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We ended up in a dark red corridor with dim lighting, probably to cover the signs of a hasty construction job. Red flocked wall paper hid the plywood walls, and plush red carpet covered the floors. There were a lot of doors all along one side.
The client rooms, I guessed. They must have been soundproofed, because I didn’t hear anything as we walked along. But not that well soundproofed, judging by the expressions that crossed Louis-Cesare’s face, which ranged from slight amusement, to wincing sympathy, to—
“What? What was that?” I asked, because it had looked a lot like envy.
“Tell you later.”
“Well, at least you’ll tell me something later.”
That did not get a response before we entered a large office at the end of the hall. It was a semicircle with almost a full wall of windows behind the desk. It looked like it had been scavenged from some high-end spa or executive’s corner office, which it probably had. The authorities had better things to do these days than police the wreckage, and supernatural Hong Kong had a history of repurposing everything from pirate ships to the ubiquitous rickshaws.
“Can I see the tat?” Zheng asked, before he even sat down.
He looked over the item that Hassani had given us while we took chairs in front of the desk. It was a huge, old-world, dark wood item that Zheng had come up with somewhere, and that looked like it might have been part of one of the aforementioned pirate ships at one time. It had small, carved figureheads for posts—tits out, of course, which actually fit in with the overall ambience around here—and wooden curlicues that almost matched the wallpaper outside.
It was elaborate enough to give the office a feeling of luxury, despite the fact that the plywood walls were still bare.
Well, almost.
There was a set of kinetic armor that I’d seen Zheng wear in battle once, hung on one wall, with occasional arcs of what looked like electricity jumping from one little trefoil decoration to another. There were some weapon’s cabinets in the same dark wood as the desk that were hedging the door, where I supposed their contents would be handy. And there was an old, expensive Persian rug on the floor, in blues and yellows and whites, covering most of the unstained boards.
But it was the view that stole the show, with all kinds of strange vehicles filling the skies and several other floating gardens looking like green clouds in the distance. This wasn’t an area with a lot of skyscrapers, and the ones that did exist weren’t in direct line of sight. Giving me the surreal sight of an entirely floating city, with nothing underneath but air.
It could have kept me occupied for hours, but Zheng didn’t need them.
“Shit.” He didn’t look happy.
“You know what it is,” I said, pulling my attention back to the tat.
“I know some things about it.” He put it on the desk and looked up, and he had his poker face on. “But I need a guarantee first.”
“We’re on the same senate—” I began hotly.
“Yes, and I just finished explaining why that doesn’t help either of us if we don’t align. Look, I get it; you two don’t speak for the old man, wherever the old man is. But you do speak for you, and you have influence with him. I want a guarantee of an alliance between us, and an assurance that you’ll work on Mircea to get him to at least consider my proposal.”
“Which is what?” Louis-Cesare asked warily.
Zheng shrugged. “What I said. The consul isn’t fond of us—any of us, and from what I hear, that includes him. The day may come when we’ll all need friends. I can be a good friend, to those who’re good to me.”
“That’s damned vague,” I pointed out.
The big, handsome face was sober. “When you’re talking about this kind of stuff, it’s best to be vague. I’ll be more direct with your fat
her, if he wants it.”
Louis-Cesare frowned. “You ask for a great deal. How do we know that your information is worth it?”
Zheng lit up a cigarette and sat back in his chair, allowing the smoke to wreath his head. “I’m not offering merely information. I can help you. But it’s dangerous, and I want to know that it’s worthwhile.”
“It’s worthwhile if we get Dorina back,” Louis-Cesare said, “not otherwise.”
“Hey—” I began.
“And if she’s already dead?” Zheng demanded. “You’re still going to want a pound of somebody’s flesh—”
“If she’s dead, we’ll be taking a great deal more than that,” Louis-Cesare said grimly.
