The crowd babbled and growled. "You keep getting yourself in deeper," the Sandman said. "We get a few Hierarchs in here, slumming, like your midget friend. Some of them even make it out of Under-the-Hill in one piece. But they have the good sense not to brag about kissing the Deathlords' asses."
"I understand that you aren't unduly fond of the government," Montrose said. "But how do you feel about Heretics? The Smiling Lord sent me to Natchez to make war on them. I'd like you t© join me."
Some of his audience laughed. Others babbled in bewilderment. One woman shouted, "I'd rather die than join a stinking Legion!"
"I'm not asking you to," Montrose said. "I want you to sign on as free mercenaries. You'll serve on your own terms and quit whenever you like."
"In return for what?" demanded a bald man in dark glasses. Bandoliers crisscrossed his otherwise naked chest, and judging by the bulge in his tight gray jeans, a Masquer had enlarged his genitals to priapic proportions.
Montrose grinned. "I assumed that was obvious.. Plunder, of course! After we subdue the Heretics, we'll take everything they have and sell them into slavery. Valentine told me that one Or two of you are familiar with the basic modus operandi."
Several wraiths laughed. The bald man said, "Why do you need us? Why aren't you using Legionnaires?"
"That was my original intention," Montrose said, "but your illustrious local officials apparently can't spare me any troops. I've been advised that the desperadoes of Under- the-Hill are far more formidable than Hietarch soldiers anyway. I hope you deserve your reputation."
"You don't have, a Lantern of Truth," said the Sandman. "How do we even know you really are a Grim Rider?"
"I suppose you'll have to take my word for it," Montrose replied. "And if that's a problem, consider this: As long as the venture turns a profit, what does it matter who I really am?"
A number of the onlookers were regarding him differently now. Their scowls and sneers had given way to more speculative expressions. The Scot didn't entirely know himself just how he'd swayed them, but he'd assumed going in that he had a reasonable chance of doing so. He'd discovered he was a natural leader three hundred and fifty years ago, when he'd held his ragtag army of unruly Highlanders together through sheer charisma.
"I'll tell you what matters," rumbled agravely voice. Craning, Montrose saw that the speaker was the burly man, still dangling the coarse hemp rope, into the Nihil.
He stood up and began to haul it in, hand over hand, neither his voice nor his movements betraying appreciable strain. "What matters is that there are river men here. Real men. What makes you think we'd follow any stranger, let alone a limp- wristed Stygian noble with dainty curls and a frilly velvet cape?"
The end of the line emerged from the Nihil, knotted to a heavy iron hook transfixing the torso of a semi-conscious, feebly writhing thrall. Montrose gathered that the wraith with the black mustache had been fishing for Spectres, a hazardous sport to say the least, though safer for the angler than the bait.
"You should join me because we'll win," said the Anacreon. "I know how to command an army."
The other wraith tossed the slave and hook to the floor. "Well, nobody 'commands' me. Nobody but a better man. And there aren't any better men than Mike Fink!" He paused dramatically, as if expecting Montrose to cower at his name.
"I'm afraid I never heard of you," the Stygian said.
Fink quivered. His dark eyes glared, while his hulking body seemed to swell like a frog's. "Well, let me educate you," he said, his voice beginning softly but building in a relentless crescendo. "My mother was a Malfean and my father was the Tempest! I can outfight, out-brag, out-sail, and out-hoodoo any spirit on the river! I eat Nephandi for breakfast, wolfmen for lunch, and bloodsuckers for supper, all with Oblivion ice-cream for dessert! I'm faster than lightning, meaner than a gator, and crazier than the Laughing Lady! I pop little pissants like you like pimples!"
To Montrose, Fink's outburst seemed more humorous than threatening, his clenched fists and outthrust jaw notwithstanding. But the Scot could tell that the audience had a different reaction. They were amused, but wary as well. They wouldn't have wanted the big man to think they were laughing at him. Evidently, his buffoonery notwithstanding, they held him in considerable respect.
And because they did, they'd resumed glowering and sneering at the Stygian, reasoning that if the local strongman scorned him, he couldn't be worth heeding after all. Montrose realized that if he still wanted to recruit them, there was only one way to go about it.
"What a colorful oration," he drawled, becoming the languid, condescending aristocrat Fink had accused him ot being. "But let's get down to cases. A moment ago, you said that you would follow a better man. Meaning a man who can humble you in battle, I assume."
Valentine tugged urgently on his cloak, presumably to warn him he was headed for disaster.
Fink grinned. "Oh, sure, Anacreon. We'd all follow a superman like that."
All? That was even better than Montrose had dared to hope for. He lifted an eyebrow. "You speak for the entire room, do you?"
Fink turned, regarding his fellow outlaws. "Anybody here think he's too good to fight in the same gang with me?' Apparently no one did. Smiling crookedly, the big man pivoted back toward Montrose. "But here's the thing, Lord Jimbo. If I'm going to bet, you have to put up something, too."
Valentine yanked on Montrose's cloak even more frantically than before. The Stygian tugged it out of the small man's grip. "What did you have in mind? I don't have any cash on my person. But this is a valuable rifle, and as you pointed out, my cape is rather nice as well."
Fink made a spitting sound. Lacking bodily fluids, it was as close as the Restless could come to actual expectoration. "That's not good enough. You want a limited amount of service from all of us? Well, that equals out to an unlimited amount of service from you. You lose, and you become my slave."
Inwardly, Montrose winced, even though it was precisely the proposal he'd been expecting. "Done. How shall we duel? Guns?" Unless Fink had a modern weapon stashed away somewhere out of view, the Stygians assault rifle would give him a sizable advantage.
Fink grinned. "I don't think so."
"Blades, then." The Scot was more adept with a rapier or saber than a knife, but he was still confident that his swordsmanship would stand him in good stead.
Fink's leer stretched even wider. "Uh-uh. As the challenged party, I get to pick, and I say no weapons at all. Just muscles, and whatever Arcanoi either of us knows."
"Fine," Montrose said, setting the rifle back on the table. He pulled off his cape, dropped it over the back of a chair, and undipped the scabbard from his belt. Fink stripped off his denim vest and then his homespun shirt. His physique looked even more powerful without them. Meanwhile, the other wraiths moved back, clearing a space for the fight, and the old Quick tramp finally crept unnoticed out the door.
"Run for it," Valentine whispered.
"I think not," Montrose replied. "Although I must say, if this Fink character is so dangerous, you might have mentioned it when we first entered the building."
"I didn't know he was going to take a dislike to you. Nobody knows what he'll do until he does it. He's crazy."
"What Arcanos has he mastered?"
"I don't know. I don't come here all that often. I've only seen him fight once, and that time, he only needed his hands to tear the other man apart."
Montrose smiled. "You're doing wonders for my confidence. Look after my things. Otherwise someone is likely to walk off with them."
The Stygian stepped out into the clear area. Crouching, his hands poised to grapple, Fink grinned. "Do you like fishing, Anacreon?" he asked. "I've decided to let you take Beauregard's place on the hook."
"Really," Montrose said. Fists raised, he circled, looking for an opening. "And here I thought you wanted me for your catamite. You seem like the type." He lifted his foot for a kick and the world turned red, as if he were viewing it through a pane of scarlet glass.
Startled, he hesitated. Fink bellowed and rushed him. Montrose dodged and just barely managed to avoid the larger man's clutching hands. Fink blundered past, and the room returned to its former colors.
The Scot thought he understood how Fink had affected his vision. The outlaw was a Haunter, a wraith who knew how to disrupt someone else's mind or even reality itself with a blast of primal chaos. Montrose decided it was high time he used one of his own powers. Cool shadow flowed across his skin. By the time Fink lurched back around to face him, he was invisible.
Unfortunately, he'd reckoned without the spectators, who'd watched him conjure the veil. "He's right in front of you!" shouted the Sandman. "Kill him!"
Montrose started to sidestep. Once he changed position, his adversary's cronies would no longer be able to give him away. But before he could move, his thoughts shattered into confusion. Where was he? Who were these people, and what was going on?
A powerfully built man with a black mustache lunged at him, slammed into him, knocking him to the floor, then dove on top of him. The attacker fumbled at him as if he were trying for a choke hold but having difficulty locating his neck.
The shock of being assaulted jolted Montrose's thoughts back into partial focus. He remembered he was fighting someone named Fink, and that the larger man was having difficulty grappling with him because he'd cloaked himself in shadow. But the Harbinger trick could only buy him a few seconds.
Montrose was certain he couldn't out-wrestle Fink. He had to break away before the stronger man got an unbreakable grip on him. Trapped beneath Fink's weight, he punched and thrashed as best he could, but couldn't buck him off.
Another wave of confusion swept through the Stygian's mind. Struggling to resist it, he called on his Harbinger abilities again. For an instant, nothing happened, and then he floated into the air. He'd hoped Fink would tumble off him, but the Haunter kept his grip. The audience gasped and babbled.
Now in danger of falling, Fink stopped trying for a stranglehold. Instead he wrapped his arms and legs around his opponent and started biting, plunging his teeth into Montrose's shoulder. The pain was excruciating.
Montrose rolled in midair, placing Fink beneath him, and then hurled them both at the floor. The impact hurt, particularly the way it jerked the teeth buried in his flesh. But presumably it had hurt the Haunter worse, considering that Montrose was in effect the hammer and Fink the nail.
He raised the big man up and smashed him down again. Fink's grip loosened. Simultaneously levitating and shoving the other wraith away with all his strength, Montrose broke free altogether. The Scot rocketed upward, just managing to stop before he collided with the ceiling. Meanwhile, Fink struggled to his feet.
Aching and weary, Montrose desperately craved a moment's rest. But he knew he mustn't give Fink the opportunity to recover from the pounding he'd j ust received. Flying around the big man like an invisible hornet, he lashed out with one kick after another, snapping the Shadowlander's head back and forth. The crowd couldn't tell precisely what was happening, but it was obvious that Fink was taking a lot of punishment. Some of the spectators groaned and winced in sympathy. Others smirked.
Another kick dumped Fink onto his back. With his flattened nose, torn lips, shattered teeth, and the raw, shiny patches on his skin—lacking blood, the Restless neither bled nor bruised—he looked incapacitated. Montrose floated back a pace and cocked his leg to administer the coup de grace. Then Fink bellowed and brandished his fist.
Bolts of crackling radiance blazed across the room, turning some of the onlookers into vibrating, charring statues and flinging others off their feet. One jagged shaft of lightning blasted through Montrose's chest. He blacked out, and woke up sprawled on the floor. His ears rang, and the left side of his body was numb.
He looked around. A few tendrils of electricity still danced sizzling about the tavern, and Fink was still on his back. Apparently, Montrose had only been unconscious for a moment. He struggled to his feet and hobbled toward his opponent.
As Fink scrambled up, his body shrank, and his hair changed from black to honey- blond. In the blink of an eye, he'd become Louise.
Was it really Montrose's lost, treacherous love staring at him with terror in her eyes? He didn't know, but it didn't matter. He hated her even more than he presently hated Fink, and her image merely served to energize him with a fresh burst of rage. He blocked the roundhouse punch she threw at him—an extraordinarily powerful blow, a part of him noticed, for such a slender woman—and slammed his fist into the point of her jaw.
Louise reeled backward. By the time she hit the floor, she was Fink again. As Montrose studied the outlaw, making sure he truly was unconscious, the residual haze of bewilderment evaporated from his mind.
But his anger didn't. Fink had both sought to enslave him and caused him a considerable amount of pain, and he wanted to keep hurting the big man in return. He could stamp his body to jelly. Pick him apart with the darksteel Bowie knife. Ram the iron hook through his body and lower him into the Tempest—
No! Montrose thought. What was the matter with him? He wanted to use Fink, not alienate his admirers by torturing him. It was his Shadow, roused by the pain of his wounds and the fury of battle, that was filling his head with these vicious fantasies. Closing his eyes, he drew a long breath, trying to calm himself. After a moment, his lust for violence faded.
Montrose regarded the spectators, who were silently gaping at him. "So," he said. "Are you with me or not?"
"I am," said the wraith with the bandoliers. "I always said that if we all threw in together, we could own this burg."
"Me too," said someone else. The next moment they were all pushing forward to shake Montrose's hand.
When he got a chance, he turned to Valentine. "I won't be accompanying you back to the Citadel," he said. "Now that I have the resources I need, I have no intention of giving Gayoso the opportunity to stop me from putting them to use. Tell him he'll see me by and by."
TWELVE
Whenever he climbed the spiral staircase to the Pinnacle of Lamentations, Howard Potter felt grateful that the Restless were virtually immune to physical fatigue. Of course, he could have flown to the top of the tower and saved himself considerable time, but to do so would have violated tradition. And so he trod slowly, striving for stately dignity, his plate armor clinking, the butt of his ceremonial halberd thumping on the basalt steps, and the train of his mantle whispering along behind him.
Occasionally a narrow window afforded him a view of the landscape outside. Like every other eye in the infinite storm of the Tempest, Stygia was a realm of eternal night, dimly lit by barrow-flame torches, Charon's lantern shining atop its obelisk, and the random flickering in the mass of thunderheads that covered the Isle of Sorrows like a dome. The metropolis of the dead was a sort of pyramid, with the Onyx Tower—actually a crazy-quilt of palaces, ramparts, reflecting pools, and faux gardens surrounding a huge central keep—at the top. Beneath the domain of the aristocrats, level after level of chambers and hallways descended to the forbidden labyrinth of caverns and crypts buried deep beneath the surface. Rumor whispered that the latter connected to the Labyrinth itself, though Potter had never believed it. The Emperor had been far too sly to link his capital to the heart of Oblivion.
On one side of the city rippled the waters of the Weeping Bay, where much of the Stygian fleet, a hodgepodge of ships from many cultures and eras, floated at anchor. Had Potter been closer to the shore, he might have seen anguished faces forming and dissolving in the waves, or heard faint, whimpering cries arising from the depths. By Charon's decree, the entire Sea of Souls was literally a liquid mass of imprisoned spirits designed to hold Oblivion at bay. Beyond it rose the seawall— another bulwark against Spectres, Maelstroms, and the terrible power they embodied—a mammoth construction of iron, steel, and less refined soul stuff. Here, too, an observer could discern the shapes of human faces and bodies protruding from the surface, although, unlike the ones in the water,
these were motionless and silent. One could at least try to believe that the imprisoned thralls weren't suffering.
Mighty bridges extended from the landward side of the Isle, linking it to the sprawl of tenements, warehouses, factories, rail yards, and fortifications on the mainland. In the last eighty years, fed by an exponentially increasing mortal birthrate and the harvest of two World Wars, the city had finally outgrown its original bounds, necessitating expansion into the Iron Hills.
At last Potter reached the flat, circular roof of the Pinnacle to find that all of his fellow Deathlords had arrived before him. Masked and clad in full regalia, each stood on his appointed pedestal near their departed master's empty throne.
They looked so powerful and enigmatic, so totemic, that Potter had to repress a shiver of awe. He firmly reminded himself that he was the Smiling Lord. These others were his peers, not some sort of deities. "Forgive me if I'm late," he said, "but at least I arrived before the prisoner." To his surprise, he realized he didn't recall just whom they had assembled to judge. It must be either a traitor of the highest rank or a rebel of the greatest importance to merit the attention of all seven members of the council.
He headed for his own position. The Quiet Lord stepped in front of him, barring his path. Potter's colleague, traditionally the patron of wraiths who'd died of despair, wore a murky red robe dyed with the blood of suicides. He carried an empty sack— from which Potter had on occasion seen him extract a diversity of bizarre and lethal objects—and his silver mask had been cast in the form of a face without a mouth. Because Charon had taken a piece from each of his lieutenants' masks to forge his own, it had a triangular hole in the left cheek.
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