The Deathlords silently stared. Montrose fancied he felt a charge of sorcery building in the air, as if one of the princes were preparing to strike down him and Louise for his presumption. He itched to take Louise in his arms and fly, but it was inconceivable that they could actually get away.
After what seemed an eternity, the Laughing Lady howled her mirth. "Impertinent, impious words, Anacreon. But methinks they carry a certain ring of truth."
Encouraged that she'd casually restored his rank, Montrose Said, "For what it's worth, Dread Lady, we couldn't slay any of you, even if we aspired to. do so. We only prevailed against Prince Mars because Demetrius had so thoroughly addled him, and even then, we needed a gargantuan portion of luck."
"How comforting," said the Skeletal Lord dryly. "Nonetheless, it would be detrimental to the Hierarchy if word got out that a pair of ordinary wraiths destroyed any member of this Council, under any circumstance^"
Was that the whole point of holding a sham trialI Montrose wondered. To intimidate us into holding our tonguesI "I assure you, no one will learn of the matter from us."
The Emerald Lord pivoted suddenly toward Louise. Even though Montrose wasn't the target of the demigod's regard, he could feel the power that now infused it. The Sister of Athena gasped and flinched back a step.
"What of you, Heretic?" the Prince of 11I Fortune intoned. "Do you give your pledge as well?"
Despite the stress of the Emerald Lord's scrutiny, Louise smiled crookedly. "The story would make for wonderful rebel propaganda, wouldn't it? I can gee why you're: concerned. But when I promised to help James complete his mission, I made his cause, which was also yours, my own. It would be dishonorable to take anything that's happened since and use it against you."
The angel in green stared at her for several more seconds, then said, "We believe you."
"Sadly," Said the Beggar Lord through his bronze mask, cast to resemble a leprous, eyeless face, "your reticence, though useful, will not prevent a crisis of confidence in our regime. An earthquake wracked the island. Malfeans hovered above it. Any number of our vassals know that we Seven actually took up arms against one another. By now, someone has whispered the sorry tale to a friend or lover, and before long; everyone will know it."
"I said we should destroy every warrior who accompanied us into the Onyx Tower," the Ashen Lady whined. Shadows twisted up and down her gnarled cane like serpents.
The Laughing Lady cackled. "And in the wake of our little misunderstanding, which of us trusted the others enough to be the first to divest himself of his bodyguards? I didn't hear you volunteering, Mistress of Senescence. And the Beggar Lord is right: It's too late now."
"It wouldn't be quite so bad if the entire Council had come back out of the Tower," said the Skeletal Lord. "But since the Smiling Lord has disappeared, many people will surmise he perished in the battle, though they'll imagine he met his end at the hands of his peers. The effect on the morale of the Legions could be disastrous. To some degree, every Hierarch warrior, even those who swore their vows to other princes of the Council, looked to the Lord of War for leadership."
"Can't you appoint a new Mars?" Louise asked. The demigods turned to stare at her. Once again, Montrose was all but certain he felt a charge of sorcery building in the air. "Look, forgive me if it's supposed to be a deep, dark secret, but it's rumored that there have been replacement Deathlords before. You aren't all the same souls whom Charon proclaimed senators back before the birth of Christ."
"Do not speculate about who we were, or when we ascended," the Ashen Lady said, anger in her high, wavering voice. The taut, vibrant feeling in the atmosphere intensified. "Do not invoke your Heretic gods in the very heart of our power."
"Please, excuse me," said Louise. "It wasn't my intention to pry, or to give offense."
"Assuredly not," said Montrose. "Louise is a stranger here, ignorant of the finer points of court etiquette." To his relief, the ambient tension abated. "And in any case, she raised a point worth considering. Whether the Emperor ever replaced a Deathlord or not, it seems Stygia needs a new one now. Why don't you select someone? When he shows himself to the populace, it ought to soothe them considerably."
"We have, of course, considered that," said the Skeletal Lord. Its ruby eyes gleaming, the silver rat picked its way daintily down his forearm. "But there are difficulties."
"No one knows what magick Charon used to wed the Smiling Lord to his mask," the Beggar Lord said. "It's possible that if we told one another how he elevated each of us, we could figure it out. But—"
"But we might also give one another insights into the nature and limitations of our powers," said the Laughing Lady, her tangled black tresses stirring in the wind. "Once again, who wishes to go first?"
"I was going to say," the angel in the yellow rags continued, "that even if we could work out what the Emperor did, there's no guarantee that we could do it, too."
"There's also the vexing question of whom to elevate," the Princess of Madness said. The marionette bobbed its head in solemn agreement. "I don't care to see any of my colleague's trusted proteges assume yon visor, and they'd be equally reluctant to have it go to one of my aides."
"And so you see," said the Emerald Lord, "our problems are many. But thanks to you, Anacreon and Sister, at least we and the Isle of Sorrows survive to confront them. And though no one else is ever to know of your achievement, it will be rewarded nonetheless. Lord Montrose, we will find a high place for you. Louise of Bohemia, we invite you to join the Hierarchy. We will make you a great lady of our Court. Or, if you will not, go in peace, laden with treasure. We ask only that you refrain from using it to arm rebel troops."
Montrose bowed. "Thank you, Dread Lords and Ladies." The angels gazed silently at him, and he realized that they now expected him and Louise to take their leave. "Forgive me, but do I understand that we're dismissed?"
"As we've explained," quavered the Ashen Lady, "we have grave matters to discuss."
"I understand," said Montrose. "With your permission, we'd like to discuss them with you."
After a pause, the Quiet Lord inclined his head.
"Thank you," said the Scot. "You've spoken of the difficulty you'll have quelling the anxieties of the your subjects, and replacing the Avatar of Violence. I haven't heard you say anything about the Spectres."
"You told us you killed this Demetrius," said the Emerald Lord, "and smashed the mirror which might have afforded his fellow doomshades passage from Charon's cavern into your master's Seat."
"That's true," said Montrose. "I also told you that Demetrius said that he and his fellows had devised a two-pronged strategy. The other part is unfolding along the Mississippi even as we speak. I want to lead an army back there to deal with it."
"And which of us, I wonder, will weaken himself by proffering a portion of his personal forces?" said the Laughing Lady.
"This is incredible," said Louise. "You Deathlords are supposed to be so wise, yet you didn't learn anything from the way Demetrius exploited your mutual distrust, did you?"
"To the contrary," said the Princess of Insanity. "We confirmed just how deeply and bitterly divided we truly are."
"None of you has to give me troops from his own Legions," said Montrose. "I can take some of the Smiling Lord's men. Or recruit from one of the forces sworn to the Hierarchy as a whole. The Grim Riders, the Sacred Band, or, if you'll grant me my preference, the Fifth Legion." He reflected fleetingly that it would feel good to don the regalia of a Black Hawk commander once again.
"No," said the Emerald Lord.
Montrose frowned. "May I ask why not?"
"In a time of turmoil, when our enemies may well perceive us as weak and vulnerable, we prefer to keep all available forces close at hand, to guard the capital against invasion and unrest."
"Exactly the result Demetrius hoped to achieve," the Cavalier replied, "and thus, good reason to do the opposite. The Isle of Sorrows is as near impregnable as any bastion could be. Surely you can
risk the diversion of a fraction of your forces."
"Please," said Louise. "Thousands of wraiths are in jeopardy, and quite possibly many of the Quick as well."
"You don't know that," said the Ashen Lady. "You don't know what the Spectres are planning, or even precisely who they are,"
"No," said Montrose, "we don't. That piece of the puzzle is still missing. All we know is that they feel they're avenging some ancient wrong. But consider the disaster they nearly wrought here, merely as a feint. Do you truly doubt that their attack against the Shadowlands could prove equally devastating?"
"I suppose not," the Laughing Lady said. "But in the final analysis, any one of our Earthly provinces Is expendable. So long as we maintain an outpost somewhere in the Shadowlands, we can weather any number of defeats and calamities there. The capital, conversely, must endure, or the Imperium will perish with it."
Louise Spread her hands, in supplication or helpless incredulity. "Why should anyone care if it perishes, if it won't even defend its own subjects?"
"When possible," said the Beggar Lord, "we do. But sometimes one must sacrifice a limb to ensure the health of the body as a whole."
"I think," said the Sister of Athena, "that the only health you're concerned about is yo—"
"Dread Lords and Ladies," said Montrose, raising her voice to cut her off, "I respectfully disagree with your decision, but needless to say, I accept it. Louise and I will travel to Natchez alone, and work with the Hierarchs there to defeat the Spectres. All I ask of you is a writ absolving me of all charges and restoring my authority."
"Are you certain you wish to do this?" asked the Emerald Lord. "The Tempest seems particularly unstable of late. One can sense there's already another Maelstrom brewing. The realm of chaos will be especially hazardous, the more so for two spirits traveling alone."
"You've played a hero's part already," said the Ashen Lady. "Faced a thousand perils and ordeals. No one will blame you if you now lay down your sword and enjoy the bounty your courage has won you."
Montrose felt the teasing caress of temptation. It would be considerably more pleasant to stay in the Onyx Tower. What's more, the demigoddess in gray was absolutely correct. If he hadn't earned the right, who had?
But how could he sit idly by while the doomshades menaced countless souls, some of them his own irregulars? How could he abandon his war against the Spectres when the monsters had forced him to slay the very lord he'd once vowed to protect?
Besides, he knew what Louise would opt to do, with him or without, so he really had no choice.
"I'm afraid we have a duty to go," he said.
"As you wish," said the Emerald Lord. "I will prepare your writ."
TWENTY-ONE
Against his better judgment, Dunn took another deep breath. St. Mary's Children's Hospital smelled of cleanser and antiseptic. That was all a human would smell. But the werewolf also caught the rich scents of blood, raw wounds, and pus. Saliva flooded his mouth, and his stomach growled. His skin tingled, trying to sprout fur.
Dr. Quitman gave him a smile. The hospital administrator was a dapper little man with soft, manicured hands, a blue silk tie, and a matching handkerchief peeking from the breast pocket of his expensive pearl-gray suit. The guy struck Dunn as a born pencil pusher, who probably hadn't treated a patient in years. "Hungry?" the human asked.
Dunn most certainly was. He should have known better than to expose himself to the scent of gore on an empty stomach. But he'd been running around like a ferret on speed since coming to Natchez, helping the ghosts get ready for D-Day, hoping he wouldn't run into any of his fellow agents from the FBI branch office. Now that he'd gone AWOL, that would be a complication he didn't need.
"I'm fine," the Black Spiral Dancer said.
"Sure?" Quitman asked. "I know what people say about institutional food, but the hospital cafeteria really isn't bad."
"Thanks, but I had lunch before I came." Down the corridor, in one of the playrooms, a little boy made machine-gun, explosion, and ray-gun noises. Dunn, who'd seen the plump, blond seven-year-old during the course of his tour, imagined himself sinking his fangs into the child's throat. After a moment, the boy blurred into Frank Bellamy. Shivering, Dunn thrust the fantasy aside. "And I think I've seen everything I need to see."
Quitman pouted. "You haven't seen the MRI. It's state of the art. We don't have to shut the children up in one of those cramped little cylinders...." He sighed. "But of course, that's not why you're here, I'm so used to showing reporters, visiting health care professionals, and potential philanthropists around the place that I have trouble shifting gears. Are you ready to give me your recommendations?"
"Yeah."
"Then let's go back to my office."
It was quite a luxurious office, where diplomas, certificates, and medical books shared space with plaques, ribbons, and photographs celebrating Quitman's achievements as a dressage rider, whatever that was. Through the window, Dunn could see the Natchez Eola Hotel, with a carriage full of tourists at the curb. The driver flicked the reins, and his blinkered chestnut gelding pulled the vehicle, out toward the center of Pearl Street.
When he'd been in the room before, Dunn hadn't noticed the blood scent, but it was floating here now. Once a hunter registered such an enticing odor, it was all but impossible to screen it out, even when it was a distraction and a torment. He supposed he'd just have to bear it as best he could.
"Well," said Quitman, leaning forward across his desk, "what do you think? Is our security adequate?"
"I'm afraid not," said Dunn. He wondered if the taste of a cigarette would block out the blood smell, not that it mattered. The hospital was a nO-smoking building, and though he didn't ordinarily worry about such nonsense, it would be stupid to. alienate Quitman when he wanted to enlist the human's cooperation. "If a clever, determined psychopath from the outside wanted to hurt the kids, he could get onto the wards without a lot of trouble. And if somebody on the inside goes berserk, your problem's even worse."
"Good lord," said Quitman, "do you honestly think we need to worry about that?"
"Do you follow the news at all, Doctor?"
Quitman grimaced. "Of course. I realize the kind of things that have been happening, even in other medical facilities. But I know my staff. I trust them."
"And they probably deserve it," said the werewolf. "On the other hand, everybody trusted the killers, too, right up until the moment they snapped."
"The government must have some theory about what's happening,"
"I'm just a Federal cop, not a scientist. But from what I hear, they have a million theories. Just no evidence to back any of them up."
"They haven't even identified any symptoms, any warning signs that someone is about to lose his mind?"
"No," said Dunn, enjoying the human's increasing agitation. This sort of bewildered desperation was precisely what the Atheist conspiracy had set out to achieve. "The experts at Quantico can't get a handle on it. They've collected tons of data on mass murderers and serial killers over the years, but none of it's relevant to the current situation."
"Well, it's just awful," Quitman said glumly. "You know, my wife thinks we should drop everything and move away. Not just to another part of the country, but to Australia. She thinks the phenomenon is going to spread." His lip curled. "Expert epidemiologist that she is. Amazing what people learn majoring in Art History these days, isn't it?"
"You can't blame her for being scared," said Dunn. "I've thought about resigning from the Bureau and clearing out of Mississippi myself. Because whatever's happening, how do I know it isn't going to happen to me? Or to the Fed standing behind me with a loaded gun ready to hand in his holster? But I guess cops and doctors are alike. We take an oath to serve the public. Which means we have to stick it out and cope."
Quitman nodded. "Exactly. I wish I could make her see that. But I shouldn't be wasting your valuable time moaning about how my better half doesn't understand me. What is it the hospital needs?"
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"Better locks," said Dunn, drinking in the blood scent. His teeth and jaw ached with the urge to change form. "Security cameras watching every door and corridor. Twice as many guards on every shift, partly because they should also be keeping an eye on one another."
"Good grief," said Quitman, "do you know how much that's going to cost? There's no money in the budget."
"That's what everybody else told me at all my previous stops. Obviously, it's your decision what to do. It could be that nobody will ever give you any trouble. On the other hand..."
"Can't the police provide security?"
"We wish. They're stretched paper-thin as it is. What with everybody's nerves scraped raw, they're getting three times as many calls as they're set up to handle. And no call is simple anymore. Whenever an officer approaches the public, he sort of has to convince them that he's not going to flip out and start gunning them down before he can deal with the issue at hand."
Quitman sighed. "All right. We'll do as much as we can."
"I think that's smart. We need to talk about something else, too. An evacuation plan."
The doctor cocked his head. "I beg your pardon?"
"I told you that the scientists don't know what to make of what's happening in this part of the South. But they do know how to chart trends, and make projections. If we keep having more and more murders, and the public keeps getting edgier and edgier in response, it's possible that Natchez could have itself a full-scale disaster. Scores, maybe hundreds of crazy guys going on the rampage all at once. Or mobs of hysterical citizens rioting. Or both things happening at once. If that happens, the only way to protect all the people who need it most—like your patients—will be to bring them all to one secure location. Otherwise the police won't have enough manpower."
"You can't actually believe it will come to that!"
"I'm not a scientist, Doc, so I wouldn't venture to guess. I just know somebody made a contingency plan in case it does, and I'm supposed to bring you up to speed on it. If Natchez blows up, and the hospital is in imminent danger, a bunch of vans and ambulances will turn up at your door. Your staff will need to help the drivers load the kids into them as fast as possible, along with their records."
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