Osiris by E. J. Swift Page A

thing; perhaps it was there that he had stumbled. Choosing the wrong name, or something. They pressed wrists anyway, his own skin fish-bone dry with the cold, the material of Linus’s glove smooth and unidentifiable. “I have to ask—why do you say that? About the Council? When you’re on it, I mean.”
    “Oh, there’s many reasons. What you’re proposing—radical social reform—it doesn’t really sit with the Council any more. They tried it already.”
    “They used to be more philanthropic.”
    “They used to be younger,” Linus said. He must be quite young himself, in his late twenties, Vikram thought. Fourth generation, anyway. Linus seemed to sense the scrutiny, because he raised one eyebrow. “You don’t agree?”
    “If you mean that age affects resolution and liberality, then yes, I suppose you’re right.”
    “You’re what—twenty six? Twenty-seven?”
    “Twenty-five.” The age Mikkeli had been.
    Linus laughed. “Young, anyway. That’s the thing. You remind these people of themselves a long time ago. They know they lack that conviction now and it shames them. And just in case you’re wondering, the man I was duelling with earlier is Feodor Rechnov. My father.”
    Vikram did not mention that he already knew the connection. He was not confident that he could keep his voice free of emotion.
    Linus seemed unaware of any tension. “Then again, you have to remember what some of them have been through. What they’ve lost.”
    “That’s too convenient an excuse. At least let someone else try.”
    “Someone like you?”
    Vikram shrugged. “Maybe.”
    Linus retrieved a silver case from his coat pocket. He took out two cigarettes and offered one to Vikram.
    “Thanks.” Vikram slipped his own packet away.
    “Not a problem.”
    Again the lighter was passed. Vikram cupped the flame and drew deeply on the cigarette. It brought on a rush of light-headedness. Evidently tobacco was rolled stronger in the City, or it had less junk in it.
    Linus inhaled gently. There were no lines around his mouth. Vikram wished he could tell what the other man was thinking. There was something unnerving about the controlled politeness, as though Linus were prepared to tell Vikram anything, secure in the knowledge that if he felt the information were even fractionally at risk, he could have the westerner tossed over the balcony without a second thought.
    The cold was beginning to penetrate through Vikram’s thinner coat. The preliminaries were over. He would get no clues from a Rechnov.
    “I need your help,” he said.
    “After today’s exhibition, I suppose you do.” There was no judgement in Linus’s voice, only dry fact.
    “You’re a Councillor. You must have influence.”
    “Very little, I’m afraid.”
    “But you spoke up today. For the west.”
    “I did. As you saw, it was a futile case.”
    “Then tell me what I need to do. You know these people. I don’t.”
    “Oh, I admire anyone who will stand up and take on the Council. But you’re wasting your time.”
    “Thanks.” Vikram stared moodily out. “That’s really useful.”
    “There are other routes, of course,” Linus continued. “Less orthodox routes.”
    “Such as?”
    “Find yourself a patron; someone rich and popular.” Linus finished his cigarette. He stubbed it out carefully on the rail. “Someone like Adelaide Mystik, perhaps.”
    “Adelaide Mystik? You mean—” He stopped, confused by the oblique reference. “Why would I talk to her? She’s a—she doesn’t do anything.”
    “Exactly. Like most celebrities, she doesn’t do anything. Therefore I would imagine she has time to do many things, if approached the right way. And she’s influential.” Linus looked thoughtful. “Yes. Talk to her. Don’t say I suggested it—just turn up as if it was your own idea.”
    Vikram felt wrong-footed, but could not pinpoint where or how it had happened. Instead he asked, “Why would a Rechnov support the west?”
    Linus’s smile was