"If you ever have to defend yourself from a Spectre or a Renegade terrorist, you'll discover that one shot is quite a bit better than none."
Provided she could hit her attacker on the first try, Belinda thought, which, given her lack of experience, wasn't all that likely. Still, she supposed that for her, any sort of firearm was a better bet that a knife or tomahawk. She could, in a vague, cringing sort of way, picture herself pointing a gun at someone and pulling the trigger. She couldn't imagine ramming a blade into anybody. She was certain that she'd only freeze if she tried.
"Nobody else is going to buy this," she said. "Not when you and all the other gun vendors have modern pistols for sale. I'll give you one obolus."
"One!" he cried. "You must be crazy. Go away and stop wasting an honest man's time. I couldn't possibly let the gun go for less than eighteen."
They argued for a quarter of an hour, during which overseers armed with snapping bullwhips and buzzing electric cattle prods drove a coffle of Heretic prisoners toward the slave market on the other side of the square, and an itinerant Sandman entertainer wandered by, filling the air with illusory swirls of fragrant, multicolored vapor. In the end, Belinda couldn't convince the weapon seller to go below eight oboli.
She pulled off her love beads and leather headband. "Will you take these to make up the difference?"
The merchant snorted. "My customers are Legionnaires and soldiers-of-fortune. Professional killers, if you want to look at it that way. I can't sell them peace-and- love hippie fashion accessories, and besides, I don't do barter anymore. This is a cash business."
"Please," Belinda said. "My little girl's been kidnapped." In a few jumbled sentences, she babbled out the story of Starshine's disappearance. "So you see, I need the gun to get her back."
"That's tragic," the horned man said blandly. "But if I sold below cost every time a customer told me a sob story, I'd be broke in no time." He looked her up and down. For a second, the tip of his tongue slipped out of the comer of his mouth. "However, since it's an emergency, maybe I could make an exception to the no-barter policy. But, sweetheart, I really don't have any use for your jewelry."
"Then what do you want?"
The merchant leered. "You know. Do it well, and you can even keep your money." The arrowhead tip purple and throbbing, a drop of clear fluid glistening on the very end, his tail undulated into the air like a cobra rising from a snake charmer's basket. "Come around behind the counter."
Belinda felt revulsion and anger, but most of all, despair. No one cared that Starshine was missing. Everyone she asked for help—Rudy, Valentine, Governor Gayoso, and now this man—either turned her away or tried to exploit her desperation. For the first time in thirty years, the Underworld seemed the hell that many wraiths considered it to be.
And she supposed it was ridiculous to be squeamish in hell. You had to expect your share of degradation. Her eyes aching as if they could still shed tears, she started around the side of the booth.
Something touched her on the hip. Startled, she yelped, jumped, and looked down.
Frowning, Valentine peered back up at her. The dwarf had exchanged his motley for gray slacks, a white shirt, a navy blazer, and a provincial soldier's emerald sash with its black hourglass emblem. "What are you doing?" he asked.
The weapon merchant leaned over the counter, presumably so he could see who she was talking to. "She was about to pay for a purchase," the horned man said.
"Uh huh," said Valentine. "I'll pay for what she wants. With cash."
Belinda glared at him. "And then you'll want me to pay you back with what I was going to give him. Well, maybe I'd rather give it to him than you. He never promised to help me and then stabbed me in the back."
Valentine winced. "Just calm down, all right? You don't have to give me anything." He turned back to the vendor. "How much?"
The merchant grimaced. Evidently he would rather have had the sex. "Eight oboli." Valentine dug the coins form his pocket, and the other man handed the flintlock to him.
"Bullets?" said the dwarf.
The vendor smiled slyly. "Not included in the price."
Valentine touchcd his sash. "I'm a quartermaster up at the Citadel. I could steer plenty of business your way, if I thought you gave your customers a fair shake."
"All right," said the horned man. "You're killing me, but as a gesture of good will." He reached under the counter and brought out half a dozen lead balls. "Will these be enough?"
"Lantern and scythe, let's hope so," Valentine said wryly. He accepted the bullets, then offered them and the gun to Belinda.
She hesitated, then accepted them, sticking the flintlock through her belt and the bullets in her pocket. "Now I guess you think I ought to be grateful. Well, I'm not."
The dwarf s mouth twisted. "I've been hunting all over Under-the-Hill for you. Could we just take a walk and talk for a while? Please?"
"Well.. .I guess." They set off walking toward the block where slaves were displayed for auction. The current offering was a triumph of the flesh sculptor's art, a wraith with an anguished human face but the perfectly rendered body of a beautiful black stallion. The bidding was spirited.
"Were you really going to have sex with that creep?" Valentine asked. "Right here in the market, just for an old pistol?"
Belinda felt a pang of shame. "For a second, it felt like I didn't have a choice, or like it didn't matter." Her face twisted, and she choked back a sob. "What am I supposed to do? I know Starshine is probably dead. I know I'm probably never going to find the man who took her, not all by myself. I doubt I could destroy him if I did, even with this stupid gun. But I feel like if I give up the search, I'll go insane."
Valentine nodded. "I know how you feel."
"The hell you do," Belinda snapped. "You quit your search like a shot when the Governor offered you a little incentive."
"I guess I did," said the dwarf somberly. "Look, my life was short and nasty. My mother died giving birth to me—you wouldn't think such a little baby could rip her up so badly inside, would you? My dad was an addict who liked to beat the crap out of me, and had the good sense to spend what little money we had on drugs instead of extravagances like groceries and rent. From the time I was five, we lived on the street, and when I was eight, he just disappeared one night. I don't know if he got sick of looking after his freak son and ran away, or what. Anyway, after that, things got even worse for me. With him gone, there was nobody to protect me from all the other thugs and crazies who wanted to steal what little I managed to scrounge, rape me, or just kick me around for fun. And I was way too little and weak to protect myself. Somehow I survived till I was twenty-five, and then, one rainy January night, I caught pneumonia. I hadn't eaten for a while, so I couldn't drag my ass to the hospital, and none of the other bums could be bothered to take me. I died four days later."
Belinda remembered the gun seller's indifference to her own tale of woe. "Tragic," she said sardonically.
"I don't expect you to feel sorry for me," Valentine said as they skirted the crowd shouting bids on the man-horse. "I know you've got problems of your own. I just want you to understand. When I entered the Underworld, everything seemed so bleak that I thought I was in for an even more awful version of the life I'd lived in the Skinlands. I didn't think I could face it. I felt Oblivion eating me away from the inside, and even though it terrified me, I also wished it would hurry up and finish me off.
" Then I ran into Gayoso, He was out inspecting a portion of the Necropolis, playing high-and-mighty lord of the manor, and I caught his eye. He thought it would be fun to have a dwarf jester, like an honest-to-God king from the Middle Ages, and offered me the job."
"And you took it."
"Yeah," Valentine said. They reached the edge of the market and headed up a narrow, shadowy street. Somewhere far ahead, blades clanged together. "Are you kidding? I jumped at it. For the first time, I had a place in the world where I could be safe and comfortable. Even though my job was basic
ally pretty humiliating, and when he was in a bad mood, Gayoso liked to make it more so, I would have done anything to keep it. And I guess that's more Or less how things turned out. Montrose the Stygian gave me his friendship. He was one of the few who ever did. But when the Governor ordered me to help bring him down, I didn't think twice."
"Then you must have been reall)> thrilled when your lord and master offered you a better job."
The little man nodded. "Sure. It meant security and respect. I'd dreamed of that, but never dared to think it could actually happen. But the catch is, now that I've got it, I'm still not happy. I hate it that I helped to ruin Montrose, I don't want to be a bad friend to you and Daphne, too. Besides, something isn't right."
"What do you mean?"
"Why would Gayoso turn so nice to me all of a sudden?" Valentine replied. "I've been with him for decades, and he never showed any signs of it before. In fact, lately he's been meaner than ever."
"I suppose he could have warmed to you because you did help him destroy Montrose, but that's not what you think, is it? You suspect he tried to make you forget about Daphne because he doesn't want anyone finding out the truth."
"I don't exactly think that," Valentine said, "because I can't imagine what he could possibly have to hide. He's not the mur—the kidnapper. I'd bet money on that. After all these years in his service, I know about his personal life, and he doesn't have any kind of sick interest in children. And even if he did, as the most powerful official in the province, he could arrange to satisfy it safely. He Wouldn't have to endanger himself by running around Under-the-Hill in disguise, grabbing kids off the street."
Belinda sighed. "Then what is going on?"
"Beats me. Everything in the whole province has been strange lately; Fate knows how it all fits together. But I am going to help you keep looking. If I'm lucky, Gayoso won't find out about it. If he does, well"—the little man swallowed—"I'll just have to deal with it. The trouble is, we still need help. I don't know how to go about finding the man in the blue mask any more than you do."
The two ghosts stepped off the curb, swinging around a furtive Quick teenage: boy in a black denim jacket, who was spray-painting the words generation last on a crumbling brick wall. The sharp scent of the pigment mingled with the smell of sweat and marijuana which wafted from his body. When the message was complete, the kid opened a switchblade, jabbed the palm of his hand, and flicked drops of blood onto the letters. Tiny, hissing Nihils popped open in the brick, like mouths opening to drink.
"I don't think you give yourself enough credit," said Belinda. "You were resourceful enough to handle Rudy."
The dwarf grimaced. "Trust me, that was only because he was a moron."
"I don't know about that. But at any rate, I agree that we could use more than the token help Gayoso offered. Can you get in to see the other two Governors?"
"No. I mean, I probably could, but I don't think they'd listen to me. They're too cautious and suspicious. They know I'm Gayoso's flunky, and I wouldn't be surprised if they've even guessed I helped him get rid of Montrose. They'd think I was trying to set them up for something, so he could overthrow them, too. Besides, word could easily get back to him, and if we can avoid that, let's."
"Then who do we turn to?" she asked.
"Mike Fink. He doesn't have much use for me, but he doesn't like Gayoso, either. And Montrose clued him in to his suspicions that there are too many mysteries in Natchez, too many weird things going on behind the scenes. If we tell him there's a pervert preying on wraith children, and Gayoso doesn't seem to give a damn, I think he might get curious enough to hunt the man in the blue mask down. And what he hunts, he catches. Just ask all those Heretics chained up in the slave market."
"Then let's go talk to. him." She stepped in front of Valentine and dropped to her knees, "And thank you for coming to find me. I have some hope now. Hope that at least we can find out what happened to Starshine, and punish the man who took her."
She put her arms around him. The little man stiffened, then relaxed into her embrace.
TWENTY
Montrose looked Louise up and down. Her black, begemmed layers of robe only hinted at the curves of the slender figure beneath, just as her golden mask concealed all of her features except her bright eyes, generous mouth, and chin. He made a minute adjustment to her scalloped stand-up collar.
"Now I know why Stygian civilization is so demented," she murmured, a hint of tension underlying the humor in her tone. "Your formal wear would drive anybody crazy."
He forced a smile. "It's not so bad once you get used to it."
"They used to say that about the rack and the boot, too. Are we ready?"
"As we're likely to be, I suppose." He gave her his arm, and, their.garments whispering, they climbed the final flight of stairs and stepped out onto the flat roof of the lofty spire known as the Pinnacle of Lamentations.
The view was spectacular. From this vantage point, one could see almost the entire Onyx Tower complex, and the more plebeian precincts of the City of Dark Echoes falling away below, tier after tier of immense stone structures lit by the light of countless barrow-flame torches and lanterns. Scarlet and ochre sheet lightning flickered in the thunderheads which domed the island like a bell jar.
But Montrose was scarcely conscious of the panorama. He was too intent on the surviving Deathlords, each standing motionless on his appointed pedestal near Charon's empty throne, like grotesque chessmen. The Smiling Lord's steel visor lay atop what had been his dais. The eye holes seemed to glare at the Scot in accusation.
Montrose bowed low, and Louise followed suit. "Sister," quavered the Ashen Lady in the voice of a frail old woman, tones which utterly belied the power at her command. Montrose felt it nonetheless; it radiated from her like heat from a furnace. "Lord Montrose.''
The lovers straightened up. The Council stared at them, and Montrose bore the weight of their regard as best he could. A frigid breeze began to blow, first from one quarter and then another, a herald of the impending storm. He found he was grateful for the way the wind plucked at the Deathlords' garments, lending them at least the illusion of animation.
Finally, so suddenly that Montrose jumped, the Emerald Lord hurled his crimson dice, which tumbled along and eventually came to rest on a vertical plane in midair. The Cavalier just had time to observe that he'd thrown a five. Then the Prince of Flappenstance held out his hand, and the cubes shot back into it.
"Louise, Princes of Bohemia, Sister of Athena," intoned the Emerald Lord, the lightning glinting on his crown of thorns and wheel-of-fortune amulet, "you stand accused of defying the sentence of execution which an Anacreon of the Legions lawfully imposed on you,, of slaying numerous loyal Hierarchs during and following your escape, and of assassinating the Smiling Lord himself."
"To keep him from slaughtering the rest of you," said the Heretic nun. "That ought to count for something."
"James Graham," said the Skeletal Lord. The silver rat on his shoulder twitched its wire whiskers as if its master had just switched it on. "Marquess of Montrose. Onetime Anacreon of the Order of the Unlidded Eye. You stand accused of defying the sentence of execution imposed on you by your liege, of killing numerous loyal Hierarchs during and following your escape, of helping an avowed Heretic to trespass in the capital of the Empire, and of assassinating your own master."
Montrose wondered if he should unmask, as court etiquette had mandated in his previous hearing. He decided that if the Seven—or was it the Six now?—hadn't demanded that he comport himself like an accused traitor, there was little point in doing it spontaneously. "Like my companion, I trust you'll agree that there were extenuating circumstances."
The Princess of Madness emitted an earsplitting screech of laughter. Her harlequin marionette, its crazy-quilt garments as garish as those of its controller, doubled over as if convulsed by its own mirth. "Tell your tale," the Laughing Lady said. "Tell your tale, and we will judge."
Montrose laid the whole tangled
skein out in as orderly a manner as he could. Louise chimed in occasionally to describe something she'd experienced alone, such as her first encounter with one of the scaly, double-faced Spectres. The Deathlords listened without interruption, motionless as graven images once more.
"And then, when I thought the Final Death was going to claim me at last," the Scot concluded, "the Emerald Lord and the Skeletal Lord arrived and healed me. For which, once again, I thank you."
"Obviously, we did kill people escaping the Artificers' pit," said Louise, "and again as we made our way through the city and into the Onyx Tower. I'm truly sorry for that. But you see how it was. There was no other way to reach the six of you in time to derail Demetrius's plan."
By your own testimony," said the Beggar Lord, leaning on his crutch, his saffron tatters fluttering in the unquiet air, "when you set out to escape the Artificers' pit, you were unaware that the Imperium was in dire danger. That realization only came afterward. Therefore, clearly, when you struck down the smiths, you had no nobler objective than saving your own skins. Despite any subsequent benefit to the realm, that fact defines your behavior as illegal."
"And all must honor the law," said the Ashen Lady. The Quiet Lord, garbed in his murky red robe and mouthless silver mask, his empty sack of marvels and horrors dangling limply from his hand, nodded ever so slightly.
"And so you're going to punish us?" demanded Louise. "Then the so-called justice of Stygia is even more cruel and corrupt than any Renegade ever imagined."
"Have a care how you speak to us," said the Emerald Lord.
"Dread Lords and Ladies," said Montrose, "you are Charon's chosen, possessed of powers and insights I can scarcely imagine. Generally speaking, I would never presume to suggest that I could know your unspoken thoughts. But in this instance, I believe I do. All this talk of legalities and selfish motives is merely a blind. Now that you've had a chance to mull it over, what's truly vexing you is that you needed the help of two lowly fugitives such as ourselves to save your own illustrious hides. And that we were able to defeat a member of your own elite, madman and traitor though he was."
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