“Pang is a powerful Brute,” Zhao warned.
Pang puffed up his chest and flexed his muscles. It didn’t help his case any.
“I killed fifteen Tokubetsu Koto Keisatsu yesterday,” Toru stated flatly. “Can he even count that high?”
Sullivan took quick stock of the observers. There were a few of the Shanghai Grimnoir present, and most had quietly placed their hands inside their clothing, surely to rest on firearms. There was another young Chinaman standing off to the side, and unlike the blustering Pang, this one was quietly confident, watching Toru, surely with some Power ready to go. That one had the stance of a fighter. There were a few Americans and one marauder, and none of them would lift a hand to help Toru out either, so he really didn’t know how stupid their Iron Guard was about to get. Lady Origami had arrived, and she was surely just looking for an excuse to set him on fire.
“Now, now, my friends. Let us not be hasty. I personally find murdering people in their sleep to be an excellent method, because since they are asleep it is rather difficult for them to retaliate.” Heinrich walked into the center of the room, trying to defuse the situation. “So regardless of how our friend Pang actually killed this Iron Guard, what is this combat armor you speak of?”
“It is from one of our most brilliant Cogs, the same man who invented the Gakutensuko. It is a suit of battle armor, perhaps the most capable design ever, each one heavily connected to the magic of the user and driven by the Power itself. Very few were ever made. They were far too labor intensive, and each one required so many kanji that they were never mass produced. Just this one piece could add incredible capabilities in battle.”
“How capable are we talking about here?” Sullivan asked. “Because, no offense, Zhao. If that ashtray can help fight the Pathfinder, I’ll buy Pang a new ashtray.”
“Let me phrase this diplomatically,” Toru said, which meant he was about to do nothing of the sort. “I have seen that glorified heavy suit which John Browning and Buckminster Fuller built for you in preparation for our mission. Compared to Nishimura Combat Armor, it is archaic junk, as if fashioned by monkeys using bones and rocks as tools. So you can see why I must claim this helmet—”
Pang shouted something.
“Ashtray,” Zhao corrected.
“Helmet,” Toru growled. “I will claim this and hope that it salvageable. If these barbarians did not do too much damage to it, perhaps I can still put it to some use.”
Zhao translated all of that, and from the reactions of the Shanghai Grimnoir, Zhao had done so in a much nicer way than Toru had. They still seemed either angry or ready to fight, but whatever he said did take it down a notch. Zhao and Pang began debating back and forth, but at least it wasn’t so heated anymore that somebody was likely to get hacked to bits.
Something brushed his sleeve. He hadn’t even heard Lady Origami approach. Everybody else was still paying attention to the loud, dangerous ones. She stood on her tippy-toes, and he still had to bend a bit so she could whisper in his ear. “I understand some. I know some Mandarin.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Many Marauders from China. These men are trying to save face. Pang did not battle Iron Guards. These men are brave, but not stupid. He stole a crate from an Imperium train. The armor was inside. They did not know what it was.”
“There’s more of it?”
“The Icebox child is saying they could not make the magic work, and it was too heavy to wear. Only Pang was strong enough to carry it all, but he was too fat to fit, so it was left in the crate and hidden.”
Zhao made eye contact with Sullivan. He didn’t need to be a Reader to know they were on the same wavelength. “I would suggest that our guest apologizes to Mr. Pang, and perhaps an arrangement can be worked out.”
“Hey, Toru. You heard the man. Apologize.”
Toru’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Are you deliberately trying to provoke me, Sullivan?”
“Well, I ought to let you suffer for insulting John Browning’s craftsmanship, but if you want the rest of this armor, then you’ll apologize to Pang.”
“What?”
“The whole suit.”
That obviously got him. Sullivan had no idea if this Nishimura stuff was as great as Toru made it out to be, or if it was more of his usual smug superiority about all things Japanese, but either way, it was enough to make him swallow his pride. He turned to face the fat Brute and gave a small bow. “I apologize for insulting you.” Toru had to pause to lick his teeth, like the words left a nasty taste. “I acted impulsively.”
Zhao translated. While he thought it over Pang stroked his pointy little beard, which was the only thing on his entire body which could be described as thin. Pang answered. Zhao turned back to Toru. “And?”
Surely the Iron Guard had to call upon his Diplomatic Corps training to utter the next bit without laughing in Pang’s face. “I am certain now that you defeated an Iron Guard in battle. You are obviously a great warrior.”
“That must be some damn impressive armor,” Heinrich whispered.
Zhao translated. Pang responded in the affirmative and then it was smiles all around, except for Toru, who immediately ripped the helmet out of the floor and dumped the cigarette butts everywhere. He ran a hand down one horn, almost reverentially. “Take me to the remainder immediately.”
Pang just stared at him for a second, and then said something to Zhao, who didn’t even need to translate.
Toru sighed. “Please.”
Zhao was grinning. It wasn’t every day you got to humiliate an Imperium killing machine. “It is stored downstairs. There are dry pockets on the first floor where no one would ever think to look. Come. We will show you.” Several of the Shanghai Grimnoir filed out for the stairs, Toru right behind them, cradling his precious helmet. He would probably hold a grudge and plot their deaths, but as long as they held it together until the Pathfinder was dead, Sullivan could deal with it.
Lady Origami waited for the others to leave before addressing Sullivan. “Earlier, I made a mistake.”
“What about?”
“Toru’s apology. I was wrong. He can lie.”
Wannsee, Germany
“I thought you said you were leaving after one day?”
Jacques jumped. He had not heard Faye enter the hotel room. But then again, Faye didn’t enter anything in the normal sense. She simply willed herself into existence wherever she felt like and scared the hell out of whoever was there.
The elder made a big show of putting one hand over his heart. “I’m an old man. Don’t do that to me.”
Faye was bone-tired weary, and coated in the grey dust of Dead City. She wasn’t in the mood for Jacques’ banter, so she merely walked past him and flopped into the nearest chair. It knocked a choking cloud of dirt off of her clothing, but she was too tired to care. She’d spent days studying and thinking about the drawings, and then another day collecting them after she gave up on the studying. The satchel which had been filled with art supplies was now filled with Zachary’s drawings, and it made a loud thump as it hit the hotel room’s floor.
“I… I was going to take the train, but I decided to give you more time. I am glad I did. Are you alright, dear? Can I get you anything?”
Like she’d ever drink or eat anything from him again, what with all those pictures of him thinking about poisoning her. “I found Zachary.”
“You did?” Jacques pulled out the other chair, sat down on it, and leaned way forward, curious and eager. “Is he all right?”