Dominions

27

27

- 27 -

As Rodin paced, he let Terrell rise to the surface. Terrell smiled and greeted those he passed, pretended to be a normal resident of this society, but deep down, Rodin thought.

He’d been stupid. He’d made more mistakes. He’d acted rashly in confronting the man with the roof garden, and he’d allowed himself to be taken by Authority.

But they’d been waiting for him. The two agents‌—‌or whatever they called themselves‌—‌were ready the moment he stepped from that building. If the man on the roof garden had registered his complaint as soon as Rodin left, surely Authority wouldn’t have been able to get there so fast. Which meant they’d been called before Rodin entered the man’s rooms.

Or they were already nearby, watching him. Just as those protecting Leopold knew of Rodin’s every move, so too must Authority.

Yet they’d let him go.

Rodin could trust no-one.

He reached Sertio’s building, and pushed into the lobby. Terrell greeted the concierge, said something about the weather, and Rodin entered the lift. He’d prefer the stairs, of course, but he needed to stay in character. It was late, and Sertio might be concerned. Rodin at least needed to keep things relaxed at his base.

When he came out of the lift, the door to Daventree’s office was open. The man sat behind his desk, and he looked up at Rodin, eyebrows raised. Rodin greeted him, then carried on.

Sertio lounged on a sofa, his smock stained pink-grey. He beamed when Rodin entered.

“Ah, my dear friend! I was growing concerned.”

“I apologise.” Rodin headed to the food prep area. “There was an incident while I was out, and I was duty-bound to assist.”

“Of course, we must always help those in need. Nothing too harrowing, I trust?”

Rodin shrugged as he opened the cold storage. “Possibly my previous experiences enabled me to cope better than most.” Again, not untrue. “Sorry I won’t have time to prepare a fresh meal, but I can warm something up.” He let Terrell talk on, distracting Sertio from Rodin’s disappearance. “Whenever I’ve prepared our meals, I have made maybe twice as much as we would require. It became a habit, when my previous work at the art gallery would sometimes necessitate long hours. With pre-prepared meals, I could easily re-heat something I’d cooked days before.”

“I applaud your forward thinking. As I’ve said before, Daventree found a wonder in you, Terrell. Isn’t that right, Daventree?”

The agent stood in the doorway, and he nodded at Sertio. “I aim to please.” He smiled, but when he turned to Rodin his eyes hardened. “But couldn’t you have informed us you were otherwise engaged?”

Rodin was sure Daventree stressed those last couple of words, like he knew more than he was saying. “Things happened so fast,” he said. “And then, when everything eventually settled down, and I caught sight of the time, my first thought was to rush back.” He did his best to look upset. “And I apologise‌—‌in hindsight, I can see how I should have fired off a brief message to allay your fears. But it won’t take a moment to ready our food. Will you be joining us?” He reached in to the cold storage, his hand on a third meal.

“Thank you for the offer, but I ate earlier. And I’d hate to cause any more delay for Sertio. Please, continue with your fine work, Mister Terrell.”

There might have been another meaning behind Daventree’s words, but Rodin wasn’t going to get involved with that at the moment. He nodded, and placed two meals in the heater.

“Oh, you fuss too much!” Sertio said, waving a hand lazily in Daventree’s direction. “Anyway, after the day I’ve had, a short delay before the gratification of sustenance is not an issue. The muses have provided an over-abundance to my soul, that one is almost tempted to forgo something as base as food.” He smiled. “Well, almost. Already, the aromas are awakening my stomach.”

“You’ve had a good day, I take it,” Rodin said, keen to capitalise on the artist’s relaxed mood.

“Oh, exceptional! It is amazing, sometimes, how quickly a spark can become a raging inferno. Already, I have a wire frame in place, and the first layer of clay is drying even as we speak.” He leaned forward with a grunt. “And I have made a decision. It is only right that, as my models and my inspiration, both yourself and the sublime Miss Paskia should have the opportunity to witness the work’s evolution. I’ve invited our exquisite friend to join us tomorrow. I believe that seeing the sculpture take shape might help calm her soul after our last session together. And, of course, you’ll be there too, Terrell.”

“That would be most instructive. I’ve viewed so many works of art in their completed forms, that the opportunity to see the creation of one is fascinating.”

Daventree coughed, and Rodin turned. The man still stood in the doorway, looking uncomfortable. “I’m sorry to intrude, but how long will food be?”

Rodin glanced at the heater. “Should only be a couple of minutes.”

“In that case, may I borrow your assistant for a moment?”

Sertio waved a hand. “But of course. Take as long as you require.” He patted his stomach. “Anticipation is as much a pleasure as eating itself, after all.”

Daventree nodded, turned to Rodin. “If we could adjourn to my office?”

Rodin followed, using a smile to hide his‌…‌not confusion, but unease. There was something going on that he couldn’t quite grasp. And the timing of this summons, so soon after his brush with Authority, was concerning.

Daventree shut the office door behind Rodin, then waved a hand. “Take a seat.”

Almost an order, Rodin thought as he sat, Daventree taking the seat across the desk. Behind him, Rodin could see the roof garden. There was no sign of movement, but maybe there were Eyes trained in this direction.

Almost an order,Rodin resisted the childish urge to smile and wave.

“I must offer my gratitude,” the agent said. “Sertio has many fine things to say about the way you keep the place in order, and he is most complimentary regarding your culinary skills. Of course he tends to spray superlatives far more liberally than many, but it is without question that you are performing your duties beyond what might have been expected.”

“Thank you. I aim to do my best.”

“It is also pleasing that your‌…‌past difficulties have, so far, not impeded on this work.”

Daventree watched Rodin, hid eyebrows raised. He either suspected or knew more than he was letting on, and Rodin knew he had to tread carefully.

“This is a fresh start,” he said. “I’ve left my past life back in Kern Dome.”

“Quite.” Daventree paused again, like he was considering his next move. “But your absence earlier is worrying. The artistic temperament is a fragile one, and it is recumbent on me to ensure Sertio is provided with stability at all times. Unfortunately, a number of previous assistants have‌…‌let us say, experienced difficulties. Ideally, an assistant should serve their master for many years, in order that a strong bond may be formed. I see it as a personal failing that none of Sertio’s assistants have remained for longer than eighteen months or so.”

He pulled a face, but Rodin wasn’t convinced the expression of sadness was genuine.

“I had hoped, after your most excellent start in this role, that you might be the stabilising force our artist friend requires. I would be most disappointed if you, too, were called upon to depart from us.”

“Please, don’t concern yourself on that score. I’m happy here. I can’t envisage myself leaving, at least not in the near future.” And that was a blatant lie, but Rodin forced Terrell to utter it with conviction.

Daventree tilted his head. “Your words, at least, are reassuring. But a recent missive I received casts doubts in my mind.” He sighed. “This communication arrived from a mutual acquaintance. He instructed me to use no names, but assured me you would be able to ascertain his identity‌—‌and I don’t doubt him.”

If his role as artist’s assistant had been arranged before Rodin became Terrell, there was only one person who came to mind. Rodin felt his heart beat louder as he nodded for Daventree to continue.

“This person wishes to meet you in order to discuss a certain contract‌—‌and he was very specific in wishing me to use that precise word. He will be at the Giorian Gallery tomorrow, an hour before midday. You’re aware of the Gallery, Mister Terrell?”

“It’s one of the many places I intend visiting, so this is most opportune.” Terrell smiled, and articulated his words with his hands. “But I understand it’s the largest collection of artworks in the Dome. Did our mutual acquaintance specify a location?”

“He did not. I have the distinct impression that he wished this to be‌…‌not a game, but an exercise in initiative. He only mentioned that there was a particular collection, recently installed, that would be of interest to someone in your line of work. Those were his precise words‌—‌your line of work.” Daventree’s gaze hardened for a moment. “He wishes to meet one hour before midday, and his tone suggested that you would make yourself available at such a time.”

your line of workDaventree lifted the last few words, and Rodin answered the question. “I believe I’ll be free then. With Sertio answering the urgent call of his muses, I doubt he will even register my absence for an hour or so.”

The smile on Daventree’s face was genuine now. “It warms my heart to see him so enraptured with his work once more. But he still needs attending‌—‌I doubt he will be able to resist the aromas of heating food much longer, yes?”

Rodin nodded, understanding that the summons was over. “Of course. And thanks for passing on the message. I look forward to meeting our mutual acquaintance.”

A lie, of course‌—‌Rodin would be happy if he never saw Cat again.

Rodin knew his sleep would be troubled. A half-hour of exercise, followed by a shower, might have stilled his body, but as he lay under his bed covers in the dark his mind ran wild.

He saw the interrogation room once more, with Grey sitting across the desk and Black hovering over Rodin’s shoulder. Grey talked, but Rodin couldn’t hear the words. His attention was diverted, and he cast his gaze around the room, to the terracotta plant pot in the corner, the brown stalk and the large, waxy green leaves. There was a painting‌—‌or maybe a reproduction‌—‌on one wall, splashed of colour that held no discernible form.

Neither plant or painting had been in the interrogation room, and now Grey looked different. The black suit was replaced by a casual shirt and trouser combination. He was shorter, too, his cheeks chubbier, dimpling when he smiled. And Black was no longer behind Rodin. Instead, sat at the desk was a woman, dressed in some kind of all-in-one costume, wearing purple shadow round her eyes and sparkling pins in her ears.

The lighting was soft, and as the man talked‌—‌the woman didn’t speak, but tapped away at a screen on the desk‌—‌the illumination from the ceiling dimmed. Rodin could no longer make out details in the painting, and the walls became a dark grey. The man and woman faded into shadows, and when Rodin leaned forward there was no desk. He stood, took two paces, and his outstretched hand brushed against cold, rough stone.

The air tasted stale, tinged with the unmistakable stench of urine. Rodin shivered as he paced again, one hand against the wall, measuring this‌…‌this cell.

Three paces by three paces. A bench along one side, a thin mattress and a threadbare blanket bundled at one end. A bucket in a corner that sloshed when he tapped it with his foot. And a solid metal door.

There were sounds‌—‌the soft slap of his bare feet on the chilled concrete, and a strange muttering. His own voice, saying words that Rodin couldn’t catch, thoughts that he couldn’t grasp.

But he felt the terror when the door clicked. His whole body shook, and the coarse trousers itched around the crotch, where the dampness was both warm and cold at the same time.

Then light flooded into the cell, burning his eyes. Shapes moved, and he heard angry shouts. There was a scream, and pain exploded in his chest, doubling him over, dropping him to the ground.

Just a dream. Just a dream.

Rodin repeated those words in his mind as he lay amongst the crumbled sheets, his breathing fast and shallow.

A dream. His mind playing tricks on him. It wasn’t real.

He rose, shaking the grogginess away. He staggered to the shower, let the water wash some kind of normality back.

It was this place. This pathetic Society, with its fakeness and its rituals of politeness. It was getting to him. He walked the streets without fear of attack, and his body didn’t know how to cope. People approached him with friendly smiles that hid no malice.

Yet there was still darkness. Authority hid deep in the shadows, using the facade of society, making a mockery of everything the Dome presented itself as.

Rodin needed out of this place. He needed the honest violence and distrust of the districts.

Maybe he should say as much to Cat, tell the man he no longer wanted this contract. Was the pay really worth all this‌…‌this bullshit?

Dressed, Rodin woke his screen, bringing up a plan of the Dome. It would take only ten minutes to walk to the Giorian Gallery, but it might take longer to find the meeting point.

He was about to scroll through the gallery’s various collections when the message icon flashed. He tapped it, pulling the text onto the screen.

Good morning, Terrell. I found our last meeting both instructive and enjoyable, and I thank you for your time and indulgence. I will admit that, perhaps, I should have listened to my carer and spent less time at my office. When I returned home, I slept for almost twelve hours! Undoubtedly, this has hastened my recovery, because I feel far better now, and I would like to invite you to meet again. My carer grows strict, and forbids me from returning to my office for at least a couple of days, so I suggest we meet at my rooms. I’ve provided an address and directions, but please contact me if you require clarification. Shall we say 4pm?

Rodin didn’t need to glance at the map Leopold had attached. In his head he ran through the many things happening that day, calculated times‌—‌discover what Cat wanted at Giorian Gallery, use the time with Paskia at Sertio’s studio to plan, then visit Leopold. He responded to Leopold’s message, pushing the time back an hour if that was amenable to the Councillor.

One more day. He could cope with that. By nightfall, Leopold would be removed, and Rodin would be back where he belonged.