Blood Engines(94)

 

Someone knocked on the door.

 

“B?” Marla said, thinking he might have returned, thinking better of his mission, or to ask for advice, or to take this last opportunity to go to the bathroom. But when she peered through the peephole, it was not B, but an old man with a long face, wearing a beaver hat.

 

Her mystery follower, here. Was it an attack, then, or something else? She’d never seen his face before, not this close, and there was something oddly familiar about it.

 

Marla eased the door open, keeping her foot braced against the door so she could slam it and hold it closed if the old fellow tried to shove his way inside. “Can I help you?” she said, looking at him through the crack between the door and the frame. He was short and slim, but held himself with tremendous dignity.

 

He looked at her, his face blank, then nodded. “I think so,” he said, his voice scratchy and attenuated, as if he had not used it in a long time. “You are the most powerful sorcerer in this city, except for two others, who are both palpably mad, and therefore made weak by their own faltering minds.”

 

“I know you,” Marla said. “You’ve been following me since I got to the city.”

 

“I have been following lots of people. I have been trying to figure out a great many things.”

 

“But there’s something else…you’re familiar. Where have I seen your face?”

 

“I can’t imagine,” he said, as if the question amused him. “Unless you are much older than you seem—and I don’t smell that kind of age on you—you were not born the last time I walked in this city. It is an impossibility that we have met. But I do need your help, I think. There are two mad sorcerers at large in this city, and now that I am here, there are two who are sane, which rather improves the odds, I think.”

 

Marla stared at him, trying to place his face, and then she found it—she’d seen his face only yesterday. But not in the flesh—in stone. In a statue of his younger self, in another universe, where his exploits were known in the world at large—as opposed to this world, where his history was known only to initiates of certain Mysteries. “I know your name,” she said.

 

“I’m flattered.” He took off his hat. “But allow me to introduce myself all the same, for I would hate for you to think me impolite. My name is Sanford Cole.”

 

“You were the court magician for Joshua Norton, the nutcase who declared himself emperor of America and protector of Mexico,” Marla said. “In the 1800s.”

 

“The 1870s, mostly,” Cole said. “It’s not as if we dominated that entire century. But, yes, I knew Joshua, and helped him, as he helped me. It is a curious thing, but when a land has a monarch, even one of such peculiar pedigree as His Majesty, that land gives up certain secrets, and allows itself to be molded in a way wild lands and places governed by more enlightened forms of government do not. As the court magician to a reigning emperor, one at least humored if not exactly obeyed by the public and the government, I was able to shape things in this city that might have otherwise been beyond my power to change.” He frowned. “When I decided to…rest…I thought things were in fair shape. The city had survived an earthquake and a fire, and risen like a phoenix from the wreckage to enter a new century. But now, in the next century, I find that things are very dire indeed, with all but one of the city’s protectors murdered or fled—so many of the cowards fled!—with the surviving protector mad with vengefulness and neglecting his duties, and with a madman set to open the mouth of Hell. This pending disaster woke me, and I had been comfortable in my slumber. And here you are, a stranger, doing what you can to stave off the destruction of the place I hold most dear.”

 

“I didn’t come here to interfere in this city’s business,” Marla said, still holding the door. She couldn’t tell if Cole was pissed or not, and if this was him, returned—and she suspected it was—she didn’t want to face his anger. “But I’ve been swept up in things.”

 

“I understand,” Cole said. “Your help is most welcome. This has always been a city of immigrants, after all. A place where people come to make a new life.”

 

Marla snorted. “I’m happy with my old life, thanks. I’m here to keep my old life from ending, actually.”

 

Cole nodded, though he looked a trifle hurt. “This is also a city that admires a healthy self-interest, and so long as the needs of San Francisco are congruent with your own, I would appreciate your assistance. And, in return, I will do what I can to help you achieve your own goals.”