Djinn City, page 5
“The boy has this mark.” Aunty Juny pulled up Indelbed’s shirt roughly.
Siyer bent down to have a close look and frowned. “Well, it might be the mark of Bahamut—just barely. Kaikobad must have done it himself. In the dark. With his left hand.”
“I don’t remember getting it,” Indelbed said.
“No doubt he hoped it would protect you,” Siyer said. “But an experienced man such as Kaikobad should have known that just marking the boy would do him scant favors. Only full emissaries are permitted to bear the mark of their patron djinn. I’m afraid it is no protection against a formal hunt.”
“What are the terms of this hunt?” Aunty Juny asked.
“I have to check the notice. As I said, there hasn’t been one for many years. Normally they last for a month or so and are open to the public. Proof is taken in the form of a body part. Perhaps the head.”
“They want to cut my head off?” Indelbed asked, getting scared now.
“Well, you won’t feel it—they’ll kill you before,” Siyer said. “Sometimes there are added clauses, for fun. Like you have to kill the victim left-handed, or using the form of a dog, or something like that.”
“And does anyone survive?” Aunty Juny asked.
“Mostly not,” Siyer said. “It’s a bit of an honor, being targeted for a hunt. If Indelbed survives, he’ll have a lot of dignatas.”
“And what exactly is this dignatas thing?” Aunty Juny asked.
“It is, quite simply, the essence of the djinn. It is the personal worth of a character, the force of will, the influence, the charisma, the wit, the sheer handsomeness. It is a deeply personal thing, the full measure of a person. And most importantly, it determines the auctoritas of an individual,” Siyer said.
“Wait a minute, I remember this stuff from Roman history class,” Rais said.
“The Romans, young man, stole the idea from the djinns,” Siyer said.
“And this auctoritas business? What is that good for?” Aunty Juny asked.
“It is, madame, the currency we use in the djinn world,” Siyer said. “It is the authority of a man to command goods and services from others, to shape policy, to influence the direction of the polity. It measures his rank in the social hierarchy, even the safety of his person. A djinn without auctoritas is nothing, an ignored, wretched creature, a veritable beggar.”
“And you work for auctoritas, I take it?” Aunty Juny said.
“Yes, madame.” Siyer drew himself up proudly. “An emissary without auctoritas is a useless fool. When you ask for something, auctoritas determines whether the answer is yes or no. Auctoritas itself is determined by dignatas. Asking favors reduces dignatas, whereas granting favors increases dignatas, among other things.”
“And we ordinary mortals have none, I suppose?” Aunty Juny said.
“None at all,” Siyer said.
“Then how do you expect us to pay you, for god’s sake?” the Ambassador asked irritably.
Siyer stood up. “That, sir, is your issue. I have come out of respect for Kaikobad. As he is no longer lucid, I see no further reason to stay here.”
“Good, good, get out of here,” GU Sikkim said.
“Wait a minute,” Aunty Juny said. She glared at Sikkim, and he ceased his grumbling. “We are unaware of occult customs. Please bear with us. I understand that you would be willing to work with Kaikobad?”
“Certainly,” Siyer said. “He was a man with considerable auctoritas. Aiding him would put him in my debt, thereby decreasing some of his dignatas and increasing mine.”
“Well, why can’t you use his auctoritas now? Just take all of it, for god’s sake.”
“Madame, he is in a coma,” Siyer said. “Auctoritas cannot be transferred or inherited. You cannot negotiate on his behalf, nor spend his auctoritas.”
“He asked you to help his son, didn’t he?” Aunty Juny asked.
“He merely asked me to pay him a visit to discuss these matters,” Siyer said. “No formal contract was struck.”
“Well, who has to know that? You can be sure that Kaikobad, if he ever wakes up, will never contradict you. Why not just help yourself to some of that great auctoritas and help out this poor emissary child at the same time?” Aunty Juny asked.
Siyer Dargoman looked thoughtful. A cunning look descended across his face, momentarily transforming the noble mien into something vulturish.
“Yes, well, my prior conversation with Kaikobad was rather detailed,” Siyer said. “I suppose I can proceed on that premise. I accept the contract. I will observe him for tonight. If he wakes up, we’ll see.” His expression said that he carried scant hope of that ever happening.
They went back to the living room for tea and samosas. Indelbed, who had been avidly studying the emissary, was left with the lingering suspicion that his future was being settled with undue haste.
CHAPTER 6
Traitors
“This is all happening very hastily,” GU Sikkim said, as he pulled on his hookah. Some of the younger children of the family had banded together and bought it for him. They called it shisha, like the damn Arabs. And they had the cheek to give him some awful apple-flavored stuff instead of real, manly tobacco.
His guest was the djinn Matteras, who affected the human form of a stocky, bald psychopath. His teeth, when he smiled, were two rows of needle fangs. GU Sikkim thought that this pretty much summed up his entire personality.
They were sitting on the roof of GU Sikkim’s Baridhara duplex. He owned this part of the roof outright and had girded it with latticed walls and various plants to maintain privacy. It felt like a garden. The open air was good for him. It was also easier to entertain guests like Matteras. The space around the djinn glittered, as if agitated somehow. Each djinn had a distortion field around him, a sort of spherical area of influence where quantum distortions occurred.
Matteras had an exceptionally powerful distortion field. He could flatten a building a hundred yards away. Right now, out of consideration for his host, he had compacted his field into a ball a few yards in diameter. Sitting inside the djinn’s distortion field made GU Sikkim sick. He got vertigo and heard noises. His teeth hurt. His heart felt like flopping out of his chest. On a good day, more than a minute would make him puke. Thus, Matteras sat at the opposite end of the roof, keeping a polite distance. This was a sign of extraordinary consideration on the part of the djinn, who, like most of his race, was overbearingly arrogant.
“Sikkim, times are changing,” Matteras said. “You were told to control the emissary Kaikobad and his son. In this you failed.”
“Control that madman?” GU Sikkim shuddered. “I kept him pickled in alcohol.”
“It was not enough,” Matteras said. “He put the mark of Bahamut on the boy, and then he applied for permission to enter him as an apprentice. This created many ripples, I can tell you.”
“He’s a runty half-wit, that boy,” GU Sikkim said. “And Kaikobad is in a coma. Can’t we just leave it at that?”
“It has become political,” Matteras said. To djinn this was a catchall phrase for matters far too complex for humans to understand. Djinn politics was notoriously convoluted. Nor were the rewards tangible or, often enough, even predictable. Huge amounts of auctoritas were used on ridiculous gambles with obscure payoffs. Alliances between individuals shifted like sand. No djinn trusted another. It was the Great Game. “I know about Kaikobad. Forget him, he’s never waking up. The boy concerns me. You will deal with him.”
“You want me to help you kill my own grand-nephew?” GU Sikkim asked. He should have felt more outrage at the thought, but in reality, he was just irritated that the unwelcome whelp was still causing him trouble.
“I shall not kill him, I’m not barbaric,” Matteras said. “He must be removed from the board nonetheless. You should have kept him in obscurity, as I asked. You always knew this day would come.” He waved his hand around the rooftop garden. “You have certainly enjoyed the fruits of my favor. Do not act squeamish now.”
“Obscurity? I kept the boy damn near locked in his house for the past ten years. He didn’t even know his mother was a djinn.”
“Regardless, it is now open news that my sister had a son,” Matteras said. “There is no saving him now. It is his very blood that is the problem. My enemies would love to parade him around like a dog on a leash. My position is untenable. Forget the boy. You had better concentrate on preserving the rest of your clan… and all your wealth.”
GU Sikkim had, in the past, entered into a bargain with Matteras. Over two decades ago, at the supposed peak of his business career, he had in fact lost a lot of money. Led astray by an old friend, he had sunk his capital into a factory devoted to making skin-whitening products for men. Due to some faulty advertising and unfortunate chemical reactions, they were deluged with lawsuits from irate customers suffering severe disfigurement. The whitening product, far from creating a milky complexion, had turned certain victims a deep orange. More than two dozen prospective grooms had used this product, only to find their faces literally sloughing off on the eve of their weddings. The hoopla was enormous, with media coverage, court cases, and mob action outside the factory.
His partner ran away to Nairobi, leaving him with a mountain of trade debt and bank loans for which he was jointly and severally liable. The Standard & Bartered Bank had his personal guarantee, which meant all of his properties, including the Baridhara duplex, were up for grabs. Worst of all, the government initiated an investigation against him, with alarming talk of criminal charges.
None of his banker friends came forward to help him. His lawyers advised him to let the cases hang in court for the next fifty years and then charged him outrageous fees. His friend, the editor of the Daily Star, informed him with mock sadness that he just hadn’t been able to stop his rabid journalists from covering the story. The family offered gratuitous advice with ill-hidden glee. They would have stopped him from going to jail, but he would have lost everything! He would have been a shirttail relative like Kaikobad, living in squalor. Intolerable!
And then, like Faustus’s demon, Matteras arrived. He offered immediate relief. The chief victim was defenestrated. Others rescinded. The defaced orange bridegrooms were married off. Opposing lawyers withdrew their cases. The bank directors, so snooty only days ago, suddenly became sweet, offering extensions and reschedulements. His local branch once again started sending him diaries and calendars and wishing him happy birthday.
Funds appeared in Sikkim’s accounts, wired in from the Caymans. Best of all, the Directorate General of Drug Administration, hitherto investigating him with unnecessary zeal, was suddenly blessed with a dream from the angel Gabriel, who expressly declared Sikkim innocent of any malpractice. He closed the investigation the very next day and sent Sikkim a handsome letter of apology along with a box of iffy sweets. The related files subsequently disappeared from the archives, leaving no trace of the initial findings.
All in all, Matteras had delivered. In return GU Sikkim signed a 743-page contract; the djinn being an extremely litigious race, their contracts were so intricate that not even Sikkim’s handpicked team of five barristers had been able to make heads or tails of it. His main man, Barrister Asif, had finally shrugged and advised him to just sign. What difference would it really make? (Barrister Asif had then charged him a hefty fee for this extremely cogent legal opinion.) In the end he had signed what Matteras had assured him was a simple client contract, making Matteras his legal patron.
In djinn culture the patronage system was a long-cherished tradition where patrons offered the weight of their auctoritas as protection and guidance to their clients, who in turn supported their patron in myriad capacities. It was a binding legal obligation, going both ways. In reality, as far as Sikkim could determine, it meant that he had to do whatever Matteras said, on pain of falling foul of djinn law. On top of that, Matteras looked like he could literally bite a man’s head off, and it was simply out of the question to disobey him.
“Now, because of some overreaching political debates between various djinn societies—mainly my own faction and that of Bahamut—this has become a sensitive issue. I do not want a huge hue and cry about this,” Matteras said.
“Well, you shouldn’t have called the hunt on him then,” GU Sikkim said.
“I did no such thing,” Matteras said. “The minor hunt was called by my enemies to draw attention to him. They wished to embarrass me. Then the Evolutionist faction latched on to it, trying to claim djinn status for the boy. The minor hunt has been declared legal, but it is tied up in protests, injunctions, and countersuits. It has reached a point where it might even incur negative dignatas on the one who completes the hunt. A most piquant situation.”
“What do you want from me then?” GU Sikkim waved his hand irritably.
“I want to apprehend the boy quietly,” Matteras said. “I want him to disappear, not paraded in front of the courts as some trophy of a hunt. And I want everyone involved to forget about it. Who do you have with him now?”
“I’ve sent the Ambassador,” GU Sikkim said. “He’s mostly up to speed on things. He’ll deliver the boy to you, no problem.”
“I can tell from your fatuous expression that there is a problem.”
“Kaikobad contacted an emissary colleague for help,” GU Sikkim said. “I tried to stall him, but he’s actually here now, in Wari, living at the house. Some creature called Siyer Dargo Dargoman.”
Matteras uttered a string of djinn curse words. The air shimmered around him with flits of locust lights. GU Sikkim fell back in alarm. It was all too easy to forget the lethal force these ancient creatures commanded, especially while drinking tea on the roof garden.
“I couldn’t stop it,” GU Sikkim said feebly.
“You are utterly useless,” Matteras said. “The emissary knows djinns, you fool. He can publicize this thing. I will have to neutralize him.”
“Kill him?” GU Sikkim was starting to get a sick feeling about this.
“Emissaries cannot be killed so easily,” Matteras said. “Not even an Ifrit of great nobility and tremendous dignatas such as myself can flout the Lore. You infantile humans naturally cannot understand concepts such as the Lore, but suffice it to say that it is the full sum of djinn wisdom and tradition; for a djinn to be caught transgressing would cause a great deal of censure. I would lose dignatas.”
“Yes, patron,” GU Sikkim said.
“I cannot deal with the boy in Wari. His house is well known to djinns interested in the hunt. It is protected by ancient runes, moreover. You must get the boy and Siyer away to a secluded spot. When they are alone I will deal with them both.”
“I will tell the Ambassador to get them out of there,” GU Sikkim said. “I cannot control where Siyer will go, however—”
“Do you still have that little apartment in Mirpur, where you kept your mistress?” Matteras asked, without blinking.
“Er, yes.”
“I trust the mistress is gone?”
“Yes, I mean that was just a one-time thing…”
“Spare me, you cretin,” Matteras said. “Is it empty now?”
“Yes.”
“Good, then send Siyer and the boy over there. Make up whatever story you like.”
“And then what?”
“Once I have the boy, it will all be over. Forget about it.”
CHAPTER 7
Last Day on Earth
Everything was moving really fast. Hardly a day had passed, and they had regathered at the Wari house. There was no change in his father’s state; the coma appeared permanent. The Ambassador had already progressed to the idea of packing him off with Siyer Dargoman, who, despite his natty attire, still seemed fairly shady. Surprisingly, Aunty Juny, who had hitherto always shown a propensity toward wanting him gone, was putting up a degree of resistance to this idea, backed up ably by Rais.
“We don’t know this man,” she hissed finally, within his earshot.
“I don’t want to do anything rash, dear,” the Ambassador said. He was showing an unusual degree of backbone, Indelbed noted. “But whatever got Kaikobad is bound to come back here. It simply isn’t safe to be in this house a minute longer than necessary. Uncle Sikkim has an apartment in Mirpur, very private, no one knows of it. It is the ideal place to hide them. I insist, dear, everything has been arranged.”
And that was it. The Ambassador hustled Indelbed upstairs without giving anyone a chance to voice a dissenting opinion. He was left alone and told to pack. Indelbed had actually never packed before. His first instinct was to gather his meager supply of toys: his precious cricket bat and ball, the stuffed dinosaur that had been Kaikobad’s own, the three old Hulk comics someone had given him. He stacked these on the bed and then realized that he had no bag.
Luggage, however, was not something in short supply in the Wari house. Kaikobad’s bedroom had an attached dressing room that was never used. Presumably in some distant past it had contained the clothes and artifacts of his wife. Upon her death, Kaikobad must have destroyed all of her things. Now it was filled with luggage of varied origin.
Indelbed had spent many hours playing in this room, rooting through trunks and suitcases for hidden treasure. He had once unearthed a hat box with a proper top hat that could be snapped flat. Here were the myriad traces of his family’s former prosperity. There was a huge wood-and-leather trunk with intricate compartments inside, including silver-handled combs and brushes, now tarnished black. This had been one of Indelbed’s favorite pieces of luggage. He had stuffed many secret things in here. There was a time when he had even fit himself into the main compartment.
He considered pulling it out, but then thought that Siyer was unlikely to appreciate baggage this cumbersome. It occurred to him that he would probably have to carry his own bags, previous experience making him suspect that grown-ups were unlikely to help him carry his stuff; in fact, he thought darkly, it would most likely be the opposite, and he’d end up lugging Siyer’s bags.
After rummaging through various hard and soft suitcases, he found what he was looking for. It was a small leather case with little brass wheels at the bottom and a leather strap for pulling. A small brass label on the top said BALZAC—ARGENTINA. This had been another favorite of his. It pulled smoothly, and the wheels swiveled in their little brass sockets. The zipper ends were heavy steel balls that clinked together. The leather was veined and nicked with age, but it was still smooth to the touch and supple, like a thick, cool blanket. There was a shoulder strap too. He hefted it a few times and decided that it would do.
