by Jack Conner
The rooms in this section of the castle had no order, just yawned and spilled into each other at random, which suited the performers just fine. And the groupies! The number of damned groupies the Funhouse attracted shocked Danielle. Often, she was mistaken for one, but that stopped happening after the first few black eyes. Like their drugs, the freaks distributed their groupies equally. Well, almost. Maximillian and Claude seemed to get a slighter larger share—but then Max was the boss and Claude the closest thing the Funhouse had to a star. Not only that, but Claude wrote many of the pieces they performed.
“He says he wants me to write something for him,” Sophia said after she’d helped Danielle move in. “What should I write?”
Danielle shrugged. “Don’t know much about that. Written a few poems, that’s it. Ruegger’s the writer in the family.”
When Danielle fell silent, Sophia squeezed her arm.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “He’ll turn up.”
A few days later, down in the Gift Shoppe, Danielle found a picture of Junger and Jagoda posing in front of their Tree: a publicity shot, signed and everything. Danielle bought it, tacked it to the wall over her bed and threw darts at it. It became a nightly ritual. In fact, this is what she found herself doing the night the Funhouse opened.
She felt a tap on her shoulder and turned to see Harry wearing a blazer (that Cloire had bought him) and looking worried. Not worried because they were going miss the beginning of the show, evidently, but because of the darts.
“Danielle,” he said.
“I know, I know.” She tossed the darts down and slipped on her jacket. “I’m all right, Harry. Come on, let’s go.”
“You sure?”
She narrowed her eyes. “I’m not getting any better just standing here.”
They left.
Not surprisingly, the theater was packed—probably the largest gathering of immortals she’d ever seen outside Lereba. There were definitely more shades here than at Liberty.
Of course, the bulk of the audience was comprised of human servants that swarmed around their masters in force, and it occurred to Danielle (not for the first time) that to many shades here, power could be conveyed to their peers through number of slaves. She’d seen it all before both here and elsewhere, but even so it didn’t fail to turn her stomach. A few more days of this and she’d go mad.
Sophia had saved two seats for her and Harry near the front, and as she moved down the wide aisle, Danielle glanced up at the balcony. Kiernevar and his Guards perched on the first row, almost ostentatious in their assumption of power. Well, let them. Before Kiernevar could catch her eye, she continued down the aisle and slid in next to the Ice Queen.
“Thought you were going to be late,” Sophia said.
“Just got a little distracted.”
From Sophe’s other side, Harry grunted.
“This whole thing’s gotten so fucking commercialized,” Sophia said. “Shit, I went down to the gift shop and found a pillow-doll of Max, for gods’ sakes. T-shirts, sure, but a pillow-doll?”
“What cut does the Funhouse get off the merchandise?”
“Fifty.”
Danielle raised her eyebrows. “Hell, they could make a doll of me, I wouldn’t mind. Make me an action figure.” She yawned and did a quick scan of the audience behind her.
“Looking for Sarnova?”
“Actually, I was looking for a beer vendor, but now you mention it, where is he? Blackie.”
“Look above the balcony. See it?”
“Damn, there’s a second balcony.” It was very small.
“Armor plated, too,” Sophia said.
“Where’d it come from?”
“Lowered it from the ceiling. They tell me Sarnova only uses it for special occasions. Usually he sits down here, just a regular guy.”
“Guess he’s trying to appear more leader-like,” Danielle said.
“I guess. But he really fucked up, didn’t he?”
“You mean, because of the war.”
“Before too long, Subaire and her band of merry men are gonna come in here and take the place. Him bringing the Funhouse is just a way of pretending he’s still got it together, but you know what? I think everyone knows that’s just what he’s doing—and they’re letting him. Why? Because he’s been their leader for three thousand years and they can’t think for themselves.”
Harry leaned in. “Sophe, for God’s sakes. Keep your voice down.”
Danielle flagged a vendor and bought a beer, as did Harry. They clinked glasses.
“Here’s to life on the edge,” he said.
“Harry, we passed the edge a long time ago,” Sophia said.
Maximillian stepped onto the stage to great clapping and whistling.
“Thank you, thank you, ladies and gentlemen. You’re too kind, really. You’ve made this our biggest opening ever, and I only hope that our performance tonight will be half as magnificent as the welcome you’ve given us. Before we get started, everyone please give a big hand to the man who made all this possible, our beloved lord, His Highness Roche Sarnova!”
An explosion of clapping and whooping overcame the audience and did not die down for several minutes. From his high balcony, the Dark Lord stood and smiled down at his subjects. Although he seemed at ease, the guards to either side of him stiffened. Eventually, the commotion died and attention returned to Maximillian, who had been clapping along with the crowd.
“And now,” he said, “give a big hand for yourselves!” As they obliged, he said, “You’re great! Come on now, louder!” Again, he led the audience in the cheer. When the noise faded, he started off with a few jokes about the war, but he was careful not to cross the line, and the audience received the humor well.
“He’s smooth, isn’t he?” whispered Sophia, and Danielle had to agree. He was kind of like the Bob Hope of immortals, funny and topical but never genuinely offensive.
After warming up the audience, Max introduced the first act and the show really got started.
To Sophia, Danielle whispered, “So, did you ever end up writing anything for Claude?”
“I wrote a little skit that they might do tomorrow, but tonight ... well, I got to change a few words around, but that’s about it. Still, you know, it was just fun to be involved.”
As the show began, Danielle found herself drawn to in. Some acts were better than others, but the ones that were good were really fucking good. Some were poignant and some were funny and some were both, and she understood why the Funhouse was getting so popular.
Every now and then she’d glance over at Harry to see how he was taking it in, and though he seemed to cringe at some of the darker pieces, he seemed to be enjoying the show in general. Sometimes she’d catch a little glimmer in his eyes betraying that he felt uncomfortable about sitting in the middle of all this decadence and evil, and she understood perfectly. She felt the exact same way.
But the show was good. In fact, the only problem she had with it was that it was maybe a little too long. Either that or her attention-span just wasn’t up to it. After a long time seemed to have elapsed, she checked one of her three watches and was surprised to see that two and half hours had gone by, which was longer than she’d thought.
Sensing that the beer had caught up with her, she wormed her way to an aisle and sought out a restroom. Once there, she did what she had come to do and moved to the mirror, where she stared at herself.
“What the hell are you doing here, girl?” she asked, but her reflection just mimed the words back to her.
She ran the faucet and splashed some water on her face, then watched the droplets slide down her smooth skin, some running down her neck and some so heavy that they fell right off her nose and jaw. Wiping her mouth with the sleeve of her jacket, she lit a clove and closed her eyes. What was she doing here? Waiting for Ruegger, mainly. Thinking of ways to kill Junger and Jagoda. Drinking. Drugging. Not much else.
She popped the clove out of her mouth and studied it. F
or some reason, it tasted too sweet today, and she realized that she’d felt that way for some time now. Maybe it was time for a change. And all those watches ...
Without a second thought, she tore off two of her three and threw them in the wastebasket. She stubbed out the clove in the sink. Not satisfied with that, she ripped out her pack and junked it as well.
She smiled and leaned against the wall. She hadn’t really been aware of it, but she’d been feeling anxious. She either had too much time to herself or not enough. She was going stir-crazy. Now, though. Now she felt better.
“Goddamnit, Ruegger, where are you?”
Though she could feel tears building behind her eyes, she refused to let them come. After a few minutes, they dried up.
She left the restroom and made her way back to the aisle, but something was wrong. At the bottom of the aisle, about where she’d been sitting, stood two Castle Guards.
Waiting for her.
As soon as she saw them, they saw her. Immediately, they started moving up the aisle fast, coming toward her, oblivious to the stares that members of the audience were shooting their way. At a fast walk, Danielle fled. She made her way out of the theater, down one corridor, then another. Just as she was rounding a corner, two Guards grabbed her.
“Let me go!” she shouted.
“Stop it,” one said. “We’re not here to hurt you.”
“Then let me go!”
Uneasily, they complied, even stepping back a few feet.
“What’s going on?” she said.
“We’re here to escort you to the dungeon, ma’am.”
“What?”
He raised a hand defensively. “There’s someone wants to see you. Someone being held in the prison.” He shared a look with the other Guard. “It’s someone you might want to see.”
Startled, Danielle tried to find something to say, but even when she found it, she couldn’t say it well because tears had choked her voice.
“Ruegger,” she gasped, and without waiting for the guards, she took off down the hall.
* * *
The opening night of the Funhouse of the Forsaken was a wild success, and Sophia knew that there would be a big party later in the rooms that the troupe occupied. Before she could join in, though, she had something she needed to tend to.
Once the show had ended, she escorted Harry Lavaca to a bar. Along the way, they discussed what the guards had wanted from Danielle and concluded that if she wanted them to know about it, she’d tell them. When Sophia dropped Harry off, the she-wolf Cloire was waiting for him.
Cloire gave Sophe an evil smile, but the ghensiv didn’t stop to trade insults. She had fires she needed to quench.
She moved down to the Arena, which (now that the fights were over) were dedicated solely to the slave auctions, and as she entered the room she saw what had to be fifty or sixty slaves being bound together and herded off to one corner of the room. Despite herself, she was intrigued. Fifty or sixty slaves—that was a hell of a purchase. Who could be the buyers?
Then she saw them.
Junger and Jagoda were paying off the cashiers with big bundles of cash. When the transaction was completed, the Balaklava accepted the reins of their newly acquired chattel and dragged them away. As they disappeared from sight, Sophia saw many of the shades in the room whispering to each other in shocked tones. What were Junger and Jagoda going to do with all the slaves? Most had been human, but some had been immortal criminals that had allowed themselves to become indentured servants just to get out of their cells. This was not unusual in itself, but a sale that big was very unusual. A mixed batch of mortals and immortals in one purchase was even more so. What were Junger and Jagoda planning?
For the moment, Sophia didn’t care.
Impatiently, she sat and waited for the right human male to be brought out onto the stage. It didn’t matter what sort of man it was. That is, her ghensiv half didn’t care, just as long as its libido was satisfied, but her female half wanted a juicy specimen. Finally, a big strapping stud was ushered out onto the stage, and she bought him for ten thousand dollars. After she’d paid for him, she grabbed him by the leash and led him up a few floors, where she’d rented a private room. This had been the major problem she’d had with the troupe; while living with them, she had no privacy.
Unchaining her slave, she named him Dirk.
“So, Dirk, what do you think?” she said, taking off his clothes.
Smiling a little, he said, “I’m just glad you bought me and not those others.”
She laughed. “You damned well better be. Enough small talk. I’m a ghensiv and I need a good old-fashioned fuck. Think you’re up to it?”
“That’s what you bought me for?”
“Pretty much. You got a problem with that?”
He didn’t, and was very eager to show her so. After she’d taken from him what she needed, she told him to go sleep on the couch, which he did.
She smiled contentedly and made herself comfortable on the bed. Dirk had been just what she’d needed. He was just a sexual being, though, nothing more. That’s all she could ever let him be. Fucking was one thing, but loving was something else. As perverted and wrong as it was to think, the only one that could love her and that she could love in return was the albino. As she thought of him, the pleasure Dirk had given her faded. Her eyes burned, and a few tears actually leaked out. Damn it. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d cried.
“Jean-Pierre,” she whispered into her pillow. “Where the hell are you?”
* * *
On a nearby mountain, Jean-Pierre smoked a Pall Mall and watched the snow fall through the limbs of the skeletal trees and plummet toward the layers of snow that had come before. The cigarette tasted good, and he enjoyed it despite the fact that it meant he’d failed in his attempt at eliminating vice. Some vices were worth it.
A week ago it had seemed important to prepare himself for battle. He’d convinced himself to stop drinking and smoking. Drinking he’d quit, and was proud of that, but smoking had been a far more difficult addiction to overcome. He allowed himself that little luxury, but only infrequently, when his body demanded the chemicals. Besides, he thought. Vice keeps you human.
He crouched on a boulder, watching the snow and the trees and the soldiers that littered the ground before him. Some slept or played cards. Some discussed the possible reasons why Maleasoel had not yet arrived. Jean-Pierre ignored them.
He tried not to act annoyed at the four guards that surrounded him, but he knew that he could be far worse off, so he didn’t complain. After all, he was basically a prisoner of the Libertarians, but Captain Raulf D’Aguila had not seen it fit to chain him or otherwise impede his freedom. Except for the guards, of course.
Jean-Pierre climbed off the rock and moved outside the shelter of the trees. Into the naked snow, the guards followed him. When he was about twenty yards from the temporary shelter, he stopped and threw his cigarette into the endless ice that stretched in all directions.
As his hands became free, he could feel the sudden tension of the guards behind him. He smiled. They needn’t bother. Now wasn’t the time to escape. It was night, and most of the army was still awake. Pretty much the only soldiers that couldn’t pursue him (if so motivated) were either passed out drunk or off hunting or scouting. He’d have to wait until daylight before he could make his move. He might wait for the hunters to return first.
They were off tracking any animal that lived in this hard country, and their skills were sorely needed, because without food, the army weakened, and it wouldn’t be too many days before they’d passed the point of no return. Even Jean-Pierre, one of the oldest shades here, felt the gnawing in his gut, but he knew that if it came down to it he would live. Without food, the others would grow weak faster than he would, which would make it all the easier for him to escape.
On the other hand, if his escape were successful, it would mean that he’d have to spend some time in the wilderness, avoiding his tracker
s, before he could even make an attempt at entering the Castle. At that point he knew a full belly would sure be a nice thing to have.
The only animal the hunters avoided was the wolf, and that was because (according to myth) Roche Sarnova kept a finger in the minds of every wolf that ran through these regions. More than one of the Dark Lord’s enemies had been hunted down and killed by these predators, or so the rumors said. The scouting parties bore the responsibility for avoiding the wolves. The animals couldn’t hurt a group as large as the Libertarian army, but they could alert Sarnova of the army’s presence, and several times during the last few days the scouts had reported wolves in the area, and the army had had to retreat to the hard cold tunnels underground that were their emergency shelters.
D’Aguila had revealed himself to be a good captain, Jean-Pierre reflected. A leader and protector of his people.
The main problem with the bald man’s rule was that it was a lone venture. Maleasoel had not arrived, nor had the third of the army she’d taken with her. Presumably she’d left Kharker’s Lodge with the intention of enlisting more soldiers at another one of Ludwig’s training facilities, but she’d been scheduled to arrive just one day after D’Aguila’s party and now was the third day with no word had from her yet.
Jean-Pierre harbored suspicions about what this meant, but he kept them to himself. Eventually, if Malie did not return D’Aguila would carry out the mission, with or without her. Jean-Pierre had his own problems, and he thought of them as the snow fell, scalding his face and singeing his eyes. His fate awaited him in the Castle. For some reason, he had known that for a long time. He didn’t know what it meant, though. Was he destined to die there, destined to redeem himself, or was something altogether different in store for him?
Sophia …
He’d known, even when he handed her over to the Funhouse, that he would meet his end at the Castle, so he had sent her along with an unconnected party whom he knew to be arriving at the place itself within a matter of weeks. He didn’t know why this was, didn’t even like the fact that he had known what he had, but he was cursed with a kind of foresight. For a man that wanted oblivion as badly as he did, foreknowledge was a form of living death.
