LINKED IN
TORONTO somehow manages to hold exiles in thrall to her, even as she breeds in us a deep longing for the lights of our Plane.
In this city, resources other than Petra’s could be called upon.
At the library a block south of Yonge and Church, I stooped to the ground for a moment, brushing my finger lightly over the pulse in the concrete. A decades old memory rose to reply.
Four more blocks south, a quick left on Isabella, and I found myself before a porn shop. The windows were tinted black, and a garish neon sign flickered overhead.
Calling for the Symbiot to announce my presence, I pushed open the door. A bank of cool air rushed to greet me, redolent with the scent of hibiscus and nectarines.
Instead of magazine racks and questionable latex products, I found a large and mostly empty warehouse. Upside-down owls, some stuffed, some live, hung from the rafters overhead. The live ones swayed gently in the air, their heartbeats slow and steady. The dead ones clacked out pre-Bolshevik Russian poetry in Morse Code.
A figure sat behind a desk at the far end of the space, casually buffing its nails.
“Welcome to the Unseelie Consulate. How may I help you?” Its tones were dulcet and carrion.
“I need a number,” I said, hoping to avoid the long drawn-out pleasantries the denizens of this House partake of as a precursor to work. “The Ambassador, please.”
The Faerie seemed rather shocked at my abruptness—it took some time to recover its aplomb, hand on breast to calm its fluttering breaths.
“I’m so sorry, Ser Mage,” it said finally, “but we cannot hand out personal information without appropriate authorization. Would you like to fill out a form, and wait for the interested party to contact you?”
The Unseelie were doing corporate-speak now? Or had Petra managed to sell them those “Customer Service for the new age: All Species, All Dimensions, ONE COURSE 50% Off Today Only” DVDs after all?
“No, I want a phone number,” I said. “If he isn’t here, any Ruler of the House will do… actually, anybody except cousin Amelia.”
“Oh! You’re family! Why didn’t you say so?” The Faerie was excited now—it had put down its nail kit and was about to clap its hands together.
“Not of your House,” I said quickly.
Family-yet-not, which narrows the field down to exactly one. And my flashes of temper at inappropriate excitement for every goddamn little thing are well known to the Unseelie.
Sniffing, the Faerie plucked out a feather from the owl sleeping directly above it. The bird woke, squawking indignantly. Then its heart stopped, and its beak started clacking out Pushkin’s “Dead Princess.”
The Faerie giggled. “We’re totally binary now!”
“I see that. Wonderful.” What else could I say?
“Ah! Here it is! You’re in luck! Lord Tom is in town.” The Faerie smoothed out the feather. “You ready for it? It’s….”
WITH a quick thank you, I escaped the consulate just as the Faerie reinserted the feather into one of the clacking owls in the far corner of the room. The owl returned to life and went to sleep.
A few steps away from the consulate doors, I started coughing violently. Fortuitously, there was nobody in the alley to offer me a Heimlich, and a good thirty seconds of hacking yielded the small scrap of paper that had managed to make it almost halfway to my stomach. Its markings spelled out two numbers, one of them of the 416-289 variety.
What the hell was Tom doing in Scarborough?
APPARENTLY, Tom was doing Natalia—“Just the most fantastic little whore of a marketing director I met at this Halloween party”—in Scarborough.
The process of cornering the Unseelie Lord to commit to a meeting at a specific time and place other than “when I feel like it, somewhere nice,” made it quite clear that Tom had not heard of the specifics of The Incident. And was rather disgruntled at being kept out of the loop, as indicated by the barbed hints he kept dropping between descriptions of Natalia’s choice attributes.
Even a Hefnerish degree of heterosexuality couldn’t have kept me from strangling the woman after the twelfth mention of her perfectly peaked nipples had he not, right at the edge of my patience, mentioned a bar at Albert and Bay he would very much like to meet at tonight, and would I buy?
My fervent agreement must have shocked him because he ended the call shortly after. The drinking could be expensed; Tom would give me a reference.
“SORRY, no can do, old chap. The House signed a bilateral with Petra—can’t replicate services.”
The evening found me sitting over my second fuzzy navel, attempting to avoid all mention of The Incident.
“Services? This is a reference, for a cousin!”
Tom raised a finely shaped eyebrow. “So you want a truthful, honest-to-gods reference reference?”
“Gods no,” I said. “Something about my customer service skills?”
“Lies like that are House Petra’s domain now.” He gestured to the bartender, calling for two more.
Six for Tom so far, two for me, and now another two. Seventy-six dollars plus HST and tip.
“So why are you looking for a job anyway?” he asked as the sickeningly sweet cocktails were mixed at the bar, “I’m hardly an Adept, and I can certainly pluck money out of the air.”
“Oh, why didn’t I think of that?”
“So it was true,” he said, turning back to me. “The Inquisition has gone and Restricted you.”
“I’ve been broken back to White.”
“So you’re penniless and Magic-less?” he asked, as the server brought our drinks to our table. “Well, there’s always Uppsala.”
“I refuse to live in a homeless shelter.”
“It’s a monastery. You may have to let go of your prejudice, Prince,”—there was no particular inflection to Tom’s voice, just a sort of observational quality—“now that you have been forced to leave the Sunless Planes.”
“Nothing can force me to do anything, unless I choose to be forced.”
His eyes narrowed. “Did I just hear that tone from you?”
“You are trying to provoke me.”
“You’re going to get a lot more of that if you join the workforce. You need to go see a shrink.”
Tipping my head back, I let the fuzzy navel slide down my throat without tasting too much. “Thank you, Mr. Thumb,” I said, once the glass had been drained. “Any other helpful suggestions?”
“Get yourself laid. There is this absolutely gorgeous young man—a minor nephew of ours, actually. You’ll love him. And there’s cousin Amelia—she’s always up for a romp.”
“Why the fuck does everyone keep trying to set me up with relatives?”
Tom’s eyes glittered violet for a moment. “You need to be distracted from yourself.”
“What I need is a job,” I said and rose from the table. “Not a wife, a husband, a love-slave, or any variation thereof. Last time I was idle, I staged a rebellion against my King.”
“Yes, I was there,” he said, watching me pull twenties out of my wallet. “And then you married his wife.”
That was the moment I realized Tom was furious. Had been for the past hour. In very Faerie fashion, of course, which meant that there was no outward sign to betray the fact, save for a slightly waspish tone to his voice.
I sat back down. “Are you angry at me?” Inane. At least it was direct.
“Now what on Earth would I be angry about?” he asked. “It’s not like I had to clean up the blood. Moyen did that herself, did you hear?”
“I regret the violence. Deeply,” I said to the tabletop. Then I had to look up. “Is your heart turned from me as well?”
His eyes brimmed over with violet fire. “More than a thousand years since you—”
“Killed my father, yes.”
“Since you have raised your sword in anger. And you’ve had plenty of provocation since then. So why now? Tell me what happened in May. From the beginning.”
“You already know,” I said.
“What I know is what you told the Council. Except that there’s no proof.” He uncrossed his legs, a frown starting to form at the corner of his mouth, and it was his turn to look down.
“My word that it is true!”
“I believe you,” said Tom. “I do. But why did you mount no defense, later, when they asked you to speak?”
“How could I?” They said rage is a very cunning beast.
Tom sighed and looked up from the viscous dregs of his cocktail. “And now? Tell me what your plan is—I know you have one—to crawl back into grace.”
No. But something had to be said.
“All my world is gray.” Kernels of emotion-ridden truth to keep facts at bay. “I’d almost forgotten, in the Planes… the Deathless don’t accumulate ghosts the way humans do. Now the Desert is calling again.”
“You make no sense,” said Tom, putting down his glass. “The Symbiot doesn’t allow for such depressive thoughts.”
I shook my head. “It’s not depression at all. The dead are always calling. It’s a good thing. Lots and lots of white noise.”
“Why do you think we keep trying to get you laid? Get you attached to something living?”
“Don’t you think I’m trying too?” Part truth. “The damned Symbiot won’t let me do anything else.”
“No, it won’t. Nor should it allow….” He, like all of my kind, found it difficult to even say the words. “The Court is seeing conspiracies around every corner,” Tom said. “The Prince lost control. Something Big must be happening. It’s making my job very difficult.”
The sharp edge to his words was gone, the worst of his anger with it.
“What,” I said, deciding it was safe to be sarcastic again, “the parties and the boozing more stressful than normal?”
“Hello, that’s what the Court does nine nights out of ten. Of course it’s getting stressful. And for all your sins, you get to enjoy a quiet holiday on Earth.”
“I should have arranged to be exiled years ago, clearly.”
“Better late than never,” he said. “Because now that you’re here, and can’t just run back home, it’s time to get you decently bedded.”
“Job first,” I said. “The other… we’ll talk about it.” When Muspel freezes over.
“Fine,” he said. The sudden acquiescence worried me a bit. “Are you going to leave your hair like that?”
“I don’t have your tolerance for daily dye-jobs,” I said, shrugging. “Why?”
“You look old from the back.”
“Nobody is going to hire me without looking at my face.”
Tom smirked. “It’s a very pretty face,” he said. “Should get you a second interview at least.”
“I’m still waiting for a proper first.” Yes, let’s forget that thing with JCN ever happened.
“Natalia says the market’s tough. But really, there are eight billion souls on Earth, more types of work than there are spells in a brown-robe’s grimoire, so why do you want to be a software engineer?”
“My career-in-exile test said it was a 92 percent match for my personality type.”
Tom tilted his head to one side, considering. “You need a degree at the very least.”
“Lecture modules?” I asked. “I am known to be a competent mathematician—the rest is semantics. And three hundred multiple-choice questions can’t be wrong.”
“You realize that ‘Killing the Once and Future King, my father,’ and ‘that time in feudal Japan’ make for a poor resume.”
“Petra giveth,” I said and raised the night’s last cocktail to my lips.
“And Petra taketh away,” said Tom. “So you better be careful of them. But I’ll give you a reference, as long as you don’t tell anybody.”
ONE down, one to go. The Symbiot finished processing both sugar and ethanol just as I found my way back to familiar territory.
Toronto had changed fundamentally since the last time I walked these streets. The colors were muted, the rhythm of the city a fast staccato rock-hewn beat rather than the lonely blues that still echoed in my head from time to time. There used to be a bar near here where I spent a decade in the company of musicians far better than I.
As I approached the corner of College and Bay, the spectre of cigar smoke and radio vanished, replaced by a Shawarma joint doing brisk business in this colder-than-usual July night. And just outside the door, there was a man sitting on the ground playing a half-remembered melody on a silver flute. An instrument case sat open before him, mostly empty. Walking up, I dropped my last hundred into the case and leaned against the wall to wait.
“LONG time, Baron,” I said as the busker’s tune came to an end. “How are the Loa treating you?”
“Loa dance when I make music. So things are fucking good. You?” he asked. “You still playing’?”
“No so much. It made my gums bleed,” I said.
The Baron grinned. “Prolly better—this ain’t no proper life for a Mage.”
“And yet you’re here,” I observed
“Cause I ain’t no kochon Mage.”
That made me smile. “No, you’re Baron Samedi.”
“So what the fuck you seek me out for, you?”
“I need a favor. A character reference, for a job.”
He laughed, a sinister sound that made some of the people outside the restaurant shudder without knowing why. “A character reference? For you? From me? That’s rich. You poor now?”
“It’s a long story,” I said.
“Well, I’m done for the night,” he said, dismantling his flute with practiced movements. “I’ll buy us supper.”
“Not necessary.”
“Some kind gentleman gave me a hundred dollars.” He winked at me as he stood up. Shrugging, I followed him into the Shawarma place.
We didn’t have to wait in line, and nobody seemed to mind the discourtesy. Piping hot falafel wrap in hand, I found us an empty booth in the back corner while Samedi acquired a china cup filled with rum.
“So why you poor?” he asked.
“I’ve been exiled to Earth,” I said.
“And the cocksuckers won’t let one of you walk around here without a Restriction.”
“It’s not too onerous.” My mouth twisted into a parody of a smile. Every plan should have a backup, however bleak. If things went wrong, the Inquisition would react in a reassuringly… thorough… manner. “My parole officer is the most annoying part of the entire affair.”
The Baron shook his head, took a swallow of rum, then passed the cup to me. At least it wasn’t schnapps.
“Restriction’ll turn your seed to dust,” he said. “Whatcha fucking let them do it for?”
“I….” If you can’t trust an ex-bandmate, who can you trust?
“The dead don’t judge, so why should I? Speak, boi.”
I spoke.
Finally, he leaned back in his chair, cup and saucer in hand. “Software, eh? Lots of jobs, they say.”
“One day I will meet this ‘they’ that says such things and strangle them—very, very slowly,” I said. “I’ve been looking for a month now.”
“True?” Samedi asked.
“Perhaps I should have picked some other field. Maybe sales.” I surprised myself with the amount of bitterness in my voice at that last word.
“So why didn’t you, masisi?” he asked, with an undecipherable look in his eye. “You thinkin’ you have no use of you if you don’t make yourself useful?”
“Something like that,” I said.
“Okay, then,” he said, “let’s get you a job in software.”
“What?”
But he was already pulling out a cell from his pocket, a brand new Galaxy-S2. A flicker of embarrassment made itself known for my free-with-a-contract clamshell.
“Very nice lawyer-girl I know from when I used to busk over at Union station. Her hubby run a small company,” he said as he scrolled through his contacts then raised the phone to his ear.
“Hello, sweetheart, it’s me. Listen, could I talk to your husband for a moment? Sure, I’ll hold.”
I could hear a man’s voice in the background coming onto the phone.
“Evening there, Ram,” Samedi said. “Sure everything is good. You still looking for people?”
The commotion around us made it very difficult to pick out individual words from the other side of the conversation.
The Baron listened for a bit, then, “… like a brother to me,” he said. Then he just hung up.
My fingers were twitching at this point, but dragging answers out of a friend is impolite. And Samedi could be a stickler for polite.
“There,” he said. “All set.”
“What is set?” I asked.
“I get you a fucking interview.”
“With who? Where? When?”
“Tomorrow, around noon. Start-up, EK Limited, near the old distillery. Ram’s wife say he gonna change the world.” His cup, half-empty, was suddenly full of rum again.
“I should go then. Make sure my suit is ready.”
He looked up. “I went there once. Nobody be wearing suits. Smell like swe.”
So it was that type of start-up. A portion of tonight would have to be spent channelling the hexacolored spirit of the great Googleplex.
“I… Baron, I don’t know how to thank you.”
“No need,” he said. “Blues bind stronger than blood.”
“And the other…?”
“I’ll look into it.” Then he grinned at me as I started to rise. “The world of paradigm-changing software development is awaitin’ for its Paragon.”
I snorted. “I haven’t even learned how to program yet.”
“Then it can’t be waitin’ for you, can it?”
“No,” I said.
“So go on home, Sax-man!”