[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

Aiah huddles in her jacket, nerves crawling with fear, flesh crawling with
cold. It feels as if her bones have turned to ice.
'Two?' the thing says. 'And what is it you wish me to do for this ... token}'
Aiah can hear the steel in Constantine's voice. 'I wish to put the Metropolis
of Caraqui in my pocket,' he says.
'You wish me to kill?'
'Certain people. Yes.'
'Bad people?' The question sounds like a taunt. Aiah can sense the creature's
mirth.
'I believe so.'
'Three.' There is hunger in the thing's voice.
'Two.' Firmly.
i could kill you,' the thing offers.
Even Constantine's teeth are chattering now. But he takes a step toward the
thing, gestures with one fist.
'That would not get you what you want,' he says.
There is a moment of silence. Silver and black run through the thing's faintly
humanoid outline.
'Two,' it concedes. The voice is silky. 'And when does the killing start?'
'In a few days. I will send you a message by our accustomed route.'
Aiah gives a warning cry as the creature flows toward Constantine, spreading
wide its arms, or whatever it uses for arms, but it's not an attack, it's a
kind of submission, the thing bowing down before Constantine, huddling on the
concrete floor.
'I will do as you ask,' it says.
Constantine holds out a hand over the bowed form. 'Do this thing for me,' he
says, 'and I will give you release, if you want it.'
'Perhaps,' it says, and then, 'Not yet.' 'As you wish.'
And then it flows away, vanishing through the solid wall of the tunnel, and
Aiah cries out in relief.
For a long moment, the only sound in the tunnel is the trickling of water. The
cold fades from Aiah's bones, and suddenly she realizes she's wet, both from
the sweat that covers her skin and from the fact that she's sitting in the
rivulet at the bottom of the tunnel. Her knees had folded and she'd slid down
the concrete tunnel wall and she hadn't even noticed.
Constantine gives a relieved sigh, then turns, sees her on the floor, and
smiles. 'Gone now,' he says, and offers her a hand.
Aiah isn't certain whether her legs will yet support her, but she takes the
hand anyway, allows herself to be set on her feet. She's relieved to find them
capable of bearing her weight.
The air in the tunnel is very hot. Sweat pours down her face, but her body
still shudders with cold.
'Why am I sweating and shivering at the same time?' she asks.
it's a cold thing, isn't it?' Constantine's tone is light, but Aiah can tell
it's an effort. 'The effect is purely mental, though ... your body continued
to respond to the heat and humidity here, even though your mind was convinced
it was cold.'
He takes her arm and begins to guide her to the exit. Their boots splash
through water. A wave of adrenaline shivers through her body. She looks up at
him, clutches at his arm.
'What was it?'
its kind have different names. Creature of light. Ice man. Hanged man.' He
licks his lips. 'The Damned. That's the nearest description, I think.'
'A h-hanged man?' Astonishment trips up Aiah's tongue. Hanged men are a
feature of children's stories and bad fright chromoplays, monsters that leap
out of closets and bring down their victims in a spray of blood. 'They're
real?'
'Oh yes. But quite rare.'
'Thank Senko.'
They reach the door, and Constantine pulls it open. Aiah staggers out into the
cool air of a pump room. She wipes sweat from her face with a handkerchief and
straightens her skirt. A clammy spot, where she'd sat in the water, clings to
her thighs.
Constantine walks past, opens the door into the garage. Aiah follows him out.
'You knew this one,' she says. 'How?'
'There are people who worship hanged men, or make bargains with them. For a
time ...' He takes a breath, lets it out. 'For a time, I belonged to such a
cult. It was a period in which I had lost all faith in humanity, and in which
I was seeking . .. extremes. But during that time I gained knowledge of hanged
men, and what they are and desire.'
'What is it ' Aiah's mind stumbles on the question, and she has to will it to
continue. 'What is it that they want?'
'To be what they once were.' They approach the limousine, and Constantine
opens the door for her. She seats herself, and Constantine sits across from
her. He opens the bar and pours brandy into a pair of crystal glasses.
'Have a stiff one,' he says, and offers a glass. 'It'll do you good.'
Aiah bolts the brandy and welcomes the fiery reality that burns its way down
her throat. Constantine sips at his drink with more delicacy. Martinus starts
the car, heads toward the ramp leading to the street.
'He was once a man, that creature,' Constantine says. 'You knows about plasm's
mutagenic effects, how it can warp things, can create monsters out of ordinary
animals.'
Aiah remembers the thing in the pneuma station, the ripple of silver belly
scales that, in memory, now glow with the peculiar liquid sheen of the
patterns that ran through the hanged man, and suddenly the brandy wants to
come up. She turns away, shuddering, acid burning her throat. She forces the
brandy back down.
Constantine, gazing into his glass, seems not to notice. The car spirals up
the long concrete ramp.
it can happen with people, but more rarely,' he continues. 'Scholars,
sometimes, or philosophers, those who live in plasm all the time, who
practically bathe in it, and never notice when they slip away from matter and
become a prisoner of the plasm itself. A few very powerful people, tyrants or
captains of industry, people who can afford all the plasm they can consume,
have been brought down that way. Some politicians, leaders, but not as often.
The day-to-day realities of politics, of decision-making, provide an anchor on
the world's reality.
'And then ...' Constantine's deep voice turns dreamy. 'And then, when they
have become plasm only, their material substance gone or used up, they begin
to yearn for what they once were. But they can't manage it  they can't work
with matter any more, their very touch is hostile to life. They can kill,
easily and without thought, but they can't create, can't touch, and life
itself, the life of the warm body, becomes a dream, a yearning, an
ever-increasing desire they can't fulfill.'
An icy hand touches the back of Aiah's neck. 'So what is it they want?' she
says for the second time. The car arrives at ground level, Shieldlight
beckoning just ahead, promising a world of normality, safety, the company of
human beings.
Constantine looks at Aiah, his eyes hard, it wants life. To be back among
living things, to know the touch of the wind, the taste of wine, the joys of
the flesh. It can't accomplish this by itself, because it's no longer a thing
of matter, and cannot work with matter but to destroy. But with the help of a
capable mage  my help in this case -it can take a body, occupy it. Use it for
a time.'
The brandy tries to rise past Aiah's throat again, and she fights it back
down. 'And what happens to the person occupied by this thing?'
Constantine's voice is toneless. 'The body is used up; the hanged man is fatal
to life in the long run. In a matter of days the body becomes a husk. And as
for the victim's soul, I suppose it goes wherever it is that souls go.'
Sadness swims through Aiah. She leans back, rests her nape against plush
fabric. 'And these victims?' she asks. 'Who will they be?'
Constantine sighs. 'Criminals, I suppose. Perhaps some of Caraqui's utterly
deserving political class. It is a sad fact of political life that once you
concede the notion that certain people deserve death, it isn't hard to find
them.'
'And this cult you belonged to? What did it offer this hanged man of yours?'
'My cousin Herome was the priest. He was also in charge of our political
prisons. The hanged man did not lack for souls to eat.' [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]