The Laughter of Dark Gods

by David Pringle - (ebook by Undead)

  Or was I? Could this be the afterlife? I tried opening my eyes. I saw a fat face, round ears, a huge pot belly.

  It was Jasper, bending over me.

  “I’m finding the afterlife a little disappointing so far, I have to say.” My voice was thick, my mouth dry, but it all worked.

  Jasper straightened up and snarled in disgust. “Eight days out flat haven’t dulled your tongue, then.”

  “How long?” I tried to sit up.

  My back—and backside—were stiff and cold. I’d been lying on rough sacks in what seemed to be the cellar of the Apron.

  Jasper began shifting crates around the cold brick floor. My view of him was oddly washed-out, as if I was looking through a thin mist.

  “It was like you were asleep. Kept you clean and fed, though,” he added gruffly.

  “I stood shakily, legs tingling. Yes, but by the fields of the Moot, Jasper, couldn’t you have moved me around a bit? Haven’t you ever heard of bedsores? The blood pools, you see—”

  Jasper grunted. “You’re lucky to be able to give cheek, after that damn fool bet. Remember?”

  I nodded, rubbing my neck. “But, Jasper. I held three Dragons. What could I do?”

  “Not risked your life. I didn’t expect you to wake up.”

  “I thought it over. To be honest, neither did I. People who have their minds taken normally don’t, do they?”

  He hoisted a barrel over each broad shoulder. “And by the way. You had a visitor.”

  “What? Who?”

  “While you were asleep. A messenger from an elf lord, he said. Go to the large house at the north end of Lotharn Street. You’ll find something of value. That’s what he said.”

  “What lord? What thing? What?”

  “What? What? I preferred you when you were asleep… You’re the investigator; you work it out.” Jasper trudged up the cellar stairs. He called back without turning, “There’s food in the kitchen. And your gambling companion kindly left you the pack of cards. I put it in your pocket.”

  “Thanks. Ah… Jasper,” I said, following him. “I owe you.”

  Jasper grunted. “Just leave money for the food.”

  “Lotharn Street, eh?”

  I climbed out of that cellar into an early morning. A thick mist lay over Marienburg. The mist glowed with sunlight. I walked north through the Elven Quarter, breathing deep.

  Now, you know Lotharn Street. You climb gradually until, at the northern end, you reach a fine view of the city as it sprawls over the islands in the mouth of the Reik. That morning the Hoogbrug Bridge seemed to arch into the sky and I could see the sails of a Kislevite frigate jutting out of the mist around the feet of the bridge—

  (Yes, all right, Tarquin; I am getting on with it.) The point I’m making is that it was a great-to-be-alive morning, a morning when your skin tingles and your blood runs so fast you feel like doing handstands…

  Except I didn’t feel like that. I felt as if I was hardly there at all.

  To me the colours of the city were pale, as if I was standing in a faded painting. I strained to hear the fog bells of that Kislevite freighter, but my ears seemed stuffed with wool.

  Earlier I’d walked past a Tilean street trader, a fat, swarthy human who sold broiled meat on sticks. I couldn’t smell the hot meat. And when I bought a piece it tasted like soft wood.

  I didn’t feel ill, you understand, despite my days unconscious. Just—absent. Not complete.

  For the first time I began to feel frightened. After all, I’d had my mind, my very self, taken away—and given back.

  Or had I? What if I was no longer complete? How would I feel? And why would anyone play such a trick?

  I had a feeling this mysterious elf would have the answer. And I wasn’t sure I’d like what I’d hear.

  At the northern end of the street a house stood alone. It was surrounded by a head-high wall topped with iron spikes. The spikes were barbed. Cute, I thought.

  There was a thick wooden gate, standing open; I walked through into a courtyard of cobbles. The house itself sat like a huge toad in the middle of the courtyard, a box of dreary stone with tight window slits.

  The door was a slab of weathered wood with a brass knocker in the shape of a war dog’s head. I thought it would bite me when I lifted it.

  The door creaked open and out of the darkness thrust a face like a melted mask.

  I jumped back. I couldn’t help it. A scar like a strip of cloth ran from the scalp right down one side of the face. The chest on that side was crumpled like a crushed egg, and one arm was a lump of gristle.

  That wreck of a face twisted into a half-grin.

  I managed to say, “My name is—”

  “Sss-ammm.” The lips would barely close, and spittle sprayed over a distorted chin. “I know. He’shh ex-pecting you.”

  “Who?”

  But the creature just turned slightly and, with the good arm, gestured me in. The door was barely open. I had to squeeze past and the wrecked arm brushed against me, cold as old meat. I thought I’d throw up. The old cripple grinned wider.

  The house was built around a single large room. A little light leaked through the slit windows as if by accident.

  The room contained a bottle.

  The bottle was about the size of my fist and it had a wasp waist. It sat on a simple table at the centre of the stone floor.

  Yes, Tarquin, there was more in that room than a bottle. In fact there was a whole lot of precious stuff. I’ll come to that. But to me, you see, that bottle glowed like a pearl in mud. I walked up to it and stared, drawn, almost afraid to touch…

  “Hands off.”

  The voice was painfully familiar. A tall figure emerged from the shadows at the back of the room. I wrenched my gaze from the bottle long enough to take in a fine, inhumanly slender face, a golden streak in silver hair.

  “Eladriel,” I said. “The card player. Of course. So you really are a lord…”

  Talking was an effort. My eyes dropped back to the bottle and I felt my hands rise, tugged to the glass as if by magnetism…

  There was a growl at my neck, a breath that stank of sour milk.

  “Down, Aloma!” Eladriel snapped.

  Yes, Tarquin; he said Aloma, a girl’s name. I was as surprised as you are.

  “And you,” said Eladriel. “Arms by your side.”

  I did as he said. The foul breath moved away. Eladriel relaxed and walked closer. “No need to be frightened of Aloma,” he said, smiling. “As long as you behave yourself.”

  “Aloma? He’s a she? I mean… it? Er—you’re kidding.”

  “Not at all. Used to fight at my side in my younger days. Without her I doubt if I would have done half as well on all those campaigns. Mightn’t have survived, even. With her help I got out with enough profit to buy my way into a Marienburg shipping concern and to settle into this—” he waved an arm “-comfortable retirement. Dear old Aloma—”

  The Aloma-thing blushed. Yes, blushed. It was like watching a side of mutton go foul.

  Eladriel went on, “Her strength’s extremely rare, of course.” He whispered behind a delicate hand, “I suspect there’s a little ogre blood in the mix there somewhere… Yes, dear Aloma,” he said more loudly. “Getting a bit long in the tooth now, of course, but still as tough as any two warriors… and in case it should occur to you to try anything let me point out that her single good arm could crush your spine like a twig.”

  “Uh-huh. I’m reconsidering the pass I was planning.”

  “And she was quite a beauty before her injury.”

  “Really?”

  Eladriel’s smile faltered. “Well, no, not really. But she has her uses. Now then, gambler, no doubt you’re wondering why I’ve asked you here.”

  With a supreme effort I stepped back from the table. “Get to the point, Eladriel. What’s in the bottle?”

  “Bottle?” he asked innocently. “Which bottle? Do you know what he’s talking about, Aloma?”

  My ho
stess cackled like a blocked drain. “What-t boss-tie?” she slurred.

  “Oh, very funny,” I snapped. “What a double act.”

  Eladriel nodded calmly, still smiling. “I think you already know what’s in there, Sam. Can’t you feel it? Aren’t you drawn to it? Haven’t you been feeling a little—not all there?”

  Aloma sniggered. I held myself still, dreading his answer.

  “You are in there, Sam,” he said in a matter-of-fact way. “The rest of you. Now listen carefully. That bottle is sealed. And I’ve put another of my old battlefield spells on it, an aura of invulnerability. Do you know what that means? The glass can’t be broken; it will resist any blow. Only I can open the bottle, release you and make you whole, you see. And any time I want I can do this.”

  Blank.

  I was lying on the floor. I must have hit the table on my way down; my forehead throbbed.

  “Easy as snapping a finger,” Eladriel said softly. “Neat, isn’t it?”

  I tried to keep my voice level. “What do you want, Eladriel?”

  “I can tell you what I don’t want. And that’s to waste my strength holding half a mind that was a bit lightweight to start with. Tell you what, why don’t we trade?”

  He turned and began to pace about the room, glancing over objects stacked around the walls on shelves and low tables. There was a painting of a bowl of flowers; Eladriel ran his finger around the edge of its frame. Then he moved to a sculpture of a girl’s face, turned up to the sky; Eladriel cupped her cheek in the palm of his hand.

  “See this stuff?” he asked. “Human art, you know. It has an element of… vividness that’s missing from elven work I always feel. A rawness, perhaps. I’m a collector, you see.” He coughed modestly. “I’ve gained a certain reputation in some circles as a connoisseur of early Tilean belt buckles. Perhaps you’ve seen my monograph on the subject—”

  “Oh, of course,” I said. “During a hard night in the Apron my mates and I talk about nothing else. Tilean bloody belt buckles.”

  Eladriel raised a manicured eyebrow but otherwise ignored me. “There is quite a little community of us, you know. Collectors of human art. And some of us,” he said in a conspiratorial whisper, “go a little further.”

  “Further?”

  “Some go so far as to—ah… collect, shall we say—the artists as well. Do you understand? Poets, painters, dancers…”

  I couldn’t believe it. “Elves running a market in humans? Eladriel, there are five hundred elves in this city… and about twenty thousand humans. If they ever find out there’s a human slave market they’ll kill you in your beds.”

  He looked shocked. “Slave? what a sordid word. These little creatures are well cared for and are free to practise their art before an appreciative audience. What more could they ask?”

  I considered. “Freedom? Choice?”

  He ignored me. “And of course, it makes economic sense. Why buy eggs if you can own the goose? Besides, those humans who do know about it will make sure the rest don’t find out. Elven money means a lot to this city.

  “As I was saying. There was one particular artist. A singer. A girl called Lora… quite lovely, apparently. Well, she came up for auction one day, and there was quite a buzz in the circle. Even to hear her sing, just once… But there was a pre-emptive bid. From Periel.” He spat the name.

  “The Periel? The elf lord who owns the island close to High Bridge?”

  “He may.” Eladriel sniffed. “Well-to-do, I understand.”

  “Right,” I said. “Probably as ‘well-to-do’ as the rest of you interlopers put together.”

  Eladriel sniffed again, looking carefully indifferent. “Well, because of Periel, no other elf got to hear Lora sing.”

  I laughed. “And I bet that must have driven you wild.”

  Eladriel sighed. “Lora may be the finest singer of her generation. I really must hear her voice.”

  “Oh, sure. Purely for aesthetic reasons. Tweaking Periel’s nose has nothing to do with it.”

  “Even just once, a single song. Well, then. So sorry to see you go.” He moved his arms in a brushing motion. The hideous Aloma grunted and began to shuffle towards the door. “So is that clear?”

  I was baffled. “What?”

  “Why, what I want you to do for me, of course. Arrange for me to hear Lora sing.”

  There was a lump of ice forming in my stomach; I heard my breathing go shallow.

  “Steal her from Periel? The most powerful elf in the city? But… how?”

  He looked elegantly surprised. “Why are you asking me? You’re supposed to be the resourceful investigator. That’s your problem, isn’t it? Here.” He handed me another bottle, identical to the one containing a bit of me. This also has a protective aura. Maybe you’ll find it handy.”

  I stared at the bottle. “I suppose there’s no point asking for my usual thirty crowns a day plus expenses—”

  Blank.

  I was on the floor again, “—but in the circumstances I’ll be happy to waive the fee,” I said as I picked myself up and pocketed the bottle. “Don’t bother, Aloma, I’ll show myself out. By the way, lay off the eyeshadow. Be subtle…”

  * * *

  It wasn’t easy getting to Periel. As one of the city’s most successful sea lord merchants he’s rich enough to have bought layers of privacy.

  My first problem was that he doesn’t even live in the Elven Quarter. So I chose a shapeless old coat and a red woollen hat, and set off into the lowlier human districts of Marienburg, working my way towards the mouth of the Reik.

  It wasn’t a pleasant experience. Not everyone welcomes strangers, even halflings. So I walked through stench-ridden streets with my shoulders hunched and my head down, enduring suspicious stares.

  Second problem. Periel lives on one of the rocky river-mouth islands. He likes his privacy. The island’s not the biggest piece of rock in the Reik—but it’s all Periel’s, it has a great view of the open sea, and there are no bridges to it. You wouldn’t think that was possible in this city of bridges; but it is.

  So I needed a boat.

  I found a depressing little tavern on Riddra Island, at the west end of the Suiddock. There were rusty fishhooks and patches of damp on the walls; the tables were sticky with dirt and the ale was gritty. I never thought I’d miss the Apron, but this place was even worse.

  (Joke, Jasper. Joke.)

  There were three customers in there, sitting in gloomy silence at separate tables. I selected the cleanest-looking of them, bought two tankards of damp grit, and sat down.

  The fisherman eyed me warily—he couldn’t take his eyes off my red hat—but gradually, in grunts and half-sentences over more tankards, he began to talk.

  His name was Kurt. He was a wiry man with a shock of black hair. He survived by scraping herring out of the Sea of Claws. His boat’s timbers had a creeping fungus, the herring catch was down that year, and his wife was having it off with a cod-grader called Norbert.

  Boys, he was the conversational equivalent of a case of piles.

  But he was due to take his boat out at high tide that evening and—after a little encouragement—he agreed to carry a passenger on a small detour.

  And so I found myself rowing—yes, rowing—Kurt’s creaking boat through the straits of Marienburg. Kurt sat at the stern, picking at a net with black fingernails. The light was fading but it was still brighter than the inside of that tavern at midday. Kurt began to stare at me. I stared back.

  “You’ve got a secret,” he said at length, “and I know what it is.”

  My heart thumped. “Oh, yes?”

  “Yes.” He eyed me shrewdly.

  I sized up the situation. Kurt was not much taller than me but a lot broader—and, thanks to Eladriel, I wasn’t all there. If Kurt had felt like it he wouldn’t have had much trouble taking my purse and dumping me over the side.

  “What are you going to do about it, then?” I asked, eyes locked with his.

  Surpris
ingly he shrugged. “Nothing. Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me.”

  “It is?”

  “Yes.” He turned his face away from the wind, spat out a chunk of green phlegm, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I know why you’re wearing that hat,” he grunted at length.

  “Hat?” I put a hand to my red woollen cap.

  He placed his hand on his scalp, grabbed a handful of hair, and pulled the whole black mass right off his head. The afternoon sunlight glinted off his skull. “See?” he said, waggling his wig. “You’re as bald as an egg under that stupid hat, aren’t you?”

  I agreed enthusiastically and kept rowing.

  Periel’s island was a stub of rock a few hundred paces across. A few scrubby trees clung to nooks in near-vertical cliffs. A tower, simple but well-built, stood to attention at the peak of the island.

  We circled the cliffs until we came to a tiny harbour. There was a small, well-kept boathouse at the top of a beach of pebbles. The place was deserted.

  His wig jammed back on his head, Kurt tied up against a jetty. He agreed to wait until dawn, winking and staring at my head.

  I walked up the beach, footsteps crunching. There was a narrow staircase cut into the rock behind the boathouse and I climbed a hundred steps to the island’s flat summit.

  The wind off the sea scoured that plateau and made me pull my coat close. The last of the western light picked out the tower’s clean lines, and I could see a door. It looked ajar.

  I stared for a while, wondering. Could it be that easy? I took a few tentative steps forward—

  I heard a snuffling breath, like a pig digging for truffles, a footstep thumping into the soft earth.

  No, it wasn’t that easy, I decided. I stood stock still, hands empty and at my side. And round the curve of the tower came the last barrier around Periel’s privacy.

  He was four times my height and about as broad—and that was just his chest. Stumpy legs thumped into the earth. A breechclout swaddled a thick waist. His head was small and pig-like, and little eyes peered at me with suspicion. He hefted a club from one huge hand to the other. The club was tipped with iron bolts. His skin was the colour of dung, and matted with sweat, like a horse’s. Let me tell you, boys, his personal hygiene left a lot to be desired.