City of Corpses: The Dark Avenger's Sidekick Book Two (Moth & Cobweb 5)

by John C. Wright

  The second was a tall youth, athletic in build, broad shouldered, thick necked, and square jawed. Even though he was seated in a comfortable chair, his posture was that of a soldier stiffly at attention on a parade ground. His eyes were green as glass and bright as lamps. His gaze was disturbingly forthright.

  His hair was as silvery-white as starlight, bright as a polished blade. It was thick and hale, not the thin hair of an old man. It was cut strangely, for the back of his head below his ears had been shaved.

  He was dressed in a linen tunic. Atop this was a white surcoat emblazoned with a swan, and on the hem was embroidered a swan feather motif. A wide leather belt ran from shoulder to hip before circling his waist thrice. Belt and surcoat were adorned with jacinths and small diamonds. In the same way a flock of birds or a swarm of bees can move in unison and produce the illusion that it is a single organism, so here, the many flashing gems adorning his coat and sleeves made bright a field of flickers glance and dance across his broad chest when he breathed. It looked like a single living thing restlessly stirring, an elusive creature of light. His leggings were leather, and his black boots sported metal shin guards. At his heels were golden spurs.

  The white scabbard at his side would have hung by his left hip had he been standing. The hilts were silver, the grip was bound in rough white leather and set with silver nails, a milky white stone was the pommel, and the light trapped by reflection in the stone beat like the heart of a living thing. In his reflection in the mirror, some trick of the firelight made a heat shimmer dance all along the sheathed sword, as if the blade within were burning with irresistible fire.

  Yumiko thought the young knight was an image of splendor. Something hidden stirred in her memory but was gone before she could name it.

  She had not seen his face before, but she knew the design on his coat and recognized the sword. This was the young knight who had saved her from the werewolves at Catoblepas warehouse. She was baffled to see him alive, for she had last seen him dive on horseback in full armor into the Hudson River and vanish under the water, chasing a misshapen and gigantic beast.

  His dark, thin compatriot was the one who had driven the owl women away with bell, book, and candle. She even knew the dog. It had once wrestled a pistol out of Lucien Cobweb’s hand with its teeth.

  The collie dog was by the young knight’s side, sitting, tongue hanging out. He had bright eyes with circles of black fur around them like a bandit’s mask. His coat was glossy black, except his snout, vest, and stockings were white.

  The dog was the only one who turned his head to look at Yumiko when she came in. His triangular black ears perked up, and he watched her carefully as she walked.

  She also saw herself in the reflections as she approached: shapely dancer’s legs in fishnet stockings, shining black hotpants hugging her curved hips, a corset that accentuated her hourglass shape and displayed a daring amount of cleavage, the false cuffs making her bare arms seem naked, the bugged bow tie circling her slender throat, a mass of inky black hair piled atop her head, her oval face and large, catlike eyes, and an oversized top hat above. She had been dancing earlier, and the lounge was hot and close with fumes, and so her skin was shining and flushed with pink.

  Or perhaps that was a blush of embarrassment. She passed in front of the young men, wondering if either would recognize her.

  She was required, when placing a drink on the table, to dip herself just so and to keep her low-cut costume in place: she had been taught to lean gracefully backward while bending at the knees, with the left knee lifted and tucked behind the right leg. It was practically a ballerina move. But this coffee table was at least a foot lower than the patron’s tables in the lounge.

  Yumiko steeled herself. She wished she knew whether she had ever done limbo dancing in her life before this. But her worry was needless: she bent her knees further and dipped down as elegantly as a swaying flower, maintaining her poise. (And, in fact, had anyone there thrown a punch at her head, she was in a position to block it.) She placed the napkins just so, with the hammer-and-shoe emblem of the club facing each guest.

  For the first time, she glanced at the drinks and was frozen for a moment in hesitation. The barkeep had forgotten to tell her whose was whose.

  The men were talking, and the tone was businesslike and not friendly, so she did not want to interrupt. Wilcolac was saying, “…was founded by Peter Stuyvesant under authority of the Dutch West India Company, chartered under the Seven Provinces. I am not sure how the writ of Arthur applies in this case.”

  The bourbon over ice with a maraschino cherry and lemon peel was a whiskey sour. It was a favorite drink for Wilcolac. She put the cool and sweating glass down in front of him.

  The silver-haired young knight was saying sternly, “Charles V was Holy Roman Emperor and ruled and reigned in the Low Countries. The rebellion by William of Orange is not recognized as lawful by Alberec or Erlkoenig. Will you dispute with the King of Elfs and Shadows?”

  That left a dark, carbonated drink and a clear drink with a lemon peel. She had a one-half chance of correctly guessing which was whose.

  Wilcolac made some wry comment Yumiko did not catch. The youth in eyeglasses said, “Be that as it may, sir, the United States was dedicated to the protection of Our Lady of the Immaculate Conception in May of 1846. I will not distress the unclean spirits of your house by speaking her name. The Last Crusade has the authority to treat with you.”

  The silver-haired youth said sternly to Wilcolac, “We come in Arthur’s name. In whose name do you speak?”

  Yumiko hesitated for half a second too long. The youth in eyeglasses turned and looked into her face. His eyes seemed sad. He said softly, “The water is for me, please, sister.”

  She did her backward-leaning ballerina dip and placed the glass before him. Yumiko realized with a shock that his garb was not some anachronism from Elfland or a Renaissance Fair, nor was the beaded string around his neck Buddhist prayer beads. It was a rosary. He was dressed as a novice of a religious order.

  This was a holy man. Or at least a holy boy.

  She had been told to make eye contact with and smile at each customer, but, dressed as she was, she could not meet his eyes.

  The silver-haired knight reached for the tray without waiting to be served. The novice cleared his throat and said, “Patience is a virtue, Gilberec.”

  Gilberec was apparently his name. He drew his hand back, saying, “Almost never got to drink this stuff when I was young. It is really tasty.”

  The collie dog barked. The young knight said, “Okay, okay!” and leaned back and let Yumiko serve him. He ruffled the dog’s fur behind the ears. “Miss, this is root beer and not beer beer, isn’t it? The last time I was in a restaurant, they kept bringing the wrong order….” He turned his head just as she was dipping down, so his nose was right at the same height as her décolletage.

  He snapped his head away from the sight as quickly as if lemon juice had been squirted into his eyes. When he turned his head, her image was in the mirror, and the image reflected in the mirror on the far wall was a rear view of her shapely calves, thighs, and hips. He sighed and turned his eyes toward the ceiling, perhaps in prayer. He put his hand on an amber bead he carried on a thong about his neck.

  The dog barked again. The young knight spoke without looking down from the ceiling. “And the bowl of water is for Ruff.”

  Yumiko knew she could not dip down to the level of the floor, so she knelt and slid the bowl onto the carpet before the eager dog. He sniffed her hand, licked it, and barked again.

  Yumiko stood up, took up the empty tray, stepped back, and assumed the “Peach Cobbler Girl” stance: legs together, back arched, and hips tucked under.

  The young knight said, “Gee, I don’t know.” He turned to the other boy and muttered softly. “Matthias, do you tip the waitress?”

  Matthias shrugged and said, “No kind act is useless.”

  “All I have are my father’s diamonds. Do you have
any cash? Earth cash?”

  “Vow of poverty, remember?” said Matthias ruefully. “Ah. I could give a blessing…?”

  The dog put his nose in the bowl and began lapping energetically, careless of what he splashed on the carpet. Then, the dog raised his nose, sneezed, and barked again. The knight stole a glance at Yumiko. “I don’t think she eats bones.”

  Wilcolac said, “Before you give any blessing, my dear young exorcist, remember that the Cobbler’s Club is neutral ground! Your words might unintentionally stir up something adversarial, shall we say, which, like you, I welcomed here with promises of a safe and pleasant evening.”

  Gilberec said, “You promised more than that to us.”

  Matthias put finger and thumb to the rim of his eyeglasses, lowered them on his nose, and looked over the rims at Wilcolac. “Sir Gilberec means to say that your message proffered a most remarkable claim. We are eager to hear whatever specifics you care to impart.”

  Gilberec said, “How did your man find us?”

  Wilcolac spread his hands and smiled a hollow smile. “Trade secret, I am afraid. As master of this house, I occupy a delicate position in the Twilight World.”

  Yumiko stood in her pose, barely daring to breathe. Luckily, she had been told not to leave unless ordered out. They had apparently forgotten her.

  2. The True Knight

  Wilcolac leaned back. “Many odd rumors swirl in your wake as you walk the world, Sir Knight. They say you can detect the lies on a man’s tongue no matter how smoothly he speaks them. But you are cursed never to tell a lie.”

  Matthias put his hand on Gilberec’s elbow as if silently to caution him not to answer this, but Gilberec said, “It is true. And it is hardly a curse.”

  The words rang in Yumiko’s ear in a fashion she found admirable, even compelling. She believed him.

  Apparently, so did Wilcolac. He said, “Is King Arthur alive?”

  Gilberec said, “He lives!”

  Again, the words carried an unnaturally clear sense of conviction with them.

  Wilcolac said, “Then why does Arthur delay to wake his slumbering armies buried in the mountain?”

  Matthias spoke in a soft but severe tone. “We did not come here to be quizzed. Your messenger said you knew a way to break the Black Spell to release mankind from thralldom.”

  Wilcolac leaned forward. “I do indeed know a way!” he squinted at Gilberec. “Your curse makes negotiation quite simple, does it not? I had a long speech planned to convince you of my sincerity, but now I see I need not waste words.”

  Gil said, “You speak the truth, but not the whole truth.”

  Wilcolac leaned back in his tall chair, making a little temple of his fingers. “Nor do you. Who shows his hand before the wagering is done?” He waved his fingers in the air and plucked a playing card out of nowhere. “Voila!” With a flourish, he turned the card and displayed its face: the joker. With a sudden gesture, he flicked his fingers, displaying his open palm. The card was gone.

  Yumiko realized with a start that she was assuming that she was seeing a mere trick, a sleight of hand. But what if it were not a trick? What if he were actually making the card materialize out of an invisible world and vanish back into it? Just because Wilcolac was dressed like a magician was no reason to assume he was not one.

  Wilcolac, smiling, was saying, “But have I said enough to pique the interest of King Arthur? If indeed he is the one who sends you?”

  Gil started to speak, but Matthias quieted him with a calm gesture and spoke first. “Dissolving the Black Spell is a fascinating prospect. You require something from us to proceed. But you are reluctant to ask directly, perhaps because something uncouth or untoward is involved. You need not worry. I judge no man. Our Father in Heaven sees and judges. Fear him alone.”

  Wilcolac scowled. “That hardly puts me at my ease.”

  “It was not meant to,” said Matthias in a gentle voice, without smiling. “Your offer, sir?”

  Wilcolac said, “Before I speak, it will save time if you tell me what you know of the origin of the Black Spell. Otherwise, you may doubt whether what I suggest will indeed operate to nullify it.”

  Once again, Gilberec started to speak, and, once again, Matthias motioned him silent and spoke instead. “No fear of that. We have time to spare. May I help myself to that delicious-looking caviar while you make up your mind whether to speak and how much to say?”

  Wilcolac said, “Help yourself. I take delight in the comfort of guests of this house. Had I known the ages of Arthur’s agents, I would have prepared some pleasant vice more commensurate with young tastes, such as malted milkshakes or hot dogs with mustard.”

  The collie barked and made a whimpering noise. The young knight scratched the mutt’s ears and said, “There is no dog meat in that. It is fish eggs.” The young knight scooped up some of the caviar on a cracker and placed the cracker on the floor. The dog sniffed it doubtfully, licked it, and then gulped it down in one sloppy bite.

  “Very expensive fish eggs,” said Wilcolac, one eyebrow raised. “Very. Are you talking to that dog, by any chance?”

  “I talk to my dog all the time,” said Gilberec, putting more crackers of caviar down on the floor.

  Wilcolac said, “What does he say?”

  Matthias said, “If he were wise, perhaps he would have told us to be wary of any man who makes his living by sleight of hand. We know the Black Spell cannot spread unless lamps of the Church one by one are snuffed and men lose sight and common sense. What is your offer, sir?”

  Wilcolac cleared his throat and sat up straightly in his chair. He raised his voice as if he were on stage. “You are perhaps familiar with the Sybil who lives in a cave on the slopes of a dead volcano in Italy, above a poisonous lake beneath which no fish swims, above which no bird flies?”

  Matthias merely said, “Go on.”

  “It is said she could see the future and past and wrote what she knew in nine books, but a curse of the gods, wishing ignorance on mankind, whirled the books into the air in a freak windstorm, tore them page by page, and scattered them hither and yon. Each page is now no more than a puzzle, a fragment, and a riddle.

  “Some fell among the shamans of the Norse and warned them of the coming Twilight of the Gods, the Fimbulwinter, and the fall of the World-Tree; some among Aztec diabolists, predicting the coming of the white-skinned god and the downfall of Mexico; and some among the sages of India and foretold the Kali Yuga, the Age of Destruction.

  “Some fragments survive to this day among the voodoo witch doctors of degenerate backwoodsmen in Louisiana and some among Eskimo wizards. The angekok or witch-priests of the Yukon faithfully follow the hereditary practices of six-fingered Nephilim who ruled in the New World long before the redskins crossed the Bering Strait, fleeing a nameless peril that haunted the prehistoric Siberian nights beneath the Northern Lights.”

  Wilcolac paused, but the other two said nothing.

  Wilcolac continued in a softer voice, “Well-educated boys such as yourselves surely have heard rumors of such things? Forgotten cities overgrown in pathless jungles, abandoned with no mark of war or disaster on monument, pillar, or dome? An army of shadows who guard their own mausoleums? Monkeys seen performing cannibal sacrifices on cursed mountaintops where no trace remains of the men from whom they learned to imitate this horrid practice?”

  Matthias crossed himself. Gilberec said, “What has this to do with the Black Spell?”

  Wilcolac spoke in a soft voice, but made each word heavy with emphasis. “We have gathered certain scattered fragments of lore from the one place whence elfin lords never sought to remove it. In the Night World, which is their own, they can find and quell all who might know or guess their secret weakness. We of the Twilight World all vow when we come of age unbreakable oaths, intertwined with runes and curses, never to rebel. But among men, aha! In the Daylit World, the King of Shadows would never suspect the humans retain in rituals and rhymes, in old toasts or old place names, the
clues of hidden things the men themselves no longer know!”

  Gilberec moved restlessly. Matthias yet again raised his hand, but now Wilcolac spoke. “Your friend, my dear young man of the cloth, seems to be bursting to say something you don’t want him to say. Let us hear it.”

  Gilberec said, “We come in Arthur’s name. In whose name do you speak?”

  3. The Faithful Friar

  Wilcolac said, “There are those among the Cobwebs who are dissatisfied with the sneers and jeers of elfin lords and the sly looks of their ladies. The elfin blood is pure, their lives are long, and their magic is by nature what we half-breeds can only learn by art or by the crafting of bad bargains with dreadful entities. Their overthrow would please us. Do you support their reign?”

  Matthias said wearily, “No one is going to give you a straight answer, Gil, not anyone who knows you are a living lie detector. You are wasting time.”

  Gilberec said to him, “I would rather know for sure that he will not be straight with us than to suppose he won’t, without giving him a chance.”

  Wilcolac raised both eyebrows. “Giving me a chance…? Your cross-examination is allegedly for my benefit…? I am not willing to say who my principals are. They are not sure whom to trust. That is why they come through me: the Cobbler’s Club is a bit like Switzerland. I have to be careful. If I even appeared to take sides, I would be ruined.”

  Gilberec said, “There could be a simpler reason why you know how to break an elfish spell than all this talk of scattered books and Eskimo wizards.”

  “And what might that reason be?” asked Wilcolac, assuming an innocent stare.

  “You are an Anarchist. Do you deny it?”

  Wilcolac took a moment to trim his cigar with a silver knife. He lit it with a spark of flame that seemed to come from the thumb of his white kid-leather glove. “A strange accusation. Here in my club, from time to time, I deal with parties on the wrong side of the law. I hear rumors of a Supreme Council of Anarchists. The oath we all swore to the elfs for some reason does not bind them. They use their supernatural powers to ruin all the institutions the elfs have erected among men as reins and chains, as hoods and horseblinkers. The Anarchists are said to have eyes everywhere, fingers in every pie, to control railways, shipyards, banks, communication nodes, and computer networks. They are said to be behind all the dark deeds that prevent the elfs from enjoying in peace their utter victory over men. But I hear rumors saying the opposite, that the Anarchists are mere agitators or died in the Great War. Supposing they were real: why would I serve them? Anarchy is bad for business.”