Squirming through the throng, Valentine finally came to the black expanse of the river. About forty wraiths had assembled on the bank to repair an assortment of keelhoats, skiffs, powerboats, and catamarans. Presumably the: vessels had been damaged by the recent Maelstrom.
Beside the improvised boatyard stood the tavern known as the Green Head, a tumble-down shack with an emerald skull-and-crossbones sloppily painted on the wall. Next to it a narrow lane lit by crimson barrow-fire lamps ran into darkness, Valentine took a breath, steadying himself, then headed down the street of brothels, peering at the figures posing in doorways and windows. A voluptuous quadruple amputee propped up on a mound of satin cushions. Telltale wisps of light playing about her stumps revealed that her limbs had begun to reform. By morning she'd probably be whole again. A John Wayne look-alike wearing only a white Stetson, a neckerchief, and a leather vest. A black woman with a second face between her legs, winking and lasciviously licking its lips. No Daphne. By now most of the denizens of the area knew the jester was searching for her, and by and large, they found his desperation funny. They called out taunts as he passed by.
Eventually he reached the rotting brick tenement where Daphne had been accustomed to ply her trade. Inside, voices moaned and begged for release, and bodies smacked and slurped together. Tonight Cassias the bouncer, a hairy, hulking bear of a man dressed in steel-toed work boots and bib overalls, sat on the porch in a rocking chair with his ax handle lying across his knees. Spying the dwarf, he grimaced. "No," he said,, "she hasn't come back."
Valentine shook his head. "It just doesn't make any sense. She wouldn't just go away without a word to anyone."
"Oh, hell, no," Gassius drawled, "not if it meant running out on a stud like you."
"I'm just saying, one of her friends must know something, even if she doesn't realize it. If I could just talk to everyone again—"
"You got some more cash, to pay the girls for their time?"
"Not yet,"
"Then get lost."
"Daphne worked in this house for years and now she could be in trouble. Don't you people care?"
"No. And we're all sick of fou whining and sniffing around. It's bad for business. So get."
Valentine groped for the magic words that would win the bouncer over. He couldn't think of any.
"Don't make me come down there," the big man said, lazily brandishing his club. "I'll play hockey with your teensy little midget ass."
Valentine remembered how Montrose had effortlessly disarmed a sentry at the Citadel gate, and battered Fink, whose ferocity was a legend along the river, into submission. Real men, people who weren't stunted little freaks, could do things like that,, They didn't have to back down when somebody threatened them. He turned and shuffled on down the street. A woman watching from a third-story window brayed a raucous laugh.
There were a few more strolling prostitutes and crumbling whorehouses between Daphne's former Haunt and the corner, but Valentine didn't have the heart to look for her anymore. He just wanted to lose himself in the tangle of alleys beyond the intersection, a desolate little cyst in the body of the city, seldom visited by either the living or the dead.
Away from the mocking eyes of the whores and their customers, he tried to feel less worthless and humiliated, but in vain. Unlike many wraiths, he was rarely conscious of his Shadow laboring to hurt and corrupt him. Often he'd thought he was lucky, but now he almost wished his dark self would rise and consume him. So what if he became a Spectre? He'd rather be strong and evil than weak and ashamed. And if he didn't turn into a doomshade, if he simply fell into Oblivion, well, that would be all right too. At least the misery would be over.
But the psychic parasite didn't rise to the bait of his despair. Maybe, he thought glumly, it was a dwarf Shadow, impotent and useless as his host.
Ahead of him, around a bend, two sets of footsteps scuffed on the filthy asphalt. He still didn'r want anyone else looking at him, so he hastily stepped behind a splintery telephone pole.
A pair of wraiths strode into view. The one in the lead was a petite, sharp-featured young woman clad in bellbottoms, an embroidered peasant blouse, and love beads. She peered avidly this way and that, looking for something, prompting Valentine to shrink back half an inch farther. Her companion, a hunched, scrawny teenager, slouched along a pace behind her. He wore what was likely a facsimile of the conservative navy-blue suit and white shirt his family had buried him in, though he'd discarded the tie and opened his collar.
"Are you sure this is the right place?" the woman asked nervously. "It seems so deserted."
The teenager took his own look around. "That's why we're here," he said, and slammed her fist into her back.
Valentine flinched. The woman tumbled to the pavement. The boy kicked her three times, then pulled a length of rope from inside his coat.
She tried to scramble away from him, but only managed to writhe in place. For the moment, pain had immobilized her. "No," she whimpered, "please. You said you'd help me if I paid."
"I can't help you," said the boy, giving her another kick. "But you're going to help me. You're going to put some real money in my pocket. There are slavers who'll buy you, no questions asked." He straddled her, punched her twice, then grabbed her wrists and tried to force them together.
Dear God, Valentine thought, please, not more violence. Don't make me watch again. As before, he yearned to come to the victim's aid. And her attacker was just a single skinny kid, an aspiring tough guy who evidently didn't even possess a weapon or the guts to join Fink's band of cutthroats, where most of the genuine hard cases in Natchez were currently making their fortunes.
Yet Valentine's every instinct screamed that while the punk might pose little threat to an ordinary man, he was more than capable of disposing of a dwarf. He didn't even dare try to creep away in search of help, for fear that the teenager would hear him move. All he could do was cower in the shadows, flinching and averting his eyes every time the boy struck his victim, then helplessly peering out once more.
The boy tied the woman's arms together. Bucking and twisting suddenly, she caught two of his fingers between her teeth. Squealing, the teenager wrenched himself free and backhanded her across the jaw. She slumped back onto the asphalt, stunned.
"Bitch," the teenager snarled, rubbing the bite marks in his flesh. "You're going to be sorry for that." He tore her blouse open. The little white buttons clinked on the pavement. Valentine felt a sudden surge of nausea, and, unable to control himself, made a tiny retching sound.
The punk's head snapped around. "Who's there?" he asked, his voice breaking. He rose and stalked toward the telephone pole.
The dwarf knew it would be futile to run. With his stunted legs, he could never outdistance the other ghost. His bowels watery, he stepped out into the moonlight. The boy's eyes widened in surprise, and then he sneered.
"Shit," he said, "it's a fucking chimp."
"Maybe," said Valentine, striving to keep his voice steady, "but it's Governor Gayoso's chimp. I don't imagine an ignorant lowlife like you gets up to the Citadel very often, but even you must have heard that one of the Anacreon's aides is a dwarf."
"'Aides?' The way I heard it, you're his clown."
Valentine wished he'd worn conventional clothing instead of motley, wondered fleetingly why he never did, even on his own time. "You should learn not to judge by appearances," he said, smiling contemptuously. "In a world full of flesh sculptors and shape-shifters, it'll get you killed. I may tell jokes for the Anacreons and their guests on special occasions, but generally I'm responsible for other duties." It was true as far as it went, though the chores in question were those of a lowly gofer.
The teenager hesitated, then said, "Whatever. You're in the wrong place at the wrong time." Crouching, hands poised to grab, he edged nearer.
Valentine fought the urge to recoil. "One of the nice things about being a Legionnaire," he said, "is that we have genuine Stygian mystics to teach us the Arcanos. Do you h
onestly think a man of my importance would be wandering Under- the-Hill unescorted if I couldn't defend myself? Trust me, I could rip you to shreds or toss you into the Tempest with a wave of my hand. But I'm feeling merciful tonight, so I'm going to offer you a choice."
The punk's gray eyes narrowed. "What kind of a choice?"
"You can march your pimply ass up to the Citadel and enlist in the service of one of the Governors. It's possible that the Legions can make a man out of you, though I admit it doesn't seem likely. If that option doesn't appeal to you, you can submit to arrest, go to trial, and probably be reduced to Thralldom yourself. Or you can resist, in which case I'll destroy you. Decide now. I'm tired of fooling with you."
The boy gnawed his lower lip. "I'd be just like any other soldier? They wouldn't treat me different because of why I came in?"
Dear God, thought Valentine incredulously, the brainless son of a bitch is actually buying it. "You have my word on it. The lady mentioned that she'd paid you?"
The teenager hesitated again, then fished a black change purse out of his hip pocket. When he held it out, Valentine had to resist another impulse to cringe away. "It's just a few oboli," the boy said sullenly, as if that would justify his keeping it.
"Which aren't yours," said Valentine, taking the money. Its touch stung his fingers, even through cloth. "Now get moving."
The boy frowned. "How do you know I won't just run away ?"
"Try if you like," Valentine replied, "but I don't advise it. The Hierarchy has a million eyes and a very long reach."
The punk sighed. "Maybe the army won't be so bad. At least they'll give me a gun and some different clothes, right?" He turned and headed in the direction of the Citadel.
Valentine watched him for a moment, making sure he wasn't going to spin around and charge him, then hurried to the woman and knelt beside her. White scrapes and bruises covered most of her face, but she wasn't fading away, nor were there ripples of shadow moving under her skin. He judged that she ought to recover fairly quickly, and as he untied her hands, her eyelids fluttered open.
Instantly she began to thrash, and took a clumsy swipe at him. He caught her arm. "Easy!" he said. "The kid's gone. I'm a friend."
She stopped struggling. "I...I'm sorry."
"It's okay. Just lie still. Give yourself a minute to finish healing."
A shiny patch on her forehead faded, and her swollen lower lip shrank. "Who are you?" she asked.
"Valentine. Governor Gayoso's jes—uh, man."
"What happened to Rudy?"
"Was that the punk?" She nodded. "I convinced him to leave you alone. Bluffed him into thinking I was some kind of Hierarch grandee with hot-shit magical powers. I can't believe he was stupid enough to believe it." He repressed a giddy urge to giggle"Thank you. Thank you from the bottom of my heart."
He remembered that, given a choice, he would have stood idly by while Rudy raped her and sold her into bondage, and his momentary elation died in a spasm of shame. "It was no big deal," he said gruffly. "I just talked to him."
"You saved me," the woman said, touching his hand. "Only now—" Her half- healed face twisted, and she sobbed.
"Hey," said Valentine, awkwardly patting her shoulder, "hey, everything's okay now. He's gone."
"You don't understand. Rudy said he could help me find my little girl. I was really counting on him."
A chill flowed up Valentine's spine. "Your little girl," he repeated.
"Yeah. She disappeared last week."
"Was she a prostitute?" Valentine asked.
The woman stared at him incredulously. "What? She's a child. I mean, we died in 1967, but she still has a child's mind. What kind of a question is that?"
"I'm sorry," Valentine said. "I wasn't trying to be nasty, but I had a reason for asking. Look, why don't you tell me exactly what happened, and then I'll tell you why I was running around Under-the-Hill tonight."
"Okay." Frowning, the woman sat up and wrapped her arms around her knees. "It won't take long. I'm Belinda, Belinda Talley, and my daughter's name is Starshine. We've been drifting around the Underworld since we died in a plane crash, trying to get along and looking for Transcendence too, I guess."
"So you're Heretics." Given the current campaign of persecution, he felt oddly touched that she trusted him enough to tell him.
Belinda shrugged. "Maybe. We just listened to the different gurus and meditated once in a while. Took the right kind of psychedelics when we could find them. We never joined a cult or wanted to overthrow the government or did anything that would get us in trouble. Starshine and I never had any hassles with anybody until..." Her fists- clenched, and her face twisted.
Valentine gingerly squeezed her shoulder. "It's okay. Take a deep breath and then tell me the rest of it."
She gave him a jerky nod. "All right. We came to Natchez about six months ago. I got a job at the Nightlight Theater. I can do a little bit of the Sandman Arcanos, not enough to be a Sandman, but enough to work as a helper to a real illusionist. Anyway, while I was doing that, Starshine would play in the street outside."
"In Under-the-Hill," said Valentine, his voice flat with amazement at her lack of caution.
Belinda glared at him. "I know this place has a bad reputation, but we've always :stayed in what was supposed to be the bad part of every Necropolis, and it was always okay. I always thought that if your karma's clean, you'll do all right no matter where you are. Besides, Starshine knew not to go far, and the people on the block knew us. I thought they'd watch her!"
"I'm sorry," Valentine said. "Whatever's happened, I didn't mean to say that you're to blame."
Belinda slumped and shook her head. "No, you're right, I am. I never should have let her Out of my sight. Because one night she was just gone."
"Didn't anyone see anything?"
"No. Not really. Jules the gunsmith said he saw a guy in a long leather coat and a blue mask with silver trim hanging around earlier, but bunches of wraiths go up and down that block all the—why are you looking at me like that?"
"Daphne spent some time with a man dressed that same way on the night she disappeared. I saw him myself."
"Who's Daphne?"
A bit reluctantly, Valentine told her his story. He was afraid that the revelation that his lover had had the mind of an adult but the body of a child would revolt her. But if it did, she hid it well. Perhaps she was too worried about her own kid to worry about a stranger's sexual quirks.
When he finished, Belinda asked, "Have you tried to find this man?"
"Some," Valentine replied, "but I didn't look too hard. I concentrated on hunting for Daphne herself. You have to understand, I didn't have any special reason to suspect him of anything. As far as I was able to find out, she, uh, entertained him in her room in the whorehouse like she usually did, and no one could hurt her there. She had protection. What's more, a couple people told me they were pretty sure they saw her hours later, just before dawn, outside the Green Head." He grimaced. "I wonder if they really did, Or if they just thought it was funny to get the freak all worked up."
"If this man kidnapped Starshine," Belinda said, "then I've got to find him. And I don't know how. I've never had to do anything like this before. Will you help me?"
Doubtful that he could actually help anyone do anything important, Valentine hesitated, but then, unexpectedly, a surge of impatience flushed his misgivings away. He'd saved her from Rudy, hadn't he? That showed he wasn't completely useless. Maybe he could locate the man in the blue mask too, and in any case he owed it to Daphne to try.
"Yes," he said. "We'll find the son of a bitch."
SIX
A feathery sensation tickled Montrose's ears and neck. Startled, he brushed at it and discovered that his auburn curls had abruptly regrown to their normal length. He was reasonably certain it didn't matter. Every corridor in the palace seemed jammed with wraiths rushing from one point to another, but at this point they were all too distraught to take notice of a fugitive, even on
e with distinctive red hair. He drank in their panic, unpleasant though the sensation was, using it to replenish his own depleted strength.
Clinging to Louise's hand, he shoved his way into an atrium with a fountain of gushing liquid flame at its center. Ringed with elevated promenades, the walls rose four stories to a vaulted ceiling, at the apex of which was a blue and red stained-glass skylight. Flares of lightning made it glow.
On the third-tier walkway stood a gesticulating grandee in a silver visor and begemmed robes. He was haranguing the milling, yammering crowd below. Because of the din, Montrose couldn't hear a word the nobleman was saying, but he assumed the fellow was urging everyone to remain calm.
The earth bucked, and the Smiling Lord's castle lurched with it. The skylight shattered, showering the chamber with glittering blades. The grandee staggered forward and tumbled over the railing before him. The fountain crumbled, and waves of icy, fluid fire swept outward across the arcane symbols inlaid in the marble floor. Wraiths screamed and flailed as their garments ignited.
Montrose wrapped his arm around Louise's waist and levitated, his empty hand upraised to ward off falling glass. On his way up, he noticed the crimson and yellow uniform of a warrior of the Order of the Avenging Flame lying empty on one of the elevated walkways. Perhaps, terrified, convinced the end of Stygia was at hand, the soldier had lost the will to endure and vanished into the Void, leaving, as sometimes happened, his possessions behind.
Possessions which luckily included two Walther P38s and a smallsword with a gold and ebony hilt. Montrose detoured to the gallery, grabbed the elite bodyguard's weapons belt, then flew upward once more, through the broken skylight and out into the open air.
The howling wind ripped at his clothing and hair, and he tightened his grasp on Louise. Thunder roared, and jagged bolts of multicolored lightning split the sky. Towers swayed, and soldiers scurried about the baileys and battlements of the immense fortress like frenzied ants.
Still ascending, Montrose soon gained a view of the entire Isle of Sorrows. The colossal sea-wall, built of steel, iron, and the twisted, frozen forms of countless Thralls, shuddered, while the earthquake whipped the Sea of Souls to froth. Sailors labored to keep the heaving ships of the Imperial fleet from dashing themselves to pieces at their moorings.
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