by John M. Ford
"As anyone may in such a circumstance, many of them panicked. That led to the fires. To open warfare, in many places. Eventually you will learn about that. . . about Asia, and Africa, and the Silent Zones."
Why will IP Doc thought without saying.
"I often wonder," Mr. Patrise said, "what they saw in television that made them decide it must be erased utterly. Not that any of this saved them. They could not simply impose their rules on a race that changed its hemlines and heroes with the turn of the seasons. They were no longer the arbiters; they were just one more designer label. And as I said at the start, they were vulnerable themselves to the mass demand, as are all societies that rule by code and force. They began to ride motorcycles, pose with guns, wear stiletto heels and wide-shouldered suits and four-in-hand neckties. They can no more fight this than humanity can, so they must try to do it better than we do."
Mr. Patrise tilted his head, just slightly, and fixed his eyes on Doc's. "Suppose I told you that you could have any of them you wanted: a Highborn, Rhiannon or Stane Belle, the Kings of Elf-land's daughters, on their knees in front of you, dressed in spider gauze and cold iron chains, begging you to—"
"Stagger said the cold iron thing doesn't work," Doc said, trying to keep the image from getting any clearer.
Mr. Patrise looked surprised. It was not a typical expression for him. "Stagger Lee is a fine technician, but he will never be a great enchanter. Do you know why, Hallow?"
Doc almost said no, then waited. He had the feeling Mr. Patrise really wanted an answer. "Iron . . . doesn't have power over the Truebloods. But some of them believe it does."
"As I was saying, Hallow . . . they can be bound. Even b us. And why should that matter so?"
"I don't know."
"Because they are not mortal," Mr. Patrise said, his voice dead calm. "We are. Whatever we choose to be in life, that life ends. Whatever our condition, however hateful the ser iee we are yoked
to—one day it will end, and we know it. Not so for them."
"All right," Doc said, his throat tight, "but, it's still not something I want."
"What you might desire and what you might do are two different things, Hallow. But I think you mean what you say. Making it very important that you know such power exists." Patrise went to a service table behind the desk, poured two small glasses of brandy. He handed one to Doc. "The first night we met, I told you to wait a while and ask me if I knew you. You haven't asked."
Doc sipped the drink and said nothing.
Mr. Patrise rolled his brandy glass, took a swallow. "There will be a party for the winter solstice—dress-up, naturally. Will you be sure to tell Ginevra that she is invited, and to visit Boris for a fit-ting?"
F
or days before the solstice party the staff were hanging ribbons, holly, ivy—"No advance warning where the mistletoe goes," one of the maids said happily—and setting out candlesticks.
Boris Liczyk provided Doc with a long-tailed cutaway coat of green broadcloth with velvet lapels, narrow trousers, and calf-high brown boots. The shirt was gauzy and ruffled, the tie a broad ribbon. At first he thought it was a repeat of his Halloween mad killer's outfit; but with the coat in place, he recognized the look from pictures in books. It was going to be a Charles Dickens Christmas.
He adjusted his tie and braces and went downstairs. Below, all the lights were out, and candles lit; hundreds of candles, in sconces and holders of iron and brass and glass, so many that their individual flickerings merged into an even, buttery light.
"Good evening, sir, good evening," Boris Liczyk said from a dim spot at the foot of the stairs. He was wearing a white curled wig and a butler's uniform that looked black in the light but must be blue: Boris was very insistent about who could and could not wear black. "You are dressing well tonight, sir. There's someone waiting for you." He gestured with his rod of office.
Ginny was wearing an off-the-shoulder dress of heavy satin in a deep, iridescent red. It outlined her body closely to the waist, then fell in a fluid cascade to the floor. Around her throat was a red
velvet choker with a black cameo, and her black, black hair was curled and swept high.
Doc felt himself want her, that instant. He bowed, crooked his arm. She curtsied and took it.
All the regulars were there, naturally; Carmen Mirage in a black lace gown powdered with gold, Kitsune Asa in a pink kimono extravagantly embroidered with cranes in flight, Matt Black and Gloss White in rather less formal costumes that Ginny explained were two dancers from the Paris Moulin Rouge, as drawn by Toulouse-Lautrec.
Alvah Fountain's dreadlocks fell neatly over his high wing collar to the lapels of a steel-blue tailcoat; his handling of the coattails got him an ovation just sitting down at the piano. Phasia wore a white-on-white Empire gown, and a triple rope of black pearls.
The party wasn't, in fact, just Dickensian. It was about—elegance, Doc supposed was the right word; some high Victorian and some Regency and a touch of Edwardian. Doc greeted everyone, enjoying the play formalin.- of bows and "Enchanted"s and nods and winks. At Ginny's insistence he danced with Carmen, and Phasia, and struggled through a group dance without too much embarrassment. But mostly he stayed with Ginevra, and that felt very good.
About ten, Cloudhunter (who was dressed as elven nobility from an illustrated edition of Dunsany—it was so unlike anything real Truebloods wore that no insult could be implied) asked Doc aside. They went into an alcove, where Patrise was sitting, in ruffled shirt and violet coat, holding his silver-handled stick.
"We have a message," Patrise said. "A possibility of tracking down Whisper Who Dares. Do you think we should follow it?"
"You mean, right now?"
"That is what I'm asking."
Doc thought. "Is this going to be another—another like List time?"
-No."
"There's nobody else Involved. Nobody innocent."
"Not that I know."
"Then the hell with him for now," Doc said.
Patrise's fingers played with his cane top. "1 Agree, Hallow. It's
too fine a party, too rare a night. Have you slept well?"
"I suppose."
"Then what we will do is this: when the party breaks up, be ready to change and move out. About one o'clock, I should think. Drink lightly."
"All right."
"And now, I think, we need another dance. Find your partner." Patrise bowed. Doc returned it and went back to Ginny.
Before long, he began to notice something different between them tonight. It seemed odd to call it warmth—hadn't they been warm? Her hands were tight in his, and her eyes seemed uncommonly deep.
A clock struck eleven. Doc thought of Cinderella, waiting for midnight, and thought perhaps he knew what the change was: she was feeling his tension, the energy winding up inside him, and reflecting it back, expecting—
Not expecting him to run away from her at one, to join the monster hunt.
Finally he took her into another room and told her what they were going to do.
"It's all right," Ginny said.
"No, it's not all right. Why should I want to run out and help— kill somebody—"
"That isn't what you're going to do, and you know it. Mr. Patrise and your friends are going out to do something important, to stop something terrible, and you're going because they may need your help. Where is Mr. Patrise?"
"Over in the—"
"Come on."
Patrise was speaking softly and rapidly to Boris Liczyk. He stopped, turned. "Yes, Hallow? Ginevra? Do you wish to leave us for a while?"
"No, sir," Ginny said, politely but firmly. "I wanted to say that, if you should need to leave early, I'd be pleased to help keep the party going." She smiled. "I have some experience there, as you know, sir."
"My very dear." Patrise bowed. "I am pleased more than you know to hear that, but you are a guest tonight. Boris and the staff
will have no difficulties. But will you do one thing for me?"
"Of course, sir."
"Give me a dance."
Doc watched them, with just a spark of something he knew was jealousy, though knowing it made him feel sick and absurd. Then Gloss White tapped his arm, and he swallowed hard and danced with her; but of course Gloss could make a sack of turnips look like Fred Astaire, and it did go well, the four of them waltzing to Alvah's music. Then they changed partners, and all evil sparks cooled and died.
At a quarter to one, Doc hugged Ginny, and she pulled him behind an armoire and made it an extremely definite kiss. He left her and the candlelight belowstairs, went to his room to change into something more appropriate for the evening's late entertainment.
Doc drove with Cloudhunter in the Triumph's passenger seat. The cars didn't convoy, so Doc took meaningless turns at Cloud's instructions, until they parked in an empty loading dock, in a spot surrounded by broken pallets and snow-covered cardboard. Cloud opened a metal door. Beyond it was a dingy corridor, another door, and then space.
The building had been a shopping center, three or four levels connected by escalators, ramps, glass elevators; aisles and balconies lined with bookshops, record stores, fashion and shoe and jewelry stores. All the retail spaces were dark and empty 7 , deserted or smashed in, with a litter of broken-heeled shoes and split-spined books here and there in passing. Snow filtered through broken skylights, down the open spaces between floors, and the greenery in the balcony planters had been overtaken by coarse wild vines with leaves like lizard scales.
Patrise was leading McCain and Stagger Lee across a stretch of mildewed carpet. More of his people were following at a distance. Doc and Cloud closed with them.
Stagger was holding a box of some heavy gray metal, perhaps lead, that had copper-colored rods protruding from each face. It was making a soft, high-pitched squealing that shifted tone as he twiddled and slid the rods.
"There," Stagger said, and there was a burst of red light from overhead. Voices, elf and human, screeched, and halt'a do/en pco-
pie came running from one of the second-level shopfronts. Two were Silverlords in padded gray leather, jacket and jeans, jacket and zippered skirt; the rest were humans of one sort or other.
McCain raised his Colts, fired from both hands. A human—a Loop Garou, Doc guessed—was hit in mid-leap and fell hard; the other shot brought the male elf down in a heap nearby. The Sil-verlord woman vaulted the railing, landed fifteen feet below in a snap roll, came up holding two long blades. McCain took aim.
There was a flicker of light behind the glass of one of the storefronts. Then the doors blew out.
Lieutenant Linn stepped through, light streaking out behind him. Lt. Rico came after, in a heavy dark-blue jacket with web straps and pouch pockets. It said POLICE in big reflective letters. She carried what looked like a midget Gatling gun in black metal.
The Silverlord spun to face them, leveling her blades.
Rico's gun coughed and spat a burst of vapor, and a six-inch metal arrow stuck in the floor between the Blood's shoes. The multiple barrels rotated with a click.
"Everybody," Rico said, "coolit"
Patrise said aloud, "It's a big stadium, plenty of room for everyone to play," and quietly to the people near him, "Diffuse. Stay in touch, but spread out. Hallow, stick to Cloudhunter."
Rico said, "I don't think you're receiving me, Little Caesar. Nobody is doing any more playing."
One of the Silverlords' people above popped up with an automatic rifle; he sprayed half a dozen rounds in the general direction of everybody else alive. People scattered; Lt. Rico went for cover behind a counter and leveled her weapon. Lt. Linn moved his hands in a complex pattern that hissed and sparked with red light. The shooter screamed and folded over the railing; his arms were wrapped in metal and wood, bits of brass and powder spilling to the floor below. Linn had apparently turned the gun inside out around its owner.
Everybody was moving then, Patrise's people, Rico and Linn, the Silverlords and Vamps.
"This way," Cloud said, and Doc followed him around a sharp corner into a broad, dim corridor with dead stores on both sides. It
was lit by a string of glass tubes, the pale cold light of half-dead magic. They got ten yards along, twenty, and Cloud kept going. Doc said, "Shouldn't we—"
"There's a focus ahead," Cloud said in Ellytha. The word the books translated as focus literally meant "seam of destiny": it could mean a concentration of magic, a battlefield, a sacred place. Doc had also heard Cloudhunter use it to speak of Patrise.
Cloud stopped.
Light from the corridor slanted into a broad, wide-open shop-front. It had been a clothing store, though there wasn't a rag of fabric left. The mannequins—all female that Doc could see—had been torn apart, hacked, savaged: here and there a blade was still stuck in the plastic, and a yard of cycle chain wrapped a headless throat. Slogans had been painted on the dismantled dolls and the store walls: Elvish obscenities, symbols.
"Did the gangs do this?" Doc said.
"Before gangs," Cloud said. "From the first days of Return. That sign means 'Give Mortals Their Destiny' That one, 'Leave None Whole.' "
Something white sailed out of the darkness. Cloud's sword reached out and intercepted it; it hit the floor with a crack.
It was a skull.
"Get back," Cloud said, low and hot, and Doc took a step backward. Smoke boiled out of the far corridor. Cloud gave the skull a vicious kick to the side; he threw out a hand, and a handful of throwing stars flashed through the haze.
A shape came out of the smoke: a bulky black cloak, no face. no form, with a long thin sword extending from beneath it.
Cloud said, in Elvish, "I am somewhat amused. Whisper Who Dares." He inclined his head to the black thing. Then his hand moved again, and another spot of light crossed the space separating them. This time the throwing star came bouncing back out of the smoke, and spattered elf blood on the floor.
Another black figure, identical to the first, emerged from the smoke; as it passed, the first shape crumbled into air.
The cloak was thrown back. Whisper Who Dares the Word of Words in Darkness wore heavy boots, a thigh-length black coat of
wool and leather set with steel rings. Bones hung from the rings on thin leather thongs; small ones, carpals and phalanges. A human radius swung from his waist.
Whisper's milk-white face was flattened and scarred. Something dangled from his earlobe that coiled and twisted.
Whisper and Cloud spoke to each other in Elvish, too low and quick for Doc to follow. They crossed swords. The air sang.
Doc realized they were paying no attention to him. He had no more part of this than in the war between wind and mountains.
Cloudhunter cut, and cut, and cut, and some of Whisper's bones clattered to the floor. Whisper didn't seem to have touched Cloud. Doc took a step away, wanting to go for someone else, McCain, Patrise, Rico and Linn, any kind of backup, yet not wanting to leave Cloud. He took another step back, and collided with something rubbery and cold and wet. His guts turned over. He turned.
There was nothing there: just air like gelatin. It distorted the hallway; somewhere down there were Patrise and the others.
Steel scraped. "Doc!" Cloud shouted. Doc turned. Whisper and Cloud stood a little apart, swords leveled. W r hisper had a hand to his throat, as if he had been wounded there. Then his arm snapped straight toward Doc. Doc tried to dodge, but the gluey air held him.
Cloud moved. His sword swept down. The creature that had been at W 7 hisper's ear struck the floor in two scratching and writhing pieces.
Whisper lunged at Cloud's back. Cloud stepped aside easily, swung again, severing Whisper's sword in the middle of the blade.
The swordhilt vanished into Whisper's cloak. Whisper took a step to the side, toward Doc. Cloud blocked him. Step, block. Step, block. Whisper snarled something in Elvish; Doc caught the word "dishonor," but he knew that the word had infinite shadings; it could not be understood out of context.
Cloudhunt
er cut again. The long bone on Whisper's clothing leaped and clubbed it aside. Whisper spun a butterfly knife into his hand, sliced at Cloud's arm, connecting. Cloud spat a few words, swept an arm, and knocked the knife away. He forced Whisper back with his sword. Whisper said something with "death" in it.
Cloud replied; "dishonor" was in it twice.
Whisper folded his cloak about himself, seemed to lose a foot
of height. He backed away rapidly. Cloudhunter stood his ground. When Whisper was a dozen yards away, Cloud turned. "Doc," he said, "tell the others—"
Whisper had drawn a shotgun from beneath his cloak. Before Doc could speak, he fired. The blast ripped into Cloud's flank. He turned around. Whisper fired again, into Cloud's chest, and again.
Cloudhunter stayed on his feet. He raised his sword, pointed it at Whisper Who Dares, spoke a phrase in something that wasn't Ellytha; whatever the words meant, the voice pulled and tore like a dull razor over the skin.
Whisper fled.
The air was suddenly thin again, and Doc stumbled. Cloudhunter turned, and fell. Doc gathered balance and ran to him. He shouted "Patrise/" as loud as he possibly could, and knelt by Cloud, opening his bag, spreading Cloud's jacket. The wounds were awful: a load of tight-choked shot and two solid slugs, son of a goddamn bitch. Sponges, he thought. Pressure bandages. He had one unit of IV D-five in his bag, a couple more in the car.
Cloud's silver eyes were wide, staring straight up. His hands went blindly to his throat, unwound the blue Nancy-silk scarf. "Calm down. Cloud," Doc said, "don't move."
Cloud hung the scarf around Doc's neck. His arms dropped away.
Doc was aware that other people had come in. Without looking up, he said, "Can anybody here start an IV?"
Patrise's voice said, "Where is Whisper?"
Doc gestured with his head. "That way." More pressure. Clamp the bleeder. Tape.
Patrise said, "Lincoln. Katherine. See if you can follow the trail. No friendly casualties, understand?" He leaned on his stick, lowered himself to his knees. "What can we do. Hallow?"
