She shone the light on the sides of the belltower. It was the wrong shape and too small. The eight-walled chamber she had seen here before could not have fit inside this space.
The sense of disorientation passed. She smiled wryly. Yumiko thought that a girl who carried more arrows, throwing stars, knives, boomerangs, and mini-grenades than would fit into a hope chest was the last girl with the right to complain when someone else used a similar trick to hide a secret room.
And the elfs hid towers in treetops and hills in ballparks. If Elfine were to be believed, there was a third hemisphere in addition to the two men know, where mountains and islands and whole continents were hidden. But how could a globe have three halves? In three dimensions, it could not.
Yumiko lit a flare and dropped it. Down and down into the dark it fell. It came to rest on a broken floor, where there were no pews, no baptismal font, no altar, merely empty niches. Yumiko donned her mask and inspected the barren interior with her magnifying lenses. Discolored bricks, brackets, and small square holes in the walls showed where fixtures had been torn out.
But as she leaned in the window, an alert light flickered in the corner of her gaze. A motion of her chin touched the control to bring the display to the center of her view.
The tracer zero-one was green.
Little numbers in green fire showed the distance and direction. Another touch of the chin-plate brought up the inset map. The source was off the edge of her map, but the signal was strong, and the bearing was clear. It was past Morningside Heights, somewhere in Upper Manhattan on the West Side.
Puzzled, she straightened. When her head was outside the window, the signal strength faded sharply. A step or two away, and the alert light turned amber. Signal lost.
5. Many Dimensions
Yumiko pondered. How could the inside of the window of a deserted church be within range to pick up the signal from a bug seven miles away but outside the window be out of range? How could farther be nearer than nearer?
In three dimensions, it was impossible.
Suppose a two-dimensional creature, like a living square, thought his universe were but a flat plane, but it actually occupied the surface of a sphere. To him, the third dimension would be as invisible and unimaginable as the realm of the elfs. If he ventured near an open shaft piercing through the core, he would hear sounds from the other hemisphere as closer and clearer than sounds traveling to him the long way around the curve of the equator.
Some side effect of the disappearing eight-sided room had left open a path or crack through which radio waves could pass. It was only a guess, but she had nothing better.
It was too far to travel by rooftop, and she was in haste. She slid down a wire into the deserted building, changed into her kimono, neatly vaulted out a broken upper window, rolled, came to her feet, and walked out of the shadows onto the brightly lit and crowded sidewalk. Seven minutes later, she was at the subway station.
A minute after that, she was seated in a crowded car, sitting between a bald girl wearing a large gold hoop as her nose ring and a man wearing a mohawk with Maori tattoos all over his face. Yumiko decided she would not look too out of place in a kimono, wearing a grinning black fox mask with gold ears, not among the night crowd of Manhattan.
It might have been swifter to travel north gliding and swinging along the rooftops rather than in this noisy machine with its frequent stops, but the leisure allowed her to study the other files recorded on the computer memory of her mask.
6. The Ears of the Vixen
The listening devices had settings for recording either on a continuous loop, at set times, or whenever sounds of certain volumes or types impinged on them. The feature, as best she could tell, contained a voice-recognition program, so the mike would turn itself on for certain voices but not for others. That seemed more magical than some of the magic she had seen, and a good deal more convenient.
Menus tracking the files of the recordings could appear in her lenses. The file for the bug labeled alpha showed a red light. Unit no response. Alpha was the one she had dropped in the lower vault of the Cobbler’s Club and which the Cheyenne had stepped on.
7. The Fangs of the Wolf
Beta was in the lamp on the desk of the invoice storeroom in the third vault. The mike came awake when what sounded like groups of workingmen entered the kennels, swearing and shouting and hauling heavy loads. There were bumps and thuds and the sounds of engines roaring and whining. After a pause, more sounds, this time of wild barking, howling, cursing.
Next came a hideous scream, “My arm! My arm!” She recognized the voice. It was Blud, the boy infatuated with her.
The boy’s cries were greeted with a roar of laughter and more curses. Then came the voice of Jarnik, the kennel master, cursing Blud for a fool. “No human meat for three days! Such is my order! Would you undo my work? Get him out of here! The scent of blood drives them to frenzy.”
“You want I should put a tourniquet on his stump? Blood is getting all over everything.” That was the voice of Svarog, the handyman.
She heard the creak of the chair and a footstep, a thud. Whoever was seated at the desk rose and slammed shut the door shut with an impatient bang. The noise level dropped below the mike threshold sensitivity, and the recording stopped.
The shipment of werewolves had arrived.
8. Four Calls
The final listening device was in the phone on Wilcolac’s desk.
The first file contained a recording of a call from his supplier protesting innocence over a missing shipment of aquavit while Wilcolac uttered increasingly dire threats in a voice of decreasing warmth and volume. She tapped the fast-forward control impatiently.
Next was someone named Svevid, evidently an accountant. He and Wilcolac discussed how to comply with new health coverage regulations for full-time and part-time workers, including Leshenka the seamstress, whose wages were paid in cabbages. Yumiko could not tell if this were slang, or a joke, or a custom of certain Twilight men.
The next call was from a police detective, asking about a missing person named Fred McDuffy. From the description, this was the same overweight man Yumiko had seen dying from a failed magical experiment. Wilcolac blandly denied any knowledge of the man.
The next file held an elderly female voice Yumiko did not recognize. “I am very worried about you. You know your time is near… when they are coming for you… the bargain you made…” said the voice broke off sobbing.
Wilcolac replied in soothing tones. “It will go as smoothly as it went seven years ago! I have made arrangements and can offer a choice morsel when the Dark Door opens. A true prize for them! Do not fret, please… All is well…”
Yumiko wondered who this might be. His mother? It seemed strange that he could have such a thing, some sort of normal life outside the orbit of his criminal career. His mother was alive to worry over him, when hers was not.
9. Captain and Magician
The next file held a voice she knew: the words were quick, the pitch was tenor, the tones light and mocking, the accent hovering between a lazy drawl and an angry snarl. A shiver of hatred traveled up her spine before she consciously recognized it as the voice of Lucien Cobweb, Lord of Wolves.
“Your letter came down my chimney just now and almost splashed in my soup!”
Wilcolac’s smooth baritone answered. “Dear master, I meant not to disturb. But events move quickly, and I know you want to keep apace.”
“Arthur is dead! You need worry your fat-cheeked, tiny, pointed head on that point no longer! This Gilberec is a charlatan!”
“Of course, dear master. I would not dare contradict you, even when the truth was obvious, and obviously not in your favor. How impolite it would be to warn you of the overwhelming danger you so heedlessly court!”
“You dare toy with me, palm-reader?”
“Sir, you came to me after the disaster of the Glass Tower. You were the military arm of the Anarchists but had no more troops to command. You yearn to
regain the respect you have lost, lest they turn on you and rend you!”
“The conversation is as fresh as raw meat in my mind! I am still waiting for you to pull the promised rabbit out of the hat and saw the lady in half.”
“Have I not arranged for wolves to supply your want?”
“Wolves I had! Merely not where men could see. But speak. Say your say.”
“Master, Sir Gilberec Moth is a true knight of Arthur! The blood of victory touched his tongue. I heard his voice, and the enchantment of truth is in his word. It is an old spell, an ancient spell, but its like has been heard on earth before.”
“But a hypnotic charm that merely makes you think you hear the truth is not a lost spell, but a common one.”
Wilcolac’s voice grew cold. “If my master thinks I am so easily chant-caught by a Moth untrained in any Dark Art, let him tear out my living heart this very day, for I am worthless as your practitioner.”
“Well… Ah! The young friar might have cast a hex on you.”
“What? Does he perform the Black Mass before or after he goes to confession? I told you what happened to Jack-o’-Lantern. Or was I deceived by enchantment about that also? For Jack is yet shy a hand.”
Lucien snarled, but the noise turned into a barking sort of laugh. “Hoo-hah! So the boy sincerely believes Arthur lives and says so! And his magic tongue forbids he tell a lie! That merely means someone in a wax mask, or some ghost wearing a corpse like an old suit of clothing, has deceived the young fool. Arthur is dead! Merlin is dead! I was there when Nimue so said! There is no High King to bless such knights. Their power and pomp long ago burned away to ash, and treason cracked the Table Round. My hounds need fear no boy pretending to be of Arthur.”
“And if I am right? If Arthur lives? If he blessed the boy with victory? How many of the werewolves I so thoughtfully prepare for you have you spent against him? Is he even wounded? I saw no wounds on him. Have you killed his horse? I have seen a pack of your wolves outrun an armored car and rip it to bits. If he is just a fake, your creatures should have at least been able to kill his horse.”
The file ended there, but the next file was time-stamped within the same minute. Her mike had automatically shut down during Lucien’s long pause of angry silence, only to resume when he spoke again.
Lucien said, “No matter. Arrange the match.”
Wilcolac said, “Yes. Matthias Moth left an address where he could be reached. Sir Gilberec will not refuse. His sense of honor makes him blind. But, master, if I may: I am curious. What changed your mind?”
“The Foxmaiden was under my paw. Right under me! The Ring of Mists was on her person. I smelled the scent of darkest magic. But lightly she slipped away from me, and now the others take me lightly! Once, I had battalions to threaten them! What have I now? A few pookas and spooks. Some werewolves. Some owl women. A magician. Bah!”
“I don’t understand why that convinced you…”
“Saturday, that lying filth, told Sunday that I will not find the ring. I must prove him wrong.”
“How will this duel allow you to gain the ring?”
“It will not. But I will gain the cloak of Garlot.”
“Garlot is not likely to turn his cloak over to you, master. It is one of the Thirteen Treasures.”
“Not while he lives, no. The duel is merely meant to throw dust in the eyes of Malen.”
“Surely you do not mean to slay the brother of your mistress!”
“She must not see my hand is in this. He must die that same hour so that it will seem his wounds killed him. The profession of arms is fraught with peril.”
“No wound can kill him, master!” objected Wilcolac. “His is the Crystal Cauldron of Youth.”
Lucien’s laugh was a giddy chuckle. “Well, that is too many treasures for one man, is it not? Besides, I need the cloak and I want it. In a lawless world, what other reason do I need? I am a spontaneous spirit. Mine is a soul of fire! The cloak has the same powers as the ring, and so my promise to Sunday will be satisfied.”
“Not precisely the same, sir. I am not sure such a substitution would be welcome by the…”
“Yes, you see the brilliance!” interrupted Lucien. “I feel an inspiration tingling in my lower back! I will tell my assassin to wait until after Garlot kills Gilberec with sword and lance. Malen told me he bathes in his accursed crystal pot after every fight, whether he is wounded or not, and toys with his collection of tiny women. My assassin will sabotage the pot to make it deadly, slaying Garlot at the very apex of his celebration, when he thinks himself most safe! Within his very treasure room! The irony will be delicious. I am an artist. Do you not see? You perform your tricks on stage, but I perform mine on the stage of the world, with life itself as my masterwork! Art is death! Death is art!”
“As you say.”
“You think me mad. I sense your disdain.”
“Believe rather that it is envy, my master,” purred Wilcolac smoothly. “Your thoughts reach deep and unlit places far beyond my meager wit.”
“Your words are true, even though you mean them for mockery. But you only become so buttery in your flattery when you want something. Speak!”
“What of Tomorrow?”
“A perfect time for the duel! Make it noon, and I will have the assassin strike as soon as Garlot returns to Is-Elfydd.”
“No, sir. I meant the Moth. What of Tomorrow Moth?”
“He passed the Ring of Mists to the Foxmaiden. Your assurances about your abilities have proved windy, magician. Where is she? She was in the club, and you lost her.”
Yumiko smiled. Lucien must have heard of the time Yumiko let the bouncers spot her in costume before swinging away from rooftop to dark alley faster than they could follow. She allowed herself a moment of glee, knowing how cleverly she had returned to the club, disguised as herself, unobserved, unsuspected, to take up her job as a humble waitress.
Wilcolac said, “Let me play out the hand. I have more than one card up my sleeve. The Cheyenne will not fail me.”
“I want more magic ring, not more talk.”
“Tomorrow Moth must know her hiding place or how to reach her. Any man will break under torture.”
“Any man, yes. Any Moth? If we wake him from his enchanted sleep, he need only open his mouth and call on names which we cannot withstand. The fragment of the celestial cerulean dangles about his neck.”
“Ask a virgin to defile it. A human girl, able to touch holy things.”
“By what clever illusion or lie can we convince a pure maiden to willingly remove and mar the thing in such a way that the effort will not backfire? If she does it unknowingly, or unwillingly, the gem will not abandon him.”
“My master is wise. But if Tomorrow wakes?”
Yumiko was gritting her teeth. One thought ran through her brain, like a mantra, but a mantra whose repetition brings misery, not peace. Say where he is. Say where he is. Give me even the smallest hint!
Apparently, neither man was influenced by her unspoken wish. Lucien spoke in sarcastic tones. “Has he wife or lady who fills his drinking horn, or mother who girds him on his sword?”
“He has friends who seek him.”
“Necromancy is men’s magic. Women’s magic might undo it, yes. But the Swan Knight and the Ghostly Father’s novice? Do these boys command any art to break the spell and glamour laid on him? I doubt it. Even Arthur alive and hale, with Excalibur in his hand, could not battle the unseen, unfelt influences conjured by Sunday, Lord of Ghosts, and Monday, Lord of Vampires. All the powers of every outcast hated by the laws of Heaven is ours to command! What is Arthur to that? What are Arthur’s knights?”
“Yet no man has seen the Leader of the Last Crusade, the Man in the Black Room! Who is he?”
“Who cares? The Tithe to Tartarus will solve all of our problems with Tomorrow Moth, and with a satisfying finality. Once he is one with them, and they enter him, all he is will be theirs, and all he knows will be ours. The torments we could bring t
o flesh and nerve are nothing compared to that.”
“And if something goes wrong… We should be careful, master, and take all precaution…”
“I move as my inspiration demands! I have the heart of a poet, wild, mad, and free! Why do you think I can kill without remorse and drink blood like wine? Poetry breaks chains! Art shatters worlds!” Lucien laughed a weird, high, crazy laugh. And then, as if one personality had been switched off and another switched on, his voice was calm, soothing, rational. “You need not fear. The Lord of Wolves will not break faith with you. A wolf is loyal above all else! You will see Tomorrow Moth with your own eye, at the Tithing Ground, even if you do not see him. The whole cavalcade will escort him! You will be seated among them! I can arrange this with Erlkoenig, who thinks me no more than his hounds-keeper. And then, for you, peace of mind. For seven more years.”
The recording ended. Yumiko was rapt with delight for a moment to learn that Tom was still alive. Then fear, terrible fear, was like a nest of snakes in her stomach, or winding through her limbs from within. The echoes rang in her mind of strange phrases: the Tithe to Tartarus… the Tithing Ground… you will see him, even if you do not see him… once he is one with them… the torments we could bring… are nothing compared to that… and then, for you, peace…
Each thing, no matter how horrible, she feared these words meant, her imagination conjured another, even more horrible, a moment later.
How could she be so afraid for a boy whose face she could not recall, whose voice she could not remember? But her heart remembered, and she wept.
She gritted her teeth so that no sobs escaped her. She doffed her mask and wiped her wet cheeks, scowling angrily.
The girl with the huge gold nose ring patted her shoulder and said, “There, there, honey. It will be okay! Don’t let them stinkin’ rat finks get you down!”
Yumiko, bleary-eyed, stared at the stranger in confusion, wondering what she knew. “What rats?”
Tithe to Tartarus: The Dark Avenger's Sidekick Book Three (Moth & Cobweb 6) Page 2