the air and almost touching the man’s forehead. “Shut up! We have lifted you out of the gutter! We have allowed you to purchase these expensive ancestors! We know you’re just a bastard from the Taanbazaar brothel, literally a whoreson. Do your job now without any more fucking excuses!”
“More ti—”
Siyer leaned forward and slapped him. It was a light, feathery tap, but the real estate man fell stumbling back in shock, the cheap plastic chair buckling, skittering across the floor. The second man, much younger, his son perhaps, moved forward a step, shouting, until Siyer’s cane slammed into his knee, crumpling it. He fell to the floor and curled up, whimpering. These second-generation industrialists were so soft.
“I am not joking,” Siyer said. His voice was bored and all the more menacing because of it. “We are on a timetable here. Obey me as if your life depends on it. Because let me assure you, it does.”
“What?” the developer snarled. “What the fuck do you mean? Are you threatening me?”
Siyer sighed. These little demonstrations were getting more and more tiresome. He flexed the fingers of his right hand and uttered a short cantrip in djinni. The lights flared out as a mini distortion field snapped into existence like a rabid black hole, sucking the air out of the room and heaving the sprawled Babur into the air, spread-eagled, constricting streaks of dark power throttling him.
Siyer slashed his hand sideways, and the spell winked out. It was a minor construct, powered for only a few seconds. Coiled around his wrists were far more potent spells, purchased on the black market from indigent magicians. It was Siyer’s constant regret that he did not have the talent, not one drop of that ennobling djinn blood, so he was reliant on the spells of others, the best that money and dignatas could buy. It was better than nothing.
Babur fell to the ground in a heap, vomiting, his body twitching as various nerves misfired. The distortion field had that effect on people.
“Listen to me, Babur,” Siyer said. “Your survival is immaterial to me. There are plenty of men like you. If I crush your throat now, another will take your place before your body cools. The only reason I am sparing you is because I do not wish to train another monkey. Do you understand? A nod will suffice.”
“Yes, yes.” Babur struggled to his knees.
“Then get out. I have other people to see.”
Later, when the stench of vomit and voided bowels had faded somewhat, and the day’s business had progressed, Siyer took a moment to go to the roof and light a cigarette.
“Your preference for half-wrecked slums amazes me, Dargoman.”
Siyer spun around. “Matteras!”
The djinn stalked him down, grabbed his wrists. “You have some new toys. Who made them? Imoris?”
“Yes,” Siyer said. The grip tightened and he felt his wrists creak.
“Nasty little spells, these ones,” Matteras said. “You ought to be careful. They could blow your wrists off.” The grip tightened further.
Siyer felt a moment of panic. Matteras was insane.
“We are on schedule with the disinvestment, Lord,” Siyer said, beginning to bend.
“Good, yes.” Matteras released him. “You have a larger problem.”
“What?”
“Barabas saw Bahamut recently. He took with him one of the cursed Khan Rahmans. Some nephew of Kaikobad’s, I presume. Did I not ask you to keep track of this?”
“To Bahamut? Impossible. I have heard nothing from Sikkim. Nor is there any news of any new Khan Rahman being given emissary status.”
“It has happened nonetheless.”
“But the Lore! How could Barabas take a human to Bahamut just like that?”
“Fuck the Lore!” Matteras snarled. “These are end times. Find this boy and take care of him.”
“Kill him?”
“If necessary. But I would prefer him to be simply deflected. I do not wish more undue attention falling on this stupid family.”
“I’ll handle it,” Siyer said.
“I no longer trust that fat oaf Sikkim.”
“I have other people watching him.”
“Well, they failed miserably.”
“The boy has a weakness, his girlfriend.”
“What about her?”
“She just left him. I understand he’s heartbroken.”
Matteras snorted. “Not enough to stop him from riding to the ruins of Gangaridai. You had better put her to use.”
“Don’t worry, I’ve been saving her for a rainy day.”
She was sitting at home watching TV in her pajamas when the doorbell rang. It was noon and her parents were both at work. The maid was busy cleaning, the cook was in the kitchen—all was right in the world. She opened the door, and Siyer strolled in.
“Miss Maria Kabir?” Siyer had his gray suit on, his cravat and his cane. He looked like a most distinguished gentleman.
Maria stared at him and felt a shiver of unreasoning fear, but it was daytime, the sun was streaming in, and he looked elderly and rather harmless, so she assumed he was one of her father’s diplomat friends and ushered him into the formal drawing room.
“Papa’s at work,” she said casually, bored.
“Of course,” Siyer said. “I’m an old friend. I just flew in from London. I thought I’d take a chance and see if the old fox had retired.”
“Please, sit,” Maria said, thawed somewhat by his aristocratic accent. “Some tea? Or cold lemon juice?”
“Tea would be perfect.” Siyer took a turn smoothly, his cane clicking on the beige marble. He waved the manila envelope he was carrying. “I have a small present for him; perhaps I’ll leave it with you.”
They had tea, and Siyer proved to be such an urbane conversationalist that Maria soon began regaling him with her life story and quite lost track of the fact that she had never seen him before.
“And you’re getting married, I heard,” Siyer said.
“Well, it’s supposed to be a secret.” Maria frowned. “Nothing is final yet.”
“Your father still writes to me, infrequently,” Siyer said. “Tell me about the boy.”
“He’s American, lives in Chicago. He’s a software engineer, very smart,” Maria said, happy to dwell on this paragon. “He went to MIT. He’s already a VP in his company.”
“Sounds wonderful. And will you be moving there?”
“Yes, as soon as my papers get done,” Maria said. “He rents an apartment in the city, but Papa is going to give us a down payment, and we’re probably going to buy a house…”
“How lovely,” Siyer said. “And does he have a lot of siblings?”
“Not really, only an older sister, and she lives in Toronto,” Maria said. “So far away, and I’m kind of glad about that; it’d be so boring to have to hang out with in-laws all day.”
“How perfect. It sounds like you would have been very happy, Maria.”
“Excuse me?”
“I said I’m sure you would have been very happy,” Siyer said. “I’m just sorry it’s not to be.”
“What are you saying?” Maria said, puzzled. Then, as the peculiar menace of the words sank in, she stared at him with newfound suspicion. “You’re not my father’s friend, are you?”
“Not exactly, although I have met him a couple of times. It’s such a small city, you know.”
“What the hell do you want?”
“This envelope is actually a present for you.” Siyer slid it forward across the ornate coffee table. “Please, take a moment to collect yourself.”
Maria tore it open. There were glossy pictures inside, horrible, enlarged graphic pictures that had looked so sexy on the little phone screen. Blown up and printed, they seemed vulgar, threatening.
“That’s not me,” she blustered.
“Oh yes, dear, it is. There are head shots too, if you take a moment to look at the ones in the back,” Siyer said. “Lovely pictures—I was so enjoying them in the car ride over. You have a stunning figure, so well groomed. Bengali girls tend to get so dumpy at this age.”
“What do you want? Are you from Harun’s family?”
“No, I do not know or care about the boy in Chicago,” Siyer said. “Although of course, you’ll have to give him up. I imagine his family would be rather horrified if these were released publicly.”
“Please don’t,” Maria said in a dull voice. Everything seemed far away, inconsequential. This, she thought, was what true shock felt like.
“I am more interested in your previous affair. With Rais Khan Rahman.”
“Did he give these to you? To get back at me?”
“No, he’s probably not enough of a bastard. He was just careless, left his phone lying around. I suppose you can’t blame him for not deleting the photos. They’re so… useful on a lonely night.”
“Oh god.”
“I want you to go back to him,” Siyer said.
“How can I? The wedding…”
“You’ll call it off. Tell your parents you love Rais, or hate Chicago, or anything, really. They’re indulgent, I’m sure you’ll manage.”
“And Rais?”
“Be seductive. I’m sure you can win him back.”
“Why? Why do this?”
“To you? Because I can. Because you’re temporarily useful. Right place, right time, so to speak. I want you to insinuate yourself back into his life completely. You don’t have much time, so quite simply, go fuck his brains out. I want to know everything about him—where he goes, what he eats, who he talks to. At a later date, you will have to do more, but this is sufficient for now.”
“Spy on Rais? Why? He’s just… just a weird loser.”
“Oh no, he’s got a few large secrets he’s been hiding from you,” Siyer said. “Get him to tell you about djinns.”
“Djinns? Like three wishes from a lamp?”
“Close enough,” Siyer said. “Believe me, it’s all true. I’d offer you proof, but really, what difference does it make? We both know you’ll do precisely as I say.”
“Okay,” Maria said. She started to hand the envelope back, wanting it gone from her hands.
“Keep it, I’ve got copies,” Siyer said, standing up. “Did I tell you about the video clips?”
“Oh god, no.”
“You really are a pretty girl,” Siyer said gently. “Now do as I say. I want to know what he’s doing every second of the day. I’ll be in touch.”
Siyer’s last visit of the day was to GU Sikkim’s rooftop. Circumstances being much different now, the Afghan did not bother with niceties.
“You’re finished, Sikkim,” he said, towering over the old man. “It’s all over. Your nephew visited Bahamut. Bahamut.”
“What? Impossible. He never said a thing.”
“Matteras is upset.”
“It’s not my fault!” GU Sikkim said. “I’ve done everything Matteras wanted.”
“You are incompetent,” Siyer said. “I am to deal with the Khan Rahman issue now.”
“You can’t do that, we had a deal!” GU Sikkim said. “I’m a client of Matteras, for god’s sake.”
“Then do your fucking job,” Siyer said.
“It’s his damn mother,” GU Sikkim said bitterly. “She’s turned him against me. He’s been lying to my face!”
“We need to send him a message to back off,” Siyer said. “Matteras is on a tight schedule, and we don’t want any complications, no matter how minor.”
“What schedule?”
“The operation in the bay. Finally this cesspit of a delta will be cleansed.”
“That’s insane. Can he really do it?”
“He can and he will.”
“Does he really have the support?”
“Forces are aligned behind him,” Siyer said. “He has called an Assembly, but that is mostly a formality.”
“God.” GU Sikkim shuddered. “God. What’s going to happen to me? To my family? We’ll lose everything!”
“I would get out if I were you,” Siyer said. “Liquidate. That’s what I’m doing for the cabal.”
“Fine. Fine.” GU Sikkim grabbed Siyer’s arm. “Look, Dargoman, we’ve known each other for years. Matteras was going to kill you that night. I put in a good word. I told him that you’d be more useful alive. You’ve got to help me. I’ve been loyal to you guys. Set us up somewhere—London, Sydney, anywhere. Let me into the cabal, for god’s sake. I want to be a director in one of your offshore banks. And money. At least ten million. Plus you help us sell off and move whatever we can. In return, I’ll deliver the boy to you. You can make him disappear like the other one.”
Siyer smiled. “You’re not cheap. The boy is protected by Barabas. We will not risk open warfare among the djinn.”
“The mother then,” GU Sikkim said quickly. “I can deliver her, I swear. That’ll end it all. She’s the real root of the problem.”
“She is too well known in our world. She has become influential. She is intimately involved with the courts regarding her son’s application. Many djinn correspond with her, many of them recognize her. She is owed favors,” Siyer said. “It is not the right time to assassinate her.”
“What then?” GU Sikkim looked desperate. He could feel his leverage slipping away.
“Matteras said to send a message. It has to be either you or the Ambassador.”
“What?”
“I was going to kill you tonight,” Siyer said, “but you reminded me of old times. So you can decide.”
“What kind of choice is that?” GU Sikkim asked.
“You’ve run out of uses, Uncle,” Siyer said. “Now choose.”
GU Sikkim looked at the Afghan’s face and concluded that the man was absolutely serious.
“Fine, fine, Vulu then, what do you expect me to say? He walks in the park two or three times a week, at dawn. You can get to him then. At least make it look like an accident.”
“Excellent. I hope this will end the matter. Now, I’ve had a long day.”
“Wait!” GU Sikkim wailed. “What about the money?”
“Ah yes,” Siyer said. “I’ll transfer a little something to your account when it happens.”
“How much?”
“Two hundred thousand dollars should suffice.”
“Two lakhs? A measly two hundred thousand? And what about moving us out?”
“What on earth would we want with a pack of Bengali refugees? Don’t be silly. You’re still rich, at least for a little while. Help your own damn family move.”
CHAPTER 20
The Myrmidon Plan
Aside from training and the daily grind of survival, Givaras’s obsessions were scholarly, much to the disgust of Indelbed. A large stack of plates was stored against one wall, each piece etched with tiny djinn script. This niche was called the Bibliotheca. Here, Givaras had put down treatises on the varied subjects he was master of, essays of rare insight and power, since the enforced isolation had allowed him to work unfettered for years on end.
