by Mick Farren
Raphael fudged a suitably surly salute, just on the safe side of dumb insolence, and followed the rest of his newly designated squad to a flight of cement stairs. He glanced back. The two girls had been separated from the rest of the prisoners, and they were being moved in the direction of the very same flight of steps. The redhead’s kaftan was torn and dragging, threatening to trip her, but they seemed to be otherwise unharmed. The steps led to a long, grey, electrically lit corridor with blank cement walls. A dozen or more young women, some crying, others with their clothes ripped, all give-or-take pretty and all in various states of torn and abused disarray, were lined up along the walls, strictly positioned some eight or nine feet apart to make conversation difficult. The black Zhaithan in charge were taking no chances. Each girl was assigned a guard of her own who stood facing her, his weapon at the ready. One of the Zhaithan waved Raphael to a position against the wall, so he would be guarding the next woman to be brought down the steps, and, to his amazement, she turned out to be the pale-skinned redhead, the one from the truck on the highway, the one who might go by the name of Lady Blakeney. Raphael all but took refuge in superstitious disbelief. What omens and portents were being closed or completed by this happenstance juxtapositioning? The situation went well beyond any possible coincidence or act of fate. He stared into her face, but she avoided his eyes as though he was any other faceless Mosul soldier. She looked like someone who was extremely frightened but holding herself together with a supreme effort of will. He wished that he could say something to encourage or comfort her, but he knew that to speak might well doom the both of them, assuming they were not doomed already.
“Cordelia.”
The word came out of nowhere, simultaneously as a whisper in Raphael’s ear and a shimmer of soft light in his inner vision. He cautiously looked around to see if anyone was speaking, but no sound echoed, and no lips moved even when one word became five. “Cordelia, can you hear me?”
The redhead’s eyes swivelled desperately from side to side, and she bit her lip as if to avoid making any inadvertent sound. “Jesamine, I can hear you.”
The new voice could only come from the redhead, but something seemed to be wrong. The other girl, the honey-colored one with the dark hair, who had to be Jesamine, was not hearing the thoughts. Cordelia, who could only be the redhead, was unable to get through, despite all her efforts. “I’m trying as hard as I can. Why can I hear you, and you can’t hear me?”
And why could Raphael hear both of them? Some magick that Raphael totally failed to understand was at work here. The only thing he knew for sure was that it was not any Zhaithan magick, but something completely different. He covertly glanced down the corridor to where the two black Zhaithan waited, just in time to see them stiffen and formally face the stairs. At the same time, one of them barked an order to the occupants of the corridor. “Guards to attention! Prisoners stand straight. Prepare to look upon Her Grand Eminence Jeakqual-Ahrach.”
A musky and not altogether pleasant perfume filled the drabness of the corridor, and a small woman came down the steps, wearing what, to Raphael, looked like a heretical female version of a Zhaithan uniform and a fortune in gold and jewels. So who or what was Her Grand Eminence Jeakqual-Ahrach? All Raphael could tell was that she was ponderously important, and even that went against everything he had been taught growing up under the Mosul. Despite her diminutive size, she moved with a weighty and impatient authority, as though she was accustomed to being in command of any given situation. According to the Zhaithan law, as it was related to the masses, no woman could achieve such prominence. Such a thing was contrary to the express dictates of Ignir and Aksura and the Way of the Twins, and yet the black Zhaithan who had previously been in lordly command were now obsequious, almost fawning, in their deferential respect. They followed Her Grand Eminence Jeakqual-Ahrach like pet dogs as she moved slowly down the row of young women, scrutinizing each in turn. Taking her time, she reached the end of the unhappy assemblage, thoughtfully turned, and then started back again. She passed Jesamine, and as Jeakqual-Ahrach’s back was to her, the honey-colored girl tried another silent call to Cordelia. “Cordelia?”
Jeakqual-Ahrach halted, and Raphael knew to his certain horror that she, too, had heard the inner voice, just as clearly as he had. Jeakqual-Ahrach slowly turned and gestured to the Mosul guarding Jesamine. “Room SB101 for this one.”
As Jesamine was led away to a door farther down the corridor, Jeakqual-Ahrach stared hard at each female prisoner in turn, as though assessing who might have been the intended recipient of the silent communication. “So, which of you is Cordelia?”
No one moved or said a word, including the redhead, but then three words glowed in Raphael’s mind. “I am Cordelia.”
Jeakqual-Ahrach did not respond. A point had been proved, and maybe a small victory had been won. Raphael could hear Cordelia’s mind, but Her Grand Eminence could not.
“I said, which one of you is Cordelia? Whoever it might be is being very foolish in keeping quiet. I can so easily check the records, and the immediate future will prove infinitely worse for whomever it turns out to be.”
Cordelia straightened up. “I’m Cordelia.”
Jeakqual-Ahrach nodded. “At least you show a modicum of common sense.” She glanced at Raphael. “Room SB101 for this one as well.”
Raphael was glad that Cordelia did not put up any kind of physical resistance or start crying or screaming. He was not sure what he would have done if he had been expected to move her by force. She followed reluctantly in Jesamine’s footsteps, but without protest, and, as they came close to the designated door, Raphael decided to try a dangerous experiment of his own. “I can hear you.”
Cordelia’s step faltered. “What?”
Jeakqual-Ahrach, who was walking behind, did not seem to notice anything, and, if she had seen Cordelia’s shocked stumble at all, she appeared to dismiss it as simple fear.
“Don’t worry. I’m a friend.”
“You’re the guard, right?”
“Right.”
And then they were at the door, and no further communication was possible. Jesamine’s guard had taken a position beside the door to SB101 with his back to the wall. Raphael assumed the equivalent position on the other side. He could not see inside, but the first order from Jeakqual-Ahrach did not bode well. “Strip them, and bring the black ropes.”
Having set her Zhaithan assistants to work, Jeakqual-Ahrach emerged and went down the corridor to another room. Raphael tried to project a thought through the wall to Cordelia. “Can you still hear me?”
The response was clear but trembling. “Yes.”
“I don’t think Jeakqual-Ahrach can hear what we’re doing, Cordelia. Unfortunately, I don’t think Jesamine can hear us, either.”
“Who and what are you? How do you know our names?”
“There’s no time to explain, even if I could. You’ll have to trust me that I’m on your side and I’ll help you when the slightest chance presents itself.”
“I should trust someone in this place?”
Jeakqual-Ahrach had emerged from the other room and was returning. Raphael sent a warning thought. “Quiet now. She’s coming back.”
Jeakqual-Ahrach halted before going back into SB101 and looked at Raphael and the Mosul. “I don’t need two of you on this door.” She motioned to Raphael first and then the legitimate guard. “You stay, and you go back upstairs and make yourself useful.”
The Mosul hurried off, as though pleased to be getting out of this unholy subbasement where a woman gave the orders. Raphael remained at attention until Jeakqual-Ahrach was inside room SB101 again. Although the door was left open, he knew that to actually peek inside would be fatal. He did not precisely know what was being done to Cordelia and Jesamine, but he doubted it was good. The place had the unmistakable air of a torture chamber. He heard Jeakqual-Ahrach’s voice, he heard slaps, and he heard gasps. He felt a long process of systematic hurt was being slowly initiated. He caught
a snatch of dialogue between Cordelia and Jeakqual-Ahrach but could not make out the exact words. Then he heard Her Eminence issuing more instructions to the assistants, and shortly after, she came out and snapped an order at him. “Let no one in or out of this room, you understand, boy?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good.” Jeakqual-Ahrach hurried off, as though suddenly and urgently called away, but her voice floated back down the corridor. “One day, my damned brother will learn to wait at my convenience instead of issuing his cursed summonses.”
A thought immediately came from within. “You out there. Are you really willing to help us, because it could be now or never.”
Raphael stepped into the doorway and saw Jeakqual-Ahrach’s two assistants advancing on the bound and naked Jesamine, one swishing a cruelly traditional martinet while the other carried a phallic glass tube from which wires ran to a scientific-looking iron box with a Bakelite crank handle. Raphael raised his rifle and spoke with all the insistence he could muster. “Touch either of them with those things, and I’ll shoot you dead.”
The two Zhaithan halted with looks of amazement on their faces. A humble ranker had never spoken to them in such a way before. “Put down the gun, boy. A dozen men will be in here if you fire a shot.” Then Cordelia spoke. “The room is soundproof. Just shut the door boy.” Raphael did as she suggested, without lowering the gun or taking his eyes off the Zhaithan. They both had holstered revolvers on their belts, and Raphael was ultracautious. He could only thank whatever strange gods now seemed to be looking after him that he had loaded his rifle hours earlier with one of the rounds he had neglected to return to Melchior way back on the Continental Highway.
“Very slowly raise your arms and clasp your hands at the back of your heads. The first one to speak or do anything I don’t like is going to die.”
Scarcely able to believe what he was doing, and amazed that it so far was going well, Raphael moved quickly behind the first Zhaithan and pulled his pistol from its holster. He felt better with the two guns. At least he was not confronted with the task of holding up two armed men with the threat of just one shot. He swiftly disarmed the second Zhaithan and gave more curt orders. “You, cut down the two women, and you, the other one, you lay face down on the floor.”
The Zhaithan torturers seemed well versed in obedience and possessed of no reckless or unnatural courage, and they both did exactly as they were told. Jesamine was the first to be cut free from her silk bonds, and she looked at Raphael with sideways distrust as she stood and massaged the circulation back into her wrists. “Who the hell are you?”
“That doesn’t matter. Take this pistol. If either of these holy-born bastards moves, shoot him dead.”
“Could I find something to wear first?
“Take the gun first. Survival before modesty.”
Jesamine took a deep breath. “Whatever you say. You’re the one to the rescue.”
Now Cordelia was free and rubbing her wrists. “Do you have any idea how we’re going to get out of here?”
Raphael shook his head. “No, I don’t.”
“You want to repeat that?”
Raphael avoided the girl’s eyes. “I have no idea how to get out of here.”
“You really planned this well, didn’t you?”
“I didn’t plan it at all. It was just when I heard your silent words, I knew I had to do something. The fact that I could hear you think clinched it. All I know is that there’s some weird connection between the three of us.”
Cordelia swiftly put a finger to her lips. “Not in front of the Zhaithan.”
Jesamine stood over her former torturers, naked and formidable, with her revolver leveled. “We need to know how long Jeakqual-Ahrach will be gone.” She looked down at her prone charges. “Maybe one of you would like to tell us. How long were you supposed to soften us up for before the bitch came back?”
One of the Zhaithan raised his head slightly. “We won’t talk to you.”
Cordelia gestured to Raphael. “Put your gun to his head.”
“What?”
“Put your pistol to his head. The one who won’t talk to us. Just do it, boy. Be ready to blow his brains out if I give the word.”
Raphael immediately did as he was told. These two girls were not only distractingly nude and gorgeous, but, as he was rapidly learning, ruthlessly tough and implacably bitter. He could only assume that they had learned their attitudes in an even harder school than the bootcamp of the Provincial Levies. Cordelia moved to where the Zhaithan had left the scientific-looking iron box with a Bakelite crank handle and the wires that ran to the phallic glass tube. She experimentally flicked two switches on the top of the box and then cranked the handle. The tube glowed with a pulsing diffusion of violet radiance, and Cordelia gingerly picked it up by the insulated handle. She tested it on her own hand and cursed. “Damn. That hurts like hell.”
Jesamine had watched the entire procedure with calm curiosity. “Do you intend to do what I think you intend?”
Cordelia nodded. “I intend to rip his britches down and use this thing on him at maximum penetration. And I won’t stop until he tells us everything we want to know.”
The Zhaithan who was Cordelia’s intended victim cringed away from Raphael’s pistol. The man had turned white. “Wait.”
Cordelia looked down at him with eyes that were so cold they frightened Raphael. “Wait? Wait? You ask me to wait? Would you have waited if I’d asked the same of you? Would you have waited if I’d begged you?”
“I…”
Cordelia bared her small white teeth. “Beg, you bastard. I want to hear you plead.”
The Zhaithan was now turning green. “Yes, yes, I beg you…”
“And?”
“A First Stage Physical Infliction is supposed to take one hour.”
Cordelia laughed nastily. “Did you ever imagine a high and mighty Zhaithan would crack so quickly?”
Jesamine indicated that Raphael should move out of the way so she could take his place. She pointed her own gun at the Zhaithan. “You were going to torture me for an hour?”
The Zhaithan pressed his face to the floor. His Zhaithan superiority was history. Now he whined. “I’ve told you what you wanted to know.”
Jesamine was curt. “You, look up. Look at me.”
The Zhaithan looked up, and she slapped him hard across the face with the barrel of the revolver. Her first blow must have broken his nose, because blood immediately gushed from it, but the profuse bleeding did not deter Jesamine from hitting him again, this time across the mouth, and teeth flew. “Scream all you like. Remember the soundproofing.” At the sight of his companion being pistol-whipped, the second Zhaithan found a measure of desperate courage and moved as though he intended to get to his feet. Raphael was immediately on him. “Flat on the ground, asshole, unless you want the same.”
The extent of the second Zhaithan’s bravery was strictly limited. In the face of Raphael’s gun, he dropped to the floor again. Meanwhile, Jesamine hit the first Zhaithan a third time and then stepped back. Cordelia glanced archly in her direction. “I guess you needed that.”
Jesamine nodded. “I did.”
“A lifetime’s worth?”
“A small down payment.”
The second Zhaithan voiced a last vestige of resistance. “You know you’ll never get out of here. The hour you’ve gained yourselves is only a respite. At best, you perhaps die quickly by your own hands.”
Jesamine regarded the man coldly. “The moment before they come for me, I’ll put a bullet in you and another one in your partner.”
ARGO
At first Argo tried to dismiss the sensation as nothing more than the effects of too little sleep and the herbs with which T’saya had dosed him. A spiral of flame and hallucination was tugging at him, pulling him into the evil vortex of mass hysteria, wanting him to become one with the madness all around. On the gallows, bodies were plunging into space and destiny, jerked into death at the
end of their short hempen ropes, while screaming and tormented spirits rose from the burning Ziggurat, howling with the leaping flames, up into an agonized sky. Sweat gleamed on the faces around him, Mosul, Teuton, Mamaluke alike. Eyes were wide and bloodshot, and mouths hung slack. He could feel how some were beginning to be seized by the conviction that they were already dead; that they were already fighting from the spirit world and need have no fear when, tomorrow or the tomorrow after, come one imminent dawn, they would be charging the Albany lines, roaring their war cries and battle hymns into the bullets and cannister shot from the muzzles of massed Albany artillery, fast-loading Norse rifles, and Bergman guns with nothing but a single-shot musket, a bayonet, and an induced madness to protect them. The minds of many in the chanting mob rolled with the roiling smoke and the smell of charred human flesh closer to the foul dimension where the Dark Things dwelled. An increasing number of bottles circulated amid the fire and murder on the parade ground, bottles of not only the routine ’shine and cheap schnapps, but ones with strange herbs marinating in the liquor, angry cousins of T’saya’s concoctions. The chanting itself was becoming loose and disjointed, degenerating into a babble and gabble of incoherent rage.
One step to the side in space and time, tendrils of a living, gleaming vapor infiltrated the Mosul throng; a purposefully drifting mist of white death streaked with blood and amber and with holes of black nothingness filling the spaces between the animate wisps. As Argo looked closer, the curls of fog seethed with serpentine forms that slithered and clung to the bony reaching hands and skeletal faces of the fallen who had gone before and died in the first Battle of the Potomac. The dead and disembodied specters drifted over the swaying parade ground, where mortality was the currency and nameless deals were being transacted with the very essence of life itself. A number of undulating vapor skeins appeared bent on engulfing Argo, insinuated phantasms that softly whispered to him in all languages or none, promising him the world and an infinity of powers-that-might-be-his if only he would turn away from all that he had learned so far and …