"Satan lost his war. Only a fool would pay homage to him."
—Conrad Bland
"Mr. Bromberg, this is John Sable again."
"Dammit, Sable!" snapped Bromberg, glaring into the camera at his end of the vidphone. "This is the fourth time in five days!"
"Just routine," said Sable, striving to control his temper. "Has he turned up yet?"
"I keep telling you: If he does show up we are quite competent to handle matters without your assistance."
"And I keep telling you," said Sable, "that he's wanted for six murders in Amaymon. If you capture him, we want him back."
"I know," said Bromberg. "Now why don't you just leave me the hell alone and I'll let you know when we've got him."
"Goodbye, Mr. Bromberg." Sable sighed. "I'll be checking in with you again tomorrow."
"Don't bother!" snapped Bromberg.
"It's my job," said Sable, and broke the connection.
He checked the clock on his wall, above and to the left of the baphomet, and was amazed to find out that it was only midafternoon. He lit a cigar, his second of the day, or maybe his third—he'd given up counting them since the second and third murders—and leaned back in his chair.
Theoretically it wasn't his problem any longer. The killer was gone from Amaymon, was completely beyond his legal jurisdiction, and no one seemed to want his help. Also, his superiors were still dragging their feet He had gone to them, urging them to make contact with Bland's headquarters at a higher level than he could reach and offer any assistance that Bland's security men might need—but so far, to the best of his knowledge, neither side had moved off dead center. Bland didn't want help, and the civil authorities seemed quite content not to offer it
It was puzzling. He had no intense personal interest in Bland; in fact, based on their one brief conversation, he didn't like him at all. But almost half the population of Amaymon revered the man. Even his wife, Siboyan, had been lighting candles and offering symbolic sacrifices for his safety. Why did no one in authority, either here or in Tifereth, show any concern?
Even discounting the presence of a Republic assassin, there was a lot more to this business than met the eye. This didn't trouble him, or even seem especially unusual: after all, his job was unraveling mysteries. But he had pulled every string he possessed and he was still in the dark—and that bothered him.
Finally he sat up in his chair and pushed an intercom button.
"Yes?" said his secretary.
"I'm going home," he announced.
"Will you want any vidcalls transferred to you?"
"No."
"Under any circumstances?"
"Not unless they come from Conrad Bland himself," he said with a chuckle.
He locked his desk, put on his lightweight jacket, and left the office. He decided not to take his usual bus home; instead he walked the three miles, poring over those few facts he knew and trying to guess at the many he didn't know.
As he walked, the neighborhood began changing, first from commercial to residential, then from apartment buildings to homes. He walked past the black houses of the Messengers, the reds of the Brotherhood of Night, the violets of the Daughters of Delight, even an occasional white house owned by one of the white witches. At last he turned onto his own street, which was a little poorer and a little smaller, but well kept up. His own house was brick, and he had resisted Siboyan's urgings to paint it the black and gold of the Cult of Cali. Possibly it was because he had changed religions when he married her, possibly there was some other reason he couldn't yet fathom, but he had no desire to make public his beliefs; and besides, with three young children he had better ways to spend his money.
"Hi!" said Siboyan as he walked in the door. "You're home early, aren't you?"
That's a hell of a greeting," he said. "If it bothers you I can go back to the office."
She brushed a wisp of blond hair back off her forehead. "Don't be silly," she said, walking up to him and kissing him on the cheek. "I'm just surprised to see you, that's all."
"I'm sorry."
"Are you getting pressure over the killings?"
"No," he said, frowning. "Not even a little."
"Curious," she commented.
"Isn't it?"
"Will you be wanting dinner soon?"
"Not for a couple of hours," he replied. "I think I'll go out back."
He changed into a pair of coveralls and a heavy shirt, then went to the back yard to work in his garden. He had begun it some six years ago, a little vegetable patch to help stretch his paycheck; but over the years he had become obsessed with it, to the point where it now covered almost the entire yard. He enjoyed the regularity of it, the predictable patterns of growth. There were no unknown motives lurking in this garden, no forces working at cross purposes, no threats to life or limb or logic. It was a pleasant way to spend a few hours at the end of each day, anticipating something new and beautiful rather than reconstructing something old and terrible, forming the patterns rather than hunting for them. He had added flowers to the vegetables, then some of the hardier exotic plants. Working here relaxed him, cleared his mind, renewed his spirit—except that today it did none of these.
He spent two hours there among his growing things, tending to them and trying unsuccessfully to make his mind relax. Then Siboyan sent the two boys out to tell him that dinner would be ready in half an hour and that he'd better wash up. He wrestled with them for a few minutes, listened to them complain about school and church, promised to help fix a broken toy after dinner, then went into the bathroom and showered, emerging a few minutes later in pajamas and a robe.
He shaved with a straight razor—the Cult of Cali insisted, for reasons he still did not comprehend—and joined Siboyan and his sons and daughter in the dining room, noticing yet another stain on the red flocked wallpaper which he himself had hung the previous spring to save the cost of a craftsman, and which the children seemed determined to deface a little more with each passing day. He made his obeisance to the small statue of Cali atop the buffet, an onyx queen of demons wearing a necklace of tiny golden skulls, took his seat at the head of the table, and led the family in a brief prayer to Azazel.
Dinner was composed of soybean products, as usual. Inflation and three growing children limited them to very infrequent meals of real meat, though the kids hardly noticed the difference, and even Sable had difficulty telling one from the other on occasion. Afterward the boys went off to do home-work, and his daughter, who never procrastinated on school assignments and always had them done before dinner, posted herself in front of the video.
Sable and Siboyan remained at the table, sipping a little wine and talking about the events of the day. She shared his frustration at not being able to impress Bland with the seriousness of the situation and the skills of the assassin, though Sable wondered if her feelings weren't caused more by her reverence for Bland than her sympathy for his own position. Not that it mattered—he wasn't out for sympathy, just for answers that no one seemed able to supply.
She recognized his restlessness and suggested going out to a cinema, but he begged off, claiming he was too tired. It didn't ring true—he just didn't want to waste the money when he knew he wouldn't be concentrating on the entertainment—but she didn't press the issue, and finally he went down to his cellar workshop to try to fix the broken toy. He had just about gotten it repaired when Siboyan walked to the top of the stairs and called down to him:
"John—vidphone!"
"I told her not to forward any calls!" he called back, reluctant to set aside the toy when he was so near to having it done.
"I think you'd better come," said Siboyan. Something in her voice made him put the toy down and run up the stairs.
He picked up the extension in the kitchen, activating both the camera and the screen.
"Sable here."
"Mr. Sable," said a high-pitched voice, "this is Conrad Bland."
"Hold on a minute, Mr. Bland," he said. "There's something wrong with my screen. I'm not getting any picture."
"I'm not transmitting one," said Bland. "I am unfortunately not in the vicinity of a vidphone. My voice is being carried to one on an intercom system."
"What can I do for you?" said Sable.
"You are a very difficult man to reach," continued Bland, ignoring his question. "My chief of security informs me that you will speak to no one except myself."
"Not so," said Sable. "But when I'm at home, my time is my own. That's neither here nor there; you obviously have something important enough to merit contacting me yourself. What is it?"
"Direct and to the point," said Bland with a chuckle. "I like that, Mr. Sable. Yes, I have something important to tell you: We have captured your Republic assassin."
"You're sure?"
"I do not make mistakes, Mr. Sable," said Bland coldly.
"Well, I'm very glad I was able to warn you in time," said Sable. "Is he still alive?"
"Alive and well," replied Bland. "He is currently incarcerated in Tifereth, though we apprehended him a good deal south of here."
"I appreciate your letting me know. I suppose the next step is for us to extradite him."
"My own sentiments precisely," said Bland.
"I'll file the papers first thing in the morning."
"That won't be necessary," said Bland. "I am the only government here in Tifereth. I give him to you freely."
"That's somewhat irregular," said Sable. "But to quote an old proverb, I don't believe in looking a gift horse in the mouth. How would you like to arrange the transfer?"
"I think it would be best if you came to Tifereth," said Bland. "My work here makes it impossible for me to get away."
"You needn't deliver him personally," said Sable.
"I realize that. Nevertheless, I think it would be best for all parties concerned if you came to Tifereth."
"If you wish," said Sable with a shrug. "I'll fly up there tomorrow morning."
"I'll send my personal plane for you," said Bland. "Can you be ready to leave in, shall we say, six hours?"
"You needn't go to all that trouble," said Sable. "I'm a qualified pilot and I have access to a departmental plane."
"Mr. Sable, you force me to be blunter than I would wish," said Bland. "I cannot guarantee your safety unless you come in my own plane."
"Oh?" said Sable, frowning.
"The local airport in six hours," said Bland. "Be there."
The connection was broken.
Sable turned to Siboyan, who had been listening to the entire conversation with a rapturous expression on her face.
"Well?" he said. "What do you think?"
"About what?" she asked him.
"Weren't you listening?" he said.
"Of course. They've caught the killer."
"I'm talking about the rest of it," he said patiently. "What's going on up there that they're shooting down airplanes?"
"What difference does it make to us?" she replied. "All you have to do is go up as his guest and bring your prisoner back."
"Something's wrong," he said, shaking his head. "Something's still very wrong."
"I don't see what," said Siboyan. "He's sending his own private airplane, he's offering to cooperate with you, he's turning over the man the Republic sent here to kill him. If it was me I wouldn't do that: I'd see that he died very slowly and very painfully for even attempting to assassinate a man like Conrad Bland."
"The law applies even to your new hero," he said with a sardonic smile. "Murder takes precedence over attempted murder. Our assassin will have to stand trial in Amaymon."
"How soon do you have to leave?" she asked.
"Almost immediately," Sable answered. "Bland may not care about his extradition forms, but I care about doing it right at this end. I'll have to stop by the office and see what's needed, and since Enoch Toomey down in Legal won't be around I'll probably have to call him in to help me. I've never extradited a killer before."
"So much for our quiet evening at home," she said with a rueful smile.
"Cheer up. There'll be others."
He went into the bedroom to change. He decided not to pack a suitcase, since he planned to be in Tifereth only long enough to take charge of the prisoner, but he did put one change of clothes into an overnight bag in case they were grounded because of bad flying weather.
He stopped by the front door on his way out and took Siboyan in his arms.
"See you soon," he said.
"I've never been to Tifereth," she said. "Bring back something unusual."
"I will," he promised.