by Sam Hooker
The city’s middling perfumeries had gotten in on the action as well. Melvin Eierschneider, for one, discovered that while no living woman wanted to wear any scent from his latest collection—owing, no doubt, to his thrifty decision to make use of several hundred gallons of vinegar he’d bought at a deep discount—the walking dead were somewhat less discerning. Whether their noses had rotted off or eau d’ vinegar et moss was still better than the stench of rotting flesh, Melvin cared little. People were buying.
“I remember this,” said Sloot. Roman had just come to the door that led to the black market. “I never did get that belt.”
“You sound sadder about that than you should,” said Roman. “Not like a belt would help you now.”
He was right, of course, but Sloot had always wanted one. A nice leather belt. You couldn’t get them in the city without spending a fortune. If you were going to work for a treasonous cause, you’d best keep your pants up. There was nothing like leather for it.
Not much had changed in the black market since the last time Sloot had been there. A few of the stalls had cleared out their older product lines in favor of newer ones related to the dead. They seemed evenly divided between products for the dead and products to defend against them. Some of the options were more practical, like swords for taking off heads. Others were the sorts of things you’d expect to see in a den of thieving opportunists, like undead insurance.
“No need to worry about getting your brains gnawed upon as you walk down the streets,” proclaimed a hawker wearing a barbute, “we’ve got you covered!”
“How do they manage that?” asked Sloot.
“Gregry’s been selling helmets down here for as long as I can remember,” Roman answered. “Now he’s selling insurance policies at triple the price of a helmet, including the helmet in the price, and requiring the rubes to wear them or the insurance is void. He appreciates a good trend. He’s old school, Gregry.”
They sauntered on in silence.
“Roman?”
“Yes?”
“Do you think Mrs. Knife is really going to kidnap the Domnitor, long may he reign?”
“Not if I can help it.”
Sloot grinned.
“If we can kidnap him first, it might turn things around for us.”
“What? You can’t be serious!”
“I’m completely serious. And you owe your loyalty to Carpathia now, don’t you forget it! Blood and honor!”
“Blood and honor,” Sloot muttered in the way a child would begrudgingly agree to wash up before supper. Sloot enjoyed being a loyal salt of Salzstadt the way children enjoyed being grubby.
The usual complement of unaffiliated cutpurses and stick-up men were plying their trades among the crowds. Sloot was hard-pressed to think of the patrons who made it past them to give their money to the insurance salesmen as “savvy,” but he supposed that limitations of intellect were a spectrum. There was a rube for every crook, and the black market was a finely tuned ecosystem. So long as everyone stayed in their lanes, everyone could earn an honest day’s pay. Well, a day’s pay, anyway.
The key to answering any question is knowing where to look. If the question has anything to do with a destination in the sewers beneath Salzstadt, it’s a good idea to start by looking for a wall. Namely, the one in the black market that’s being held up by the unnervingly pale sewerists who are leaning against it. Sloot got the impression that they might have been trying to push it over, given the intensity they employed to the task of leaning.
“This needs to be handled delicately,” said Roman.
“If you say so,” said Sloot. If progress was the output of a well-oiled machine, everything in this part of the market was covered in a layer of rust. Sloot couldn’t imagine that anything more subtle than a librarian’s warhammer would turn the wheels of business, so he trusted Roman to get the job done.
Sloot had little experience dealing with criminal types. Just making eye contact with people here gave him the visceral urge to hand over his wallet and run.
“Sewerists talk to each other, see? Got to have something to do while they wait for their next fare. We need discretion, or else there could be trouble.”
Discretion! Finally, something Sloot knew a thing or two about. He’d spent his life managing the finances of the insanely wealthy. It was impolite to talk about money no matter who you were, but if you were really somebody, your accountant wouldn’t dream of talking to anybody about your finances. Certainly not you. There was only one problem.
“We don’t really have time for discretion,” said Sloot. In aristocratic finance, “discretion” generally meant hoping that one’s client’s life ran out before their money did. It was really the most polite way to avoid distasteful conversations.
“No, we don’t,” Roman agreed. His eyes had taken up a squint as they scanned the line of leaning sewerists. “That one, over there.”
“What, the sewerist wearing the derby that he obviously, er, encountered in the line of duty?”
“That would be the one. He knows how to keep a secret.”
“How can you tell?”
“It’s a gift,” said Roman with a smug shrug. He dusted off his jacket, straightened his lapels, and affected a straightened posture that wouldn’t have looked natural even if goose-stepping were still popular.
“Pardon me,” Roman said to the sewerist he’d indicated to Sloot before. “I was wondering if—”
“Down there, if you please, sir.” The sewerist pointed to the other end of the wall, where one of his contemporaries waved and flashed the brownest smile that Sloot had ever seen in an approximation of charm. At least Sloot hoped he was going for charm. In the wrong light, it had all the hallmarks of malice.
“All right, but if I could just—”
“Oh, but we’ve got to have rules, sir,” said the sewerist, who smelled as though he took his job very seriously, indeed. “This is the Old Country after all, isn’t it? You know how goblins feel about cutting in lines, sir.”
“Right you are,” said Roman, “but I’m not here to hire a sewerist. I’m here for you in particular.”
The man’s eyes narrowed, as well they should. Anonymity was a sort of professional courtesy that everyone in or adjacent to the criminal underworld afforded everyone else. The nerve, wanting to speak to a private citizen without an appointment! What’s next? Names on mailboxes, so everyone knows where you live?
“Look, I don’t know who you are, but—”
“It’s about the money your auntie left you,” said Roman. “Is there somewhere we can talk in private?”
“Oh, there must be some mistake! I don’t have an auntie that I know of.” The man’s eyes were opened very wide, in the obvious performance of the third most popular gesture meaning “please keep your voice down, you idiot,” behind a finger to the lips and a hand cutting across the throat. Those two were often skipped when subtlety was desired.
“Oh, no mistake,” said Roman. “I’d be happy to help you carry it home, though you can just as easily—”
“Let’s talk in private, shall we?” He practically jumped away from his place on the wall and shooed Roman into an alcove behind a cart where vials of blood were selling like, well, vials of blood. They were always a top seller in the black market, and comparing their demand to anything else would be anticlimactic.
“What are you trying to do,” the man spat in an urgent whisper, “take away all of my friends?”
“What? I thought inheriting wealth would make you more friends, if anything.”
“Sure,” said the man, “until you’ve loaned them money. Then they’ll never talk to you again.”
“Right, sorry.”
“Never mind. How much did she leave me?”
“I must have been really convincing, to hoodwink you too.”
“What?”
“You don’t have an auntie!”
“What? I mean, I know, but … then why would you do that?”
&nbs
p; “I need to get to the Cross in a hurry,” said Roman. “You know where it is, and you look like the sort of fellow who can keep a secret.”
“What makes you think I know how to get there?”
“I’m an excellent judge of character, mister …”
“It’s Milos. Wait a minute, you didn’t know my name, but you know I don’t have an auntie?”
“Correct,” said Roman. “Look, I don’t have time to get into all of that now. If you can get me to the southern point of the Cross within the hour and keep it under your hat, I’ll pay you five times your going rate.”
Milos narrowed his eyes again and gripped his lapels in his grubby hands as he regarded Roman. He had the look of a man who knew that he didn’t know what was going on, and that was something. Your average streetwise type also wouldn’t have known what was going on in this sort of situation, but he wouldn’t have known it. Being just smart enough to know that you’re not very smart puts you miles ahead of most people.
“Eight times,” said Milos, after he’d leered at Roman for what he felt had been long enough to get him squirming. “And when you’re done, you come back to the lineup and clear up this ‘auntie’ business.”
“You drive a hard bargain, Milos. Shall we?”
Skeleton Key Circle
The Serpents of the Earth had members all over the world, none of whom were eager to advertise it. It wasn’t something that went over well in polite company. “I truck with people who wear black robes, hoard other people’s blood, and toy with the fates of nations. Oh, and our mascot is a snake. I think everyone can agree there’s nothing sinister about that.” Very few people would want to be friends with anyone who talked like that, not even the Serpents of the Earth in most cases.
This is why they’ve gone to great pains to keep their identities a secret, silver snake rings notwithstanding. In some cases, they even need to remain anonymous with each other. This is why they’ve made places like the Cross.
The Cross is a collection of four tiny rooms, each only large enough for one person. Or, in this case, one person and one ghost of an accountant-turned-spy.
“There are three other rooms,” Roman whispered into Sloot’s shrunken head’s shrunken ear. The most unnerving part was that Sloot heard him particularly well. “Their entrances are all over the city, hidden to protect the identities of those summoned to meetings. At the appointed time, the magic candles in each room will alight, and everyone will be able to hear each other.”
“Who will be able to hear each other?”
“Mrs. Knife will be in one of the rooms, and the other two are the reason I brought you along. You see, I have a hunch.”
“I’ve never noticed it,” said Sloot.
“No, an intuition. You’re dead, see?”
“Well intuited.”
“Very funny. See, the dead can perceive things the living cannot. I’m told the magic enchanting these candles is necromantic, so you may be able to follow the links between them.”
“Er, okay,” said Sloot. “Then you want me to … what, follow the links?”
“Precisely,” whispered Roman. “I’ve been gathering intelligence about this meeting for a couple of days now, and Greta overhearing that Mrs. Knife is attending made it really interesting. If this meeting is what I think it is, it could be the break we need!”
“To do what, exactly?”
“To crush the Serpents of the Earth! You do remember the plan, don’t you?”
It would take a lot more than vacating his corporeal form to make Sloot forget that the Serpents of the Earth were dangerous. But in the moment, he felt that he never properly considered the fact that they have necromancers on staff, which meant they could probably do very nasty things to the dead.
Before he had a chance to settle into a proper fit of fretting, a flame burst from the tip of the lone black candle in the room. Roman was startled by it, his bug eyes going even wider than usual. He used two fingers of his right hand to point to the eyes of Sloot’s shrunken head, then waved the gruesome souvenir around the room as if he were providing the worst tour ever.
“What?” whispered Sloot.
Roman gave a sharp intake of breath through clenched teeth. He held one finger against Sloot’s shrunken lips as if to shush him.
Sloot looked around the room. He could see the candle, the flame, and Roman, panicking as quietly as possible.
“Who’s there?” came a voice in a sort of dull, reversed echo. It sounded like a murderer who’d gotten drunk in the future, and was speaking through a bucket. To be more precise, she will have gotten drunk in the future; however, she won’t. It’s just a metaphor.
In the end, it didn’t matter how much the metaphorical murderer from the future will have had to drink, or how much of life Sloot might eventually forget in death. He would have recognized Mrs. Knife’s voice anywhere. It had a tinny rage to it, even when she was in a good mood. Not that Sloot could remember ever having seen Mrs. Knife in a good mood.
“The Steward of the Circle,” came another, equally future-bucket-distorted voice. This one belonged to a man, Sloot was fairly certain. “I believe that Constantin’s keeper is with us as well.”
“I am,” came a third voice. It was unmistakably a woman, and Sloot thought she sounded familiar.
“On to business, then.” Mrs. Knife had a way of making even the most perfunctory of statements sound like a threat. “We’re still sorting through the remains from the incident. As soon as we’ve been able to determine which belonged to the elder and younger Lords Hapsgalt, we’ll deliver them to you in the usual way.”
“Go, go!” Roman mouthed to Sloot.
Go where? Sloot wondered. Then it seemed that whatever magic was at work in the Cross answered him. There were three very faint lines emanating from the candle’s flame, ethereal things, reaching through the walls. Perhaps the other ends were attached to the other rooms of the Cross?
“I already have the elder Lord Hapsgalt’s remains,” said the unidentified woman’s voice. It matched Mrs. Knife’s tone in terms of confidence, if not malice.
“What? How? You have violated protocol by trespassing into our affairs!”
Roman was shaking with an urgent frustration that was starting to cause Sloot more trepidation than the fear he was presently staring down: moving through walls. It would make sense that he’d be able to do so, but a lifetime of having had a face with a very tender nose on the front of it simply couldn’t get behind the idea.
“I did not trespass,” said the woman. “Upon Constantin’s demise, his remains came to me by means of an enchantment. That had been arranged long ago, by my predecessor. Lord Hapsgalt was well aware.”
“I was never informed of this. I must insist that you return them at once!”
“That would be a clear violation of protocol,” said the man. The Steward, he’d called himself.
As dearly as Sloot would have loved to pluck up his nerve and get on with it, he simply couldn’t think of a way to get himself to take the first step. So he resolved to act without thinking, which has far more to do with fooling one’s self than bravery. It’s what we use when we try to catch pots of boiling water that are falling from the stove, or tell our significant others how their posteriors really look in those pants. That was what Sloot was thinking—or, rather, wasn’t—when he picked a line and walked through the wall to follow it.
“I am the Eye of the Serpent!” Mrs. Knife was clearly unaccustomed to having her orders questioned. “The Circle works for me. Now, do as you’re told!”
“The Circle serves the Serpents of the Earth,” said the Steward, “but we do not take orders from you. The Book of Black Law specifically states—”
“Don’t quote the Book to me, Steward.”
It was nauseating, walking through solid walls. Sloot was thankful he didn’t have guts, else he’d be hurling their contents at the experience. Then again, scientific curiosity would have a field day with where said contents would e
nd up. If he happened to be passing through a brick wall, would they supplement the mortar? Sloot wondered about that as fiercely as possible. He wanted to avoid concentrating on what he was doing at all costs. He continued following the line, which had led him through several city blocks already.
“The elder Lord Hapsgalt’s remains are being cared for in the traditional way,” said the woman. Her voice was calm in the way that a hungry tiger watches a zookeeper’s hands at feeding time.
“And how is that, exactly?” Mrs. Knife spat. “The Skeleton Key Circle has been acting without oversight for far too long, if you ask me.”
The Skeleton Key Circle! Had Sloot heard that correctly? The people with whom he and Willie had tousled in the secret room beneath the crypt—isn’t that who they said they were?
“That’s the entire point of our organization,” said the Steward, “to act without oversight. The founders of the Serpents of the Earth—”
“Another subject upon which I need no education from you!” Sloot had heard Mrs. Knife this agitated before. She’d been stabbing him at the time. He shuddered, which resulted in some bizarre psychic reverberations. He wished he could have resolved never to do that again, but he knew himself too well.
There was no way to know which of the other rooms in the Cross he was heading toward. He could still hear the entire conversation because he was on the line. A familiar bit of panic latched onto him as he realized he might end up face-to-face with Mrs. Knife at any moment. Fate and circumstance were not muscles, though he’d certainly have a go at flexing them both if it would have helped.
“The new keeper awaits the remains of the new Soul,” said the Steward. “They should have been delivered by now, but you say that there have been extenuating circumstances. When may we expect delivery?”
“You may not.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“As well you should,” said Mrs. Knife. “Make no mistake, if I could look you in the eye, I’d have the point of my knife wiggling around in your liver.”