Energy and mass bend time and space—so the Hidden Schools taught. No wonder, then, the meeting seemed to last forever. Tan Batac played fair, but the issues were tangled and the minutiae obstinately minute. Elayne chipped at both parties’ resolve until, long past sunset, they teetered on the brink of agreement. Tan Batac was hoarse, and the plate of pastries picked clean. The conference room smelled of aftershave and overactive antiperspirant.
Nevertheless, Elayne was almost surprised when the door opened to admit her assistant, June. She’d forgotten it could do anything but separate her from freedom. June waited through the King in Red’s rant about ownership structures; when the skeleton finished, Elayne called fifteen minutes’ break, and tried not to betray relief as she left.
She closed the conference room door as if sealing all the world’s evil behind it, and stalked down the hall with June in pursuit.
“Good meeting, ma’am?”
“I haven’t killed anyone yet. That counts for something.”
“The abattoir’s there if you need it.”
“I wish.” She stopped by a window that looked out over the Drakspine ridge. “We’ll be fine.”
“Of course, ma’am.”
“What do you want? Or did you just come to rescue me?”
“You have a visitor downstairs. A Ms. Paxil,” with an accent on the first syllable, the clan name, rather than the parental name. June had lived in Dresediel Lex for ten years, but in some ways she remained very much a foreigner.
Lights glimmered from the hillside palaces. Batac probably owned a villa up there. “I don’t know anyone by that name.”
“Security’s on site—Ms. Paxil doesn’t have an appointment, and she isn’t dressed for business. But she had your name, so I thought I might check.”
“She just showed up and asked for me?”
“She claims a ‘Temoc’ sent her. I can have security point her to the door.”
With knives. No, not quite. Demons didn’t need knives. “I’ll be right down.”
Elayne descended the rainbow bridge from the skyspire to the pyramid below, which held the earthbound offices of Kelethres, Albrecht, and Ao. Few Craftsmen worked down here, so far from the starlight that was their sustenance, but since real estate was cheaper on solid ground, they relegated back-office tasks to the pyramid. Compared to the spire this place wasn’t much to look at, but the reception hall offered some majesty at least: backless couches and low glass tables and abstract paintings hung from walls not quite the color of cured human skin.
Chel sat on a couch, reading The Thaumaturgist. Demons stood around her, faint shapes shimmering in air. Mandible scraped against glassy mandible. Scythe-talons kneaded space as if the emptiness had texture, which perhaps it did, to them. Or else they were simply keeping limber, awaiting an opportunity to deploy their murderous talents.
Not that Kelethres, Albrecht, and Ao was in the habit of killing people who stopped in without an appointment. Suggestions to that effect had been raised at board meetings, but Elayne was relatively sure Belladonna Albrecht meant them in jest.
“Ms. Paxil, I presume.”
Chel closed the magazine and stood. She made a good show of ignoring the demons. “Elayne. Ms. Kevarian, I mean. Good to see you.”
“You’re a long way from Chakal Square.”
A demon hissed. Chel steeled her expression. “Looks like it’s my turn to meet your guards.”
“Payback’s fair play. At least no one has tackled you yet.”
“Good thing, too. These guys are spinier than I am.”
“How’s the camp?”
“Growing. Hundreds more have come. They heard the King in Red might deal, and everybody wants to back a winner. By noon we had to push our line out. And the Wardens retreated across the street. Simple.”
“Not so simple.” She turned to the demons. “Leave us.” Light rolled through them as they flowed back into the not-quite-skin-tone walls, leaving only echoes of their footsteps. Clawsteps, maybe. “Did Temoc send you?”
“We’re ready to meet your people, if they come to us.” She glanced toward the wall into which the demons had vanished. “They don’t trust your turf. And he says to hurry. He’s not sure how long his support will last.”
She thought of the perpetual motion argument in the conference room overhead. “Not a problem.” She hoped. “I will visit the camp tomorrow to prepare ground. We’ll meet the day after.”
“Thanks.”
Chel’s hand was warm. “You’re welcome.” Elayne did not let go. “How is it down there?”
“Fine,” she said. “Tense.”
“Good.” With a flick of Craft, she activated a summoning circle. “A cab will be waiting downstairs to take you back. Or anywhere else you might want to go. On me.”
“Thank you,” she said, and smiled before she left. Something about her gait struck Elayne as odd. As Chel neared the door, Elayne realized she’d subconsciously expected the woman to be carrying a briefcase, or at least a purse. In her rumpled shirt and torn slacks and ragged boots, Chel bore only her pride.
Elayne climbed the rainbow bridge again, somber now, and returned to the conference room. Heads swung round, chairs spun to face her, coffee cups stopped halfway to open mouths. “Gentlemen,” she said. “The camp is ready. We are on the clock.”