by Glen Cook
“They ran when Firé Esté and Mud Man arrived,” Dan said. “Without telling their boss that they were going.”
Perhaps some threats had been leveled.
The grays would be desperately dependent on John Stretch’s forbearance now.
Patient henchfolk listened as Orchidia continued, asking no questions. Even I kept quiet, though I did wonder how she had gotten such a good look around in the short time that she’d been gone.
Sorcery, the rat men would say.
I told myself she had to be an avatar of Enma Ai. Death goes everywhere unnoticed until it touches someone.
I had lost control. This was no longer my operation. It belonged to the Black Orchid. The rest of us had become supporting players. And that was good enough for me, for now. She had the tools. She had the skills. Even pursuing the ploy that was central to my plan would be more promising with her on the scene. She could do so much more than the rest of us.
Maybe fate was behind me. Maybe not every god had it in for me all the time. Maybe I’d just drawn my one random divine good hand.
Orchidia said, “The gargoyles have to be neutralized. Otherwise we’ll have them behind us and they can see in the dark better than humans, dogs, or rats. Wait here.”
She dematerialized before I could ask what she meant to do.
I had an idea. I didn’t like it.
Morley would have no reservations. That would be his own option were the decision his to make. It was not his custom to leave live adversaries behind him. His standard of necessity was lower than mine.
He made a small gesture. There was enough moonlight to let me catch it. I nodded, got Mikon’s attention. “One more time, friend. Are you going to help scuttle Bezma’s plan?”
He had agreed and agreed, but I hadn’t felt his conviction. He didn’t want to betray his cousin, however ugly that cousin’s ambition might be. He didn’t truly believe that the rest of us just wanted to abort the Ritual, save the children, and wreck the tournament.
It didn’t much matter what he believed, or even what he wanted, anymore. While I diverted him Morley climbed into the coffin. Mikon thought he would be delivering it empty. Part of his discomfort was his dread of Bezma’s displeasure once he opened the box.
Last time we worked this grift, we delivered a coffin full of extremely hungry vampire.
Orchidia rematerialized. “We may have a problem. Two of the gargoyles had been neutralized before I got there.” She described frail bodies brutally torn. “The others have fled, I hope without giving Meyness Stornes any warning. Garrett, your pretty girl has written herself into tonight’s play. However cute she may be, she is no paragon of sweetness.”
“Is she another shinigami?”
“What?”
I decided not to tell her that I thought she might be possessed by a death spirit. “Nothing. Let’s do what we’re here to do. We’ll deal with that when we have to.”
The blonde and her friend couldn’t be a threat. They’d had tons of chances to make my life miserable and dangerous. They hadn’t done so.
Whether they could be counted on to be on my side might be a whole ’nother bucket of monkey guts.
Lights had come to life inside the Hauser place while Orchidia was hunting. Several, scattered across the ground floor, feebly leaked through boarded windows. I suspected that somebody had lighted half a dozen floating-wick oil lamps. I patted Mikon on the left shoulder. “Time.”
He didn’t want to go. I didn’t blame him. He was in a solid pinch between the devil and the deep. There was no way out but treachery, with guaranteed despair if he bet wrong. The right bet only offered a slim chance to live on in shame.
He asked, “Isn’t it a little early?”
“Aren’t you already late?” If his mission had gone swimmingly, he would have arrived here with Strafa a while ago.
“All right. Moving out.” But before he started, Orchidia kissed him firmly, one final piece of dark psychological warfare. He didn’t need her to remind him, “If there is a next kiss . . .”
A pale hope. The Black Orchid might forgive his part in the conspiracy that had claimed her children. All he had to do was . . .
I was sure Mikon had had nothing to do with those deaths. Chances were, his cousin had kept him ignorant so his conscience wouldn’t lead him to do anything inconvenient.
I was equally sure that his ignorant innocence meant nothing to the Black Orchid. I couldn’t find any forgiveness lying around loose myself.
“Scoot,” I hissed.
Mikon started moving.
So did everyone else.
The rat people gathered in a clutch of shadow where, it became clear, they were getting in touch with normal rats, to scout and observe.
The Black Orchid became invisible. I would have stayed near Mikon myself. Maybe she was so close he’d never get a chance to betray the scale of the peril closing in on Bezma—if he was foolish enough to try.
111
A noise from the wagon . . . Morley. Very unhappy. “Garrett.” He rasped it. “I can’t do this. I can’t handle the closed space yet. Sorry.”
So he wasn’t all the way back psychologically.
“I’ll do it. Leave me the toys.”
I lay back in the coffin a minute later. He slid the lid into place, covered it with a blanket. I began to shake.
I have problems with dark, tight places. I have bigger problems with taking up premature residence in a coffin. I launched a calming mantra from wartime days, to keep the panic at bay.
Everything lurched and shifted. The wagon had begun to roll.
Oh, did I hope that Mikon D. was more scared of the Black Orchid than he was of Meyness B.!
This really didn’t seem like such a brilliant idea now that I was the guy wearing the pine tuxedo. Despite all I could do to remain calm, a big part of my head kept upchucking things that could go wrong, some stuff so unlikely that I marveled at my capacity to imagine such bizarre disasters.
The wagon stopped. I assumed we were at the door to Magister Bezma’s hideout, the erstwhile Hauser stead.
The hearing inside the box was surprisingly good.
Two people responded to Mikon’s arrival. I heard later that neither was a wild-haired old man with a momentous wen. One was a gray rat man. The other, a human, demanded, “What do you want here, little man?”
A voice from the house called, “Is that you, Mikon? What took so long?”
“I almost got caught. Twice. The first time at the cemetery. Did you know that that place is overrun with wild dogs?”
The voice asked, “Did you get it?”
“I got it. But—”
“Excellent. Segdway. Bones. Help Mikon and Chick. Evil Lin. Take the wagon away once they get the coffin off. Drop it at least a mile from here and then just keep going.”
Evil Lin slurred something that made it sound like he was real excited about moving on and wanted to get to that as fast as he could.
He was beloved of the gods—providing Orchidia overlooked him.
Any villain who didn’t make tracks soon was likely to end up celebrating All-Souls from the nether side of life’s great divide.
The coffin tilted and rocked. The foot end went high. My head crashed into unpadded wood. That hurt like hell. Fierce old me, I managed not to bark or whine.
I heard the wagon roll, then stop again after just seconds. Evil Lin had come down with the drizzling shit horrors after catching a whiff from the clotted darkness where John Stretch and friends were communing with their spying regular rats.
After a few seconds Evil Lin took one exaggerated step directly away from the house where the coffin had just disappeared, making a statement. From now on he would have no part in anything. He would go away and be seen no more forever. And he started rolling again.
He will hear from John Stretch someday, even so, I’m sure.
What were Brownie and the girls doing? Like about every female in my life but Hagekagome, they were pr
obably smarter than me and keeping their heads down. Hell, Vicious Min was probably smarter than me.
A voice said, “Set it on those chairs.”
The coffin tilted, rocked, chunked down onto something that creaked. I heard what sounded like somebody agitated trying to talk around a gag. Kevans, sounding more angry than frightened.
That was good, as long as she controlled that anger.
I tried hard to picture how many people were out there and where they were located. The element of surprise would have a very short half-life. I would need to remain the center of attention long enough for the Black Orchid to strike. But our future victims were not being cooperative. Hardly any said enough to give themselves away.
The one I thought was Magister Bezma said, “There’s something wrong. I feel it, Mikon. Did you see anything out there? What did you bring down upon us?”
“I saw some rat men.” Which was one hundred percent true.
“They belong. They’re Evil Lin’s people. That’s not it. There’s something else. But the rats and dragons would give warning, wouldn’t they?” He was talking to himself by then.
“Meyness . . .”
“All right. You’re nervous. You’re upset. You aren’t invested in this. I understand. But be patient. Tomorrow will be a huge new day.”
Another voice said something. The magister responded, “I can only repeat what I just said. Come midnight, everything will change. Come midnight, I will gain the power to heal us all. But not before.”
The unintelligible voice got louder and angrier, presumably someone with a wounded friend who wouldn’t make it till midnight.
Voices rose. There was a scuffle. The mutineer might have paid the usual price of failure. Or, at least, he ended up of no value to Magister Bezma—who, in turn, ended up distracted from his concern about trouble gathering on his doorstep.
He emerged from the confrontation shouting, “Mikon, where are you going?”
“Uh . . . I was going to look around outside, see if that attracted any attention.”
I didn’t buy it and I was inside a box, halfway panicked because I was inside a box, and couldn’t see Mikon’s face. How much less believable was he to someone standing in front of him who had known him all his life?
“I can’t manage this without you, Mikon.” Appeal and threat alike there, with the threat prevailing. “So get back in here and help.”
All Mikon had going now was a stall and a hope that the trouble he’d brought with him would pull him out of the deep dung.
I suspected that poor Mikon was going to get hosed one way or another. He was one of those guys who just can’t not put themselves into bad places.
Time passed faster than it felt like, trapped in there, and Magister Bezma was anxious to get on with things himself. He began ordering people around. Feet shuffled. Furniture scraped and thumped. People bickered. People complained. Kevans got very verbal after her gag slipped. She was in good shape for sure, nor was she as frightened or intimidated as she ought to be. But I heard nothing to tell me how Kip was faring. Kevans never spoke to him, which left me troubled.
I’d learn the good news or bad the hard way, once the lid came off.
Something whispered to me.
Something crossed my chest like a marching cockroach.
I came within an ounce and inch of screaming like a scared little girl.
Something was there in the coffin with me.
112
I didn’t abandon reason. That was unnecessary. Violet sparks identified my roommate.
How the devil . . . ?
While we were making the changeover from Morley to me. Had to have happened then.
That didn’t matter, though, did it? The critical thing was, the coffin now included a double dose of misery for whoever slipped its lid.
Could Tara Chayne be playing a practical joke? Why shoehorn that thing in here with me, otherwise? Unless inside the box was the only way to get it past Magister Bezma’s wards and traps.
Kevans began barking about being manhandled, reeling off blistering threats because somebody was mistreating somebody who wasn’t conscious—without once invoking her dire grandmother. The girl had guts.
Magister Bezma proved himself small by mocking her.
Mikon upbraided him for bullying a girl.
I was pleased, within limits. A man in a coffin certainly has those.
The yelling did bring home an important fact: Kip Prose was alive and probably healthy, if a little bit unconscious.
Bezma yelled some at someone about being more careful painting those damned lines. Ritualistic artistry was in progress. Kevans barked questions like a kid on a field trip instead of the altar, or victim, meant to be offered the darkness that would facilitate Bezma’s ritual.
She wasn’t frightened? Was she clueless? Stupid? Sure that help would swoop in on time? Or was she just unable to believe that anyone could be what Bezma was?
She had Shadowslinger for a grandmother. She could not possibly be that naive.
So . . . Algardas were weird and she was a leader in the category.
The coffin shifted. The centipede scrambled. People outside grumbled. Bezma shrieked at somebody. Stress was getting to him. His henchmen weren’t being patient, just out of fear. He was being cut some slack because he was under such ferocious pressure.
Maybe he wasn’t a first-water asshole one hundred percent of the time. Maybe there were people who actually liked him.
No matter. He had my kids and his intentions weren’t good. He would’ve used my dead wife as a counter in his game, too, if I hadn’t gotten there first. I would cut him no slack. I wouldn’t be understanding.
Wouldn’t matter if I was. The Black Orchid and the Algarda tribe were thirsty for his blood. His own son was after him. The Machtkess sisters were stalking him. And then there was the little blonde, her friend, and his family. They fit in somewhere, too.
Purple sparks. Tiny, invisible claws digging in. A change in the racket from outside . . .
Singing?
They were chanting in Old Karentine, which isn’t all that old. Most people can follow it if they concentrate and the speakers don’t rush or go all mush-mouth.
The Ritual was under way. And Kevans went right on making her opinion clear, loudly and explicitly. Why didn’t they put that gag back in?
The coffin shuddered as somebody pulled at the lid, untroubled by the fact that it wasn’t glass. Maybe they didn’t know.
Maybe Mikon really would help scuttle his cousin’s game.
Maybe he’d do the right thing now that the crunch had come.
The chanting grew a little louder, a little faster. I picked out four distinct voices, two of those intermittent and unsteady. The men who had carried the coffin into the house, I presumed. None sounded enamored of their song.
The centipede crawled up on top of me. Several thousand chitinous claws scrabbled around on my face, tugging developing whiskers, getting into my nostrils and mouth, tasting like . . . I don’t want to take my imagination there. I could conjure a thousand ugly ideas about where those claws had been.
The chanting circled the box.
The lid slid aside.
113
The centipede surged up and out, off my face, leaving a hundred stinging scratches. The chant ended; then stunned silence gave way to a weird, girly squeal that did not come out of the only girl in the room.
I surged up, right hand seizing the throat of an old goat with wild white hair and a repulsive growth on the front and top of his head. He wore one of the robes tailored at Flubber Ducky. The best of the bunch, I’m sure. He dropped a bronze sword. His eyes bugged. He tried to shake his head. “No!” I couldn’t tear my gaze away from that monster blemish, bigger than a pomegranate and the same color, with ample decorative liver spots.
I thought about Strafa and squeezed.
The centipede had one end each around the throats of two hired hands, the youngest and healthiest of the
lot. They were outfitted with robes and swords, too. They wouldn’t have drawn a second glance on the street tonight. There were others, but most were barely breathing or were Mikon D. Stornes. Mikon hadn’t rated his own costume or sword, even incomplete.
He moved toward Kevans and Kip, who were laid out Mandela-style atop a plank table positioned at the heart of the most elaborate and colorful mystical diagram I’d ever seen. Kip was unconscious. Kevans was not. Magister Bezma had resisted villain stereotype enough not to have stripped her down before he got to work. She was sort of half-ass draped in one of the robes, though. Second best, probably. And a sword lay upon her chest, grip in her bound hands and tip between her knees. She got all loud again before I finished crawling out of the coffin. I hoped Mikon’s intentions were good. There wasn’t much I could do if he went bad on me before I finished with his cousin.
No worries needed, though.
The front door and surrounding wall exploded inward.
The Black Orchid emerged from the debris, very much meeting my inclination to see her as a death spirit. She was dreadful. She gave off her own dark glow and darker sparks. A stench preceded her. It would have been totally appropriate had she been sporting a jewelry ensemble made of rotting baby heads and severed penises.
The wall in the back blew in. Magister Bezma’s wards and alarms hadn’t been worth much. Moonblight and Moonslight arrived. Their blazing anger did not nourish the hope that flashed across my victim’s face. Moonslight was the more grim twin. She had a full charge of woman-scorned going on.
The house shook so violently that even the centipede lost its grip for an instant.
The blonde’s mighty companion dropped through the ceiling, like a stone falling from a great height . . . Actually, he was standing on a pointed ton of stone, an inverted, stolen tombstone stele, having already penetrated the roof and several higher floors. He drove on down through the floor in this room, too, missing Kevans, Kip, and Mikon by inches, stopping hip deep in hardwood. Every waking eye looked his way. And the little blonde floated down through the opening that he had broken.
