Dark Kingdoms

by Richard Lee Byers

The Quiet Lord pressed his index finger to his invisible mouth. It looked as if he were commanding silence, but Potter knew better. The gesture helped the other Deathlord focus his power.

  Potter hesitated. Was the Quiet Lord threatening him, here, in open council? Surely not, though it seemed nearly as unlikely that he could be making a joke. Puzzled, but not too alarmed, he began to edge around him.

  For once eschewing her affected tremulous shuffle, the Ashen Lady moved to bar his path, her gnarled cane raised like a sword. Shadows slithered up and down the prop like serpents. Her gray robes hung loosely on her stooped, shrunken frame, and wisps of fine white hair escaped from the edges of her mask, the wrinkled, sagging, carved-W'Qod countenance of an ancient crone, with one corner broken off to reveal the smooth, firm jaw beneath. Her flesh emitted the stale smell of senility.

  Potter stared at her, trying to read her intent from her pale gray eyes. He couldn't. Cloth flapped, and, startled, he pivoted in the direction of the sound. The other four Deathlords had descended from their low daises as well, and were moving to surround him, "What's the meaning of this ?" Potter demanded. He tried to use his haughtiest tone, but his voice quavered.

  "You have transgressed," said the Emerald Lord, turning his crimson dice over and over in his white-gloved hand. Somewhere above the tower, purple lightning flared, glinting on his jade crown of thorns, his verdigris-encrusted, brazen mask— an expressionless, androgynous face with its eyes closed—and the emerald-studded wheel-of-fortune amulet hanging on his breast. "You must be judged."

  "What do you mean?" Potter said. "What are you accusing me of?"

  The Ashen Lady tapped her mask with her withered, liver-spotted forefinger.

  For a second, Potter had no idea what she was trying to convey. Then he realized he could feel a cool breeze caressing his face, and that there were no steel rings sharply defining the edges of his vision. Somehow he'd come to council without his visor!

  He pressed his hands to his features, concealing them. Peering out between his fingers, he said, "Forgive me! It was an accident!"

  "Perish," said the Emerald Lord. "Go to the Final Death."

  The six Deathlords brandished their symbols of office, blasting Potter with bolts of arcane power. His halberd and armor shattered. Convulsed with agony, his substance shriveling, he reeled off the edge of the tower and plummeted toward the spires and rooftops below.

  And then he emitted a strangled cry and jolted half out of his chair.

  He was sitting alone in his scrying chamber with a clay figurine, a nude woman with fleshy thighs, stubby arms, and two smiling faces adorning her head, resting on the ornately carved teak stand before him. The statuette was an artifact, a magical object which, destroyed in the Skinlands, had begun a second existence in the Underworld. When Potter opened himself to its power, it granted him visions, often containing useful intelligence about the enemies of the state.

  This time, however, it had made him an actor in the vision, subjecting him to an experience much like a mortal nightmare. Even now, grasping what had happened, he was still shaking. He grabbed his mask, the leering steel countenance of a savage, warrior, pressed it to his face, and invoked its persona.

  As always, Charon's magic took effect at once. A new parade o( images flashed through Potter's head. He was Cain, striking down Abel. He was a Roman retiarius thrusting his trident into another gladiator's belly on the hot sands of the Flavian Amphitheater. An airman dropping fire bombs on Dresden. A highwayman on a moonlit road, shooting a coachman who'd rashly made a grab for his own flintlock pistol. A teenage mother, her blood aflame with crack, pounding and pounding on her baby until the tiny creature finally stopped crying.

  He was War and he was Murder, the rightful lord of every soul who perished at the hands of another. Ecstatic, his nose and mouth tingling with the coppery scent of gore, he rose, took up his halberd, and began to perform a kata, turning and striking with impeccable grace and lethal precision.

  With the final thrust and bellowed kiai, his exhilaration waned a bit. He remembered Howard Potter, the human spirit sheathed inside the ferocious archangel he'd just become. And despite the ecstasy that always overwhelmed him when he reaffirmed his mastery of his powers, he still wasn't altogether happy.

  Is this what it takes for me to feel secure? he wondered. Have I become so neurotic that I can never unmask, even when I'm alone?

  No. Surely not. He'd simply become upset because the vision had been inherently disturbing. Instead of wasting time on morbid introspection, he should try to figure out what the mystical dream had signified.

  Unfortunately, as he recognized immediately, that train of thought led to speculations that were equally disturbing.

  He realized that he no longer wished to be alone. He wanted the company of one of the handful of trusted retainers he'd occasionally permitted to glimpse the human being hidden behind his godlike facade. Montrose—

  He grimaced, remembering that the Cavalier wasn't available. He'd sent him off to slaughter Heretics. Demetrius, then. He took hold of the golden bellpull and rang for a thrall.

  The cramped office reeked of cigarette smoke. An overflowing ashtray sat on the desk, and a yellowish film clung to the windows. As Nolliver took a seat, he wished again that he could have handled the current situation on the phone. He never enjoyed meeting Dunn face to face, and when he had potentially troublesome news to report, he liked it even less.

  Unfortunately, he'd become leery of conferring with the SAD agent in any other fashion. Dunn claimed that no one had tapped their phones, but it was quite possible that he simply didn't know. Of course, it was also possible that someone had bugged the office; but somehow, that seemed less likely, and in any case, Nolliver knew the other man would dismiss any suggestion that they needed to talk outside the building.

  "You look like crap," Dunn said. "Have a drink if you need one."

  Startled, the psychiatrist blinked. "Excuse me?"

  "Have a drink," Dunn repeated. "I can see you aren't just stashing booze in your desk anymore. You have a flask in your coat."

  "How do you know that?" Nolliver asked. God, if Dunn had noticed, then who else-—

  The shaggy-headed agent grinned. "Don't panic, Doc. I'm amazingly observant, even for a Fed. Nobody else would be able to tell. But I hope you aren't getting careless. You don't want to get caught, do you?"

  "No, of course not," Nolliver said, feeling both defensive and vaguely ashamed. He removed the silver flask from his pocket, unscrewed the cap, and took a swallow. The whiskey kindled a warm glow in the pit of his stomach.

  "Feel better?" asked Dunn. Nolliver nodded. "Then tell me what's up."

  "Bellamy phoned this morning and asked Hanson for the rest of the week off. Hanson okayed it without consulting me. What concerns me is that Frank never told mc he wanted to take a break. In fact, he seemed grimly determined to hang on here, do his job, and convince everybody that he's still competent. Of course, people do impulsively change their minds. For that matter, they catch the flu. This is probably nothing. But you said I should tell you if there was even the slightest indication that he might be inclined to make any kind of waves."

  "As his kindly physician," Dunn asked, "did you call him to see if he's home in bed with the crud?"

  "Yes," Nolliver said. "He didn't answer. But that doesn't necessarily mean anything, either."

  Dunn stood up. "Let's pay a visit to his office."

  "You mean, to search it?"

  "No," said Dunn, "I thought we'd redecorate it. Of course, to search it."

  "Do you think that's wise? What are the odds that he left something significant lying around in there? And what if someone notices us snooping?"

  "I hen we'll just have to kill them," answered Dunn. He looked into Nolliver's face, then grimaced, rolling his eyes. "It's a joke, Doc. My god, will you lighten up? You said yourself, probably nothing's wrong. But on the other hand, I at least have to go through the motions of keeping tabs on Bell
amy. If anybody asks what we're doing, we'll make up a story, that's all. Now pop a Certs and let's get to it."

  Nolliver could see there was no way to talk him out of it. By the time they reached the corridor outside Bellamy's office, his underarms were clammy with sweat. But no one paid them the least attention. Dunn turned the brass doorknob. It rotated slightly, then stopped.

  "Locked," Nolliver whispered.

  "No, it isn't," Dunn replied. He twisted it again, and this time the door swung open. Bewildered, Nolliver scrambled inside, and the SAD agent stepped in after him.

  Dunn surveyed the room, a drab space decorated with a few mementos of Bellamy's career in law enforcement, but only one, a baseball covered with signatures, that reflected any extracurricular interests. "How come everybody has a bigger office than mine?" asked Dunn. "I know, our pal Bellamy has a great arrest and conviction record, but Earl Maxwell has a bigger office than mine, and he couldn't catch a cold."

  Nolliver took a tentative step toward the beige metal file cabinet in the corner. "I could look in here."

  "just stand back," said Dunn. "Tossing a room is my area. If I find something you ought to look at, I'll let you know."

  The SAD agent sat down behind the desk with its Rolodex, phone, PC, ceramic coffee mug, and imposing stack of manila folders. He picked up one of the files from the considerably smaller pile in the Out basket, held it near his face, and inhaled deeply. "Bellamy hated processing these," he said. "It bored and depressed him."

  "How do you know that?" Nolliver asked.

  "Call it instinct," said Dunn. Swiveling the chair, he picked up the phone, placed it to his ear, and set it back in the cradle. "He hasn't been burning up the wires with any exciting conversations lately, either. We should give him the number of a good 900 line." He turned again, to face the computer. Suddenly he frowned and bent forward over the gray plastic keyboard, his nostrils dilating, reminding Nolliver of a hound taking a scent.

  "Is something the matter?" Nolliver asked.

  "He was excited when he was working here," Dunn replied, straightening up. He switched on the computer, which came to life with a crackle and a tinny fanfare. "Let's see if we can find out why."

  "You might need a password," the psychiatrist said.

  "I told you, I'm good at getting into things."

  Dunn spent the next few minutes reviewing the contents of Bellamy's hard drive. Finally he turned in the swivel chair. "There's nothing here. Maybe he's got it on a printout or a floppy." He rummaged through the desk drawers, then rose and did the same thing with the file cabinet. "No luck."

  "If he did have some kind of significant information, maybe he took it home with him."

  "You could be right," said Dunn, sitting back down at the desk. "On the other hand, this thing has a modem. Bellamy didn't store any funky numbers in his directory, but it's still possible that he was getting into mischief on-line." The agent picked up the phone, punched 9 for an outside line, and dialed a long distance number.

  For a moment Nolliver could just hear the ringing on the other end of the line. Then Dunn said, "Pyramid." He paused. "No, it's Madonna, calling to ask if you like my new CD. Sure it's me. Is Chester there? I need a house call at 504/621-1127." The unfamiliar number puzzled the psychiatrist for a moment, and then he realized that it must be the computer's phone line. "Now would be better. There's an outside chance my problem is important. And I have company, so tell Chester to cool it with the fireworks. Right. Thanks, buddy." The agent hung up.

  "Who were you talking to?" Nolliver asked.

  "SAD," Dunn answered. "Who else? You and I need a hacker, and fortunately, the Department has one of the best."

  Lines of text ran across Bellamy's monitor. Dunn typed a response. A few seconds later, multiple columns of words and numbers appeared.

  "These are the sites Bellamy logged on to over the past week, and the dates and times," said Dunn, scanning them. "Shit."

  Nolliver tensed. "What's the matter?"

  "Most of these are bulletin boards for people who are into the paranormal." He gave Dunn a sour stare. "Am I confused here, Doc? Weren't you supposed to do everything in your shrinkly power to discourage Bellamy from taking any further interest in stuff like this?"

  "I did my best! I swear it!"

  Dunn sighed. "Yeah, I'm sure you did, and the odds are, he still doesn't pose any real problem, so calm down." He resumed typing. The keys clicked. "His last visit was to a board called Grailnet, late yesterday afternoon. I'm asking Chester to dig out what he did while he was there."

  "He can do that?"

  "Probably. When it comes to cyber-crap, he can do almost anything. But it may take him a couple minutes." Dunn leaned back in his chair and stretched, then slumped down so comfortably that he looked as if he might doze off. Reluctant to make the SAD agent think him any weaker or more ineffectual than he did already, Nolliver fought the impulse to take yet another drink.

  At last new lines of text paraded across the screen. After skimming them, Dunn said, "Jumping Jesus on a pogo stick."

  "What's wrong?" Nolliver asked.

  "Bellamy is going to New Orleans to compare notes with somebody else who's interested in Waxman's death."

  "Who?"

  "Somebody who called himself Vulture. That's all we know. You don't have to give your real name to anybody to use Grailnet, and lots of people don't. Your patient just went by Frank. Very creative, right?"

  "Whoever Vulture is," said Nolliver, "we don't know that he actually has anything to tell Bellamy. It seems more likely that he's just a crackpot."

  "I know that," said Dunn. He removed his tobacco and papers from the inner pocket of his jacket and began to roll a cigarette. "But unfortunately, we can't count on it, just like we obviously can't trust Bellamy to keep his nose out of SAD business. Damn. I really thought that, working together, you and I could get the poor bastard out of trouble. Now I have to get tough."

  Nolliver swallowed. "What are you saying?"

  "That Bellamy and his new friend will have to drop out of sight for a while." He struck a match with his thumbnail and lit his cigarette. "Don't you worry about it. Disappearances are my area, too."

  "You're going to kill them, aren't you?"

  Bellamy's eyes widened with every appearance of shock. "No, of course not!"

  "I don't believe you!" Nolliver said, appalled at his own sudden burst of audacity. "And I'm not going to be a party to it. Covering up the truth is one thing. Murder is different. You can't expect me to go along with it when I don't even really know what any of this is all about!"

  "I know you have a problem with the idea of being implicated in anybody else's death," said Dunn, staring him in the eye. "I understand why it's hard to trust me. But even if you've decided you don't care about losing your job, your profession, or going to prison, I guarantee you, you still can't afford to give me any crap."

  Nolliver felt his momentary defiance crumbling. "Why not?" he stammered.

  Dunn smiled. "Because if you do, you might find yourself looking at the same sight that stopped Waxman's ticker."

  Ensconced on a sunlit bench, a paper cup of cafe au lait warming his hand and a half-devoured oyster po-boy resting in his lap, Bellamy twisted this way and that, peering about. He supposed he'd looked like a rubber-necking tourist, drinking in the sights of Jackson Square. The bronze equestrian statue of Andrew Jackson. The Greek Revival portico of St. Louis Cathedral. The sidewalk artists' paintings and sketches, hanging on the wrought-iron fence. And the jugglers, magicians, white- faced mimes, and musicians who'd appeared to entertain the lunch crowd. A banjo player a few feet away was filling the air with a plangent bluegrass tune.

  Actually, of course, Bellamy was trying to spot Vulture, most likely an exercise in futility, considering that he had no idea what the other man looked like. But he couldn't help making the attempt.

  He was well aware that Vulture might not show. The guy might have been pulling his leg. Even if he did keep
the rendezvous, there was every chance that he'd turn out to be a faker or a crank.

  But so what? Bellamy thought, suddenly feeling, at least for a moment, relaxed and free from care. Even if Vulture himself proved to be a waste of time, a trip to New Orleans sure beat reviewing inactive files in Baton Rouge. When he was younger, he'd spent a lot of weekends and holidays in this wonderful place, but gradually he'd gotten so busy that such excursions no longer seemed practical.

  He crunched down another succulent bite of his sandwich. La Madeleine's takeout was as good as he remembered. Then he felt eyes peering at him.

  He turned his head, to see the same motley array of pedestrians who'd been drifting past all along. No one seemed to have been staring at him unless, perhaps, it had been a pale, long-legged girl dressed in ragged jeans and a leather jacket. She was eighteen or nineteen at the oldest, and might have looked pretty had it not been for her punkish, magenta-striped haircut, the steel rings in her right eyebrow, left nostril, and lower lip, her black lipstick, and her sullen sneer. If she had been looking him over, she seemed to have lost interest. She was turning away in the banjo player's direction.

  Behind her, a plump, flushed little man in a sweat-stained powder-blue sports coat, a narrow-brimmed straw hat tilted far back on his head, and a wide, bright red tie came bustling through the crowd. He grinned and mouthed the name "Frank." Bellamy nodded. The chubby man hurried over and plopped down on the bench. Up close, he smelled rather pungently of Old Spice.

  "Obviously, I'm Vulture," he said, wiping his hand on his slacks and then extending it. "I'm delighted you could make it."

  Bellamy shook hands with him. "Nice to meet you. Do I have to keep calling you Vulture in real life?"

  Vulture smiled. "Ah, that is the question, isn't it? One we merely postponed confronting when we'd decided to meet face to face. Dare we trust one another? Does either of us have enough information to offer to make it worth the other one's while?"

  "I guess one of us has to take the plunge first," Bellamy said, "and just hope the other will reciprocate." Inwardly, he resolved that if he spilled his guts and then Vulture tried to walk away without doing the same, he'd lean on him hard. "My full name is Frank Bellamy. I'm an FBI agent."