“What have you done?” Desdemona scratched the mark, scrubbed it, tried to rub it out. Nothing. There was nothing there. “What have you done to me?”
I have accepted your barter. Now hear my terms.
Her fingers froze mid-scratch. “Terms?”
You will rescue my daughter from durance vile before the hourglass on your forehead empties. If you do, those thirty-six lives you seek are yours. You may return with them to Athe, where they will live again under the sun.
But, if you do not . . .
Desdemona’s eyes widened. Her tails stiffened. Collateral. Hadn’t he said something about collateral, right before he . . . ?
If you do not, the Kobold King continued, thirty-six hounds will harry the one you love most through the halls of Breakers Beyond. When they catch her—and they will catch her—they will tear her into thirty-six suppers. She will die, and in eating her flesh those hounds will become my goblinkin in true; they will never return home, and you shall sink down to the seven hells below, fodder for whatever there will feed on you. This is the price of your failure.
A suck of silver light.
An abrupt lack of wind.
A whisper:
Do not fail me, Tattercoats.
And he was gone.
Alone once more in that vacuum of vanished brightness, Desdemona shivered—great, juddering shudders that started at her center and shook through her body like shock waves. The sigil on her forehead let out a high, sweet ping! Somewhere, just inside her skin, the finest, minutest trickle of glowing green letters began to tumble from her hairline down the bridge of her nose, sifting into the lower bulb of the hourglass.
Time. Desdemona did not know how much she had, but she knew it was running out.
And then, out of a darkness that was gradually becoming gray scale again as her night vision adjusted, so tentatively that the sound did not even startle her, a voice called her name.
“Desdemona?”
Desdemona closed her eyes.
“Desi? Is that you?”
10: THE DAMSEL HOLE
DESDEMONA TURNED, heartsick and snowdrift-slow, and saw Chaz.
Or rather, she saw a woman who looked like Chaz.
Or rather, she saw Chaz . . . who was a woman.
Or rather—and the certainty of her next thought swept a wave of gooseflesh through Desdemona’s body that made her fur stand on end—she saw Chaz, who had always been a woman, and whose outward appearance now matched that truth. The Kobold King, as he had done for Desdemona, had given Chaz a new skin. One that she had chosen for herself, her heart’s desire—the skin she should have been born with.
The curves filling out her dress needed no structural support to shape them, any more than the red curls uncoiling past her waist in luxurious disarray belonged to a wig. The long angles of her jaw had filled out and rounded, and the cartilaginous prominence of the larynx that Chaz had always despised was . . . gone. She was dressed in the same high-necked metallic ivory caftan she had been wearing when she and Desdemona drank champagne together in the billiards room at Breaker House. Perhaps this was the billiards room, only two worlds down, and Chaz had never left it. Just fallen through.
“Look at you,” Chaz whispered, her eyes round and shocked like a coconut’s. “What happened to you?”
Desdemona was heartened that Chaz recognized her at all, this strange beast she had become, with too many claws, too many fangs, too many patchwork parts to name. Pleased, her tails began wagging.
“I am a Thousandfurs,” she said, and for the first time since waking in this world, Desdemona smiled.
Something in that smile, fangs and all, must have convinced Chaz that it was all right to burst into tears and throw herself into Desdemona’s arms. The initial impact knocked Desdemona back a few steps, but then she planted her feet firmly and resigned herself to Chaz’s scolding, tear-scalded embrace.
“I thought I’d never find you. You left me! I came all this way—and you were not here!”
Chaz’s usually impeccable maquillage looked like a massacre: her bloodshot eyes were ringed like a meerkat’s mask, there was mud crack in her rice powder, and a smear of streaky scarlet trailing from one corner of her swollen mouth like blood spatter at a crime scene. She was still crying, but more quietly now, without full awareness but with immaculate self-possession, like a piano prelude meant to imitate rainfall.
Tears had always made Desdemona cross.
“Dry up, Chaz! I’ve already drowned once today!”
But she clung to her friend in turn, holding her ferociously close with both arms and several of her tails. “I know I’m late,” she admitted. “I was waylaid. I’m sorry you were frightened, but I’m here now. And we haven’t much time.”
Time. Her forehead throbbed in reminder. Her mind roared with names and flames and time dripping away, and she looked at her friend, who was dearer to her than anyone, and who must not—who must never, never—flee for her life through these cavernous halls with hounds baying at her heels. And Desdemona realized for the first time that she was seeing Chaz, not in night-sight shades of gray, but in color. The light source, she discovered in short order, came from something Chaz carried balled up in her hand.
“What’s that you’re holding, Chazzy?” Desdemona asked. “Is it . . . sizzling?”
“This?” Chaz looked down, laughed in surprise, and shrugged her sequined shoulders. “I forgot I had it! Some old hat, I think? I found it by the river. It was sort of sparkling, so I picked it up. I was using it as a kind of lantern, because I couldn’t see a damned thing down here, but then it began tugging me—a little at first, then quite insistently—and led me here to you.”
“Oh, it did, did it?” Grimly, Desdemona snatched Farklewhit’s bedraggled cap from Chaz’s hand. The crackling pom-pom at the tip of its trailing end made a burping noise and blushed a rosy pink. Holding it by one end like a limp squirrel, Desdemona plunged her hand into the depths of the hat—her arm sinking elbow-deep—and pulled as hard as she could.
Like a harlequin on a hidden spring, out snapped the Umber Farklewhit, pink lace apron and all.
“Hello, Tattercoats!” He looked her up and down admiringly. “You’re looking fine as a barrel of weasels in a rabbit warren. Much improved! Ready to take on the Valwode? If any gentry trap tries to snap you up now, you just scratch right back! You’ve the claws for it now.”
Desdemona pounced. “You!”
Or tried to pounce. Farklewhit snatched her out of the air and swung her around in a kind of do-si-do.
“SPLISH she falls and SPLOSH she floats!” he shouted. “And SPLASH, we have a Tattercoats!”
The rankness of his woolly body washed up her nose, and she did not know if it was this or the spinning that dizzied her. It was as if a secondary sense of smell suddenly kicked in, much more complex than her human one, more curious and discerning but with a remarkable lack of judgment. Her nostrils quivered and flared, analyzing Farklewhit’s particular stench, imprinting on it, and something inside her, some instinct to explore awakened, urging her to pursue that scent, burrow into it, mingle with it, start to lick . . .
Farklewhit grinned with manic winsomeness and released her from his hold mid-spin, sending her crashing into Chaz.
“Introduce me to your friend?” he asked. “At least, I assume you two know each other, cozy as you are. Is she one of your salacious sopranos?” He waggled his eyebrows.
“No—ew!” said Desdemona. “This is my sister, Chaz.”
“Sisters? I’d never have guessed!” Farklewhit curtsied to Chaz, who gasped at the shameless display beneath his apron. “Not that you aren’t very pretty,” he complimented her. “But she”—with a jerk of his thumb toward Desdemona—“is more my type.”
Chaz’s eyes, if it were possible, went even rounder and wider. The perplexed crinkle on her brow marked the halfway point between a nervous giggle and running off screaming into the darkness. Desdemona barged between them, barking, “
Less talk, more momentum!” She pointed all nine of her tails right at Farklewhit’s V-shaped nose. “Are you here to help, Nanny? If not, leave. If so, stay close. No more disappearing into your hat—or it’ll be Farklemutton for supper, my loves.”
“Oh”—and Farklewhit curtsied like a wanton wedding cake, wool-flavored, with lacy pink fondant—“I’m here for the duration, Tattercoats!”
His tail, a pudgy, stubby thing with a tufted end, began to wag. Several of Desdemona’s enthusiastically followed suit until she slapped them back behind her.
“Very well.” She rubbed the back of her ruffled neck. “Follow me. Coming, Chazzy?”
She held out her hand. Chaz caught it up almost violently, like a mountaineer gripping a lifeline before going over the side of a cliff. She put her mouth to Desdemona’s ear and whispered, “Desdemona. What is that?” with a swift sideways glance at Farklewhit.
“He’s . . . the goblin ambassador to the Valwode.”
“He’s wha . . .” Chaz stopped and shook her head. “And . . .” She paused again and rubbed her smooth throat. “How do you know him?”
“He saved my life.”
“Oh!” Chaz’s grip tightened like a vice. Her breath blew out another “Oh,” this one much more quiet.
“Well,” she said in a stronger voice, “I’m here now, too. To—to have your back. I’ll help keep you safe. Me and that . . . Farklewhatever.”
“Farklewhit,” Farklewhit said helpfully. He seemed to be holding himself very still, allowing Chaz time to adjust.
“Farklewhit,” Chaz repeated, daring another glance his way. She scooted a little closer to Desdemona but included both of them when she spoke next. “What happens now? My head—the champagne—and then waking up here. Like, like this. Everything feels a bit muzzy and achy, and I don’t remember . . .” She squeezed her eyes shut. “We came here,” she recalled slowly, “because of the Merula Colliery disaster.” Her eyes flew open to stare at Desdemona. “You said there were men down here. You were going to find them. And something . . . something about the woman in the painting? Howell’s painting.”
“Susurra the Night Hag,” Desdemona prompted.
“Susurra.” Chaz’s tear-ravaged face softened, glowed. “Susurra, yes.”
A tremor passed through her body. She lifted to her tiptoes, as if to reach something tantalizing yet unachievable. Almost instantly, she fell back onto her soles, but also lightly, as if her ankles had suddenly sprouted fluttering white moth wings. “We have to . . . to save her?”
“That’s right,” Desdemona affirmed. “Before you found me, I made a bargain with the Kobold King to trade his lost daughter for my miners. A bad bargain, maybe. Kantzaros gave me a time limit, and . . .” Her forehead itched. Burned.
As confidently as she could, she finished, “And so, we have to get going! Onward!”
With that, still holding Chaz’s hand, she set off purposefully in the one direction that seemed to angle uphill. Whether uphill also indicated up-world, Desdemona had no idea. Chaz, stately in her heels, trotted to keep abreast with her.
“Onward?” Chaz called. “That’s your plan?”
As plans went, “onward” was utter bunkum, and they both knew it. So did Farklewhit, who quickly caught up with the two of them. Taking Desdemona’s other hand, he swung it to and fro like a child and with great interest inquired, “So you’ve discovered the location of Susurra’s prison, then?”
Desdemona swallowed but said nothing. She quickened her pace. Chaz, reading that balky silence like a dog-eared book, groaned, “Oh, Desi! Just tell the truth. Don’t lead us on a jackalope chase through the darkness. I can hardly see a thing except Farterwhit’s—”
“Farklewhit,” said Farklewhit.
“—Farklewhit’s hat. I swear, I’ve never felt more in sympathy with a planchette on a spirit board!”
Time dribbled down Desdemona’s brow. Chaz’s life, running down the hourglass. Oily sweat slicked her furs to her body. How crowded and watchful the vast darkness seemed suddenly to be, as if hundreds of pairs of eyes peeked out from behind the spiraling pillars of the speleothems, which themselves seemed to grow less sessile, more watchful, the moment she began to pay them attention. Desdemona’s knees locked, buckled. She stumbled to a halt.
“Farklewhit—Chaz is right,” she blurted in confession. “I don’t . . . I don’t have a plan! I don’t know how to find Susurra. We need to go back to the Valwode—but I don’t know how to get there!”
“In fact . . .” Farklewhit bounded up to her side. “. . . getting to the Valwode is simple from here—easy as rapping on a wall!” He winked at her. “Really, Tattercoats—all you had to do was ask!”
“Farklewhit!” Chaz shouted.
“Nanny!” Desdemona growled at the same time. “You could have just said.”
“Me? I can’t help my nature!”
As he spoke, he was trotting over to a particularly immense stalagmite, where he stopped and gave the stone three smart knocks. A block of rock shifted, revealing a narrow stair winding up. Turning back to them, Farklewhit grinned.
“You see? In Day Breakers, the walls only open at midnight. In Dark Breakers, it’s never midnight but at old doorways like the Mirradarra. Well! Here in Breakers Beyond, it’s always midnight—and the doors are always open!”
* * *
They climbed so long that Desdemona began entertaining the idea of Farklemutton far more seriously. Her stomach complained so loudly that she wondered if she had more than one of them now, like her eyelids and her ears. They climbed until even Chaz surrendered and removed her heels, leaving them forlorn on the steps. Farklewhit just kept bustling on ahead of them, indefatigably cheerful, never once looking back, even when Desdemona’s stomach let out a sound like a foghorn.
He did, however, exclaim, “Ah, borborygmus!” with a joyous little wiggle. “No sound sweeter!”
Desdemona’s eyes fastened on his rump. For some inexplicable reason she began salivating. His unfathomable rankness continued to confuse her nose. She did not know if she wanted to tear into him or just take him.
“We used to call her Bubbleguts when we were kids,” Chaz offered breathlessly from the rear.
“Chaz!” Desdemona considered giving her friend a swift kick back down the stairs.
“Bubbleguts!” Farklewhit fairly vibrated with glee. Now he began hopping up the steps two at a time, his black hooves clacking like glass against the stones as he chanted:
“Tattercoats Bubbleguts, Nine-Tails True
Climbs through the worlds with comrades two
Claws on her fingers and points in her smile
Rescues our princess from durance vile!”
At couplet’s end, he gave one last great hop, clearing a dozen steps at least, and disappeared into the darkness beyond.
“Nanny?” Desdemona and Chaz called at the same time.
“Up here!” Farklewhit’s face appeared. “We made it!” He looked over his shoulder. “We appear to have emerged in one of the sub-basements of Dark Breakers.”
“You sound excessively pleased,” Desdemona observed sourly, dragging herself up the last few steps. She was hungry. Her throat was dry. Her calves and thighs ached from climbing. All those infinite stairs to end up in this not very prepossessing room, with no visible way out.
Farklewhit rubbed his hands together. “Oh, I am, Tattercoats! I am!”
“Why?” asked Chaz, finally flinging herself to the floor like a beached mermaid.
“Because,” Farklewhit explained, moving deeper into the room, the light of his hat bobbing along with him, “I’ve spent the last two years in Dark Breakers. I’ve been through the whole of it, tower to cellar. I’ve seen every room: the ones that swap places when you’re not looking, the ones that grant your every desire to keep you in them, the ones that only appear while the stars align just so. I’ve torn this place apart looking for my Susurra—but I have never been here.”
There was no doubt they were in
the Valwode; even what appeared to be a sub-basement managed, despite having no visible light fixtures or braziers to illuminate it, to glow with that gallimaufry of moonlight, twilight, and predatory flower-light that pervaded this side of the Veil. Desdemona glared about at dusty barrels of dark gentry wines, casks of ciders exuding the smell of apples and honey, heaps of forgotten hand spindles and spinning wheels (the shafts of the former sharp as poniards; the latter with rovings of straw still dangling from slender lead yarns of golden floss), baskets of jeweled fruit from the orchard, broken thrones, shattered birdcages.
And shelves and shelves of bone bells.
“Now what?” she asked.
Farklewhit popped up right behind her. “Your task! You tell me!”
Desdemona whirled to glower at him, but he merely gazed at her with the absolute trust of a dog with a sausage on his nose. Groaning, she ground her palms against her eyes until the pressure exploded into phosphenes. “How should I know? I’ve never been here either!”
From where she sprawled on the floor, Chaz flung out her hand to encircle Desdemona’s ankle and squeeze lightly. It would have been a comforting gesture, except that Chaz dug her nails in, just enough to irritate her. Desdemona grunted and shook off her friend’s grip. She also dropped her hands from her face and stood up a little straighter.
Calm as a nanny nurturing a malignity of goblin moppets, Farklewhit said, “Tattercoats. There are three reasons why you will—why you must—succeed where all others, including myself, have failed. One: Nyx herself assigned you this task. You wanted something; she told you how to get it. That’s better than a blessing. Two”—Farklewhit’s eyes shifted to Chaz—“you are sufficiently motivated. From what I know of the Mannerings, sufficient motivation can move them to move mountains—with or without dynamite. Three: our lost Susurra is hidden in the house where you grew up. Surely you know all the hidey-holes of Breaker House?”
Desdemona and the Deep Page 8
