Dark Kingdoms

by Richard Lee Byers

  Valentine stood a few yards back, plinking away at the boat-troll with a Clock 17. Montrose could tell that the dwarf was a novice at shooting, but his target was so big that some of the bullets struck it anyway. Belinda hovered at his side, her face a mask of anxiety.

  Montrose charged the giant and helped Louise attack its legs. Its fists—tangled, fingerless masses—swooshed past him like wrecking balls. After a few seconds, the creature stumbled, swayed drunkenly, and disintegrated. The two wraiths scrambled frantically backward to avoid the resulting clattering avalanche of timbers.

  "Are you all right?" asked the Scot.

  Louise nodded. "It never even touched me."

  "Good." He turned to Valentine. "Why didn't you draw that pistol before, when I rushed you w-ith blade in hand?"

  Valentine blinked. "It never crossed my mind. I wanted to team up with you, not hurt you." He hesitated. "I feel like I don't have any right to say this, considering what I did to you, but, man, was I glad to see you. It was like the answer to a prayer."

  To his surprise, Montrose felt the weight of his animosity melt away. "Why don't we forget about what you did to me?"

  The dwarf cocked his head. "Are you serious?" he asked warily.

  "Yes. I did write the wretched journal, or at least my Shadow did, which on one level amounts to the same thing. And the plans it contained were treasonous. Perhaps you were justified in turning it over to Gayoso. In any case, if you hadn't arranged my recall to Stygia, my existence would have been much the poorer." He gave Louise a smile, which she returned.

  "I'm glad something good came from it," Said Valentine somberly, "but I still feel shitty."

  "Well, if you have a need to atone, rest assured, an introduction to your African friends will do nicely." They hiked on toward the river.

  The Restless of Natchez had long ago appropriated a dilapidated set of docks, discouraging all attempts by the living to refurbish the facilities for their own use. The rotting docks looked too rickety to provide secure mooring for any Skinlands craft, but in relation to the phantom vessels of the Underworld, they were solid as bedrock.

  The Maelstrom wrenched broadhorns, keelboats, skiffs, pirogues, and launches this way and that, bashing and grinding them against the docks. One barge had broken the lines securing it and was drifting away downstream. At the far end of the area floated a magnificent black sidewheeler covered with bizarre carvings, including an immense skull face suspended between the twin smokestacks.

  "I don't recall ever seeing the paddle boat," Montrose said.

  "Me either," Valentine said. "And Gayoso told me the guys from New Orleans 'steamed' into town."

  The four wraiths broke into a run. Out in the glittering black water, something huge momentarily reared above the surface, then submerged once more.

  As he neared the sidewheeler, Montrose felt a pang of disappointment. There were no lamps burning, nor anyone in view. Still, his companions at his heels, he trotted up the dock and over the gangplank, and boarded her. "Hello!" he shouted. "Is anyone here?"

  No one replied.

  The Scot threw open the door to the central cabin, an opulent salon with some sort of elaborate altar at one end of it. He called again, with the same lack of response.

  "Damn it!" Valentine said. "This was a fucking wild goose chase! I'm sorry! God, I screw everything up!"

  "Don't be silly," Montrose replied. "I can feel that the boat is a Haunt in its own right. It was quite reasonable to infer that Queen Marie's people might ride out the storm here. Perhaps they're ensconced in the Citadel instead. In any event, it seems we're on our own after all."

  The wraiths hurried back out into the punishing wind. "Look!" exclaimed Louise, pointing to the south.

  Montrose pivoted. Downriver, barely visible through the billowing murk, was a marina that did belong to the Quick. A number of black wraiths in short, zebra- striped capes were milling around in the vicinity of a cabin cruiser. On board the vessel glowed the auras of two or three of the Quick.

  "That's them!" Valentine said. "It has to be. But what the hell are they doing down there?"

  "Let's find out," Louise said.

  As they approached, the African ghosts readied their weapons. Montrose sheathed his rapier and continued forward, displaying his empty hands. "We're friends," he said. "We're trying to defeat the Spectres, also."

  A lean, somewhat haggard-looking young man with close-cropped hair stepped between two of the caped warriors. Somewhat to Montrose's surprise, he was white. "Do you know where they are," he asked, "and what they're doing?"

  "Yes," Montrose said, "we believe we do."

  The other wraith's eyes widened as if the Cavalier's answer had surprised him. Whirling, he shouted, "Titus, Antoine, come quick!"

  Two more ghosts hurried up, one, an old fellow whose wizened face was painted crimson on one side and black on the other, and the other, a large alligator wearing a zebra-striped neckerchief, whose scaly tail swished along the ground. Montrose eyed the latter curiously. He'd heard of the animal wraiths of the African Underworld, but had never encountered one before. The reptile's scaly hide had a raw, worn look, as if the Maelstrom was taking its toll on him.

  "Tell us what you know," the white African said.

  As quickly as possible, oppressed once again by a sense of time slipping away, Montrose laid it out for them. "Will you march on the Citadel with us?" he concluded.

  "Of course," said the old man with the painted face. He looked down at the alligator. "However, Antoine—"

  The reptile emitted a menacing hiss. His human comrade faltered. "I'm going," Antoine said slowly, as if it was an effort to force the words out. "Don't hassle me about it."

  The old man sighed. "Very well. The Orishas know, we can use every man."

  "I'll come along as well," said a new voice, pitched in a register which made it difficult to decide whether it was male or female. And when the Scot caught sight of the speaker, he still wasn't sure. The shape of the slim, bandaged figure struggling to rise from the cabin cruiser's deck was essentially androgynous. Judging from the glittering motes in the mortal's gray and crimson aura, he—or she—was a mage, one whose body reeked of blood and fever sweat.

  Two other mortals—a pretty young woman dressed all in black, with magenta streaks in her black hair and steel rings embedded in her face, and an obese man in a filthy undershirt—lifted the mage and more or less held their companion upright. "Thank you, my dears," the conjurer wheezed.

  The white African frowned. "I don't suppose it's any use trying to convince you to stay behind, either."

  "Certainly not," said the mage. "You mustn't worry about me, Frank. My veins are awash with wonderful, wonderful morphine. Trust me, I feel better than any of »

  you.

  The woman in black tried to look where the mage was looking, but didn't quite manage to point her face in the right direction. Evidently, unlike her companion, she couldn't see the wraiths. "If you're talking about leaving people behind," she said in a bratty voice, "don't even think about me,. You're going to need somebody with a solid body to prop Marilyn up. Plus, I can shoot a few holes in Dunn."

  Montrose wondered grimly just how much use Antoine, Marilyn, and the apparently quite normal Quick woman with the piercings were likely to be. But three and a half centuries ago, he'd led his frozen, starving, exhausted Highlanders to victory over the numerically superior Campbells at Inverlochy. Perhaps his new comrades had the same sort of grit.

  He could only hope so* because there was no time left to worry about the welfare of any one member of the expedition. Only the ,objective mattered now. "Are you people ready to march?" he asked.

  As Gayoso approached Mrs. Duquesne's office, his mouth was dry, and he had to. suppress a reflexive urge to pant. Is this really going to work? he wondered. It is possible that I'm going to be rid of the supercilious old hag at last?

  As usual, a sentry and a barghest stood before the door to Mrs. Duquesne's office. The L
egionnaire came to attention. The bloodhound glared, amber eyes shining inside its mask of gray iron strips.

  "I need to see Mrs. Duquesne immediately,'' Gayoso said.

  The guard knocked on the door, waited a moment, then repeated the Spaniard's request. The door—a Shadowlands artifact hung by Artificer's magick in a Skinlands frame—swung open. The Legionnaire stepped aside. The barghest gave a faint, disgusted grunt, as if disappointed that it hadn't been commanded to attack the newcomer.

  Nets of gray iron chain, covered the walls, floor, and ceiling of the office, to keep unwanted visitors from flitting through. The metal links rattled beneath Gayoso's boots. Mrs. Duquesne sat primly upright, two tidy stacks of paper, her mask, her bowl of oboli, and the black hourglass of Natchez on the desktop before her. Another pair of Pauper guards stood in the shadows behind her. Prior to Gayoso's assuming command of the Inquisition, and the resultant shift in the balance of power, she hadn't been quite so concerned with her personal security.

  "Good evening, my lord Anacreon," she said, her tone dry and composed as ever.

  Masking a fresh pang of loathing, Gayoso inclined his head. "My lady Governor. Have you heard about the violence?" Two of the false Pardoners had been set to work sneaking, about the Citadel, attacking wraiths they discovered alone.

  Mrs. Duquesne's thin-lipped mouth tightened at what she evidently considered a stupid question. "Of course. I suppose a Spectre or two has slipped into the complex, or some poor soul has fallen under the sway of his Shadow. Unfortunate, but such things happen during a Maelstrom. The watch will deal with it."

  "This storm is different," Gayoso said. "Do you know about the curtain of darkness hanging over the Mississippi?"

  "Yes," said the old woman, her condescending attitude slipping just a hair. "That is odd. The extent of the unrest among the Quick is similarly disturbing."

  "In addition, we have agents of a hostile power abroad in the city, doing Fate only knows what. And, if we can believe them, a cabal of doomshades and werewolves plotting against us as well."

  Mrs. Duquesne smiled contemptuously. "Let's try to be logical, shall we, milord: Either Titus and his associates are our enemies, or the conspiracy they warned us of actually exists. It's unlikely that both things are true. Still, I concede your central point. We have ample reason for wariness this evening. And therefore you recommend—what?"

  "That we turn out all the troops to search the Citadel from top to bottom, and then patrol the Necropolis in force."

  "Send the men forth to wander the storm? That's hazardous duty."

  "That's why I think we ought to command them personally. All three of us. At the very least, the sight of us out and about will inspire confidence in the citizenry, and with the Maelstrom grinding away at their essences, confidence is precisely what they need."

  "And here I was thinking you no longer desired my involvement in any of your military endeavors, my lord Inquisitor."

  "If you see your role as purely administrative," Gayoso said, "I understand. But if so, then I think it only reasonable that you surrender the hourglass to someone who is willing to carry it into battle."

  "That won't be necessary," the Beggar Lord's minion said, rising. She removed her steel-rimmed spectacles, donned her glazed white mask of Tragedy, and replaced the glasses precariously on top of it. Then she picked up the ancient timepiece and the bowl of coins. "Let's go muster the men."

  "I've already made a start," Gayoso said, thrilled that, her sharp intellect and wary nature notwithstanding, she seemed to have taken all that he'd said at face value. She expected that for the duration of the storm, they were going to forget their rivalry and stand together as good little Hierarchs should.

  Despite her two bodyguards trailing along behind them, he was tempted to fall on her as soon as they exited her office with its wards of protection. Why not? He was a child of the Void, with all the power that implied, and he'd be catching them all by surprise. It required an effort to compel himself to abide by the plan.

  They glided through a door onto a rusty fire escape. The icy, howling wind kissed the exposed skin beneath Gayoso's steel domino. Two stories below, Legionnaires and irregulars had assembled on the parade ground, the former drawn up in formation, the latter milling restlessly about. The phosphorescent battle flags and standards of Natchez, the three Deathlords who theoretically controlled it, and the Order of the Unlidded Eye rose above the soldiers' heads. Masked as usual in his baggy green hood, his right hand in his hip pocket, Nathan Shellabarger, whom Gayoso had roused previously, stood talking to one of his Emerald Legion Marshals.

  Mrs. Duquesne paused to peer downward. Holding his breath, Gayoso told himself she couldn't possibly suspect what was going to happen next. It was only her habitual caution that had prompted her to make sure that a reasonable number of her own Paupers were present before descending. And after a moment, she headed down the steps.

  Shellabarger met his fellow commanders at the foot of the staircase. "We should have done this indoors," he said.

  "We'll all be out in the storm quite a bit tonight," Mrs. Shellabarger replied. "We might as well start getting used to it." The three Anacreons strode on toward the reviewing stand on the far side of the ground. Their course took them between a phalanx of Grim Riders and a motley band of desperadoes from Under-the-Hill.

  Gayoso burst out laughing.

  The other Governors turned toward him. "Yes?" said Mrs. Duquesne.

  Struggling to control himself, Gayoso shook his head. "Nothing. Just..." Half choking, he forced out the grating syllables Prudence had bade him memorize.

  Shellabarger twitched. "What is that?" he asked. "It almost sounds like a Spectre language."

  "Yes," said Mrs. Duquesne, hefting the hourglass, "indeed it does. What are you playing at, my lord?"

  Gayoso glanced about, at the soldiers peering curiously back at him. Why the devil was nothing happening? He groped for a serviceable lie. "I...that is to say—"

  Soldiers screamed and bellowed. Some sprouted hideous deformities as their dark natures claimed them utterly and warped them into Spectres. A few simply dissolved in flares of black fire. Many others glared with insane fury as their Shadows became dominant. As one, the possessed mercenaries and Grim Riders hurled themselves at Mrs. Duquesne and Shellabarger. Farther away, soldiers attempted to rush to the Governors' defense, only to find themselves hindered when traitors in their own ranks lashed out at them.

  Shellabarger snatched his hand from his pants pocket. In his grip was what appeared to be the dainty, bladeless silver hilt of a knife. He swung it in Gayoso's direction, and the Spaniard dropped beneath the plane defined by the sweep of the other Anacreon's arm. Behind him, one of Fink's ruffians fell apart, his body cleanly bisected at the breast bone, dissolving into nothingness before it struck the ground.

  Mrs. Duquesne inverted the hourglass. Sand trickled from the upper chamber into the lower, and Gayoso registered a sort of silent boom! as magick exploded across the parade ground. The attackers closest to the old woman suddenly appeared to be moving in slow motion. Some shriveled into apparent senescence, or shrank into infancy, then vanished. A few feet out from the hourglass, the time distortion began to diminish, until, at the edges of the field, the combatants seemed to be moving at normal speed.

  As was Gayoso. Like his fellow Governors, he was too close to the magic's point of origin for it to enchant him. Feeling his features swell and twist, he whipped out his pistol. Meanwhile, Shellabarger cocked his arm for another attack.

  Gayoso fired. The darksteel bullets caught the hooded man in the chest and slammed him backward, out of the bubble of normal time and into the midst of the possessed men. Still creeping, those who were able attempted to swarm over him, and he defended himself with equal sluggishness.

  Mrs. Duquesne tossed her begging bowl like a cook flipping flapjacks in a skillet. Oboli flew out at the men who were trying to strike her down. Slow as they were, they had no chance whatsoever to dodg
e. The coins penetrated their flesh like bullets, and they went down.

  Gayoso fired at her, and, despite the short range, missed. Some sorcery must have deflected the shots in flight. The thin lips beneath her lugubrious mask gave him the familiar^ hateful, superior smile, With a shimmer, new coins appeared in the bowl, and she tossed them at him.

  The hurtling money buried itself deep in his flesh. The pain was intense, but he could feel he wasn't crippled, and that was all that mattered. Grinning, he: scrambled up from his crouch.

  "Alms," she said in a whining, servile voice altogether unlike her normal tone.

  Dragging streams of ectoplasm behind them, the coins erupted from Gayoso's body and leaped back into the bowl. His substance continued to flow even after the oboli came to rest, vanishing into the smooth brown wood without a trace. The pain he'd experienced before was as nothing compared to the agony wracking him now. The automatic slipped from his fingers, and his knees buckled.

  "Alms," she repeated, and the pain grew even more intense. Waves of Oblivion licked the interior of his body.

  No. It mustn't end this way. He shrieked a silent, wordless prayer to the Makeans. begged for a measure of the limitless power of the Void. He attempted to hurl himself at his tormentor.

  His legs felt so rubbery that for an instant he was certain he was going to fall on his face. Then he plowed into Mrs. Duquesne.

  He rebounded as if he'd slammed into a pillar of granite. Some magick had both armored her gaunt, frail-looking body and rooted it to the earth. But even so, she rocked backward, her spectacles fell off, and Gayoso's essence stopped draining away, through strands of flesh still connected his body to the bowl.

  He knew he mustn't give her a chance to start the process up again. He whipped out his rapier and drove it into her chest.

  Rings of shadow exploded outward from the wound. "Alms," she croaked, and his flesh began to bleed away anew. He tried to pull the sword back for another thrust. She dropped the hourglass and grabbed the blade. Fighting for control of the weapon, they lurched back and forth.