“Go down and open the true cover of the Book,” called Wormdark. “It won’t harm you.”
Vermilion eased himself into the shadowed area, one hand tightly gripping his amulet. It felt hot to the touch, as though operating, warding off any powers that might be conspiring against him here. He slid the smallest key into its lock and pulled up a section of the floor. Light glowed beyond, a soft diffusion, and in that aura he could discern the title page of the Book. It was beautifully decorated, the colors of the pen work magnificent. This did appear to be the proscribed Book. He had been told to look for certain sigils and saw, to his relief, that they were indeed present. Yes, this was the Malleus Tenebrarum.
Relieved, he closed and locked the inner cover and made to climb back out. However, he found that he could not move either foot—they appeared to be glued in place. He struggled, cursing crudely, twisting this way and that, but no amount of effort would free his feet. He held his amulet in one hand with the key ring, and with his other hand pulled out a fat handgun. He saw Wormdark’s head poking up over the side of the huge Book and swung the weapon round, drawing a bead on him.
“I’m afraid that won’t do you any good here,” said the little man.
Vermilion pulled the trigger, but nothing happened. The gun appeared to have jammed.
“There are a few niceties that have to be observed,” said Wormdark, remaining out of reach. “You see, when a person summons the demon to do the work of transporting the Malleus Tenebrarum, there is a price to pay. Usually this is something small, an offering to the demon, like a finger, or an eye. However, once the Book has been moved to a new location three times, the demon has earned its right to freedom and is to be released back to whatever dark realm originally spawned it. As it leaves, the demon’s memory of the Book is wiped clean.”
Vermilion could hear something behind him and tried to twist around to see what the commotion was, but he caught only a partial glance. He knew, however, what was going on. The huge demon had transformed back into a more nebulous form, like an aerial spirit, and was rising rapidly, soon to be absorbed by the high ceiling, thence wafting out into whatever dimension was waiting for it. Obviously it wasn’t going back into the Book.
“The Book,” said Wormdark, “has now been moved for a third time. Its former demon has now taken its leave.”
Vermilion swore again. He knew what was coming.
“A new demon must take its place. I think I forgot to mention that it’s the summoner who fills this vacancy. In this case, that would be you.”
Vermilion tried again to shoot, but again it was not possible.
“If you could throw me the keys, I’d be grateful,” said Wormdark, tentatively holding out a bony hand.
Vermilion would have refused, but the key ring had come to life and became increasingly hotter and hotter, so much so that it threatened to set his hand alight. He dropped the gun and released the key ring, which swung through the air as if magnetized. Wormdark caught the ring and it seemed to have no effect whatsoever on him. Before Vermilion could protest further, the thick front cover of the Book swung up and came down over him, crushing him into the space. Moments later he heard the sound of the lock being turned.
Wormdark got down from the Book and stood back, admiring the stone surroundings. “Yes,” he murmured. “This will do very nicely. And there was no need to embroil Eddy and those ghastly weapons in the exchanges after all. Pity about the library of the Dark Army, but there’s more than one way to skin a cat.”
At the back of the busy barroom Oil-Gun Eddy quaffed his beer as though it was going out of style. He eyed the little figure opposite him suspiciously. “You had the Book moved?”
Wormdark slid a small leather satchel across the stained table and Eddy grabbed it and tucked it inside his leather biker’s jacket. He knew that it contained the three keys.
“It was necessary,” said Wormdark. “We’ve successfully thwarted the Dark Army and eradicated one of its potential new rising stars. It will be a long while before they make a play for the Book again. I’ve written the new location down on some parchment and it’s inside the satchel. Once you’ve read it, the parchment will disintegrate. You’re still the guardian, and only you will know the location, as before.”
“And you. You’ll know,” grunted Eddy.
“Yes, of course, I should have said. You’re the guardian, and I’m the official Protector. Insurance, if you like.”
TO BE IN ULTHAR ON A SUMMER AFTERNOON
DIRK FLINTHART
I made my way to Ulthar by the simple expedient of following a cat, for all cats know the way to that shadowy city. Of course, following a cat isn’t a simple task, especially as it slips through the cracks in the walls of time and space which keep the many worlds apart. Yet it is still easier than summoning and binding a Byakhee. Even though they can carry a rider more quickly, the slightest error in the ritual will leave you at the mercy of the horrid things—and no matter what the stories say, the Byakhee do not enjoy being treated as the Yellow Cab Company of the occult fraternity.
Anastasia Usmanova had made no errors, though I knew this must be her first such ritual. The Circle of Loranz on the floor of her apartment was flawless. The candles, still burning, gave off the distinctive odor of dog hair, as they ought. The Five Sigils had been incised with precision and care. Assuming her nerve held and that she took proper precautions against the rigors of the journey, I knew immediately I must seek her in Ulthar.
My guide brought me to one of the mazy back alleys of the river district. Emerging from an impossible small crevice between two walls of rough stone, I breathed deeply and caught the distinctive scent of burning drifa, the herb the Ulthari use to keep the insects at bay in summer. It was a pungent smell, not unlike mint and coffee, and it always filled me with pleasure. With a click of my tongue I knelt, offering my hand to the cat—a large, yellow tom with a torn ear. He eyed me dubiously.
“What’s this about?” he asked.
I straightened. “Ah,” I said. “One of the talkers. Sorry. I didn’t realize. I was going to offer you some salmon.” It is best to stay on good terms with the cats in Ulthar.
He sat up and licked a forepaw with careful consideration. “Fresh or canned?”
“Canned,” I admitted. “Carrying fresh salmon is a little difficult.”
His eyes—one blue, one green, I saw—closed lazily, and opened again. “All right.”
I opened the can and placed it on the rough cobbles between us, then backed away. The yellow tom swaggered forward and sniffed appreciatively. “Not cat food,” he said. “Good. But I bet you’ve got some of the cheap stuff in that backpack of yours. Glad you noticed I can talk, genius.” He licked daintily at the liquid atop the pink meat, his eyes narrowing in pleasure.
“I never bother with cat food,” I said, and showed him three more cans of premium pink salmon. “This way, I can eat the stuff if times get tight.” He ate greedily, licking his lips and pawing at the tin to get a better angle. “You could probably score a little more, if you cared to help me.”
“Help you?” He glanced up. “With what? You’ve got rats, maybe?”
“A woman.” I brought out a photo of Anastasia, printed from her FaceBook page. The cat glanced at it, and went back to his food. “She would be new here,” I said. “She came with one of the dark flyers. She won’t have wanted anyone to see, so she will have landed in the woods and walked. She hasn’t been here before, so she’ll be lying low, looking around to get her bearings.”
“You should try the Temple of the Elder Ones,” said the cat, eyeing my backpack. “It’s the stone tower on the highest hill, in the Old District.”
“You’re telling me how to find the Temple?” I chuckled. “Glad you noticed I’m sorceror enough to follow a cat through the Ways of Night, genius.”
The cat blinked. “All right,” he said. “I earned that. Show me your picture thing again.” He looked at Anastasia’s photograph more carefully th
is time, tilting his head to one side. “Got anything with her smell?”
“Don’t laugh,” I said, bringing out a carefully sealed plastic sandwich bag. Inside lay a set of skimpy pink panties I took from Anastasia’s laundry basket. I opened the bag and the cat sniffed carefully.
“That will do,” he said at last. “I’ll tell the brothers and sisters. Where can we find you?”
“Where else?” I said, and set off up the steep, winding cobbled ways towards the Temple of the Elder Ones.
It had been some five decades—as Ulthar dreams away the time—since venerable Atal gave up the ivory throne of the Temple. At three and a half centuries, he finally named a successor, then opened a portal into the darkness beyond dreams and took his leave. Not before time, either. His weakness for moon-wine was well known after Randolph Carter’s infamous visit, and his stories of Hatheg-Kla and Unknown Kadath and other such places visited in his youth had long since passed into hoary folklore. The new patriarch, a man by the name of Bierce, had a sharp wit and a fund of amusing anecdotes. He also preferred good bourbon to the sticky sweetness of moon-wine, a fact which I had taken into account in making my preparations. He accepted my bottle of Wild Turkey with an eager hand, and favored me with a smile.
“Good to see you again, young Drake,” he said, his eyes twinkling under his bushy white brows. “You’ll join me, of course.”
“A small one,” I agreed. “I’m here on business.”
“Of course you are.” He opened an ornate cabinet to one side of the yellowing ivory throne and brought out two queerly shaped glasses of purple crystal. “It’s always business, isn’t it? One would think the clean air of Ulthar, her marvelous cats, her delightful architecture and her salubrious climate would draw visitors from the many worlds.”
“Not to forget the lutenists,” I said, accepting a measure of bourbon.
“Damn the lutenists,” snapped Bierce, tossing off most of his drink in a single gulp. “Ever since that fool Carter talked to that long-faced idiot from Providence, the place has been nothing but lutenists. I hate lutes.” He finished his drink and poured another, glaring at the bottle. “What’s your damned business here, then. A book, I take it?”
“A woman,” I said, and showed him Anastasia’s photograph. He took it with one big-knuckled hand and studied it.
Finally he looked up. “She’s pretty.”
I smiled. “She has a book. You were right the first time.”
Bierce shook his head and returned the photo. “Still with the books,” he growled. “All right. What’s it got to do with me?”
“She hasn’t come here yet?”
He shook his head.
“I don’t think she speaks much besides English,” I said. “How many people in Ulthar are fluent?”
Bierce cocked his head. “We get some drifters,” he said. “Can’t account for them. But those as live here, now…maybe a score or so? Including me.”
“She’ll need help,” I mused. “She won’t have local coin. She probably doesn’t intend this as her final destination in any case.”
Another measure of bourbon splashed out. Bierce touched the lip of his glass to mine, and the peculiar, violet crystal rang with an unpleasantly shrill note. He frowned. “Next time you come, maybe you can bring some decent shotglasses. These things—Atal used them for his moon-wine binges. I’m reasonably sure they’re carved from the skulls of a species of blind giant frog that lives in the caves beneath the Forbidden Mountain of Taktal, and frankly I don’t think much of them.” He sipped, and made a face. “So where is this lassie planning to go?”
I shook my head. “I can’t be sure. I don’t have the full text of her book. But it definitely contains the correct invocations to bring her to Ulthar, so here I am.” I brought a second bottle of Wild Turkey out of my backpack and put it on the table. “You’re the Patriarch. Can you maybe put it about—quietly, of course—that nobody is to help a certain red-haired earthwoman leave Ulthar for the next week or two?”
Bierce looked at the bottle with longing, and rubbed his chin. “Well… I don’t really like using the office that way. That’s not what the Patriarch does, you understand.”
I brought out a small leather bag, and tipped the contents onto the inlaid table in a shining lump. Bierce’s eyes lit up, and he pulled one of the little magnets free of the heap, examining it carefully. “Neodymium,” I said. “A rare earth element discovered after your time. I’m certain these will retain their strength here.” I pushed the bright cluster towards him. “There’s two hundred in that pile.”
He gathered the magnets into one big, leathery paw, pushing them back and forth with a finger so they clinked and rattled. “Ah,” he said. “You know—I’ve been consulting with the Elder Ones, and it appears that over the next two weeks, the stars simply will not be right for red-haired women to make long journeys. As Patriarch, I feel it incumbent upon me to ensure that the population of Ulthar be made aware of the possible dangers inherent in the situation.” He smiled broadly, and I raised my glass in reply.
A movement caught the corner of my eye. One of the enormous, scarlet damask drapes that concealed the ancient stone walls moved, as if stirred by a breeze. A moment later, two bright eyes peeped from beneath the edge of the heavy cloth. A little tabby-cat mewed plaintively.
“Excuse me,” I said to Bierce. “I believe I may be about to receive some important news.”
He followed my gaze, and his face softened. “Talking to the cats already, Drake? Why don’t you take up living in Ulthar? The place seems to like you.”
“Maybe one day,” I said.
Maybe one day. But not soon.
The little tabby led me through the pleasantly crooked byways of Ulthar, past the mercantile sector to the river district. Even in my earthman’s garb—blue jeans, sturdy hiking boots, microfibre jacket and broad hat—I drew little attention from the locals. Ulthar lies deep within the Dreamlands, those odd realms which can occasionally be visited by the people of Earth (and elsewhere) during their sleep, and the Ulthari are quite used to people of unusual appearance. And of course, in Ulthar it is no strange thing at all to be seen following a cat from place to place.
The yellow tom was waiting for us outside the stables of a small inn. The creatures within—not exactly horses, but near enough—burbled pleasantly as I approached, hoping perhaps for a piece of fresh meat, or a rub behind the ears where their claws cannot reach. The tom stayed well away from them, for there are no laws in Ulthar to bind the horses from snacking on stray cats.
“Took you long enough,” he said as I sauntered into the shade of the building. “I thought you wanted to find this woman.”
“She’s here?”
He sat back and licked at a forepaw. “Nearby,” he said. “Near enough, anyhow. The deal included more salmon?” I brought another can of fish out of my backpack and set it on the cobbles beside the watering trough. The tom eyed it, then looked up at me. “No thumbs, genius. Remember?” he said.
“I’ll open it when you show me the girl,” I told him. I had dealt with cats before, after all. “And if it’s really her, you’ll get the second can as well.”
“I’m hungry naaoowww!” he yowled.
I shrugged, crossed my arms and leaned against the wall, enjoying the cool of the shaded stone. Cats always have their self-interest at heart. The only way to get what you want of them is to make sure they know that serving your interests will better theirs as well.
The tom sulked, turning his back on me to lick his butt. I whistled a little snatch of You Can’t Always Get What You Want, from the Stones. The cat glanced back at me over his shoulder. I shoved the can of salmon with my foot, so it grated over the stones. The little tabby—not a talker, apparently—stared anxiously at the pair of us.
“All right,” the tom growled. He stretched sinuously, walked to the door of the tavern and sat down again. “They gave her one of those broom things. She poked me with it!” The indignation in his
thin voice was palpable.
I glanced inside. The tavern—The Zoog’s Folly—was busy enough for this hour of the afternoon. A cluster of river-ganns in their hoods and rag-wrappings argued in their clicking, popping tongue over the price of a roast rhu-fowl. In one corner of the large room, by the fireplace, half a dozen men in garish boat-finery diced ferociously. The bar itself was occupied by a mixture of types: a few bronze-skinned Ulthari, a Narrakh plainsman, and three whose garb was strange to me, drinking what looked like moon-wine. A skinny, pallid man in the traditional green-and-gold striped velvet of an Ulthari lutenist banged away at a twelve-course lute, warbling an off-key tune. In the farthest corner of the room, her head low, Anastasia Usmanova crouched behind a straw broom, pushing it aimlessly back and forth, her eyes wide. I shut the door quietly, and took a moment to give the tom his salmon. The second can I slid—neatly opened—across the hay-strewn cobbles towards the little tabby. The yellow tom growled, but didn’t move from his feast. Hopefully the other cat would get a decent share before he finished his can and took the rest away from her. I always tried to cultivate a reputation for even-handedness in my dealings with the cats of Ulthar.
Entering the tavern I took a prominent place at the bar, making sure Anastasia could see my earth-clothes as I ordered Langnur ale in fluent Ulthari. Langnur is my favourite Ulthari tipple, brewed nearby using water from a blessed spring and a unique mixture of barley and herbs. It is sharp, clean, refreshing and delicious, and I miss it every time I pick up a beer back on Earth.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Anastasia pause in her sweeping and stare. I turned, and raised my glass. “Confronting, isn’t it?” I said.
She blinked, and clutched her broom to her chest. Somehow she had acquired Ulthari dress: dark leggings, soft high boots, and a silvery-gray tunic cinched at the waist with a wide leather belt. It looked well on her. Bierce was right. She really was very pretty.
The Tales from the Miskatonic University Library Page 5
