Going Under by Justina Robson Page A

Tell remained cold. Malachi drew a slip of paper from his pocket; old paper made from painstakingly handcrafted reeds and worn to softness by millennia of sticky fingers. "Go to the Faery Grim and give this to The Knocker. He'll get you enough for a few weeks."
    Jones's eyes crinkled with mischief. "Not going to your human masters? Well, look lively, because I will talk to them if you let me down," she said, placing the strip inside the grimy line of her bra, beneath the checked shirt's open neck. The buttons dangled by a thread.
    The string doll warmed up and he smiled faintly. She was too human and too keen on him to be quite as fast as she claimed, though he had no expectations of loyalty from her. Maybe it was the humans she felt some kinship to, in spite of her change. "Don't worry. You're not going out of business yet. Oh, and one more thing."

    She waited.
    "I want you to talk to my friend."
    "Oh yeah?"
    "She needs information. Give her what she wants and I'll get you a year's worth of funds."
    "And if I don't?"
    "Faery gold can find its own way home."
    Jones stood up and moved close to him, within a few inches of his face. Her breath stank of cheap hot dog. She looked so tough it was hard to believe she was only young, younger even than Lila. Her eyes looked a thousand years old. "We'll see. Call me when she's here," she tapped the chair with her fingertip. "If your money talks, I might too." She transmigrated, replaced by a sudden furl of air and a slight mist of grey un-ness that remade itself into reality after a few seconds.
    Malachi sat still as he pulled the line and extinguished the doll in his pocket. It fell to limp string again and he identified the smell that lingered most in his nostrils. Jones had shed it all the time she'd been here and only his human form had been slow to recognise it immediately, although the cat knew its primal scent with a predator's conviction: fear.

     

CHAPTER SIX
    board the airship with Lila and Zal were several of the Ahriman higher-ranking family, most notably the large, charismatic figure of Sabadyon, Zal's nominal uncle, and his two spawn, Mazarkel and Hadradon. They had brought several friends each and were having a party below decks involving a lot of eating, drinking, and debauchery. Sorcha was alone on the foredeck as Lila boarded, her hair unusually greenish, signalling introspection, her clothing a neat ironical showcase of human military fatigues loaded down with belts of weatherbeaten but live ammunition and strategically placed, diamante studded grenades.
    The shipmaster-a wiry reptilian sort-cast off and glanced at Zal out of hooded, lizard eyes, "Cruising, master?"
    "No," Zal said, cocking one ear to the sounds of the party and then narrowing his eyes against the light from the sun as he turned his head towards it. His voice was the powerful commanding tone of a fleet master and still made Lila blink every time she heard it. When moving in society here he exuded effortless dominance, whereas in Otopia he was more like a court fool than any kind of authority. It was difficult to imagine him ordering takeout there; almost as difficult as imagining him ever being an effective Alfheim agent. Now he even stripped Teazle of his name in deference to his own house colours. "Otopia Portal, but first we must locate the Sikarzan."

    The shipmaster ducked his head nervously, "May I be gifted with some knowledge as to his whereabouts?"
    As they were speaking Lila had been standing behind Zal and now she saw over his shoulder that Mazarkel had come up to see what was going on. His narrow, green face was bland with drink, almost affable. Of all the Ahrimani he was the most human looking, his demon nature expressed in a few horns and whiskers. He belched as he spoke, "Ah, long ears. There's been no fun with daggers and guns since you wedded the White Death. It's almost as if nobody wants to bother us any more. Will you be taking him with you out of town?"
    Lila frowned. Why was