Getting behind the curtain was no problem, but the rather large Chinaman on the other side, burly, wearing an expensive style of occidental suit now favoured by businessmen in Hong Kong, and probably armed with a concealed revolver, had other ideas about Slaughter passing through a quite ordinary door. Fortunately, the club did not apparently pay the guard equal to what the suit might indicate, and Slaughter found himself traversing a long dark corridor, then starting down a set of rickety stairs that zigzagged into a darkness relieved only by flicking gas-flares.
Halfway down the corridor, he smelled the beguiling odour of burning opium, but a ways down the stairs he smelled another scent, sweet and seductive, redolent of strange fleshy flowers and honeyed corruption – dream-spice.
He entered the opium den without alerting the emaciated attendant to his presence, and the near blackness of the place made it comparatively easy for him to scout around until he found an exit leading not to the streets above but to occulted chambers below.
The blackness was complete, but he dared not light a lucifer to reveal any obstacles or pitfalls. In this passage the scent of dream-spice was much stronger, but he knew from his reading of the report prepared after the seizure of the cask that for the narcotic to have any effect upon a person the vapours had to be inhaled directly from the ignited sap of the plant from which it was distilled; once mixed with the air, it lost much potency.
After a few minutes, the stygian darkness about him began to lessen due to a faint azure glow filtering from somewhere ahead, just enough for him to see that the passage he traversed had been hewn through the London foundation. The walls were damp and slimy, and at times he heard the wash and flow of water, perhaps the Thames itself, he thought.
After several minutes, Slaughter emerged into a vaulted chamber, more circular than not, the walls of which were pocketed with niches in which rested idols similar to the one which the death-grip of the Lascar had not wanted to relinquish. At the centre of the chamber was a leaping fire, but the flames were pale blue and gave forth no heat. After his eyes became more accustomed to the gloom, Slaughter saw three figures, all seated before braziers upon tripods, their faces pushed into the smokes roiling upward.
Suddenly Slaughter’s arms were pinioned to his sides, as if by bands of steel.
His captor was a bald human in maroon robes.
“Let go of me!” Slaughter demanded.
None of the people in thrall to the dream-spice looked up or so much as twitched a muscle at the commotion, but from the shadows beyond them came a sallow-faced lowlander Martian who regarded Slaughter with contempt and malice; he was accompanied younger dark-complexioned man with wild black hair.
“Who are you?”
“I just wandered in by accident, mate,” Slaughter explained. “I came in to kick the gong, but I got confused and lost…don’t quite know how I ended up here.”
The Martian gestured for the human to move Slaughter closer to the fire, and there he peered deep into Slaughter’s eyes.
“Search him!” he told his companion.
Roughly, very roughly, Slaughter was relieved of his revolver and when the bald man came across his warrant card he handed it to the Martian.
“A copper!” the man snarled. “What do you want?”
“Came in to kick the…”
Slaughter’s sarcastic reply was cut short by a slap felt as if it could turn his head halfway around. He spat blood from his mouth. He slowly returned his smouldering gaze to his tormentors.
“Maybe I just wanted to find out what the Dark Gods are doing on Earth,” Slaughter shot. “See if I need to kick their arses back to Mars.”
The black-haired youth gaped slack-jawed, and the bald man looked as if as if someone had just shot him between the eyes. Both looked as if they were going to vomit, and the man holding him eased his grip a bit, but not enough to do any good. If those were going to be his last words, then Slaughter was gratified by the results.
“Finish searching him, then kill the blasphemer,” the Martian ordered.
The youth came across the packet Qui Ah had given Slaughter, opened it, took a sniff and wretched at the smell. He instinctively threw the packet into the fire.
A violent explosion threw them all back, shaking the walls. Slaughter drove his elbow back as hard as he could, then jammed his palm under the man’s stubbly chin. His neck cracked loudly and he fell like a sledge-hammered cow. The walls began to crack, and the pressure of the water behind them finished the job.
In seconds the chamber was flooded, and it was all Slaughter could do to reach the passage before he became trapped like the poor devils behind him. He escaped through another exit from the opium den, and found himself standing in a littered alley cold and wet and having nothing to show for his efforts.
He dreaded the report he would have to make to his superiors, and there would, of course, be hell to pay (again) for going it on his own. But an accurate report he would make; what the powers-the-were would make of it, well, that was their problem.
He considered the destruction of the hidden chamber of mystery and smiled.
Damn that Chinaman, Slaughter thought happily. Damn that wonderful Chinaman!
It was very early morning when Slaughter finally finished up at the Yard, though the questions which he left unanswered guaranteed there would be more hobb to pay come the light of day. However, after all he had been through, daybreak seemed ages off, and Slaughter was glad to put aside thoughts of dread Martian gods, dream-spice smugglers and London’s polyglot races – sinister or benign – for the time being. Obviously, this had become much more important than some poor dead Lascar, but the question of who killed the Lascar, and why, was at the heart of the mystery, and by following that single thread he would ultimately come to understand the design of the entire tapestry.
On the morrow, he would call on Professor Early and see if that heathen fetish could take him deeper; he suspected Early had not told him all he might know of what that Martian godling was doing in London, but he was sure when he confronted the Professor with the events in that subterranean – now submarine – chamber beneath the gambling den that the Professor might be motivated to tell him more.
As he walked along the strand a light mist rose from the Thames, making the night seem claustrophobic. He could hear throbbing steam engines upon the ancient river of empire and the steady drone of airships bound for other outposts of civilisation, but could not even make out the crafts’ running lights.
Sounds were muffled by the mist. He did not at first realise other footfalls had joined his own; when he did, it was too late.
Pain shot through him and lightning flashed in his mind as a heavy object struck the back of his head.
Both sensations were fleeting, however, as he fell headlong into a soft cottony oblivion.
Chapter 6
The flight from Mars to Venus, though only of three days duration, was excruciatingly boring, mostly because Captain Robert Folkestone had not wanted to leave Mars, and spent the whole of the voyage brooding upon the stupidity of command to the exclusion of all other diversions. Some dark plan was developing on Mars, he was certain, something that threatened the Empire, if the fate of the HMS Victorious and the threats uttered by Thoza-Joran were any indication. True, the Martian was a lunatic who talked to people who were not there, but he was also a lunatic who possessed some very remarkable abilities, no matter what the boffins at the Ministry or the Admiralty said. The action was on Mars, not Venus; Mars was where he needed to be, not running an errand to help out a highly connected Venusian planter.
Sergeant Felix Hand was also in a black mood, but it had nothing to do with any work left undone back home. Just the fact they were en route to Venus was more than enough reason to sit and brood and snarl at the steward. Yes, he was a soldier in service to the Empire and a loyal subject of Her Majesty the Queen, but that only meant he had to do his duty, not smile as he did it. And smiling he was not. So gloomy was his mood that not
even the prospect of finally obtaining genuine segir from its source lifted his spirits.
As the aether-liner dropped through the clouds that eternally covered Venus, Port Victoria hove into view. From the air it was apparent the city was actually two separate cities grown together over time, like a new branch grafted to an ancient tree. Port Victoria was the new city, with its bustling aetherport alive with activity, and its even busier dock area where river and ocean-going steamers brought in goods from remote pockets of savagery where even airships could not penetrate jungle canopies, and its neatly planned streets and squares, the open parks that fronted the houses of the well-to-do and the mews where the gentry kept their steam vehicles; the other city was older by thousands of years, built up when humanoids dominated Venus and Terrans had yet to pile one brick upon another on the Giza Plateau, a dark stone city called Yzankranda in the guttural Venusian tongue, a claustrophobic metropolis of narrow labythrine streets, dead-end courts, hidden chambers and bazaars where the forbidden was a common commodity. Port Victoria had managed to encroach upon the old Venusian city, but not engulf it, always kept at bay by the river between them, and there were secrets Yzankranda would never surrender to youthful humanity.
After disembarking from the commercial aether-liner and reporting to the port-master’s office for messages – there were none, for which Folkestone uttered a small sigh of relief – they headed for the Office of the British Consul, not strictly a requirement, but certainly a necessary courtesy, especially if they were to require official, or unofficial, assistance later. From experience, both Folkestone and Hand knew they would likely end up in some sort of a sticky situation, for trouble seemed to come their way as surely as iron filings were attracted to a lodestone.
“Welcome to Venus, gentlemen,” said Geoffrey Argent, the Consul’s secretary, as he returned their identification. "Should you require any assistance from Her Majesty's Government while in the hinterland, please do not hesitate to contact this office."
Folkestone and Hand traded covert glances.
"I did not mention our reason for coming to Venus," Folkestone said.
"No, of course not, but the Consul informed me to make one of our airships available to you, sir, though I have treated that information as confidential," the secretary explained. "Now, if you gentlemen will consent to a short meeting with the Consul, you may carry on."
Folkestone nodded, but a glance to his companion informed him that Sergeant Hand was not entirely satisfied with the young man's facile explanation. They followed him down a short corridor and into a comfortable and well-appointed office filled with as many memories of home as souvenirs of Venus. As they entered, Sir Arthur Clogg, representative of British commercial interests on Venus, stood and extended a firm handshake. He was in his early sixties, but had the physique of a much younger man; Folkestone had worked with him twice before.
"Very good to see you again, Captain Folkestone," Sir Arthur said. "I trust you are well."
"Quite well, Sir Arthur," he replied. "May I present Sergeant Felix Hand."
"Pleased to finally put a face to the name," Sir Arthur said. "We don't see many Martians on Venus, as you might imagine."
"I imagine it's too bloody hot and humid," Hand muttered.
"Sergeant Hand," Folkestone murmured softly.
"Begging your pardon, Sir Arthur," Hand growled.
"It is too bloody hot by far," Sir Arthur agreed with a wide grin, "but I know from experience no matter how bad some hellhole is, there is always someplace worse; I just try my best not to flub myself into one of them."
For the first time since Mars, a smile curved Hand's thin lips. "Quite right, sir."
"A diplomat's lot is not much different than a soldier's, I imagine," Sir Arthur quipped, "though, of course, no one is shooting at me...most of the time. Well, I shan't keep you long, Captain; I just wanted to pay my regards before sending you on your mission."
"You are familiar with our mission, Sir Arthur?"
"Of course, to assist Charles Mallory; it was I who relayed his request to Admiral Barrington-Welles," Sir Arthur revealed. "However, I have kept that confidential, even from my own secretary, who knows only he is to make one of our airships available for your use. Because of certain aspects regarding the problems plaguing Mr Mallory's plantation, I decided not to make the full nature of your mission generally known; in fact, aside from myself and the Admiral, only one other knows of your impending journey, and I have requested that person brief you about some recent and disturbing trends among the reptilian natives in the hinterlands where you'll be going."
"And who is that, Sir Arthur?"
Behind them, a door opened and closed, and a dulcet voice said: "Whom do you think it would be?"
Folkestone sighed but did not turn about.
Sergeant Hand, however, whirled about, his second smile of the trip broadly stretching his lips. "Lady Cynthia!"
"You see, Sergeant," Folkestone said, "I told you Venus was not nearly as big a planet as it should be."
"Oh, Robert," said Lady Cynthia Barrington-Welles, regarding the British officer with a glittering blue eye. "It's grand to see you too."
A half-hour's lapse found the three of them having tea at a riverside shop in one of Port Victoria's fashionable mercantile districts. Across the river was another world, the stone towers and domes, the narrow labythrine cobbled byways of Yzankranda, technically part of the British city, and yet always and ever as alien as it was ancient. Safe enough to wander about during the twilit day, as long as you kept alert, but certainly no place for man or Martian after the fall of Venus' stygian starless night.
Sergeant Hand was obviously uncomfortable in a setting that called for the appearance of social equality, for he firmly believed the titled members of society had a duty to remember their place in that society. And, yet, orders were orders, and since he never was one to do anything but soldier on he smiled, and poured out, and chatted amiably.
Besides, Folkestone reflected, his sergeant had always doted upon Lady Cynthia, as a young country cousin might toward a titled relative, though for God's sake why? Folkestone had not the tittling of an idea. There was no doubt Lady Cynthia Barrington-Welles was a rare beauty, with sparkling red hair, high cheekbones, and faultless alabaster skin, but she was also a nuisance of the first order, always insinuating herself into government, and sometimes military affairs. He for a moment gazed across the river, casually considering what secrets may be hidden in the old city, and when he turned back he saw her watching him with a bemused blue eye; he had known her for more years than he cared to admit, but he still found it disconcerting (or perhaps intriguing) that such a beautiful woman wore an eyepatch of finely tooled leather; the presence of that always-present leather band was as troubling as his ignorance about the reason for it.
"Perhaps it would be best if you imparted the information considered so vital by the Consul," Folkestone suggested with designed brusqueness.
Hand glanced at his superior.
Folkestone’s gaze met Hand's slight frown with a look of studied innocence.
"Yes, you do have a long journey before you, so it would be best to have at it," Lady Cynthia agreed, settling her tea cup silently into its saucer. "The problems reported by Charles Mallory are not widespread among the plantations, but they are hardly unique. If you are able to alleviate Mr Mallory’s dilemma in some way, it may help other planters within the British Sector. Workers from the Naga tribes are vanishing from the plantations, abandoning their wages and property."
"Returning home?" Folkestone ventured.
Lady Cynthia shook her head, causing her luxuriant ruby locks to sway under her travelling hat. "The tribal authorities report that is not so, and searches led by the overseers and military authorities have not found them; neither does it seem they have fallen to either dinosaurs or swamp adders."
"Well, that is one of the dangers of employing wog workers of the non-humanoid variety," Folkestone said. "You really can nev
er know what goes on in their minds, what lies behind those unblinking obsidian eyes."
"Oh, Robert, have you actually spent time with any of the Nagas of Venus?"
"Enough to know them, Lady Cynthia," he replied. "During the Uprising of 18..."
"Other than in combat, Captain Folkestone," she said, her words all the more icy because of Venus' broiling atmosphere and the steam rising from the lazy river. “If you actually took the time…”
Folkestone's eyes turned heavenward.
Lady Cynthia fell silent and glared at Folkestone.
"Disappearance of workers, Lady Cynthia?" Sergeant Hand urged. "Is that the only problem attending Mr. Mallory and the other planters."
"No, there have been raids on livestock and vandalism to crops,” she replied.
"Well, that's always a problem on any frontier, even Earth," Folkestone pointed out.
Lady Cynthia nodded in agreement. "However, at the sites of some of the raids and vandalism there have been found signs of an unknown ritualism, and some of the scouring parties have come across shrines that cannot be explained in the context of known Venusian religions."
"Some new kind of cult worship?" he asked, suddenly interested, glancing pointedly at Hand.
Shadows Against the Empire Page 7
