Free Procession of the Dead by Darren Shan

brought paper and pens along, jotting down notes. I laughed at first, but started doing it myself before long.
    Nothing was ever said by our elders—nobody told us we should or shouldn’t be congregating in Shankar’s—but we were aware of the watching eyes, the appraising gazes of the men and women with power. In our line of study there were only two grades—pass or fail. You got everything you wanted or you didn’t. Middle ground wasn’t for us. We wanted it all.
    Every day we gathered, gossiped, swapped notes and made plans, all the time looking around with envy at those who had made it, longing for one to pick us out, call us over and make us their own. We all wanted a Ford Tasso or Frank Weld to take us under his wing. No matter how much we learned or how far we progressed, we couldn’t soar until we were summoned. We could make all the moves we liked but until we were handpicked by someone higher up, we couldn’t really exert any control over our futures.
    When a call came, and one of our members waltzed off to a new life, the rest of us would group together enviously and measure the apprentice’s prospects, the doors which would open, how high they could expect to fly. Usually it was easy to calculate. If Ford Tasso gave the nod, you were going straight to the moon. If Cathal Sampedro asked you to join his team, your ascent was limited to the lower stratosphere—you’d have a solid but unspectacular career.
    Our futures were usually simple to predict, based on the standing of our patrons. But when my call came, nobody knew what to make of it, least of all me.
    I arrived late that morning because of the green fog. The city was famed for its unique fog, the light green clouds which blew over the metropolis every so often. It usually lasted less than a day, but sometimes hung on for three or four. Nobody knew where the fog originated—industrial pollution was normally blamed—why it was green or why it hung only over the city.
    The one thing everybody
did
know was that the fog made life hell while it lasted. You couldn’t see more than ten or fifteen feet, so traffic ground to a virtual standstill. I was fortunate—the clouds had descended the night before and were beginning to clear, otherwise I wouldn’t have made Shankar’s at all. I hurried to my regular table and hailed a waiter. Before I could order, he bent low and said, “Table fifty-five, sir.”
    Every head in my group turned. When we realized who was summoning me, a hush fell. All eyes settled on me, the same question in every pair—
“Huh?”
    I smiled an uncertain farewell and left for the new life ahead. It was as simple and final a parting of the ways as that. There was consternation at my passing. I’d only been there a few months, which was nothing compared to the years most spent milling around Shankar’s before their big break. Even so, I don’t think too many envied me. I’d been hailed by Leonora Shankar—the owner of the restaurant—and the mysterious man in the robes, who was the one person none of the older regulars would discuss. Nobody knew what my call meant or where it would lead. It was a bolt from the blue, as bizarre as it was unexpected. Where the hell did Leonora Shankar perch on the ladder of power? She was one of The Cardinal’s closest allies, but what could she do for a young man’s career? How far could you go with a restaurateur for a guardian angel?
    My stomach tried to knot itself as I crossed the marble floor but I wouldn’t let it. I’d stood up to The Cardinal without trembling, so I wasn’t about to go weak at the knees now.
    Leonora greeted me cordially and kissed my cheeks. The man in the robes said nothing, only smiled like a cobra and watched with glinting eyes as I sat.
    Leonora Shankar was a tall Arabian woman, dark and once beautiful. She was old, maybe eighty or more, but she moved with the grace of a woman in her forties. The rumors about her past were legendary. Some said she’d been