by Darren Shan
I suspect the villacs have more to do with the mood swing. I remember Dorak boasting to Capac Raimi about how he created Ayuamarcan leaders and sent them among his foes with orders to bend them to his will. Maybe fresh Ayuamarcans are at work in the east, and some of the gang leaders have only recently come into being with the sole purpose of persuading their followers to heed the call of Paucar Wami and his Snakes.
Whatever their motivation, I welcome the new arrivals warmly, dropping in on the Snakes in Cockerel Square every few hours to make speeches (hesitant at first, but I get the hang of it quickly), promising a new future where those of the east stand among the city’s elite. They cheer wildly, keeping any worries they may harbor to themselves.
I’ve become a highly visible figure, putting myself about, touching base with all the phalanxes, handing out essentials to the needy at food and clothes stations, scowling at the cameras (Paucar Wami doesn’t smile), vowing to build from the roots up and lead the east into a new, glorious era. I haven’t given any interviews, but eventually I will, making the final transition from mythical killer to public man of the people.
It felt surreal at first, but it’s amazing how swiftly you can adapt. I’ve been head of the Snakes for less than forty-eight hours but feel like I’ve been doing this for years. I should be alarmed at how naturally I’ve settled into the role of leader, and how that plays into the villacs’ hands, but I don’t have time. Being in command leaves you with little opportunity to brood about problems of your own. You have to put your head down and get on with it, and somewhere in the middle of all the decision-making you lose your desire and ability to think about yourself—which may be exactly what the blind priests planned.
A spokesman for Stuart Jordan calls at eight, hoping to arrange a meeting, and after that it’s nonstop, one flunky after another, promising the world if the leader of the Snakes will meet with the police commissioner in an attempt to put an end to the violence. What Jordan really wants is to jump on the bandwagon and take credit for the cease-fire. We stall him diplomatically and promise to get back to him soon. In fact we’ve no intention of having anything to do with Jordan. His days are numbered—someone must be held accountable for the riots, and Jordan’s as suitable a patsy as any—so we’re holding out for the new man.
While desperate officials jam the lines, I take to the streets for the carnival that is gearing into life. Now that it’s relatively safe, people want to celebrate. They’ve survived the worst outbreak of violence in forty years and witnessed the birth of a new era, where those of the east boast an armed force of their own and need no longer walk in fear of the Troops or any other force. Party time!
The street parties burn far into the night, and it seems as if everyone in the east is dancing in the middle of the roads, lighting bonfires in open squares—carefully supervised, unlike the wild fires of the riots—setting off fireworks, drinking and eating too much, making love in cars and on rooftops. The Snakes blend in with the revelers, accepting their thanks with polite smiles, refusing alcohol, drugs and other gifts, alert to the threat of a sneak raid by the Troops, Kluxers or police.
Ama slips away as the festivities are hitting full swing, to be with her “father.” She promises to return in the morning but I tell her not to bother. “Tired of me already, Sapa Inca?” she asks, eyes twinkling.
“The great and mighty Paucar Wami has no time for pleasures of the flesh,” I grunt pompously, then grin. “Come if you want, but there isn’t much you can do. If you’d rather spend time with Cafran, I’ll understand.”
She nods. “I’d like that. It’s hard work running an army. If you’re sure you can stumble along without me…”
“I’ll manage somehow.”
She kisses me quickly. I want to make something more of the kiss, but keep my hands by my sides. “Take care, Al,” she says. “The coup’s gone like a dream but you’re bound to hit a glitch somewhere. Don’t trust any of these bastards.”
“I won’t.”
“Keep me in touch with what’s going on, and call when you need me.”
“You think I can’t get by on my own?”
“You’re a man,” she chuckles. “Of course you can’t.”
I laugh, watching her go, wishing I could keep her.
I run into the glitch quicker than Ama could have anticipated. In the early hours of Saturday I grab some much-needed sleep. I’m stiff when I wake and spend twenty minutes exercising on the floor beside my bed, limbering up. After checking with my Cobras—all’s well—I indulge in a leisurely breakfast. After that I take to the streets with my bodyguards. Many who left at the height of the riots are returning and I ensure they don’t feel threatened. I also arrange meetings with some of the looters who’ve been stripping shops and apartments bare, and ask them to return the goods they stole. I don’t come down heavy—I have to keep these people on my side—merely ask that they consider the long-term profits over short-term, and vow to bear it in mind if they do me this favor. Most cooperate, and by afternoon news cameras are focusing on the incredible sight of thieves returning their plunder to its rightful owners.
It’s evening when the glitch hits. I’m watching a news program, enjoying the positive coverage, when the anchorman cuts in with a report of violence in the center of the city. Although it hasn’t been confirmed, it appears that several of the Snakes attacked a group of diners leaving a restaurant, killing eight people. At least three of the eight were Kluxers.
As my brain races, a radio reporter makes an excited announcement—the lobby of Party Central has been firebombed by the Snakes. The death toll hasn’t been established, but several Troops perished, along with a number of civilians.
“Sard!” I bellow, startling the Snakes in the van. Sard’s a Cobra. Although they’re not supposed to reveal their names, I made them tell me, so I could address them directly without having to remember and repeat their triumvirate numbers all the time. Sard responds to my call immediately, poking his head into the van. “What the fuck are the Snakes doing at Party Central?” I roar.
“Sapa Inca?” he frowns.
“I just heard on the radio that we’ve attacked Party Central. And there was a report on TV that we’re killing Kluxers too.”
“But Sapa Inca, you authorized the strikes.”
My eyes narrow. “Get out,” I snarl at the Snakes. They obey without question, clearing the way for Sard. I tell him to close the door, then grab him by the lapels of his leather jacket and jerk him forward. “When did I tell you?”
“Early this morning, before dawn.”
While I was sleeping. The priests must have sent the real Paucar Wami to issue fresh orders to the Cobras. Those sons of…
“What did I say?” I growl.
“You sent the phalanxes of the fourth triumvirate to take the battle to our enemies,” Sard answers proudly. “I’m not sure what their targets were—only the Cobra of the fourth knows that—but you said we’d hit fast and hard, where it hurt, and warned us to be ready for a backlash.”
“Did anybody question the logic of attacking the two most powerful forces in the city at the same time?” I bark. “We haven’t even consolidated our position here!”
The Cobra shrugs. “You’re the Sapa Inca. We don’t question your orders.”
“Brainless fucking…” I mutter vile curses beneath my breath, but they won’t change anything, so I snap out of my rage and consider this mess from a cold, unemotional standpoint. “Recall them,” I tell Sard. “I was mistaken. The thrill of victory rushed to my head. I want them back before they do more damage.”
“I can’t,” Sard says, staring at me oddly. “You told them to leave their radios and phones behind. They’re incommunicado.”
“Fuck!” I kick a stand stacked high with TV sets, then kick it again, smashing the glass of the set lowest down. “Find them. Send your men and…”
I stop when I see him shaking his head. “I don’t know where they are. We could search, but those of the fo
urth have been trained to lie low and cover their tracks, the same as the rest of us. The odds—”
“Screw the odds. Take a phalanx, split it into pairs, and hunt them down. Look everywhere. Don’t stop to draw breath. When your men flag, replace them.”
“As you wish, Sapa Inca,” he says, bowing his head.
“Sard!” I shout as he backs toward the exit. “Will you do me a favor?”
“Of course, Sapa Inca.”
“Start using your brain.” He blinks uncomprehendingly. “I’m not a god. I’m prone to error like everyone else. The next time I issue an order that makes no sense, that strikes you as the dumbest fucking thing you’ve ever heard, tell me.”
“But we’ve been taught that to question the Sapa Inca is to invite death.”
“Are you afraid of death?” I ask quietly.
The Cobra snaps erect. “No, Sapa Inca!”
“Then use your initiative in future. Tell the other Cobras to do the same. I need people to challenge me when I make a bad call. Are you prepared to risk my wrath, even at the cost of your life?”
He nods solidly. “I am.”
I smile fleetingly, then point to the door. “Now go find those fools and pray they haven’t fucked everything up for the rest of us.”
As evening turns to night, reports of attacks by the Snakes increase. The three phalanxes are covering a lot of ground, hitting Tasso’s and Davern’s forces at random. Suddenly the news crews don’t care about thieves returning stolen goods. They want to know why the Snakes have overshot their boundaries, where we’ll hit next. In the space of a few hours we’ve gone from being saviors of the east to would-be conquerors of the north, south and west. And nobody likes it.
I tell my media-friendly front men to issue blanket denials—we know nothing of the attacks, they’re the work of a splinter organization, we don’t condone them—then get busy trying to prevent the catastrophe poised to engulf us.
I send messengers to track down the villacs, so that I can talk about this with them, but the few who speak English can’t be located and the others merely babble meaninglessly in response to my call for answers.
As the airwaves fill with the news that a highly ranked Troop was butchered at home, along with his wife, three kids and visiting mother-in-law (comics will have a field day with that in the coming weeks), I dial Ford Tasso’s number and hope that he’s still in Party Central, not on his way over in a retaliatory strike.
The phone clicks and Tasso snarls before I have a chance to say anything. “You better have a great fucking explanation for this, Algiers.”
“It isn’t my doing.”
“You lead the Snakes, don’t you?”
“They’re following Paucar Wami’s instructions, not mine. The first I knew of this was when the story broke on TV. I’m doing all I can to call them off.”
“What do you expect me to do in the meantime? Sit here, twiddle my thumbs and wait for you to sort this shit out? Do you know how many people I have urging me to stamp you out like the arrogant little upstart you are?”
“I can imagine,” I chuckle humorlessly.
“I’ve held them off because I wanted to check with you first, make sure you weren’t being set up by some sneaky bastards disguised as Snakes.”
“I’m definitely being set up,” I groan, “but by sneaky bastards on the inside. The priests are behind this. I don’t know what they’re up to, but they seem to want you and Davern to attack the east—which should be reason enough not to.”
He sighs heavily. “You’re asking a lot.”
“I know. But if you send the Troops in, you’ll play into the villacs’ hands. Stall your men. Give me time. Please.”
He’s silent for five seconds. Ten. Fifteen. Finally, “I want to send someone to discuss this with you.”
“Who?”
“Frank.”
“When can he be here?”
“He’s in the field. It’ll be midnight before he’s back. By the time I brief him… How does three a.m. sound?”
“Perfect. Send him in by Blesster Street. I’ll have an escort waiting.”
“You’d better,” he growls, hanging up.
I dial the number Eugene Davern gave me. He answers on the second ring with a curt “Yeah?”
“It’s Al Jeery. I want to talk.”
“The time for talking’s past. You had your chance. I’ve got nothing to say except see you on the street, nigger.”
“Don’t be a fuckhead!” I snap. “Negotiate with me now and we might walk away from this stronger than ever. Cut me off and we’re both going down.”
He pauses suspiciously. “What are you talking about?”
“All I want is to make my home turf safe. I have no wish to go to war with you or the Troops. Even if I did, would I start one while I’m still trying to secure the east?”
“You might,” he mutters. “Nobody was expecting an attack.”
“Because it’s suicide. The bastards behind this only want chaos. They don’t give a fuck about any of us. I’m meeting a representative of Ford Tasso’s at three a.m. Send one of your men along. I’ll have him met at Blesster Street. Hear what I have to say. Hold your forces in check until then.”
“I don’t know…”
“A few hours, Davern, that’s all I’m asking.”
He considers. Davern’s new to this game, not as seasoned as Tasso. He’s smart but itchy, afraid of being made the fall guy. He could swing either way.
“OK,” he says abruptly. “I’ll send Wornton—if you can win him around, you’ll earn a fucking cease-fire. Otherwise…”
I hang up before he can change his mind, dial Sard’s number and discover he’s had no luck tracking down the rogue Snakes. I tell him to keep trying and suggest detailing another two phalanxes to the search. He advises against it—the fewer people we send, the less conspicuous they’ll be. I bow to his assessment—a leader has to trust his aides—then sit back and chew my fingernails, counting off the seconds of the most nerve-racking hours of my life.
Hyde Wornton arrives first, wearing his trademark white fur coat, blond hair as immaculately combed as before. He casts an eye around the deserted police station I’ve appropriated for the meeting, taking in the charred rafters and gaping holes in the roof. “Don’t think much of your choice of HQ,” he sneers.
“It’s as good a place as any.” I nod to one of three chairs I’ve laid out in a triangle. He ignores me and eyes the exposed rafters suspiciously.
“You’re sure we’re safe?” he asks.
“You’ve no enemies here,” I tell him—a ludicrous lie that brings a smile to his lips.
“I should live to see the day,” he chortles, but relaxes and takes a chair. “Who are we waiting for?” he asks, digging out a knife to pare his nails.
“Frank Weld.”
He whistles. “Should be interesting.” Checks his watch. “I left two of my men at Blesster Street. If they haven’t heard from me by five, they’ll call Eugene and—”
“All I’m waiting for is Frank. It wouldn’t be polite to start without him.”
Wornton lapses into silence and concentrates on his nails. He’s less nervous than I am, which irritates me, but I can’t help it. I’m playing a new game, in which maybe hundreds of lives are at stake. Wornton cares only about himself, as I used to. I’ve let myself start to worry about others, which is a weakness I must hide from Wornton and Frank. They seize on weaknesses, like sharks.
Frank turns up at 03:21, drawn and ill-tempered. He stops in the doorway when he spies Hyde Wornton. “What the fuck’s he doing here?” he bellows.
“The Snakes attacked Davern’s men too,” I explain. “I need to clear the air with him as well.”
Frank glares at Wornton, who smiles back innocently, then levels his gaze on me. “I thought this was supposed to be one on one. I have no intention of discussing private affairs in front of that son of a bitch.”
“Watch your mouth,” Wornton snarls. “
It’s not just niggers we string up.”
Frank laughs monotonously. “That’s the sort of scum you hope to strike a deal with?”
“I don’t like it, but I’d rather talk with him than fight him. If you want, I can see you one at a time, but I’ve got the same thing to say to both of you. It’d be a lot quicker if I took you together.”
Frank hovers uncertainly.
“For fuck’s sake, sit!” Wornton snaps. “The nigger’s right—if we don’t talk today, we’ll be at war tomorrow. I’ll face that if I have to, but I’d rather not.”
“OK.” Frank takes the third chair, moving it a couple of feet farther away from Wornton. “Impress me, Al.”
“First I want to make one thing clear.” I gaze steadily at Hyde Wornton. “Call me a nigger again and I’ll gut you, regardless of the consequences.”
Wornton opens his mouth to jeer, sees the real intent in my eyes, and closes it. “Touchy, aren’t you?” he pouts.
I face Frank. “Fifty-five Snakes are responsible for the attacks. They’ve been sent on a hit-and-run mission by the real Paucar Wami. I’m assuming he was put up to it by—”
“Hold on,” Wornton interrupts. “What do you mean, the real Paucar Wami?”
“You know I borrowed the name, that there was a serial killer before me?”
“I heard stories but I never believed them.”
“Believe. Paucar Wami was real and is real again. The villacs used him to lead the Snakes. I stepped in on the understanding that I was to replace him, but he’s still hanging around. He’s to blame for this mess. I had nothing to do with it.”
“This is bullshit,” Wornton growls. “How can this other fucker give orders if you’re in charge?”
