by Evan Fuller
14
Three Dogs
Beneath the ground, Emery found himself completely blind. It was a welcome release: he had expected near-blackness and all its accompanying tricks on the senses; in complete blackness, his eyes had nothing to use against him. “Follow me,” said his guide. “An' no lights. Ye' don't get to see the secret way.”
Emery waited for the man to produce a light of his own; instead, he grabbed Emery's sleeve and plunged forth into the dark. “How do you know where to go, then?” Emery asked.
“Practice,” the man hissed. “Lots o' practice. Now 'ush up. There isn't many tunnel people this way, but topsiders' voices might attract 'em.”
Emery deemed this a compelling reason to keep quiet. He stumbled forward, his right arm tugged ungraciously along by Three Dogs' man and his left cradling his precious cargo. Emery wondered what the package could possibly contain: if Dr. Hanssen was to be believed, its value was such that he had been prepared to send another Vorteil to deliver it before Emery had presented himself. The most obvious answer was that Hanssen was after drugs, and his accusation of Emery might be a ploy to conceal his own intention, but the disdain in his voice had been real. No strong man was impervious to addiction, but Hanssen seemed driven, not desperate. There must be something else he was after, something for which he was willing to risk not only his good name but his citizenship in Rittenhouse. And Three Dogs was more than a poppy lord: he also served directly under Zakarova, a man who Green had said had his hands in everything. Every indication pointed to something more sinister, but Emery had no idea what it might be.
In some corner of Emery's mind, he was dimly aware that this pondering was only a device to keep him distracted from the dangers around him and the greater one he was about to confront. While more reassuring than the dim light of night, the utter darkness about him was more dangerous as well: he could not even begin to discern what dangers might wait mere yards away. He wanted to ask his guide what tools the man possessed to protect them from a tunnel person might they encounter one, but Emery dared not speak. He rounded each corner with baited breath, waiting to feel the touch of some fiend's cold hand against his skin. In his blindness, the maze seemed to reach into infinity.
Finally, after what must be the thousandth turn, Emery's eyes made out a faint glow in the distance. For a moment he wondered whether he was imagining it, but then his guide spoke: “We're 'ome safe. The tunnel people never come close t' the light.”
The tunnel widened suddenly into a massive cavern that Emery knew must have been a train station in ages past. The main source of light was a massive bonfire housed in an enormous hearth in the station's center; its flames towered over Emery. The chimney that rose from the hearth was a metal chute, its width greater than a man's height. It encircled the entire cavern, delivering the warmth of the fire to every corner, before finally disappearing into the ceiling. As he approached, Emery saw that the chute was made of appropriated subway cars: their windows had been patched over, their wheels removed, and their ends welded together to form a continuous tunnel, a fire-breathing steel snake.
Emery's guide placed a hand on Emery's shoulder, motioning to a door in the side of one of the subway cars. “That's where we throw ye',” he whispered, “if ye' offends the baron. The heat an' smoke are a worse way to go than fire, an' it don't smell quite as bad on our end. When they're good an' cooked, we fish the bodies out an' leave them for the tunnel dwellers.”
Shrugging off the threat, Emery slowly entered the chamber. He was visible to the countless other people who populated it, but illuminated only by firelight and wearing Green's coat, he must appear unremarkable. A few of the cavern's inhabitants turned momentarily as he entered, but they resumed their business. And business was everywhere: gathered around the furnace and stretching to the edges of the cavern floor in almost direction was a teeming, bustling bazaar. Emery had the momentary sensation that he was back in Rittenhouse, wading through the cacophony of the low hospital. The wares and the faces were different—he passed a man with the dark features of the natives, selling purportedly magical charms and herbs; a woman with locked hair and a flowing flowered dress peddling handmade string instruments; a little boy haggling with a gaunt butcher over the price of horse meat—but the barely-controlled chaos was the same. Emery kept his gaze fixed firmly on the wide path that cut through the commotion, ignoring the calls of merchants until one seized his arm. “Care to know what tomorrow will bring, child?”
“I don't have anything to trade,” he responded instinctively, trying to tug free, but the woman stepped forward to block his way. She was dressed in a dark garment that seemed to dance in the wind, though there was no wind in the cavern; she wore the sun and moon in bronze about her neck. Emery looked at her face in shock: It was the face of the woman he'd met above ground, the one who had blocked Green's entrance to the tunnel. But in place of the milky blue-white eyes, this woman's irises and pupils alike were black, and deep as bottomless wells. “I ask no fee of ye' now,” she replied. “I'm sure ye' shall repay me somehow, sometime soon. Just a prick of the finger, and I can see through the fog to trace your path, to warn ye' of dangers and betrayals to come.” She took his hand between both of hers.
Emery pulled away with more force, freeing himself from her grip. “I'm not fond of magic,” he said, unsettled.
The strange woman stepped forward, not content to give Emery his space. “Doubtless ye' think our gifts come from some dark force, child. Tell me, ye' who know so much, what is the source of my power?”
“Some people say that people forsook their old gods for technology before extinction. They say that afterward, when we'd lost so many of those developments and couldn't rely on them anymore, people needed faith again and the old spirits returned to their former power.” Emery shifted uncomfortably in her gaze. “Others think magic comes from people themselves, a manifestation of will or subconscious mental energy.”
“Ye' say, 'some say this and others say this,'” she challenged, “but what can ye say?”
“I don't know,” Emery admitted. “I just don't trust any power that doesn't come from Jehovah God.”
She laughed softly, her hair blowing in the phantom breeze. “It's good, then, that ye' know so certainly the ways in which your god works.” She leaned closer still, until Emery's eyes were almost swallowed by hers. “If he is God, as ye' say, his ways are beyond your understanding. Whatever is not against ye' is for ye'.” He nodded nervously; she sighed. “No prick of the finger today, child of Rittenhouse, but I tell ye' this: before today is done, your cause will owe a debt to the powers ye' despise.”
She sank back into the crowd without another word. Disarmed, Emery glanced over his shoulder as he continued on the path through the bazaar, leading to an open area to the far right section of the chamber. The wall on this side of the cavern was jeweled with bits of shattered glass from floor to ceiling, and each of them burned like a little sun with reflected firelight. This was a sort of wealth unlike that amidst which Emery lived in Rittenhouse: it was wild, unrefined, built haphazardly from the ashes of the old world, but extravagant nonetheless. The seat that stood against the center of this magnificent wall was less a throne than a mountain of metal; standing ten feet tall, it was constructed of old subway parts just like everything else in the cavern. A dozen headlights from dissected trains, scattered across the metal mass, shone dimly with a wealth that was much rarer here in the wastes than in Emery's home. The light they cast illuminated the image of a Cerberus etched into the floor before the throne. A staircase ran up the center of the throne to the seat on which, towering and fierce, Three Dogs sat.
The poppy lord was thinner than Emery had imagined him, but no less imposing. It was difficult to judge from where Emery stood, but to him it seemed that Three Dogs must be nearly seven feet tall. His bony arms were like the branches of trees, angular and firm, with brown skin coarse as bark. From his wrists and his long thin neck hung countless loose bands of
metal and hemp; the myriad necklaces were the only covering on his dark, scarred chest. His head was shaved, and from this distance, the only features of his face that Emery could discern were the twin fires reflected in his eyes. Perhaps twenty feet from the throne's base at his left hand, three enormous, feral dogs were chained to rivets set in the wall. They had been at rest, but they rose at Emery's approach to snarl and strain against the chains, driving the prongs of their collars into their thick necks. Emery's legs wavered as he neared the throne, as if considering whether to halt him from drawing closer to this terrible man.
The voices in the cavern grew hushed as the other inhabitants began to notice Emery's approach. He was still more than twenty paces from the foot of the throne when two guards halted him, and he felt the sudden touch of hands probing his body from behind. “Bring any weapons with ye'?” asked one of the guards before him. Emery shook his head.
“If ye' did, tell me now an' I'll just 'old them for ye',” he said. “But if ye lies, we'll feed ye' to the serpent.” He motioned to the door in the snaking chain of subway cars. “Or maybe to the dogs, whichever pleases the baron.”
“I don't have anything,” Emery said testily as the searching hands probed in places where he would rather they did not. It was true: the baton and the machete were among the things they had found themselves without when they were suddenly whisked from the estate.
“Good,” the guard said. He seized Emery by the arm, firmly but not roughly, and marched him the remaining distance to the throne. They drew closer than Emery would have chosen to come, until he was forced to crane his neck to regard Three Dogs. The fire was at Emery's back; his face was lit by the subway headlights that glared from the throne. At this proximity he could see the image of the Cerberus, identical to the one on the floor, on Three Dogs' chest. The lord's face was tattooed as well, an elaborate, eternal mask through which he stared down at Emery. The guards at his sides bowed before their leader.
Emery knew that this was a vital juncture: his decision in this moment would determine the course of the events to come. He was not sure, though, what the impact of each choice would be. His legs buckled involuntarily, begging him to kneel, but he remained standing. “I bring greetings from Rittenhouse, Baron,” he said, trying to keep his chest from trembling as he spoke. He knew, without knowing why, that he must show no fear before this man.
“Ye' don't kneel,” Three Dogs said softly. The tone was neither that of a question nor an indictment; his voice was casual, offering a simple observation.
Emery knew he must choose his next words carefully. “I respect your domain, baron,” he said slowly, “but in my home, to bow to a man is a sign not just of respect but of submission. I submit to your law while I'm in your home, but myself, my will…” he swallowed. “That, I do not submit.”
Three Dogs nodded, offering no comment. “I am led to believe ye' bring something for me.” His voice was deep, entrancing, his speech clearer than his subjects'.
“A package from Dr. Hanssen,” Emery replied. He decided not to reveal his ignorance as to what the package contained; it might bode ill for Three Dogs to note him as insignificant.
“Arvid was kind to send ye',” Three Dogs purred, his lips rising to form a smile that might appear friendly on another man's face. He waved his hand, and one of the guards reached to take the package. Emery handed it to him, and the guard slowly ascended the stairs of the throne. He stopped two steps before the top, kneeling and offering the wooden box upward: no man but Three Dogs himself, Emery thought, must be allowed atop the throne. Three Dogs leaned down to to receive the box; the guard offered his thanks and backed slowly down the stairs, never turning his back upon his baron.
Three Dogs broke the seal, then slid the lid off the package and laid it delicately at his feet. He smiled again as he beheld whatever the box contained; Emery was anxious to know what it was, but from this vantage he could not hope to see it. “Good,” Three Dogs said, “Arvid did not deceive me.” He peered down on Emery. “You may go.”
Emery cleared his throat. “Actually, Baron, there was one other thing. It's not related to my business; there's just a question I'd like to ask.”
The poppy lord looked amused; clearly, no one who knew him well spoke so freely in his presence. “Oh?” he asked, cocking his head in a facade of curiosity.
“There was a friend of mine called Blue.” Emery wouldn't speak Manuel's true name to this man. His heart pounded faster. Stay calm, he told himself. Deep breaths. “I heard he was killed about a month ago on your orders.”
“No,” Three Dogs corrected, “I executed him personally.”
Emery fingers tensed as he resisted the urge to charge the throne and attack the man with his bare hands. “If it pleases you,” he managed, “I was wondering what brought that about.”
Three Dogs was quiet for an interminable moment, as if waiting to see whether this nuisance would simply vanish. “When ye' didn't kneel before me,” he said at last, “ye' said ye' didn't submit to me. In all of New Providence, there is only one man to whom I kneel.” Emery nodded; he knew who.
“The so-called king of the wastes 'as long been a thorn in my master's side,” Three Dogs continued, “but I don't possess the time to pursue each of his subjects. But this man, the one ye' call Blue, crossed a line no man may cross. Blue stole my master's only child, his beloved daughter. No discipline could be too great for such a crime, and this man received the very best of my own attention.” His eyes narrowed slightly, and the casual tone was gone from his voice now. “And I assure ye', my knowledge in the way of discipline is not lacking.”
Emery nodded, fighting with every fiber of his being to contain himself. Three Dogs' story must be false—mustn't it? Emery had only known Blue for a matter of weeks, but the man had saved him from the kidnappers who had ambushed Emery and his driver on the road to Rittenhouse. What motive would Blue himself have for kidnapping a child?
Emery's first thought was that Zakarova's daughter must have sought Blue out herself; perhaps she wished to escape her father, or perhaps she needed the king to do something for her that Zakarova could not. But then, by all parties' admission, Zakarova and the king were bitter enemies. Might Blue really have kidnapped the man's daughter? Emery wanted to disbelieve it.
“Thank you,” he said; the words tasted cruel. “He was a good friend to me; I just had to know why his death came about.”
Three Dogs no longer seemed amused with this conversation. “Is there anything else?” the deep voice asked, each word a subtle threat.
Emery shook his head.
“Then ye' may go.”
“Thank you, Baron.” Emulating the guard's earlier tactic, Emery backed away rather than turning, not reverent but afraid to have this man at his back. Only when he could no longer retreat in this manner for fear of stumbling into the fire did Emery finally turn and stride briskly toward the cavern's exit.
His guide rejoined him, grabbing him by the sleeve again to lead the way through the darkness. “Ye' never got t' meet Blackroot,” the man said with a tone of remorse. “That beast would 'ave eaten ye' alive.”
Emery couldn't imagine that a more imposing figure than Three Dogs might be present in the cavern, but he decided not to tempt fate by voicing this theory. He was simply glad to have survived this encounter, and the sooner he was to the surface, the better. Hopefully the return trip through the tunnels would be as uneventful—
“Stop!” echoed a shout from the cavern behind them. They were a mere ten yards into the tunnel; the light of the fire was still plainly visible. Emery's guide tightened his hold on Emery's sleeve; Emery thought to flee, but without the guide to lead him back through the tunnels, he would never find his way out. He inhaled a long, shaky breath. This will be okay, he insisted to himself. It has to be okay.
Two men were running through the cavern to the mouth of the tunnel. Emery struggled to see them by the firelight: they looked like the two guards who had stood nearest
the throne. Then, between them Three Dogs appeared, striding on legs long as stilts toward Emery and his guide. The expression on the poppy lord's face was one of complete serenity; there was something in his hand, small, glistening. He raised his arm, and then a sound like thunder erupted through the cavern.
The guide screamed and collapsed, his grip on Emery's sleeve going slack, his helmet clanging dully as it struck the floor. Emery was suddenly aware of a hot wetness on his arm and face: he realized that it was the other man's blood, and, a fraction of a moment later, that the bullet had been intended for him. Emery turned and sprinted headlong into the blackness as the pistol's deafening roar rang out again. A panicked image of the tunnel people flashed through his mind, but it was a fate far less certain than what awaited him if he remained. I'll have to take my chances, he thought frantically. Damn. And everything was going so well.
Three Dogs and his guards pursued, but every step carried Emery farther from the light of the fire behind him. The blackness now was so deep that any moment, he knew, they must lose sight of him altogether. And then the pistol fired its third shot, and Emery fell in a heap on the tunnel floor.
