After a moment of frosty silence, Finch said, “We are investigating Lao Tsung’s death, as I said. He was a valued member of our community, and we will find out who, if anyone, is responsible for his death. There is no indication that a renegade jungle practitioner like Mutex could even hope to harm a sorcerer of Lao Tsung’s caliber. He was your friend—surely you know how formidable he was.”
Marla knew Lao Tsung was tough in a street fight, and he was no slouch at magical battles, either—but nobody expects to be killed by an army of frogs.
Marla sank down in the seat and put her feet on the dashboard, wrapping her arms under and around her legs. She felt very aggressive right now, and it might be best to present a meeker front—Finch was more than usually into dominance behavior, and while she’d enjoyed getting in his face last night, and while it had probably won her some measure of respect, she thought the present situtation demanded a bit more finesse. “But Lao Tsung was the guardian of the Cornerstone. Don’t you think Mutex might have found that out during all that time bothering the other sorcerers? Seems like a potential motive for murder to me.”
“We are considering the possibility,” Finch said. “Does that satisfy you? But I think you give Mutex too much credit. He is simply a madman, whatever his earlier promise.”
“And madmen never kill anybody,” Rondeau said from the backseat.
Finch glanced into the rearview mirror, his lips pressed into a thin line.
“Careful, Rondeau,” Marla said. “He’ll sodomize your ghost if you keep up that sass.”
“Consider me chastised,” Rondeau said.
“This is close enough,” Finch said, and parked the SUV next to a fire hydrant.
Parking is probably easier in San Francisco when you don’t have to worry about getting tickets, Marla thought.
“The entrance we want is just a couple of blocks north.” They all got out of the car and walked down the sidewalk, Finch in the lead. The morning was cool, with a stiff breeze from the direction of the bay. “We’ll reach the Cornerstone soon. You have the materials you need? You’ve made your preparations?”
Marla patted her leather shoulder bag. “It’s all here.” The spell wasn’t complicated—just a simple binding spell, but with the augmentation and permanence provided by the Cornerstone, it should be enough to thwart Susan’s plan to take over Marla’s city.
“And there’s the park,” Finch said, nodding, as if Marla wouldn’t have noticed the expanse of trees and green ahead, as improbable a sight as any large park in the midst of a big city. They passed through the gates into a place of green trees and grass, the roofs of distant buildings poking up over the trees in the distance. “Strawberry Hill isn’t far,” Finch said, and strode off past people sprawled on blankets, young hippies playing hacky sack, and people reading.
“What kind of park is this?” Rondeau said. “Where are the garbage cans chained to concrete pylons? Where are the drug dealers? Why is there grass instead of asphalt? I don’t see a broken merry-go-round anywhere.”
“You should get out of your neighborhood more often, Rondeau,” Marla said. “There are nice parks in our city, you know, too. Out in the suburbs anyway.” Looking around, she grudgingly added, “Not so big as this, and they aren’t safe after dark, mostly, but still.”
After a while, Finch stopped walking, and pointed. “This is Strawberry Hill.”
Marla looked. Strawberry Hill was a high, rounded lump of land in the middle of a small lake. “That’s a lot of island for such a little pond,” Marla said.
“Strawberry Hill has been described as a watermelon with a wet string tied around it,” Finch said. “But you know as well as I do that even a token moat can have a significant protective power.”
“True,” Marla said. “The Cornerstone is there?”
“Among the trees.”
“How do we get to the island? I could probably leap over the water in a couple of the thinner places, but I assume you have another way?”
“There are two bridges,” Finch said. “The rustic and the roman. But we’re not going to take either of them. Because there’s a third bridge.” Finch glanced around, then waved his hand, casting a curtain of obscurement over the three of them—now the eyes of any observers would just…slide away from them. He made another gesture. “There.”
A gently arcing footbridge was revealed, made of rough timbers tied with twine, and with handrails of gleaming copper, stretching from the bank before them to the slope of Strawberry Hill. “After you,” Marla said, and Finch crossed the bridge, his feet not making any sound at all on the splintery wooden boards.