A grip pulls at Hardhands’ soft hand; he looks down into the wizened grinning face of a monkey. Hardhands tries to yank from the grasp; the monkey has pretty good pull, which he puts into gear with a yank, that our hero has little choice but to follow. A bright red cap shaped like a flowerpot is affixed to Sieur Simian’s head by a golden cord, and he’s surprisingly good at the upright; his free hand waves a path through the crowd, pulling Hardhands behind like a toy.
The dancers slide away from the monkey’s push, letting Hardhands and his guide through their gliding. By the band, by the fiddler, who is sawing away at his fiddle as though each note was a gasp of air and he a suffocating man, his hair flying with sweat, his face burning with concentration. Towards a flow of red velvet obscuring a doorway, and through the doorway into sudden hush, the cessation of the slithering music leaving sudden silence in Hardhands’ head.
Now he stands on a small landing, overlooking a crowded room. The Great Big Horns and Very Long Claws etc. are alert to something sitting upon a dais at the far end of the room. Hardhands follows their attention and goes cold all the way to his bones.
Upon the dais is a table. Upon the table is a cage. Within the cage: Tiny Doom.
VIII. Cash & Carry
The bidding has already started. A hideous figure our hero recognizes as Zigurex the Avatar of Agony is flipping it out with a dæmon whose melty visage and dribbly hair Hardhands does not know. Their paddles are popping up and down in furious volley to the furious patter of the auctioneer:
“. . . unspoiled untouched pure one hundred percent kid-flesh plump and juicy tender and sweet highest grade possible never been spanked whacked or locked in a closet for fifty days with no juice no crackers no light fed on honey dew and chocolate sauce . . .”
(Utter lie, Tiny Doom is in a cheesy noodle phase and if it’s not noodles and it’s not orange then she ain’t gonna eat it, no matter the dire threat.) Tiny Doom is barking, frolicking about the cage happily. She’s the center of attention, she’s up past her bedtime, and she’s a puppy. It’s fun!
The auctioneer is small, delicate, and apparently human, al-though Hardhands is willing to bet that she’s probably none of these at all, and she has the patter down: “Oh she’s darling oh she’s bright she’ll fit on your mantel, she’ll sleep on your dog-bed, she’s compact and cute now, and ah the blood you can breed from her when she’s older. What an investment, sell her now, sell her later, you’re sure to repay your payment a thousand times over and a free Pig as garnish can you beat the deal—and see how bright she does bleed.”
The minion hovering above the cage displays a long length of silver-tipped finger and then flicks downward. Tiny Doom yelps, and the rest of the patter is lost in Hardhands’ roar as he leaps forward, pushing spectators aside: “THAT IS MY WIFE!”
His leap is blocked by bouncers, who thrust him backwards, but not far. Ensues: rumpus, with much switching and swearing and magickal sparkage. Hardhands may have Words of Power, and a fairly Heavy Fist for one so fastidious, but the bouncers have Sigils of Impenetrableness or at least Hides of Steel, and one of them has three arms, and suction cups besides.
“THAT IS MY WIFE!” Hardhands protests again, now pinned. “I demand that you release her to me.”
“It’s careless to let such a tempting small morsel wander the streets alone, your grace.” Madam Rose cocks her head, her stiff wire headdress jingling, and the bouncers release Hardhands.
He pats his hair; despite the melee, still massively piled, thanks to Paimon’s terrifically sticky hair pomade. The suction cups have left little burning circles on his chest, and his bare toes feel a bit tingly from connecting square with someone’s tombstone-hard teeth, but at least he solaces in the fact that one of the bouncers is dripping whitish ooze from puffy lips and the other won’t be breeding children anytime soon; just as hard a kick, but much more squishy. The room’s a wreck, too, smashed chairs, crumpled paper, spilled popcorn, oh dear, too bad.
“She’s my wife to be, as good as is my wife, and I want her back.” He makes movement towards the cage, which is now terribly quiet, but the bouncers still bar the way.
Zigurex upsteps himself, then, looming over Hardhands, who now wishes he had been more insistent about the boots: “Come along with the bidding; it’s not all night, you see, the tide is rising and the magick will soon sail.”
The other dæmon, who is both squishy and scaly, bubbles his opinion as well. At least Hardhands assumes it is his opinion, impossible to understand his blubbering, some obscure dialect of Gramatica, or maybe just a very bad accent, anyway who cares what he has to say anyway, not Hardhands, not at all.
“There is no bidding, she’s not for sale, she belongs to me, and Pig, too, and we are leaving,” he says.
“Do you bid?” Madam Rose asks.
“No, I do not bid. I do not have to bid. She is my wife.”
“One hundred fifty!” Zigurex says, last-ditch.
The Fishy Thing counters the offer with a saliva spray glug.
“He offers two hundred,” says Madam Rose. “What do you offer?”
“Two hundred!” says Hardhands, outraged. “I’ve paid two hundred for a pot of lip rouge. She’s worth a thousand if she’s worth a diva—”
Which is exactly of course the entirely wrong thing to say but his outrage has gotten the better of his judgment, which was already impaired by the outrage of being manhandled like a commoner to begin with, and which also might not have been the best even before then.
Madam Rose smiles. Her lips are sparkly pink and her teeth are sparkly black. “One thousand divas, then, for her return! Cash only. Good night good night and come again!”
She claps her hands, and the bouncers start to press the disappointed bidders into removing.
“Now look here—” says Hardhands. “You can’t expect me to buy my own wife, and even if you could expect me to buy my own wife, I won’t. I insist that you hand her over right this very second and impede me no longer.”
“Is that so?” Madam Rose purrs. The other bidders retreat easily; perhaps they have a sense of where this is all going and decide it’s wise to get out of the way whilst there is still a way to get out of. Even Sieur Squishy and Zigurex go, although not without several smoldering backways looks on the part of the Avatar of Agony, obviously a sore loser. Madam Rose sits herself down upon a velvet-covered chair and waves Hardhands to do the same, but he does not. A majordomo has uprighted the brazier and repaired the smoldering damage, decanted tea into a brass teapot and set it upon a round brass tray. Madam Rose drops sugar cubes into two small glasses and pours over: spicy cinnamon, tangy orange.
Hardhands ignores the tea; peers into the cage to access damage.
“Pig has a tummy ache and wants to go home, Bwannie.” The fat little lip is trembling, and despite himself Hardhands is overwhelmed by the tide of adorableness, that he should, being a first-rate magician and poet, be inoculated against. She is so like her mother, oh his darling sister, sometimes it makes him want to cry.
He retreats into gruff. “Ayah, so well, Pig should not have had so much candy. And nor should Pig have wandered off alone.”
“He is bad,” agrees Doom. “Very bad.”
“Sit tight and do not cry. We will go home soon. Ayah?”
“Ayah.” She sniffs, but holds the snuffle, little soldier.
Madam Rose again offers Hardhands a seat, which again he does not sit upon, and a glass, which he waves away, remembering anew the Pontifexa’s advice, and also not trusting Madam’s sparkly grin. He’s heard of the dives where they slide sleep into your drink; you gulp down happily and wake up six hours later minus all you hold dear, and a splitting headache as well. Or worse still, ginjoints that sucker you into one little sip, and then you have such a craving that you must have more and more, but no matter how much you have, it shall never be enough. He’ll stay dry and alert, thank you.
“I have no time for niceties, or social grace,” he says, “I will t
ake my wife and pig, and leave.”
“One thousand divas is not so great a sum to the Pontifexa’s grandson,” Madam Rose observes. “And it’s only right that I should recoup some of my losses—look here, I shall have to redecorate, and fashionable taste, as your grace knows, is not cheap.”
“I doubt there is enough money in the world to buy you good taste, madama, and why should I pay for something that is mine?”
“Now who owns whom, really? She is the Heir to the House Haðraaða, and one day she’ll be Pontifexa. You are just the boy who does. By rights all of us, including you, belong to her, in loyalty and in love. I do wish you would sit, your grace.” Madam Rose pats the pillow beside her, which again he ignores.
This statement sets off a twinge of rankle because it is true. He answers loftily, “We are all the Pontifexa’s obedient servants, and are happy to bend ourselves to her Will, and her Will in the matter of her Heir is clear. I doubt that she would be pleased to know of the situation of this night.”
Madam Rose sets her red cup down. An ursine-headed minion offers her a chocolate, gently balanced between two pointy bear-claws. She opens red lips, black teeth, long red throat, and swallows the chocolate without a chew.
“I doubt,” she says, “that the Pontifexa shall be pleased at tonight’s situation at all. I do wish you would sit, your grace. I feel so small, and you so tall, so high above. And do sample, your grace. I assure you that my candy has no extra spice to it, just wholesome goodness you will find delicious. You have my word upon it.”
Hardhands sits and takes the chocolate he is offered. He’s already on the train bound for Purgelandia; he might as well make the journey worth the destination. The Minion twinkles azure bear eyes at him. Bears don’t exactly have the right facial arrangement to smirk, but this bear is making a fine attempt, and Hardhands thinks what a fine rug Sieur Oso would make, stretched out before a peaceful fire. In the warmth of his mouth, the chocolate explodes into glorious peppery chocolate yum. For a second he closes his eyes against the delicious darkness, all his senses receding into the sensation of pure bliss dancing on his tongue.
“It is good chocolate, is it not?” Madam Rose asks. “Some say such chocolate should be reserved for royalty and the Goddess. But we do enjoy it, no?”
“What do you want?” Hardhands asks, and they both know that he doesn’t just mean for Tiny Doom.
“Putting aside, for the moment, the thousand divas, I want nothing more than to be of aid to you, your grace, to be your humble servant. It is not what I may want from you but what you can want from me.”
“That I have told you.”
“Just that?”
In the cage, Tiny Doom is silent and staring, she may be a screamer, but she does, thankfully, know when to keep her trap shut.
“I can offer you no other assistance? Think on it, your grace. You are an adept, and you traffic with denizens of the deep, through the force of your Will. I am not an adept, but I also have traffic with those same denizens.”
The second chocolate tangs his tongue with the sour-sweet brightness of lime. “Contrary to all laws of Goddess and nature,” he says thickly, when the brilliant flavor has receded enough to allow speech. “Your traffic is obscene. It is not the same.”
“I didn’t say it was the same. I said we might complement each other, rather than compete. Do you not get tired of your position, your grace? You are so close, and yet so far. The Pontifexa’s brightest boy, but does she respect you? Does she trust you? This little girl, is she not the hitch in your git-along, the sand in your shoe? Leave her with me, and she’ll never muss your hair again, or wrinkle your cravat.”
“I don’t recall inviting you to comment upon my personal matters,” says Hardhands, à la prince. “And I don’t recall offering you my friendship, either.”
“I cry your pardon, your grace. I only offer my thoughts in the hope—”
He’s tired of the game now. If he had the thousand divas he’d fork them over just to be quit of the entire situation; it was fun, it was cool, it’s not fun, it’s not cool, he’s bored, the sugar is drilling a spike through his forehead and he’s done.
“I’ll write you a draft, and you’ll take it, and we shall leave, and that’s the end of the situation,” Hardhands says loftily.
Madam Rose sighs and sips her tea. Another sigh, another sip.
“I’m sorry, your grace, but if you cannot pay, then I must declare your bid null, and reopen the auction. Please understand my position. It is, and has always been, the policy of this House to operate on a cash basis; I’m sure you understand why—taxes, a necessary evil, but perhaps more evil than necessary.” Madam Rose smiles at him, and sips again before going on. “My reputation rests upon my policies, and that I apply them equally to all. Duque of Califa or the lowliest servitor, all are equal within my walls. So you see, if I allow you license I have refused others, how shall it appear then?”
“Smart,” answers our hero. “Prudent. Wise.”
Madam Rose laughs. “Would that others might consider my actions in that light, but I doubt their charity. No, I’m sorry, your grace. I have worked hard for my name. I cannot give it up, not for you or for anyone.”
She puts her tea glass down and clicks her tongue, a sharp snap that brings Sieur Bear to her side. “The Duque has decided to withdraw his bid; please inform Zigurex that his bid is accepted and he may come and claim his prize.”
Hardhands looks at Doom in her cage; her wet little face peers through the bars. She smiles at him. She’s scared, but she has confidence that Bwannie will save her, Bwannie loves her. Bwannie has a sense of déjà vu; hasn’t he been here before, why is it his fate to always give in to her, little monster? Tiny Doom, indeed.
“What do you want?” he repeats.
“Well,” Madam Rose says brightly. “Now that you mention it. The Pontifexina is prime, oh that’s true, but I know one more so. More mature, more valuable, more ready.”
Now it’s Hardhands’ turn to sigh, which he does, and sip, wetting parched throat, now not caring if the drink be drugged or not. “You’ll let her go? Return her safe and sound?”
“Of course, your grace. You have my word on it.”
“Not a hair on her head or a drop from her veins or a tear from her eye? Not a scab, or nail, or any part that might be later used against her? Completely whole? Untouched, unsmudged, no tricks?”
“As you say.”
Hardhands puts his glass down, pretending resignation. “All right then. You have a deal.”
Of course he don’t really give in, but he’s assessed that perhaps its better to get Doom out of the way. He can play rough enough if it’s only his own skin involved, but why take the chance of collateral damage? When she’s out of the way, he calculates, and Madam Rose’s guard is down, then we’ll see, oh yes, we’ll see.
Madam Rose’s shell-white hand goes up to her lips, shading them briefly behind two slender fingers. Then the fingers flip down and flick a shard of spinning coldfire towards him. Hardhands recoils, but too late. The airy kiss zings through the air like an arrow of outrageous fortune and smacks him right in the middle of Death in Bloom. The kiss feels like a kick to the head, and our hero and his chair flip backwards, the floor rising to meet his fall, but not softly. The impact sends his bones jarring inside his flesh, and the jarring is his only movement, for the sigil has left him shocked and paralyzed.
He can’t cry out, he can’t flinch, he can only let the pain flood down his palate and into his brain, in which internal shouting and swearing is making up for external silence. He can’t close his eyes, either, but he closes his outside vision and brings into inside focus the bright sharp words of a sigil that should suck all the energy from Madam Rose’s sigil, blow it into a powderpuff of oblivion.
The sigil burns bright in Hardhands’ eyes, but it is also trapped and cannot get free. It sparks and wheels, and he desperately tries to tamp it out, dumping colder, blacker sigils on top its flare, trying
to fling it outward and away, but it’s stuck firmly inside his solar plexus; he can fling it nowhere. It’s caught in his craw like a fish bone, and he’s choking but he can’t choke because he cannot move. The sigil’s force billows through him: it is twisting his entrails into knots, his bones into bows, it’s flooding him with a fire so bright that it’s black, with a fire so cold that it burns and burns and burns. His brain boils, and then: nothing.
IX. Thy Baited Hook
Here is Hardhands, returning to the Waking World. His blood is mud within his veins, he can barely suck air through stifled lungs, and there’s a droning in his ears, no not droning, humming, Tiny Doom:
“Kick her bite her that’s the way I’ll spite her! Kick her bite her that’s the way I’ll spite her! Kick her bite her that’s the way I’ll spite her!”
The view aloft is raven-headed angels, with ebony black wings swooping loops of brocade across a golden ceiling. Then the view aloft is blocked by Tiny Doom’s face; she still has the sugar mustache, and her kohl has blurred, cocooning her blue eyes in smoky blackness. Her hat is gone.
“Don’t worry, Bwannie.” She pats his stiff face with a sticky hand. “Pig will save us.”
His brain heaves but the rest of him remains still. The frame of his body has never before been so confining. Diligent practice has made stepping his mind from his flesh an easy accomplishment, are there not times when a magician’s Will needs independence from his blood and bones? But never before has he been stuck, nor run up against sigils harder and more impenetrable than his own. Lying in the cage of his own flesh, he is feeling helpless and tiny, and it’s a sucky feeling, not at all suited to his stature of Pontifexa’s grandson, first-rate magician and—
Prophecies, Libels & Dreams Page 12
