Dark Kingdoms

by Richard Lee Byers

  Tell me about Waxman, Vulture said.

  What's in it for me? Bellamy replied. Will you share what you know?

  After another pause, Vulture said, Not on-line. And not over the phone or through the mail, either. We'd have to meet.

  Bellamy tried to swallow away a sudden dryness in his mouth. Where?

  Can you get to New Orleans?

  Yes, Bellamy typed, feeling even more excited. Heck, he could drive there in a couple hours. Considering that Vulture could have been anywhere in the world, his proximity was a piece of luck. But more than that, it lent weight to the notion that the guy might actually know something about recent events in the Mississippi basin.

  How will I recognize you? Vulture asked.

  Bellamy described himself. I'll wear an LSU cap, he added.

  Meet me in Jackson Square at noon on Wednesday, Vulture said. Come alone or you won't see me. His cartoon buzzard icon vanished from the corner of the screen, indicating he'd exited the Circle.

  Bellamy did the same, wondering if he'd just taken the first step toward discovering what had happened to him, or established beyond any shadow of a doubt that he was every bit as crazy as everybody thought he was.

  ELEVEN

  Scowling, Montrose prowled the corridors of the Citadel, his new cloak swishing about his ankles. The cape was as full and black as a Grim Rider's outer garment was supposed to be, but it didn't have the Unlidded Eye affixed to it. Gayoso had promised that he'd instruct a seamstress or metalworker to fashion a proper badge for his guest, but so far, none had been forthcoming.

  Happening upon a pyramidal stack of old, rusty paint cans, Montrose gave in to the impulse to kick them. His insubstantial foot couldn't shift them, making the result less than satisfying.

  The Scot had studied the secrets of the Proctors as well as those of the Harbingers. If he wanted, he could project himself into the Skinlands and give the cans a proper kick. But it would hardly be an intelligent expenditure of his energies, particularly here, in what he was rapidly coming to regard as the lair of his enemies.

  To hell with it. It wouldn't take much strength. The Shroud was even thinner here than it was in most Haunts. And more to the point, in his present humor, he didn't care about being pnident. He focused his power, his body throbbed, and a wraith in the distance vanished from view. He booted the cans and the stack flew apart with a satisfying clatter.

  His frustration vented, he immediately began to feel sheepish for behaving so childishly. He relaxed his will and the spiritual magnetism of death instantly drew him back to his proper sphere. As he reentered the Underworld, he heard a pair of hands applauding behind him. Tiny bells chimed in time with the clapping.

  Montrose turned. Gayoso's jester, whose name, he'd learned, was Valentine, stood behind him. Tonight his motley was red and green, with brass bells decorating the horns of his cap, the ragged cuffs of his gloves, and the upturned toes of his boots.

  The Anacreon smiled ruefully. "You're right to mock me. That was an asinine display. When I was breathing, I rarely lost my self-control that way—"

  "But now that you're a ghost, you can blame every tantrum on your mean old Shadow," the dwarf said, smirking. "Just like the rest of us. Why not, it's the perfect alibi. May a humble entertainer ask why you're so exasperated?"

  Montrose hesitated. Considering that Valentine was one of Gayoso's underlings, he seemed a poor choice for a confidant. But evidently the Stygian was still feeling reckless, or too full of annoyance to contain himself, because he finally said, "I've just come from an interview with Mrs. Duquesne."

  The jester nodded. "That's enough to ruin anybody's evening."

  "She refused to give me any Legionnaires to fulfill my mission. Nathan Shellabarger and your master had already rejected the same request."

  "None of that bunch is going to put himself in a position where he's vulnerable to the other two. So it's three strikes and you're out."

  Montrose cocked his head. "I beg your pardon?"

  "It's a reference to baseball. You know, the American national pastime. Ah, don't worry about it. The point is, you're out of luck. Except that the scuttlebutt around the Citadel is that you had written orders and a passel of soldiers when you left the Isle of Sorrows."

  The Scot nodded. "The 'scuttlebutt' is correct."

  "So why don't you just go back and get some more?"

  "For one thing," said Montrose, sitting down on the grimy floor, "I daresay your governors don't want me telling a Deathlord they opted to defy his wishes. They wouldn't give me an escort, and it's dangerous to travel the Tempest alone. And even if I did make it home, what then? Do I go whining to the Smiling Lord with my tail between my legs? 'I'm sorry, milord, but I lost my Lantern of Truth, my ships, and my troops, and the impudent Hierarchs of Natchez refuse to heed my commands. Please, give me fresh credentials and another expedition so I can go out and try again.' I'd look pathetic. And you can rest assured that if my master ever begins to lose faith in me, I have an abundance of rivals ready to whisper slander in his ear and speed the process along." The swarthy, lantern-jawed face of Demetrius appeared before his inner eye.

  Valentine chuckled. "Nice to know that the big shots in the Onyx Tower are just as kindly and honest as us little shots here on Earth. I guess you really are screwed."

  Montrose scowled. "No, I'm not. There has to be a way. If I had just a few men— " He prm-v-.i as an idea struck him.

  "What is it?" Valentine asked.

  Montrose jumped up. He almost dusted ijff the back of his cloak before he remembered that dirt from the other side of the Shroud couldn't stick to him. "How would you like to show me the sights?"

  Valentine eyed him quizzically. "You mean nobody's showed you around?"

  "Around the Citadel, yes. The entire Necropolis, no. I've seen how feebly your Anacreons hold the reins of power, and I'd giles& there must be a quarter "where the criminal element congregates. A section of Natchez which Hierarchy rarely enter, except in force."

  "And that's where you want to go tonight.''

  "Yes. Are you game?"

  Valentine grinned. "You know, J guess I am. It could be interesting."

  "Can you find me a weapon?"

  The jester frowned. "Hard to say. There's a shortage. Any grunt or quartermaster who loses one can be enslaved, so everyone keeps track of his gear pretty well. But if we take a look around—"

  "Never mind," Montrose said. Now that he'd decided to: act, he felt too eager to waste time snooping about the Citadel. "I'll take care of it." He set out for the front of the complex, and Valentine trotted along beside him.

  When they slipped through the fort's front door, Montrose was pleased to see the same two sentries he'd met on his arrival. Evidently in no sunnier humor than before, the Legionnaire with the question-mark brand gave him a sneer.

  "Good evening," said Montrose, smiling. "I need your rifle."

  The soldier snorted. "What are you, crazy?"

  "Some people have said so," Montrose said. "Even you, if memory serves. But I also truly am an Anacreon, aS I believe you've been advised."

  "I don't care if you're Charon risen from the Labyrinth. You're not my Anacreon, and nobody told me to obey y—"

  Montrose kicked the; other wraith in the stomach, then grabbed him by the collar of his buckskin shirt and slammed his head against the wall. The stunned sentry's knees began to buckle. The Stygian tore the AK-47 out of his hands and whirled to cover the spearman with the jack-o'-lantern grin, who was still trying to fumble his weapon into position for a thrust.

  "Is there a problem?" Montrose asked.

  The spearman swallowed. "No. N
  "Good," the Stygian said. "Before my appointment to the Grim Riders, I was Fifth Legion myself. At heart, I still am. It would have saddened me if you'd turned out to be insubordinate, too. I'm also going to need your dagger."

  The Black Hawk undipped the Bowie knife from his belt and handed it over.

  "Thank
you," Montrose:said. "Have a pleasant evening." He turned and sauntered toward the ring of human torches. Valentine followed.

  "You know," said the dwarf as they started down the hill, "Winston—the jerk you just beat up^is going to run straight to Mrs. Duquesne."

  "I don't care." Thinking that for the moment he might as well be as anonymous as possible, Montrose put on his glossy black ceramic mask. "The Smiling Lord put me in charge of these wretches. It's time I started acting like it. Besides, Mrs. Duquesne ought to thank me for disciplining the man. He needed it."

  "Maybe," said Valentine, "but he wasn't the only one. We turn here." His bells jingling, he led his companion down an alley that reeked of rotting produce. A black cat, vastly more perceptive than the average Quick human, peered at them with gleaming golden eyes. Nihil cracks in the oil-stained asphalt hissed. "A lot of people have been in a nasty mood lately, inside the Citadel and in the rest of the Necropolis too. There've been a lot of fights, not the usual chickenshit but serious ones, the kind that don't end until somebody goes to the Void."

  "That's interesting," Montrose said. For a moment he wondered if the phenomenon could have anything to do with the mysterious threat that Katrina had blathered on about, then pushed the witless notion out of his mind. "Do you have any idea why?"

  "Nope," Valentine said, leading him around another corner. Montrose realized they were wending their way west, toward the river. The breeze carried the scent of the muddy water. "Maybe you can figure it out."

  "It isn't my job to figure it out," Montrose said. Something whispered overhead. With reflexive caution, he looked up to see a bat fluttering after insects.

  "But I've read some British history," said Valentine, leering, "and I know who you are. A hero."

  Montrose grimaced. "You should have read through to the last chapter, where Argyll and his cronies strung me up."

  "Okay, so you were a tragic hero."

  "Rubbish," the Stygian said. "But if I was, the moral of my saga would seem to be that heroism doesn't pay. Only an ass places an ideal ahead of his own interests, or trusts his fellow man an inch farther than he has to."

  "You're trusting me, a virtual stranger, to lead you through these dark streets to an unknown destination."

  "That's true," Montrose said. "But since it was my idea to come, it's unlikely that you're guiding me into an ambush. I am curious, though, as to why you're helping me, when you know Gayoso wouldn't want you to."

  "Reverence for the Deathlords?"

  Montrose chuckled. "Somehow I find that hard to credit."

  "Pretty smart on your part. Actually, I don't like Gayoso much. I don't like his idea of entertainment. A dwarf in cap and bells? I know he was born on another continent in another century, but give ma a break! Hell, most of my jokes aren't even funny. He just keeps me around because he thinks it's stylish for a ruler to have a retainer like me. Mainly he uses me for a gofer."

  "You aren't a thrall, are you?" asked Montrose. Valentine shook his head. "If you don't want to be a clown, and Gayoso won't accept you in any other capacity, why do you stay? You could strike out on your own. Hire a Masquer to give you normal height, if that would please you."

  "I've seen how you turn up your nose at the Citadel when you think nobody's looking. It seems like a dump to you, doesn't it? But the quarters Gayoso gave me are a lot more comfortable than any Haunt I could find anywhere else."

  "Don't be so sure. The Hierarchy has any number of strongholds, and they all need clever, hardworking functionaries to keep them running. Perhaps you could find a comfortable berth elsewhere."

  Valentine glowered up at him. "I thought you said you don't care about other people's problems."

  Montrose ishrugged. "I do appreciate it when someone tries to help me, and I hoped I could repay you with some advice. But of course your personal affairs are none of my business, and if my prying has offended you, I apologize."

  "Let's just drop it," Valentine said. They walked on in silence until another turn brought another warren of Nihil-riddled derelict buildings into view. A wave of ancient rage, pain, and lust swept, over Montrose. He closed his eyes and shuddered, exhilarated and nauseated at once. Beyond the Haunt murmured the black expanse of the river, with moonlight glistening on the ripples. Rafts, flatboats, and sailboats floated beside the ruined docks. From their generally archaic appearance, the Stygian surmised that they existed on his.side of the Shroud.

  "Natchez Under-the-H ill," Valentine said. "The meanest hellhole in the history of the Mississippi. The Quick shut it down a long, long time ago, but it's still going strong in the Shadowlands."

  "I trust we can find a tavern, or the equivalent."

  "Sure. If you were looking for an honest man, that would be tough, but a bar is no problem at all."

  As they walked on, Montrose peered about, taking in the sights and sounds of the district. Behind an attic window, someone said, "Tell me where Lorenzo is, amigo. Just tell me and the pain will go away." A block farther on, the Hierarchs encountered a coffle of slaves, all shapechanged to resemble Marilyn Monroe, Sophia Loren, Mary Pickford, Clark Gable, Elvis Presley, or some other celebrity. The naked thralls trudged listlessly along, their eyes downcast and their ankle chains clinking. One of the hooded overseers suddenly jabbed Mary Pickford with a cattle prod, for no particular reason that Montrose could discern. For a moment, the Stygian felt a twinge of sympathy for the captives, but it faded almost before he noticed it.

  Valentine took him all the way down to the docks. Now the water smelled foul, as if someone upriver had dumped something noxious in the current. Wavering yellow light and a jumble of voices spilled through the doorway of a tumble-down shack. Somebody with no pretensions to artistic talent had daubed a green skull- and-crossbones on the warped boards of the wall. The paint had run, as if to suggest that the bones were dripping putrescence.

  "The Green Head," said Valentine. "I think I understand what you have in mind, and from one: point of view, this is the place for it. But if you do go in, you'll be taking one hell of a risk."

  "Why?" asked Montrose. A jovial shout and a smattering of applause sounded from inside the tavern. "Do you expect the place: will turn out to be full of Heretics and Renegades?"

  "No," Valentine replied. "They usually hang out in other dives. That's why I brought you to this one. Most of the guys in here don't give a rat's ass about politics or religion. But just because they don't sit around plotting the. overthrow of the Deathlords, that doesn't mean they like Hierarchs. In their eyes, people like you are cops, pure and simple."

  Montrose smiled. "I imagine I'll be all right. But you needn't come in if you'd rather not."

  Valentine's mouth twisted. "Oh, don't worry about me. I've been inside before. They'd rather laugh at someone like me than destroy me."

  "In that case, after you."

  The interior of the shack was smoky and stuffy. The torches mounted on the walls burned with hot Skinlands flame. Probably a Spook or a Proctor had kindled them. Behind the bar stood a Sandman in a garish patchwork cloak, his eyes narrowed with concentration. Evidently he was maintaining the existence of the earthenware jug the wraiths before him were passing from hand to hand, judging from their loud, slurred speech and the way they stumbled and swayed, the illusory corn liquor was quite potent. Another four ghosts, all masked, huddled whispering in a shadowy corner. One hulking man with a black handlebar mustache perched on a stool beside a large, ragged-edged Nihil in the middle of the floor, dangling a rope into the seething depths. But most of the crowd had formed a circle around an old Quick tramp in rags. The mortal reeked of sweat and urine. Tears and snot streaked his grimy, wizened face. His breath rasped in his throat, his heart pounded, and his aura flamed orange with fear. Every time he tried to edge out of the ring, the wraiths in his way would reach out and stroke his face, while others crooned, "Meat, meat, meat." Then the victim recoiled, even though it was apparent that he couldn't truly see, hear, or feel his tormentors.

  A
s Montrose took a seat, he felt some of the other patrons looking at him, sizing him up. Though not unduly alarmed, he deemed it prudent to leave the AK-47 with its ebon soulfire crystals prominently displayed on the rickety table before him. He nodded at the old man in the circle. "Charming entertainment," he said dryly.

  "Yeah," Valentine replied, "and they're breaking the Dictum Mortem, too. You should arrest them, milord Anacreon."

  "That would be counterproductive," Montrose said. "I'm afraid the old fellow is on his own."

  Yet the unpleasant spectacle nagged at him. Though he no longer felt any real solicitude for others, cruelty for its own sake, directed at a helpless, innocent victim, still disgusted him on a visceral level.

  Besides, he had important business to attend to. He didn't want to sit idly in this wretched stew until the entertainment concluded. For all he knew, his fellow wraiths might keep baiting the tramp all night.

  Abruptly he stood up.

  "What are you going to do?" Valentine asked.

  "What I came to do," Montrose replied. "You might watch my back if you feel so inclined." He pointed the assault rifle straight up at water-stained ceiling, then, on impulse, aimed it just over the heads of the wraiths in the circle instead. He fired a burst. Some ghosts dived to the floor, some cried out in shock, and others lurched around, fumbling for their weapons. The Shadowlands bullets disintegrated against the wall without doing any damage.

  Montrose knew that when one wanted to persuade people of anything, it helped to display a bold eye, a firm jaw, and a confident smile. He doffed his mask and tossed it aside to clatter on the floor. "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. I apologize if I startled anyone, but I wanted your attention."

  "You've got it now," said the Sandman behind the bar. The phantasmal jug now lay shattered on the floor in a pool of clear, pungent liquor. Abruptly the wreckage vanished, along with all symptoms of the topers' intoxication. "And it may turn out that you didn't know when you were well off."

  "I trust not." To the Stygian's right, cloth rustled. Pivoting, he spied a lanky wraith in a red leather domino easing a throwing knife from its sheath. When Montrose pointed the AK-47 at him, he quickly took his hand away from the hilt. "Allow me to introduce myself. I'm James Graham, in life Earl and Marquess of Montrose, currently Anacreon of the Order of the Unlidded Eye."