Emerald City Blues by Peter Smalley Read Free Book Online Page A

perfectly square room. In the exact center was a square sandbox. Okay, that's probably a horrible round-eye barbarian type thing to say, but my hand to god, that's exactly what it looked like. In the middle of the sandbox was what looked like a lantern on a tripod, except the whole thing was carved from stone and looked to be older than Moses. Albert knelt, lit a bit of incense - without matches, I noticed - and adopted a meditative pose. Incense smoke spiraled silently upwards, creating a thin bluish layer about level with my eyes. Albert was statue-still. I tried not to fidget. After a few minutes he reached down and picked up a mallet with a soft round head and used it to ring a gong set beside the sandbox. The sound went on and on, reverberating much longer than it should have. The hairs on the back of my neck were standing up and suggesting we depart with some urgency. I forced myself to ignore them.
    Then I heard a voice, hollow and faint but very real. It was speaking Chinese, so I could not understand it; but I would never forget that voice as long as I lived. I discovered my back was pressed against the wall to the audience room. Ah King. Gerd had held some very strong views on the practice of necromancy. So did I, and they involved staying as far away from it as I could except on days not ending in Y. Today was not that day.
    Albert intoned something questioningly in a sing-song monotone, and the voice of the former King of Chinatown filled the room. He sounded out of sorts. I hoped it wasn't with me.
    It went back and forth like that for a bit. I couldn't understand any of it, and I turned my thoughts to the case instead. You really can get used to anything. Well, almost anything. I hadn't exactly gotten used to the fact that Albert had called up his dead father for a heart to heart, but I didn't have to be. This was his thing, not mine. The case. Think about the case. I tried to focus, but it's hard not to be distracted when the living call up the dead in your presence and proceed to have a conversation.
    And then, just like blowing out a candle, it was over.
    The sense of power was gone. Albert was standing in front of me. I wasn't sure, but I think he was smiling just a bit. If so, I felt sorry for whoever was tailing me. Well, kind of.
    "The way is clear for you to return to your home. The tiger has fled the dragon, and knows it is not welcome in his garden. And I have a message for you." Albert looked as if he knew I was distinctly uncomfortable with the whole talking-to-the-dead thing and was taking a measure of amusement in watching me squirm. I was definitely squirming. Still, help was help. "Okay. Shoot."
    "He says the tiger hunts, but not for you. Though it is a stranger to you, the master who holds its leash is not. A message waits for you, and a ship - but any journey you take upon it will have no return. Take the measure of your ene my, or he will take your soul."
    There it was again. That cold feeling, like icy winter rain down my back. I hated necromancy. I hated vague fortune cookie prophecies. But more than anything I hated being the last to know what was going on. "Thanks, Albert. If it's all the same, I'll be on my way now. I'm sorry to have brought trouble to your door. I'll try not to let it happen again." If there was an again. Ever. "Thanks for your help. And, uh, your dad's help."
    Albert grinned demonically at me, teeth white against his skin. "He said you are welcome any time."
    The door didn't even come close to hitting my ass on the way out.

NINE
    This was serious.
    I paced. It didn't help much. I did it anyway, cup of tea gone cold and forgotten on my windowsill. Outside, the rain fell in endless sheets of grey. Inside, it felt more like a summer storm was brewing.
    I glanced at the letter from Gordon Buskins again, as if it might tell me something new. He was good, and he was fast. What he wasn't was cheap; his bill was attached, almost apologetically. I would have to do something