Titus turned toward the far wall and salaamed. Marilyn inclined her head. Surmising that Marie must have entered the room, Bellamy offered his own show of respect. He was surprised that the Queen had come to the Arcanists rather than summoning them to the throne room, but perhaps, haughty though she was, she'd wanted to spare Marilyn any unnecessary moving about.
"Hm," said Titus- "This is rather awkward, isn't it?" He opened a leather pouch at his waist, extracted a pinch of dust, tossed it into the air, and whispered a magick word. The bits of powder flashed and barked like a string of firecrackers going off.
The forms of Antoine, Marie, and two of her zebra-caped bodyguards wavered into view, intermittently transparent but visible nonetheless- Titus had made it possible for the living to see and presumably hear things on the cold side of the Shroud. The occultists gasped and gaped. Some of them flinched.
"Bow like I did," Bellamy told them. "That's the Queen."
The Arcanists scrambled to obey. "Be at ease," said Marie. "You fancy yourself hunters of ghosts. Over the centuries, your kind has sought to enslave, torment, and murder mine, all in the name of scholarship, as if you had some intrinsic right to our secrets. But we're allies now, and as long as that condition holds, you are welcome here."
"Provided you behave yourselves," Antoine rasped.
"Wow," whispered Astarte to Bellamy, "that would sure make me feel right at home."
Evidently she'd forgotten the inhumanly sharp hearing of wraiths. Marie gave her a frosty smile. "I don't mean to frighten anyone, child. I appreciate the aid that you, Mr. Bellamy, and Marilyn have given me. I simply think it's important that we all understand one another."
"I imagine we do," said Marilyn, shifting on her seat. Bellamy wondered if her wounds were paining her. "Shall we discuss the notebook now?"
"By all means," said Marie, settling onto a dilapidated leather armchair. She sat straight and tall, just as she did on her ivory throne. Her bodyguards took up positions behind her.
"The person who: wrote the journal," said Marilyn, her voice falling into a dry, pedantic tone, "used several different languages or ciphers, God knows why. Perhaps he considered particular scripts appropriate for particular subjects."
Titus nodded as if he considered this a good guess.
"That being the case," Marilyn continued, "we haven't been able to translate everything;. But we believe we have figured out the gist of several passages. Some of them use characters derived from the ancient languages of Northern Europe—Norse runes, Pictish pictagrams, and that sort of thing—and the rest are based on a lexicon of symbols once; employed by quasi-Gnostic cults throughout the Mediterranean and the Middle East. Luckily, Ms. Crosby is an authority on the former, and I've dabbled in the latter. Joan, would you care to report on our findings?"
The pregnant woman pushed her wire-rimmed glasses back up her nose. "I can," she said, though judging from her rather nervous expression, she would just as soon have left the lecturing to ghosts to Marilyn. "Does everyone know who the Aztecs were?"
"I have a vague idea," said Marie dryly, Astarte nudged Bellamy in the ribs, "We saw clay figures: that looked Aztec in the werewolf house," she whispered, Bellamy nOdded. The black pyramid on Chester's computer screen had reminded him of the Aztecs as. well. But in the press of subsequent events, he'd nearly forgotten about it, not that he was sure he'd have ascribed any special significance to the Mesoamerican stuff in any case. He'd seen too many weird symbols and artifacts, derived from td.o many disparate cultures, in the course of this investigation. Werewolf hieroglyphs and pentagrams. Voudoun dolls. Marie's murmuring, hypnotic drums and towering African idols. Marilyn's Hermetic rituals. And now the Arcanists were: blithely throwing Vikings, Picts, and quasi-Gnostics—-whatever they were—into the mix. It was enough to make his head swim.
"Well," Joan said, "it seems that when white people sailed to the New World, their ghosts made the crossing with them. The spirits were fleeing from a king, or an arch-devil who was persecuting them for their beliefs,:'''
"Of course," said Marie. "They wefe Hetetics escaping the yoke of Charon of Stygia and hisseven ministers, who forbade them to worship any gods but themselves. Everyone knows that."
"Everyone dead may know it," said Marilyn. "It was news, to us. Go on, Joan."
"The, uh, Heretics wanted to found their own kingdom," the pregnant Woman continued. "So they set.oiat to conquer the Aztec ghosts, just as the Spaniards were out to conquer the live.ones. In the final battle, the European spirits somehow opened a big hole into nothingness—"
"The Void," Titus murmured.
"—right under the Aztecs' feet. They were supposed to fall to,a death beyond death. An ultimate annihilation."
Antoine cocked his wedge-shaped head. '"Supposed to?' They did. Everybody knows that much, even people who are bored stupid by history, like me. Once you take a header into the Big Zero, nothing can save you."
"According to the notebook," Marilyn said, "you're wrong. Most of the Aztecs perished, but as they plunged screaming down the Abyss, one of their gods caught a few of them in his hand. Our historian identifies the deity as: Loki, the Norse god of mischief. Obviously we can't take that literally. The designation may be an artifact of the language he's Using. I suspect he really means Tezcatlipoca, or Smoking Mirror. The Aztec god of the sun and music and the very personification of treachery."
"If they encountered this god at the edge df the Void," said Marie, frowning, "then whatever they thought he was, he must really have been one of the pharaohs of the Sinkinda."
"Perhaps," said the mage. "In any case, he offered them a bargain. He'd save them from Oblivion and help them take revenge on their conquerors, but there was a price to pay. They'd have to bind themselves to him more closely than ever before, forsaking all their other gods, and be utterly transformed in the process."
"In other words," said Bellamy, "become Spectres." Death tugged at him, trying to draw him back into the Shadowlands, and he exerted his will to resist.
"Apparently so," Marilyn replied. "As you will have guessed, they took the deal, and now they've risen from the netherworld to crush their enemies."
Antoine crawled closer to Marilyn. The end of his translucent tail dragged through Alan Fong's sneaker-clad foot. The scholar goggled at the phenomenon, and, when the reptile had passed, surreptitiously fingered the affected extremity.
"I don't get this," Antoine said. "For one thing, the Dark Kingdom of Obsidian got itself trashed maybe three hundred years ago—"
"Almost five hundred, actually," Marilyn said.
"Whatever," Antoine growled. "My point is, why didn't the Aztec Sinkinda come back until now?"
"The Ocean is the realm of primordial chaos," Titus said. "It can play tricks with time as well as space. It's also possible that the Sinkinda needed five centuries to lay their plans and gather strength. But actually, my guess is that they were waiting until the Hierarchy was vulnerable. Charon is gone now, his satraps are squabbling with one another, and their grasp on their Shadowlands holdings has grown relatively weak."
"There's something else that doesn't make sense," the gator said. "The Aztecs wanted revenge on the Heretics, not the Stygians. But they missed their chance, because the Heretic nation didn't last. The Legions crossed the Atlantic and took it over."
"As near as I can make out," Marilyn said, "the Aztecs aren't discriminating between one group of white spirits and another. Why should they? Being Sinkinda, they pretty much hate all of existence anyway. At any rate, they blame every ghost of European descent. They want to obliterate them from the Americas and reclaim the hemisphere for themselves, though I imagine that, given their transformation, their new—what did you call it?—Dark Kingdom of Obsidian would be a far nastier place than their old one. Eventually they hope to destroy every Caucasian ghost in existence anywhere, and then, if they ever complete that special vendetta, I suppose they'll throw themselves into the general Sinkinda jihad against all Creation."
"At least they think big," said Bellamy wryly. "What we still haven't heard is what the Atheist murders and all the possessed cops and kindergarten teachers going on killing sprees are supposed to accomplish. Does the notebook shed any light on that?"
"A bit," Marilyn replied. A red dot swelled on the white gauze masking her cheek. "They've been terrorizing and corrupting live and dead souls both. Destroying their faith in God, their governments, and everything else. The idea is to pollute the psychic atmosphere in preparation for a great work of magick which will somehow help them conquer a piece of North America. A beachhead from which to attack the rest of it. Their werewolf friends will set up shop there, too. The spiritual climate of depravity will enhance their power."
"Do you know where this ritual is supposed to happen?" Bellamy asked.
"No," Marilyn said.
"Well," the FBI agent said, frowning, "if I were going to conquer a piece of Stygian territory, I suppose I'd devote special attention to knocking out the most important Hierarchy enclave in it. Where's that?"
"Natchez," said Titus. His body took on a shadowy look and his voice grew a hair fainter as he allowed himself to slip back across the Shroud. "The capital of the province immediately to the north."
"Which is also right in the center of the Atheists' kill zone," Bellamy said. "Until we learn differently, let's tentatively assume that the enemy will make their move there. The next question is, when?"
"The notebook isn't clear about that, either," Marilyn said. "But I suspect, soon."
"So do I," said Titus. "If their purpose was to foul the psychic landscape, well, I can't imagine that they could get it much dirtier than it is already. Upriver, mortals are barricading themselves in their homes, rioting, and lynching their neighbors, while the Restless duel and murder one another on the slightest provocations. We can feel a difference even here, at the periphery of the effect. If I'm not mistaken, another Maelstrom will rise before the night is through."
"It sounds to me," said Bellamy, "as if we'd better get ourselves to Natchez quick."
"Which 'we' is that?" asked Marie. "Are you referring to all the occupants of this room, together with the warriors you led against Geffard?"
"I suppose I was," said Bellamy. "After all, this is everybody's problem. The Aztecs may have a special hatred for white people, but I doubt they're all that keen on letting you Africans hold onto your little piece of America, either. And even if they would, do you want a nest of Spectres on your border?"
"No," said Marie. "But I would be rash indeed to leave the city now. I've just regained my strength and put down a revolt. I must be seen to rule, or others may question my fitness and rise against me."
Bellamy could see from her expression that he wouldn't be able to talk her out of it. "I understand, Your Majesty."
"Nor may you take my army. I may need it to control the remaining Creoles, or even to defend the city against Sinkinda if your mission fails."
"You wouldn't want 'em anyway," Antoine said. "New Orleans has fought the Hierarchy a bunch of times. The Stygians kept trying to steal little pieces of our turf, or even gobble up the whole city. And to be honest, we've raided their Haunts and their shipping a time or two. Since they have Soulforges and we don't, it was always a big temptation to slip across the border and score some loot. So the two sides aren't exactly best buddies. We aren't at war right now, but if you march a New Orleans army up the river, they'll take it as an invasion, and do their damnedest to wipe it out."
"I understand," said Bellamy again. He turned back to the Queen. "Your Majesty, I'm picking up that you no longer consider the conspiracy your most pressing concern. I think that's shortsighted, but even if it's not, I thought we had an understanding. If I helped you, you'd help me."
Marie's amber eyes smoldered. "Do not presume to tell me what I pledged to do. Nor to imply that the Queen of New Orleans would renege on a, debt: of honor. I never intended that you should go to the Stygians alone. Titus, old friend, will you accompany him?"
"Gladly," the shaman said. He shot Bellamy a smile. "I've traveled there as an ambassador before, The three Governors—Gayoso, Shellabarger, and Mrs. Duquesne—know me, even if I'm not their favorite person. We'll call on them, explain the situation, and enlist the services of their army. They should be Only too happy to help us, considering that it's their heads on the chopping block."
"Thank you," Bellamy said.
Antoine's jaws opened a fraction, as if he meant to speak, then closed.
"I'll give you Geffard's.steamboat for the journey," said Marie. "As my envoys, you ought to travel in state."
"I wish I could ride on it," Marilyn said wistfully. "But I guess I'll have; to travel by some more pedestrian conveyance."
Astarte peered at her. "Are you sure you're up to it?"
Marilyn smiled. "Remember my lifestyle, darling. One of the nice things about SM is that it teaches you how to handle pain. Look, I admit, I only have the vaguest notion of how my magick works. I don't know why I could suddenly see and hear wraiths when I woke up from my coma, unless that was a gift the Ferryman gave me. I don't understand the instinct that led me to Her Majesty's sickbed, or exactly how I managed to heal her. But the fact remains, my powers have come in handy, and they may again. And even if they don't, the Spectres have helpers in the mortal dimension. So should Frank and Titus."
Astarte grimaced. "Okay. At least your wheelchair is electric. I won't have to push the fucking thing."
Antoine's tail twitched back and forth. "I guess I'll tag along, too."
Bellamy smiled, "I was hoping you would."
The gator bobbed his head in his approximation of a shrug. "I guess the five of us are alike, Warmblood. None of us is the kind to quit on his pals in the middle of a fight."
"That's true," Titus said, a hint of worry in his voice. "But are you sure you shouldn't stay and help organize the defenses of the city? Someone needs to attend to that as well."
"Somebody else can handle it," Antoine rasped. "You guys are liable to need me worse, so you've got me." He shuffled around toward the Queen. "If Your Highness will let me go."
Marie hesitated, then inclined her head.
Alan Fong cleared his throat. "I don't know how much more we Arcanists have to contribute. I mean, we're not commandos Or wizards—"
"I think you've done your part," said Marilyn gently. "Stay in New Orleans for the time being. You should be safe here now. We'll send for you if we need you."
"It would appear that we've laid our plans," said Marie, "but before you all commit yourselves irrevocably to this venture, there's something you should know."
Bellamy felt a pang of pure annoyance. How much stranger and more complicated were things going to get? "What's that?" he asked.
"You saw Geffard's god. You watched it abandon the Haitian to his fate."
"Yeah," said Antoine. "It was too weak or too chicken to go up against the Orisha."
"No," said Marie. "I wish that were the case, but I sensed that it wasn't. The spirit was cunning and powerful. It simply saw no advantage in fighting another god merely to defend a pawn who had outlived his usefulness."
"Was it Smoking Mirror?" Astarte asked.
"Geffard probably didn't realize it," said the Queen. "He would have taken it for one of Les Mysteres. But I suspect so, and if I'm right, you're likely to encounter it again. Without my god and me there to help you."
"Great," Bellamy said sourly. "Anybody want to back out?" No one spoke up. "Me neither. Because I'm no expert on the Aztecs, but even I know that they sacrificed victims by the hundreds, to make the sun shine and the crops grow. And it's a safe bet that Aztec Spectres are even more bloodthirsty. Poor old Milo Waxman was right. The doomshades are planning a massacre, something that will make everything we've seen so far look trivial."
Belinda Talley inspected the gleaming assortment of weapons on the racks and counters of the stall before her. Stilettos, bow
ie knives, and sabers. Spiky-headed maces. A miscellany of firearms, flintlock and pepperpot pistols lying next to pump shotguns, automatic rifles, and even a rocket launcher. It all gave her a queasy feeling in the pit of her stomach.
She thought of Starshine and thrust her distaste aside. She pointed to a stubby little revolver, one that looked as if it would fit her hand. "How much is that?" she asked.
The merchant grinned at her. He was a plump, apple-cheeked little man with an upturned nose. Some Masquer had accentuated the natural impishness of his appearance by giving him pointed ears, a pair of small, blunt horns, and a long prehensile tail with a fleshy arrowhead on the end. "Ah, the Model 12! Excellent choice. Someone carried it over when he died, so it's a real Smith and Wesson, not a copy. But notice that I've fitted it out with soulfire crystals. You won't have to feed it juice to make it fire."
"How much?" Belinda repeated.
"For you, because it's a lovely evening and I like your smile, thirty oboli."
She stared at him. "You're kidding."
The merchant's grin slipped ever so slightly. "Natchez is a prosperous town these days. Like any successful businessman, I charge what the traffic will bear." He waved his hand at the wraiths—swaggering Legionnaires and mercenaries, most of them, bristling with weapons and decked out in green sashes—drifting among the stalls of the open-air market with beggars, pimps, and whores following at their heels. "I guarantee you, most of these people would jump at the price I quoted."
Belinda understood that she was expected to haggle, but if he was starting at thirty, she'd never argue him down to a price she could afford. She only had six oboli left in her change purse. She pointed to a flintlock pistol, the curve of its brown wooden stock reflecting the greenish light of the harrow-flame torches. "How much is that one?"
"I could let it go for, oh, nineteen oboli."
"For something that old?"
"A classic, in perfect condition."
"Maybe, but it only shoots one time, doesn't it?"
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