Trent Jamieson - Managing death

Once ensconced in my office, I take a deep breath and call Tim. Tim regards the knife in his hand with a look that tells me he's wishing he was back working in the public service. 'So, how do we do this?'

We're standing in the middle of my office. My back's to my throne, but I can feel it there, the bloody thing a constant presence.

'I know you haven't done a lot of pomping, but the cut has to be shallow and long. Just like you would if you were stalling a Stirrer.'

Tim hasn't stalled anything since we faced off against Morrigan's Stirrer allies in these very offices a couple of months ago. I've kept him away from all of that. He's much better at administration, at getting people to do what needs to be done. Lissa's the opposite. She leads by example; people follow her because she gets down and does it, too. I've fallen down on the leadership front, but that's going to change now.

Tim's knife hand shakes.

'I wouldn't ask you to do this,' I say, 'if I didn't need you, and believe me there are much more confronting ceremonies than this one in a Pomp's repertoire.' I remember the binding ceremony I'd once performed with Lissa's ghost. That had involved arcane symbols and a few good dollops of semen. 'From what Mr D says, the knives will guide us.'

For a moment I feel sorry that I've pulled Tim into all this. But then he grins at me, and it's just like old times.

'Fuck it, let's do this now.'

I find myself grinning back. 'Pub afterwards?'

'Absolutely.'

As one we slice our hands. My cut burns, a flaring burst that wrenches its way up my arm. These are the Knives of Negotiation, after all, they are edged in a multitude of ways and all of them are cutting. The blade bites deeper than I intended. Blood flows thick and fast. Tim reaches out his bloody hand, and I grip it.

And then.

Tim's eyes widen, in sync with mine, and we realise what we are about to do. Both of us struggle, but the ceremony is driving our limbs now. There are no brakes that we can apply to this.

We slam the knives point first into each other's chest.

I die for a heartbeat then.

So does Tim. I can feel it.

I cry out, but my lips don't move. The air tightens around us. The One Tree's creaking becomes a roaring. Great dark shapes loom and cackle. Then, out of nowhere, I see the Kurilpa Bridge. Its tangle of masts and wires. Mount Coot-tha rising in the north-west. Lightning cracks, a luminous finger trailing down.

And then the knives are back in our hands, bloodless. The wounds gone.

Sometimes I would like a job that involved less stabbing.

Tim coughs, his fingers scramble desperately over his chest. 'What the fuck was that?' He waves the stone knife in my face. 'Christ. Christ! Christ!' I snap my head backwards to avoid losing my nose.

Then he seems to realise what he is doing, breathes deeply, slowly, in and out, and puts the knife down carefully on my desk, as though it's a bomb.

And it is, I suppose. I follow suit, and the knives mumble at the both of us. They sound happy.

'Shit, I don't know,' I say. 'It wasn't what I was expecting.'

'Wasn't what you were expecting? What the hell were you expecting?' Tim's looking down at the front of his shirt.

There's no blood. I haven't bothered checking, I'm an old hand at these sorts of things now.

'No one told me that would happen, believe me. Not Mr D or Neti.'

'I can see why.' Tim drops into one of the chairs at my desk. He grins a little though, surprising me. 'It was a bit of a rush.'

'So Kurilpa,' I say. 'Yeah, the new pedestrian bridge.'

Kurilpa Bridge sits on the curving Brisbane River just on the edge of the CBD. It's a wide footbridge; steel masts rise from its edges like a scattering of knitting needles, and between them are strung thick cables. You either love it or hate it.

Can't say that I love it.

'How do you hold a Death Moot on a bridge?' I move to sit in my throne, shaking my head. The moment my arse touches the chair the black phone on my desk rings. I jump then look from the phone to Tim.

'Well, I'm not answering it,' he says.

I snatch it up.

This is no regular phone call. Down the line a bell is tolling, distant and deep. I keep waiting for some slamming guitar riff to start up.

Instead a thin voice whispers, 'You have engaged us, across the peaks and troughs of time. And we will serve you.'

There's a long pause.

'Thank you,' I say at last.

'We are coming,' the voice says. 'The bridge has been marked with your blood. The bridge has been marked and we are coming. Oh, and there will be a set menu. And canapes.'

The line goes dead.

'They're coming,' I say, looking at the handset.

'Who?' Tim looks at me blankly.

'The Caterers.'

'Excellent,' Tim says, taking this whole being-stabbed-in-the-chest thing very well.

'Oh, and there will be canapes.'

'As long as there aren't any of those little sandwiches, then I'm happy.'

'But when do these guys arrive? I forgot to ask.'

'That I know,' Tim says. 'Four days from now. We'll take them out to the bridge then.' He gets to his feet. 'Well, that's that. The Death Moot has begun. Pub?'

I shake my head. 'You and Lissa are right,' I say. 'I need to start actually being here. I need to make sure that I'm ready.' I pick up the knives. 'And I need to get these back to Aunt Neti. They're much too dangerous to leave lying around.'

Tim grins at me. 'Nice to have you back.'

There's an angry bruise on the horizon when I get home. It's six o'clock and a storm is coming. I feel virtuous, and pleased that, after two visits in one day, I won't have to speak to Aunt Neti for some time. The Knives of Negotiation are safe. The Caterers are on their way, and the Death Moot has a venue. Not bad for a day's work. I've texted Lissa, told her I'll be waiting at home.

I'm determined to show her I can do this. That I'm not dropping out, and that she isn't losing me.

She's right, I do need to practise my shifting, and I want to read as much of Tim's briefing notes as I can before she gets home. Here, where I'm relatively free from distractions. I've been drifting. Dad once said that pomping is for Pomps and that business is for dickheads. Of course, it didn't stop him being very good at both. Pomping's all I've ever known, but managing a business is uncomfortably new to me. I like people, but I'm not sure I can tell them what to do. After all, I spent a lot of my time as a Pomp arguing with management. The shit I gave my immediate superior Derek… I almost miss the guy.

Tim's last words to me this afternoon, after a very quick beer, were: 'Meeting tomorrow morning at 8:15. Cerbo. Do not be late. And you would be better off for reading my notes.' Faber Cerbo is Suzanne Whitman's Ankou. I've not had much to do with him. I wonder what he wants?

Tim's notes are extensive, and amusing. He knows his audience, I guess. And I can understand why he might be hurt that I haven't read them yet. He's obviously put a lot of work into making it de Selby digestible.

By the time Lissa pulls into the driveway, I'm a third of the way through the notes and aware of various allegiances within the Orcus or, as Tim has subtitled his report, Who Hates Who. The most prominent allies on the list surprise me: Neill Debbier, South Africa's RM, and Suzanne Whitman, the RM of North America. Between them they seem to wield the most influence.

It's fascinating. As is the fact that Cerbo is Mortmax's resident expert on the Stirrer god. I should have been pushing for a meeting earlier. Tim's notes suggest that now, with the Death Moot so close, the lobbying is going to start in earnest. Hence my meeting with Cerbo, I assume.

I watch Lissa get out of the Corolla. Her face is pinched with the weight of a day's work. She pomped five souls today. I felt them all, as I did the stall she performed at the Wesley Hospital.