Dark Kingdoms

by Richard Lee Byers

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

  "The way I see it," said Fink, "nothing means anything. Love, morals, patriotism, religion, the crusade to hold back the Spectres—it's all a crock, or at least nobody can prove it isn't. We only know one thing for certain. Ghosts who hang on to their emotions survive, and the ones who lose them fade away. So you do whatever it takes to make you feel like you're still alive."

  "Even if it means hurting people who don't deserve it."

  "Isn't that how you got to be an Anacreon?"

  Montrose smiled wryly. "One could certainly make a case that most of the rivals I stabbed in the back did deserve their comeuppance. One could also argue that they didn't deserve it any more than I did. Don't worry, Mike, I'm not turning milksop on you. But if we stop caring about right and wrong at all, aren't we virtually surrendering to our Shadows?"

  "I don't believe in Shadows," Fink replied, "or anyway, I don't believe in mine. As far as I'm concerned, Shadow is just a word people use for the part of themselves they're afraid of. I'm not afraid of anything. But if you are, maybe you should do something about it."

  "What do you mean?" Montrose asked.

  "It seems like the more Heretics we hunt down, the more you enjoy making them suffer." Fink leered. "You're turning mean, like me. Which would be fine if you were me, or one of the other cutthroats in our happy crew, but it doesn't look natural on you. It could be that your Shadow's getting too much of a hold on you."

  "You're suggesting I consult a Pardoner. I have to admit, it might not be a bad idea."

  "The Three Stooges must have one or two confessors hanging around the Citadel."

  "I'm not going to bare my soul to a man who might turn around and repeat what I said to Gayoso," Montrose said. "I'll go to someone in Under-the-Hill."

  Fink nodded. "I suppose you can."

  Montrose raised an eyebrow. "Is there any doubt?"

  "There don't seem to be as many around as there used to be. I guess they moved on to other Necropoli."

  Valentine had said the wraiths of Natchez were turning surly and violent. Perhaps the shortage of Pardoners was to blame. For a moment Montrose felt a pang of disquiet, as if he'd glimpsed one aspect of some grand and sinister design, perhaps even the menace Katrina the Ferryman had warned him of.

  Then, grimacing, he thrust his misgivings aside. No doubt, as Fink had suggested, it was simply Natchez's bad luck that most of the local pardoners had decided to relocate at approximately the same time. And even if it weren't, the spiritual health of the province wasn't Montrose's problem. He just wanted to finish crushing the Heretics and go home.

  "I'm sure I can find someone suitable," he said.

  Gayoso closed his office door, snapped his fingers to light the three stubby tapers in the candelabrum, and whispered the word that activated the invisible wards set about the walls. Supposedly the magical glyphs would keep out any intruder. Scowling, the Anacreon wished they could block the cheering and martial music which echoed through the Citadel as well. Evidently Montrose had won another victory and was parading another coffle of captives through the streets, thus reaffirming his status as the hero of the hour. As far as Gayoso could tell, most of his own subjects didn't even resent the fact that the Stygian had begun to withhold a portion of his loot, animate and otherwise, from the local markets for shipment to the Isle of Sorrows.

  Unmasking, Gayoso sat down behind his desk. Mustering his courage—or setting aside his better judgment, he wasn't sure which—he reached through the front panel of the bottom drawer and brought out a tarnished silver hand mirror. He hesitated, and then looked into the glass.

  At first he merely saw his own reflection. But gradually the image changed, though he would have been hard pressed to say exactly how, until finally it grinned when he had not. The mirror turned icy cold in his hand. "Hello," the reflection said. "It's been a while." The voice was Gayoso's own, but slightly tinny, as if passing through the glass distorted it.

  Since acquiring the mirror nearly a decade ago, Gayoso had had ample opportunity to grow accustomed to the sight of his image coming to independent life, yet he still had to repress a shiver. Because he was fairly certain that the entity inside the glass was actually his Shadow.

  Most of his fellow Hierarchs would have deemed him mad for trafficking with the creature commonly regarded as the most insidious, relentless enemy a wraith could ever have. But the being in the mirror had often helped GayOsO when he needed help the most. He was convinced that if he hadn't had the benefit of its advice, Shellabarger or Mrs. Duquesne would have murdered him long ago. He could only assume that the magic of the looking glass compelled his dark side to aid him, or else that the creature didn't merely aspire to destroy him but to: turn him into a Spectre, a goal which necessitated keeping him alive.

  "I need your assistance," Gayoso said.

  "I'm yours to command," said the Shadow, smirking.

  Gayoso wondered if his own features ever looked quite that unpleasant. "Do you know what's been going on?"

  "How could I, when you haven't informed me?" the reflection said. "I don't even exist except when you choose to give me form and purpose."

  Gayoso scowled. "Don't play games with me. I understand what you are, and I imagine you know everything that I do."

  The Shadow smiled. "In point of fact, I know things you don't, or at least I have instincts and intuitions you lack. That's what makes me useful. All right, I won't play the ignoramus. You're worried about Montrose." Another skirl of brassy music penetrated the wall.

  "Yes," said Gayoso. "Damn the man! I should have either helped him wholeheartedly or killed him when he first arrived."

  "You certainly should have," the Shadow agreed. "If you'd asked me, I would have told you as much, but alas, you kept me locked away in my musty little drawer."

  "I don't run to you every time I have to make a decision," Gayoso said. He suspected that: if he didn't use the mirror sparingly, he might corrupt his soul beyond any hope of redemption. "But I need to know what's going to happen next. What are Montrose's intentions?"1

  The Shadow nodded thoughtfully. "That's an interesting question. In his place, would you hold a grudge? Would you want to deliver the impudent provincial who hampered your mission to the justice of the Smiling Lord?"

  Gayoso scowled. "That's what I'm asking you. Does he mean to arrest me?"

  "Perhaps he wants to usurp your office. At this point, your subjects might well support him. So might Shellabarger and Mrs, Duquesne. And the Marquess would scarcely be the first Hierarch to decide that it's better to reign over a Shadowlands kingdom than to kiss Deathlord ass in Stygia."

  "Don't give me 'perhaps.' I don't dare move against him unless I'm certain."

  "Even I don't know everything, dear brother. I can't foresee every twist and turn of the future, or spy into the depths of every soul we encounter. But I can tell you this: Montrose served a purpose, but he's on the brink of becoming a liability. I recommend we dispose of him before he does."

  "How? An assassination?"

  "No," the;Shadow said. "Even if the attempt succeeded, everyone would suspect you. Your fellow governors could conceivably bring a charge of treason against you. It would be better if Heretics slew Montrose on the battlefield."

  "Obviouslyf Gayoso said impatiently, "but he keeps winning. And every time he does, more outlaws slink out of their lairs to enlist in his army. No Heretic Circle in the region can stand against him, not anymore."

  "No one Heretic Circle," the Shadow said. "But a missionary, a Sister of Athena, is putting together an alliance of Circles in Grand Gulf."

  "How do you know that?" the Anacreon asked.

  The creature in the glass ignored the question. "She just might be able to destroy Montrose, given the proper assistance."

  "What kind of assistance?"

  "Supply our Stygian friend with faulty intelligence. Tell him where the lady's followers are assembling, but grossly underestimate their
numbers. With luck, when he goes to dispose of them, he'll leave some of his own force behind to tend to other business. Arrange matters in such a way that it's primarily your soldiers, not Shellabarger's or Mrs. Duquesne's, who are supposed to fight alongside his ruffians, and then make sure your men don't show up for the engagement."

  GayogS nodded thoughtfully. "Inaccurate reports. Troops arriving late for a rendezvous. It happens all the time. If I'm careful, no one will be.able to accuse me; of a thing."

  "You'll also want to warn the Sister that Montrose is coming," the Shadow said, "so she can Set a trap. But your emissary mustn't refer to him by name."

  "Whyever not?"

  "I don't know," the Shadow said. Gayoso had the unsettling feeling that on this one point, it was lying. "But I sense it's important. And I see that if you follow the plan in every detail, Montrose will fall." The reflection smiled. "One way or another."

  On his way from the-Citadel to Under-the-Hill, Montrose noticed a newspaper box, its sides covered with spray-painted gang markings and the coin compartment levered open. Although he'd long ago lost much of his interest in the affairs of the Quick, the size of the big black headline framed in the window caught his eye. Wondering if the United States, had gone to war or experienced some spectacular disaster, he reined in Alexander and dismounted for a better look.

  Stooping, he skimmed the first few lines of the story, and then, intrigued, shifted himself into the Skinlands to peruse the entire thing. His luminous white stallion and the webwork of Nihils in the sidewalk vanished. With the sizzling sound of the tiny cracks cut off, the dark, deserted street seemed almost unnaturally silent.

  Wondering idly, if someone might look down from one of the tenement Windows, and what he would make of the masked, cloaked figure below him if he did, Montrose kicked the newspaper box. The window shattered. The Scot removed a; paper and continued to read.

  In the past three centuries, he'd seen more than his share of marvels and mysteries, but even by his standards, the newspaper story was odd. Ten ministers, four priests, two rabbis, and an imam had all gone homicidally berserk on the same Sunday morning. The police had had to: kill the majority of them to halt their rampages. The remainder had committed suicide rather than be captured. The reporter who'd written the account seemed to be hinting that the phenomenon might have something to do with the serial killer called the Atheist, but apparently didn't have any real evidence to support Such a speculation.

  Montrose: reflected that it was almost as if he had an opposite number on the other side of the Shroud, someone attacking the religious institutions of the living as ferociously as the Stygian was waging war on the Heretical sects: of the dead. Once again, he had the uneasy feeling that some sinister design was unfolding around him. That it might even be using him as a pawn.

  Scowling, he thrust the disquieting notion out of his mind. He knew very well why he was campaigning in the Shadowlands. To enhance his master's status among his peers. Moreover, he couldn't imagine what anyone could hope to gain by instigating both a crusade against the Heretics and a terrorist campaign against a few Quick preachers, or even howsuch an effort might have been accomplished.

  Surely, Montrose reasoned, he only suspected a connection because his Shadow was trying to vex him with irrational anxieties, just as it had earlier filled him with self-doubt arid delirious cruelty. All the more reason, then, to get himself to a Pardoner without further delay. He tossed the newspaper into a trash can and then allowed himself to slip back across the Shrotid. His scarlet eyes glowing, Alexander whickered as if he'd been waiting impatiently.

  "I know," Montrose said, patting the Phantasy's neck. "I have a morbid imagination, and I'm wasting your precious time. My humble apologies." He swung himself into the saddle and kicked the horse into a canter.

  The ambiance of Under-the-Hill had changed since his arrival in Natchez. Many of the residents had seen fit to abandon their criminal activities and assist the campaign against the Heretics in one capacity or another. Consequently the dark streets no longer felt quite so perilous. Yet paradoxically, with an abundance of newly enslaved Heretics available for gladiatorial combat, rape, and any number of other vicious amusements, the invigorating, nauseating miasma of sadism, terror, and pain had grown even thicker than before.

  Montrose rode past a crowd of his irregulars who were watching a Masquer forcibly sculpt a bound, shrieking male slave into the semblance of a beautiful woman. The troops hailed their commander jovially. Concealing a pang of disgust at their notion of entertainment, Montrose gave them a nod, but didn't stop to talk.

  He turned Alexander into the mouth of a crooked alley. A large Nihil seethed in the pavement just before him, and the crumbling buildings pressing close on either side reeked of vermin and decay. Even allowing for the distortions of the Shroud, the scene was so ruinous that Montrose found it difficult to imagine anyone taking up residence in this particular block. And yet, as an informant had promised, a dimly glowing iron lantern, the emblem of a Pardoner, hung above a recessed doorway a few yards ahead.

  Giving the Nihil a wide berth, Montrose rode to the lamp, which radiated the chill of barrow-flame. He dismounted, stepped to the door, and called, "Hello!"

  "Come in," replied a reedy voice. "Anyone seeking absolution is welcome."

  Montrose slipped through the substance of the door. The interior of the shack was as deteriorated as the exterior, with a sagging floor, a few sticks of marred and broken furniture, and great masses of filthy cobweb festooning the corners. To his surprise, the dusty strands shed a faint green light. He assumed the Pardoner had used an Arcanos trick to make them glow.

  The man in question sat at a rickety table in the exact center of the room. He was slight and stooped, and had chosen to conceal his features under a gray hood. Black stains, the stigmata of his craft, mottled his twisted, arthritic-looking hands. A miscellany of objects—brass finger cymbals, a fuming incense burner, long black needles with ebony heads, a jeweler's loupe—rested on the scarred wooden surface before him.

  "Your custom honors me, my lord Anacreon," he said.

  Montrose removed his glossy ceramic mask. "It would have honored you sooner, but you weren't easy to find."

  "Salvation never is," replied the Pardoner, a hint of humor in his tone. "I refer to salvation in the most secular, non-Heretical sense, of course."

  The Scot approached the table. The bitter scent of the incense stung his nose. "My Shadow has been restless lately. I'd like you to quell it. How much do you charge?"

  "Whatever the client sees fit to give."

  Montrose reached inside his mantle, brought out a bulging leather bag, and set it on the table. The oboli inside it clinked.

  "My lord is most generous," the Pardoner said. "Please be seated."

  The Stygian perched on a fragile-looking stool. Had he and it existed on the same side of the Shroud, he had little doubt it would have disintegrated under his weight. He set his mask on the tabletop. "I've been slipping into a sort of fever," he said. "A fever of anger. It makes me enjoy my task—the fighting and slave-taking— more than I should."

  "Of course you enjoy it," said the man in the hood. "You aren't just shooting and stabbing rebels. You're getting even with the ogres of your past. People who betrayed you."

  Montrose sighed. "I probably am. You have good eyes,"

  "It's all a matter of knowing how and where to look," the Pardoner said. "I also see that one treachery in particular left lasting scars. A woman you encountered in the last few months of your mortal existence, after you'd laid your wife to rest and imagined you were done with love forever. You thought the girl was an angel, but she sent you to your death."

  Montrose's eyes ached as if they were still capable of shedding tears. "It's pathetic, isn't it ? Louise sold me out three hundred years ago., and it isn't as if I haven't done anything since. I've won a place in the aristocracy of an empire that puts Scotland or any other mortal realm to shame. I've dallied with beauti
es who really do resemble angels, in a way coarse Earthly bodies never can. Why can't I simply forget her?"

  "That isn't how we're made," the Pardoner said. "My master in the craft taught me that every ghost is inherently a creature of rage and regret. Were we not, we never would have entered the Underworld in the first place. The only way to rid yourself of your burden of passion is to confront and resolve it."

  "And I missed my chance at that," Montrose said bitterly. "When I died, a Reaper seized me and sold me to the Black Hawks to fight in the ranks. I wasn't a thrall, but I was the next thing to it. A few days later, our commander marched us off into the Tempest to patrol the roads. It was decades before I made it back to the Shadowlands. By that time, I was a Proctor. I could have attacked Louise, Argyll, VanLengen, and all the rest of my enemies. But every one of them had already gone to his grave."

  "Thus denying you your catharsis," the Pardoner said. "It must have felt like a final injury and an ultimate injustice. And it left an open wound in your psyche, a flaw for your Shadow to exploit."

  "But, I would assume, not anymore," said Montrose, "not anytime soon. Because you're.going to put the genie back in its bottle."

  "Let's hope so," said the Pardoner. "Take off your gauntlets and spread your hands on the table, palms down."

  Montrose did as he'd been instructed. The man in the hood picked up one of the black needles, set the point against the middle finger of his client's right hand, just below the nail, and suddenly thrust it in. Somehow the thin shaft of metal pinned Montrose's digit to the surface beneath it as if it had actually plunged into the wood.

  The pain was intense. Montrose felt waves of dissolution licking at the substance of his finger: Evidently the needle was made::of darksteel. "Sweet Jesus," he gasped, fighting the impulse to pull the offending object out.

  "It's necessary for your treatment," the hooded man said blandly, which actually sounded plausible enough. Many Pardoners employed scourging or other forms of physical chastisement to break a Shadow's power. "And it'll only be for a little while." He picked up a second needle.