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“I’m sorry to hear that.”
I finish my whiskey and start to set down the glass. Blackburn smoothly slides a coaster under it before it touches down.
“You’re a scryer. Shouldn’t you know I was going to say no?”
He shakes his head.
“It doesn’t work like that. I see probabilities, some more likely and some less. In a case like you, where someone has to make a yes-or-no choice, I see both outcomes and some of the consequences of each decision.”
“So, no lottery numbers, then?”
“Actually, he’s very good at lottery numbers,” says Tuatha.
“But I’m not going to give you any,” he adds.
“See? The rich are no fun. They get everything and then wag their fingers at us proles for wanting a taste.”
“Is that why you won’t take the job? I never took you for a Marxist. A Situationist, perhaps.”
“I don’t know what any of those words mean. And I’m not going to argue about it. A politician like you, you’ll have me convinced I wanted the job, that it was my idea, and that I wanted to be paid in candy corn.”
“There’s nothing I can offer you to change your mind?”
“It’s nothing personal. I have a job to do, even if I have to do it with the Vigil. A friend died looking for the Qomrama. I’m not going to let that happe
n again.”
Tuatha stands up and goes around to the back of the desk.
“My husband is afraid, Mr. Stark. He won’t say it. He’s seen dark days ahead, for the Sub Rosa and for us personally. Please reconsider.”
“You have a whole army outside and you can get a bigger one. Talk to Wells. He doesn’t like us pixies, but I bet he’d send people to protect the Augur.”
Tuatha looks at Blackburn.
“That might not be a bad idea. And it will give Mr. Stark—excuse me, Stark, a chance to think things over.”
To Tuatha I say, “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“All this rain. Do you have something to do with it?”
She cocks her head to the side like she’s telling a kid there are no monsters under the bed.
“That’s a common misconception about the art of brontomancy. I’m a thunder worker,” she says, and looks up as a monstrous clap of thunder rattles the windows. “I use thunder and even lightning for purposes of divination and spell casting. Brontomancers don’t have anything to do with rain.”
Her heart and breathing are steady. She’s telling the truth too. These people are no fun.
“Do you know any rain workers who might be doing this?”
“Believe me, I’ve asked,” she says. “I’ve even offered a reward to anyone who can tell me who or what is causing it.”
“Okay. You’ll let me know if you hear anything?”
“Of course.”
“If you won’t work for me now, maybe you will when this matter is settled?” says Blackburn.
