by Jack Conner
Sarnova and his officers debated the issue for an hour in the War Room, but their brainstorming only created further tension, as they all agreed that Subaire must be heading their way.
She was bringing the war to them.
Chapter 7
Despite the building chaos all about, that night’s performance of the Funhouse of the Forsaken went well. Sophia, again an extra, delighted in the thrill of acting, if that’s what it was. Not only that, but she’d finally written a sketch that Maximillian had approved of, and it had been performed tonight to enthusiastic applause.
After the show, Claude gave her a big four-armed hug and they chatted for awhile, then set about helping the others clean up the backstage mess. When the clean-up was accomplished, she sauntered over to Max.
“Well, what do you think now, Slim?”
The snake-oil salesman grinned. “Good job, Sophe. If you can keep writing like that, I may have to start giving you a wage.”
“Perish the thought!” cried Claude, approaching. He was grinning ear to ear, a grin that only grew wider as one of his hands found its way to Sophia’s rump. “Next, you’ll be letting her play a part in the play itself!”
Max turned a sour expression at Claude, who only laughed, grabbed Sophia by the hand and led her out of the theater toward the waiting party.
“Don’t worry,” he whispered to her. “Someday we’ll find a way to get you up onstage as something other than an extra.”
The idea pleased her. More and more, the Funhouse was becoming a large part of her life, consuming her time and creative energies. Finally, tonight, she’d seen the fruit of her labors and had been swept up in the ensuing praise, but she knew she couldn’t stay much longer with the troupe. And to become an actor! That meant too much commitment, meant that she would become a part of the troupe itself, and she was too independent to want that. Yet, to someone who had had as few friends as she throughout the course of her long life, the idea of living with and traveling with a host of interesting companions really didn’t seem so bad. What else was she do to, return to Los Angeles and revert to her old vigilante lifestyle? No. She’d moved beyond that now. She wanted something more.
The halls, as usual after a show, were busy and loud, and she took pleasure in hearing shades that had been members of the audience recounting their favorite pieces. Though she didn’t hear her sketch mentioned, she still enjoyed the feelings of goodwill apparent throughout the halls. She also enjoyed the company of Claude, though she knew that nothing real could develop between them; like her, he was a player, delighting in one-night stands and independence.
As she neared the entrance to the warren of rooms that the troupe called home, she passed a cloaked figure, cowl pulled low about his face, and paused, sniffing the air. The man exuded a familiar scent, and she was tempted to chase him down.
Claude grabbed her hand and pulled her along, into the warren. Before she had time to survey the crowd, a drink was thrust into her hand, and she let herself smile, knowing that the party had begun.
* * *
“No!” cried the naked woman, cowering on the ground. “Please, I don’t want to die!”
Lord Kharker stared down at her, troubled. This was a waste.
He’d rented the largest of the Blood and Stone’s private dining rooms, had armed this woman with guns and knives, even given her some of his blood, and tried to spur her into some sort of action, but the attempt was futile. Though she’d shot and stabbed him several times, she’d quickly dropped the weapons and ran—not that there was anywhere to go, of course.
“Godsdamn humans,” Kharker muttered, and slumped at the large dining table.
“Don’t hurt me,” she said.
He missed his home, his Lodge, and wanted to return there badly, where his prisoners often proved a challenge even to the tested hunter. Little was sweeter than the thrill of a good hunt, and though he’d tried to create a little sport here, he’d known it would be no good.
He had no heart to finish the woman. He could only fight those that fought back. Often, in the good old days, he and Sarnova had released humans into the Sabo and had spent hours, days even, tracking and hunting their quarry. That had been fun. But the Sabo was off-limits now, and Sarnova too preoccupied to spend much time with the Hunter.
I should go home. Kharker would stay by his friend’s side, though, especially in these brutal and, perhaps, final days.
“Stand up,” he said. “I won’t hurt you.”
She remained shriveled in a ball of terror.
“I’m not a monster,” he said, more to himself than to her. “I am not a monster.”
A moment later, he said, “The hell with it,” and left the room and the woman. He knew that eventually someone else would kill her, but he would not be that one. Morality was not the issue. Honor was. He pitied the female, as he pitied most humans, but he could not bring himself to end her.
Wearily, he made his way to a staircase, rose one floor and angled himself toward his room. As he drew close, the world tilted around him.
“Dear gods,” he said.
Sitting on his doorstep, draped in a brown cloak, cowl pulled back to reveal his pale and smiling face, was Jean-Pierre.
* * *
The two werewolves, in the relative privacy and security of Kharker’s quarters, talked for a long time, and Jean-Pierre could see the delight on his old friend’s face when the albino recounted how he’d escaped from the Libertarians. As Jean-Pierre finished that part of the story, Kharker leaned back in his chair and lit up a cigar, and when he offered one to Jean-Pierre the albino did not refuse. After all, smoking was the one vice he still permitted himself, and Kharker had good taste in cigars.
“You did well, my son,” the Hunter said. “That D’Aguila character is quite a formidable foe. Someday, I’d like to face off with him myself.” He shook his head. “I can’t believe your courage, Jean-Pierre, jumping from the cliff like that.”
“Honestly, I thought I was dead. I should’ve been. I fell at least half a mile, Khark. I don’t know why I’m still here.”
“You’re strong, and you’ve got strong bloods working in you. You’ve had mine, and I’ve had Blackie’s blood, and Blackie’s had Mauchlery’s blood, and so on.”
“Yeah, but could Roche or the Ambassador survive such a plummet?” It was a question that had been troubling the albino; logically, he should be dead.
“I doubt they’ve ever bothered to plunge off a mountain to find out,” Kharker said. “Anyway, it’s a good thing you escaped. Junger and Jagoda have taken over the Sabo, or at least they’re giving it a shot. If you’d gone with the Libertarians into the labyrinth, the Sabo probably wouldn’t have killed you—but the Balaklava would have.”
“That doesn’t make any sense, Khark. Why the hell would Junger and Jagoda try to take over the Sabo? Are they mad?”
“Perhaps. But I went down there myself, to remove the sign that Ruegger left for Malie, and I saw one of the monsters they’ve created. It’s a huge thing, made out of more than a score of human slaves, now undead, and a few immortals, as well. It can reconfigure its shape, not like a shapeshifter, but like a puzzle. If they’ve got more like that, they could do some serious damage. Also, I’ve heard it said that they’re now chalgids, which explains how they created the thing.”
“That’s what Ruegger told me, too. It explains the zombies I found.”
“Zombies?” Kharker said.
“When I saw that sign that Ruegger left for Maleasoel, I didn’t realize he was the one that had put it there. I saw some Castle soldiers and assumed that Roche had left the sign for the Libertarians. I didn’t know what it meant, but I decided going through the Sabo maybe wasn’t such a good idea, and, more than that, the sun was up and I was too wounded to make the long hike around to the Old Courtyard. So I went into the Refuge.” Jean-Pierre watched Kharker’s face carefully as he said this, wondering what the Hunter’s reaction would be.
“The Refuge?�
� Kharker repeated, nearly coughing over the word.
“You knew of it?”
“Hell, I helped Blackie build it!”
“You what?” Jean-Pierre exclaimed, but it was an act; Ladrido had mentioned Kharker’s involvement.
“Well, I didn’t exactly build it,” admitted the Hunter, “but I captured a lot of the creatures that are in it. Actually, that’s how Roche and I first met, about nine hundred years ago.” His brown eyes misted over as his memory tugged him back through the tide of centuries. “I was a dragon-hunter, once. A dangerous profession, but there were always large bounties placed on certain dragon heads, and I made quite a profit off them. Of course, that’s not why I did it; I honestly enjoyed hunting dragons. Those were simpler times, I guess, when magic was not an uncommon thing. And I loved the hunt, even back then, so being a dragon hunter was a natural thing for me to become.”
Jean-Pierre stared at Kharker. “Khark, why haven’t you told me of this before?”
“Let me get to that. See, I hunted the great wyrms for many decades, and I was not alone. There was fierce competition between bounty hunters, but I was never bested. You know how many times I drank the blood of a dragon? That was power. Maybe that’s what allowed you to survive your fall. Anyway, eventually dragons became scarce, which only upped the price of the bounty. By then, I’d already become wealthy and had come to love the creatures. No longer did I want to hunt them, although the sport still thrilled me; but I knew if this type of slaughter continued they would be wiped from the earth.
“That’s when Roche approached me. I’d met him before, briefly, when I had taken a trip to the Castle, but didn’t know him well. When he came to me, I was surprised. I’d earned quite a reputation by then, but still, to be visited by the Dark Lord ... He said he wanted me to help him capture some dragons. I asked him why, and he said he didn’t want to see them made extinct and he understood that I felt the same way. I’d been rather vocal on the subject. He wanted to find a secure place for them, where they could live unmolested by humans and immortal bounty hunters. I agreed, and he rewarded me well for my efforts. To make a long story short, Roche and I grew to be great friends, chasing down and capturing dragons and other creatures. Sometimes Francois came along with us, but usually it was just me and Blackie, and some of his soldiers.”
“Sounds like fun.”
“Oh, it was. I wish you could’ve hunted a dragon with me. Trust me, once you’ve battled a wyrm, elephants and lions seem like pussycats.”
“I can imagine. I saw a dragon.”
“You what?”
Briefly, Jean-Pierre recounted what he had seen of the battle between Gethraul and the Castle soldiers, which was little, since he’d been crouching behind a ridge on the opposite side of the lake, trying to keep out of sight of the soldiers. Nonetheless, the story greatly intrigued Kharker, who interrupted several times, trying to get Jean-Pierre to be more specific.
“So it was a green dragon,” Kharker said, when the first part of the tale was over.
“I suppose.”
“Strange. Why would Blackie use a green dragon, or any dragon for that matter, to kill or kidnap a traitorous colonel? Surely there are more conventional means that would’ve accomplished the job without so much blood.”
“I think he was trying to show off. The way Ruegger explained it, he knew Roche was somehow behind it, and that Roche more or less expected Ruegger to catch on. This was Roche’s way of impressing Ruegger, or himself.” He shrugged, to show that this was only a guess. “Then Roche told him the truth, or what might be the truth: he said that since so few inhabitants of the Castle knew of the dragons, or of the Refuge at all, that De Soto’s troops might not link their colonel’s death with Sarnova. He hoped they would blame Subaire instead, or at least that the mystery surrounding De Soto’s death would prevent any of them from taking action against Roche.”
“May be,” Kharker grunted, but he sounded doubtful. “More likely, Blackie was testing just how well he could use the dragons for his own purposes.”
The albino paused. “You think Sarnova intends to—”
Kharker chuckled, and motioned for Jean-Pierre to leave the thought unfinished. “We can discuss that later. For now, tell me about the Refuge. I’ve never been there, never wanted to see the great creatures caged, and Roche wanted to keep the whole thing a secret, besides. The longer he kept it that way, the longer he could preserve the creatures he risked so much to capture. That’s why I never told you about it; he made me vow that I would never divulge the secret … and I never would have, except that you found out about it on your own. I’ve got to know: what was it like?”
Jean-Pierre inhaled a mouthful of smoke, smiled through the swirling mists, and began that leg of his story. He could see that he held Kharker entranced, and could tell from the Hunter’s occasional surprised grunts that the older werewolf had never heard of some of the creatures that Jean-Pierre described, such as the Grife and the bat-man and the sentient mushrooms. He had heard about the wonders of the Meadow …
The albino enjoyed recounting his adventures, though he was careful to leave out certain parts, things that he would forever keep to himself. At last he told of his journey into the Chamber of the Green Lake and how he’d helped Ruegger and Danielle escape the Balaklava. Kharker laughed when Jean-Pierre explained how he had lured Junger and Jagoda into the Grife.
“Good work, my son,” the Hunter said. “I wish I’d been there to see their expressions.” He closed his eyes, perhaps trying to conjure an image of the scene. “So then what?”
“The odd flock and I climbed up one of the corpse-chutes, which took some time, and set up camp in a vacant room on one of the lower stories.”
“Ah, so Ruegger doesn’t wish to face Kiernevar, after all.”
“On the contrary. He has every intention of going up against the madman. He has some point he wants to prove, apparently.”
“Interesting. I take it Danielle wasn’t happy.”
“No, but I overheard her say she supported him.”
“Good girl. And do you support Ruegger’s decision?”
Jean-Pierre grinned bitterly. “I created Kiernevar, and I’ve come to regret it. I hope Ruegger whips him, and I hope to be there when the sick bastard gets executed.”
“What of this point that Ruegger needs to prove?”
“He believes that logic is stronger than chaos, or some such poetic conflict.”
“That’s not the Ruegger I used to know. The old Ruegger reveled in chaos, thumbed his nose at logic and order.”
“Yeah, well, I think that’s why it’s so important for him to do this, to show that the new lifestyle he’s embraced is the correct one.”
Kharker eyed the albino curiously. “How do you feel about that?”
“I don’t care one way or the other, except that I want to see Kiernevar crushed. And I want Ruegger to live.”
“So my little trick worked?”
“What, the fight you staged? I guess it did. I respect him, for what that’s worth, but I don’t understand him.” Jean-Pierre frowned, remembering his own new-found morality, a subject that he was embarrassed to bring up in front of Kharker.
“Maybe he really has changed,” the Hunter all but whispered.
“If he has?”
It was Kharker’s turn to frown. “I don’t know,” he said. “I’ve always thought that Ruegger was evil, that he was unconquerable, that these last few decades he was merely suppressing that vital part of himself … that he’d simply mistaken goodness for integrity. I thought that once he realized that one could remain—well, evil, to use a word, one I don’t care for—and yet honorable at the same time, he would renew his old ways.” Kharker ran a hand through his unkempt white hair. “Maybe I was wrong.”
“Can you still love Ruegger if he’s no longer like you? Us, I mean?”
“I ... don’t know.” Kharker shifted uncomfortably. “I suppose I’ll always love Ruegger, but somehow this cha
nges things. I’d thought his heart akin to yours and mine, but if I was wrong all the time ...” He growled in frustration and suddenly rose from his chair and started pacing the room. At last, he said, “It’s something I’ll have to think on. Anyway, what of you?”
For a moment, Jean-Pierre feared that Kharker had seen through his test, had understood that the albino was actually asking how Kharker would respond if he declared that he had suddenly found morality.
But then, and to the albino’s great relief, the Hunter said, “Are you going to pay a visit to your bride? She’s here, you know.”
“Yes,” said Jean-Pierre, relaxing. “I’ve already tried to make contact with her, but she was surrounded by friends. I felt awkward approaching her.”
The Hunter nodded. “It’s my understanding that she keeps a mortal male in a room three floors down, to keep her ghensiv half satisfied. If one wished to acquire her alone, I would suggest one wait for her to visit that room.” He smiled, seeing Jean-Pierre’s gratitude, and told him where the room was located.
“Thank you,” said Jean-Pierre, and stood.
“Leaving so soon?”
“Well ...”
Kharker patted him gently on the cheek. “Don’t worry, son. I understand. Now go on, reacquaint yourself with Sophe. I have things to ponder.”
“About Ruegger.”
“And Blackie’s pets.”
Jean-Pierre turned to leave. Behind him, he heard Kharker calling, “I love you, son. Never forget that.”
Yes, but what would you say if I told you the Danielle look-alike was still alive?
Brooding on it, Jean-Pierre left Kharker and moved down the hall, drawing his cowl low about his face. He was just another shadow in a city of shadows.
* * *
Sitting on a couch next to Claude, listening to the band play in a nearby room while she sipped on a glass of champagne and hit a joint that occasionally passed her way, Sophia experienced a pang of conscience. How could she be here enjoying herself when the man her mother had assigned her to protect might die tomorrow? She must go to him, see if there was anything she could do for him.