by Jack Conner
The homuncs chased him to the wall, where he climbed the branches and vaulted over. In moments he’d crossed the street, hopped on his bike and shouted for Jack—he was safe, thank the gods—and Harry to do likewise. Eyes wide, they obeyed.
Stevrin pedaled, fast and hard, mind awhirl.
They butchered him like cattle and the mound ate him!
Stevrin remembered something. First, there had been the words the priests spoke. Stevrin might have misheard them, however, so he couldn’t base a decision on that. But, when the high priest had turned to him, Stevrin had seen a certain crest sewn into the man’s robe right over his heart. A barbed spiral with a round, unblinking eye at its center. The sign of the Order of Yreg-ngad. There could be no doubt.
Stevrin pedaled, his legs trembling with every step. The scream of the boy chased him as he went.
Chapter 8
When he saw the lights of the Temple blazing through the foggy night of Upper Lavorgna, Stevrin felt something he hadn’t expected—that he was going home. It wasn’t just a place to hang his hat, he realized—not a job, not an orphanage—but something much more than that. After weeks away from it, he felt that most keenly. Something burned in his chest when he saw it, surprising him. And at the moment, the Divinity was something even beyond a home, though; it was a place of sanity. A place where deformed men didn’t sacrifice deformed boys to freakish mounds.
Music and laughter drifted across the foggy grounds, and he went toward the parlor as though drawn by the sounds. He was glad he’d put on the finery he’d occasionally worn in the Lowers. A few of the boys accompanied him, but they wore their street clothes and fell back as he neared the porch. Well-dressed gentlemen and ladies spoke pleasantly, drinking and mingling with the commoners that frequented the Divinity. The commoners dressed in their finest, but that was naught compared to the beautifully-tailored clothes of the gentry. Stevrin, whose clothes were not even that nice, felt like a beggar.
He snatched a glass of booze from a passing serving girl named Mira as he entered the parlor, where there were even more people, and the noise was a constant and amiable babble. A band played something jazzy along the far wall, and people danced in front of them. Stevrin realized he was nodding his head in time to the music, but then he thought of the dead boy and the spirit left him. He downed the glass of whiskey and grabbed another.
A cigarette girl named Becka strutted toward him, wearing nothing but her apron and tilted pillbox hat. She was infected, and one arm and part of her torso glittered with iridescent pink scales. It only made her more lovely, though, and there were ways to prevent getting infected when sleeping with someone who had the taint.
“Why, isn’t it little Stevrin, lookin’ fine as a dollar-bill. Wanna smoke?” She bent over to offer him a selection from her tray, meanwhile showing off her cleavage.
Stevrin selected a cigarette, and she lit it for him, smiling. “Thanks, Beck.” He started to fumble for a coin, but she stopped him.
“Free for you.” She sauntered on, and despite himself Stevrin turned to watch her as she went.
He moved on. There was a poker table ringed by men, several with an undressed Sister (or Brother, in a couple of cases) in his lap. Stevrin knew the Bosses only permitted the Divinity one poker table, as they considered gambling to be their sole province, so Madam had made it the biggest poker table she could fit in the space. It must seat twenty people, and it was very often fully occupied, as now. Of course, rules had to be bent to accommodate so many players, and several decks were involved, but on the plus side they would bet anything. The men even bet on pre-paid “dates” for the evening, and there were two young women currently fondling each other in the middle of the table, on top of the piles of chips. A cloud of cigarette and cigar smoke swirled above them. Starting, Stevrin saw that one of the young women was Melias. She wore a skimpy maid uniform, one nipple poking out. Noticing Stevrin, she winked at him, even as she kissed the other girl.
Stevrin swallowed, feeling his throat constrict.
He heard a gentle laugh and spun to see none other than Danny.
“Danny,” he choked.
“You haven’t changed,” Danny said.
“Fuck me, but you have.”
Danny wore only a sort of white thong pasted with white feathers. He was covered in glitter, his eyelids had been waxed to make them shine, as had his lips, his curly blond hair had been combed artfully, and two feathery white wings sprouted from his back on some sort of rig. He was supposed to look like some lech’s dream of an adolescent angel.
Danny smiled. “You’re staring.”
Stevrin took a sip of whiskey, then a drag off his smoke. It really was an excellent smoke, but he barely tasted it.
“C’mon,” Danny said.
He led Stevrin through the parlor, and they passed laughing men being teased by Sisters in all manner of varieties. A cat clawed the leg of an ornate chair, and a Sister shooed it away. Danny led Stevrin into a little curtained-off alcove designed for quickies and slid the curtain shut. Sitting down on the small couch, Danny patted the seat beside him. Stevrin, uncomfortable, obliged, but he edged as far away as he could get from the other boy’s glittering, naked, perfumed body.
Danny laughed again. “So nervous! Magnar impaled, I’ve never seen you so twitchy!”
Stevrin coughed. “And I’ve never seen you ... well, so much of you.”
“Yeah, they do have me pretty dolled-up, don’t they?”
“That’s one way to say it.” He shifted miserably, taking a pull on his smoke. He needed to speak to Agatha right away, but he couldn’t neglect Danny. He tried to force his voice into more normal tones. “So, uh, how’s the life?”
Danny rolled a shoulder, a strangely feminine gesture. “I haven’t really started yet. They just put me out on the floor about a week ago, letting me mingle, letting the johns meet me. They put the word out that my first time is going to be auctioned off to a select group of high bidders, and they’re trying to get the bidders warmed up.”
For some reason, Stevrin felt relieved. “So you haven’t ... you know, done anything yet?”
Danny smiled. “No. I’ve just talked with a few johns, lit a few cigarettes, sat in a few laps, that kind of thing.”
“Oh. Good. I mean, uh ...”
“It’s tomorrow night, the auction. My first time.” He looked suddenly sad, or afraid, just a little. He stared at his knees.
Stevrin wanted to pat him on the shoulder, but didn’t. “Why so scared? You must’ve, you know, done things before.”
Danny shrugged again. “A few times, with some of the other boys, just playing around. But never, you know, with a fully-grown man before.”
“Oh.” Stevrin realized to his annoyance that he saw what Danny meant. “And it’s tomorrow night?” When Danny nodded, he said, “Well, shit, we should do something afterward, to celebrate or something.”
“Celebrate?” Danny looked doubtful.
“Or something.”
Danny looked him in the eye. “Will you even be around tomorrow night? You’ve been gone so much recently.”
Stevrin nodded his head evasively. “Yeah, well, I’ve had ... things, you know.”
“Yeah, everyone’s whispering about your secret assignment for the Madam, wondering what it might be.”
“Really?” Stevrin stubbed out his cigarette and grabbed his lapels.
Danny sort of chuckled. “Well, don’t think you’re too big time, but there’s not much else to talk about. Except disappearances and quakes and such. There was another tremor last night, did you feel it?”
“No. They don’t seem to rattle the Lowers.”
“Well, here they’ve started comin’ nearly every day.” He paused. “So ... you’re gonna be around tomorrow night—after?”
“I ... I don’t know. Listen, I’ve gotta go talk to the Ag. Tell her the results of this spy-job I’ve been workin’ for her. She’ll tell me what to do next. It could be over,” he added, f
eeling somewhat morose at the thought. He thought again of that boy, and Sasha and Balard, and his hands clenched. He drained his glass and looked at Danny, whose eyes were wet, his face resigned. “Look, I’ll talk to the Ag and then come find you, all right? I should know my schedule by then.”
“Will you ... will you tell me what the big deal is? What the spy job was for?”
Stevrin smiled. “Sure! Sure as fuckin’ shit.” Danny brightened. It was pathetic how happy that made him. Stevrin stood to go. “Time to see Madam.”
He found Agatha talking with a small group of finely-dressed gentlemen. She was all in white today—long white silk dress, her shoulders wrapped with a stole made from a winter fox, a wide-brimmed white wicker hat, and high ivory heels on her feet. Even her long-stemmed cigarette holder was white, but the smoke curling sensuously up from it was black as coal. Through it her emerald-green eyes fixed the gazes of her listeners like an Irzai hypnotist’s would fix a snake. She appeared to be talking-up Danny.
“He is a beautiful boy, is he not?”
“Oh, quite,” said one of the men. “Are you sure he’s not available tonight?”
She cackled and patted the fellow warmly on the shoulder. “Can’t wait, can we, Frederik?” The camaraderie was all a show, Stevrin could tell, but didn’t think the others could.
“Well ...” Frederik shrugged helplessly.
“You’re a naughty one. But you’ll have to wait till the auction tomorrow night, just like everyone else.” She clicked her tongue in mock disappointment.
“Perhaps just ...” began one of the others, but she smiled knowingly.
“Not even just,” she said, flicking her cigarette ash into an ashtray held for her by one of the Sisters—Ria, Stevrin saw, wearing a very tight, low-cut dress that seemed to be made all of sparkling silver sequins. Through it he could see every curve of her body. The gazes of the gentlemen were not immune, either, and he wondered how many of them liked girls. After all, most of them would have families, if for nothing more than to keep up appearances. He wondered where their wives thought they were right now, and realized that they probably knew.
In any case, he saw that the faces of all four men were lit up at the prospect of Danny’s auction tomorrow night, and he felt a momentary urge to snap at them. He forced it down, swallowing bitterly.
Agatha spied him and said, “Well, I will see you later, my friends. It looks like I have some business to attend to.”
They bowed and withdrew, eyeing each other like competing wolves over a prize piece of meat.
“So, Stevrin,” Agatha said, “back at last, are you? And looking most handsome.”
“Thank you, Ma’am.” He felt momentarily pleased at the compliment, though he knew she must just be humoring him. “I have news for you.”
“Good. Then let us relocate somewhere ... quieter.”
Accompanied by Ria, Agatha led Stevrin from the main parlor into a small, secluded boudoir. Stevrin could still hear the jazzy sounds of the band thumping through the walls, but it was muted. Agatha slipped into a plush, high-backed chair near an unlit fireplace, and Stevrin plopped down onto the divan opposite.
“So,” Agatha said, clearly trying to hide her eagerness and apprehension, “what have you learned for me?”
Stevrin took a breath, then looked at Ria, who had remained standing.
“You can speak in front of her,” Agatha said.
“It’s not that. It’s just ... could I have a drink? I finished mine.”
Ria smiled thinly, but obliged. A minute later, he took a grateful swallow of fine red wine—a tad sour for his tastes, but he could tell it was a quality vintage, rich and full-bodied. Ria moved to stand behind Agatha. The younger girl placed a hand on her mistress’s shoulder, and Agatha clutched it tenderly. Stevrin wondered just how close they were.
“You were saying ...?” Agatha prompted.
Stevrin enjoyed having the better of her for once, but he sensed she would not be pleasant for long if he continued to dally. Haltingly, he began his tale, growing more and more confident as he went. At one point he ran out of wine and Ria left to fetch him some more with obvious reluctance; she didn’t want to miss a word. When he came to the end, his voice grew shakier, and he had to go slower. At last he finished and sat back, staring at Agatha. She had grown paler and paler as his tale had progressed, and now she looked positively ashen.
She took a long pull on her cigarette. Stevrin recognized someone stalling for time when he saw one.
“Well,” he demanded, “what do you think? What was that fucking thing? What does it mean? Does it have anything to do with the Fuckery?” It’s what he’d taken to calling the strangeness lately, from vanishing citizens to quakes and lethal yellow mists.
She frowned, casting a glance at Ria, who, as usual, looked stoic. Instead of answering, Agatha said, “And you say the Ministers ... they seemed to be junior to the Order members?”
“That’s right. They were sort of bowin’ to them, and they just repeated what the others said. The lumpy man spoke first.”
“Yes. Yes ...” She sank back into her chair as though the news had deflated her. “904 Waywend Avenue, you say? That’s in the Ivies, isn’t it? I will have my attorney look the owner up. That might tell us something ...” Suddenly a ragged black cat with one emerald eye leapt into her lap. It was Manx, dark king of the Divinity’s felines. He was literally covered in scars, and they shone white where the fur grew out. He would permit no one to pet him but Agatha. She stroked him absently, too preoccupied to worry about his fur clinging to her dress. Manx had very white whiskers. Stevrin could hear the cat purr.
“I can already tell you,” he said. “It’s owned by the Order.”
“But the Order’s compound is here in the Uppers ...”
“I know. The Waywend spot must be their, whatsit, toehold, secret-like, in the Lowers. The way I figure it, the Ministers wouldn’t want to go all the bleedin’ way to the Order’s temple in the Uppers, would they? Then people’d know they’d joined.”
“Or the Order doesn’t want anyone to know. They’re a secretive lot.”
“Yeah. Maybe. But I think that’s why they have that mansion. The Order’s tryin’ to recruit bigger fish.”
Manx stretched in Agatha’s lap, but she barely seemed to notice. “Going against the Order, Stevrin ... that’s bad business. You know they were the ones who slaughtered the original inhabitants of this place?”
“I know.” He sighed. “So ... should we keep watchin’ the Guild building?”
She took another pull on her smoke. “From what you’ve told me, such a feat would be difficult, and I think we’ve learned all we can from that route besides. If only we could get inside, hmm.”
Stevrin nodded. “Yeah, or inside the Order. It’s them that’s in charge. It wasn’t them goin’ to the Guild at three in the mornin’.”
“Very true. And I remember that letter you brought said something similar. An alliance between the Guild and the Order ...” She winced. “I can’t imagine anything more frightening.”
Still in his mind’s eye he could see the poor doomed boy as his limbs were hacked off one by one. And then ... being swallowed ...
“What do you think it was – that—that thing?” he said.
The corners of her mouth tightened. “I don’t know.”
“Could it be ... I mean, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but ... could it be Yreg-ngad?”
“No. First of all, he would be at the Temple of Yreg-ngad, wouldn’t he? Or close to it. And that’s here in the Uppers. He wouldn’t be all the way down in the Ivies.”
Stevrin sipped his drink, thinking. “Well, whatever it is, could it be what your high priestess is so worried about—what she sent you to investigate?”
“I ... don’t think so. If that thing you saw, that mound, were causing the quakes, they’d feel them in the Lowers, not here.”
A moment of silence passed, and the candlelight flickered. Strangel
y, even over the thumping of his heart, Stevrin could hear the purring of the cat.
“If that thing in the Lowers, that mound-thing, if that’s just their teaser,” he said, “can you imagine what’s at the actual temple of the Order?”
She nodded grimly. “Indeed.”
“Maybe it’s causing the quakes.”
“No. Whatever’s there has been there for some time. The quakes are new.”
“‘Whatever’. Yreg-ngad, you mean.”
She didn’t answer.
“Is he real?” Stevrin pressed.
Agatha met his eyes. In a low voice, she said, “You saw that being in the Ivies, Stevrin. What do you think?”
A long moment of silence stretched.
Suddenly, loud noises issued from the main parlor. Shouting. Furniture toppled. The band quit playing. A gun cracked, then another. Several people screamed.
Agatha and Stevrin leapt to their feet. Manx bolted.
Melias popped into the room, looking out of breath and frightened. “Madam, there you are!”
“What is it, dear?” Agatha said.
Melias took a deep breath. “It’s Boss Sorris, Madam. He’s here, and he’s angry.”
* * *
Stevrin followed Agatha and the girls into the main parlor. Big as life, Boss Abel Sorris, loomed just inside the main entrance, and arrayed around him were ten goons with submachine guns. Through the open doors Stevrin could see their cars idling in the driveway, drivers bent over the wheels. The guests and Sisters of the Divinity huddled against the walls, obviously wanting to flee but not eager to draw the attention of the gunmen. Smoke rose from the barrels of two of the guns, and Stevrin saw holes in the ceiling. No one looked hurt, yet, so he supposed the Boss had just been trying to get everyone’s attention. He had it.
As soon as Agatha entered the room, his gaze fell on her.
“There she is.” He spoke around the cigar clamped between his teeth. A man somewhat above average in height, Sorris possessed a once-hard stomach that now sagged and a drooping, sour face. A small black mustache tinged with white perched over his thick, toad-like lips. He wore a khaki suit, and a khaki hat hid his balding head. His black steady eyes fastened on Agatha like leeches.