Текст книги "Irregulars "

Автор книги: Astrid Amara

Соавторы: Nicole Kimberling,Ginn Hale,Josh lanyon
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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 32 страниц)

“No, they won’t. If I do something to you, you won’t even know it.” That was an exaggeration. Archer’s mind control abilities were as limited as his ability to cast spells. He knew a few things about psychology, though.

“You don’t have to be this way about it.” With the table still safely between them, the Moth Man offered a conciliatory smile. “It was a suggestion, that’s all. Forget it. Maybe you’ll do me a favor in return some time.”

“Maybe. I have a long memory.”

The Moth Man coughed and then looked wistfully at the half-eaten pancakes in the lake of syrup. “Do you know who George Gaki is?”

Archer stared. Oh yes. He knew who Gaki was. A rich antiques dealer who was reputed to have taken more than a few legal and ethical shortcuts in building his impressive personal collection. A collection that reportedly held magical artifacts as well as treasures from the mortal realms.

What few people knew—and perhaps it had little bearing—was that Gaki was an old and powerful demon.

He said at last, “Are you telling me they’re in Gaki’s collection?”

The Moth Man nodded. “He bought them at an auction two weeks ago.”

“That’s not possible. I’d have heard.”

“Antique water beads. That’s what they were sold as.”

Archer was silent. He did remember something about the sale of antique water beads. He’d thought nothing of it at the time. Water beads could hardly be taken for magic by anyone over five years old.

“How were they discovered?”

The Moth Man made a noise that Archer realized was supposed to pass for humor. It sounded like something needed oiling. “The most famous string of beads in the history of the faerie realm?”

And yet they had gone undiscovered for over two centuries. “You’re sure?”

“Well…” The Moth Man’s white lids lowered modestly. “I haven’t seen them myself, but a friend saw them. Swears it’s them. And Gaki has been boasting in certain quarters that he’s got them.” His colorless lashes rose. He watched Archer. “You could find out. You have the connections.”

“Yes,” Archer answered absently. Could it really be this simple?

“Or,” the Moth Man said slyly, “you could always ask him.”

Chapter Four

There was a pub in Gastown not far from where Archer lived that stayed open till one in the morning on weeknights and served good English ale. No vodkas from all around the world, no dance floor, and thankfully no televisions, plasma or otherwise. Archer found a seat at the bar, ordered a pint of Royal Stinger Honey Ale, and considered what he had learned.

And what his options were.

If it was true, if the beads had resurfaced at last, he had to have them. That part was simple and required no thought. The beads belonged to him. Their existence was irretrievably intertwixt with that of his faerie bloodline. He had searched for them for years. He would have them.

Anyway, there was no reason not to have them. What did they amount to? The original love beads. A strand of shining stones guaranteed to win the wearer the heart of anyone he or she desired. How could that pose a threat to anyone? It wasn’t as though the possessor of the beads could command worldwide adoration, and the magic worked only if the wearer truly loved.

This wasn’t like the Stone of Fal or even Hermes’s sandals. This was different. This was personal.

Very personal. A family heirloom, that’s all the beads were. Though the loss of them had resulted in his mother being relegated to the human realm and her subsequent doom. Humans thought of magical artifacts as things to simply possess or divest of at will, but in the faerie realm possession and dispossession of such articles meant life or death. Probably in a great many more realms as well.

So there was no need for that anxious fluttering in his guts. He wasn’t going to do anything dangerous to anyone but himself. And if he couldn’t outwit those overdressed and overarmed meatbags, he deserved to be in danger.

Assuming the Moth Man was correct. Assuming the beads existed at all. And that they were where Archer might retrieve them.

Archer took a long pull on the sweet beer. He felt in his bones that the Moth Man had been speaking the truth. The timing was so perfectly awful that it had to be true. As tricky as it would be to get the beads from Gaki, it would be that much more complicated with the damned badges breathing down his neck.

Ah. And here was another complication. If his intention, no, if even his interest came to the attention of the Irregulars, they might—undoubtedly would—attempt to confiscate the beads in order to neutralize them. That was basic policy. No magical artifacts left loose in the human realm. No exceptions.

Inevitably this worrying reflection reminded Archer of Commander Rake. The thought of the Irregulars’ new officer gave him another of those uncomfortable fluttering feelings in his belly, like a trapped swarm of butterflies. He shook his head at himself and drank another mouthful.

It was a long time since he’d felt anything like that. He had a natural suspicion of mortals when it came to affairs of the heart. Or affairs of the loins. Even if he hadn’t…Humans were so short lived. It was asking for heartache, getting too interested in them.

Ah well. He ordered another pint.

The piped music played a slow Irish waltz, “Sidhe Bheag”, “Sidhe Mhor”. Archer smiled faintly and sipped his ale.

Someone took the bar stool next to him. Someone who took up a fair bit of acreage. An elbow bumped his arm, a muscular thigh brushed his own. The scent of musk and vanilla mixed pleasantly with more prosaic ones. Archer’s heart jumped. He turned his head and met the glinting gaze of Commander Rake.

“Here you are,” Rake said.

“Commander Rock.”

Rake’s mouth tugged into a faint smile. He didn’t bother to correct Archer.

Archer asked unwillingly, “Where should I be?”

“I thought you might be making for the border.”

Archer’s jaw dropped. “Making for the border? Why the hell should I?”

Rake still had that amber gleam in his eye, that hint that he was enjoying himself. “You lost no time getting rid of the tail I placed on you this afternoon.”

Archer sniffed. “Never send a man to do a Cu Sith’s work.”

Rake laughed. “True. Where did you go that you were afraid to be seen?”

“Nowhere. I don’t like being followed as a matter of principle.”

“You’re a man of principles?”

Archer shrugged. It shouldn’t have stung. What did he care what Rake thought?

Rake ordered a pint before turning his attention back to Archer, and Archer, though he hated to admit it, felt another flare of excitement as that dark, moody gaze turned his way.

“Yes,” Rake said. “You’re a man of principle—even if misguided.”

Archer set his mug down. He said mockingly, “You know me so well.”

Rake took no offense. “I do. I’ve been making a study of you, Green. I think I know you pretty well.”

“As well as any man can,” Archer mimicked.

“Better than Brennan.”

Archer reached for his mug again to hide his smile.

Rake made a soft sound that could have been amusement or scorn. Or both. “This is all a game to you, isn’t it?”

“It has amusing elements.”

“There’s not much of the human strain in you.”

There wasn’t, no. Archer was tall for a faerie; his ears ended in graceful points usually hidden beneath his dark curls; his green eyes were wide and exotically tilted, but he doubted Rake was referring to his physical appearance.

“Hopefully not.”

It must have sounded more bitter than he intended. Rake’s eyebrows rose. “Your father was human.”

“Yes.” Rake had indeed been studying up.

“Is that why…?”

“Why what?”

Rake’s tone was bleak. “Why you’re willing to gamble with the safety of the human realm.”

“That’s your theory. I haven’t admitted to anything. I certainly wouldn’t admit to that.”

“You haven’t denied it with much vigor either.”

“There’s no point.” Rake opened his mouth and Archer added, “Your mind’s made up. I saw that this morning.”

“True.” Rake drank from his mug. He seemed easy and relaxed. “So your father was a naturalist and wildlife photographer.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“Your mother was a groundskeeper on an estate in Romney Marsh.”

“That’s right. Sounds like the start to a risqué joke.”

“But you’re not laughing.”

Archer shrugged. “I’m not crying either. I’m not out to get humanity because my father abandoned my mother before I was born.” It was the loss of the beads that had caused all the misfortune in his life. Losing the beads had cost his mother his father’s love. Banishment from the faerie realm had done the rest. But that was chance. Might as well be angry with the wind for blowing.

Rake was still watching him curiously. “No?”

“No.” Archer gave Rake a sideways look. “If—and I say if—what you suspect is true, it has nothing to do with my father or my mother drowning herself or my growing up in human foster care. If I still believed in the goals of the SRRIM, it would be because they’re worthwhile goals. These artifacts don’t belong to you. You’ve no right to destroy them. You’ve no right to them at all. They should be returned to their realms of origin.”

“You talk like a child. But then you are a child. You’re, what, not quite twenty?”

“I’m seventy-four.”

“I don’t mean in human years. I mean in faerie years. In faerie years you’re still wet behind those pointy little ears.”

Archer lost his temper as, no doubt, he was meant to do. “And you’re the tool of an ignorant and bigoted government.”

To his astonishment, Rake laughed. “Luckily you don’t still believe in the goals of the SRRIM.” He drained his glass and nodded to the bartender.

“Another?” he asked Archer.

Archer ignored the question. “The Society for the Rescue and Restoration of Indigenous Magic no longer exists.”

“Not under that name, certainly. By the way, your pal Chauhan is already on his way back to India. Maybe he just dropped by this continent to pick up a dozen Tim Horton’s apple fritters.”

“Maybe he did.”

Rake’s lean cheek tugged into a hard smile. “We’ll have a team from NIAD’s India field office waiting for him when he disembarks in New Delhi.”

“You boys get around. Boys and girls, I should say. Your Sergeant Orly is a witch.”

“You noticed. She thought you did.”

“Since when does the sticks-and-stones brigade hire blooded witches?”

“Times are changing. The Irregulars are an equal opportunity employer.”

Archer sniffed in polite disbelief.

“If that chip on your shoulder was any bigger you’d be a hunchback instead of—” Rake broke off.

“Instead of what?”

Archer was expecting sarcasm at the least. The self-conscious look that flashed briefly across Rake’s face intrigued him.

Rake’s reply was brusque. “It’s no secret the fae are inhumanly beautiful.”

“I’m only half fae.”

Rake growled, “You’re well aware of your…physical attributes.”

Archer laughed shortly and picked up his mug. They drank in silence. A silence that, as the minutes passed, softened and grew almost companionable.

Archer swallowed the last mouthful of ale and delicately wiped the foam away with his index finger. He glanced at Rake, who was watching him steadily with a faint, rather odd smile. “Well?”

“Well,” Rake said, “I was wondering about those postcards.”

“What postcards?”

“The French Victorian postcards my agents found in your bedside table. The ones of aroused demons doing anatomically incorrect things to humans.”

Archer’s face warmed. He shifted uncomfortably on his barstool. “So?”

Rake’s smile widened, even grew rather wicked. “You’ve a particular interest in demons?”

“It’s my job description.”

Rake’s deep laugh sent a little shiver down Archer’s spine. “That particular job description could get you arrested for solicitation in this realm.”

Archer couldn’t help it. He laughed.

Rake smiled and glanced around as everyone in the bar automatically followed suit in the wake of that peal. He turned back to Archer. “So you…have a thing for demons?”

The phrase sounded odd coming from Rake, almost anachronistic, though Archer couldn’t have said why. In any case, oh yes. Archer had a thing for demons. Not that he’d ever been with a demon. He gave Rake a cool little smile.

“Isn’t in my file?”

“I’d have remembered that.”

Archer shrugged. “I just have a thing for bad boys.”

Rake laughed. “But you are a bad boy, Mr. Green.”

Chapter Five

“Then what happened?” Barry asked.

“Then I finished my beer and went home.”

“What?”

Archer laughed at Barry’s expression. “How did you think that story would end?”

“The man was flirting with you.”

“Maybe. Probably.”

“He bought you a drink. He brought up your naughty French postcard collection. He was coming onto you.”

“He was trying to seduce me.” Archer’s voice was bored. It was an act. The idea of Rake trying—and succeeding—in seducing him was alarmingly exciting. It was a long time since he’d felt this way.

“That could be very useful.”

“If his interest was genuine, but I think…” Archer’s voice tailed off. In fact, he did think Rake’s interest was genuine. That didn’t mean it wasn’t calculated. Badges were known for their unorthodox investigation techniques.

“It’s just a game for him,” he said without conviction.

Barry pointed out, “As it is for you.”

“Yes. Of course.”

“Intriguing insight into our new commander all the same.”

“I don’t trust him.”

“I should hope not!”

“You know what I mean. There’s something different about him. Something I can’t put my finger on.”

Barry said, “But you’d like to?”

“Ever so funny, you are.”

Barry chuckled. The phone on his desk jangled. He pressed a button. Miss Roya’s demure voice said, “The naga skin has arrived, Mr. Littlechurch.”

“Thank you, Miss Roya.” Barry rose. “Perhaps Commander Rake is part of the escort. That would add some zest to your day, eh?”

Archer didn’t deign to answer.

In any case, Commander Rake was not part of the naga skin escort. There were only three agents, none of them familiar. It was a little unsettling that the local badge brigade seemed to have so many new faces. Too many for ordinary turnover, in Archer’s opinion. Recruitment must be up.

The exorcised skin was carried in a small teak trunk carved with cobras and eagles and painted gold. The heavy lid was inlaid with jade and mother-of-pearl.

Barry opened the lid. The skin inside was silvery, almost transparent. When stretched to full length, it would be over eighteen feet. It looked like a pile of tissue paper.

“Any problems?” he asked briskly.

“No problems,” the youthful lieutenant reported.

Clipboards were exchanged. Signatures were scribbled in silence. Archer studied the crumbled pile of fragile scales. It seemed to him that he could see two black beady eyes gazing back at him. The next instant the eyes resolved themselves into two holes in the skin.

“Anything wrong?” Barry asked him.

Archer looked away from the skin. He shook his head. “When was the naga exorcised?”

He was speaking to Barry, but it was the lieutenant who replied, “Twelve years ago. We don’t refer to it as exorcism anymore. It’s called neutralization.”

 “Of course.” Archer’s eyes met Barry’s. “More than a decade. And there has been no recidivation in all that time?”

“Certainly not!” All three Irregulars scrutinized Archer as though he had sprouted three heads—or was out of the one he had. And no wonder. What he was suggesting probably sounded like sacrilege to them, having, as they clearly did, utter faith in the earthly-realm dogma they’d been weaned on.

Archer shrugged. “Thank you. We’ll take charge of it now.”

Mr. Baker took the small trunk from the uniformed officer. Archer noticed that despite the rejection of the idea that the naga skin might miraculously reanimate, the Irregulars appeared only too pleased to hand off their charge.

In a small, silent procession they traveled to the display room and the large glass case that had been prepared for the skin.

Archer lifted the lid and Mr. Baker carefully lowered the open trunk onto the large red velvet cushion. Mr. Baker stepped back and Archer slid the glass lid into place and locked the case.

“And that,” Barry said, “is that.” He gave a brief smile to the agents. “Thank you for your assistance, gentlemen. The naga skin is safely home once more.”

The agents snapped him three perfect salutes and turned in unison on their gleaming heels.

***

There was a great deal of information about George Gaki on the web, but very little of it was relevant or even true. According to various sources, the wealthy antiques dealer and philanthropist was sixty-five and Austrian born. Archer knew for a fact that Gaki was over six hundred years old, hailed from Prussia, and that the only recipient of his philanthropy was himself. Gaki acknowledged no children and was on his eleventh human wife. One thing the news media got right: he was very rich and very well connected. Connected in ways most humans couldn’t fathom. None of that mattered to Archer. His only interest was in Gaki’s fabled collection of art and artifacts.

The first article that popped up was the sale of the antique water beads through Christie’s a few weeks earlier. The auction wasn’t significant. The only reason a photo of the beads even popped up on the website was because George Gaki was news.

Archer gazed avidly at the photo in the monitor. The beads amounted to two strands of something that resembled natural pearls in size and luster. But the color was an amazing green like the blazing heart of the first emeralds or the darkest, stillest, deepest water.

Archer’s heart pounded. His chest tightened with emotion so powerful it was hard to draw breath. He had to close his eyes for an instant against the onslaught of feeling. At last. At last…

His office door opened. Archer’s eyes blinked open.

“You haven’t forgotten tonight’s benefit at the Fairmont, have you?” Barry stopped at Archer’s desk. His gaze fell on Archer’s computer monitor. “Gaki? What’s the old rogue up to now?” His benign smile fell. “Oh hell. Not those damned beads again.”

“You knew they’d come on the market. Knew Gaki had bought them.” Archer tried to keep his tone neutral, but he couldn’t help feeling this was perfidy on Barry’s part. A small one, perhaps, but hurtful all the same

Barry looked uncomfortable. “Rumor. That’s all it was.”

Archer shook his head, turning back to the monitor screen. “There they are.”

Barry instinctively leaned forward, peering at the monitor. “That could be any string of old beads.”

“It’s them. I know it.”

“How can you know it?” Barry straightened.

“I do.”

“You want the beads to be real so you’re telling yourself that they are. Think for a moment. It’s too great a coincidence.”

“What coincidence?”

“Why, that the beads should turn up at the same time this Commander Rake does.”

“You think Rake is working with Gaki to trap me? If the badges knew the truth about Gaki, they wouldn’t waste any time on me.”

“That’s where you’re wrong.”

“I left SRRIM years ago. I’ve been a law-abiding citizen of the earthly-realm ever since. Whereas Gaki—”

“George Gaki bends the law for his own personal gain. In the eyes of the government—any government in any realm—that is never as dangerous as political fanaticism.”

“But I’m not a fanatic.” Archer turned back to the computer screen. “I just want what belongs to me.”

“Those beads don’t belong to you.”

Archer didn’t bother to reply.

“Even if you’re right,” Barry began at last. He fell silent again.

“What?”

“Have you stopped to consider why these beads are so important to you?”

Archer repeated, “They belong to me. They belong to my family.”

“Archer.”

Archer could feel himself tightening up, getting angry. He forced himself to relax. Summoned a smile. “What?”

“Say you recover the beads? What then? Do you think you can barter your way back into the faerie realm?”

“I wouldn’t try,” Archer said shortly. When he had been a boy, yes, he had dreamed of buying his way back into the faerie realm, of recovering his family’s lost honor. As an adult he had faced the fact that the faerie realm could no more give him back what he yearned for than could the human realm.

Which didn’t change the fact that he wanted the beads with all the desperate passion of any lovesick suitor.

They are better than stars or water,

Better than voices of winds that sing,

Better than any man’s fair daughter,

Your green glass beads on a silver ring.

“Then what?” Barry was frowning worriedly.

Archer shrugged. “They’re a family heirloom. Like Great-Aunt Esmeralda’s cloisonné clock.”

“Not like Great-Aunt Esmeralda’s cloisonné clock. The beads are an obsession with you. You’ve been hunting them ever since I met you.”

“Some people hunt first editions,” Archer said lightly. “Some people hunt bottle caps.”

“Most people wouldn’t kill for bottle caps.”

Archer said slowly, “Kill?”

“You might have to kill to get the beads away from Gaki. Have you not considered that?” Barry added, “Your eyes are glowing.”

“I can’t help that.” Archer turned his profile to Barry. “I’m not going to commit murder. Give me a little credit.”

“My dear boy, Gaki will have taken every possible security measure to protect his possessions. He has armed guards patrolling his estate. The choice may not be yours.”

Archer reached out and absently clicked the keypad. The picture of the beads and a benign-looking Gaki disappeared. Archer swiveled the chair to face Barry and offered a smile. “Don’t worry. These things have a way of working themselves out. What time is this gala fundraiser?”

***

The ghost of a slight girl in a red dress waved cautiously to Archer as he exited the revolving doors into the marble lobby of the Fairmont. He nodded politely.

Formerly known as Hotel Vancouver, the Fairmont was a designated heritage building. It had opened in May of 1939, for the royal visit of King George VI and Queen Elizabeth, but the girl ghost looked circa the forties.

Voices and music drifted from the 900 West Lounge and Archer followed the sounds of celebration past gilt-framed paintings, art deco lamps, and palms in black urns.

A seventy-million dollar restoration in the mid-1990s had secured the hotel’s reputation as the favored hangout for the city’s hoi polloi, and Archer had attended a number of events there. It was not the kind of thing he particularly enjoyed, but taking his turn representing the public face of MoSSA was part of his responsibilities as curator. Barry was much better at this kind of thing, but Barry firmly believed it was good for Archer to “get out and meet people,” as he quaintly put it.

Archer milled around the fringes of the crowd, chatting when spoken to and otherwise smiling pleasantly and thinking of Commander Rake and wondering if the man really had been flirting with him the night before or if Archer was so out of practice he had read the signs wrong.

“What exactly is the Museum of State-Supported Archives?” a portly woman in a purple-flowered gown inquired, referring to the name by which the general public knew MoSSA.

Archer rattled off the usual spiel. “We catalog articles that are difficult to store in the official facilities, but that might be eventually required for study by the state examiners.”

“You mean like tax records and deeds and those kinds of documents?”

“Not so very unlike.”

She smiled politely, eyes already glazing over. “It sounds fascinating.”

“Oh yes! Very much so.” Unlike a full-blooded faerie, Archer was capable of lying, but he didn’t enjoy it. He was relieved when the woman spotted someone she urgently needed to speak to.

He checked his pocket watch. Barry would expect him to put in another hour. He sighed.

Waiters in red jackets were circulating with trays of champagne, but Archer did not care for champagne. Nor did he care for the caviar on crackers and smoked salmon moving in the opposite direction. He had missed supper and was hungry, but his appetite veered more toward fae than human, and the fae ate no flesh, be it fish, fowl, or animal. Archer went in search of a crudités platter he had spotted earlier.

So it was that he happened to be in perfect position to see George Gaki arriving with his entourage. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise, really, that Gaki would attend the fundraiser. He was a major figure on the Vancouver art scene, both as a patron and a critic, but Archer hadn’t been thinking his method of approach could be anything so simple as walking up and saying hello.

Eye on his quarry, Archer made his way through the crowd, waiting for the moment when he could introduce himself. In the end, that too was made ridiculously simple. One of the gala organizers spotted him hovering and did the honors.

“Ah! The curator of MoSSA?” Gaki said with interest. “At last we meet.”

Gaki was a large, rawboned man, nearly as tall as Commander Rake, and quite a bit broader. His hair was salt and pepper, worn in a style popularized by Julius Caesar. His eyes were a color close to yellow.

“How do you do?” Archer shook hands with the one person in the room, aside from himself, who understood MoSSA’s true purpose.

“Better than I expected when I decided on impulse to attend this event. I’ve been hoping to meet you, Mr. Green.”

“Have you?” Was this conversation taking an odd turn or was it Archer’s imagination?

“I believe you and I have something in common.”

Archer knew of only one thing they had in common and he could hardly believe Gaki would bring up the subject in public. “Oh yes?”

“You’re a collector of clocks, are you not? You have a very fine piece, as I understand from Mr. Littlechurch. A large nineteenth century cloisonné clock with cherubs.”

Archer relaxed. “Yes. But they’re not cherubs. They’re fairies.”

Gaki’s unruly brows rose. “How charming. You’re half faerie yourself?”

For a second Archer thought he’d misheard. Had Gaki truly made a reference to the immortal realms aloud? “I…” He couldn’t help an uncertain look around, but Gaki’s bodyguard was staring into space, and the other guests seemed to be absorbed in earnest conversations of their own.

“Delightful,” Gaki was saying, as though unaware of Archer’s shock. “Such a rare pairing, but the children are always exquisite. Rarely does the intermingling of bloodlines turn out so fortunately.”

Archer colored. Now he was getting angry. Not merely at being appraised as though he was an inanimate object, but at this old fool’s arrogant flaunting of the Secrecy Act, which decreed that the human realm should be kept in blissful ignorance of the others.

“As a matter of fact,” Gaki observed quietly, “I believe we have much more in common than you realize.” He glanced around, rested his large hand on Archer’s shoulder, and said in carrying tones, “I assure you, I’ll more than match any offer you receive for the clock.”

“I’m not going to sell my clock.” Archer found he was being steered through the crowd, whether he willed it or not. He tried to regain some control of the situation. “As a matter of fact, I was interested in an item you purchased from Christie’s recently.”

“You must mean the water beads. Quite a find, I agree. And in marvelous condition. Yes, I imagine you would be interested in those. What a small world it is.”

“This one, certainly,” Archer said.

“And getting smaller all the time.”

They had stopped walking next to a glossy table in the center of the lobby. A giant blue basket with a flower arrangement roughly the size of a small garden allotment sat on the table. They were safely out of earshot of anyone but the bodyguard, who stood a few feet away.

“I’m not sure I understand you,” Archer said.

“I believe I belong to an organization that you were once a member of.”

Archer’s heart stopped. He recovered and asked coolly, “The International Council of Museums?”

“No. Let’s not waste time fencing. I belong to the Society for the Rescue and Restoration of Indigenous Magic.”

It seemed to take a long time to find the words. “The society no longer exists.”

Gaki’s eyes kindled with a fanatical light. “But it does—and we’re even stronger than before.”

“Well, that’s nice,” Archer said vaguely. “I like to see people getting involved.”

“You’re very glib about something that I believe once meant a great deal to you.”

Archer kept his voice low. “Like many, I remain sympathetic to the goals of SRRIM, but I couldn’t condone the tactics being used at the time I left.”

“Fight fire with fire.”

“That can end creating a bigger fire.”

“Let it. Sometimes it takes razing the old to the ground for the new to spring forth.”

Archer stared at Gaki’s sharp, ageless features. “What are you getting at? What do you want?”

“We need your help.”

“What does that mean?” Something clicked in Archer’s brain. “Let me guess. The Stone of Fal. I don’t have it and I don’t know where it is.”

“But you could use your position at curator of MoSSA to find it.”

“No.”

Gaki said good naturedly, “Hear me out.”

“I don’t want to hear you out. I’ve already heard too much. This conversation alone could get us arrested.”

Gaki ignored that. “If you do this one little thing for us, the beads are yours.”

Across the room, Archer could see the woman in purple he had spoken to earlier. She was laughing, but the sound of her laughter, bouncing off the marble ceiling and floor, sounded disembodied and out of time.

“We’re not asking you to place yourself in any danger. Just do this one little task. Help us recover the stone. That’s all.” Gaki was still smiling. “Do it and the beads are yours again. Forever safe from the threat of state-sanctioned neutralization. Think about it.”

 “I can’t do that. I’ll pay you for the beads. I’ll pay you anything you like. Anything I can.”

“The price of the beads is your help.”

Speaking the words was physically painful, but what choice did Archer have? “That price is beyond my means.”

Gaki made a dismissive sound. “Nonsense. For old times’ sake. One last job for your old comrades?”

Archer shook his head.

Gaki seemed to contemplate him for long, solemn seconds. “You disappoint me.”

Archer said wearily, “The feeling is mutual.”

“There’s been talk about you, you know, Green. Certain of your old comrades dislike the fact that you’re roaming freely in the world knowing all that you do. Helping us just this once could go far toward proving that there is no need for…worry.”

“There’s no need for anyone to worry.”

“So you say. But then you would. Think about it. It’s a generous offer. You say you’re still sympathetic to SRRIM’s aims.”