by Brian Daley
This so dampened the mood of manly good times that Mooncollar had the sudden inspiration to collaborate on “Knights of the Horizontal Persuasion,” a fast, ribald piece referring to no others but the Lost Boys, involving a deep drink every time one singer or another missed a phrase in the alliterative verses. Both singers did a fair amount of missing; even with his wine thinned, Crassmor’s head began to swim. Mooncollar decreased the ale stock considerably. As the clock hands approached midnight, Mooncollar suggested that they test their talents on “The Farm Wife’s Jolly. Boy,” as a sort of sobriety trial.
“Excellent idea!” Crassmor declared, and struck a chord. “I’ll take the first part, and you the second.”
“Nay! Never!” the monk hiccuped a trifle too quickly. He amended, “I mean, that is, that I am far better acquainted with the first part. Therefore, pray take you the second.” Mooncollar belched.
Crassmor frowned. “It is even the same for me; I know the first role far better than the second. Perhaps it were best to forgo—”
Mooncollar waved his hand as though batting flies. “There’s nothing to it! But the second’s the role for a younger voice, not my old croaker. I shall teach it to you.”
“Princely fellow!” Crassmor proclaimed, voice choked with affection as he struck another chord. He let the Klybesian lead him through the song, though he knew it by heart. He pretended to remember the chords after long disuse, forcing the monk to repeat. Mooncollar grew more exasperated and glared frequently at the clock.
Crassmor stopped as they came to the last verse of the run-through, the one of which Saynday had warned him. “I’m unforgivably stupid, dear Mooncollar, not to have learned this song long since,” Crassmor slobbered. The clock hands were approaching ten minutes of midnight. “It may be that we should try some less formidable ditty.”
“You’re doing fine, you’re all right,” Mooncollar slurred. “That is, um, I’m fond of this song.”
“Then we shall sing it, good and close friend.” Crassmor practically wept.
Eye to the clock, the Klybesian said, “Er, you’re sure that the timepiece is accurate? Matins, you know.”
Crassmor waved grandly. “As accurate as you are pious, good cleric. The lodgekeeper maintains it meticulously, by the great sundial on the archery range, and measures it against my father’s hourglass.”
Mooncollar grunted, adding, “Let us finish the song, then, dear boy.”
Crassmor said, “I do believe that the final verse has at last, come to mind:
“‘And after long and short travail
She came around, not coy, not frail,
and jousted ‘gainst his lance so hale
that—’”
“No, no, ye loon!” Mooncollar barked, thumping the table with his fist. Crassmor gave the monk his best wounded look. The Klybesian gathered his temper with visible effort, gritting his teeth in a smile. More calmly, he said, “That is, you have confused the verse with some other, my son.”
Crassmor smote his forehead with the palm of his hand. “Forgive me! It must, then, be the one that goes:
“‘And so they set their clothes aside
and mounted up to have a ride.
He plumbed that glo-ri-ous divide
which—’”
“Honored host.” Mooncollar grated the words, holding together the shards of his self-restraint, hand clutching what was left of his hair. “Neither is that it.”
Crassmor, lip trembling with his unhappiness, bade, “Then I beg you, reveal it to me. I shall be shamed if you depart before we have sung this tune which so delights you.” He hit another chord. The monk shot a quick glance at the clock and saw ten minutes remaining. He sang.
“He chased her up and chased her down,
pursued her round and round the town
and in good time did bed her down,
just as she did intend—ohhhhhhhh!”
This last was because the shutters of the window nearest the monk burst in, crumpling before strength that was not to be denied by mere iron. Crassmor had debated locking those shutters but entrusted to his own plan instead of locks to save himself. It turned out to be unimportant; the shutters were sprung from their hinges, landing to either side with a clatter.
A cataract of sinuous, scaly body poured from the night into the lodge, onyx coils twice as thick as Crassmor’s torso, looped and tensed in tremendous power.
The monster snake’s very breath blew brimstone and madness into the room; a hellish inner radiance shone forth from its eyes, and its labial scales seemed white-hot. Its tongue, steaming and glowing, flickered and quested. More of its length heaved into view through the window, spilling in weighty, muscular curves in the lamplight. Crassmor gulped and gasped for breath, remembering the serpent imagery on di Cagliostro’s vestments.
Mooncollar was out of his seat, chair overturned, staring with paralyzed disbelief. The demon gathered its coils under it and reared up, higher than their heads, swaying hypnotically. More horribly still, it laughed, hissing, hateful sound born of unreasoning malice. The snake had the monk fixed with its incandescent stare, moving toward him slowly, like a black, river.
Mooncollar, immobilized, made a number of silent, mouthing attempts before he finally produced words. “Not me! Him, ’tis the knight! You were not to be here until—”
The monster struck, an avalanche of shadow, weaving before Mooncollar one moment and holding him helpless as a field mouse, lifting him clear of the floor the next. Its breath, in the closeness of the room, had Crassmor near to fainting, but he dared not move.
It held the monk up and gazed into his pasty face with insane amusement, its smoking tongue nearly touching his face, the mouth open so wide that it promised to swallow Mooncollar at a gulp.
And then its voice came. That was the worst of all. Filled with shrewd madness, it told the Klybesian, “I know what you expected, manling! You sang the words at the appointed time; by the compulsion of the cursed di Cagliostro, you are my meat!”
Crassmor sat motionless; he saw that the crossbow and Shhing would be useless. He wondered if he, too, would meet an unspeakable death. The demon seemed capable of anything.
It gave a squeeze of its looped strength; Mooncollar screamed feebly as the breath was nearly chased from his body and his bones ground together. Squirming and clawing, the Klybesian groped for the script that hung from his corded belt, but was unable to hold on to it once he’d torn it loose. It fell to the floor. Then Mooncollar hung, struggling ineffectually.
The monster serpent looked to the knight now, silencing the monk with another coil thrown around his head. Mooncollar’s struggles all but ceased. The thing started to glide around the table, carrying the Klybesian along effortlessly. Fear gave Crassmor the strength to move.
He jumped up and thrust his hand into his doublet, clutching an amulet of preservation that lay within.
But the monster paused and spoke. “You are a fortunate little mortal this evening. Let go your foolish charm, human.”
Crassmor backed away a step, but obeyed. “Fortunate?”
The demon laughed again, a sound from evil dreams. “Oh, what a chance you have given me to spite di Cagliostro! No matter that your trick was mere technicality; I hold to the exact wording of the compulsion he set upon me. And so I pay di Cagliostro back, wrong for wrong.”
Crassmor was swaying a little as he stood; the air was thick with the thing’s breath. The snake went on. “Life for you is death for this one!” The monk’s body was shaken like a doll. “And it is woe to di Cagliostro! Live on for now, Sir Crassmor, and di Cagliostro, the Unknown Superior, the Noble Voyager, will think twice before he summons me again!”
The whole of the serpent’s body still hadn’t entered the room. Now it flowed backward, coil after bunched coil, bearing with it the motionless Klybesian. With a last flick of its smoking tongue and a glance of those furious, forever hate-filled eyes, it was gone into the night. Crassmor heard a last hair-raising laugh
from outside as it retreated. “A jest to repeat around the fires of hell for eternity!”
Crassmor leaned on the table so that his knees wouldn’t give out and choked on the stench that the thing had left behind it. He was occupied with the horrible realization that, had things gone only slightly askew, Mooncollar might have been the survivor. It could have been my own tender person tucked in those coils.
He bent shakily and picked up the monk’s fallen script. One side of him saw a practical advantage to the outcome of the evening. At least I won’t have to worry about disposing of a body. That, he knew, would be done very well indeed.
Chapter 16
ABSENT
Combard had gone aside with Jaan-Marl and other members of the Order. Arananth stepped out into the vastness of Ironwicca’s palace and gasped.
Her scented hand closed on Bint’s and she gave a little outcry of delight and astonishment. Overhead were row upon row of giant chandeliers, glass megalopolises so high and wide that each was an island of delightful glitter, held aloft by thick chains. The light they threw was pleasant and yet reached every corner of the place. It was like a golden liquid; in it, Arananth saw, fantastic creatures swam. Bint smiled, pleased that she was impressed. Together, they moved out into the throne room.
They were not announced; throngs crowded the enormous chamber, with visitors arriving or departing constantly, so that announcements would have been impossible. High up on his throne sat Ironwicca, speaking to a few well-chosen advisors. Above and to one side, in a balcony, an orchestra played for the milling crowd. It made music that filled the air with gentle string notes and sharp brasses, a proud processional. In various alcoves around the room were other musicians, alone or in small groups. The notes of a sitar could be heard, and those of melodeon, slide whistle, lyre, jingles, slit drum, and balalaika.
Bint led Arananth through the crowd wending toward the throne. She wore a gown all of flashing sequins, looking like some deep-sea goddess, her hair held up by winding chains of diamonds and interwoven with the rarest blossoms from the gardens of House Tarrant. Her evening pumps had been lent her by Crassmor’s mother. Even Combard had been surprised by his wife’s fragile, bittersweet smile as she’d looked on Bint and Arananth; moments later, the Lady of House Tarrant had returned to her dim rooms.
Now Bint marched erect, handsome. All manner of people were gathered there. They passed a group of red-bearded men wearing claymores and the dark tartan of the Black Watch—the Ladies from Hell, as Bint had heard the kilted warriors called. Nearby were several men and women, nearly naked but for shellfish necklaces, headdresses, and other sea jewelry, their bodies covered with fantastic tattoos. Both sexes had braces of long, serviceable whalebone knives strapped to their forearms. Arananth gazed at them with concealed curiosity; she was bright enough, Bint saw, to mimic the tolerant, blasé attitude required of the Singularity’s inhabitants.
The two passed other individuals and clusters of people. Arananth took in the bewildering assortment of types. A trousered Parthian rider in a conical cap shared some private joke with a woman in an elegant kimono who made vivacious use of her fan and long lashes, her face reminding Arananth of a white doll. Next along was a rather amazed-looking young man in armor like none Bint had ever seen. It was ingeniously segmented, covering the entire body; its helmet was thrown back to reveal a sober, yellow-brown face. The armor boasted elaborate chest and back packs incorporating air tanks, and an intimidating assortment of weapons of the shooting kind, their emission tubes and muzzles pitted and scarred from much firing. A stencil over an instrumented readout on the young man’s chest read: RICO. Bint concluded that he was one of the star-wanderers who ended up in the Singularity so rarely and almost never stayed.
Bint paused now and again to acknowledge greetings from members of other of the Elder Houses and to introduce Arananth. She immediately drew compliments and invitations to upcoming social events. Arananth grew flushed with social success; she hugged Bint’s arm excitedly. He was aglow with her unspoken praise. They detoured around a laughing, boisterous knot of men in blue linen pantaloons and the short carmagnole jackets and red caps of the Jacobins. All had the soft hands of aristocrats, successful escapees from the Reign of Terror.
Bint and Arananth strolled. A fine-featured woman in a translucent flaxen dress failed to distract the young knight from Arananth, who was enthralled by all she saw. Servants circulated with an apparently inexhaustible supply of refreshments. The young couple made their way toward the throne. Ironwicca chanced to glance down on them just as Bint was pointing out the King. Ironwicca beckoned. Bint obediently took Arananth’s hand and led her up the steps as her breath caught with delight.
To reach the throne required climbing several flights of stairs, switching back and forth on broad landings which overlooked the crowd. People were waiting there to set forth various matters, disputes, or proposals before the King.
The first landing was carved of blocks of tantalum shot through with wires of gold. Fragrant blue blossoms hung languidly from convoluted trellises of gleaming teak. There were gathered some two dozen men and women and children in severe dress, the men tightly coated in black and collared in white, wearing hats with wide, circular brims and buckles. The women were rigidly corseted, covered to the wrists, their hems brushing the floor, half concealed by unbecoming bonnets. The children were miniature replicas of their elders. The women were keeping their eyes downcast, plainly scandalized by what they’d seen around them, making sure their children stayed close. The men were speaking to one another uncomfortably, glancing up every now and then at Ironwicca, awaiting their summons. Several of them wore metal cuirasses, and all bore swords. Many had short, bell-mouthed rifles. Bint thought that these people had the look of refugees about to petition for permission to remain in the Singularity. If they received it, they would have to learn tolerance, the young knight knew.
He and Arananth climbed the next staircase, its surface a painstaking mosaic of gods and demons locked in combat. She asked, “Why does the King allow so many weapons in his court? They are so diverse here. There could be angry words; there could be death.”
Bint smiled. “The presence of Ironwicca is enough, almost always, to prevent that. But he has other means of imposing his will. No life can be taken under this roof unless Ironwicca wishes it so.”
The next landing was quartz, snow-flecked and veined with silver. Two groups waited there, representing two separate matters. Five people stood to one side, two males and three females. Their skins were a deep carmine; they were attired in the briefest windings of gauzy white film fastened with delicate brooches of beaten copper leaf. Their scalps were shaven except for topknots of hair resembling gathered chrome fibers. Their eyes had an exotic obliqueness. Their speech was melodic, a high-pitched interchange; they sipped gracefully from long, thin drinking vessels. Arananth thought them the most beautiful things she’d yet seen in the Singularity.
The other group was composed of two separate elements, gathered at the far end of the landing, awaiting the King’s pleasure. In the center were four men and two women, all dressed in short jackets of black leather and worn-through, filthy denim. The jackets and denim overvests were adorned with a senseless assortment of insignia, no two alike, and decorated with chains and metal studs. All in that gang were long-haired, the men unbarbered. From them an unpleasant odor wafted, making Arananth wrinkle her nose. On the back of the denim overvest of one of them, Bint saw a winged death’s-head. All six wore wraparound sunglasses.
They were plainly the subject of some complaint; ranged around them were four of Oishi Kuranosuke’s matchless ronin. As Bint looked on, one of the gang members seemed to lose patience. He whirled on a guard, fist raised, with a bellow like some animal’s. He found at his throat a glittering sword that had been in its rose-lacquered wooden scabbard a split instant before. The samurai met the outlaw’s gaze and gave a guttural warning, softer and far more frightening than the roar had been. The ronin�
��s gaze was colder and more ominous than the dark glasses could ward.
The other samurai looked on without unsheathing their own katana. The death’s-head man backed off the sword point with ludicrous haste, falling back among his fellows. A thin trickle of blood found its way down from his hairy throat.
A servitor appeared to show Bint and Arananth to the throne. The last flight of steps was made from the bloodthirsty stellae of the Mayans, set down crosswise.
Ironwicca sat with his huge drinking horn set aside in its rest. By the side of his throne was a man who seemed to the two young people to give off a chilly mist. The man was wrapped in a long black cape, an individual of lean height and extreme pallor, though his lips were a fresh, healthy red. His dark brows met in the middle, and a full mustache didn’t hide pointed, predatory teeth. One hand gestured as he conversed with the King; Bint saw that its nails were long and honed fine, to daggers. The stranger’s ears reached to long points; his eyes shone.
The black-cape realized that others were approaching, because Ironwicca’s eyes fixed on Arananth. The King wore his crown tonight, a simple, hard circle of blue steel pressed down on the dense curls of his head. The King rose—a rare courtesy for which Bint was grateful beyond words. Arananth blushed at first, flustered and happy. Bint was about to begin a formal presentation, but then both he and Arananth saw the look the stranger had turned upon them.
Suddenly the King’s attention was all for his other visitor. Ironwicca hadn’t missed the abrupt, almost ungovernable hunger that had come into those bloodshot eyes, and the barely controlled urge to reach out for her. Bint’s hand reflexively found his sword’s hilt.
“Count!” Ironwicca said, low; but the tone of it brought the stranger around as if he’d been slapped. Bint and Arananth had seen animal ferocity well up in this count; now they saw him put it down again just as quickly, as he feigned courtliness.