The Dark Lady

her.”
    “That's right.”
    “Do you know anyone who did?” I asked.
    “No.”
    “Then he might have been lying.”
    “What reason would he have had to lie?” asked Heath.
    “It is my observation that Men frequently lie without a reason,” I said.
    “True,” agreed Heath amiably. “But why do you care if she exists or not?”
    “Her portrait has appeared throughout human history, frequently as a myth-figure. If she does not exist, if by his statement Mallachi meant that because of his profession he embraces the Goddess of War or Death, then he must have had some source or inspiration for her portrait— and if I can find it, I will attempt to purchase it for Malcolm Abercrombie.”
    “And he'll buy it sight unseen?” asked Heath.
    “Yes.”
    “He's really that obsessed with her?”
    “Yes.”
    A predatory look crossed Heath's face. “I have a feeling that there's a handsome profit to be made out of all this.”
    “You are making one,” I pointed out.
    He offered me another of his disarming smiles. “Yes, of course I am.”
    “Where is Sergio Mallachi now?” I asked.
    “Hopefully he's on Quantos IX,” said Heath. “Let me make a quick vidphone call to a mutual friend and I'll make sure.”
    He left the room, and I spent the next few minutes thumbing through the three leather-bound books on the floating table. Two of them were different editions of the Bible, and the third was a translation of the works of Tanblixt, the great Canphorian poet. I was perusing the latter when Heath reentered the room.
    “We're out of luck,” he announced. “Mallachi's on some Inner Frontier world named Acheron.”
    “I am not acquainted with it.”
    “Neither am I, but allow me to hazard the guess that it's one of the nastier planets out there.”
    “Why?”
    “Because Acheron is another name for Hell.”
    “Can you find out its coordinates?”
    “I'm not sure it's worth the effort,” said Heath.
    “Why do you say that?”
    “Because Mallachi was due to return to Charlemagne two weeks ago.” He paused. “Given his profession, that could mean he's dead.”
    “I see,” I said.
    “Your color is darkening,” noted Heath.
    “It reflects my disappointment.”
    “Don't give up yet,” said Heath. “I'll contact my friend every day. There's always a chance he'll show up before you return to Far London.” His gaze fell on the book I was holding. “Are you interested in poetry?” he asked.
    “I am interested in books,” I replied.
    “Lovely things,” he agreed. “Terribly anachronistic, though. I could probably keep the entire library of Oceana in a bubble module half the size of that book you've got in your hands.”
    “Doubtless,” I agreed.
    “Still, they're nice to have around— if one can afford them.”
    “I was surprised to find that you possess two copies of the Bible,” I remarked.
    “Oh? Why?”
    “With no offense intended,” I said, structuring my observation in the Dialect of Diplomacy, “you seem an unlikely student of your race's codified moral precepts.”
    He uttered an amused laugh. “I don't read them. I just collect them.”
    “That answers my question,” I said.
    “You're really quite good at this, Leonardo,” he said admiringly.
    “At what?”
    “At slipping the verbal knife between my ribs in your quiet, self-effacing way.”
    “I assure you that— ”
    “Spare me your assurances,” he interrupted. “I'll let you know when I'm offended.”
    I could think of no reply, and so chose to remain silent.
    “Tell me more about the Dark Lady,” he said at last. “Has she got a name?”
    “I have no idea,” I replied. “I would have thought you knew.”
    He shook his head. “Mallachi only referred to her the one time, and all he said was that she was his mistress.” He paused thoughtfully. “I wonder how she got in all those paintings of Abercrombie's?”
    “I do not know,” I said. “My original premise was that she represented a mythic war figure, but that theory has been disproved.”
    Heath grimaced. “Here we are speaking of her as if she never existed, and yet I know for a fact that she was alive less than a year ago.”
    “That is untrue,” I said. “You have never seen her. You know only that Mallachi claims she was his mistress.”
    “Why would he lie to me?” demanded Heath. “I had no interest in her.”
    “Why would she appear in more than thirty works of art dating back almost eight millennia if Mallachi were telling the