by Jack Conner
"I've just heard that a troupe of sideshow freaks called the Funhouse of the Forsaken has just arrived at Roche Sarnova's invitation,” Kilian said.
Danielle smiled. "I've seen them before,” Danielle said. “Me and Ruegger saw ‘em in, uh, well, not too long ago. They’re good."
Kilian looked at her, suddenly alert, and she knew she'd fucked up.
"Where did you say you saw them?" he said. "They just came back from New York, and I know you didn't see them there, so it must've been Lereba, where they were before New York. It was Lereba, wasn't it? Why were you in Lereba, Danielle?"
Ice touched her spine. Kilian and the rest of Jean-Pierre's old crew had known for what, or whom, she and Ruegger had been hunting in Las Vegas, of course. They probably figured the odd flock, once away from Vegas, would still continue the hunt for Hauswell wherever they went. If Kilian figured out that she’d been in Lereba …
"Where are they?" she said, ignoring Kilian's question. "Where's the Funhouse?"
"In the Throne Room,” he said, sounding distracted. “The King's Court. That's where I was headed. After they settle in, they're supposed to publicly shake Roche Sarnova's hand and so on. Signing autographs, doing a few tricks, that sort of thing."
"Sounds interesting," said Loirot, finally wiping at his chin. His napkin came away bloody. "Danielle, I think we should check that out. What do you say?"
She tried to hide her revulsion. “Fine.”
Kilian coughed. "Well, if you don't mind, I'll take my leave now. Danielle," he added, bowing slightly, "it's been a pleasure. I'll see you—both—down there directly."
"We'll see you," returned Loirot, obviously glad to be causing Kilian some chagrin.
Kilian departed, as if this was something he'd been looking forward to.
"Prick," whispered Loirot, but Danielle noticed he didn't whisper it loud enough for Kilian to hear.
The waiter returned and asked if there was anything else he could get them. Some cappuccino, perhaps, maybe some dessert.
"No," said Danielle. "But I'd like to go ahead and order that guy that I didn't want a while ago. You know, the man that shot someone for mugging him."
The waiter smiled. "Ah, a hardy girl. I'm glad to see you've changed your mind. May I recommend a flavoring?"
"No, you jackass. I don't want to drink from him. I want to buy him and set him free. Please hand him over with the clothes he came with, if any."
The waiter's smile froze. "I'm sorry, miss, but that's impossible. I can't hand him over to you; it's against house policy."
"House policy, my ass!"
"Please, miss, keep your voice low. We can't have righteous customers setting our meals loose. If you treat humans with the same rights we have, then it would make other customers feel uncomfortable."
She lifted her upper lip, exposing her fangs.
"If you want to buy a human and set him free,” he added, “go to the slave auctions that are held every night at the Arena before the fights start. The slaves there can be bought for less than a single meal at our establishment."
"I can't right all the wrongs in the world,” she said. “I don't have the money. But the man you've got on your Murder List doesn't deserve to die. Someday someone like me will order him off the Villain Eaters section, expecting to eat a villain, expecting to maintain their values. Instead they'll eat that poor bastard and then both of them—customer and meal—will be cheated. I'd rather just set the man free."
"Well, in order for you to buy the man that you want, a slaver would have to buy him from us first, then sell him to you at the auction. It's the rules. But a slaver won't buy him from us, of course. That's not how it works. It's the opposite, as we often buy from slavers."
"That's perverse. A slave can be bought and work his entire life for someone, but he's worth less than one of your meals."
"Dining here is a luxury. Slaves, however, aren't. They're essential for running one's estate. Don't forget, their upkeep is the major portion of their cost."
"Slaves aren't essential. Loirot here doesn't have any slaves."
"Er, Danielle ..."
"What? You have slaves?"
"Just one."
"Jesus."
He shrugged. "As the man says."
"But I'll ease your mind," said the waiter.
"How?” said Danielle.
"I'll remove the man you want from the Murder List. Clearly he doesn't deserve to be labeled a murderer."
"You'll let him go free?"
"No. I'll move him to a different part of the menu, to a section where his consumer will not have your delicate moral fiber." He smiled.
Danielle snapped.
She flew out of her chair, grabbed the waiter by the lapels of his tuxedo and spun him around so that his back faced the railing that separated the terrace from the valley.
"You bastard!" she spat in his face as she pushed him closer to the balustrade. "You stupid stupid bastard!"
"Danielle!" Loirot cried.
She shoved the waiter against the railing so that his torso hung out over the abyss, held up only by her grip on his lapels.
"I could let you go," she hissed. "Would you like that? Would you!"
"No," he said evenly.
"Stop it, Danielle," said Loirot, who hovered a foot away, ready to step in.
"No," she said. "I'm not going to stop it."
She pushed against the waiter's chest so that his upper half hung even further out over the railing. Still, he didn't even flinch.
"I think that you'd better let me go now," he said.
"Think again."
Suddenly, before she could react, the waiter gained the upper hand. In a blur of twisting arms—two of them her own—she was on her back in the middle of an aisle, looking up at his stern face.
"You've got some strong blood in you," he allowed. "I'm quite a bit older than you, though, Danielle, if that's your name, and wiser. I suggest that next time you want to fight, you play with someone your own size—like this one," he added, poking his thumb at Loirot.
Brushing himself off, he gazed wryly around at the customers nearby, all staring at him. "Vegetarians," he lamented, shaking his head.
Several smiled and threw spiteful glances at Danielle. Capitalizing on his victory, the waiter returned indoors.
Danielle shouted after him, "Don't expect a tip!"
* * *
Loirot and Danielle descended several floors toward the King's Court, where Roche Sarnova kept his throne. The room was embedded in the bowels of the Castle so that it would be virtually impervious from any outside attack. As Danielle moved into the corridor which led to the doors of the Throne Room, she noticed a steady influx of sightseers. Everyone loves a show.
The doors to the throne room stretched high to a distant ceiling; though the King's Court was built just two floors above the catacombs, the ceiling reached up another three floors. And why not? Roche Sarnova had once been the ruler of all immortals. Times may have changed, but he was still the Dark Lord.
The largest and most beautiful mural Danielle had ever seen looked down from that ceiling. Though it must have been done back in the Renaissance period, it sported neither Cupids nor Angels. In fact, there wasn't one thing religious about it.
Many parts composed it, many pictures, all beautifully rendered. There was Roche Sarnova, standing in the North African desert, an army of mounted knights behind him. A portrait of Francois Mauchlery showed him astride a battlement of this very castle. Most of the pictures’ subjects weren't recognizable to Danielle, although here and there she saw a figure or battle she thought she knew.
She and Loirot entered the Court to find a colorful and festive scene. Groups of shades were gathered in knots, having cornered a particular member of the Funhouse, sometimes more than one. Questions were shouted at the performers, who did their best to live up to the publicity. Several wheeled about on unicycles, doing tricks like juggling or fire-breathing, while two more had a table laid out a
nd were performing card tricks, while still others sang or danced. A small Funhouse band played jaunty music, providing a strange score for the scene.
The Dark Lord's throne was the focal point in a semi-circle of chairs branching out in a wide arc (so wide that the wings of the semi-circle tapered against the walls of a very cavernous room) from the rear of the chamber. Though the Dark Throne reared larger than any other, neither were the others lacking in detail or rank. This was where the Dark Council sat, Danielle realized. She found herself wondering which seats would be occupied and which empty when the Council was in session these days. Which were the traitors and which were the loyal ones ... although maybe not so loyal anymore, if what Harry had overheard was true.
For the past few weeks, the Council would've been in session after the fights in the Arena had ended, but the coming of the Funhouse had apparently disrupted that.
In front of his throne stood Sarnova, guarded by a wary contingent of guards and flanked by his right-hand man, Ambassador Mauchlery. The leader of the Funhouse, Maximillian, was having his picture taken with the Dark Lord, as were several of the so-called freaks; Danielle cringed at the word, but apparently it was how they advertised themselves, and they wore the title with a certain disdainful pride. Arranged around this event clustered a myriad of on-lookers.
"Let's play some cards," said Loirot, nudging her.
"I'm game."
As they made their way toward the card table, something caught her eye. She was just passing a crowd gathered around a four-armed dwarf when she noticed a woman who was not part of the troupe, yet was standing by the dwarf's side as if she was with his party, not the crowd's.
Just as Danielle's eyes found Sophia, Sophia's eyes found Danielle. Ignoring Loirot’s squawk of surprise, Danielle moved toward her. The Ice Queen tapped the dwarf on the shoulder, indicating that she was going to step away, and met Danielle in the middle of the Dark Court.
"Jesus," whispered Danielle.
"Seconded,” said Sophia.
They embraced. As they stepped away, they began examining each other.
"What ..? And how did you ...?" began Sophia.
"Don't ask,” said Danielle. “Not now. I mean, shit. We've gotta find a place to talk."
From behind them, Loirot said, "Not so fast."
"Not-so-fast, my ass, Loirot. Me and Sophia have things we need to talk about."
Loirot stared at Sophia. Apparently he was as shocked by her arrival as Danielle was. Also, it occurred to Danielle that Loirot might actually know the Ice Queen better than she did.
"How's it going, Loirot?" Sophia asked.
"How's it going?" he repeated dumbly. "How's it GOING? Sophe, how the hell did you get here?"
"Came with the troupe."
"How'd that happen?"
"Long story."
"Start talking."
Sophia sighed. "It was Jean-Pierre. He left me with the Funhouse after ... well, it really is a long story. Danielle, come on, let's go. Loirot, you're staying here."
"I don't think so," he said. "And Danielle's not going anywhere unless I permit it."
Sophia arched an eyebrow. "Why’s that?"
"She's my prisoner."
"Your prisoner, huh?” Danielle said.
"A prisoner of the crew."
"So they got you, after all?" Sophia said to Danielle.
Danielle shrugged. "More like I got myself, to tell the truth."
"But why didn't they ... you know, kill you?"
"Turns out Vistrot never wanted us dead. He knew Jean-Pierre wouldn't do it. Or, I guess, he would've been happy for Jean-Pierre to do it, but he knew he wouldn't. I think for Vistrot it was a win-win either way. He was using us, me and Ruegger, against someone else."
"Who?"
"Long story.”
Sophia spun to Loirot. "Lover, me and Danielle need time to catch up, and I’m not taking no for an answer."
"Don't call me lover.”
"Then you shouldn't have fucked me, sweetheart."
"It was part of the Initiation."
"That's what they all say. Now, about that time alone … "
His gaze swung back and forth from Danielle to Sophia. "I don't know."
"Come on," said Danielle, punching him lightly, even affectionately, on the shoulder.
Loirot's resistance gave out. "Fine. You two can talk in our room—Dani's and mine—and I'll wait outside."
He was as good as his word and waited outside the room while they spoke, although neither Danielle nor Sophia trusted him enough to speak above a whisper. They took turns telling their stories, Sophia first. Danielle interrupted only occasionally. When Sophia told about how Junger and Jagoda had raped her, Danielle comforted her tearfully. When they were both finished telling their stories and comparing notes, Sophia said, "So what now?"
Danielle lit a clove and leaned back on the bed so that she was staring up at the ceiling. “I have no fucking clue."
"I think the first thing we need to do is get the hell out of here. This thing's gotten too far out of our control.”
“We can’t go anywhere till Ruegger arrives.”
“Okay, fine … ”
“And he’s not the only concern."
Sophia sighed. "Right. You have to kill Malcolm."
"At least I think I do."
"This isn't something you should be vague about. Kill the bastard and be done with it. Move on. Trust me, when I'm in a position to take my revenge on Junger and Jagoda, I will. So as one rape victim to another—just do it."
"It's not that simple. Junger and Jagoda are still evil, but Malcolm ... he's changed. If Cloire had let me at him the first day I got here, Malcolm would be a thing of the past by now. Now I'm not so sure."
Sophia rose from the chair, stretching her arms. "You've got to do what feels right. That's the main thing. As for me, it's been a long night, and I've got to hit the sheets."
Danielle studied her. "What's that smile about?"
Once it was brought to her attention, Sophia only smiled broader. She said, "Claude'll probably be worried about me. That's all."
"Claude? Oh … right. What—ah—is he to you, anyway?"
"Oh, just a friend, rest assured. I am married now. But ... to me ... that's a lot. Traditionally, I've had very few friends."
"You've got one more now."
"You?"
"You're surprised?"
"A little," Sophia admitted. "I think of us as comrades. We share a mission, although whatever that is anymore I don't really understand. To save the world, I guess. But friends? I haven't known you long enough."
Danielle stubbed out her cigarette. They don't call her the Ice Queen for nothing.
“Alright, then,” she said. “Comrade it is.”
"I'll see you tomorrow.” Sophia made her way to the door, opened it—
And recoiled.
Framed in the doorway stood Cloire, hips cocked, lips curved cruelly, her eyes on fire.
"Sophe," she said. "How the hell you doin'!"
* * *
After the very public arrival of the Funhouse of the Forsaken, Francois Mauchlery, shadowed by two guards, retired to the warm shadows of the castle's only cabaret club, informally known as the Floor Show. Really, it would be one of the last nights for this place, at least for awhile, because the Funhouse would surely be the most popular attraction while they were here, and they were planning to do their first show in a few days.
As usual, the hostess offered Mauchlery a seat by the stage—he was the second-most powerful shade in the Castle, after all—but, as usual, he declined, preferring a booth instead. His guards took position to either side, mostly out of sight to the Ambassador. He smiled to himself as he wondered whether the guards were more interested in protecting him or watching the showgirls. The showgirls were good, Francois had to give them that. They were beautiful and talented, and they kicked their legs high.
Frequently, they shot little glances at him, and he wondered if h
is presence made them nervous. It never had before. But things were spiraling rapidly downhill, and he supposed that if a showgirl could manage to hook herself up with a man of his prestige and power, her safety would be assured. Well, as assured as anybody’s was, these days.
The waitress brought him scotch, which he drank with only one cube of ice. He would've ordered the bottle itself, but appearances did have to be maintained. A shame. In a little while, he would be called upon to do something that would change things from there on out. It was his idea, though, so he had only himself to blame. A little more alcohol would not have gone amiss.
A few tables away hunched a group of dignitaries from Ireland. They represented a majority of the immortals on their island and they’d come to Roche Sarnova for a special petition on behalf of their constituents. The Irish shades had been approached by Subaire's Half of the Dark Council, who had requested their assistance in fighting Sarnova. Unfortunately (for them, at least) the Irish had refused, siding instead with their traditional ruler. Subaire's faction had retaliated by attacking the loyalists, and now the Irish were here to request Roche Sarnova's help.
It wasn't the first such situation. Blackie spent several hours a night listening to these appeals and granting them when he could spare the manpower, although on many occasions he couldn't. His men were spread too thin already, and things weren't going his way.
In fact, the war was being lost. And it was because of this state of affairs that Mauchlery was about to do what he was about to do.
For awhile, he listened to the music and watched the dancers as they kicked and strutted and slunk across the stage. It was all very bright and glitzy, and the scotch (which kept getting refilled, as if by magic) didn't make it any more comprehensible.
After some time, a man in a suit approached his booth. The guards blocked the way.
“Admit him,” Francois said, and they obliged.
The man sat opposite Francois, and they had a drink together, just to keep up appearances. Really, though, this wasn't necessary; the man's arrival was just a signal, nothing more. But gods, what a signal.
After his drink was finished, Francois rose, gathered his guards and left the Floor Show to ascend several floors and make his way down various halls until he was in a portion of the castle seldom used, where he reached a door at the end of a little cul-de-sac. His guards stepping in front of him, he crossed the threshold and locked the door behind him.