The Murder Prophet Read online

  Anna led us all into what we fondly call the "boardroom," even though we couldn't fit the entire staff inside for a meeting. Those we held in the reception area or the lunch room. The boardroom was really just a spare office, with four comfortable chairs, a rolling bar cart, some artificial flowers and nice lighting. I took a seat in a brocade-covered wing chair near the door and tried to blend in with the dark, floral-embossed wallcoverings.

  Saga offered Mr. Coro a drink, and when the client refused, settled himself in a chair and folded his hands placidly on his lap. "So, in what way may Darcko and Sadatake assist you?"

  Aleshu Coro swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing like something huge was trying to get past it. He looked from Anna to Saga pleadingly, and said in a low voice, "I'm hoping you might be able to save my life."

  It felt like the room itself tensed, holding its breath. I know I did. Saga merely raised his eyebrows, and Anna allowed a slight crease of concern to wrinkle her forehead.

  Coro continued, barely above a whisper, "I've had a message from the Murder Prophet."

  And I knew without a shadow of doubt that he wasn't lying.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The Murder Prophet

  Anna sat back in her chair and pursed her plum-glazed lips. She kept her voice a practised neutral when she answered. "When was this?"

  Coro breathed deeply and blew it out in a long sigh before he answered, as if the initial revelation had been the hardest part. "Two days ago. It took me that long to discover that the police can or will do almost nothing to help me, and to find someone who might. You."

  "The police can't offer you anything?" Anna asked. "I would think they'd be taking these messages seriously by now."

  Coro set his face, the lines around his mouth pulled taut and determined. "They take them seriously, but they can't offer me anything except protection, and they don't have the manpower to offer much of that. Frankly, I could hire better bodyguards personally, if that's all I wanted. I want this person stopped."

  "Why come to us?" Anna asked him. "We're not particularly well-known, I wouldn't think."

  Coro shrugged. "You did some work for Hastings Wells. He was very satisfied, and recommended you."

  Well, that answered that question. Wells was a corporate exec who'd been suffering at the hands of a hostile and corrupt Board of Directors. He'd come to us specifically because we weren't on anyone's radar, and we'd done some nice undercover work that solved the problem.

  Saga turned his imperturbable gaze to me. "How many people have received messages from the Murder Prophet thus far?" I don't know why he always expects me to know stuff like that. This time, though, I knew the answer.

  "Eight known here in the city. Of course there could be others."

  Saga nodded. "And of those eight..."

  "All have eventually been murdered, yes. Within a time frame mentioned in the message, however cryptically."

  Aleshu Coro swallowed audibly.

  A brief moment of silence followed, pressing down heavily on the room like a giant hand, and then Anna said briskly, "Well, this time it will be different. Mr. Coro, you want us to save your life. To do that we must discover who wants to end it. We'll need unlimited access to your business and personal files and information, as well as to your family, employees and acquaintances. We must be permitted to proceed unhampered, and you must not keep anything back from us. Do you understand?"

  "Yes," he said, again in that voice that sounded like it hurt him to speak. He slumped inside his expensive suit like it was armor a size too big for him.

  "And you'll agree to those terms?" Anna pressed.

  "Yes," he said, a little more firmly this time.

  She sat back and considered him for a moment, steepling her fingers and tapping them against her lips. "You haven't asked about our fee."

  He shrugged. "The money won't matter if I'm dead. Whatever the fee is, I'll pay it. You know I have the means."

  Saga leaned forward in his chair. His eyes twinkled with the excitement of a new challenge. "Did you bring the message with you?"

  Coro nodded, and produced a slender, expensive-looking leather chip wallet. He carefully extracted one of the chips from its sleeve and handed it over to Saga. "The file is on that. You can keep it. I don't want to look at it again."

  "Does the message mention a time-frame?" Anna wanted to know.

  Coro ran a shaky hand over his face, pale beneath his black hair. "It contains the word 'fortnight,' but it doesn't say in so many words that that's how long..." His voice trailed away.

  Anna shook her head. "As far as I know, all the messages have been quotations, difficult to apply to any given recipient. But as Kit says, if there's a measure of time mentioned, then invariably that provides a clue to when—"

  "The recipient should conduct himself with caution," Saga finished smoothly. He likes clients to remain calm when they visit us, although he's always anxious to start a new case. Anna likes to lay the facts on the table. They're a strange pair, but their partnership seems to work.

  "You were wise to come to us so quickly," Saga continued. "If you received the message two days ago, that gives us over a week before we should even begin to be alarmed. We shall meet with our staff to determine how best to conduct your case, and then we'll be in touch with you directly." He didn't stand or make any move at all, but it was clear the appointment was ending.

  Aleshu Coro took the hint and stood, tugging his jacket down as if it helped him to compose himself. "Thank you so much," he said fervently, shaking all our hands again. His grip was firm, although his palm felt clammy. He took another deep breath, seemingly to ready himself to venture back out into the world, and I escorted him back to Kiku.

  Once he was out the door I went straight to the kitchen and filled the coffeepot. After a moment's consideration, I picked up the phone and ordered pizzas to be delivered at lunchtime. I had a feeling we were about to have one of those staff meetings, and that it was going to be a long one.

  ***

  Glaive Timesi started slowly shaking his head when Anna got to the part about the Murder Prophet, and kept shaking it until she noticed and frowned at him. "What?"

  "I just don't see the point," he said. "Look, this Murder Prophet guy—"

  "Or woman," I interjected.

  "—or woman," he went on as if he'd been about to say that, "Has warned the intended victims of eight murders that we know about. They've still been murdered. The police have arrested the killers in two cases—"

  "Three," I said. I'd had a brief exchange of messages with LemurCandy while we waited for Glaive to arrive at the office.

  This time he shot me a look of annoyance and ran a hand over his grey-peppered short brown hair. "Three. Whatever. The rest are unsolved, no one has the faintest clue who's sending the messages, and at least in those two cases I mentioned, no one involved admits to knowing anything about them. The messages seem to have no connection to the killers, who have nothing to do with each other."

  Anna cocked her head at him. "And your point is?"

  He frowned and turned his palms up. "My point is, it's a waste of our time. Coro's going to get offed, and he might as well spend the next two weeks getting his affairs in order and having as much fun as he can. While he can."

  Well, Glaive spent an indeterminate number of years in a government position that bureaucrats might call "targeted response agent" and the rest of us might call "hit man." I guess he has a unique take on matters of life and death. The fact that he always wears unrelieved black is, I'm sure, a holdover from those days, and might provide a little peek inside his psyche. If he has any magic ability, he keeps it as secret as he does the rest of his life. Which is to say, extremely secret.

  You would think that having a former assassin as a co-worker would be awkward, or even troubling. It would, if Anna and Saga didn't vouch for him absolutely. I don't know what they know, but if they're okay with Glaive, then so am I. Even if sometimes I wonder whether he misses t
he option of solving problems via more direct and permanent methods.

  We'd gathered, as usual, in the reception area, pulled the blinds and put the "back soon" sign in the window. This was interesting enough that even Trip had abandoned his video game in favor of sitting in. Every once in a while his eyes strayed in the direction of the back room, though, and I wondered how long he'd last.

  Anna frowned and took a sip from her tumbler of water. "You're not usually such a defeatist, Glaive. Why this time?"

  He shrugged his broad shoulders and sighed. "I'm not trying to be defeatist; just practical. I think it's an impossible situation, unless Coro goes into hiding or something. I know what you told him, but there's not even any real guarantee that he's got two weeks. It could be a complete coincidence that the other deaths occurred in the time frame the messages mentioned."

  I shook my head. "Eight coincidences? Come on."

  "Okay, but what if there's magic involved?"

  Saga leaned forward in his chair. "What do you mean? We already know magic is involved if the Murder Prophet is a Seer. He or she is using that ability to predict the murders."

  "Sure." Glaive nodded, brushing an imaginary speck of dust from his black pants. "But what if someone's using magic in some other way? Like a Psych influencing the killer to make the kill? Or a Chanter manipulating a weapon from a distance? Or even just a Shielder maybe knocking out someone else's protection? I don't know how to counter any of those things, do you?"

  "Is any of that even possible?" Trip asked.

  "Not legally, for certain," Anna said, tapping her fingertips together.

  "Well, murder's not legal, either," Glaive said with a sardonic grin.

  "Any of those things would take a very high level Mancer," Kikufaax said. "Using a weapon that way would be fifth-level enchantment." Kiku was a Chanter herself, although only a low level, so I figured she was probably right. Her own magic seemed to take the form of getting mechanical and electronic things to function for her really reliably, which I thought was pretty handy.

  Trip turned to me. "Could a Psych do that, Kit? Mentally make someone kill someone else?"

  I shifted uncomfortably in my chair. "I don't know. Mine is a different kind of Psych ability...I can't influence people, only read them. I don't know much about the other side. But I don't think so."

  "There are so many nuances in the ways abilities manifest, so many shades of power and influence, it's hard to say if they'll ever be completely understood or catalogued," Saga added.

  The goose nodded and looked thoughtful.

  I glanced over at Kiku's computer screen, where the message from The Murder Prophet glowed, black letters stark against a pale background:

  Phlebas the Phoenician, a fortnight dead,

  Forgot the cry of gulls, and the deep sea swell

  And the profit and loss.

  A current under sea

  Picked his bones in whispers. As he rose and fell

  He passed the stages of his age and youth

  Entering the whirlpool.1

  We'd checked the reference, of course. It was from the early 20th century poet T.S. Eliot, part of his poem "The Waste Land." One of the previous messages had also been taken from this particular poem, but none of the others. I suppose it's a bit of a challenge to find poetic references to death that also contain a particular time frame that matches the one you're looking for. When it came to that, why was the Murder Prophet, whoever he or she was, sending these obscure messages anyway?

  I realized I had zoned out of the conversation—probably the effects of the Maginox® manifesting—and forced my attention back to it. Saga put an obvious end to further dissent or discussion by saying, "In any case, we have agreed to try and assist Mr. Coro—for a healthy, open-ended fee and a generous retainer, I might add—and so I am putting everyone on this case for the next few days. Finish up anything you must this afternoon, and tomorrow we will make a concentrated effort."

  He turned to me. "Kit, once you are finished with Ms. Kineall this afternoon, will you contact LemurCandy? I want everything, and I do mean everything, about the other murders and about Mr. Coro, as soon as possible."

  "Sure, no problem," I said. I wondered why he always tagged me to contact Lemur. It wasn't like Kiku or Glaive couldn't do it just as well. And the thought of seeing Lemur just now made me squirm a little. Our contact this morning had just been text, but for an in-depth research session we'd probably have to go virtual. I wondered if he'd be embarrassed that now I knew he'd chosen Aleshu Coro as his avatar.

  The pizza arrived, and we shared out steaming slices as we discussed a few ways of tackling the investigation. We debated the relative merits of spiriting Coro away for safety if the fortnight deadline approached before we made progress—but he'd have to agree to that, too. Once Glaive accepted the fact that Saga and Anna were committed to the case, he put aside his objections with good grace. We may all be mercenaries at heart here at Darcko and Sadatake, but we act like professionals.

  Well, most of the time.

  When the pizza and discussion had run out, I left for my appointment with the runaway Transmute, Idala Kineall.

  ***

  Idala was only eighteen, and I knew from her file that her Transmute powers had manifested after puberty, which happened in some people. It was actually better that way, I thought, because babies who could do things with their minds without understanding what they were doing could cause all kinds of disasters. The parents had to make tough decisions about using magic-dampening drugs as well as the Maginox® with its many and varied side effects. No, late-onset was better for everyone.

  Except, of course, for the person enduring it. Trust me on that one.

  What I knew about her, from the report Saga had shared with me, was that she'd come into her powers, become rebellious (big surprise there, what sixteen-year-old isn't rebellious?), said she'd never work for the government, and run away.

  Naturally, a certain percentage of the population—probably about half—has figured out ways to monetize their magic abilities. Alimentals run restaurants, host cooking shows, own catering businesses. Ecos grow crops or magically harvest resources. Shielders offer physical protection services or go into police work, Chanters build and fix things. Some, like Psychs, have a harder time getting anyone to pay for their abilities, and have to be careful to stay on the right side of the law. All the rest have low-level abilities or ones that are too specific to be broadly useful, or are Mundane, with no magic at all.

  Transmutes are expected to work in government jobs; comprising just six percent of the entire population, they're simply too valuable to waste. So far, transmutation is the magical ability with the most practical applications. It isn't like they aren't well-paid—show me a down-and-out Transmute who's even barely within the realm of sanity and I'll find him or her a good-paying job within twenty-four hours. Once someone realized that a Transmute could transform raw matter into energy with no waste products, the global energy crisis simply went away. A team of five Transmutes on a shift could churn out enough power to run a good-sized city easily, and that was also the end of the garbage problem.

  It was just that the idea of spending every day turning garbage into something you can't even see doesn't appeal to everyone. I know it wouldn't to me.

  It's obvious why the government hates to let one go, even though they make a big song and dance about everyone being entitled to use or not use their powers in whatever way makes sense to them. So every time a Transmute decides to run, the suits hire someone like us to hunt him down and offer him a very lucrative contract. Very lucrative. There's no force or coercion, oh no, because if word of that got out, there'd be an uproar. But they tempt them, and for most folks it's just too hard to resist.

  Especially if being on the run hasn't been going so well. Saga says the best time to "catch up" to them is when they're just about ready to give up and go home anyway. They'll take a less lucrative contract then, and be happy about it.
r />   Don't get me wrong, Saga's not a bad guy. But D&S is a business. As long as it doesn't cross a certain line, and sometimes if it just barely puts a toe across that line, we'll take the job and do our best for the client.

  Anyway, back to Idala Kineall. She'd been on the run for two years, a pretty good stretch for her age. Even though Saga said she had come back with him willingly, I half-expected that she'd be gone from the safe house when I went to collect her.

  I was wrong. She sat in the kitchen, still in a faded pink silk kimono, nursing a coffee with her feet up on the table. Her toenails were painted a brilliant glittery purple, but her feet were clean. Her shoulder-length hair hung lank and wet from the shower. It would probably dry to a medium blond.

  "Hello, Ms. Kineall," I said, plastering my best professional smile on my face. "I'm Kit Stablefield, and Mr. Sadatake asked me to make sure you get safely to the office this afternoon and get your contract in place."

  She quirked a cynical half-smile. "So they'll pay up on his bill?"

  I kept my own smile in place. "Something like that. And to be sure that you get a fair deal, what Mr. Sadatake offered you on the government's behalf."

  She lifted the coffee cup and sipped, but her eyes flicked to the latched back door.

  "It's locked on the inside, Ms. Kineall," I told her. "This house keeps you safe, it's not for keeping you prisoner. You could have left anytime through the night, and you can still leave now if you want. No-one's forcing you to do this."

  The kid lowered her coffee cup. A drop fell on the well-worn pink silk, but she didn't seem to notice. I didn't think she had makeup on. If she did, she hadn't done a very good job with it.

  "Might as well sit down while I finish this. There's at least another cup left in the pot," she offered with a negligent gesture in the general direction of the countertop.

  I pulled out a chair across from her and sat down. We had no particular appointment at the government office, and she wasn't dressed yet. Despite her glance at the door, I figured her mind was made up.