Foreign Devils

by John Hornor Jacobs

  Fisk twisted the window’s handles and pushed them open to let in some air. The scent of fresh-cut pine was powerful, here.

  After a moment of looking out into the dark, he turned, tugged off his boots and sat on the bed.

  I sorted my gear and tromped back downstairs to order us both some dinner in the room. And a bottle of whiskey.

  When I returned, Fisk had begun unlimbering the Quotidian from its box, and setting out the bowl and knife and a large piece of parchment.

  ‘The note?’ I asked.

  He withdrew it from a pocket and handed it to me.

  It read: Beleth bound the smelt daemon in Harbour Town. Its name is Unchleigh. A man going by the name Unchleigh has checked into the Pynchon Hotel in Passasuego. He’s been seen with the Medieran ambassador’s son, Honore Quintanar. My agent will make contact once you’re there – Andrae

  ‘So, we head to Passasuego in the morning?’

  ‘Yes. Nothing for it but to haul ass.’

  ‘I speak truthfully here in saying that I’ll miss the Lomaxes’ company.’

  Fisk looked at me. ‘Truly?’

  ‘Yes.’ I kicked off my boots and hung Hellfire on the end of the headboard. ‘You’re quite the conversationalist, pard.’

  ‘Their night-time ruts are a mite bothersome.’

  I laughed. ‘You heard those? I thought you were asleep.’

  ‘Hard to sleep when you got a brother tupping his sister not ten paces away,’ he said, his face very serious, until a sly smile cracked the facade. He laughed. ‘Malfenians! Oh shit, Shoe, I thought us Rumans took the cake.’

  Laughing felt good. It had been too long.

  A knock sounded at the door and when I answered it, a liveried porter deposited a platter of cold meats, stinky cheese, pickled onions and olives and bread – joined by a whiskey bottle and two glasses – on the small credenza by the door. We took turns washing our hands and faces in the ablutions-bowl and then fell upon the food like the ravenous household gods that the old rustics around New Damnation worship; jealous ghosts, hungry numina. Fisk and I remained silent for a long while as we put away the victuals. Afterwards, Fisk rolled two cigarettes and I poured whiskey and we sat looking out into the night, through the open windows, sipping the fire of liquor.

  ‘I’ll clear out for a bit,’ I said, pointing at the Quotidian with my chin.

  Fisk nodded his head. ‘Much obliged. After, I’ll give you the news,’ he said.

  When I finished the whiskey, I dropped the butt in the bottom of the glass, pulled back on my boots and buckled on my guns, went downstairs to see what I could see in the bar.

  Wasler sat at a car table holding a handful of trumps, a look of consternation on his face. Surrounded by men with faces like sides of beef, bodies to match, he seemed dwarfed by his companions. They were either soldiers on R&R or auxiliaries looking for work with the century, maybe. Didn’t matter, really: the bully-boys were large, ugly, and toting Hellfire and longknives.

  Winfried stood behind Wasler, looking on the game with a furious expression on her face. When I came in, she spotted me. She raised a hand, beckoning me over.

  I took a deeper, more serious gander at the place than I had when I first toddled in, fresh off the trail and hot for Beleth.

  ‘He had a drink,’ Winfried said, low and through her teeth. ‘And then the fool decided that joining a game would be the best way to meet possible subjects for portraits.’

  ‘He lost his ass?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Not yet. But every time he moves to get up, they tell him to sit back down.’

  ‘And he does?’

  ‘Wasler is not a fighting man.’

  I shook my head. ‘I’m not either, ma’am. But this is the Hardscrabble Territories. If you’re not prepared to fight, you’ll always be at the mercy of bully-boys.’

  Putting my hand on my six-gun, I went around the table until I stood next to Wasler. Loud enough for the knuckleheads to hear, I said, ‘Commander Marcellus has sent a message, sir, regarding his portrait.’

  Wasler jumped in his seat and then looked at me closely. ‘We have no—’ he began. Seeing the look on my face, he swallowed. ‘Ah, Marcellus. I should answer him, immediately.’ He looked at the other men at the table. I looked too, my hand on Hellfire.

  ‘Gentlemen, you’ll have to excuse me,’ Wasler said. ‘I have business to attend to.’

  Wasler began to rise and one of the men said, ‘Trust a dwarf to sour a game.’ A couple of the men guffawed at this, showing a surprising number of gaps in their teeth.

  ‘Yes,’ another one said. ‘The squat men are shites. But dwarf pussy is like no other.’

  ‘Aw, Bert, you only likes them because their little hands make your tiny cock look all the bigger.’

  Bert, a great pile of a man with a broken nose and lopsided face, put his trumps face-down on the table. ‘Go on, you cunt. You know the real trouble with the dvergar women is they’re so Ia-damned squirmy when you stick them.’ He gave a short, ugly laugh. ‘You really got to hold ’em down when you dip your prick.’

  I’m old, it’s true, a hundred years older than the oldest person in the room, but it still surprised me how anger could bloom like the sun exploding over the shoal plains. My hand tightened on the pistol’s grip.

  ‘Come, Mr Lomax,’ I said. Wasler stood and went to join Winfried. I remained behind, just in case.

  Bert looked at me. ‘Shave him, and I could’ve sworn I fucked his sister last summer near Tapestry,’ he said, and the table erupted in laughter.

  Bert tilted his chair back on the two hind legs, brought a shot to his mouth and drank it, hissing loudly. He hooked his thumbs in his belt and stared at me with a cruel smile on his face.

  There was a long moment where I considered shooting him in the belly.

  I didn’t.

  As I retreated, my face burned with the sounds of their laughter.

  I joined the Lomaxes at the bar. I ordered cacique, which the Aurelian had a bottle of, surprisingly.

  ‘Wasler,’ I said, blood still high. ‘Stick to merchant men, whores, and sweetboys for your portraits.’ I knocked back the cacique and ordered another. ‘Unless you got the stones to get yourself out of your own messes.’

  Wasler looked both surprised and ashamed, all at once. Winfried, her face dark, nodded grimly, her arms crossed on her chest.

  ‘Mr Ilys,’ he said, hesitantly. ‘My apologies. I merely wished to—’

  ‘I know what you wished to do. You’re a good man, but godsdamned green as grass,’ I said.

  He looked like he wanted to cry. Winfried took his arm and led him away, saying, ‘We’ll retire, now, Mr Ilys. Thank you for your assistance.’

  ‘Stay in your rooms and keep watch. This is the Hardscrabble,’ I said. ‘Don’t you understand that?’

  Speechless, Wasler stumbled out, accompanied by his sisterwife.

  I drank. Thinking of my time in Tapestry, when I was a young man and all the world was new. It was a dvergar village – a ‘tinkers’ village – renowned for producing, guess what? Tapestries. There’d been a girl who later became my wife. Illina – my black-haired beauty – bore me sons and a daughter, and worked by my side until the devourer’s disease ate her from the inside out.

  It was late, then, when the bar cleared and the bartender bellowed ‘Last call!’ and would serve me no more.

  Bert and his three companions rose from their table and unsteadily made their way out into the night. Auxiliaries might bunk down in stables, in flop-houses or hostels, or even at the century garrison, but that crew wouldn’t be able to afford a hotel as expensive as the Aurelian. Once they left, I waited a bit, stood, tipped the bartender, and followed them out into the night.

  I could hear them, laughing, their heavy treads making the plank-walks groan and creak. The sky was brilliant overhead and became more so as I moved away from the hotel’s daemonlights.

  Dvergar, when away from man- or daemon-made illumination, ha
ve exceptional darksight. I clearly saw the soldiers, ahead of me.

  Time was, I was finicky about the use of Hellfire for fear of the taint done my immortal soul. I’m not so fastidious today, but some habits die hard. I withdrew my sling from a pouch at my waist and loaded an iron shot.

  The first soldier fell face-first into the plank with a great thud and then rolled into the mud. This was greeted with catcalls and blustery suppositions regarding Marius’ ability to hold his alcohol.

  ‘Let him sleep it off in the street, boys!’ Bert bellowed. Somewhere in the darkness, a dog barked.

  I pegged the second soldier behind the ear, twisting him about so that he fell silently off the plank-walk and the other two soldiers never noticed. Bert was gesturing wildly with his hands, saying, ‘’Ere’s the meat of it, Bots, the damned praefect’s a gorm cocksucker and don’t know which end of a horse to feed. ’Ows he ’erposed to give us orders when—’

  I popped Bert’s last companion in the centre of his back, making him cry out and fall over and had another iron shot in the sling within seconds, striking him directly in the forehead, felling him.

  Bert, realizing he was alone, and in jeopardy, whirled about. ‘Boys! Mithras’ balls, boys, yer all fallin’ out!’

  I came forward. Bert stopped, peering at me in the dark.

  ‘The fucking dwarf? ’Ere, little one,’ he said, withdrawing a longknife from its sheath. ‘I’ll prick thee like I pricked your kin, you cunt.’

  I let the shot fly. It whistled through the air and made a dull thock when it impacted Bert’s cheek, crushing the bone there. He flopped backwards, making a garbled sound. When he rose again, I launched another shot, hitting his jaw, shattering it. He spluttered, sending loose teeth flying. Blood poured from his face, spilling through cupped hands. He moaned and stumbled away, desperate.

  I did not follow.

  The other soldiers would wake with terrible headaches. Maybe even be dullards for the rest of their lives.

  But Bert?

  He’d spend the rest of his days eating soup.

  I don’t know why I looked up as I returned to the hotel. Maybe it was to take in the glory of the night sky. Maybe it was to remember Illina. Maybe it was to place our room’s window on the second floor of the Aurelian. I don’t know. We should’ve been more watchful.

  The hotel’s daemonlights had not obliterated my darksight, not then, and the small, ragged figure was clear in my sight, standing on the pitch-plank roofing, just outside our window.

  For an instant, I thought the figure might be vaettir, it held itself with such tense fury. But even from where I watched, I could see that it was smaller than those giants. They aren’t called stretchers for nothing.

  I ran forward, cursing all the cacique I drank earlier. It hadn’t affected my aim, but my breath came in great heaves as I dashed forward, pulling my six-gun from its holster.

  I burst through the hotel doors to the surprise of the concierge and raced up the stairs to the second floor. The hotel was still and nearly quiet except for the muted sounds of coughing and the moans of people having sex in their rooms. The sound of something heavy falling pulled me forward. I leapt down the hall and nearly broke down the door to mine and Fisk’s room.

  Fisk looked up from the desk where the Quotidian sat. The knife and bowl was out, but the parchment was clear. The bowl was full to almost overflowing with blood. A large stoppered bottle of ink stood next to it, ready to dilute and swell the amount of blood for the Quotidian.

  I scanned the room in a flash.

  ‘What in Ia’s name, Shoe—’

  From the next room there was a scream and something crashed. Fisk had his six-gun out in a flash, despite the cut to his hand, and I was already moving to the door that connected the Lomaxes to ours. A well-placed boot kicked it inward. Fisk right on my arse, I moved into the room.

  Things slowed, like swimming in molasses, and I began taking in details of the room: Winfried huddled near the hallway door, her hands in front of her face, eyes wild and terrified. The clever devices of their jaunting-hearse arranged neatly in a corner. Wasler laid out on the floor, blood everywhere. On top of the dresser, a boy crouched, hands like claws, a gleeful expression animating his face. His eyes were huge, and black – blazing, smoking, yet totally black. His skin was pale yet his lips and mouth were blood-red and as he smiled, it displayed his many teeth. Sharpened teeth.

  ‘You,’ the boy said, stretching out a long, clawed finger at us. ‘The dwarf and his keeper.’ Its voice was cold and blood and spittle flew into the room with the plosives. ‘I was sent to find you.’ It cackled like a witch then leaped across the space as a cougar might. We tracked it with our pistols. It landed on the credenza near the door, sending a daemon lantern and crystal glasses flying.

  Not a boy. No longer. Whatever animated it was a thing of hatred and glee.

  Daemon.

  ‘Beleth sends his regards,’ the thing said again, and leapt for us, hands outstretched.

  The sound of the guns in the enclosed space was deafening. The smell of Hellfire and brimstone filled the space and I felt a wave of despair and sorrow. The boy’s body slammed into my chest, bowling me over backwards. It thrashed some, cracking my chin with a flailing arm, and then went still. I tasted blood and couldn’t be sure whose it was.

  Fisk pulled me up and we went to check on Wasler.

  Dead. His face half-eaten and his throat ripped away.

  Poor soul, having ended like that. I pulled a blanket from the bed and draped it over the ruins of his face.

  Heavy footfalls sounded in the hall and two vigiles burst in with the hotel manager close behind.

  It was a while before we could make them understand the boy was the intruder. In death, his countenance returned to one of youth. Only his teeth remained sharp. I pulled back the thing’s lip to show them. The biggest vigile cursed and warded himself and immediately went to find the manager.

  Winfried shook off her shock at Wasler’s death to corroborate our story. I fetched the whiskey from our room and poured her a healthy measure. She drank it with shaking hands.

  ‘Why don’t you come sit in our room?’ I said to her. She seemed lost now. Always before, she’d been forceful, straightforward. Now, everything was different. ‘We’ve got to examine the boy.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To be sure.’

  She shuddered, but then straightened. ‘I will remain.’

  Fisk, turning the boy’s body, pulled his shirt off and tossed it to the side.

  ‘Here, now,’ one of the vigiles said. ‘You think you should be doing that?’

  Fisk withdrew his legate’s eagle pin from his pocket and showed it to the man.

  ‘Right, then,’ he said. ‘Carry on.’

  They stood, silent and dumb, as Fisk squatted on his hams and searched the boy. There was blood everywhere. When he turned him over, I saw the mark.

  ‘There. Shoulder,’ I said.

  A small circular burn mark, strangely familiar. Beleth once drew it on a napkin. A ward for binding daemons into a human ‘vestment’.

  ‘He left a little present for us,’ Fisk said, sucking his teeth. ‘Who knows how many more of these devils are out there?’

  I looked at the vigiles. ‘You have any children or citizens go missing?’

  One of them – a man with a beard and deep, sunken eyes – shrugged and said, ‘Always got missing persons. We’re in the arse-crack of nowhere, out here. There’s always whores and thieves, gamblers and outlaws, come sniffing around for silver.’

  ‘All right,’ Fisk stood. ‘You can remove him to the undertaker.’

  ‘What about the other fella?’

  I looked to Winfried, who stood staring at the sheet covering Wasler, now spotting with crimson. After a moment, she said, ‘Yes. Please take him as well. I will make all the arrangements at dawn.’

  Once the bodies were removed – and the hotel manager had sent round a slave to dump sawdust on the blo
odstains – I said to Winfried, ‘We can stay here, with you, if you want.’

  ‘You are very kind, Mr Ilys.’ Her voice was strong, but part of her was very far away from all of this. The thousand-mile stare of the bereaved. ‘I will remain here.’ She moved over to the writing table and sat down, slowly. She placed a single hand lightly on the ink-blotter. She looked at the sawdust.

  I pulled one of my pistols and placed it on the desk. ‘Just in case,’ I said. ‘I’ll shut your window, ma’am.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  I shuttered the windows and Fisk and I returned to our room, leaving the door between them slightly ajar. There wouldn’t be much sleep tonight.

  ‘Ia damn, Shoe. A boy,’ Fisk said, once everything was quiet. I poured us both whiskeys while he rolled cigarettes.

  ‘Always knew he was an amoral, avaricious son of a bitch, pard,’ I said.

  ‘That man wants a killing.’

  Not much to say to that. For the second time that day I pulled off my boots. I lay down on the bed with the whiskey glass perched on my belly and a cigarette in my lips.

  ‘Hell of a thing. We’re going to have to be on watch, now, everywhere we go.’

  ‘Should’ve been doing that to begin with. A boy? We saw him earlier, and I thought he was only a set of eyes for a larger master.’ He unslung his gunbelt, tossed it on the bed. ‘What I can’t figure is why Beleth didn’t pick the biggest bastard he could find and stuff a devil in him.’

  ‘He’s on the run. Doesn’t have all his doodads and nice equipment. A big fella might draw attention. A boy or child can go unnoticed,’ I said.

  ‘And the man’s natural inclination is toward cowardice,’ Fisk said. ‘He’d have to overcome a man and that wouldn’t be as easy as a child.’

  I expelled a cloud of blue smoke toward the ceiling. ‘Andrae said he murdered a junior engineer here. Probably took his stuff. Used it to set the boy as a trap. You think we should ask around about the engineer, tomorrow?’

  ‘No. We know where Beleth is now. And the name he’s using. We ride for Passasuego in the morning.’