“Really.” That sounded like the same person who’d been seen arguing with Lao Tsung. “What was his name?”
“It was something improbable….” Finch looked up at the ceiling for a moment. “Mutex. He called himself Mutex.”
“Sounds like the name of a third-string super-villain.”
“I expressed a similar opinion. He assured me it was a very old family name. He’s Central American, I think. Why do you care about him?”
“The guy in Chinatown told me Lao Tsung was seen arguing with a guy in underwear and a cape, and if that same guy was here asking you about the Cornerstone, it’s reasonable to assume he was asking Lao Tsung about the same thing—”
“I am aware of the connection, Marla, and we are investigating. This Mutex came to me first. When I rebuffed him, I suppose he somehow discovered Lao Tsung was the keeper of the Cornerstone, and went to him. It’s possible he was somehow involved in Lao Tsung’s death. As I said, we’re looking into it. There’s no need for you to involve yourself in our civic affairs. We’ve dealt with rogue sorcerers and inspired lunatics before. This Mutex, if he’s more than a simple madman, will be dealt with as well.”
Marla gritted her teeth. She didn’t trust these people to wipe their own asses, let alone avenge her friend, but she knew that wasn’t a rational reaction. She just liked taking care of things herself. She found delegation difficult. “You’re right. It’s not my place, or my business, and I don’t intend to get involved. I just want to protect my city—that’s why I need the Cornerstone. I give you my word.” Inspiration struck. “And if I give you my word in the presence of the Cornerstone, you’ll know it’s the truth.” One of the peculiarities of a Cornerstone was that no one could lie if they stood within a few feet of it. In fact, Cornerstones reputedly led to a certain overly garrulous sincerity. Sorcerers weren’t comfortable around them for that very reason—when your entire life was built on keeping secrets and knowing things other people didn’t, a stone of truth could be rather intimidating.
Finch began to crack his knuckles while gazing up at the ceiling. “I’m inclined to believe you,” he said at last. “I made some calls when I heard there was a sorcerer in town claiming to be a chief from back east. You certainly sound like the Marla Mason I was told about, and as far as I can tell, you’ve always been honorable—as honorable as our kind ever can be, at least. My sources in your city told me you were blunt, impatient, prone to violence, indescribably lucky, honest, formidable, and well respected. I suspect you didn’t bother to do any research about me.”
Marla shrugged. “I figured I’d talk to Lao Tsung and be out of town by dinnertime. I didn’t expect this much interaction with the locals. Will you take me to the Cornerstone?”
“I can take you in the morning,” he said. “I will require certain promises and payments in return, of course, and I wouldn’t mind having a formal ambassador in your city.”
“What you’re saying is, I’ll owe you a favor.”
“You’ll owe me a big favor.” He began to crack his toes, carefully, one at a time. “And not me, exactly. You’ll owe the city of San Francisco a favor. The Cornerstone is a civic possession, and letting you take a bit of its power puts you in the city’s debt.”
“Fair enough,” Marla said. She didn’t like to be beholden to anyone, but without the Cornerstone, Susan would go ahead with her stupid, dangerous plan, and then Marla’s whole city would likely fall to pieces, so it was worth a few promises on her part, even if they were promises she’d be forced to keep. “So can you keep your friend in Chinatown from trying to kill me in the meantime?”
“Oh, I doubt it,” he said. “But I hear you can take care of yourself. They told me you killed Somerset.”
Marla nodded. “Why do you think they respect me so much back home? Somerset almost took control of the city again, after he died, but I handled things.”
“Then my friend in Chinatown shouldn’t be a problem for you.”
“What’s his name anyway?” Marla said.
“He’s never told any of us,” Finch said. “He’s the oldest sorcerer living in the city, though I don’t think he was as old as Lao Tsung. Most call him the Celestial. He’s of the old school—he believes names have power, you know.”