■
A time of upheaval, Jeremy mused.
Unrest in Toronto, unrest in Jacob’s Bell.
Fifteen years since he’d seen Sandra. Their communication had been fleeting. Brief messages, to the point. Business.
He had permission from the old Lord of the City to travel throughout Toronto. Now, with things in a state of flux, that permission had been revoked. It made for some difficulty. He hadn’t ever needed a car.
Now, with the current situation, he was braving Toronto’s rush hour traffic for the first time. A great many complaints and comments he’d heard over the years were suddenly making sense. He’d lived in the now for years, and the act of waiting in traffic was maddening. He couldn’t read without feeling ill, he wanted to stay reasonably sharp, and somehow the congestion of Toronto extended a good hour and a half after they had left the city, with no sign of abating.
Still, it was almost better than the alternative. Since he couldn’t drive, he’d handed over the task to the eldest Ibix brother. The satyr playboy had gone on and on about the fact that he could drive, testifying that he’d been taught by his ‘dates’, he’d rightly earned the piece of plastic that gave him the right to drive, and he was quite proud of the learned skill.
Well, right on one count. The eldest Ibix was proud to be behind the wheel.
At least the traffic jam meant they couldn’t go over ten kilometers an hour, and the satyr was just as happy to be going that speed as it was to have the gas pedal flat to the floor of the car. The other occupants that had crammed into the back of the car had showered him with praise over every little action.
Jeremy was relieved to the point of dizziness when the exit sign for Jacob’s Bell appeared.
“Take the exit,” he told his driver.
The satyr did.
The exit led them to the foot of the highway. The road led under the highway to their left, where the newer part of Jacob’s Bell remained under construction, and into the older half of Jacob’s Bell to the right.
“And… turn left,” he said.
It wasn’t a comfortable feeling, entering another’s demesne.
The road grew more twisted.
“Park.”
Tires skidded as the car pulled to a stop. One wheel rode up on the sidewalk.
“You’re getting better,” Jeremy commented.
The satyr grinned wide.
Jeremy stepped out of the vehicle, stretching. The seven nymphs and satyrs that had crammed into the backseat of the sedan climbed out as well. Most were underdressed for the cold, the satyrs especially.
He took it in. The scope of it.
He’d fought tooth and nail and had very nearly died to take only the condo.
This place… it boggled the mind.
“Johannes,” Jeremy said, “I announce my arrival. I’d like to request a clear path to the heart of your domain, or a face to face meeting.”
“He can hear you?” one of the satyrs asked.
“Shh,” Jeremy said. “See?”
He pointed at the flash of light.
The dog was first to appear, Johannes second. The man walked with a cane.
“Mr. Meath. High Drunkard of Dionysus, I’m pleased, albeit surprised, to meet you,” Johannes commented.
“Johannes, North End Sorcerer,” the priest said, brusque.
“Should I interpret this as an attack?”
“No. I’ll be staying in Jacob’s Bell for a little while. No more than a week.”
Or I may lose my chance to make a bid for Toronto.
“You’re assisting Sandra Duchamp with her bid for Jacob’s Bell. How quaint,” Johannes commented. “Why are you here?”
“We’d like a place to stay.”
“You’re aware that by assisting Sandra, you’re opposing me?”
“Yes.”
“I’m at a loss. These two things don’t add up.”
“They do, just not in an obvious way. If you pressed me, I’d be annoyed, and we’d have to drop the pretense of feigned civility. I’d rather not.”
“All of this trouble, to avoid a little bit of awkwardness?”
“No. Some of this trouble is to avoid a touch of awkwardness. I’m also trying to eke out a small advantage.”
“Right to the point. ‘Keep your enemies close’? That cuts both ways.”
“Yes,” spoke the priest.
“What if I said no?”
“I’d make other accommodations.”
Johannes glanced at his dog.
The dog spoke something in some language that sounded almost Arabic.
Johannes said something in the same tongue.
Not so unusual. Sandra knew several Scandinavian languages through Hildr, despite the fact that the troll rarely spoke one word, and her pronunciation was largely guttural mush when she did speak.
It made all the more sense when one considered that the dog was a Gatekeeper. A creator of paths and languages, a traveler’s guide.
“Dear Sandra does like to make things complicated, doesn’t she?” Johannes finally asked, his conversation with his familiar done.
“No comment,” the priest answered.
“I’ll give you a space. You can come and go, but you can’t hunt, and you can’t interact with the Other residents. Your passage is barred the first time you act against me or my rules in my territory.”
“Agreed.”
Johannes frowned. “Enjoy your stay, drunkard.”
“Thank you,” the priest answered.
The Sorcerer and familiar disappeared the same way they’d come.
The landscape rearranged itself. Buildings parted like moving waves, and a path pointed to their new abode. A squat apartment building.
Each member of his coterie took something. The satyrs took the heavier bags.
Jeremy took only one small, heavy bag. Contents sloshed.
“Talk to me,” he said. “What do you smell?”
“Genies,” spoke the elder Ibix brother, without hesitation.
“Genies are a problem,” Jeremy said. “Plural? More than one?”