"Got one," Zeb said.
Harris moved around to Zeb's side of the table. He refrained from leaning over the book Zeb was looking at; the little windowless room in Neckerdam's main guard station was hot and he didn't want to drip sweat all over the cameos.
The book was the equivalent of an old-fashioned grimworld mugbook. It was large and leatherbound, with a half dozen photographs affixed to each page.
The photo Zeb pointed to showed a thick-necked, belligerent-looking man. Though the picture was a black-and-white, the man obviously had a lot of gray in his beard. It was the graybeard Zeb had met in Harris and Gaby's hotel room.
The text beneath the picture read:
"Taken five years ago," Harris said.
"What the hell is `Plowmoon'?"
"Roughly the month of May."
Zeb shook his head. "Man, I hate their dating system."
"You and me both." Harris called out the door, "Sergeant, can you get us files on Albin Bergmonk and anyone you have who works with him?"
Doc pulled the top-down roadster out of the garage door a block from the Monarch Building. He'd driven from his underground garage along the side tunnel he called his "sally-port"; it gave him access to the street by way of this less conspicuous exit. Once he was on the street and a block from the garage, he pulled the green beret from his head and tossed it into the back seat; the wind whipped his hair into a trailing cloud of whiteness. Harris sat in the passenger seat. The other associates were in Noriko's lumbering luxury car, following.
Doc had to raise his voice to be heard over the wind. "Albin Bergmonk. `The Bergmonk Boys'?"
"That's them. You've heard of them."
"Only a little. Tell me."
Harris started to open the file folder on his lap; as wind yanked at the corners of the papers within, he changed his mind and kept it closed. "Five of them. Actually, there were thirteen kids in his family, but only five of them turned out bad. They're a self-contained little gang, specializing in robberies, especially bank robberies. Professional, with family loyalty going for them.
"The oldest one is Albin, the leader. He's fifty, a graybeard both literally and socially in his clan. Plans their robberies. He's the one whose arm I kicked back on the grim world. Next is Egon. He's been up for dueling manslaughter two or three times, prefers the knife; he's in his mid-forties, still has some blond in his beard. Him I kicked in the throat."
"You're very good at making friends, Harris."
"I know. Then there's Jorg, the biggest of them; the sergeant said he'd been known to bench-press the front of a car so his brothers could change a tire. He's about forty, a big hairy redheaded thing. He's the one that Zeb, who also knows something about making friends, belted in the temple with a gun butt. Otmar's next. He's the one whose nose I broke. A bit of a whiner, according to the records, but he never ratted out his brothers."
" `Ratted out'?"
"Sold them up the river?"
Doc gave him an admonishing look. "Speak the queen's Lower Cretanis, would you?"
"In spite of his perceived weakness, he never turned them in to the authorities. Never testified against them, never implicated them for any crime. Anyway, he's their driver. Competed in professional races before he entered the family business. Also their pickpocket. Last is Rudiger, or Rudi, the baby—about twenty-five, and beardless. Zeb kicked him in the head. Though they can all shoot competently, he's supposed to be the best of them, and a charmer."
Doc turned left up Lady Way; the business skyscrapers quickly gave way to residential towers and small private estates. "Robbers. Any variant on that?"
"Well, plenty of other crimes, but no professional crimes of other types. They've been sent up individually for brawling, dueling, nonpayment of debt, assaulting city guards, making of threats against the Crown, and so on . . . but when it comes to money, robbery only."
"I wonder what caused them to change careers." The private estates to the left abruptly ended. Next was an open field, upon it a sprawling four-story mansion, a graystone monster of bell towers, gargoyle-filled ledges, and wrought-bronze fences.
Harris looked the building up and down. "Dr. Frankenstein's mansion, I presume? Where's the storm cloud?"
"Neckerdam Civic Museum. A little bit of omen-reading this morning suggested that it might be a place to get questions answered. Which suggests that answers about the Danaan Heights Building will point us in the direction we need to go."
"Omen-reading. Doc, you really know how to build confidence in your associates."
Zeb kept his intimidation face on as he stared unblinking at the museum guard. The guard, talking to Doc, tried to ignore him, but his gaze kept being drawn back to Zeb. Beyond the guard, beyond the turnstiles, museum visitors were milling in and passing through the spacious foyers, looking at the first glass-case displays placed in their path.
"I am not saying you can't go in," the guard said. He was a tall man for the fair world, burly, wearing an ill-fitting uniform that was reminiscent of the Novimagos Guard but didn't incorporate the same crest that the true police uniform did. "I'm saying that it isn't the hour for duskies, and they can't go in." His nod took in Zeb, Noriko and Alastair.
Doc's voice was cold. "Call your curator."
"The rules—"
"Call your curator now, before I choose to become unpleasant."
Much put upon, the guard sighed, withdrew from the line of turnstiles to the little booth that was his personal domain, and dialed his phone. Zeb could hear his words: "Ma'am, the Sidhe Foundation is here. Well, yes, ma'am, but there's a problem. Three of them are duskies, and it's not the hour—" The guard was suddenly obliged to hold the earpiece a few inches from his head, and even at this distance Zeb could hear shrill noises of unhappiness emitting from it. Finally: "Yes, ma'am. Whatever you say, ma'am."
He hung up and returned, even less happy than when he withdrew. "Go right in," he said. "Goodlady Obeldon will be down immediately. If you'll wait over by the statue of Barrick Stelwright?"
As the associates belatedly moved through the turnstiles, Zeb caught the guard's eye again. "So, what changes around here when it's the duskies' hour?"
The guard's tone was dismissive. "We increase the guard, of course."
"Of course." Zeb shook his head and joined the others.
Barrick Stelwright, if the bronze statue were to be believed, was unusually tall, with a saturnine face and mocking expression, and wore clothes that, as far as Zeb could tell, were pretty close to contemporary Neckerdam styles. The inscription at the statue's base identified him as a Favorite Son of Neckerdam, essayist and critic.
"Actually," said Gaby, "he seems to have been a complete rat bastard. Movies, plays, novels, he'd rip them to shreds in his column regardless of whether they were any good. I've read a collection of his reviews: brilliant, but mean."
Zeb asked, "So, why would they put up a statue to him?"
A new voice, female and cheerful, answered: "He willed a lot of money to the Museum, of course."
The speaker, arriving from the direction of the staircase, was the whitest woman Zeb had ever seen, her skin having only the least amount of color necessary to impart it the semblance of life. She was Gaby's height, tall for a fairworld woman, with hair that, though long and luxuriant, was just a shade too pale to be honey-blonde. Her dress, knee-length and cut in the practical fashion of downtown money-exchangers, was a pastel green. She wore gold-rimmed glasses just a little too large for her face, and beneath them her smile was both mischievous and infectious. She was beautiful.
She extended her hand to Doc. "Dr. MaqqRee, isn't it? I am Teleri Obeldon, curator of Neckerdam Civic Museum. Grace upon you."
Doc shook her hand, though Zeb suspected from the way the woman had presented it that she'd expected it to be kissed. "And on you," Doc said.
"Allow me to apologize for the guard. He's reliable and observant . . . but hasn't much sense for situations like this."
"What sort of situation would that be?" Zeb asked, his voice innocent.
Teleri's smile faded; she cleared her throat delicately before answering. At least she met his gaze. "Well, you must understand, it has only been in the last two years that we've even had hours for visitation by duskies. They were implemented by my predecessor, whose heart was much bigger than it was strong—he died when it failed him, not long after he added the dusky hours. It may be that all the letters and talk-box calls he received complaining about the new policy pushed him to that collapse." She shrugged. "So the guards have had to make some changes in the way they do things. Some are slower than others at it." She smiled brightly again at Doc. "Now, please, tell me how the lowly Civic Museum can be of help to the famous Sidhe Foundation."
"You're aware of the destruction of the Danaan Heights Building."
"Oh, yes."
"We'd like to find out if there is anything in the history or construction or location of the building that made it especially vulnerable to devisement attack."
"Of course. Well, our library is the place to start." She slipped her arm through Doc's and turned him toward the archway leading to the south wing. "It is also by appointment only. You now have an appointment, and you'll be the only ones today, so you won't be disturbed in your studies." She leaned close as she walked with Doc.
Zeb glanced at Ixyail, but her expression, watching the curator, was more a combination of amusement and pity than irritation. She noticed his look and whispered, "Plain, half-blind old maidens have to be very obvious to get anything. It's sad, really."
"Plain. Right."
"Of course, she will get nowhere with my Doc."
"Sure."
The library, closed off from the rest of the museum by imposing bronze-bound doors, was at the south end of the building. In the lobby before it was a scale model of the entire city, ten paces long by four wide, meticulously constructed, every skyscraper in its true colors. A heavy brass-reinforced glass lid protected the model buildings from straying hands.
Alastair whistled. "This wasn't here two years ago."
Beside the model was a dark wood door with a sign reading, BY APPOINTMENT. Teleri unlocked it. "It wasn't here two weeks ago," she said. "One of the uses to which we put Barrick Stelwright's money. And some of the budget set aside for the model is still available for annual corrections."
Doc stared at the model, found the little statue representing the Danaan Heights Office Tower. "By chance, do you have an overlay showing Neckerdam's ley lines?"
Teleri smiled. "Nothing so crude as an overlay." She returned to the model. "Stelwright," she said, "ley lines."
A dim glow manifested itself among the buildings of the model, two straight lines that crossed east-west and north-south in the vicinity of the model of the Monarch Building. Neither came near the Danaan Heights Building. "Very helpful," Doc said.
"It's nothing. Stelwright, underground." The ley lines disappeared, and a bewildering series of dotted lines, some in red, others in yellow or blue, manifested themselves at street level on the map, appearing to well up like wet paint from beneath the surface. At intervals, little stars appeared beside the lines. Subway stations, Zeb guessed.
"It took careful coordination between the model maker, Wenzel of House Daython, and a deviser with some artistic skill," Teleri said. "I think the effect is worth it."
The library turned out to be three stories of books with a central atrium. Dust was heavy in the air, and Alastair began sneezing almost at once.
Teleri pointed out the cabinet holding the catalogue of books, then the phone on one of the ground-floor tables. "The museum has its own switchboard; simply ask for my office if you need me. I'm also the resident expert on the settlement of Neckerdam, which nationalities contributed to the settlement, that sort of thing, so if you have questions along those lines you have merely to ask."
"You've been very helpful already," Doc said.
After Teleri left, Ixyail snorted. "Not as helpful as she wants to be."
Doc gave her an admonishing look. "Now, Ish."
"You are sometimes too appealing for your own good."
"I shall remember to complain when I'm old and withered. Very well, everyone, let's start looking."
Doc pulled books referring to the construction of the Danaan Heights Building and magazines showing its decor. Alastair found volumes on the settlement of the neighborhood around the building; he and Noriko looked for anything pertaining to unusual phenomena or events occurring there before the building was raised. Harris fetched city plans showing subway routes, sewers and other utility construction, while Ixyail and Gaby pored over business articles and financial reports on the consortium that had owned Danaan Heights.
Zeb, lacking enough knowledge of Neckerdam to feel particularly useful, found a recent travel guide to the city and settled in to learn what he could.
"It wasn't on the ley lines," said Alastair, "and I'm not finding any unusual stories related to the site. It was a hotel thirty years ago, a livery service a half century before that."
"Good construction," Doc said. "No sheathing on the steel supports, but a lower than usual incidence of iron poisoning because of good maintenance."
"The underground didn't come any nearer than a block," Harris said. "Normal sewer and utilities, but it'll be hell to find out if there was anything going on there; it collapsed when the building fell down."
"No indication of crime-family ties," Ish said. "Danaan-Gwernic Limited owns real estate from here to Nyrax. Very solid."
"I don't understand." That was Alastair, who, if anything, looked worse and more tired than he had earlier in the morning, despite a bath and change of clothing. "Why did the ball of fire hit the base of the building? There are two primary ways to get the ball to the building—aim, or plant a beacon and send it toward the beacon. Either way, assuming there's any skill involved, it's probably easier to hit the building a few floors up—and just as effective."
The talk-box chimed. Zeb, not taking his gaze from the book before him or much of his attention from the conversations going on all around him, picked up the handset. "Hello. Uh, I mean, grace."
"Is this the Sidhe Foundation?" The voice was low, raspy, and familiar.
Zeb covered the lower portion of the handset with his palm. "Doc, it's Albin Bergmonk."
Doc and the associates all scrambled toward Zeb. Zeb took his palm from the handset. "Yes, it is. To whom shall I direct your call?" He kept his voice light and pleasant, like a phone operator's, and saw Harris suppress a snicker. Doc leaned in close and Zeb held the handset so both of them could listen. Gaby sat at the table, grabbed the talk-box cradle with both hands, and closed her eyes.
"Shut up and listen. You saw what we could do at the Danaan Heights Tower. That was a free demonstration. Now it starts to cost. Fifty thousand silver libs in two bells' time or the Gwall-Hallyn Building comes down the same way. Do you understand?"
Doc nodded.
"Sure."
"If you start to evacuate the building, we bring it down ahead of schedule. Do you understand?"
Doc nodded again and mouthed the word "Where?"
"Where do you want the money?"
"We'll call the Monarch Building in a bell and a half with further instructions." Bergmonk disconnected.
Gaby jerked as though she'd been slapped and her eyes came open. "Not enough time," she said, apology in her voice. "Somewhere in this district, though. Very close."
Zeb set the handset down and blinked at her. "You were tracing the call? Just by concentrating?"
"One of my little gifts."
Alastair said, "Three possibilities. We were followed here, they had an observer here already, or they were tipped off by someone in our organization."
Noriko said, "We weren't followed."
Alastair's voice took on a soothing tone. "I have every confidence in your driving. But are you sure we weren't followed by anything? A bird? A little liftship like the Outrigger?"
She considered it and shook her head. "No, I'm not."
Harris said, "We vetted pretty carefully after Fergus turned out to be a traitor. It's unlikely they were tipped off by someone at the Monarch Building—especially as we didn't announce our destination, we just took off."
Ixyail nodded. "It is asking much to assume they had someone here watching for us. I think we can strike that choice from the list."
Gaby said, "I'm not so sure. This would be an obvious place for us to do research, obvious to someone who knows our methods. And they do—otherwise they wouldn't have known how to capture Doc. But why would they just call us here with a threat and not send in the Bergmonk Boys with autoguns?"
Doc waved the subject aside. "Not important right now. I'll have our office staff get the money. Alastair, what you and I need to do is find some way to put a devisement beacon on it. And since they'll be expecting that, and obviously are working with a deviser, we need to find a way to do it they won't easily find."
Harris caught the associates' eyes as he addressed them in turn. "Okay. Gaby, I want you on-station at the switchboard at the Monarch Building to get a trace on their call when they tell us where they want their money. Noriko, Zeb, you and Ish and I will go on over to this Gwall-Hallyn Building—"
"It's a residential tower," Doc said. "Very new, very forward-looking. The first few floors are offices and shops. Take both cars in case you have to split up. Alastair, Gaby and I will take a taxi back to the Monarch Building and pick up more transportation there."
"Right," said Harris. "We'll check Gwall-Hallyn out, see if we can spot any anomalies. Not try an evacuation; I feel like taking these guys seriously. Any questions?" There were none. "Let's go."