Shanghai Steam

by Calvin D. Jim

  “Serapion Square.”

  The hero nodded to the boatman. “You heard the fellow! Up!”

  “It’ll be triple fare,” said the boatman.

  “Why? This boat ain’t overweight!”

  “It looks it, though! If the Guild spots us, they’ll fine me thirty K!”

  Maybe next time, kid. It’s my ride, so clear out. That’s what Rainer expected to hear from the fat hero.

  Instead, the hero tossed the boatman a thirty-K coin.

  The boatman caught it down-hand, flashed a toadyish grin, and the airboat ascended. The fat man took a swig of wine. Rainer huddled in his jacket and continued looking over the gunwale.

  Below them was another airboat — a taxi, gaining altitude. It was following their course.

  “Take that shaft on the left,” said the fat man.

  “Serapion’s not that way.”

  “Do it.”

  The boatman banked the airboat into the shaft. It rose, spiraling around its center of gravity like a leaf in a stream. Lights descended. Rainer looked down again. The second airboat followed them. There were two men on board: the pilot, and a figure in white robes, a sword slung across his back.

  “Stop!”

  The voice rose up the shaft like iron dropped on stone.

  “That’s a hero down there!” Rainer cried.

  “Aw, shit,” said the boatman. “You got me tailed?”

  Words echoed upward: “You can’t run, Gil-Martin!”

  “Put on some steam!” the fat man ordered.

  “This ain’t no getaway craft!”

  Rainer swallowed. Rivalry, challenge, revenge — he didn’t care about martial world intrigues, but this rickety airboat hovered over a one-minute drop. And in Nocturne City, heroes rarely stopped to consider collateral damage. Besides, the corpulent, weaponless Gil-Martin looked … well…

  “Oh, this is just great!” Rainer squeaked. “They’re about to sink us, and you don’t even have a sword!”

  Gil-Martin uncorked his jug and took a three-second swig.

  “This Rose Thorn Wine is truly exquisite,” he murmured, wiping his mouth with a grimy sleeve. “Since it’s the last jug left in Nocturne City, I was happy to make — a certain trade…”

  Rainer gaped. “You traded your sword for a bottle of wine?”

  “Swords only cause problems,” twinkled Gil-Martin. “But wine can make problems go away. That’s why trading is always the optimal move.”

  “He’s gaining fast!” the boatman wailed. “We’re too heavy!”

  “I’ll shed some ballast,” said Gil-Martin, rising to his feet. He fumbled in his robes and began to piss over the gunwale. “Ho ho, look at it rain — oop!”

  Gil-Martin’s off-hand swept out into the void.

  Silver flashed.

  His hand returned — now pinching a six-inch silver needle between two fingers. Grimacing, the hero tossed it into space.

  “Don’t look down,” he ordered, while Rainer scooted onto the center bench. “Boatman! When we hit the top of this shaft, hard starboard and—”

  “Gil-Martiiiin!”

  Gil-Martin froze, then tore the robe back from his forearm. Rainer did the same. His gooseflesh was rippling.

  “Impossible,” whispered Gil-Martin. “Five—”

  He shoved Rainer forward.

  From the bottom of the boat, Rainer saw Gil-Martin leap upwards.

  While his fat body hung preposterously in the air, a plane of purple light bisected the airboat on a line from bow to stern, just missing the place Rainer had been.

  Gil-Martin landed right behind Rainer — which should have overturned the hull, but didn’t.

  Because the airboat had been split into two equal halves.

  Eyes wide, mouth open, every hair on his body standing up, Rainer watched the boatman tumble into the fissure. The body came apart on the way down.

  Rainer screeched, grappling for purchase. His left hand gripped the seam where the boat had been sliced; his right, the starboard gunwale. Somehow he and Gil-Martin brought the halved hull into a tricky balance.

  But the liftglaze on its bottom couldn’t keep the busted hull aloft. It sank. It spun, a hundred feet from any wall. Markets, walkways, torchlit fryshops passed from down to up.

  They spiraled past the other airboat. Rainer saw the hero standing aboard it. His windblown hair, beard, robes, desiccated face, were whiter than milk.

  The white-clad ghoul leapt off his airboat, straight toward Rainer and Gil-Martin.

  But Rainer’s hull-half was falling slower now — because Gil-Martin had already left it.

  Rainer looked up—

  To see the two rivals, thin and fat, white and dark, collide in midair.

  Gil-Martin got first footing. He punted the other hero into the abyss, backflipping off his kick.

  The white shape fell away without a sound.

  Gently as a cat, Gil-Martin landed behind Rainer again.

  They steered the hull down-right, missing a metal line by inches as they landed it atop a descending cablecar.

  The boy collapsed onto the seven-foot-square roof. Gil-Martin kicked the hull away and settled next to him and took a long drink. He offered Rainer the jug.

  “Go on, little brother!”

  Shivering, he took a swig. It really was good wine — it hadn’t been cut with anything, that was how Rainer knew.

  “At least he’s gone,” Rainer said. “Nobody could survive that fall.”

  “No. White Revenant will.”

  “How? What is that guy?”

  “He’s not … really human anymore. Even if he falls into hell itself, he’ll climb up after me.” The skin around Gil-Martin’s eyes tightened. “In the last ten years, he’s done it countless times.”

  “What was that attack? That liftglaze should’ve stopped an axe!”

  Gil-Martin sighed.

  “Supreme martial arts, little brother. A technique that strikes its target’s true essence, rather than its vulgar shadow in the material world. The ultimate evil style: Five Space-Time Vortex!”

  “Can you beat it?”

  “No. Nobody can. Its only weakness is that it can’t be used twice in a row — otherwise, we’d both be dead right now!”

  The cablecar clicked downwards into a cutaway through solid rock. The half-light grew chill; damp fog veiled the distance. Rainer hugged his knees, shivering.

  ‘Snow’ began falling upwards through the haze — ash particles, miasma vented from forges and foundries miles below. Rainer pulled a face.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “It stinks!”

  “Does it?” Gil-Martin smiled. “I can’t smell anything. White Revenant once tried to kill me with poison gas. Luckily I spotted a discolored copper coin in time and ran — but I lost my sense of smell forever. That’s why now, I only drink the strongest wine!”

  Rainer grinned back shyly and took another gulp.

  “How old are you, little brother? What’s your name?”

  “I’m Rainer — and I’m old enough to drink wine!”

  Gil-Martin just stared into the ascending snow around them.

  “What’re you going to do?”

  “A long time ago,” Gil-Martin said, “there was this bum — a street mapmaker. A real master. His maps were so beautiful, people’d commission ‘em for places they’d never even go… But one day … no, everyone says ‘one night’ in this town … one night he sold everything he had and became a bum again. He said he was gonna wander ‘til he learned to draw a final map. A perfect map. A map to the heart of the city.”

  “And?”

  “He vanished! But people started thinking,” Gil-Martin added slyly, “If that map existed, what would it lead to?”

  “Maybe … a treasure?”

  “Or a weapon. Or a place to hide, somewhere White Revenant couldn’t find me. That’s why for ten years, I’ve been chasin’ that bum’s secret masterpiece, and White Revenant’s been chasin’ me. Bu
t I never had any luck at all — until tonight.”

  Smiling, Gil-Martin produced an envelope from his robes and unfolded it.

  Rainer whistled. The gorgeous map must’ve come to ten thousand pen-strokes. It was Nocturne City, from the earth’s surface down to the lava flows beneath the foundries. Every line was see-through, yet definite. In one corner was a red seal, a sideways figure-eight.

  But Gil-Martin slumped forward and closed his eyes.

  “Maximalist … blunt … vulgar. It’s a fake!”

  More ‘snow’ ascended.

  “Hey,” Rainer finally whispered. “Don’t be sad, old man.”

  “Why shouldn’t I be?”

  “Well…” Rainer’s face felt hot. “‘Cause you’re terrific, that’s why. You’ve got tons of skills. But me, I’ve got no skills at all. The only way I can make a K is selling my body.”

  “That’s not true. You helped me steer that airboat down. That means you can think fast. You saw something horrible, but you pulled it together. That proves you’re brave. Better yet, you’ve drunk wine with me, which means you’re my friend now.” Gil-Martin smiled. “And in this world, being a friend isn’t a skill possessed by everyone.”

  Rainer looked away and laughed the ironic laugh he used whenever something threatened to stir his heart.

  “Anyway, I’ve got a job in mind for you, little brother.”

  “What, a blowjob?”

  “Not that kind of job,” said Gil-Martin. “If this map’s a fake, there’s only one person who could’ve made the switch. I need someone to get inside his houseboat. I can’t do it without raising an alarm. But a little guy like you…”

  “What’s the payout?”

  “An even split,” said Gil-Martin. “Half the treasure. If there’s no treasure, half the map’s value as an art object.”

  “And if it’s another fake?”

  “A shot at ten thousand K.”

  Ten thousand K was more than Rainer would earn in two years on the street.

  “It’s a deal!”

  Rainer expected Gil-Martin to smile back at him, but the big hero just muttered:

  “If you knew the houseboat I meant, I wonder if you’d agree so fast!”

  Every week, Baron d’Urtal chose a girl.

  The volunteers gathered in the vestibule of his two-hundred-foot houseboat. They received unsigned money orders for 10,000 Kronzer and made them out to whomever they pleased. Then d’Urtal would emerge and examine the candidates one by one. As he dismissed each girl, he’d take back her money order.

  When just one girl remained, d’Urtal would sign her paper, seal it and send it off by courier.

  The houseboat would then cast off and float over to the Shaft of Vermillion Transcendence.

  After an hour or two, it would float back home again.

  Except, perhaps, for the top-flight heroes on his payrolls, nobody knew what d’Urtal did to the girls before he threw them into the shaft.

  But Nocturne City was Nocturne City. The Baron’s vestibule had never once gone empty.

  Tonight, the vestibule held four young women and Rainer.

  Silent, they sat on straight-backed chairs opposite a refreshment table. One girl nibbled numbly on a cordialed pear. Another nursed a flute of white wine. A thirtyish hero in white stockings and scale armor lounged against wainscoting, smoking a cigarette and watching himself in a gold-framed mirror. His left hand never moved from his longsword’s tasseled hilt.

  Rainer was terrified, yet somehow proud. It wasn’t like he had any beard yet, and the clothes and cosmetics applied by Gil-Martin had gone a long way. The old man had even pinched pressure points on Rainer’s lower back, shoulders, and inner thighs, to make him walk in a more feminine manner. Rainer thought he made quite a pretty girl indeed.

  If this job falls apart, and I survive, maybe I could use this gimmick on the street.

  There was just one problem — the girl next to him was even prettier. Her hair was also styled into a chignon, but hers had a superior sheen. Her skin was fairer, her nose smaller, and her ears didn’t stick out so far. Her throat also lacked an “apple of knowledge.” Rainer had tried to hide his own under a white ribbon. His palms were sweating, moistening the money order in his hand.

  “Hey,” he whispered. “He’ll pick you, I know it!”

  “Stop it.” Her whisper was far higher than his. “You’re making it worse!”

  “Walk out right now,” Rainer whispered, “and I’ll sign my money order over to you.”

  The girl was silent.

  “I’ll prove it. Tell me your name.”

  “Icelina,” she whispered. “Longchamp Rungs, three-two.”

  Rainer started to get up.

  “Don’t make it out to me!” She tugged at Rainer’s dress. “To my father — Jules Wandreth, Longchamp Rungs, 32.”

  Keeping perfect posture, Rainer rose, went across to the table with the inkwell, and made out the order to Icelina Wandreth’s father.

  He felt sick. Not about the ten thousand K he was signing away in the hope the map was genuine — the number still seemed unreal to him — but about Icelina, still faithful to the father who had ordered her to sell herself. Rainer had always told himself that if only he had parents things would be different. But maybe Nocturne City could break anything, no matter how well it began.

  He took his seat and flashed Icelina the paper.

  The girl’s tears glowed in the candlelight. “Why are you doing this?”

  Rainer said nothing. Icelina wiped her eyes and got up and walked past the hero on guard. She cleared the door and ran down the gangplank.

  “There’s always one…” The hero threw his cigarette into a potted plum. “Well ladies, any other walk-outs? No? Then we’ll begin.”

  The door to Rainer’s left opened. He didn’t dare look up. Black slippers with red pompoms strolled into his view, then out again.

  D’Urtal stood before the first candidate, his baritone voice dripping refinement. “I fancy I have seen your face before, madame.”

  A money order changed hands with a crinkle. Footsteps trod carpet.

  “I must decline tonight, my dear.”

  A wine flute clinked on a tray. The second girl stumbled out.

  “Ah, you must favor me with your presence another time.”

  D’Urtal was speaking to the third girl, but looking straight at Rainer. Chills shook his spine as the girl handed d’Urtal her paper and left.

  “If you would stand up, my little bird?”

  Rainer obeyed. The Baron placed a cold forefinger under Rainer’s chin and tilted it up. D’Urtal’s face was long and clean-shaven and his breath smelled like rotten mulberries.

  “Exquisite.”

  D’Urtal signed the money order to Jules Wandreth and handed it to the hero, who saluted, spun on a heel, and left. Rainer and d’Urtal were alone.

  “I insist that you submit to a search,” the Baron said. “I will retire; when my agent is finished, do proceed inward.” He grinned, revealing a gold canine tooth. “But do not keep me waiting.”

  The Baron left. Rainer breathed again.

  He reached beneath his skirt and removed from his stocking the glass vial Gil-Martin had given him. He peeled back the carpet and crushed the vial on the wood floor. When he was sure the fumes had spread, he rolled the carpet back over the shards. Then he returned to the chair, holding his hands modestly in his lap.

  A stooped old woman in black entered from d’Urtal’s door.

  “Oh, madam,” Rainer squeaked. “I can’t, I’m so scared…”

  “Ah, missy, there’s nothing to fear—”

  The old woman raised a hand to her eyes.

  “Dear,” she said, and collapsed to the carpet.

  Rainer grinned. He reached into his skirt and palmed the other vial of poison. He’d taken the antidote a few hours earlier.

  The room shifted under his feet. The houseboat had cast off.

  Rainer fixed his hair be
fore the mirror, pouted seductively, and crossed his fingers. He opened the door and passed through a corridor hung with a tapestry of devils dancing around a fire and put his hand on the knob to d’Urtal’s suite.

  He pushed the door inward. His eyes scanned the suite — red bedspread, curtained windows, desk, rugs. D’Urtal appeared in view. Rainer spotted a patch of bare floor. He threw the vial.

  And, nimble as a dancer, d’Urtal intercepted the vial with his soft black pompomed slipper.

  It didn’t break.

  “Silly little bird,” whispered the Baron.

  Rainer stumbled back, but his dress confused his movements.

  D’Urtal’s long cold fingers struck a pressure point below Rainer’s white-ribboned throat. The blow hit him like a ball-peen hammer.

  Rainer sat down — with a slam. He couldn’t move. He could breathe and move his eyes, but flexing other muscles led to an instant cramp.

  “Almost perfectly done.” D’Urtal set the vial on the desk. “But your scent wasn’t quite accurate.”

  Rainer strained. Of course — the smell, the one detail Gil-Martin couldn’t have checked!

  “You’re not quite pretty enough for me to forget you’re a boy,” said d’Urtal. “But I’ve got another use for you…”

  Fuck you, Rainer tried to say. It came out hur hur. He thought, I only need to hold out a few more minutes—

  D’Urtal snapped his fingers. The four curtained windows in the suite burst open on their hinges. The ceiling lamp guttered in the cold air. A figure in pristine white robes walked soundlessly into the room, a sword slung across his back. It was White Revenant.

  “This is Gil-Martin’s little friend?” d’Urtal asked him.

  “Yes, the boy’s aura is definitely the same.”

  D’Urtal smiled. “The map’s on the wall as you requested.”

  Without moving his head, White Revenant glanced to the side. Framed above the desk was a white paper. Like the fake map Gil-Martin had examined, a red figure-eight adorned one corner.

  Except this map was made with just two pen strokes — two circles, one inside the other. They weren’t accurate, or even concentric. They bulged. The artist’s hand had wavered.

  How could this be the map to the heart of the city?

  “Hm,” said White Revenant. “Just the scribbling of a senile old fool.”