by Jack Conner
On opposite sides of the caged Arena, two doors led from the underground tunnels from which the pugilists had entered. From one of these, Roche Sarnova himself emerged, accompanied by a host of guards. In one arm, he held a robe. In the other, something shiny. He nodded to his followers and smiled. They roared approval.
"They love him, don't they?" said Loirot admiringly.
"They do," answered Danielle.
"He's a hell of a lot more than a figurehead to these people, that's for sure. They worship him."
"And you? You seem awful reverential."
"I think he's one of the greatest beings that’s ever lived."
"Don't hold back now."
"You know I was never made a lychen—I was born one, in Italy. I grew up on tales of Roche Sarnova. I wanted to be just like him when I grew up."
"So join the fights. Become his heir."
"No," he said, chuckling nervously.
"Why not?"
"You see that dragon-lady, Lyshira? She's nine hundred years old, and she's young for these contests. Very strong, but young. I'm not even three hundred, yet." He shook his head, a little sadly. "No, I would be eaten alive."
Below, the Dark Lord stepped up to the victor and draped the robe about her, although she didn't allow the garment to cover everything. There were fans to please, after all. Still, she accepted the gesture, even acting a bit submissive in his presence. Roche held something up to the light for all to see; a silver medallion on a thick silver chain.
Lyshira lowered her head and he placed the necklace about her. He took one of her hands and raised it into the air as if this were the climactic moment of a boxing match, and the crowd roared louder.
Roche Sarnova bowed and re-entered the tunnel, his guards swept up in his wake.
"He's got style, doesn't he?" said Loirot.
"He does at that."
"What? You don't like him?"
Danielle shrugged, not wanting to get into a discussion like this with Loirot. Then again, she had no one else to talk to, except Harry, and he was never around.
"Yeah," she admitted. "I like old Blackie. To be honest, I respect the hell out of him for what he's trying to do here. It just seems absurd to me that none of his followers actually know what the War is all about. Maybe his officers do, but the rest of them don't. They're just following him blindly because they always have. That disgusts me."
"What are you talking about? You know the reason behind the War of the Dark Council?"
"Yes. And it's a good reason, but if Sarnova wants to keep it a secret, it's not up to me to tell you."
"I don't understand."
She patted his knee. "I don't either, Loirot. All I know is Sarnova wants the Dark Council to back him up on his plan before he spills the beans to everyone else, and I think he's an idiot for doing that. He should hold a meeting and go ahead and tell everyone that he wants to—" She stopped herself.
"What?"
"Oh, forget it. It's up to him. I guess he's afraid that if he tells everyone what he intends to do, they'd revolt against him. It is a revolutionary idea, after all."
"Tell me what you mean."
"Maybe another time. I'm just frustrated."
He smiled. "Then I could—"
"Save it. Let's go get someone to eat."
"Come on. There's another fight. It's not formal, like this one was, but it should be a good one. It's a personal dispute, a duel."
"A duel?"
"Yeah, Sarnova has decided to allow mutually willing shades to fight out their problems in the Arena."
"Why?"
"To build morale, to psyche everyone up for battle. Not only that, but it's a way of resolving personal disputes—something he's trying to cut down on. You know, an attempt to bring unity."
"It's a waste of fighting men."
He shrugged. "Wanna watch?"
"No, Loirot. I'm hungry and I want to go. Now."
She rose from her seat and pulled him by his lapels. Probably more afraid that she'd tear his suit than that she could actually harm him, Loirot stood up and looked indignant.
"Don't do that," he said.
"Well?"
"All right, all right. Let's go."
* * *
Harry Lavaca wanted to find a place to drink.
He'd worked up a thirst wandering around down in the catacombs, exploring their various sections—the prisoners' area, the quarter where Sarnova's honored dead were kept, the place reserved for great art exhibits—in which Harry had seen, among other things, Junger and Jagoda's so-called Tree of Death. A tree of bones rising in the center of a circle of corpses, its roots springing from the feet of the deceased. Nice. Some day, Harry thought, he would have to meet these Balaklava. He'd pretty much given up his pastime of killing immortals, unless he got word of one that was particularly evil, one that had some weak spot he could exploit. He didn't know what weak spot the Last of the Roving Balaklava might have, but they certainly matched his requirement.
The problem with getting something to drink, he knew from his previous few days of incarceration—if that was the right word—was that, though there were several barrooms in the castle, only one served to his kind, the living, but as it was located conveniently near one of the mass latrines, its smell was less than lofty.
Nevertheless, Harry intended to seek it out, although he had never found it easily yet. Maybe today he would remember the way.
The halls teemed with activity, and he assumed that the fighting must be over for the night. When the Arena was in session, there were very few shades roaming about, which lent the castle a strangely vacant feeling. In a place this size, it was amazing how few people there actually were here. If this were a castle run by mortals, it would be bustling, overflowing. Every room would be in use.
But immortals were few in the world, and this castle was built on a very large scale—even for humans—and the small fraction of undead that made their way here was just not enough to flesh out the place. Even during a time of war, when the castle was probably as full as it had ever been, it seemed nearly deserted. Now, between the fights, was the only time when the halls were flooded, when the castle was given the illusion of being alive.
Harry ascended a few floors, wandered down a few halls—getting lost only once, which seemed to him a good number—and finally finding the pub, which was toward the center of the castle. After all, it just wouldn't be right to permit mortals a window, would it? Treat cattle like cattle and cattle they will be.
Harry sat himself down at the bar and ordered a martini, extra dirty. The bartender, an aging man with a cautious face, intrigued Harry.
"How long you been here?" he asked the man.
"Twenty years," the bartender said, setting down Harry's drink.
"That's a long time in this place."
The barkeep nodded his agreement, and Harry saw a pride in the man's face he hadn't immediately noticed. The bastard had survived twenty years in a castle run by immortals, had found a position for himself and stayed there, out of the way, in the constant company of his own kind. Fascinating.
The barkeep took out a rag and started washing the counter, saying nothing further to his latest customer. Harry let him. After all, he hadn't come for conversation.
Sipping his drink, he surveyed the assembled barflies, mostly regulars he’d seen before. Predominately women, he noticed, not for the first time. Beautiful women. And some beautiful men, too. Beautiful boys. Must be from the harems that certain shades kept. Sadly, Harry wondered just how long these humans had before their looks faded, before they were reduced to just another vessel of blood for their masters. A few months, a few years? Either they would lose their masters’ interest and be discarded, or they would be Turned. They themselves would become the predators and drag a new generation of prey here.
Harry took another sip.
There were some bodyguards, he saw, but they hadn't come on their own. Instead, they were in four groups, each clustered around a ce
rtain mortal man. Each must be someone that carried some legitimate power of their own, Harry surmised. Drug dealers or merchants or artists or prime ministers, who knew? Having power akin to that of immortals, these humans had taken human servants in imitation of the beings who would use each and everyone in this bar as food if they so desired.
"There's human nature for you," muttered Harry, and took a long sip. He ordered another drink, and another.
Danielle arrived, followed by Loirot.
Feeling the drinks, Harry blinked at her, smiling, maybe a little too widely, and gestured for her to join him.
"And what brings you here?" he said.
"You," she said, taking the seat. "I thought I'd find you here."
"Using those old vampire mind-tricks, eh?"
The bartender approached and raised his eyebrows at Danielle, almost as if challenging her authority to be here, immortal that she was.
"Gimme some tequila, please," she said, glancing at the salt shaker a few feet away. "And limes."
The barkeep nodded, but there was an edge to the gesture, as if he was making an effort to restrain himself.
"There you go, Lady," he said, giving her the asked-for items.
Danielle sized him up. "Wanna shot?" she said, without mockery of any kind, although—Harry had to admit—she did seem a little amused. A little mischievous. Spunky, he thought, and could see why Ruegger liked her.
The barkeep returned her stare for a moment, then seemed to decide that he didn't mind her so much. He turned away to resume his duties, but not before casting a glance at Loirot. Loirot, for his part, just stood there, a couple of feet behind and to the side of Danielle, looking like he'd rather be somewhere else.
"Watcha doin', Harry?" Danielle said, preparing herself a shot.
"Just clearing the cobwebs, honey.”
"Here's to clearing the cobwebs," she answered and downed the shot, then stuck a slice of lime into her mouth.
"Amen,” he said.
She coughed, spat out the lime and smiled. "So what do you think of all this, Harry?"
"Of what? The castle? If I were in my prime, I'd think this was a dream come true: so many shades to kill, so little time. My own private Happy Hunting Ground."
"Seriously."
"I'm trying, honey. Believe me. I guess the truth of it is that I'd really like to know what this whole War is about. I hear Sarnova's troops talking about it all the time, about how they're kept in the dark, and they don't like it. Something's stirring there, maybe a rebellion."
She nodded. "Yeah, there's a lot of dissent around. I can't believe Blackie's kept it together this long."
"I heard a rumor," he said, careful to keep his voice a whisper.
"What?"
"I heard that some of his officers are banding together, that they're preparing a coup."
"I can't believe anyone here would want to dethrone him, he seems so ... worshiped."
"Oh, they don't want to dethrone him. You're right, his subjects are much too fond of him. They just want to keep him locked up so that they can surrender to Subaire and the half of the Dark Council loyal to her. When the Council's whole again, and if Sarnova agrees to comply with their conditions, he'll still be leader."
"Interesting."
"You got that right." He thought for a moment, got the bartender's attention and ordered another drink. When the martini was in front of him, he turned to Danielle again. "So what've you decided to do with Martin Ascott—your Malcolm?"
Frowning, she threw back another shot and stared down into the empty glass for a few moments. If its depths chirped any answers, Harry didn't hear them.
"I don't know," she said finally.
"You seem more ... relaxed now, then you did when we were at Kharker's Lodge. Why the change?"
"Oh, Harry, I don't know. I'm not sure I even want to kill him anymore. The fire's gone out of me. Maybe it's just that this whole thing has been so anticlimactic; I mean, I came here, the whole time thinking what I'd do to him, how long I'd take doing it, and then, when I got here, Cloire kept me from seeing him. At first, the anticipation just made it sweeter, but after a week ... it just fizzed away. I mean, don't get me wrong, if I saw him ..."
"Of course."
"But ... I don't know. No, I guess I do. I want the bastard dead. I want to crush his skull between my fingers." She sighed. "But you were trying to tell me that night, the night we left, that he was really a good guy now, or something like that."
"He is. I lived with him for a little while, got to meet his family. They're nice."
"Jesus, Harry. I don't know what to stay to that. You were the willing houseguest of the man who betrayed my trust, my own foster brother, and raped me, with his gang, beat me and left me for dead."
He listened to her voice, but there didn't seem to be any real venom there. She'd been thinking about it for so long, he thought, that the emotional component of her revenge had tapered off. Probably, it was mostly analytical to her now. What she felt, what she must be feeling, was that her job was almost finished, that she'd killed off the members of Malcolm's gang one by one, saving him for last. And now that she had reached the point where it could all be finished, she'd already been purged time and again. All she wanted was closure.
He nodded. "Yeah, I stayed with him. He really wanted me to get the full treatment, too, you know, to see how nice he was and all that, so that if I saw you I could protect him. I made dinner with his wife and helped him put his kids to sleep at night. He has two of them, you know, two kids. Before I left, the girl wanted to call me Uncle Harry."
"Is he happy?"
"Happy? Maybe. I think he is sometimes, but often he seems troubled, like he's just remembered that he's actually one of the greatest jackasses in the world and he'd just forgotten for a moment."
"Good."
"Danielle ... to him, you're just a symbol of all the other horrible things he did during his time. You loom over him, trust me. Just the mention of your name makes his back go stiff. But if you don't kill him, then make your peace with him. He's lived in terror for too long, Dani. Let him go."
"You think I should."
"I want to return him, alive, to his family."
She grimaced, glancing over her shoulder at Loirot as if irritated that he hadn't gone away yet. He just arched his eyebrows impatiently. Closing her eyes, she turned back to Harry.
"Maybe Ruegger was right," she said.
"What do you mean?"
"Maybe evil can change, after all. Somehow I don't buy it in this instance." Her large black eyes flared open, angry. "If Malcolm walked through that door right now, I'd kill him in a heartbeat."
"Would you?"
She poured another shot, her hand trembling just a little. "I don't know," she said. "I really don't."
"Danielle, would you tell me something?"
"What's on your mind?"
"Well, that night we left. Remember, after I talked to you, Cloire took you out into the jungle. To talk, she said. I don't think I'll ever forget the image of you two, her arms around you, walking out into the jungle."
Danielle licked her salty hand, took the shot, stuck the lime in her mouth and spat it out. She’d had lots of practice at that procedure, Harry could tell.
She said, "I remember."
"Well, what did she say? How'd she convince you to go, to come with her and kill Martin?"
Suddenly, Danielle smiled. "She was smart, Harry. She was cool. She knew just how to do it, too."
"What'd she do?"
"Easy. She took me out, way out, into the jungle, and pulled something out of her pants."
"Out of her pants?"
"Oh yeah."
"What was it?"
"A CD."
"As in music?"
"Not just any music. She pulled out a classical CD. The first song on it was ‘Night on Bald Mountain’."
"The song you always kill to."
"The song I listen to when I kill Malcolm's gang, yes. Oh,
she was smooth, Harry. She pulled it out of her pants, this big oh-I've-got-ya-now smile on her face and held the disc up to the moon. It glittered, Harry. It fucking glittered. And I knew right then I couldn't say No. I'd go with Cloire, I'd kill that fucking bastard, and it would be done with. That was all there was to it. Easy as pie."
He nodded. "I remember, when my wife was killed, and my kids—you know about that?"
"I know. Some jandrows killed her in retaliation for you killing one of them."
"Something like that. They wouldn't kill me, though, because I'd become something of a curiosity to other shades and they didn't want to start a war. But they didn't count on my immortal friends—although I don't really think of them that way—well, the murderers that killed my family didn't count on them being so loyal to me. They were, though, and each one in turn, the ones who'd killed my wife and kids, were hunted down. On two occasions my friends brought one of the murderers home and let me deliver the final blows. Anyway, so I know what vengeance feels like. That’s why I feel qualified to give you advice."
"And you want me to let Malcolm be."
"Yes."
"But ... Harry ... think of it this way. You avenged your wife and kids. You got—"
"Closure."
"Exactly. You got closure. How would you feel knowing one of those murderers was still out there, still capable of having fun, when your wife and kids won't ever be able to again?"
He chewed this over, took a drink from his glass, and said nothing.
"Yes, Harry,” she said, nodding. “You got yours. And I want mine. GodDAMNit, I want mine!"
Finally he could hear the emotion in her voice, the desperation. The need. He understood and knew that anything he said about the matter now would have no effect. She would do what she would with Martin, and if Harry had to take Ascott's body back to his family in pieces, so be it.
* * *
The death-squad and its prisoners, Danielle and Harry Lavaca, were staying in three lavish rooms in one of the nicest wings of the castle. Connecting doors linked the rooms. On one end stood Cloire's quarters; though she didn’t sleep alone, her partner varied. In the middle slept Harry and Kiernevar. Of course, they had a roommate, but this roommate—either Byron or Kilian—depended on whom Cloire picked that night. The far room was reserved for Danielle and Loirot.
