by Simon Green
This particular elf watched me approach and lazily blew a perfect smoke ring at me. Followed by half a dozen increasingly complex smoke shapes, culminating in a great ship perched on a rising wave, complete with billowing sails and shaking rigging. But he was only showing off, so I ignored it. I pulled up a chair and sat down opposite him, careful to keep the whole of the table between us.
“So,” said the elf, in a voice like a cat drowning in cream and loving every minute of it, “here you are. Lilith’s son.”
“Actually,” I said, “I take more after my father. I’m John Taylor.”
“Of course. And you can address me as Lord Screech, Pale Prince of Owls.”
“But that’s not your real name.”
“Of course not. To know the true name of a thing is to have power over it. But for the purpose of this transaction, Lord Screech will do.”
“Because the owls are not what they seem?”
“Quite.”
I looked him over. Screech was inhumanly tall and almost impossibly slender, with the usual slit-pupilled cat’s eyes and sharp, pointed ears. His skin glowed like fine porcelain, so pale as to be almost colourless, and his quick smile showed pointed teeth behind the rose pink lips. He wore long oriental robes of a shimmering metallic green, complete with a stiff high collar that rose behind his head, and his long white hair had been swept up in tufts on either side of his elongated skull, like an owl’s. I was tempted to make a Flock of Seagulls joke, but he wouldn’t have got it.
And besides, it would have dated me.
“Why ask for me?” I said, directly.
“You have a reputation for arrogance, style, and occasional viciousness,” said Screech. “You might almost have been an elf.”
“Now you’re just being nasty,” I said. “And why meet here, of all places?”
“Because I do so love to watch humans degrade themselves,” Screech said easily. “Throwing their lives away for such pitiful rewards. No elf would ever lower himself to anything as small as this; even our sins have to be magnificent.”
“Tell me what you want,” I said. “Or I’m out of here.”
“Always so impatient,” said Screech, laying aside his bone pipe. “Always in such a hurry. Comes of being mortal, I suppose. Very well, Mr. Taylor, I shall talk, and you will listen, which is of course the proper state of affairs between elf and human. I am presently passing through the Nightside on a matter of importance. It is imperative I complete my journey without being stopped or in any way detained along the way. I am an emissary between the two warring factions of Faerie.”
“Hold everything,” I said, leaning forward despite myself. “Go back, go previous; run that by me again. The Fae are at war with each other? When did that happen? And why haven’t we heard about it?”
“Because it’s none of your business.”
“It is now,” I said. “Or you wouldn’t need my help.”
“Life is imperfect,” said Screech.
“All right; why pass through the Nightside at all?”
“Because this appalling locality is the nearest thing we have to neutral territory. I can see I’m going to have to fill you in on a few of the background details. How very tedious. In the beginning, long before human history began and we were all myths and legends... Queen Mab ruled over the Fae, and she was mighty and magnificent and terrible to behold in her glory. Under her rule we spread and prospered; but it didn’t last. How could someone of such a magnitude as Mab have foreseen the rise of the vermin called Man? She underestimated you, and lost the war, and was deposed, by Oberon and Titania.
“They dragged her off her Throne and threw her down into Hell; and there she stayed for many centuries, while Oberon and Titania ruled the Fae in her place, in the Sundered Lands. But Mab got out; and after so long in the Houses of Pain, her vengeance was terrible to behold. She cast Oberon and Titania down, to take her place in Hell, and re-established herself as the one true rightful ruler of the Fae. Or as many of us as were left after she’d finished purging the unfaithful.
“But then Oberon and Titania fought their way out of Hell and took up residence in Shadows Fall, in the land under the hill, and have since amassed a mighty power of rebellious elves, determined to take back the Sundered Lands by force of arms. Aren’t families embarrassing when you have to explain them to strangers?
“Anyway, civil wars are always costly, in all too many ways, and both sides have been persuaded to step back from the brink. For the moment. I have been acting as emissary between the two rival Courts, and after much ... discussion, we have a Peace Treaty. It won’t last—such things never do—but hopefully it will buy us time for more reasonable voices to make themselves heard. Or perhaps some public-spirited person will assassinate one or other of the Courts. I need you, John Taylor, to find me a safe way across the Nightside, from this distressing location to the furthest boundary, and the Osterman Gate. Where I might finally take my leave of this ... human world, in favour of some more civilised reality.
“You must understand, Mr. Taylor, there are many here who would like nothing better than to see me dead, and the Treaty destroyed, for a whole variety of reasons. These unprincipled villains include certain elves on both sides who want war for personal and political reasons, who can’t or won’t forgive past slights... and then there are all those people who hate elves and would delight in the spectacle of our slaughtering each other. This very definitely includes the Nightside’s current Overseer, Walker; who has set his people to harrying and threatening my progress. Apparently he has decided it is in Humanity’s best interests that the elves remain divided and, preferably, destroy each other. A very ... practical man, your Walker.”
The elf stopped talking and looked at me. I considered the matter, taking my time. My first impulse was to get up and leave. Well, actually, get up and sprint for the exit. Getting involved with elves is never a good idea, and getting caught between two warring factions struck me as only marginally less dangerous than playing Russian roulette with a fully loaded gun. There’s just no way you can win. And on top of all that ...
Never trust an elf.
I’d heard rumours about Queen Mab’s return, and everything Screech had said had a dreadful plausibility to it, but he had to be lying about something, even if only by omission. Because that’s what elves do.
“Why should I help you?” I said bluntly. “You and your kind have always been the enemies of Humanity. Maybe Walker’s right. Maybe elf killing elf is in our best interests.”
“What makes you think our war would take place in the Sundered Lands?” said Screech, smiling pleasantly. “No; we’d fight our battles in your world, where the extensive collateral damage wouldn’t bother us in the least.”
“Good point,” I conceded. “All right; suppose I do take this on. How do you propose to pay me?”
“Not with any of the usual means of payment,” said Screech. “You wouldn’t trust any of them, and quite rightly.
“I propose to pay you... with information. I know something you don’t know. Something that you definitely need to know. Because it involves a real and present danger to the whole of the Nightside and because it involves you personally. Something very old and very powerful and quite appallingly terrible has come to the Nightside. You’ll know the name when I say it; though it isn’t what you think it is. Get me safely across the Nightside to the Osterman Gate, and I’ll give you its name. Believe me, John Taylor; you need to find this thing before anyone else does.”
I looked at him thoughtfully, saying nothing. Never trust an elf...
“If you wanted to pass unnoticed through the Nightside,” I said, finally, “why come as an elf and draw attention to yourself ? Why not hide your true nature behind a glamour and pass yourself off as just another tourist?”
“Appear as a human?” said Lord Screech, looking down his nose at me. “I wouldn’t lower myself. I have standards. Do we have a deal, Mr. Taylor?”
“You’re almost certa
inly not who you say you are,” I said. “You’re probably not even what you claim to be. And you’re proposing to pay for my services with a secret that may or may not turn out to be of any practical use. Have I left out anything important?”
“Only that any number of truly unpleasant individuals will quite definitely try to kill the both of us all the way to the Osterman Gate,” the elf said cheerfully. “But then, that situation’s normal for you, isn’t it?”
“What the hell,” I said. “I’ve got nothing else interesting on at the moment. But if your precious secret turns out to be a crock of shit, I will quite definitely rip both your pointy ears off and use them as can openers.”
“Oh, it’s a wonderful secret,” said the elf, smiling. “Vitally important and damnably significant. You’re really going to hate it.”
I got up from the table, and Screech rose to his feet in one long, graceful movement. He was still smiling, which is always a disturbing thing in an elf.
One of the Hydes from the pit came storming towards us, sweeping tables and chairs and their occupants out of his way with great blows from his muscular, blood-soaked arms. He’d taken a hell of a beating from the other Hyde, but already the old drug was closing his wounds for him. His fierce gaze was fixed on the elf. Carnaby Jones was right behind him, urging him on. And a dozen or so inhabitants of the Revert cage brought up the rear, carrying improvised weapons. Carnaby sneered at me.
“Did you think I’d be grateful?” he said flatly.
I glanced quickly about me. Mother Connell was already out from behind her table, her massive hands closing into impressive fists, but by the time she’d forced her way through the packed crowds, it would probably all be over, one way or the other. The Hyde loomed up before us, a great wedge of bone and muscle with blood on his breath and gleeful murder in his eyes. Screech took a graceful step forward, and punched the Hyde in the throat. The sheer impact of the blow sent the Hyde staggering backwards, and the crunching sound of shattering trachea was horribly loud in the sudden quiet. Screech watched interestedly as the Hyde sank to his knees, clawing desperately at his destroyed throat, dying by inches. Carnaby let out a wordless cry of rage and waved the Reverted men forward. I stepped up and stared the head Revert right in the eyes, stopping him in his tracks. Huge and brutal, only half-way human, he couldn’t meet my gaze. He backed away, swinging his low-browed head from side to side, then he turned and lumbered back to the safety of the cage. The others followed him. And Carnaby Jones was left standing all alone.
“Shall I kill him for you?” said Screech.
“No,” I said. “I’m not feeling merciful. Let’s get out of this shit hole. And this information of yours had better be worth it.”
“Get me to where I need to be, and I promise I’ll tell you something to your disadvantage,” said Lord Screech.
Some nights you just shouldn’t get out of bed.
TWO
Hot Pursuit in a Cold Town
Outside the Dragon’s Mouth, the air was fresh and sharp and full of familiar scents. All kinds of cooking, from all kinds of cultures; blood and sweat and musk blasting out of the dance halls; the lingering reminders of a thousand different kinds of sin. I took a deep breath to clear my head. Getting Lord Screech all the way across the Nightside to the infamous Osterman Gate would have been tricky and dangerous enough at the best of times, but with Walker and all his various people out and about, keeping under the radar was going to be more than usually difficult.
The Osterman Gate is an ancient crystal amulet the size of an elephant, and the only dimensional gateway in the Nightside that leads directly to Shadows Fall; that remarkable little town in the back of beyond where legends go to die, when the world stops believing in them. And now, it seemed, home to the elven Court in exile. Normally, you got to Shadows Fall by the Underground rail system, but Walker’s people would have all the stations staked out by now. Along with the Street of the Gods, the World Beneath, and all the other subterranean routes and hidden paths. Walker was nothing if not thorough. So, unfortunately, all that remained was the most dangerous route of all. The roads.
There are many roads leading in and out of the Nightside, and wise people have nothing at all to do with them. The traffic that roars up and down our streets hardly ever stops, and it’s better that way for everyone. There are cars and trucks, ambulance chasers and motorcycle messengers, horse-drawn equipages and futuristic vehicles that often don’t have wheels or windows or any regard for the rules of the road. Every single one of them in a hell of a hurry to get where it’s going, usually to somewhere even stranger and more dangerous than the Nightside.
Ambulances that run on distilled suffering, ice wagons that carry blocks of frozen holy water, and ghost trams that stop for no man. Articulated vehicles as long as city blocks carrying hazardous and forbidden materials, silent hearses carrying the kind of cargo that has to be fought back into its coffin at regular intervals; and not everything that looks like a car is a car. There are things in the traffic that feed on slower things. Sometimes I look at the main roads, and I don’t see traffic; I see a jungle on wheels.
Which is why no-one with any sense uses the roads unless he absolutely has to.
I don’t own a car. I have my own ways of getting places. But when I do need one, I throw myself on the kindness of strange friends. I got out my phone and called Dead Boy. An old friend and occasional partner in crime, Dead Boy owned a truly magnificent car that had strayed into the Nightside from some future time-line. It could beat up anything on four wheels, and had never even heard of road safety. But after I waited patiently through the dialling chant, all I got was Dead Boy’s usual recorded message.
“Hi. I’m dead. Call back later.”
So I frowned, tapped my foot thoughtfully, and considered who else might be available and up for a little motorised mayhem. It wasn’t a terribly long list, and it didn’t take me long to get to the bottom. I sighed and entered the number for Ms. Fate; the Nightside’s very own transvestite crime-fighter. A man who dressed up as a super-heroine to kick the crap out of bad guys. She’s actually very good at it; and she has a really remarkable car. It’s just that I find her continual bright-eyed girl-guide enthusiasm somewhat trying...
“Hi, John!” she said, her voice rich and warm as always. “In trouble again, are we?”
“How did you know?” I said, a bit suspiciously. “John, my phone is preprogrammed to recognise your voice. It sets off all sorts of warning bells and a siren, because let’s face it, sweetie, you’re always in some kind of trouble.”
“How would you like to drive me and my elven client from one side of the Nightside to the other, all the way to the Osterman Gate, almost certainly fighting off attacks by assorted bad guys from beginning to end, and help prevent a major war into the bargain?”
She laughed. “You always did know how to show a girl a good time. Did you say... elven?”
“Yes. Don’t ask me to explain, or I’ll start to whimper. It’s complicated.”
“My fee just doubled. Shall we say ... twenty per cent of what you’re getting?”
I grinned. “I don’t have any problem with that.”
“Fabulous, darling! I’ll slip a few extra nasty tricks into my utility belt, fire up the Fatemobile, and be with you in two shakes of the best false boobies money can buy.”
There wasn’t anything I felt like saying in response to that, so I shut down my phone. I was about to put it away when it rang. I looked at it for a moment. Sometimes you just have a feeling... I answered the phone, holding it a cautious distance away from my ear.
“This had better not be who I think it is.”
“John, dear boy, this is Walker. You need to stop what you’re doing and go home, right now. This is none of your business.”
“He’s my client,” I said. I didn’t know how Walker knew I was involved with the putative Lord Screech; but then, Walker knows everything. I think that’s actually part of his job description. Alon
g with keeping the peace and enforcing the status quo in the Nightside by any and all means necessary. Either way, he should have known better than to give me orders.
“You can get other clients,” Walker said reasonably. “Walk away, John. I’ve already signed the elf’s death warrant. I’d hate to have to sign another.”
That was Walker for you. He might or might not hate to do it; but he’d do it. Walker was all about getting the job done.
“You know I never let a client down,” I said.
“Of course, dear boy. I’m only keeping you talking so my people can pinpoint your current location... John? What are you doing back at the Dragon’s Mouth?”
There was something in his voice. It might have been concern ; but you can never be sure with Walker.
“I’m fine,” I said. “The client chose the meeting place.”
“Typical elf. He knew what it meant to you. Yet another reason why you shouldn’t trust him. I know you pride yourself on being loyal to your clients, John, but he won’t be loyal to you. He can’t. He’s an elf.”
“The principle still stands,” I said. “I don’t have many, so I have to stick with what I’ve got. We’re off on a little road trip, Walker, off to see the worlds. Try and keep up.”
“This is no joke, John. I’ve been forced to take on some really serious people, to see this through.”
“Send the best you’ve got,” I said. “And I’ll send them home crying for their mothers.”
Walker sighed into my ear, like a parent disappointed by a stubborn child. “You’ve been listening to the elf, haven’t you, John? You know you can’t trust anything an elf says. I am the only one who knows what’s really going on here.”