Edderkopp’s eyes glittered like nothing Cat had ever seen. She could not look away from them. “You will give me access to your innermost self now,” he said.
Everything went black.
* * *
When Cat came to, the imp was gone and her stool with her. With a cheerful “Here you go!” Edderkopp handed Cat a sheet of foolscap covered with freshly inked words in a tidily minuscule hand.
THE DEPOSITION OF HELEN V.
Q.: For the record, your name is Helen?
Helen: Yes.
Q.: You are where you do not belong.
Helen: I suppose.
Q.: How did you get there?
Helen: It happened.
Q.: You mean you have no clear understanding how it occurred.
Helen: Right in one. You’re a clever bastard, aren’t you?
Q.: Thank you. May I assume you originated in Aerth?
Helen: If that’s what you want to call it. We had another name for the place.
Q.: And that you were dying when the transition occurred?
Helen: Like I said, smart as a whip. Not that that impresses me much. I know people back where I come from who could eat you for breakfast.
Q.: You’re not exactly being cooperative, madam.
Helen: Well, what the fuck do you expect? You ask open-ended questions in the obvious hope that I’ll incriminate myself. How? Why? I haven’t the faintest notion. So I couldn’t if I wanted to. A competent lawyer would have had me roped, hogtied, and on the gallows by now. I’ve dealt with your kind before, Shylock, and you’re all alike. Talentless hacks, riding on the hard work of others. You can’t do your own job so you want me to do it for you. Well, I’ve got news for you. Homie don’t play that. Ain’t gonna happen. Not now, not never.
Q.: So you have no idea why you’re here?
Helen: Not the foggiest. It’s your world, after all.
Q.: I hold in my hand a declaration of prophecy issued by the Unseely Court on the Day of the Urchin, Blood Moon, in the one hundred sixty-seventh year of the Descent of the Turbine. Skipping over a great deal that you would find incomprehensible, it says here that the Party of the Fourth Part—and there’s your name—will, and I quote, “shake the foundations of the world, to the consternation of the Powers of Faerie.”
Helen: Well, hot damn. That’s one more I can check off on my bucket list.
Q.: Is it possible for you to be serious for one minute?
Helen: Judging from past behavior, I’d have to say probably not.
Q.: (Sighs.) Very well. It’s clear enough that you’ve been embroiled in this matter without your consent and therefore know precious little of the machinations that have placed you in this young person’s mind. So I have only one last question.
Helen: Thank goodness.
Q.: What exactly do you hope to get out of this symbiosis?
Helen: (Silence.)
* * *
“That’s Helen, all right.” Cat put the paper down atop the stack. “I doubt this helps much.”
“It clears the decks, young lady, it clears the decks. Now I am free to bring out the big guns. Also, it has convinced you that I am not a complete fraud, and thus you have given up on your plan to sack me.”
Cat opened her mouth, closed it again. “Apparently I have.”
“Then let us continue. There is, as we both know, a conspiracy, and working from the clues I have here assembled, it is possible to dimly discern its outline. We are dealing with a nonprofit incorporated in the free city of Carcassonne under the unimaginative name of the Conspiracy. As if it were the only one!” More papers were added to the mound. “It has its own logo and letterhead. Nice graphics value, though I can’t say much for their choice of font. Courier—pfeh! The Conspiracy has a board of directors—figureheads, really—and a slate of officers, the makeup of which is a matter of public record.” Counselor Edderkopp jabbed a long, twiggish finger down on the topmost sheet of paper. “The name of the Chief Conspiratorial Officer may be of interest to you.”
Cat looked at the roster and her blood froze. There at the very top were the words: Dowager Sans Merci of House Sans Merci.
“Mother!”
* * *
Grimalka showed up unexpectedly the next day, looking considerably more impressive in a freshly laundered uniform than she had when Cat last saw her at the train crash site by the rye field where Olympia had given birth to Elektra. Grimalka had just surrendered a battered leather suitcase to a black dwarf butler, who had handed it off to Rodolphe, one of two haint servants standing nearby, when Cat chanced past, returning from a quest to talk with the chef about Esme’s diet. “You can help,” she said, grabbing Cat’s arm. “I want to see Fata Narcisse but her people keep insisting I be shown to my room and allowed to freshen up first. Believe me, this is as fresh as I get! Well?”
“She’s in the fernery,” Cat said. “I’ll take you there.”
“Please allow me to show you the way,” Queenie, who was the second haint, said after a nod from the butler. “It shifts location unpredictably at this time of year. You’ll never find it on your own.”
The fernery was currently situated as far from the main entrance as was possible without actually being part of the ring of buildings walling the compound. As they passed through a copse of metasequoias, Grimalka said, “I won’t be staying long. Three days, tops. Just came to pay my respects. Also, there’s a lot of paperwork to be done. Death benefits. The banshees, cairn, and bonfire to be arranged. It’s a dreadful nuisance. But the railroad takes care of its own.”
“Death benefits?”
Grimalka peered closely at Cat’s face. “She hasn’t told you, has she?”
Almost, Cat said, “Told me what?” But the import of Grimalka’s words was inescapable. A great sadness filled her. “But she looks so healthy.”
“Glamour and misdirection. I doubt she’s been playing a lot of tennis lately. Have you had sex with her yet?”
“What? No!”
“A pity. She’s not likely to have a good enough day for it this late in the process.”
“She has sex all the time. Two orgies a week!”
“Ever attended one?”
“Well, of course not. I go into town specifically to avoid them.”
“There are no orgies,” Queenie said. “The mistress only told you there were so you wouldn’t be present during the medical treatments. She’s known for her thoughtfulness in such matters.” Then, with a flash of impertinence, “Now that you know, she’ll expect you to praise her for that.”
“The treatments aren’t exactly dignified,” Grimalka explained. “Small wonder she shunts you out of the way.”
“Oh.” Cat thought of how Narcisse always seemed to be elegantly languid these days. Not at all the briskly efficient officer she had been when they met. “What’s wrong with her?”
“Cancer, of course. An elf-lady can’t expect to go crawling around inside a big chunk of cold iron like a locomotive without consequences.”
“This is crazy. She said she was a quintroon—that she was immune.”
“White lies. She needed your assistance and she did what was required to get it. Fata Narcisse is an officer and it was her duty. Everything else is tangential.” Grimalka fell silent.
“Here it is,” said Queenie. She winked and faded away.
* * *
Cat and Grimalka clambered down the brass stairs into the glass-domed rock garden that was the fernery. The air was hot and as humid as a sauna. Condensate dripped from panes overhead to ferns that drooped to deposit the drops into narrow rivulets that fed into koi-filled pools of water. Turquoise-colored lizards flicked away at their approach.
Fata Narcisse put down a book. “How delightful to see you, Grimalka.”
“Grimalka told me you were sick. Oh, Narcisse! Why did you keep it a secret from me?”
Narcisse’s laughter was like wind chimes in a light breeze. “What dark fantasies have you been spinning for my na�
�ve little sister? You must be particularly careful with her; she’ll believe almost anything. Cat, listen to me. Yes, I’m ill. I have a touch of the marthambles, nothing more. I’ll be fine in no time. Grimalka believes what she says—but her pessimism magnifies the smallest misfortune into a disaster.”
“Whichever of us is lying, we still have business to transact,” Grimalka said.
“That’s true. Cat, my sweet, you’ll excuse us?”
* * *
Trudging away from the fernery, Cat hardly noticed when Queenie materialized alongside her. Almost to herself, she said, “I don’t know what to believe. I mean, I know what I want to be true. But ‘want and care won’t take you anywhere,’ right?” It was an adage that Nettie used to say, back when she was a girl.
“The mistress tries to please all. It’s in her nature. That is all.”
“I can’t trust her, can I?”
“Ma’am?”
“She’s an elf-bitch. I’ve known too many of them. They can be so sweet they’ll make your teeth ache, but they’ll turn on you at the drop of a leaf. I genuinely care for Fata Narcisse. It’s even possible that, to a degree, I love her as I imagine one might love a sister. But Narcisse is an elf-lady of high degree. I dare not trust her.”
“Her Ladyship is twisty, ’tis true. You want to turn left here. The way you came no longer leads back, but goes to the laundry.”
“Twisty how?”
Queenie thought. “Fickle, mostly. And quick to wrath, if you work for her. I’ve lost track of how many times she’s scourged me. But mostly fickle. You’ll see.”
With which words, she faded away.
* * *
The night market was bright with strings of fairy lights, yet its booths were filled with shadows and mystery. It smelled of canvas and cotton candy and the sweaty crowds that coursed noisily through it. The flagstones glowed gently underfoot. One booth was piled high with bamboo cages filled with pedigreed bats. Another held the tattered remnants of dreams hung from clotheslines. A luminous goldfish swam past Cat then darted back to join a dozen of its kind circling a silent smiling-mask-faced gorojumo. In the next booth, a barker held up a handful of uncooked spaghetti which went limp when he tapped it with a polished stick, then hard when he tapped it again, then limp, then hard, back and forth as he cried, “Wonder Wand—makes hard things soft and soft things hard! Yes, it will do what you’re thinking!” Beside him, a barrel of brightly banded snakes, glitter-eyed and straight as rods, was labeled WALKING CANES.
Some vendors had faces bright as incandescent bulbs, while others were holes punched in the darkness, each according to type and inclination. All beckoned or shouted:
“Hawt dogs! Getcher red hawts! Eight hours of visions and drooling idiocy guaranteed.”
“Teeth, teeth, teeth! Top prices paid for teeth!”
“New eyes for old! New eyes for old!”
From a tent stacked high with books, “Getcher grammar now! Think straight and reason well! Turbocharge your sex life! Diagram sentences! Getcher grammar now!”
“Drown a cat! Change your luck!”
“Roasted chestnuts here!”
A beautiful young man caught Cat’s eye and smiled. “Lonely?” he asked in a kindly voice. “I can take care of that.” He was wearing only a silly pair of green shorts, but he filled them well.
A hobgoblin with a pince-nez, a sharp-toothed grimace, and three pairs of eyes popped up alongside the young man and, as if reading Cat’s mind, cried, “Yes! You can peel off his shorts with your teeth! No extra charge!”
Ysault was staring at the young man with undisguised lust. “I’d like to…” Her voice dwindled and trailed off.
The hob grinned nastily. “That’ll cost you extra, toots. Oh, but Neddie-boy here is worth it. He’ll do things the others won’t. One silver moon for an hour, a golden sun for the night. For twice the amount, he’ll take on all three of you at once. Wriggle salaciously for the ladies, Ned.”
The youth danced, not well but alluringly. Something clanked as he did, drawing Cat’s eyes downward. She saw that one leg was shackled to a metal ring in the street. “Don’t you worry,” the hob cried, “the chain, as you can see, in no way impedes his movements. And it’s long enough to stretch all the way to paradise!” A cane appeared, blinking, in his hand. With it, he drew back the canvas to reveal an inner compartment containing a bedframe with a stained mattress and no sheets, a single chair, and nothing else. A wink traveled down his eyes, top right to middle left to bottom right. The hobgoblin leered. “So, ladies, how long and how many?”
Sibyl thrust a single bill into the hob’s hand. “We’re just passing through,” she said and plunged into the rear compartment.
“I’ll be back later,” Ysault called over her shoulder, hurrying after her.
Cat had no choice but to follow, brushing past the near-naked young man. She stumbled against him in doing so, feeling briefly the warmth of his flesh and its sweat-dampness too, and tried hard not to think about either of those sensations as he steadied her with one hand and released her almost immediately.
Then Cat had passed through the tent entirely and was outside again, at the back of the night market, in a dark garbage-strewn alley. Laughing, she and Ysault and Sibyl burst out into a street lit only by the stars and moons and an occasional red lamp.
* * *
“This is it,” Ysault said and brought them to a stop before a nondescript door. Faded signs to either side read:
TEATRO de TRASCENDENCIA
TEATRO de DISGUSTO
ECSTASY!
PAIN!
BEAUTY!
HUMILIATION!
ART!
TRUTH!
In a wrought-iron cage hung over the door was a blinded cockatrice. As they passed beneath it, the creature flapped its featherless wings and screamed. A drop of spittle fell onto the back of Cat’s hand and left a stinging red mark.
“What’ll it be?” asked a reed-skinny, tree-brown crone lurking behind the door.
“Transcendence,” said Ysault.
“Cheap bints.” The crone counted out three tickets.
Money rustled. A dismissive wave sent them down a narrow corridor to an elevator. Its doors clashed shut and they descended, the car clattering and lurching alarmingly. It jolted to a stop and opened into a dimly lit nightclub with carpets that might once have flown nailed to the walls, hookahs and vape pipes scattered decoratively about, ceiling fans that circled ineffectually overhead, a narrow stage to the front, and next to that a three-piece band playing music nobody listened to. There was what looked to be a stripper pole on the stage, and the floor was tacky underfoot. The place smelled of cheap beer and cigar smoke.
“Are you sure this is the right theater?” Cat asked.
“There’s only the one. You pay different amounts depending on what your expectations are and how badly you want to be disappointed,” Ysault explained.
The club was just beginning to fill up, so they had no trouble finding a table toward the front. As they were sitting down, Cat said, “Wait. That looks like Enya over there. Waving. And are those two with her Brianna and Rosaleen?”
“They made it!” Ysault said. “I was afraid they wouldn’t.”
“Took their time,” said Sibyl.
They pulled together three tables so all six could sit together. This drew the attention of a gaunt waitress, who took their orders and slapped down a book of matches. Cat lit the candles in their red glass sconces to give herself time to think. Then she said, “So these are who you wanted me to hear, right?”
Ysault giggled and shook her head.
“Hardly,” Sibyl said.
“Then why are you here?” Cat asked the newcomers. They stared at her with eyes as bright and unblinking as those of cats for a very long time without speaking.
“We escaped,” Enya said at last. “It took us many long and miserable years, but we secretly built the frames for gliders in the machine shop—it helped that the screws
believed escape was impossible and weren’t at all vigilant—and covered the wings with toad silk from creatures that we hybridized ourselves and fed with table scraps and coffee grounds.”
“It was night when we launched ourselves into the sky from the battlements of Glass Mountain,” Rosaleen said. “Oh, but the wind was bitter! It made my face ache and my fingers and toes numb. But I never welcomed cold so much as I did then!”
“Unfortunately, time is wonky in Glass Mountain,” Brianna continued. “Maybe you’ve heard that? All those years were but a day on the outside. We timed our escape as closely as we could, hoping to launch at midnight. But just as we were leaping into the air, the moon lurched backward in the sky and the sun rose up from the western horizon. Saoirse immediately saw what that meant and shouted that none of us must look back. But I was the last and too far behind to hear. So I glanced over my shoulder for one last look at the place I hated more than anywhere else in my life—just as the sun’s rays hit the glass and shattered.
“I was blinded. In that instant I knew for a fact that I was doomed. But Saoirse circled around, averting her eyes from the dazzling mountain of light, and, flying by my side, shouted commands. Devoid of vision, I could only rely on her directions. And she brought me safe to land on the far side of the water.”
“But … Ysault and Sibyl said you’d climbed down the mountain,” Cat objected.
“Climbed? Hah! Have you ever seen what the slopes look like? You’d be ripped to shreds before you got three yards.”
There was a drumroll.
“No more chitchat,” Ysault said. “The show’s about to begin.”
With a fanfare from the bugler and a comic slide-whistle sound effect from the utility player, the emcee slid down the chrome pole onto the stage. He wore a shaman’s loose trousers and tunic and a horse’s skull for a mask. Grabbing the microphone stand with a squeal of feedback, he cried, “Are you ready to be enlightened? Are you?” The audience applauded and the emcee gestured for more and more before holding up both hands for silence. Then, solemnly, he said, “Existence is the sigh of an oppressed slave, a tedious and meaningless joke whose only constant is loss and whose only consolation is that every minute brings us sixty seconds closer to oblivion.”
The Iron Dragon’s Mother Page 13