Doc interrupted: “Who knew you were going out?”
Harris thought it over. “Jean-Pierre and Joseph. And Fergus.”
“And who knew you were going to Brannach’s?”
“No one. No, wait. I told Jean-Pierre and Joseph.”
Jean-Pierre stiffened. “What are you suggesting?”
Harris looked at him evenly. “I’m not suggesting anything, JayPee. I’m answering questions. I know you didn’t have anything to do with this. If you wanted something bad to happen to me, you could have arranged for it lots of times. Stabbed me in a back stairwell or something.”
Jean-Pierre slowly relaxed back into his chair. “Well, then.” He turned to glare at Doc. “Stop trying to pick fights, Doc.”
Alastair slathered balm on the last of Harris’ cuts and affixed another bandage.
Doc ignored Jean-Pierre. He said, “The Novimagos Guard found the car. It was wedged too firmly between the trees to drive clear; you chose very well. But the gunmen were gone.”
“Great.” Harris glanced back over his shoulder, saw that his cuts were all bound, and shrugged back into his shirt. “Thanks, Alastair.”
Doc said, “I need to make some talk-box calls. And then . . . I’d appreciate it if you would arrange to go driving again.”
“Oh, yeah? And how about gunmen?”
“There will probably be even more this time, and better armed.”
“Great,” Harris said. “Sign me up.”
Gaby glared at him. “I think that too many days of being cooped up here have made you crazy.”
“Maybe it’ll be an improvement from when I was sane,” he shot back.
“You want what?” Fergus asked.
“I want the Hutchen again,” Harris said. “I’m stubborn.”
“You mean you’re mad. I haven’t even begun the repairs.”
Harris shrugged. “If it’s drivable, it’s what I want.”
Fergus sighed. “Give me a few beats; I have to look over my notes.” He turned away from the madman, sorrowfully shook his head, and walked into the little office, closing its door behind him.
Once inside, he kept a nervous eye on the door and picked up the handset of his talk-box double. “Morcymeath five nine one naught,” he told the operator.
After a minute, he heard the click of connection, but no voice spoke. Fergus said, “It’s me.”
The other voice was low and smooth. “What?”
“He’s coming out again.”
“With anyone?”
“No, alone.” Fergus paused a moment. “He’ll be in the same car as before. It should be even easier to spot. It’s shot up all to Avlann.” He waited a moment longer, but the other voice didn’t speak again. Fergus replaced the handset in his cradle.
He picked up the Hutchen’s key and his notebook and consulted the latter as he walked back out.
“It should carry you,” he said, not looking up. “The Hutchen. But don’t beat it too much about before I can repair it.”
“I won’t,” Jean-Pierre said.
Fergus looked up, confused. Jean-Pierre stood beside Harris, both of them leaning against the wall, looking identically nonchalant.
“Oh. Both of you? Or do you want a different car, Highness?”
“In fact, we’ll need the slabside lorry instead.”
Fergus looked in some confusion at Harris. “I’m glad you changed your mind. I’ll just get the key to the lorry.”
Harris shook his head. “Not yet. Stay here. Doc will be here in a second to talk to you. He’s just up in the building’s switchboard office.”
Fergus’s stomach went cold.
He threw his notebook into Jean-Pierre’s face and sprinted for the stairwell.
He was two steps from it when an impact like a sledgehammer blow hit the small of his back. He smashed into the wall beside the door, staggered backwards, and felt his head crack on the concrete floor of the garage.
Harris stood over the unconscious mechanic and searched him for weapons. Fergus carried nothing but the tools in his belt.
Jean-Pierre joined him. “I have never seen a jumping kick like that.”
“Flying side kick. Best used against immobile targets and blind men. But when it connects, it tends to smart.” Harris unbuckled the tool belt and pulled it free of Fergus. “Say, what’s all this ‘Highness’ stuff, anyway?”
Jean-Pierre shrugged. “By an accident of birth, I am prince and heir to the kingdom of Acadia.”
“Hey. Nice work if you can get it.”
The other man smiled thinly. “If I thought it was such nice work I would not be here.”
Fergus felt pain in his back and heard a murmur of voices. He forced his eyes open.
Doc’s face hovered above him. Fergus closed his eyes again.
He felt Doc seize him by the lapels; then he was swung through the air. His back slammed into the wall and the pain grew. He dangled in Doc’s grip, his feet well off the floor, and opened his eyes again.
Doc’s face was set in angry lines. Behind him waited his associates, the two grimworlders, and the huge man named Joseph. Their expressions were unforgiving.
Doc said, “Do you want to go to gaol, or do you want to walk away?”
Fergus felt a little surge of hope rise through all the fear. “Walk, please.”
Doc dropped him. Fergus’ heels hit the floor but his legs would not hold him up; he slid down and sat, legs drawn up, at Doc’s feet.
Doc glared at him. “You have to do two things. First, tell me everything you know about the place you called to—Morcymeath five nine one naught.”
“It’s the number he gave me.” Fergus heard his voice quavering, but he couldn’t stop it. “It belongs to a man named Eamon Moon.”
“Tell me about him.”
“My height. Lean, like Jean-Pierre. The ladies all seem to like him and he spends a lot of money on them. He has a flat in Morcymeath.”
“That’s all you have?” Doc shook his head. “It’s not enough. Take him to gaol.”
“No, please.” Fergus frantically searched his memory for things to say, presents to give Doc so that the man might think better of him. “I met him at the Tamlyn Club once. He has a regular table there. I saw him meet another man there once.”
“Describe this other man.”
“A strong-looking redcap, a graybeard from the old world. He has a lowland accent.”
“Angus Powrie.” Doc thought about it for a moment. “Very well. That’s enough for us to start.
“Second.” The anger he turned on Fergus made his previous attitude seem like one of affection. “Why?”
Fergus felt his breath catch. The anger he’d held down for years threatened to surface. It wouldn’t do to vent it on Doc if he still had a chance to get away. But he couldn’t keep the resentment out of his voice. “It’s not my fault. You’re to blame.”
“Explain yourself.”
“Ten years I’ve worked for the Foundation. Every year I apply to be a full associate. Every year you turn me down, keep me chained in this hole.” He gestured at Jean-Pierre and the rest. “I could have been one of them, but you just wanted me to keep their cars running. I’m as good as they are. She—” he pointed at Gaby “—is here less than a week, and already you’re talking about taking her on, too. What about me?” His voice cracked on the last word.
“No doubt you’ve told this to others. At a pub, say, after hours.”
Fergus didn’t answer.
“And, no doubt, one day you found a friend in Goodsir Moon. He bought you drinks and told you, yes, you are as good as they are, but they hate you and laugh at you.”
Fergus felt a flicker of confusion. That was exactly what had happened. “Maybe.”