by Jack Conner
“Did you get the money?” Sheridan said.
“No.” Hildra opened up a small bag, revealing winking gems and pearls. “This’ll do, though.”
* * *
Janx brought them to his friend who operated the fighting pits. The man, Malahos, worked out of a ruined old Ysstral ziggurat overgrown with a particularly nasty-looking moss home to a wild and dangerous breed of giant snail. Malahos was only too glad to accept Hildra’s offering instead of cash and even gave them some vouchers for the games in return. The structure had been rebuilt by the underworld so that the central portion of its ground level was one great open area around a sunken pit where gladiators fought each other (as well as local fauna) for coin, and often to the death.
The group took adjoining rooms on the fifth floor, and once settled in they met up on the balcony of one of the units and stared out over the city. Its black spires with their alien architecture mounted to the heavens, growing taller toward the heart of the city. Rain drooled down, endless and unnatural. Through it the spider-like windows of the buildings shone with a misty diffusion. It would all have looked remote and surreal were it not for the honks of the car horns and the occasional siren, not to mention the smell of cigarette smoke that seemed a permanent part of the room.
Janx, who’d helped himself at the mini-bar (Malahos was a gracious host), sipped a large glass of whiskey. “So,” he said, “what’s our next step?”
“We make contact with the Empress,” Avery said, sampling his own drink.
“You make contact,” Sheridan corrected him. “You’re the royal.”
“If you say so.”
“But how?” said Hildra. “Just march up to the front door of the palace?”
“The Duke made it sound like he had agents in her court,” Avery said. “People who were sympathetic to his cause. If we just walked in and announced ourselves ... well, if we were lucky enough to be taken seriously we might run afoul of them.”
“So what?”
Avery rubbed his mouth and stared toward the cluster of buildings at the center of the city. One of them would be the palace, he supposed. If only he could will himself there.
“I don’t know. Anyone have an idea?”
They frowned at each other, and the night, but none volunteered a plan.
“Why don’t we sleep on it?” Hildra said.
“Yes,” said Sheridan. “Maybe something will occur to us tomorrow.”
Instead of going immediately to bed, the four lounged on the terrace, talking about the escape and other things, then gradually broke up. Janx and Hildra, surprising Avery, went to Hildra’s room (they had three rooms, so this wasn’t necessary), and Avery did not miss the glance Janx threw at him on the way out. Janx’s story, or the emotion with which he’d told it, seemed to have mollified her, at least for the moment. Maybe forgiveness wasn’t on the table yet, but forgetfulness might be. Avery hoped so. No matter what Janx said, Avery knew the big man cared for her a great deal, and it was obvious how Hildra felt about him. She still wore his old harpoon head, Nancy, around her neck where once she’d worn the Star of Yig. Avery had little doubt which meant more to her.
Avery and Sheridan migrated inside, and he found himself back at the mini-bar. He had to drop in coins to receive a tiny bottle of whiskey in return, but when he did he poured it smoothly into his glass. In the distance he could hear the shouting from within the structure as the underground crowd cheered on their favorite gladiator, or maybe his death. Avery had no desire to find out. The games had been going on for the last two hours and the last thing he and the others needed was to arouse the curiosity of the local criminals; there might well be a bounty out for them, after all.
Sheridan had used her small amount of luxury money to buy her thin black cigars, or a local approximation, and she lit one and flopped on the bed, back-down. Smoking, she stared at the ceiling with its drooping paint. A strange growth was developing in one corner. Avery supposed the room’s smell couldn’t get any worse under the barrage of her cigar. As it was, he was going to have to medicate himself to sleep.
“So,” she said finally, after what seemed like a long, slow silence, with only the rain battering the window and the distant sounds of the bloodthirsty crowd for noise, “how was prison?”
He remembered being cornered in the shower. He remembered being saved. “Fine,” he said. “How was the women’s side?”
She half sat up. One of her tunic’s buttons had come undone, and Avery realized that her breasts were pushing against the fabric so that he could see them outlined very well.
“Fine,” she said.
He sat the drink down and approached the bed.
“Yes?” she said, playing innocent.
He reclined next to her. “There was one respect in which prison could have been improved.” He laid a hand on her taut belly.
“Oh?”
“Mmm-mm.”
He kissed her, slowly, biting her lower lip. She kissed back, just as slow, but with passion.
“Yes,” she said, sounding breathless, when they broke. “There was that.”
He ran his thumb around her lips. One of her hands moved toward his groin. The other laid the cigar in its tray. The rest was a blur to Avery, a sweet release of sweaty limbs and thrusting hips, something good and clean and mindless after his days of despair. At last, with a cry, he came and collapsed into Sheridan’s arms. They held each other for awhile, and then he went to toss the condom down the toilet. When he returned, she slept.
He curled in beside her and watched her sleep for a few minutes, thinking, What have you gotten yourself into, Francis?
Then another thought crowded that one out: just how long did they have left to reach the Monastery before the R’loth simply wiped all sentient life from the world and started over?
He clicked off the light. His dreams that night were restless and wild, full of laughing, chomping seals, each with the face of a man or woman, but distorted and horrible and insane. And over them flew the jellyfish-throned figure of the Duke, waving his scepter at the seals as if directing an orchestra. He was laughing, too, and his laughter sounded just as mad as that of the seals.
Chapter 7
“This is how we’re going to do it,” Avery said, stabbing his finger down at the newspaper on the table.
He and the others had gathered at a local café for breakfast, which wasn’t much in this quarter of town: stale toast, sour-smelling eggs and some greasy slop that Avery thought was supposed to be potatoes; unsure, he didn’t touch it. The other three leaned forward to see what he was pointing at. A headline (beneath another about the prison riot) read: Xlacan delegate to meet with the Empress-Regent tomorrow. Talks continue over Ysstral-Xlacan Treaty.
“Xlacan?” Sheridan said, then studied the man in the picture. In mild surprise, she said, “That’s Lord Onxcor.”
“So it is.”
“What’s he doing here? I half-thought he was dead.”
“I don’t know how he survived Uthua, but it looks like he was able to seize power in Xlatleb. He claims to be acting president of all Xlaca. Ysstral authorities are disputing the legitimacy of his rule, though. They say there are several other warlords claiming to control the country.”
“Onxcor?” Hildra said. “That the warlord you ran into?”
When Avery affirmed that it was, Janx said, “It doesn’t sound like you and this bloke parted on good terms. Why would he help get you an audience with the Empress?”
“I didn’t part on good terms with him,” Sheridan said darkly. “The doctor did.”
“You really want to bet it all on that?”
“Janx is right,” Avery said. “We have to be cautious. How are we going to get word to him? As president, even acting president, he’ll have tight security, and they won’t let us anywhere near him. Otherwise I’d just wait in the lobby of his hotel—the Nalymar, it says—until he comes down to be picked up by whoever’s supposed to take him to the Palace.”
“He’ll have security in the lobby,” Sheridan said. “Bet on it. A Xlacan warrior shouldn’t be too hard to spot in a nice Ysstral hotel. Just give a message to him for his boss. That’s the simplest way.”
“Then have Onxcor send his goons down to ‘escort’ us into his private rooms?” Hildra asked. “I don’t think so.”
They did some scouting of the city, and Avery was amazed at its strangeness. Not only were the buildings alien and black, half-covered in glowing moss, constantly coated with acid rain and with fog massing at their bases, swirling this way and that, but the streets were just as foreign. All manner of conveyances plied them, from cars to hansom cabs to giant salamanders bearing riders.
Strange-looking bridges joined many of the buildings together, creating highways in the sky, and riders in glinting wax-covered trench coats hunched atop great, fur-covered shapes that Avery realized were giant drypuss, or land-based octopi. Their fur dripping in the rain, the muscular creatures slipped from one building to another with eerie ease, tentacles stretching and grasping, and they had obviously been trained in how to do so without disturbing their passengers, who rode in covered litters on the side of the creatures’ bulbous heads. They navigated the city much faster than the cars tangled in traffic below and seemed the exclusive conveyances of the wealthy and those in authority.
Below, giant crab-like creatures clattered down the streets, each towering at least twenty feet high and providing shelter for a group of humans that walked beneath them. Most of the humans wore robes and looked whiskered and bedraggled. Cars honked and swerved around them. Other motorists paused to toss coins or bread at the robed figures.
Avery was too amazed by it all to speak for some time. He just drank it all in and tried to make sense of it. It was like walking through another world. At last he indicated the giant crab-like creatures and said, “What are those? I thought I had an understanding of Ysstral culture, but I can see now that I don’t really know anything.”
“Those are Shell Lords,” Janx said. “Actually, there’re bunch of different Shell Lords. But those big crabs are some of the most common around here—Talclids. Their followers worship ‘em as gods.”
“What happens when one gets hungry?” Sheridan said.
“Oh, they eat a few of their flock every now an’ then. It’s expected. But mainly their people keep it fed with regular food. They walk around under it, singing and whatnot. They’ve got no home of their own. They even sleep with it, ‘least the priests do. Just for a time, though—a few months of every year. Then they go to their temples and share the message of Ol’ Man Talclid, what they’d learned during that time.”
“Fucking idiots,” Hildra said. “They’re not just a little cult, though. There are a bunch of worshippers of the Shell Lords. Millions. And when one of the big boys die ... hell, I’ve never seen such carrying on.”
“Then they eat the things,” Janx said.
“And you thought the Collossumists were strange,” Sheridan told Avery dryly.
When they had settled on a place to meet Lord Onxcor, they had their cabbie take them to the apparently fabled Nalymar Hotel, where Sheridan entered alone and came back moments later. When the cab was pulling away, she said, “I found one of Onxcor’s people and told him if his boss wanted to meet with the man who stole his god then he’d better be at the Carmissi at lunchtime.”
“Think he’ll show?” Janx said.
“He’ll show.”
As it turned out, Onxcor didn’t—at least, not in the way Avery had expected. Avery’s group went to the restaurant, where he took a seat by himself and commenced to wait. This was a trendy and expensive eatery in downtown Salanth, and it was too pricey for him to order more than soup. The atmosphere was all polished brass and darkly gleaming oak, and crustaceans dominated the menu. Avery ate clam soup, finding it overly spicy. Some things were meant to be bland. When he finished, he ordered a coffee, then another.
Where was Lord Onxcor? Avery had chosen a place that a great lord wouldn’t be embarrassed to be seen in. He should show up. Of course, if he really was acting president of Xlaca, then Onxcor might be quite busy. It was possible he simply didn’t have time to run around town on clandestine meetings with people he saw no obvious benefit in meeting. Avery was just beginning to fidget when his waitress approached carrying a telephone on a golden platter, cord trailing behind it.
“You have a call, sir.” She set the phone on the table and walked away.
Avery stared at the telephone, then lifted the earpiece. “Yes?”
“Is this Doctor Avery?” Though the line crackled, Avery could tell the voice on the other end belonged to Lord Onxcor. He remembered the man’s barbaric accent well.
“It is,” Avery said.
“Good to see you again.”
“I ...” Avery looked around. Through a window spattered with rain he noticed a limousine idling at the curb. Its rear window was down, and the flare of a cigar could be seen from within. That was all.
“Yes,” said the voice, sounding amused. “That’s me.”
“Why don’t you come in?”
“How do I know it’s not a trap? No. Don’t answer. The truth is one of my men is sitting behind you—don’t look. He’s carrying a variety of weapons to kill you with. A gun, a razor blade, wire, poison.”
Unable to help himself, Avery glanced over his shoulder. Sure enough, a huge furred man wearing still more furs brooded in the booth next to his, both hands hidden from view. He glared at Avery, who hastily looked away.
Lord Onxcor chuckled. “So you see, I did make the meeting, by proxy. Tell me, Doctor, why shouldn’t I have you killed?”
Avery swallowed. “For one, I thought you might do something like this. I have friends, too, and they have their weapons trained on you as we speak. When I raise my hand, a woman with a red bag will walk by your car. In that bag is a bomb. If I raise my hand again, that bomb will be tossed beneath your vehicle. If I raise my other hand, a sniper will kill you instead.”
He raised his right hand, and moments later Sheridan strolled by the limousine, red bag dangling. There was no bomb in it, of course, but Onxcor didn’t know that.
“Her,” Onxcor said, then paused. “Is there another reason?”
“Only that I mean you no harm. I’m sorry we had to liberate Uthua, but that was something that couldn’t be helped.”
“He nearly killed me! Son of a bitch, if my whippers hadn’t just that morning started to train with their new weapons and heard me scream—” There was a sound that might have been teeth grinding. “I nearly died, Doctor. You nearly killed me.”
Avery held himself steady. “Yes, but I also gave you the tip that enabled you to rid yourself of Octunggen influence and, it seems, seize a certain amount of power for yourself in their vacuum. No small step for an underworld boss.”
“True.” There was some satisfaction in Onxcor’s voice, perhaps even a smug smile.
“So,” Avery went on, “won’t you join me for lunch?”
“I have a meeting.”
“Then dinner?”
“I have another meeting.” A hiss of breath. “Just what is it you want, Doctor? You did not contact me to share a plate of the horrible shit they call food here.”
“I need to see the Empress-Regent.”
“What?” An amused snort. “You want to kill her, too? You’re insane to think I would ever help you gain an audience with her.”
“You owe me your seat. Remember, I have a god on my side.”
When Onxcor spoke next, he sounded subdued. “You mean ... Uthua’s with you?”
Avery had to smile. “That’s right. The furniture has been overturned, hasn’t it?”
“I ... What do you want to meet the Empress-Regent for—so Uthua can eat her?”
“He’s full at the moment, rest assured. I have important business with her. It regards Octung.”
“Bastards. Not bad enough I had to deal with them in Xlaca, now I have to deal wit
h them here.”
“What do you mean?”
“You didn’t know? They’ve been treating with the Empress, too. Trying to bargain for something or other, I don’t know. Cessation of hostilities, I suppose. The conditions of the cease-fire. They’ve been taking up her time when she should have been dealing with me.” A sniff. “Now you want me to let you take up more of her time?”
“Trust me, Lord Onxcor, what I have to say will be a blow to Octung.” Avery let the thought hang, tantalizing. Onxcor hated Octung, the former occupier of his country, bitterly, Avery was all too aware.
At last Avery heard a breath. “I don’t understand you, Doctor. You ally yourself with a god of Octung, and yet you say you’re against them?”
“I aided you against them in Xlatleb, didn’t I? Surely that shows my loyalty, or at least whom I regard as my enemy.”
“Yes, I suppose it does. And if you do meet with her, you will do something for me, won’t you?”
“I ... What did you have in mind?”
A face appeared in the limo’s window. Lord Onxcor, looking groomed and polished as he never had in Xlatleb, was both regal and deadly serious. His eyes bored into Avery’s as he said into his own phone, what must be an expensive wireless set, “You will suggest to the Empress-Regent that she formally acknowledge me as President of Xlaca.”
“I can think of no one better suited to the task.”
Onxcor leaned back into the shadows, out of sight. “Then be here tomorrow. Same time, same place.”
With that, the limousine shot off down the street, and Avery was left staring at the rain. When he came to himself, he looked over his shoulder, but his would-be assassin was gone.
* * *
“We did it!” Hildra said over the noise of the crowd, then raised her bottle in a toast. “Bones pulled it off.”
They clicked drinks.
“I couldn’t have done it without you,” Avery said, draining a tuft of foam. “And, of course, the specter of Uthua. Although ...” He turned to Sheridan, who sat beside him, her gaze on the pit below. “I think Onxcor was just as terrified of you.”