A Game of Witches (The Order of Shadows Book 3)

by Kit Hallows

  The stench that hit us as the shield dissolved was truly god awful. I held my breath and joined Crispig. We rowed hard and fast, our oars striking the water in unison, while he chanted heave ho. His brute strength carried most of the work and soon the rat ship was little more than a distant smoldering fire, but by its light I saw a figure watching from the walkway.

  The rat captain.

  Slowly, he raised a single claw and drew it back and forth across the air in two quick, clean swipes. Then he turned and vanished into the tunnel wall.

  18

  We rowed through the tunnel as the echoes of the last small explosion fell silent. Crispig grunted and nodded toward a cloaked passage. The air around the entrance glimmered with an almost imperceivable midnight blue light; illusion magic. There were no torches to navigate by so we continued on in near darkness, Crispig’s lantern the only illumination in this dank subterranean place.

  Crispig eyeballed the walkway as he rowed until he spotted something that was wholly invisible to me. He stopped paddling and motioned for me to do the same. “Come.” The boat rocked fiercely as he hauled himself onto the walkway and hunched over in the constricted space. I grabbed Argyle Screed’s crafty little bag of illicit things and tossed it to him, before pulling myself up onto the path. Crispig grunted and shuffled off, vanishing into the gloom. “Right,” I said, as I set aside my reservations and followed him.

  The air thrummed with magic and a low, almost indistinct rumble. We walked in pitch darkness for what felt like an age, then Crispig came to an abrupt halt, causing me to stumble into his broad, sweaty back.

  Three loud thumps rang out and within moments a bare lightbulb fizzled to life, casting an eerie yellow glow over us. The tunnel had broadened and beyond Crispig’s massive frame I could see a tall, scuffed, steel bunker door. A slot scraped open with a swift jerk and a pair of eyes twinkled back at us. “Well?” the man asked, his tone scratchy and manic. I rolled my eyes and wondered what the hell I’d gotten myself into.

  “Prometheus Wingdings,” Crispig cried, with no hint of irony or embarrassment.

  The door rumbled open and Crispig squeezed through. I followed, my hand resting on the pommel of my sword. The room beyond was huge and decked out almost like a laboratory, with worktops, tools, vats, stacks of books and bottles. Cases and cases of bottles. Most were deep blue, some a blackish green, and a few were as clear and sparkling as crystal; revealing the plum colored liquid within. The place reeked of yeasty fermenting fruit with a heady punctuation of stale booze and soggy cardboard.

  Two lanky figures fidgeted in a corner. Both appeared to be dressed in biohazard suits, their upper bodies visible above the rim of a tall wooden tub. It sounded and smelled like they were treading grapes. Their faces were barely visible through their visors but I caught a glimpse of their gaunt, wretched features and almost lifeless eyes. “Are they zombies?”

  “So what if they are?” the man who had admitted us asked; Giles De Quincey presumably. He stepped from the shadows to scrutinize me, his roving bright green eyes beset with heavy black bags. His face was almost as haggard as the zombies’ and the small muscles below his eyes twitched as he ran his spindly fingers through his shaggy mop of brown-grey hair. “They’re wearing bio hazard suits.”

  “I noticed that.”

  “To prevent any possible contamination. They’re good workers, you know. Relentless.” A deep frown-like crease marred De Quincey’s already heavily lined forehead. “Who is this?” he asked Crispig, as if the question had only just occurred to him. Before I could reply he grabbed an ancient looking blunderbuss from a countertop and aimed it at me. “Who is he?” He demanded again, his voice high and shrill.

  “Mr. Screed sended him,” Crispig said, apparently unperturbed by the firearm being waved at me.

  “Who are you?” De Quincey asked.

  “My name’s Morgan. I’m here because I need your help and expertise.” I kept my voice low and measured in a conscious attempt to mask my rising concern. I glanced at the walls behind him. It seemed someone had lobbed several different dishes of food at them, as well as the swinging lights, which were covered in clumps of mashed potato. I was fairly certain the lunatic before me was the culprit.

  “If you’ve come to steal my secrets you’ll be gravely disappointed.” De Quincey tapped the blunderbuss against his temple. “They’re all locked away in here. And they’re never coming out.”

  “I…” Why did everything have to be so hard? “I came to ask about the black spice. Scree…Mr. Screed said you were working out the formula.”

  De Quincey strode toward me. He sniffed the air and his nostrils flared like a wild, terrified horse catching the scent of a coyote. “You smell of them.”

  “Them?”

  “Government. Busybodies. Snoopers.”

  “That’s probably because the world’s overrun with them.” I nodded to the ceiling. “It’s almost impossible to dodge them when you’re stuck out there. Frigging bloodsuckers,” I said, trying another tack.

  “Indeed.” De Quincey gave me a long, pensive look, before laying down his gun. “I trust Mr. Screed, so I’ll have to extend you the same courtesy. You want to know about the spice?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I’ve been studying it intimately, for days.”

  “I can see that.”

  He stared at me, before nodding slowly. “Know your enemy,” he said, as he motioned toward a long granite counter that ran along one wall. It was lined with a centrifuge, microscopes, a spectrometer, Bunsen burners, Petri dishes and all manner of odd-looking instruments. “The drug is a cocktail of sorts. The main component is cocaine, it gives the blinkereds an initial rush. Then the hallucinogens kick in. One part LSD.” He shook a small glass phial. The black spice within glittered under the mashed potato filtered light. “And one part Mallowshrums. Do you know what they are?”

  “Some sort of psychotropic mushrooms?”

  “Indeed,” De Quincey said, his eyes gleaming once more. “Very powerful hallucinogens that grow in the deeps of the Hinterlands. And then we have the black crystals, they’re ground so fine you can barely detect the particles with the naked eye. They’re the final tangible ingredient but an enchantment has also been cast over the mix and this is what makes it an entirely different animal. Because of the spell, the drug’s effects are delivered in controlled sequential stages and it’s this element I’m most interested in. Imagine the wine you could make! The distinct decisive flavors! A true nectar of the Gods!” He tittered and placed his hand upon my shoulder. It seemed we had a bond.

  “If you ever need a guinea pig, just let me know!” I smiled. “So what else do you know about the spice?”

  “Not much, other than it’s wildly addictive to blinkereds. I’ve no idea how it’s being manufactured. Yet…” He grinned, flashing a row of wine-stained teeth. “I will. And when I do…”

  “Listen,” I said, in an effort to pull him back to the present, “My sources in the blinkered police-”

  “Sources?” De Quincey scratched his wrist. “You said you weren’t-”

  “I need to know the whereabouts of my adversaries at all times, Giles,” I said. “I have sources everywhere. People who watch the watchers. You know, the Council, the blinkered authorities. Even the Organization. As you said, know your enemy.”

  He gave me a look somewhere between admiration and apology. “Forgive my interruption. Continue.”

  “Right. So I discovered that the blinkered police had found a young man high on spice. He’s alive but unresponsive, and someone duct-taped a mirror to his hand and set it right before his eyes. Any idea why they’d do that?”

  “To hypnotize him. The eyes are indeed windows and it sounds like his, along with the spice, took him deep into his own inner worlds. Is the young man blinkered?”

  “He is.”

  “Then his cognitive defenses will be low, maybe non-existent.” De Quincey narrowed his eyes. “Someone’s probably slipp
ed inside his mind and tampered with it.”

  “Is that possible?”

  He gave me a skittish look and pulled his sleeves over his hands. “Can you read minds, Mr. Morgan?”

  “Please, just Morgan is fine. It’s not my specialty, though I have done it. Blinkereds only. Their minds are more susceptible, fewer psychic defenses, maybe because so many of them don't believe it's even possible.”

  “Exactly, they don’t know shit. Defense of the mind and soul is one of the very first things we’re taught. After tying shoe laces of course, or maybe that was just me. But yes, the blinkereds know little, which leaves them wide open to the more insidious forces amongst us.”

  “Like the Silver Spiral.”

  “Yes, indeed. Argyle told me about his run in with them. Perhaps they’re using the drug to… ah, but that would be clever.” He jabbed the air with his forefinger. “Very clever indeed!”

  “What would?”

  De Quincey rounded on me. “The witches could be dispensing this stuff themselves, so that they can travel into the blinkered’s minds.”

  “For what?”

  “Who knows?” Then the frown returned to his forehead, and it seemed he’d forgotten I was standing there. “But I’m busy, I have perfection to bottle.” His eyes jumped to the wine vat in the corner and he began to turn toward it, until I placed a hand on his wrist.

  “Mr. Screed sent me here, he said you could help.”

  De Quincey sighed. “You said you’re not proficient at reading minds. Tell me, have you ever ventured into someone else’s inner world?”

  “No.”

  “Well, its probably the only way you'll ever find out what’s going on. But I can tell you it’s not easy.” He grinned. “Unless you have the right equipment. And I might just have a trinket that could help you.”

  “Trinket?”

  De Quincey stared at me before slowly nodding. “I happen to have a small collection of…contraband. Including a magical device the witch hunters of old employed to peer into the minds of those they suspected of having access to more power than they did.”

  “The witch hunters used magic? Isn’t that-”

  “Spectacularly hypocritical? Yes. But hypocrisy is one of the cornerstones of blinkered civilization. Privilege and pardon for the cream of the crop, subjugation and rule of law for the herd. But anyway…wait here.” De Quincey strode across the room, humming Beethoven’s Seventh Symphony as he went.

  “I’ve got a feeling things are about to leap into a whole new dimension of crazy,” I muttered, as I watched the zombies in their crinkly yellow bio hazard suits stomping through the vat of grapes, with their milky white eyes fixed on mine.

  19

  A crashing din rang out from the ante-room De Quincey had vanished into. I glanced through the doorway and saw a flash of bright light, then the noise stopped and all I could hear was… chanting? Moments later, De Quincey appeared holding what looked like mankind’s first attempt at making eyeglasses. They were little more than two discs of thin quartz and a small curved bridge of bone.

  “Here you go. Pinch-nose glasses. But not like any others. Put ‘em on and they’ll stay with you when you journey into the astral realm. They’ll help to carry you into the mind of your target and, if unhindered by unforeseen psychic defenses, travel deep into their inner worlds.”

  “What’s this?” I asked, pointing to the tiny, faint green symbols running down the lenses.

  “Code. My code.” He paused and held up a finger in warning. “A supernatural clause that will render the glasses useless in about seven days. An adequate amount of time for you to make your enquires and free this young man from his narcissistic spell.”

  “Why did you add code? Why break them?”

  “Because I still have blinkered friends,” De Quincey said.

  “So do I.”

  He gave a heavy sigh. “Then, we’d probably agree that they’ve already been preyed upon more than enough by our community. Which is why I don’t want the glasses falling into the wrong hands. Indeed I don’t know with any certainty that they haven’t already.” He gave me a deeply suspicious look. “I’ll just have to hope you’re legit. But either way, you only have them for a week. After that gazing through them will be like viewing the world through a bowl of porridge. Now, try them out. We need to make sure you know how to use them. Crispig!”

  “Ugh?” Crispig looked up from the empty wine bottle he was peering into.

  “I want you to take a pinch of this special powder then free your mind and let go of your psychic defenses.” De Quincey handed the goliath a spoonful of black spice.

  “Defenses?” Crispig asked.

  De Quincey turned to me. “Gaining access to his mind should be a cakewalk. Now put the glasses on.”

  I did, and the world became tinged with blue-white light. It was like gazing through two circles of thick winter ice. De Quincey took a pinch of black spice between his fingers and dropped it into Crispig’s palm. “What do I do?” Crispig asked.

  “Just pop it into your mouth,” De Quincey said. “And I’ll have a bit myself.” He snorted up a long line of spice and turned to me, his face as flushed as an overripe apple. “For research purposes. Now you.” He handed me the spoon.

  “I don’t want to touch that shit.”

  “You have to get on his…” De Quincey screwed his face up and poked his tongue out. It looked like it was taking him a great effort to pull it back into his mouth. “Wavelength.”

  “Fine.” Drugs weren’t my thing, but the clock was ticking. I took a pinch of spice and dropped it into my mouth.

  The hit was almost instantaneous.

  First a rush of blood that began blazing in my chest and soared through my head, the effect more intense than any buzz I’d gotten from a crystal. Next, the world dimmed through the glasses, enough to reveal the wide spectrum of colors creeping across the food-stained wall. So that was the mushrooms. And then the black crystals kicked in and I felt an almost uncontainable surge of power swelling through my veins. My dark other stirred, and I felt his strength, it was like that of some long forgotten behemoth that had been hibernating for an age on the bottom of a hidden sea… Pull yourself together.

  “Pull yourself together,” De Quincey said.

  Had he said it first, or had I? I wrestled against the torrent of insanity babbling up through my mind.

  “Look into his eyes,” De Quincey said, nodding to my side.

  I turned to Crispig. Oh God, his eyes were huge. Endless.

  I wanted to wrestle my gaze away… but I had a job to do. I forced myself to hold onto rational thoughts despite the deranged hallucinations, which were slowly transforming Crispig’s eyes into a pair of sparkling blue swimming pools. Get a grip. I took a crystal from my pocket and used its power to drift outside myself.

  Clouds of vapors swirled around me as I sailed into the astral realm. Everything was still, blue and hazy, which meant De Quincey’s glasses had indeed traveled with me. I gazed back at Crispig, my eyes meeting his and slowly, I seeped into them and began to drift into his consciousness.

  It was like wading through muddy water, but gradually it cleared and I found myself somewhere else entirely. “What the hell!” I wasn’t sure if I’d said it or thought it, but the words, whether spoken or not, began to drift around me amid a current of sound.

  Crispig’s inner world was a carnival. No, not a carnival, a theme park.

  I walked across a grassy concourse filled with buttercups and snails with cartoonish faces, toward a fairground midway where tiny Crispigs aimed rifles at squawking yellow rubber ducks. Meandering vendors, who suspiciously resembled Crispig, sold long pink and lilac cotton candy beards, while a Hurdy Gurdy man played polka music, its tempo growing faster and faster until it reached a horrible, manic speed. The tune faded as I reached a huge brownstone building with a marquee that read ‘The Fabulous Museum of Beards’. Then I caught wind of a restaurant, that seemed to specialize exclusively
in roast boar, nestled among a line of identical haberdasheries that only appeared to sell gaudily striped leggings.

  “Hail the king!” the crowd of tiny Crispig’s announced as they ran in a procession from the midway and stood before a giant stairway covered in sparkly golden glitter. At its summit, perched upon a throne, sat Crispig. He was watching a troop of buxom women, each of them wearing an eye-patch, as they danced and writhed…

  “Enough!” I closed my eyes and forced my way out of his moronic utopia of tat and insanity. Drifting back through the depths of his consciousness, I passed through the swirling astral realm and returned to my body.

  I took a deep breath and struggled to my feet as I pulled off the glasses and placed them in my pocket. “Well that was…horrible.”

  “Was it?” De Quincey was sitting across the room at a work station, polishing empty wine bottles. “You seemed to be smiling a lot.”

  “Grimacing.” I glanced at Crispig who was busy staring at the wall behind me. An expression of ecstasy and wonder clung to his low, heavy brow. “So that’s all I need to get into a blinkered’s mind?” I asked.

  “Yes. Form a visceral connection, meaning if they’re on spice, you take spice. If they’re drunk, you get drunk. If they’re scared-”

  “I’ve got it.” I nodded to Crispig. “Is he alright?”

  “Yeah, he’ll be fine. I’ll send him back to Mr. Screed when he comes to.”

  “Okay, thanks for your help. Uh, can you tell me the fastest way back to the city?” I needed to get out of this madhouse, A.S.A.P. The black spice was still swirling through my head and, even though I’d only taken a small dose, it filled me with a cloying sense of claustrophobia. I needed to get above ground, I needed fresh air.

  I struggled to listen to De Quincey’s surprisingly lucid directions as he ushered me from his bunker. “Take care, Mr. Morgan,” he said. “And give my regards to Argyle.”