Lords Of The Dark Fall - Fabian (43 page)

His stomach growled, demanding food, and from the open window came the enticing smell of pizza from the outlet below his room. No, tonight he would go sober
and
hungry. No time to waylay some poor unfortunate and relieve them of their evening meal, he had a book to read.

And plans to make.

Flopping back onto the hard bed, he opened the cover and read the credits. University of Ellinburgh, Dr. Evans’ place of work. Gratitude to various colleagues for their collaboration, including a Dr. Jeremy Markham.

Chapter one opened with the engraving of Fabian and a short biography. He’d married, produced children to follow him, become a great leader, by all accounts. Artefacts linked to him had been found, but not his final resting place. No mention of the tyrant, the vanity or the lavish lifestyle. Fabian’s Fall must have been hard and long to change him so much.

Or had there been other factors? The purgatory of the Fall showed a man the error of his ways, but what you did with that knowledge was up to you. The chapter on temporal distortion caused a brief quickening of his heartbeat. Could this woman send him back in time to meet with his brother? Reading on, he realised the theories were mere hints at future possibility. Man might one day find a way to shift through time and space, but in this era controllable time-travel still resided in the realms of fantasy.  

His stomach rumbled on until he could no longer concentrate on the words. Marcellus threw down the book and rubbed his aching eyes. For a man who loved to read, the Fall had taken an ironic delight in serving him with such poor human vision.

A glance at his wrist-watch informed him the pizza-stall would still be open so he slid from the bed and into his coat. The scarf he usually wrapped about his face now adorned his injured hand. No matter, he would be discreet and find someone who’d purchased multiple pizzas and only relieve him of one. They should be grateful for that consideration. But they never were.

Hell, they should bow down in awe and offer him their eldest daughters as tribute. These stupid humans had no idea they rubbed shoulders with someone once considered almost a demi-god. Now, instead of deference, they wrinkled their noses and averted their gazes. Not out of respect, but because those with nothing, like him, simply did not exist in their eyes.

At the end of the dark alleyway, he waited for a pizza to walk by, choosing a drunk who would never realise he’d been cheated of his dinner. Eating as he walked, Marcellus decided he might as well remedy his wardrobe problems under cover of darkness. The smaller, more exclusive stores would be easier to enter than the larger emporiums employing uniformed men to guard the merchandise. He needed to blend in, but not too much. These humans were a dowdy, dull lot on the whole, but he had noticed how here and there a man or a woman would command attention because of their dress and their adornments, their mode of transport.

The plan forming in his mind gave purpose to his stride, making him forget the self pity in which he’d languished for far too long. Tomorrow, he would visit a barber, take a shower at the local pool and then he would track down Dr. Evans and propose an information exchange that would benefit them both. He’d seen the hunger in her eyes, the shock at the first sight of his face. She would not turn him away.

* * * *

Dr. Cassandra Evans resisted the urge to fidget in her chair. When the head of Viper industries lifted his head from her proposal, she smiled, aiming at somewhere between sweet and friendly. Don’t look too desperate. The old lecher smiled back, a knowing gleam in his eyes.

“Quite fascinating. I’ve been a fan of your work for some time now, Dr. Evans.”

“Does this mean you’ll look favourably on my application?” He was staring at her legs, now. She shifted uncomfortably in the hard-plastic seat. The grant was crucial to her work, but she had no intention of whoring herself out for it. Viper industries didn’t want to play, she’d take her begging bowl elsewhere.

“Well, that depends, Dr. Evans. How badly do you want this?”

“It’s my life’s work, sir. And of course, any findings relating to the space-time continuum would be licensed to Viper industries. You’re trying to build a time-machine. I’m trying to prove time-travel is not only possible, but that time travellers may, even now, be living among us. How badly do
you
want this knowledge?”

By the end of the speech her heart was racing. The mere mention of the possibility that Fabian could be a time-traveller did that to her. Finding that proof would change the very nature of their reality. The chairman turned to his colleague, muttering words she couldn’t make out. What was not to like about this arrangement? It wouldn’t be the strangest university project they’d funded, or the last. They were knee deep in prototypes and project development aimed at exploiting any benefits that might arise from temporal distortion. But, for some reason, she was failing to get a bite.

“Thank you Dr. Evans. Your proposal will be given due consideration.”

That was it? She’d barely started and already she was being shown the door?

“You wouldn’t like to see my proposal for the second dig site? I have it right here.” She lifted her brief-case hopefully.

“Thank you, we’ve seen enough.” He knew she wasn’t about to play his game. She’d made that more than clear at the founder’s day reception during which he’d implied that she could become the most famous archaeologist on the planet with the backing of Viper industries and a little more friendliness on her part. Her firm but polite refusal had stung and he’d obviously not forgotten it.

Could she bring herself to sleep with him? No. Not if the sick feeling in her gut was anything to go by. Well, damn him, she’d find another benefactor. Someone who wouldn’t expect sexual favours in return for a grant that was being given anyway.

“I’m sorry I wasted your time. And mine,” she added. Glancing at her watch she stood and gathered together her tattered pride. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m giving a lecture at two and then I need to drop by the police department to discuss the progress on the Lucimanticus museum theft. I can see myself out.”

The low chuckle raised her hackles even further. Gripping the handle of her case, she considered hitting the smug bastard over the head with it. Almost worth being arrested for. How she detested the rich and powerful men who held this city and her university in their stranglehold. Wealth had been concentrated into too few hands, the workers reduced to little more than drones who toiled to make the industry leaders and bankers even richer. The CEO of Hexagon Enterprises was at least under eighty years of age. If it did come down to sexual favours she could do better than this.

“Come now, Dr. Evans. No need to go off in a huff. The only reason we can’t give an answer today is that we have another proposal to consider.”

She stopped in mid-step. “Another proposal? My theories are unique. How can you have a similar proposal? ”

“Not quite as unique as you might imagine, Dr. Evans. You must know Dr. Jeremy Markham is hot on your heels?”

“I was under the impression he wouldn’t be going back to Anxur this year. I’m experienced enough to lead the team. I’ve been visiting the site since I was sixteen.”

“Perhaps. We’ll consider the proposals side by side after he presents this afternoon.”

What a waste of time. Jeremy Markham with his dazzling intellect and questionable morals was a man on the rise. He’d already trumped her to two of the most lucrative research grants, forcing her to forage lower down the feeding chain for funding. Not something she was comfortable with, but the big corporations held purse strings most people could only imagine. As long as she could grit her teeth and hand over the research at the end of it, she could deal with them.

Didn’t do to care too much that industries like Viper and Hexagon wanted to exploit temporal shifts for their own nefarious purposes rather than for the good of humankind.

It took every shred of dignity to walk from the room with her head held high. Collecting her coat from reception, she decided to call in at Barbello’s on the way home and get her hair and nails done. An extravagance she couldn’t really afford, but right now she needed the boost. A little frivolousness to counterbalance the driven, analytical archaeologist who could spend days poring over a text or inscription and forget the rest of the world existed.

Cassandra pulled on her coat, the crisp air already nipping at her fingers and cheeks. Winter wasn’t far off with its weeks of drifting snow and bitter, spine-tingling cold. While Ellinburgh shivered, the southern continents would be shrugging off the chill and coming back to life. If she didn’t get backing soon, she’d miss her window and have to wait another year before travelling south to the lost city of Anxur to resume excavation. A ruin of a city stubbornly intent on keeping its secrets. Without funding, there was a real chance of someone else using her research as a stepping stone and stealing the prize from right under her nose.

Someone like Dr. Jeremy Markham.

Turning into King Street, she thought briefly about taking out a loan and financing the trip herself. That way she could sell any findings to the highest bidder instead of handing them over to a benefactor.

Too risky. A brief stop at the hole in the wall squashed that plan. The screen of the bank machine confirmed that a trip to Barbello’s would not be such a good idea. After retrieving her bank card, she slipped it into her purse and glanced at her nails. They could wait, but her hair desperately needed a cut. Long hair was for housewives and kept women. Working women wore their hair neatly trimmed or severely coiffed into a tight bun. And who had time to do that every morning when you were eating toast while running late?

Hair or lunch? She only had time for one before rushing back to the university for the afternoon lecture. The reflection in the shop-store window made her decision a no-brainer. Light brown curls fluttered about her face, brushing her collar. A feminine, flirty style and totally wrong for a doctor of archaeology who needed powerful men to take her seriously.

Walking resolutely past Barbello’s with its designer interior and trendy cutting artists, she wound her way through the back-streets to the small barber-shop kept by John, her elderly neighbour. He’d sort her out in return for a decently cooked meal. The police department had already shown a complete indifference to the museum break-in. More important things to do, they said, than chase an artefact that would turn up on the black market soon enough. That she had little hope of convincing them otherwise didn’t stop her trying. Chances were that Viper had paid the thief to acquire the etching for them and if so she’d never see it again. A depressing thought after all she’d been through to find it.

Even more depressing that she couldn’t afford to buy it herself. A heretical thought for an archaeologist devoted to unlocking the past for the benefit of mankind. Would she give up her scruples for a piece of Fabian? Heck, yes.

Damn, every seat in the barber shop appeared occupied. It would take a good half an hour to get through the men waiting their turn.

“Well hello, Cassandra my dear.” John put down his scissors and picked up a brush. The man in the chair leaned forward, deep in thought. John brushed away the stray hairs on his neck.

“John.” She waited politely, hoping she could hop into the chair when the guy stood up. “I was hoping for a quick trim. Can you fit me in?”

John picked up a mirror, angling it to show the client the back of his head. “Can you wait half an hour? I’m busy up till then.”

Disappointed, she shook her head. “Got a lecture at two. I…”

All rational thought fled when the man in the chair lifted his head. Looking back at her with an unblinking stare was the museum thief. Fabian’s twin as she’d come to think of him. The hand that had smashed the glass lay curled in his lap, a dirty, blood-stained scarf binding it tight. Too hot to go to hospital, that was for sure. His only reaction to a potential witness of his crime, a slight widening of dark eyes in recognition.

In one smooth movement, he rose from the chair, fished into the pocket of his designer-cut suit and brought out a bank-note, which he dropped into John’s hand. Twice the going rate for one of John’s haircuts, she didn’t miss that. Nor the flash of the ten thousand sterling watch at the man’s wrist, the polished shoes. John beamed his thanks and made one last sweep with the brush, smoothing out the impeccable lines of the man’s suit.

“Dr. Evans.” A slight incline of the man’s head, as if they were being introduced at some faculty tea-party. No sign of panic. No barging past her to flee into the crowded street as he had at the museum. The man had balls. That inappropriate thought made her cheeks heat up and the man frown slightly.

“Dr. Evans,” he said again. “I need to talk with you.”

She remembered to stop staring like some star-struck teen. Not from these parts, his face, his accent spoke of sunnier climes. A professional, probably, brought in by whoever had orchestrated the robbery. But why go to the trouble of finding a Fabian look-a-like. And why stage such a public theft?

“I bet you do.” He knew the whereabouts of the Lucimanticus engraving and that stopped her reaching into her purse for her phone to discreetly press police-emergency on the keypad. The satellite signal would pick up their location and the police arrive in less than five minutes. She had only to keep him talking until they came screaming into the back street.

“I have information. Something that will benefit us both. You will talk with me.” Grabbing her arm with a firm hand, he had the nerve to steer her from the barber’s shop before she could protest. Stumbling, she shook him off and glanced around, wondering if the pepper spray was in her left or right-hand pocket. A fairly crowded street; she was in no immediate danger. The erratic beating of her heart wasn’t because she thought she was about to be abducted and sold to some establishment of ill-repute. He had something for her and it could only be one thing.

She should call the police.

“Try that again and you’ll be singing falsetto for a week. What could you possibly have for me?”