"Dr. Goronay." he said.
"Yes."
"Who's the guy he's talking to?"
"We don't know as yet. We've tentatively identified him as a member of a policlub called Alt Welt."
"I'd heard they were out of business." Talon mused aloud. "What would a professor of archeology want with a member of a radical policlub?"
"We believe Goronay stole whatever was hidden inside the artifact unearthed in the Ukraine and now plans to sell it."
"Why would he do something like that?" Talon asked. "And why would a lame-duck policlub like Alt Welt be interested in buying an archeological artifact? What good is it to them?"
"We don't know." Brackhaus said. Talon seriously doubted that, but did not say it.
"That's why my employer wishes to engage your services." Brackhaus went on. "We want your team to locate Dr. Goronay and recover both him and the stolen artifact. We're prepared to pay you one hundred thousand nuyen in certified credit and we will handle any other expenses involved in the recovery."
Talon had a number of questions clamoring for attention in the back of his mind as he studied the blurred image of Dr. Goronay on the tiny video screen. He ignored them for the time being. Brackhaus wouldn't answer them anyway, and there was no need to give the Johnson any further reason to lie to him. There was clearly a lot about this job that Brackhaus wasn't telling. Still, a hundred thousand nuyen was a lot of money, enough to keep him and his team set for a good while.
"I'll have to speak to the rest of my team." Talon said.
"Of course." Brackhaus flipped the pocket secretary shut and slipped it back into his jacket pocket. "You can reach me at the same number you used for the last job if you decide to take this one. However, I'll need a decision in the next twenty-four hours or I will be forced to inquire elsewhere. After that time, the number will become inactive. Notify me as soon as possible. Time is of the essence."
Talon nodded. "I'll call you as soon as I have an answer, one way or another."
"Excellent." Brackhaus gave him a slight smile. The Eurocar slowed and pulled to the side of the road and Brackhaus extended a hand to Talon. Talon shook it firmly as he reached for the door.
"A pleasure doing business with you." Brackhaus said. "I hope we can continue to work together in the future."
"Thank you, Mr. Brackhaus." Talon climbed out of the car and closed the door behind him. They had brought him back to the Dunkelzahn Institute, to the same spot where they'd picked him up. The dark Eurocar pulled quietly away from the curb, its tires crunching over the snow. It soon turned a corner and disappeared from sight. Talon stood and watched it go, thinking about the job and the money Brackhaus offered. But there were an awful lot of unanswered questions . . .
"Too many, if you ask me."
Aracos said in Talon's head.
"
Actually, I didn't."
Talon thought.
"Haven't I told you not to eavesdrop?"
"Hey, it's not my fault. You were thinking too loud."
the spirit said in a mock hurt tone. Although Aracos was as good a familiar and ally as Talon could ask for, sometimes he found their mental connection to
each other a little too effective. He lapsed into silence
again for a few moments.
"So,"
the spirit asked,
"are you going to take it?"
Talon shrugged.
"I don't know yet. I still have to talk to the others
. . ."
"Yeah,"
Aracos said, almost to himself,
"you're gonna take it. We going back to the club?"
Talon raised an eyebrow. There were definitely times when his ally was a little
too
insightful.
"Yeah."
he said. "
Let's go."
The air near the curb shimmered as the spirit's sleek motorcycle form appeared, engine already humming. Talon was particularly proud of that element of Aracos' design. It had taken some doing, figuring out how a spirit could manifest in the form of something as complex as a motorcycle, but familiar spirits already assumed shapes as complex as animals and peoples, why not machines? It guaranteed that Talon was never without transportation and never had to find a parking space. Aracos didn't need gas or tune-ups either.
"Well,"
the spirit said, "
hurry up. The sooner we get there, the sooner I can get a drink. And no more revving the engine, okay?"
Of course, regular motorcycles didn't complain, or require Long Island Iced Teas to keep them happy, so maybe it evened out. Talon sighed and hopped on, and the two of them roared off into the night.
Speren Silverblade enjoyed watching sunsets, so he didn't mind waiting. Especially since the balcony of the palace on Royal Hill, facing away from the city of Portland and the Sunset Gate, afforded a spectacular view. Below the hill stretched kilometers of virgin forest and rolling hillsides cut by the meandering blue waters of the river. Only the evergreens retained their leaves at this late season, the rest of the trees having shed theirs in a riot of autumn colors. Now the forest giants waited, silent and sleeping, for the coming of spring.
Speren also looked forward to spring, with all the festivals and celebrations that occupied his homeland of Tir Tairngire during the re-awakening of the Earth. The elves were in tune with the cycle of nature, unlike the humans and others who still raped and polluted her on a regular basis. It did Speren good to know that places like Royal Hill still existed, where
the beauty of nature could be appreciated and
protected.
Of course, there were always concessions. If Silverblade had been standing on the eastern side of the palace, toward the Sunrise Gate, he would see the city of Portland, Tir Tairngire's gateway to the outside world, sprawling before him in its riot of concrete and steel, surrounded by high walls as much for its protection as to contain the city and its inhabitants, to keep them from contaminating the purity and simplicity of the rest of the Land of Promise.
Portland
was a microcosm where the elven nation could receive shipments from outside its borders, allow tourists to come and see what they had built, and generally keep the outside world away from the rest of Tir Tairngire. Speren found Portland pleasant compared to most cities he'd visited, but it was still a city. Nothing to compare with the beauty and serenity of the deep forest. He hoped this time it wouldn't be too long before he returned home.
"Sir?" A voice interrupted his reverie. "Sir, the Prince is ready to see you now."
Speren turned to the young woman, who was dressed in the official clothing of the Winter Court: pale tones of gray, blue, and cream. By comparison, Silverblade's own garb seemed archaic: a long, hooded cloak of wool to keep off the late winter chill, dyed a deep indigo, the color of the night sky. His tunic was a simple one of soft gray cloth, his trousers a blue several shades lighter than the cloak and tucked into polished black leather boots. A wide leather belt worked with complex knot designs fastened his tunic and held a silver-chastened sword in a scabbard at his left. With his shoulder-length hair, its golden color turned into molten fire by the last rays of the sunset, and his bewitching green eyes, Speren Silverblade looked like an elven hero out of a trideo drama or fantasy tale. It was something he was proud of, something he used to his own advantage from time to time.
With a nod of acknowledgment to the young woman, Speren followed her through the corridors of the palace, glancing at the artworks displayed along the walls, in glass cases, and on pedestals placed strategically along their route. He'd seen them many times before, but they never failed to impress him.
He often wondered why so many human works were shown in the palace. Perhaps it was because elves had only lived in the Sixth World for fifty years, ever since the birth of the first elven children around the time of the Awakening. Although they'd achieved more in that short time than any other race—building a nation of their own and resurrecting much of their ancient culture—elves still had a great deal left to accomplish. Perhaps the work of human hands reminded the Princes how much there was yet to be done. Or perhaps it reminded them that humans should not be underestimated. Speren couldn't say, and speculating on the motives of the Princes of Tir Tairngire wasn't generally a healthy pastime.
The Prince's aide led Speren not to the Prince's office or apartments, but to the Palace exercise room. The space was large, with a high ceiling and polished hardwood floors overlaid with padded exercise mats. It was actually a ballroom, one of several, turned over to the Princes and their families for use in exercising. Various pieces of equipment were placed around the room, but a good half of it had been cleared for the open mats, surrounded by mirrored walls sporting a ballet bar, since the exercise room was used quite often for dance training. At the moment, a dance of a different kind was going on.
Two elves, a man and a woman, faced off against each other on the exercise mats. The man was tall, with raven-dark hair worn long in the same popular style Speren affected, but pulled back into a pony tail secured with a green ribbon. He moved with the ease and grace of a dancer, circling his opponent. She was small and slight by comparison, her flaming red hair drawn back with a golden clip. Both of them wore loose-fitting pants and shirts of pale green silk and soft slippers that whispered on the surface of the mats as they circled in a strange sort of dance.
Suddenly, the man exploded into motion, pivoting on one leg and lashing out at the woman. She reacted instantly, turning gracefully to the side to allow the strike to pass her by, then reaching out and seizing the proffered arm. With a twist of her torso, she sent the man flying past her to slam unceremoniously onto his back on the mat. She turned and placed one small foot on his chest, her arms held in a defensive pose.
"Hah!" the man laughed from where he lay. "Defeated again! You're learning well, my Prince."
The woman smiled and took a step back, offering one hand to help the man to his feet.
Speren took the opportunity to step forward. "Yes, quite well, I'd say." he remarked.
The woman glanced over at him as if noticing him for the first time, and a smile lit up her face. "High praise indeed coming from so skilled a warrior." she said to Speren, who nodded in acknowledgment of the praise.
"Speren, I believe you know my instructor, Galen Moonsinger."
The elven warriors bowed slightly to each other.
"Mr. Moonsinger's reputation precedes him." Speren said.
"I could say the same for you, Silverblade." Galen returned, with an ironic smile.
"Thank you, Galen." the Prince said. "You may go, I need to speak with Speren." The instructor bowed to Silverblade, then more deeply to his Prince, and left the room.
Jenna Ni'Ferra, a Prince of Tir Tairngire and member of the Council of Princes, went over to the barre and picked up a towel to mop at her brow before draping the cloth over her shoulders. Speren stood and waited for the Prince to speak, as courtesy demanded.
"You have studied carromeleg, have you not, Speren?"
Speren knew that the Prince surely knew the answer to that question already. Speren Silverblade was a paladin of Tir Tairngire. More importantly, he was a member of the most exalted company of that exalted order, the legendary Ghosts. Paladins were all trained in the elven martial arts, and Ghosts were required to be masters of several.
"I recall my training well." he said. "I took my share of bumps and bruises."
"I think it is a good lesson to learn." she said. "Many people learn carromeleg for its spiritual qualities, for health and centering. While there certainly is value to that, I sometimes think it is more important to learn that anything worthwhile in life comes with its share of bruises and falls, don't you agree?"
"Absolutely, Highness."
Jenna took the ends of the towel in her hands, suddenly all business. Her green eyes, the color of summer leaves, fixed on Speren's.
"I have a mission for you." she said.
Speren bowed with a courtly wave of his hand. "I am yours to command."
"This is a matter of some . . . delicacy." she went on. That meant that this mission did not come from the Council of Princes as such, but from Jenna directly. That was not unusual; the Princes each had their own liege-men to command, but it warned Speren that there might be additional complications. He did not allow any curiosity or concern to show on his face.
"As you know," Jenna said, "it is one of the goals of the Council to help restore our ancient culture. Already we have revived our people's language and many of our arts." She gestured to take in the palace and her own carromeleg uniform. "Still, there remain an untold number of things from the distant past that lie hidden, waiting to be found, and we are not the only ones searching.
"An archeological dig in the Ukraine recently unearthed such an artifact, a piece of our cultural heritage. The dig was sponsored by monies from Saeder-Krupp."
"Lofwyr." Speren said.
Jenna nodded. "Lofwyr."
The great dragon was himself a member of Tir Tairngire's Council of Princes, a Prince in his own right. Inclusion of the dragon on the Council had been the idea of High Prince Lugh Surehand, an idea bitterly opposed by many of the other Princes. Surehand had forced it through, gaining support from Lofwyr in the bargain. Still, there were many in Tir Tairngire who neither liked nor trusted the great dragon, and Jenna Ni'Ferra was one of them. Although she preferred the title of "Prince" to the weaker one of "Princess." Jenna was a staunch supporter of traditional elven values and beliefs. One of those was a deep-seated mistrust of the motives of dragons.