Nightingale's Lament

by Simon R. Green

  “I’m bored with this,” said Dead Boy. “I know a curse that will boil their brains in their heads.”

  “No!” I said quickly. “We can’t kill any of them! The divas aren’t responsible for this. They’re the victims here.”

  “Oh hell,” said Dead Boy. “It’s good deeds time again, is it?”

  The divas, all of them eerily silent, swarmed around us, trying to reach us with their weapons and clawed hands. We were safe for the moment, but we were trapped in our corner. There was nowhere left for us to go, and soon enough the divas would work together to pull the table away; and then … I swore regretfully, and reluctantly did what I do best. I concentrated and opened up my inner eye, my third eye, and used my gift to find the channel the fans were using to drive the divas. It was like suddenly seeing a shimmering latticework of silver strings, rising up from the divas’ heads and sailing off into infinity. And having seen it, it was the easiest thing in the world to locate the single thread they all connected to, the focus for the overlaying signal. It turned out to be a single diva, a Whitney, standing watching from the stage. All I had to do was point the Whitney out to Dead Boy, and he made a swift crushing motion with his fist. The Whitney crumpled unconscious to the stage, and all of the silver lines snapped off.

  The spell was broken in a moment, and the attacking divas were suddenly nothing more than disoriented men in frocks and make-up. They stopped where they were, shocked and confused, some clinging to each other for mutual support and comfort. Possession is a kind of violation, of the mind and the soul. For a moment, it actually seemed the danger was over. I should have known better.

  The trannies suddenly screamed and scattered as a dozen dark and dangerous figures appeared out of nowhere. Tall menacing figures, with smart suits and no faces. I had used my gift once too often, burned too brightly in the night, and now my enemies had found me again. They had sent the Harrowing for me. The trannies quickly cleared the floor and disappeared out the exits. It had all been too much for them. I would have run, too, if I could. The Harrowing advanced slowly towards us, unstoppable figures of death and horror. They had human shapes, but they didn’t move like people did, and the faces under their wide-brimmed hats were only stretches of blank skin. They had no eyes, but they could see. One of them raised its hand, showing me the hypodermic needles where its fingernails should have been. Thick green drops pulsed from the tips of the needles, and I shuddered. Rossignol was clutching my arm so hard it hurt. Dead Boy was frowning for the first time.

  “Would I be right in thinking events have just taken a distinct turn for the worse?”

  “Oh yes,” I said. “They’re the Harrowing. The hounds my enemies send after me. You can’t hurt or kill them because they’re not real. Just constructs. And there’s nothing you or I can do to stop them.”

  “How do you normally deal with them?” said Rossignol.

  “I run like hell. I’ve spent a lot of my life running from the Harrowing.” I raised my gift again, desperately trying to find a way out, but there wasn’t one. There was no exit close enough to reach, and the overturned table wouldn’t slow them down for a second. The dozen vicious figures moved towards us, relentless as cancer, implacable as destiny. And then a female figure came howling out of nowhere and launched itself at one of the Harrowing. The attacker had been a Kylie once, but all traces of glamour and femininity had been torn away by recent traumas. All that mattered to the Kylie now was that there was a target for his rage. He stabbed the Harrowing in the chest, and its pliant body just absorbed the blow, taking no damage and trapping both the knife and the hand inside its unnatural flesh. The Harrowing made a brief slashing gesture with one hand, and the Kylie just fell apart into a hundred pieces, blood spurting and gushing all over the floor.

  “Damn,” said Dead Boy. “That is seriously nasty. You know, I have to wonder … how many pieces could you cut me into, and I’d still be able to put myself back together again?”

  “Well, unless you fancy life as a jigsaw, stop wondering about it and bloody well do something,” I said, stridently.

  “Boys,” said Rossignol. “They really are getting terribly close. Please tell me one of you has something resembling a plan.”

  “When you get right down to it,” said Dead Boy, “I’m just a walking corpse who’s picked up a few unpleasant strategems along the way. There’s nothing in my bag of tricks that could even slow those bastards down. You have really powerful enemies, John.”

  “Okay,” I said, my mouth almost painfully dry. “That’s it. Dead Boy, grab Ross and run like hell. As long as you’re not a threat, they might not bother with you. They’re only here for me.”

  “What will they do to you?” said Rossignol.

  “If I’m lucky, they’ll kill me quickly,” I said. “But I’ve never been that lucky. The Harrowing are horror and despair. Please, get out of here.”

  “I can’t leave you,” said Dead Boy. “Good deeds, remember? Abandoning you now would set me back years.”

  “And I won’t leave you,” said Rossignol. “If only because you’re my only hope of breaking free from the Cavendishes.”

  “Please,” I said. “You don’t understand. If you stay, they’ll do … horrible things to you. I’ve seen it happen before.”

  “You’ll think of something, John,” said Rossignol. “I know you will.”

  But I didn’t. I’d never been able to face the Harrowing, only run from them. My very own pursuing demons. The first of the Harrowing grabbed one edge of our barricading table with a puffy corpse-pale hand and threw it aside as though it were nothing. Dead Boy braced himself, and I pushed Rossignol behind me, sheltering her with my body. And then all the Harrowing stopped and turned their featureless faces, as though listening to something only they could hear. They started to shake and shudder, and then one by one they fell apart into rot and slime, slumping shapelessly to the floor. One moment a dozen menacing figures were closing in on us, and the next there was nothing but thick puddles of reeking ooze, spreading slowly. Dead Boy and I looked at each other, and then we both glared round sharply at the sound of soft, mocking laughter. And there, standing on the stage at the end of the room was Billy Lathem, the Jonah, in his smart, smart suit. He looked very pleased with himself. Standing on either side of him in their undertakers’ clothes were Mr. and Mrs. Cavendish.

  “I told you, John,” said the Jonah. “I am far more powerful than you ever realised. I am entropy, the end of all things, and not even sendings like those ugly bastards can stand against me. Now, you have something that doesn’t belong to you. And I have come to repossess it.”

  “Come along, dear Rossignol,” said Mr. Cavendish. “You’ll be late for your show.”

  “You don’t want to be late for your show, do you?” said Mrs. Cavendish.

  Rossignol was still gripping my arm tightly. “I won’t go with them. Don’t let them take me, John. I can’t go back to being the half-asleep thing I was, nodding and smiling and agreeing to everything they said. I’d rather die.”

  “You don’t have to go anywhere you don’t want to,” I said, but it didn’t sound convincing, even to me. I was still stunned at how easily the Jonah had destroyed the Harrowing. He had become a Power and a Domination, like his late father, Count Entropy, and I was just a man with a gift. And a bad reputation … I raised my head and gave Billy Lathem one of my best enigmatic looks.

  “We’ve done this dance before, Billy. Back off, or I’ll use my gift…”

  “You don’t dare,” said the Jonah, grinning nastily. “Not now your enemies know where you are. What do you think they’ll send next, if you’re dumb enough to open up your mind again? Something so appalling even I might not be able to deal with it. No, your only option now is to hand over the girl and skulk off out of here, before your enemies track you down anyway.” He laughed suddenly. “You’ll never be able to bluff anyone ever again, John. Not after I tell everyone how I saw you cringing and helpless, and hiding behind a tabl
e. And all from things I turned to rot and slime with just a wave of my hand. Now, you back off, John. Or I’ll use my power to find the one piece of bad luck that will break you forever.”

  Seeing the Light, at Last

  And so, one of the messiest and most messed-up cases of my career came to this—showdown at the Divas! saloon. The only trouble was, in the Jonah the Cavendishes had by far the biggest gun. His reducing of the Harrowing to so much multi-coloured mush had been truly impressive. Never thought the boy had it in him. Perhaps staring him down and humiliating him in front of his employers hadn’t been such a great idea after all. Certainly something had put a rocket up his arse. You could practically see his power crackling on the air around him, writhing and coiling, bad luck waiting to be born and cursed on the living.

  We stood there in our two groups, at opposite ends of the ballroom, separated by a sea of overturned tables and chairs, and the suppurating remains of the Harrowing. Mr. and Mrs. Cavendish in their shabby undertakers’ outfits, and the Jonah in his smart, smart suit, standing by the entrance doors. And me, Dead Boy, and Rossignol, standing by our abandoned barricade. The good guys and the bad guys, face to face for the inevitable confrontation.

  I was looking unobtrusively around for an exit. I’ve never been much of a one for this kind of confrontation if there’s an exit handy.

  “Kill them,” said Mr. Cavendish, in his cold, clipped voice.

  “Kill them all,” said Mrs. Cavendish, in her sharp clear voice.

  “No,” said the Jonah, and both the Cavendishes looked at him, surprised. He smiled, unmoved. “I want to see them suffer first.”

  The Cavendishes looked at each other. Both of them started to say something, then stopped. They considered the Jonah thoughtfully. Something had just changed in their relationship with their hired gun, and they weren’t sure what.

  “Come up onstage, all of you,” said Billy Lathem, the Jonah, son of Count Entropy. “I want you to know exactly how badly you’ve failed, John. I want to explain it all to you, so you can see you never really stood a chance.”

  “Why should I do anything you say, Billy?” I said, genuinely interested in what his answer would be.

  “Because I’ll tell you the truth about what we did to poor dear Rossignol,” said the Jonah.

  Just like that he had me where he wanted me, and we both knew it. So I shrugged casually and headed for the stage, with all my hackles stirring. Something bad was coming, I could feel it, and it was aimed right at me. Dead Boy and Rossignol came with me. The Jonah said a few low words to the Cavendishes, and they followed him up onto the opposite side of the stage. We all stopped a cautious distance apart, then we all looked at the Jonah, to see how he wanted to play this. He was smiling a happy cruel smile, a predator about to play with his prey, for a while.

  “We allowed Rossignol to escape from Caliban’s Cavern,” the Jonah said easily, “in order that we could follow her, to you. We were waiting for someone to make contact with her, and it wasn’t really any surprise when the go-between turned out to be the besotted and predictable and stupidly loyal Ian Auger. The Cavendishes wanted me to trail Rossignol, then … take care of things, but I persuaded them to come along. I wanted them to see me take you down, John, to watch and appreciate as I destroy you, inch by inch. They don’t get out much these days. Well, you can tell that from their awful pallor, can’t you? I’ve seen things crawl out from under rocks sporting better tans. And they really don’t like to be out and about in public, but I wanted them to be here, so here they are. Isn’t it marvelous how things can work out, if you just put your mind to it?”

  “So the servant becomes the master,” I observed to the Cavendishes. “Or the monster turns on his creator, if you prefer. Not for the first time, of course. You do remember Sylvia Sin, don’t you?”

  “Charming girl,” said Mr. Cavendish. “Always said she’d go far, didn’t I, Mrs. Cavendish?”

  “Indeed you did, Mr. Cavendish.” The woman looked at me thoughtfully. “Have you seen the dear girl recently?”

  “Yes,” I said. “She was a monster. So I put her out of the misery you put her into.”

  “Oh good,” said the woman. “We do so detest loose ends. And as for the Jonah—why, he is our dear friend and ally, and we are very proud of him. We predict great things for him, in the future.”

  “Couldn’t have put it better,” said the man. “A person to be watched, and studied.”

  “What happened to Ian?” Rossignol said suddenly. “What did you do to him?”

  “Ah yes,” said the Jonah. “Never cared much for the shifty little runt. Let’s just say that the trio … has now become a duet.” He sniggered loudly at his own wit, while Rossignol turned her head away. The Jonah looked at the Cavendishes. “Tell them. Tell them everything. I want them to know it all, to know how badly they’ve failed, before I do terrible things to them. You can start by telling them who you really are.”

  “Why not?” said the man. “It’s not as if they will be around to tell anyone else.”

  “You tell it, Mr. Cavendish,” said the woman. “You have always had a way with words.”

  “But you have always been the better storyteller, Mrs. Cavendish, and I won’t have you putting yourself down.”

  “And I thank you kindly for saying that, my dear, but…”

  “Get on with it!” said the Jonah.

  “We are older than we look,” said the man. “We have assumed many names and identities, down the years, but we are perhaps still best known for our original nom de guerre, in the nineteenth century—the Murder Masques.”

  “Yes,” said the woman, smiling for the first time as she took in our expressions. “That was us. Uncontested crime lords of old London, the greatest villains of the Victorian Age. No sin was ever practiced there, but we took our commission. We laughed at police and politicians. We even brought down the great Julien Advent himself.”

  “Or rather, you did,” said the man. “Credit where credit is due, my very dear.”

  “But I couldn’t have done it without you, dearest. Now, where was I? Ah yes. We became involved with corruption in business, along with everyone else, and discovered to our surprise that there was far more money to be made in business than in crime, if business was approached with the right attitude. So we put aside our famous masques, cut off our old contacts, and made new names for ourselves in Trade. We prospered, mostly at the expense of our more timid competitors, and soon enough we became a Corporation. And as corporations are immortal, so we became immortal. Such things happen, in the Nightside. As our business thrives, so do we. As long as it exists, so shall we. Money is power, power is magic. And, of course, when the well-being of Cavendish Properties is threatened, so are we.”

  “So we take all such threats very seriously,” said the man. “And we take all necessary steps to defend ourselves.”

  “You’re just vultures,” said Dead Boy. “Profiting from the weaknesses of others, feeding on the carcasses of those you bring down.”

  “The very best kind of business,” said Mrs. Cavendish. “Born of the Age of Capitalism, we now embody it.”

  “That’s why you call yourself Mr. and Mrs. all the time,” I said, just to feel I was contributing something. “Because you’ve had so many identities, you have to keep reminding yourselves who you are these days.”

  “True,” said Mr. Cavendish. “But irrelevant.”

  “Julien Advent will track you down,” I said. “He’s never forgotten you.”

  The Cavendishes shared a warm smile. “And we have never forgotten him,” said the woman. “Because there’s one part of the story, that oft-told legend, which dear Julien has never got around to telling. The great love of his life, the one who betrayed him to the Murder Masques and their waiting Timeslip, was me. I shall never forget the look of shock and horror on his face when I took off my Masque. I thought I’d never be able to stop laughing.”

  “He cried,” said the man. “Indeed he did.
Real tears. But then Julien always was a sentimental sort.”

  “He really had no-one but himself to blame,” said the woman. “I was working as a dancer in the chorus line when he met me. Just another pretty face with an average voice and a good pair of legs, but he took a fancy to me. Gentlemen often did, in those days. He introduced me to a better life, to all sorts of expensive tastes and appetites. Some of which he proved unwilling to provide. He thought he was saving me. He should have asked me whether I wanted to be saved.

  “Since he wouldn’t give me what I wanted, I went looking for someone who would, and at one of Julien’s soirées, I made the acquaintance of the generous gentleman at my side. The Murder Masque himself. He showed me a whole new world of monies and pleasures, and I took to it as to the manner born. And so I took up a Masque, too, and I found far more thrills as a lord of crime than I ever did in poor Julien’s arms. In the end, when I pushed him into the Timeslip to be rid of him, I didn’t feel anything at all.”

  “Tell them,” the Jonah said impatiently. “Tell John what we did to Rossignol. I want to see his face, once he realises there’s nothing he can do to save her.”

  “Our Rossignol grew just a little too independent as she became more popular,” said Mr. Cavendish. He sounded stiff and even bored, as though he was only saying this to satisfy the Jonah’s wishes. “She started taking meetings on her own, without consulting us first. Executives at the record companies professed to be concerned by the terms of our deal, though Rossignol had been glad enough to sign it at the time, when no-one else would touch her. Those executives assured Rossignol she could do much better with them. They promised their lawyers would easily break the contract, if she would only transfer her allegiance to them. So she came to us and demanded a better deal, or she would leave.”