Music to My Sorrow

by Mercedes Lackey

  They were for sale in the gift shop, of course.

  There were other things to do in the casino besides gamble, of course. You could listen to live gospel or "spirit" music—none of the bands from Billy's new label, he said regretfully, not yet—watch highlights from Billy's previous Praise Hours on a thirty-foot screen, dine in four different restaurants (one of which offered "Authentic Food of the Bible Lands!") and Hosea saw a sign for an evening show promising a Genuine Simulated Reenactment of the Miracles of Moses Before Pharaoh! Whatever that show might be, its contents probably didn't bear thinking about too closely . . . though surely it took the place of the usual Vegas-style magic-act.

  Everyone recognized Billy, of course, and wanted to talk to him. People clustered around him as he glad-handed and greeted them, giving a good imitation of a campaigning politician. It effectively discouraged any interview-type questions from Hosea, but he got an earful just the same.

  "Reverend, I saw your show last night. Is it really true what that Mr. Wheatley said about the demons?" An elderly woman in bright pink stretch pants and a Casino of Prayer logo sweatshirt put a hand on Billy's arm as he passed her seat at the slot machines and regarded him anxiously.

  "Sweet thing, there's not one thing said on my program that isn't the gospel truth," Billy said firmly. "But we're gonna root those ol' demons out no matter where they're hiding and send them all back to Hell, don't you worry. We've got big things planned—and you can be a part of the Liberation Army. Just keep watching my program and praising Jesus, and you'll see what you need to be doing."

  Most of the questions had to do with Wheatley's startling revelation, naturally, and from Billy's answers, Hosea got the impression that in a few weeks the advice from the pulpit on what to do about the "demons" was going to become a good deal more prescriptive. But a number of the people who stopped Billy on their tour simply wanted autographs, or to have their picture taken with him, or to tell him what a difference he'd made in their lives. Some of them asked about Heavenly Grace, and to them, Billy gave the same answer he'd given Hosea—that she was away right now, but that she'd be back soon.

  There was no doubt in Hosea's mind that Billy was the sort to thrive on the attention, never turning anyone away—and why not? He was obviously a natural showman.

  It saddened Hosea; here was a man who had been given so many good gifts—health, energy, intelligence, good looks, the ability to understand people . . . he could have done truly good things with them. He could be showing people how to make the most of their own lives—he could be using the money brought in to feed the hungry and tend the sick, instead of building mockeries like this so-called Casino Cathedral.

  In fact, by his own words, and from what Ace had said, he had not been a very bad man until Gabriel Horn had arrived on the scene. Or at least, he had not been doing near the harm he was now. And between the hate and fear he was preaching, and the way he was preying on peoples' weaknesses here in this casino, he was doing a lot of harm.

  On the whole, Hosea thought it would be very interesting to meet Gabriel Horn.

  Hosea glanced around the casino, and wondered if the Reverend Billy Fairchild was familiar with the Bible verse about the children crying out for bread and being given stones.

  * * *

  At last they ducked out through the side-door again. Hosea had gotten so used to the din in the casino that the silence on the other side of the door was nearly deafening.

  "Any time I need a little pick-me-up I just go down and walk around out there for a while," Billy said, grinning. "Sets me right up. You can just feel the love rising up out of all those good Christian souls."

  Hosea smiled, but his heart wasn't in it. All he could think of was that love didn't have a great deal to do with what Billy had been preaching last night.

  And that Billy was probably a great deal more "set up" by all the money being sucked out of all those good Christian pockets.

  "There you are, Reverend! When Mrs. Granger said you'd gone down to the casino, I was afraid we wouldn't see you for the rest of the day," a new voice said.

  Hosea turned and regarded the speaker. The man was as tall as he was—and there weren't many who were. While Billy wore an expensive handmade suit in a way that managed to make it look "just folks," there was no mistaking the stranger's suit for anything but custom couture tailoring.

  "Well, just the man I was going to be looking for next!" Billy said sunnily. "Hosea, this is Gabriel Horn. I couldn't run this place without him. Gabe, this is Hosea Songmaker—he's come down here to do a little article on us."

  "A reporter?" Gabriel Horn said, his voice dark with suspicion.

  "More like a freelancer journalist, even if that's a kinda fancy word. Rolling Stone sent me down," Hosea said, carefully putting on a respectful and opaque mask, "and if they like what Ah write, well, might be they'll print it."

  * * *

  He really did wish there was enough time to take care of Billy Fairchild properly and with thorough care, Gabriel thought wistfully. From what black cauldron of fool's inspiration and raven-kissed luck had he drawn the notion to summon a Bright Bard to his side and give him a tour of the inner workings of the Ministry?

  Of course, it was unlikely in the extreme that Billy knew that this so-called journalist was, in fact, a Bard, obvious as the fact was to Gabriel. And it might almost have been seen as a stroke of good fortune—if Gabriel had been in a better humor—for surely this was the busy meddler who had seen to it that Gabriel's own spells had gone awry this morning. Was there any chance whatsoever that there were two Bright Bards sniffing around Billy Fairchild at this moment? Improbable, to say the least.

  "I am delighted to meet you, Hosea Songmaker," he said, holding out his hand.

  Yes—he knew it when their palms clasped—the flavor of the magic was the same as that which had wrapped and drained his talisman. This, then, was little Heavenly Grace's champion.

  Swiftly, he considered how the interloper might best be served. A quick and merry death? Gabriel dismissed the possibility with regret. At the moment what he could do was very limited. It had taken every ounce of his power to send his Hunt into New York City in broad day to take the Bright Bard Eric and the boy his brother and bring them away safe again, and undoubtedly Jormin would be complaining about it for the next hundred years. The mortals' blighted iron city was no place for the Sidhe—only Aerune the Mad, who had owed allegiance to no Court, and who had dared Oberon to bring him to heel, had made it his own—that place that mortals had once called cursed because he dwelled there, and in a strange retribution, had made it into a place where no Sidhe dared linger.

  So for now Gabriel's powers were spent . . . and more mundane "accidents" took time and care to arrange, and were better left for the hours of darkness.

  So this Bard's death would have to wait. But at least he now knew the face of his enemy, and with care, he'd be able to take the measure of the mortal as well.

  "Maybe you could show Hosea around the place a little—the behind the scenes stuff," Billy said, foolish and open and gormless, with no more notion that he was giving succor to the very person that had thwarted his will than a suckling babe. "Tell him all about the concert this weekend, and see if we can't persuade him to stay and give it a listen. I figure that's just the thing his magazine would like to hear about."

  Suddenly, Gabriel felt much more cheerful. Out of the mouths of babes— Oh, yes. If the Bard stayed for Jormin's concert, that would give Gabriel plenty of time to recover. He already knew where Heavenly Grace was staying. No doubt the Bard laired there too. He could take the Bard at his leisure and feed him to his Soul-eaters; not a light feeding, but a heavy one. Not even his bones would remain. And then there would be nothing standing between him and acquiring the maiden.

  Nothing.

  "I'd be delighted to," Gabriel said warmly. "I hope you'll be able to stay for the concert. It's going to be an amazing event. Come this way—I'll take you up to the Red Nails off
ice."

  * * *

  " . . . I think we've signed the finest in Christian heavy metal today: Pure Blood, Holy Sacrament, Lost Angels, Revelations . . . they'll all be at the concert on Friday."

  The offices of Red Nails Music occupied most of a floor of the Fairchild Tower, and bore a superficial resemblance to any other creative workplace: messy desks, harried employees, walls covered with posters and every flat surface heaped with promotional items. In fact, there really wasn't much difference between this office and the offices of Rolling Stone.

  Gabriel talked as he took Hosea on a quick tour, and there were some profound differences between Gabriel's style and Billy's. Hosea noted that while Gabriel's staff was happy to see him, and didn't hesitate to approach him for help, there was a certain formality in the exchanges that hadn't been present between Billy Fairchild and the people he met. Gabriel Horn wasn't the type to let people forget, even for a minute, who was the boss. Billy preferred his underlings to act—at least while Hosea had been there—as if he was as much friend as employer.

  "The concert is free—we're holding it to launch Pure Blood's debut album—and we're expecting several thousand people to show up," Gabriel was explaining. "We didn't want too big of a crowd, you understand—one of the reasons we're holding it on a weekday and only doing minimal advertising. Too many people could pose a crowd-control issue. But it should be enough to get the word out—and there's still plenty of room here in the business park; we shouldn't have all of the subsidiaries of the Ministry moved in and the rest of the space rented out to compatible corporations until late next year."

  "Does that include moving in Parker Wheatley's demon hunters?" Hosea asked. He did want to know if everybody at Fairchild Ministries was as pleased with Wheatley as Billy was, and besides, an interviewer ought to ask an awkward question or two.

  While Gabriel Horn made him uneasy—though he didn't have quite the same effect on Hosea as he'd had on Ace—Bardic powers or not, he couldn't say what bothered him about the man any more than she'd been able to. It was a great pity he hadn't been able to bring Jeanette along with him to the interview, because without her, his ability to see what lay beneath the surface of things was limited. His mage-sight would show him magick and things unseen—if he could find an undistracted moment to use it. And if it didn't happen to come up against a power greater than his.

  Now there was a comforting thought.

  He could also tell, usually, when someone was telling the truth. But Gabriel Horn very carefully had not said anything that was not purely factual. At least, not until this moment.

  Gabriel Horn hadn't liked his question about Wheatley at all, though he did his best not to show it.

  "Mr. Songmaker, one of the reasons Billy and I get along so well is because I let him deal with the matters he considers important and he extends me the same courtesy. I'm sure that if he wants Mr. Wheatley to have resources, he'll give them to him."

  That's true. And he knows it.

  But what Gabriel Horn wasn't saying was how he felt about that. No, he was going to skim right past that little roadblock. "If you'd like, when we're finished here, I can turn you over to Andrew Wyath—he produces the Praise Hour, and he's been working closely with Mr. Wheatley—and you can see if you can get a few minutes of his time."

  "Oh," Hosea said dismissively, glancing over Gabriel's shoulder at an enormous poster of Judah Galilee, wearing leather pants, clutching a blood-red guitar that matched his hair, and looking as if he were undergoing electroshock therapy, "that's all very well, and Ah do thank you for the thought, Mr. Horn, but . . . Ah think mah readers might be more interested in music than demons."

  Gabriel smiled, obviously recovering his good mood with a bit of an effort. "Then by all means, let us give the people what they want. I can give you a press-kit and some CDs—Lost Angels is a popular local band, and Revelations had some success in the Detroit market before they signed with us, put out a couple of CDs on an indie label, but I think we can take both of them to the top. As for Pure Blood, well, once you've seen and heard Judah Galilee, I think you'll have to agree that he's going to cross over. The boy is absolutely brilliant, and very appealing."

  "These people don't just walk up and knock on your door," Hosea said, making it a half question.

  "You'd be surprised," Gabriel said with a faint smile. "But in the case of Pure Blood—"

  One of the office staff approached Gabriel hesitantly. "Excuse me, sir, but Judah Galilee is waiting for you in your office."

  "Well, this should be interesting," Gabriel said. "Come along, young Songmaker. This is your chance to meet a modern-day Bard."

  * * *

  Gabriel's offices were at the end of a long corridor that wouldn't have been out of place at LlewellCo—expensive wooden paneling, the real thing and not veneer, and thick carpets that had never come out of an industrial-supply warehouse. Hosea had to hurry to keep up with Gabriel, and even so he kept falling a few steps behind. That, he suspected, was another bit of power-play, designed to put him in his place. Gabriel had all the moves, all right.

  There was something just the slightest bit off about all of Gabriel's reactions, but Hosea couldn't quite put his finger on it. It was as if Gabriel was playing a part, somehow, playing it well, but playing it for Hosea's benefit, and try as he might, Hosea could not imagine why that should be.

  Hosea was looking for an Unseleighe Magus, probably one working with Parker Wheatley, who had had Unseleighe allies before. Someone who had given Billy a charm that would win his court case for him. And so far, he hadn't seen any sign of one.

  While Gabriel Horn was the original bad hat, Hosea was prepared to guarantee Gabriel wasn't working with Wheatley. There was only one thing he was prepared to feel sure of about Gabriel Horn, and that was that the man resented Wheatley at the least, probably disliked him, and certainly was not at all happy about Billy Fairchild's involvement with him.

  They reached the door, and Gabriel opened it.

  His office had a breathtaking view, though mostly of empty office buildings and half-finished landscaping at the moment, and mercifully it was one of the few places in the complex from which it was not possible to see the facade of the Casino and Cathedral of Prayer. There was a long sleek black leather couch under the window, with a long sleek musician dressed mostly in black leather lounging on it.

  Judah Galilee looked as if he were barely out of his teens. His eyes were a startling shade of gold—and not from contact lenses, either, Hosea decided, looking closely. His hair, which was definitely enhanced, was bright crimson and waist length. He looked up when Hosea and Gabriel entered, but not as if he intended to move at any time in the near future.

  "Hosea is a member of the press, Judah; you may speak freely in front of him," Gabriel said.

  And that was a flat untruth, the first Gabriel had uttered in his presence. Of course, it might simply be a joke. . . .

  "I just wanted to talk about the supplies for our trailer for the concert. We don't want any red M and Ms in the candy. Red M and Ms are Satanic," Judah said, a faint whine in his voice.

  "'No Satanic Candy,'" Gabriel recited, as if making a note. "Judah, are you quite through jerking my chain?"

  "Actually, I've got a really long list of stuff," the singer replied with an impish grin, sitting up and swinging his long legs off the couch. "And then there's what Abidan wants, and what Coz wants, and what Jakan wants—" He turned to Hosea, getting to his feet. "But it can wait. Gabriel says you're a reporter. Are you here to cover the concert?"

  "Among other things," Hosea said.

  But he had clamped his mask of slight deference and interest down hard over his features. Gabriel had called Judah Galilee a bard just a few minutes ago, and at the time Hosea had thought he was making another of his oddly skewed jokes. But now that he saw Judah in the flesh, he knew Gabriel had been telling the simple truth.

  Judah was a bard. No, a Bard. A Bard as Eric was, as Hosea was learning to be.
No wonder Gabriel was so sure that Pure Blood was going to be a success, if Judah was its lead singer.

  For Hosea could feel Judah's Gift as clearly as he could sense Eric's, and it took all his will and training not to let that knowledge show on his face.

  Hosea knew—Eric had made sure he knew—that just as a Bard's Gift could be used to heal, it could also be used to destroy, but healing, creating, was the wellspring and foundation of Bardcraft. Not so for Judah Galilee. He possessed all the power of a Bard, but somehow Hosea knew that if Judah ever created anything, he did so only to destroy it. It was as if everything sane in the world had been turned to madness: if there were such things as demons walking the world in human flesh, Hosea thought in that moment he might be looking at one.

  And he knew with a sinking feeling that if he'd recognized Judah as a Bard, then Judah had recognized him as well.

  Did Gabriel know what Judah was? Hosea suspected he might.

  And that meant he was in a lot more trouble than he had time to think about right now.

  It was an enormous effort to make conversation, to ask the sort of questions a person in his position ought to ask, to pretend he'd sensed nothing simply because he didn't know how much either of them knew, and to let them know that he'd sensed anything at all might trigger the worst sort of disaster. His hotel room key was in his wallet—he'd thought nothing of it at the time, but if something happened to him here, that key would lead whoever took him down right back to Ace . . . and Jeanette.

  And that would be the worst kind of disaster.

  * * *

  Half an hour later he was out of there, feeling as if he'd escaped the lion's den only because the lion hadn't happened to be particularly hungry that day. It was nearly six o'clock. He was carrying a press-kit for the upcoming concert—actually a large shopping-bag full of tapes, CDs, and other promotional items—a press pass that would get him through the gate and backstage on Friday, and half a dozen tickets to give to his friends. Gabriel had even promised to help him get a chance to talk to Parker Wheatley sometime before the concert, and Hosea had thanked him politely, even though he didn't really expect to keep that appointment.