The Grand Dark

by Richard Kadrey

  It took two more drops of morphia before he could fall asleep.

  At the Street Market by the Crossroads

  From Folklore and Supernatural Belief Systems of the Lower Classes by Johannes Schneider

  Deathbed recitation of Joachim Vohrer in a state home for the destitute:

  Schneider: Take your time and tell the story in your own way, Herr Vohrer.

  Vohrer: All right. You have to picture the place first. In those days the market sprawled and curled around itself like a snake, forming passages where those of us from Haxan Green and other areas could come each day for food, household goods, and gossip. The market was older than anyone remembered. Before any of us were born, the land had been one of the holding pens for a vast slaughterhouse. In those days, a stray hoof or bone would sometimes ooze from the soil during the endless winter rains.

  Like the city, the street market was laid out in districts. Here you would find household goods: used clothing, ramshackle furniture, morphia elixirs, and the like.

  Farther on was the metal district, for cooking pots, tools, nails—and more illicit items, like knives meant for more than carving meat. There was food, mostly fish. Fishermen brought their catches to the market all day. What didn’t sell became bait for the next day’s haul. Off the main channel, smugglers offered their curiosities: jewelry, rugs, unstrung violins, and gleaming crystal vases—all brought in at great peril from High Proszawa, and all guaranteed to be plague-free, though no one believed the last part. Still, they did a good business.

  People were sold at the market too. Young women, old women, young boys, and those who would be anything you wanted for a price worked the farthest reaches of the market in tumbledown shacks with blankets on the walls to keep down the noise. To ward off knife attacks, some pimps wore butcher’s chainmail under their clothes. Everyone knew who they were because they jingled like small sleigh bells when they walked. Bullocks avoided the area unless they were in a buying mood, since they were just as likely to get their throats slit as anyone else who caused trouble.

  Last was the enchanter district. It wasn’t part of the main body of the market. The enchanters came and went depending on the flow of money. They did great business during the war and soon after. After that, it was a slow decline until there were only a handful of crystal gazers left. But with the Drops taking hold in the city, business was on the rise once again.

  Schneider: And that’s when it happened, right?

  Vohrer: Yes. It was a sunny day when I went to see the enchanters, and I foolishly took the sun to be a good omen. My wife had run away soon after our son was born. It was just the two of us for years, but the flu took him and then there was just me. I didn’t care about my wife—curse the slut and whoever she tormented after she deserted us. But my son . . .

  I went to see the enchanters with all the household silver in my pocket. There were a dozen canvas tents at least, all inhabited by anxious women and thin men whose eyes practically burned holes in me as I made up my mind who to see. The problem was they all looked alike. The same scarves and turbans on their heads. The same astrological charts. The same promises to reveal my future, divulge my past lives, and to help find lost loved ones. It was this last offer that had brought me there, but their promises didn’t help me decide as each enchanter made a better case for him- or herself and discounted his or her services while screaming over each other.

  At the far edge of the group was a blue canvas tent—I remember the color distinctly. It was the color of my son’s eyes. The tent wasn’t the biggest or the most lavishly decorated, but the man out front caught my eye. He was fat and had black hair and a hooked nose like a raven’s beak. He stood at the tent entrance calmly smoking a pipe. He didn’t call to me or make outrageous promises. He merely puffed his pipe, gave me a slight nod, and stepped back through the canvas entrance. As the other enchanters shouted and offered me the moon and sky, I followed this last enchanter inside.

  He sat at a small table decorated with the constellations. With his calm manner, it almost seemed as if he had been expecting me. I sat down across from him. The tent was lit by a single candle in the center of the table so that all I could see was the enchanter. He didn’t have cards or a crystal ball, but merely asked me how he could help. I told him about my poor dead son, taken from me so quickly. The enchanter listened, not saying a word, just puffing his pipe. I didn’t know what to make of such a quiet medium, so I put down the household silver and pushed it across the table to him. He didn’t move to take it or count the contents. He merely nodded and said, “You wish to speak with him?”

  “Very much,” I said.

  “Then you shall.” He opened his hands and told me to take them in my own. His skin was soft, like a young woman’s, not rough and calloused like mine. For a moment I was almost embarrassed, but then he said, “Are you ready?” and I forgot all about it.

  “Yes,” I said without a moment’s hesitation.

  He blew out the candle. The tent was completely black. I couldn’t even hear the sounds of the market through the thick canvas. After a moment, the medium began to mutter softly, as if he was talking to himself. This went on for what seemed like a long time and I grew anxious that my poor son was too far away to reach. Then something happened.

  Abruptly, the enchanter stopped muttering. A tiny spark of light appeared before me. It grew bigger and longer. It was an increasingly long glowing filament. I’d heard of this, didn’t know its name, but recognized it right off as spirit essence. Soon, there was enough glowing filament dangling over the medium’s head to outline his features. Then a voice came, high and frail, barely a whisper.

  “Papa?”

  Well, I almost leaped from my seat, but the enchanter held me with surprisingly strong hands. The voice came again, a little stronger this time.

  “Papa?”

  “Rolf?” I said.

  “I’m here, Papa. Where are you?”

  “Here, my boy. I’m right here.”

  I almost jumped from my seat when a cold, mocking voice came from behind me. “Here, my boy. I’m right here.”

  I spun around to see two of the other enchanters standing at the tent’s opening. One held a small lantern in his hand. “Here’s your boy, you old fool,” he said, and shone the light on the medium.

  He sat rock still, but with panic creeping into his eyes. From his mouth extended a length of ordinary household string that had been dipped into a phosphorescent material so that it glowed. Another man stood behind him. He was dressed completely in black. All that was visible were his eyes where they peeked out of a black hood. He held a thin wire attached to the glowing string, which he had been drawing from the medium’s mouth.

  “My god,” was all I could think to say.

  The enchanters all laughed. “There’s no god in here, you stupid man. Just fat Sigmund and Karl, who imagine themselves cleverer than us.”

  At that, I snatched my hands from the medium’s grasp. I jumped up and when the medium grabbed for my silver, I shouted and punched him in his fat face. Sigmund, the medium, fell back, bleeding, while Karl disappeared out the back of the tent.

  I ran outside thinking to go back into the market and buy a knife to pay back the bastard medium. But I didn’t realize that I’d been shouting the whole time I pushed through the crowd. A couple of bored bullocks grabbed me and checked my breath to see if I’d been drinking. When I told them what had happened they, and what seemed like half the market, followed me to the enchanter district. The filthy bullocks just shrugged when they saw that Sigmund was gone. With no one to arrest, they wandered away. The crowd, however, didn’t. I had the feeling I wasn’t the first fool tricked by one of the enchanters. They quickly set fire to Sigmund’s tent. The other enchanters laughed themselves silly until the crowd turned on them, scattering their cards and shattering their crystals. The bullocks stepped in only when some of the other men found my cheats and tried to toss both Sigmund and Karl into the burning tent.


  While the crowd and the bullocks faced off over what to do with the enchanters, I wandered back through the market. I was in a daze and hardly remember, but I must have left because the next thing I knew I’d walked a good way toward home. I’m man enough to admit that at that point, I sat down on the side of the road and let the tears come. I’d been such a coward and a fool, so needy that I believed some sideshow bastard could bring me back my Rolf.

  A moment or two later, a tiny shadow fell across me. I looked up to see a little blond girl in a dirty dress patterned with blue cornflowers. She held out a bottle. “From my father,” she said. “He saw what happened. It’s medicine, he said. It will help you forget.”

  As the child ran back to the market, I unstoppered the bottle and drank half of it. Understand, I was unused to morphia back then, so I weaved down the road and it took me twice as long as usual to get home. I went to bed and finished the bottle, feeling empty and blissful. In this state I dreamed of Rolf, of teaching him to fish and climb a tree without breaking his neck. But in the morning both my son and the blissful feeling were gone. I thought about Sigmund and his wretched partner. What a way to spend your life, cheating the broken of their money and their loved ones.

  But here’s the thing: even knowing that it had all been a sham, I knew that at the heart of every lie there’s a little bit of truth. When I closed my eyes, I could still see the glowing filament, moving upward toward heaven, where I knew Rolf was waiting.

  I never went back to another medium or enchanter, but after that day I made regular visits to the medicine stalls. The elixirs made it easier for me to see the trail of spirit essence as it spun out of the tent and into the stars. Each night I climbed the filament a little higher. Someday I know that with enough of the dream medicine, I’ll climb all the way up.

  Schneider: Thank you.

  Chapter Eleven

  EACH DAY AT THE COURIER COMPANY WAS HARDER THAN THE ONE BEFORE. IT DROVE Largo a little mad that while he was making deliveries all over the city, none was back to Schöne Maschinen. The Baron was a busy man, and with every day that passed Largo knew that he would be slipping farther and farther from the magnate’s thoughts. He thought of sending the Baron something himself, just to have an excuse to go back to the factory. But what could he send that would interest a Baron? He didn’t want to get to Schöne Maschinen and look stupid. Maybe Remy could arrange a meeting, or Dr. Venohr could, if the three of them had dinner? He decided to remind Remy of the idea.

  His deliveries continued in their usual frustrating pattern. He’d spend days taking parcels and letters to the nicest districts in Lower Proszawa, glittering islands of endless parties, and then he’d have a series to some of the worst parts of the city. The slums were full of disease and rats. Xuxu political art and antigovernment yellowsheets were plastered on some of the buildings. Framed on the walls in the upper-class Händler merchant district were cinema notices, military recruitment posters, and colorful broadsheets touting patent medicines for the Drops. Even there, though, were signs that things weren’t as they had once been. At the edges of the advertisements were the remains of previous postings—scenes of mountains and ocean cruises. Old vacation posters. Even in the rarefied worlds of Händler and Empyrean there hadn’t been much pleasure travel since the war.

  After another nerve-racking delivery to the docks, Largo used a shortcut that took him briefly through the Great Triumphal Square. Clouds and smoke from the factories had turned the city a uniform slate gray. Because of this, what he saw in the plaza was especially startling.

  An Iron Dandy stood by the steps that led to the underground trams. When an elegantly dressed older couple emerged, the Dandy picked up a large bottle that had been sitting on the ground by his feet and followed them. When the couple reached the midpoint of the plaza, the Dandy poured the contents of the bottle over himself and struck a match.

  He exploded into flame.

  In the gray light, the orange-and-blue blaze created a zone of terrifying color. Everyone in the plaza froze where they were, including Largo. Making an animal scream of pain and fury, the burning Dandy ran straight at the older couple and knocked them to the ground. They struggled to get away, but he was too strong and held them tight until their clothes too were on fire. They writhed together, a human bonfire, screaming in terror and agony. A moment later, servers from one of the cafés ran to them with bottles and buckets of water. They doused the trio, but it was too late. They lay together, smoke rising from their charred bodies. The police were already blowing their whistles and running through the square before Largo could hear anything but the reverberations of their awful screams.

  A crowd was quickly gathering around the scene. While the police shouted and shoved people, a louder scream came from the burned bodies. The Dandy was slowly rising to his feet, his clothes and skin scorched the color of charcoal. He lunged at one of the officers and managed to grab his leg, knocking him to the ground. The policeman kicked him in the face with his free foot and when the Dandy was upright, two of the other bullocks shot him. The crowd screamed and ran back to the edges of the plaza.

  Largo didn’t like being this close to the police, but he was transfixed by the awfulness unfolding before him. It took only another moment or two before armed Maras swept in to hold the crowd back. More police arrived, including the men in rubber suits he’d seen take away suspected victims of the Drops. While uniformed police wandered around the crowd taking notes as people told them what they’d seen, three black cars stopped at the edge of the plaza. They were even larger than the limousines Largo had seen at Schöne Maschinen, and they reminded him of hearses. A moment later, a juggernaut pulled up behind them.

  The men who got out of the cars all wore the same long black coats and homburg hats. An armed Mara tried to prevent the dark men from entering the crime scene, but the lead man pointed a small silver box—about the size of a cigarette pack—at it. Instantly, all the Maras slumped over as if they had gone to sleep.

  One of the police officers rushed to the men and saluted. The lead man merely nodded while the others fanned out among the officers, pushing them away from the burned bodies. There was a brief argument between one of the dark men and a police officer, but it was short-lived. When they parted, the officer saluted and motioned for the other officers to leave the scene. As they went, the lead dark man pointed his silver box at the Maras and they sprang to life, once again holding the crowd at bay. Largo knew that there was only one explanation for what he was seeing.

  The dark men were Nachtvogel.

  The only people they permitted near the crime scene were the men in rubber suits, who put the bodies in bags and carried them to the juggernaut. Largo had seen all he needed to. Bullocks were bad enough, and the corpses were nightmarish, but the sight of Nachtvogel in broad daylight truly unnerved him. He turned his bicycle and rode away from the plaza as quickly as he could.

  Back at the company, Largo gave his receipt books to Branca.

  “You wear your new clothes well, Largo.”

  “Thank you,” he said, looking past Branca at a blank spot on the wall.

  “Is there anything wrong?” he said. “You look a bit out of sorts.”

  “It’s nothing. It’s just that I saw something strange at the Great Triumphal Square.”

  “And what was that, pray tell?”

  “Two carloads of Nachtvogel. One of them had a little box that turned off all the Maras in the plaza.”

  Branca stared at him. “Nachtvogel? Why were they in the plaza?”

  “An Iron Dandy attacked an old couple. The bullocks shot him and then the Nachtvogel came and chased away the police. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “I should hope not. And you are all right, I take it?”

  “I’m fine,” said Largo. “It’s just that I’ve never seen anybody die that horribly before.”

  Branca put the receipt books into his desk. “Not a pleasant sight, is it? But your emotions are normal and natural.
Pity the day when witnessing another’s death doesn’t move you.”

  “I’ve heard that soldiers can get that way.”

  “Indeed they can.”

  Largo looked at Branca and tried to picture him in a uniform. The image was absurd, almost comical. Still, he couldn’t help asking, “Were you in the war, sir?”

  Branca stood still for a moment before saying, “Yes, I was. And before you ask, no, I never became so callous that death meant nothing to me. Some deaths sting more than others, but all deaths leave a mark.”

  Before Largo could ask anything else, other couriers began shuffling in at the end of their shifts. They handed in their books and, one by one, they left. None of them looked at him except for Parvulesco.

  Largo walked outside with him. “Want to get a drink later?”

  “That sounds great. Is it all right if Roland joins us?”

  “Always.”

  “The Fräulein Sabel at seven, then?”

  “I’ll see you there,” said Largo. He rode out with Parvulesco, but didn’t take his usual route home. Instead, he turned abruptly and rode to Ihre Skandale.

  “Sorry, but we already know about the attack at the Triumphal Square,” said Ernst. “We also know who the Dandy attacked.”

  “Who was it?” said Largo.

  “Helmut Neumann, the chairman of the plazma company.”

  “Do you think the Dandy knew who it was?”

  Ernst tapped a pencil on his desk impatiently. “Who knows? Why? Do you know something?”

  Largo put his hands in his pockets. “I’m not sure. But it looked to me like the Dandy was waiting for someone.”

  “Interesting,” said Ernst, and he made a note on a coffee-stained pad on his desk. “Was there anything else?”