Dragons & Dwarves

  To the left was the five-foot blonde landmine that was Cleveland’s Public Safety Director, Julian Nesmith. To the right was the pudgy and somewhat taller form of Adrian Phillips, the chairman of the Cleveland Port Authority. The man in the center overshadowed the other two, both in physical stature and in impact. Mayor David Rayburn stood six-six, and had shoulders that made it look as if he could break your average elf in half. He had huge peasant hands, blocky, the hands of a laborer—even if his dad put him through law school. He owned a legendary smile that he was choosing not to use at the moment. It might have been the light, but I think I saw a little more gray in his close-cropped black hair than I’d noticed the last time I’d seen him.

  The trio sat without ceremony, Rayburn taking the seat opposite mine, the length of the table between us. “I think we can forgo the introductions, Mr. Maxwell.” His expression was grim.

  I nodded and folded my hands in front of me, on the table. “What can I do for you, Your Honor?” I managed, barely, to keep my voice in line with a fiction that I had come here voluntarily.

  “I’m informed that you had a recent run-in with some local Federal Agents,” the mayor said.

  “I think that is, perhaps, an understatement.”

  Nesmith slid a small stack of eight by ten glossies toward me. “These the men who abducted you?”

  I reached for the photographs. They were all slick black and whites, apparently cribbed from whatever official IDs these men had owned. No names were attached, just file numbers. I riffled through them and tossed back Mr. Brown, Colonel Mustard, Agent Ts’ao, and the two drivers. There were a couple of other pictures in the stack of people I hadn’t seen before. I studied them—just in case I ran into any more Feds.

  “You’re missing Doctor Blackstone,” I said.

  “We’re aware of that,” Nesmith snapped. Struck a nerve there. They didn’t know him until today, until that fiasco at the safe house. Nesmith continued after pausing to look at the photos I had sent back. “These were the only agents you saw?”

  I nodded.

  “What did they question you about?”

  I looked at the trio and got an uneasy vibe. Almost as if the Cleveland home team was on the same fishing expedition the Feds were. I answered the question, giving them a brief on the Feds’ tune. It wasn’t as if there were any privileged communications involved.

  As I continued, the trio facing me grew graver.

  When I finished, Mayor Rayburn folded his hands in front of him. Adrian Phillips leaned forward and said, in a squeaky voice, “Is that what you believe? After all this administration has done for—”

  The mayor held up a hand, and Phillips fell silent. “Don’t attack the messenger. Mr. Maxwell is simply relating a belief held by some in the executive branch of the federal government.”

  “Yes?” Phillips asked slowly. “But what’s his view?”

  I was about to answer, but the mayor spoke for me. “His views aren’t the issue here. What side he takes in this turf war with the Feds is, at the moment, completely beside the point.” Rayburn waved a hand at me. “You’re not here because of your politics.”

  I couldn’t decide if that was a good thing or a bad thing. “Why, exactly, am I here then?”

  Rayburn leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. His collar shifted and I caught a gleam of gold around his neck. The chain Aloeus gave him? I wondered.

  “The dragon.” The mayor spoke softly, almost a whisper. “You know something about his death.”

  “Something. I wish I knew more.”

  Adrian slammed a palm on the table and looked at me with distaste. “Why are we bothering with him?”

  “I know the pressures you’re under, Adrian,” Mayor Rayburn said. “But allow the man to speak. Tell us about what you do know.”

  Again, I gave them the story I gave the Feds. I studied them for reactions as I talked. To my surprise, none of them reacted when I talked about Cutler and crooked elf cops. Phillips himself was fuming.

  When I’d gone through to my liberation from Dr. Blackstone, Phillips turned to face Nesmith and said, “Your people already established he wasn’t on to anything. Why aren’t your elves doing something productive, like finding Faust?”

  The name “Faust” fired a switch in my brain, recasting everything that I’d been going through to date. No wonder O’Malley thought I didn’t have a clue. “Your elves?” I leaned on the table and stood up. “Those were your elves?”

  Nesmith looked at me with a slightly pained expression, the kind of face I’d expect to see on a mother when she learns that her six-year-old son has found out about sex. “Please sit down, Mr. Maxwell.”

  “These corrupt SPU elves that kidnaped me and fed me to the late Bone Daddy, they’re yours?”

  “Mine, actually,” said Mayor Rayburn. “They’re not corrupt, and they’re very, very dedicated. Sit down please.”

  I shook my head and sat down.

  Nesmith started, “That episode was outside normal channels—”

  “No shit,” I muttered.

  “—because the people we’re looking for have sources, perhaps even a mole, inside the administration. If we had brought you in for a formal questioning, your life might have been endangered. Even if you knew nothing, the appearance would have been that you did.”

  “Thank you so much, it worked so well. I’m sure Mr. Bone Daddy would agree—”

  Rayburn leaned forward. “Let’s dispense with the recriminations.”

  “Okay, let’s.” I said, glaring at Nesmith. “So what the hell was Cutler investigating? I have transactions between these guys and Bone Daddy since the start of the SPU.”

  Nesmith looked at Mayor Rayburn, who nodded at her.

  “I will tell you this, Mr. Maxwell, only because Mr. Caleb Washington is dead. The gentleman you refer to as Bone Daddy was the best undercover cop this city ever had.”

  “What?”

  “Caleb Washington was the first recruit the SPU ever had. We spent years building his persona, all the more genuine because he was one of the most talented native mages in the city. We knew about Cutler’s investigation. He labored under a mistaken assumption. We used him to help maintain Washington’s cover.”

  Suddenly, everything over the past three days took on a surreal cast. “No, wait a minute, Egil Nixon—”

  “Died less than three hours after he went home the day of the dragon’s death.” Nesmith shook her head. “Through his own means, Mr. Washington had followed a trail to Mr. Nixon’s corpse.”

  “Why the shootout?”

  Nesmith shook her head. “It was a decision O’Malley made. Washington was ambushed by someone, probably the people responsible for Nixon’s death, before he could meet with O’Malley and pass on what he had discovered. O’Malley decided to preserve his cover by planting the weapon and manufacturing the story . . .”

  “Jesus.” I whispered. The guy was a cop.

  “The same people more than likely set up the episode with you and Cutler.” She shook her head. “These same people may have set Cutler after Washington in the first place. Washington was getting very close to them.”

  “Faust?”

  I was answered by a silent trio of nods.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  PERHAPS you begin to understand,” Mayor Rayburn said quietly. “There have been threats that, up until now, it hasn’t been in the city’s interest to acknowledge publicly. To do so would have been to hand ammunition to the forces that want to remove local control of the Portal.”

  “What, exactly, do you mean?” I asked him.

  “The Feds have been as reluctant to publicize their operations here as we’ve been to acknowledge the threat you named ‘Faust,’” Nesmith explained. “Their contact with you has shown that their attitude has changed. That is why you’re here, and not in the Justice Center.”

  “What are you saying?” I smiled and shook my head. “You offering an exclusive interview?”

&n
bsp; “I am offering you a deal,” Mayor Rayburn said.

  “Over my objection,” Phillips said, mostly to himself.

  “What deal?”

  “Help us get Faust,” Nesmith said.

  “Pardon?”

  “Their activity has risen to an unprecedented level,” she said, “centered on you.”

  “Now wait a minute—”

  “They are giving us an opportunity to flush them out.”

  “Using me as bait?” I stood up. “Thank you, no.”

  “What did I tell you?” Phillips said. When he shook his head, his whole body moved. “This whole exercise is pointless.”

  “Please sit down, Mr. Maxwell,” Rayburn said. It was the kind of voice I associated with Charlton Heston as Moses—after the bush incident. I stood my ground and looked Rayburn in the eyes.

  “I think the discussion’s over,” I said.

  “I don’t think you want to leave just yet,” Rayburn said.

  “Is this where you start threatening me with criminal prosecution?” I snapped at Nesmith. I could feel the old self-destructive stubbornness strike. I did not like to be threatened.

  Nesmith surprised me. “No. If you don’t cooperate with us, you’re free to go. No strings.”

  The silence filled the cavernous room. From somewhere water dripped. A vent kicked on and began to suck a mildewed wind across my face.

  “What?” I said, slowly sliding back into my seat.

  “We have no grounds to hold you,” she said. “You witnessed a felony, that’s all. You could walk out the door right now, if you wanted to.”

  “Then why don’t I?” I asked Rayburn.

  “Self-interest,” Rayburn replied.

  In the end they had me, and they knew they had me. Rayburn knew from the beginning. That was why he was the mayor, and I was the one doing features on him.

  The deal, which wasn’t really a deal, was simply this—

  I cooperate, agree to be their stalking horse, I get a little limited Q&A with the Cleveland triumvirate. On the record.

  I walk, and not only do I get to go without that particular interview, but I get to face an unknown quantity of killer mages without police protection—and with decent surveillance the cops still get to use me to flush the bad guys.

  So, in the end, it was a no-brainer.

  I pulled out my notebook and tried to get my money’s worth.

  Nesmith did answer most of my questions. I got some limited background on Faust. The name began as a legendary figure, a native human who sold his soul by working with the mage underground. The rumors were born in the first few months, when the primary reaction to the Portal—and the things coming out of it—was one of fear.

  The name became associated with secret societies, and what Nesmith described as a government-in-exile—almost as if Cleveland was a staging area for operations on the other side of the Portal. Faust and company could certainly communicate across the Portal, and the existing exchanges made it possible for agents to slip in and out.

  I asked about the National Guard and forays into Ragnan, and got a predictable “no comment.” When I asked why the Feds shouldn’t be in charge of the Portal, with everything that was going on, I got a bombshell of an answer.

  The Portal was not a natural phenomenon.

  This thing that had been confounding scientists and mages for a decade had a very specific origin. The dragon Aloeus.

  Not only was the dragon influential in shaping policy. Not only was he a primary source of intelligence about Ragnan. Not only was he a source of knowledge to work with mages and protect against them.

  Aloeus was the last defense against the fifth column the Feds were worried about. He had created the Portal, and knew the mechanics of how to close it. As long as the dragon was friendly with the administration, the city didn’t have anything to fear from an invasion. It was possible for Aloeus to shut the door.

  The idea that Faust murdered Aloeus was enough to send waves of panic from Lakeside Avenue all the way to Pennsylvania Avenue. Such a blatant stroke made it almost certain that there was going to be some sort of push from the other side of the Portal.

  Which made everyone all the more desperate to find these guys.

  By the time I got to this point, I think I was using up the information faucet. I tried to get confirmations or denials on a lot of the Feds’ accusations, but they weren’t about to comment about National Guard involvement in a coup. Or disappearing homeless, for that matter.

  One question I asked did get a rise from Phillips. Not that he said anything, he remained mute through the whole Q & A. But when I brought the questions around to Aloeus’ business dealings. Rayburn, quite adroitly, pointed out that it was none of the city’s business what Aloeus, Inc., did with its money. Phillips, however, looked uncomfortable.

  I asked how they knew there was a mole in the administration. It boiled down to timing. Faust and company knew too many things. The fact that Nixon suppressed forensic data. The location of Bone Daddy’s meet with O’Malley. The location of the FBI’s safe house. Cutler’s investigation . . .

  I looked across at Phillips. “You’ve been quiet.”

  “I do not agree with the decision to use you, or to talk to you.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I’ve explained my reasoning to the mayor. I do not need to do so to you. Suffice it to say that I believe you’re a risk the administration can ill afford at this time.”

  “Why were you on the Coast Guard cutter, Phillips?”

  “My job required it,” he snapped. “I think you’ve wasted enough of our time.”

  Rayburn glanced at Phillips, and his hand went to the chain at his neck. He turned back, as if reassured by the touch of the chain. “Mr. Phillips felt that his presence was needed on site. You don’t need to question his loyalty to this city and this administration.”

  Was that what I was questioning?

  I was about to say something more when the mayor went on, “I trust the people in this room, Mr. Maxwell. Strangely enough, that includes you. But the time for questions is over.”

  I left the bunker under City Hall in the back seat of a minivan escorted by my old friends, Elves One, Two, and Three.

  Elf Three still held the Glock, and Elf One still did all the talking.

  “Mr. Maxwell,” he said by way of greeting.

  “Maelgwyn Caledvwlch,” I said, butchering the name.

  If I’d hoped to rattle him by knowing his name, I was disappointed. He looked at me impassively, and said in his breathy near-Jamaican accent, “Detective Sergeant Maelgwyn Caledvwlch, Mr. Maxwell.”

  I looked over to the elf with the Glock. At least he wasn’t pointing it at me.

  As we rolled out of that bunker I knew that Nesmith was drafting a press release to be faxed to all the papers in time for the a.m. editions. A press release calculated to make Faust and the Mage Mafia rabid to get me. I was pretty sure it went something like, “Kline Maxwell, recently wanted for questioning in the murder of Kirk Cutler, has turned himself over to the police. He has been cooperating with the murder investigation, as well as several other related ongoing investigations. At the moment he is not a suspect in any criminal wrongdoing, and is being held in police custody at an undisclosed location for his own protection.” Something to rehabilitate me while simultaneously making me look threatening to Faust. That was how I’d write it.

  “So where are you taking me, Detective Sergeant Caledvwlch?” I asked, expecting pretty much as unresponsive a ride as I had gotten to Bone Daddy’s ministrations.

  “We’re taking you home, Mr. Maxwell,” he responded, confounding my expectations on several levels.

  “Home,” I repeated, for a time unsure if he was referring to my home or his.

  “You are in protective custody,” he told me. “We will remain with you until you are no longer in danger.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said. “You’re painting yourselves a mighty big target, aren’t you?”
>
  He didn’t respond to that.

  The minivan rolled out of downtown, east, through neighborhoods of new townhouses and small strip malls. It was hard to believe that, at one time, the area around us had been some of the most depressed real estate in the county.

  I felt backed into a corner, and I didn’t like it. For all their talk that I could just walk away, either choice I’d make essentially amounted to Rayburn and Nesmith throwing me out to draw the hunters. I didn’t like the fact that their scenario about Faust didn’t add up—a gut feeling, but a powerful one.

  My doubts did have a foundation, albeit a shaky one. If Nesmith was correct in her theories, Aloeus was killed for something he might do, because he represented the administration’s control of the Portal in a crisis situation. I’d always found it much more likely that people are killed for what they have done, or what they will do.

  As the night slid by, I asked, “So were you the cops the late Bone Daddy supposedly drew down on?”

  Caledvwlch, as usual, was the one who answered me. “It was unfortunate.”

  “More so for Bone, don’t you think?”

  “It is the nature of mortal beings to die.” He paused a moment, as if in reflection. “The timing, in some cases, is inconvenient.” It was hard to tell if he spoke with anger, regret or some other, less accessible emotion.

  “You work with him a long time?”

  “An instant,” Caledvwlch said, making a gesture of dismissal. It rang false to me, even through the enigmatic elven reticence. I didn’t get the feeling that there was affection there, but I sensed that there might have been some sort of camaraderie that Caledvwlch wouldn’t want to admit. “He was useful for the work.”

  “ ‘The work?’ ” I asked. “A rather pious way to put it. Or are you more than a city cop?”

  “Our unit has a special role, Mr. Maxwell. Caleb Mosha Washington aided that role.”

  We hit University Circle. As we drove through, I looked up at the Gothic cathedral at the edge of the Case campus. Trying to see the gargoyle that had yawned at me. I didn’t see anything but inert stone.