The Black Lung Captain - Chris Wooding [63]
Plome settled himself in an armchair with a nervous glance at the windows to make sure the blinds were secure. Crake sat in the other, the brandy glass cupped in his hand.
“So you’re to be a politician?” Crake prompted.
“I hope so,” said Plome. “I have the support of the Tarlocks, and they have been most thorough in introducing me to other aristocracy in the duchy. I’m the horse they’re backing, so to speak. The incumbent has proposed some unpopular motions to the House, and all indications are that he’s on his way out.” He took a sip. “I stand in good stead, but it’s still two months to the ballot.”
“Isn’t it dangerous to put yourself in the public eye like that? I thought you were trying to keep out of sight.”
“A calculated risk,” said Plome. “I hope to obtain enough leverage to quiet anyone who might discover my less socially acceptable activities. At the very least, I should escape the gallows if I’m caught.” His tone changed, became wary and grave. “They say things about you, Crake. What you did. Why you’re on the run from the Shacklemores.”
Crake looked at his reflection in the lapping surface of his brandy. He swirled the liquid to break it up. “It didn’t happen the way they say.”
Plome shook his head. “Spit and blood, Crake. If it happened at all—”
“It wasn’t me!” said Crake sharply. “At least … it was my body doing it, but I wasn’t there. You understand? I reached too far, Plome. A procedure got out of control.”
Plome left his seat and paced the room in agitation. Crake stared at the fireplace. What would come next? Accusations? Recriminations? Would he be thrown out? It would be no less than he deserved. At least then he wouldn’t have to go through with this ill-advised plan of his.
Plome returned, holding the crystal decanter. He topped up Crake’s glass and his own, then put the decanter down between them and sat.
“I don’t have the words,” he said. He shook his head. “The price we pay for our calling is sometimes … terrible. Terrible.”
Crake swallowed as his throat tightened at the unexpected sympathy.
“What do you need?”
“I need to use your sanctum.”
Plome studied him. “You want to use the echo chamber, don’t you?”
Crake held his gaze.
“I’ve never dared use it,” Plome confessed. There was a tremor of excitement in his voice.
“I’ve used one,” said Crake. His tone left Plome in no doubt as to the result.
“After what happened, you still want to try again?”
“I’ll get it right this time.”
“What if you don’t?”
“I’ll get it right,” Crake said firmly.
Plome mopped his brow and licked his lips nervously. “I want to be there.”
“No. It’s far too—”
“I insist!” he said, his voice shrill. “It’s my sanctum!”
His small eyes shone with fervor. Crake knew that look. He’d worn it himself once. Plome might maintain the façade of a businessman and a politician, but, like Crake, he was a daemonist first and foremost. The secrets of the other side were an addiction. Crake suspected that the tragedy attached to his name, far from appalling Plome, had actually increased his respect for his guest. Crake had been blooded in a way that Plome hadn’t. He’d made a terrible sacrifice to the Art, and he was still coming back for more.
Plome admired him. The thought made Crake feel even worse.
“You’ll handle the second line of defense,” Crake said. “If it gets past me, we can’t let it out of the sanctum.”
Plome nodded eagerly and sprang out of his chair. “Shall we get started, then?”
“One more thing,” said Crake. “Do you have a gun?”
Plome frowned. “I do. Why?”
“I want you armed.”
“Armed? Whatever for?”
Crake stood up and walked past Plome toward the door. “Because if things go wrong, I want you to shoot me.”
PLUME’S SANCTUM LAY UNDERNEATH his house, in a hidden basement accessible through a daemon-thralled door that employed a strong mental suggestion to turn away casual snoopers. It was well organized and laid out like a laboratory. Electric bulbs hummed behind their shades. Complex chemical apparatuses stood on a workbench