Turquoiselle, Tanith Lee [100 best novels of all time .TXT] 📗

were not her own; she was quotingthem from the manuals of Mantik.)

The chugging helicopter rasp grew louder. The bigger one wasdescending, shaking the air in chunks off its windmill blades. The smalleraircraft stayed high, sedately going on in its repetitive circle.

(She had said also, he thought, that she had had toappear to die. Her death would confirm Mantik’s enemies’ belief that she hadsold Mantik out. Meanwhile the other personality, Anjeela, had already beenpartly established with Croft’s people. Sloughing her – by then ‘dead’ – Silvia-persona,Anjeela was next absorbed into the stronghold by the sea. She was in reality tobe Carver’s back-up and liaison. (Or overseer.) And since she was a shape-shifter, ofcourse, of course, her disguise was absolute, no giveaway anywhere.)

Yes, the bigger chopper was going to land – Carver altered hisposition – that solid flat roof, probably, there, and more towards the easternblocks of the building.

(And she had digressed briefly on what she could do, her changing –surely she had spoken again of this? Comparing her ability to what happened anyway,to anything that was born and went on living. The child expanding from baby toadult, which adult might grow its hair or gain a tan, fatten or become thin –eventually aging, backbone diminishing, flesh sagging, hair – long or short –losing colour. And what she did, Silvia-Anjeela, that was just the same. Merely accomplishedfaster. And they had, she said, none of their kind, (his, hers) at least thoseof them who had been found out in their talents, no choice. There was nothingto gain in struggling against such masters as Mantik. But they, she, he,were more than valuable, they were priceless, andprecious. They would be – providing they complied, obeyed – protected. But theymust grasp and accept both their powers and, with equal clarity, the use towhich all this would be put. That was their only hope. The three of them. She,the other unknown man, and Carver.)

The chopper had landed, a locust-wasp of grey metal. Its rotorblades were slowing, coming visible. Men were gliding out of its womb. Orinsectoid lava, they might from this distance be simply larvae –

The mission had gone to plan. All it needed now was a bucket andmop to clean up the mess – They were pouring down the side of the building now,touching earth, racing forward, outward, and in. About a hundred, one hundredand twenty, men, Carver estimated .

How many of Croft’s people were still alive, or even physicallyable? No need for an army to cope with what was left.

It would be very easy, perhaps, finally to mop them up. To stampon them.

(He could not care. But he had never got close to anyone. NotSara. None of the women. No men. Nor to himself. How prudent. His instinctiveand only protection.)

(She had held him in her arms there on the shed floor. Close asher lover. But they were not lovers. Nothing. All this was nothing.)

About twenty more minutes passed during which vague veils ofshouting rose from below and, once only, the note of guns – improved by theamphitheatre acoustics of the terrain. Then the other helicopter beganfaultlessly to descend, sunlight smoothly passing over its carapace. Everythingwas so simple.

Notlong after, one of the military units reached the top of the rise. They werepolite. In plain uncamouflaged ‘camouflage’, twelve dog soldiers panned outaround the sheds, coordinated as dancers, just as when they had swarmed up thehill. Their leader saluted Silvia Dusa. (Carver was not surprised. Surprise wasover.)

“You’re well, ma’am?”

“We’re well,” she said. “However, there is a dead man in thecentral shed.”

“Very good, ma’am.” The tall young officer turned and barked, andfive of the others sprang in against the shed. After staring through thewindows, two men immediately kicked in the middle door. No, it had not takenvery much to break it down. Splinters rained outward, scattering the light. Intothe shed the two soldiers glided, catlike and fast, the light now glinting ontheir weapons.

A few invisibly abrasive yet mostly inexplicit sounds resulted.

One man came out.

“Dead as a turd,” he said, “sir.”

“That’s Peter Croft,” said Silvia Dusa.

“Yes, we reckoned so,” said the captain. He turned to Silvia, “MrStuart thought that would be Croft’s way. He’s not the only one.”

Both soldiers had come out of the shed. One was talking via his ear-piece,asking for a “bob” for a grade A corpse. The second man added, to nobodyparticularly, “At least Crofty got it right.”

“Yes,” said the captain to Silvia. “Some of the others of ‘emmucked it up good and fucking proper, ma’am.”

Presently he and three of his men escorted Silvia and Carver downthe rise and through the woods, back towards the lower grounds and thebuilding.

Therewas a large room, perhaps used for conferences, or widescreen shows of plannedfuture events – a vast black screen was positioned at one end. The area hadbeen tidied up, made pristine.  Nor was there any smell of the burnt smokepermeating, it seemed, the rest of the building. This room stank of perfumeddisinfectants. The sun beamed in at tall and currently blindless windows.Outside, the green lawns were empty of anyone except the occasional unit ofdog troops patrolling, or standing in alert ease along the gravel drive. (Asingle urn had survived. Just the flowers were torn out, and even those had nowbeen cleared away.)

Latham sat far up the room at the screen end, at a long tablesurrounded by chairs. He was his normal self, or seemed to be, in a light suitand silk tie, drinking coffee from a freshly-brewed pot. A couple of chairsaway sat another man, ample, unyoung, casual, slightly flushed. He wascontentedly drinking from a magnum bottle of red French wine which, as theyentered, he decanted for himself into a plastic coffee mug. For a moment Carvercould not identify him. Then he did. It was Alex Avondale, the sentimental oldglutton with the estate, in Scotland. He and Carver had had that dinner atRattles in London.The night Carver went home so late and Donna went soentirely mad. (Or seemed to; she had alreadybeen mad, of course, for years. Carver had done that to her. As to so manyothers.)

Avondale smiled warmly