Etherwalker (11 page)

Enoch strode back to where the form had disappeared into the shadows. Between some broken slats in a large wine barrel, two bright eyes suddenly flashed back at him.

“Aaargh!”

The surprise yanked him free from his trance as he stumbled backwards, tripping over a broken pot. Something launched itself from the shadowy recess and landed on his chest. Enoch could feel small, sharp claws digging into the front of his tunic where the wrappings had fallen away. He fumbled for the sword at his side, but it was still tangled up in the dusty shrouds.

He heard dry, familiar laughter. Rictus was obviously enjoying seeing him torn limb from limb by this alley beast.

The beast seemed less interested in tearing him apart than sitting on his chest and staring at him with those fierce yellow eyes. On further inspection, Enoch decided that the beast was less of a “beast” than he had first surmised.

As long as his arm from nose to tail, the creature had a silky and inconstant pelt which seemed to ripple from brown to indigo to black, alive with subdued color. The pointed snout ended in a small black nose, underneath which sharp white teeth almost glowed in the alley gloom. Large triangular ears swiveled towards him, amazingly motile upon the creature’s curiously tilted head. Enoch slowly turned his head to face Rictus.

“What is it? Is it dangerous?”

Rictus stepped closer to examine the creature.

“I think not. Or at least not to you. A dangerous animal wouldn’t have gotten so . . . so
cozy
on your chest there. This ferocious monster is—” Rictus shook his head, “—more enamored than alarmed, I would say. But as to its genus and species, I couldn’t venture to guess.”

Rictus rubbed his forefinger and thumb across his bony chin in a parody of scholarly inquiry.

“Judging by the chameleon fur, it seems to be some sort of a shadowcat hybrid—but if I’m not mistaken, there are some aspects of hue and pattern at play here which you don’t see on the common breed. I’ll bet this little guy . . . uh,” here he tilted his head to peer under the creature, “sorry, this little
lady
can go invisible in the middle of a Technicolor sandstorm, more than just match grays with the shadows like her cousins.”

He jerked his thumb around to indicate where they’d just come from.

“Those Swampmen are adept at mixing genes around, and it doesn’t hurt that the very swamps they live in are just silly with the worst kind of rads and unchained nantek—Garron was ground zero for some of the worst of the Schism. That stinking pool of glowing slop used to be a city founded on the principles of art and romance. And that, my little friend, is what they call
irony
.”

As usual, Enoch only understood about half of what Rictus was saying, but he parsed enough to realize that this creature—
she—
was not going to bite him. He slowly moved a hand towards her head. She twisted with boneless grace to sniff at the hand and then licked it with a rough, pink tongue. Enoch ran a hand over the creature’s back and was amazed by the softness of the fur. Eyes closed in feral pleasure, she began to purr.

Ambushed by such unexpected tenderness in the middle of this alien place, Enoch felt some sort of emotion welling up from his throat. It was alarming, and he coughed while staggering to his feet. The creature practically slithered up his arm and onto his shoulder, where she perched confidently. Enoch reached up to take her off—the last thing he and his skeleton companion needed was to look
more
conspicuous—and barely pulled his hand back in time as she bared needle-teeth and snapped at him.

With a purr that was half warning growl, the creature settled back onto his shoulders and turned to look at him as if to say:
Okay, now we can go.

This time, both Enoch and Rictus laughed.

“It would appear that we have a new captain. Good job, Enoch.”

Enoch gave Rictus a miniature replica of one of his own signature shrugs. With that warm, somewhat prickly weight on his shoulder, he followed the chuckling corpse into the shadows of the city.

*  *  *  *

The tavern, if it could be called that, seemed to be a half-hearted attempt at copulation by three or four run-down buildings of various styles and compositions—an architectural orgy of splintered beams, pock-marked columns, and drooping lintels. The sign hung crookedly from a rusted iron ring over the front porch, swinging in the slow breeze. At some distant point in the tavern’s history, the sign had been painted with festive colors, colors now bruised with the pale marks of age. Enoch could just make out the crudely drawn logo: a naked man sitting on some sort of a rounded chair, his head draped in black cloth, a comically large axe across his knees. Rictus spread his long, spidery arms expansively in a scarecrow embrace.

“This, my young friend, is the Headsman’s Hole. There is no finer tavern in all of Babel, excluding, of course, the ones which use plates.”

With a laugh, Rictus pulled the dusty shrouds from his shoulders. Already tattered from the journey, they practically disintegrated at his touch and fell to the damp pavement in a cloud of dust. Enoch didn’t follow suit—even if they were now entering safe territory where disguise was no longer necessary, he felt safer incognito. He wasn’t sure he wanted anybody noticing his swords until he was ready to use them.

Entering the tavern was much like walking into a den of sleepy nerwolves. The low-pitched murmuring was occasionally punctuated by mad laughter, slurred cursing, and the clanging of tin mugs; the heady smell of an overcooked roast struggled to dampen the less-palatable odors of unwashed men and stagnant pinebeer. A pair of frazzled youth—gender entirely indistinguishable—trudged back and forth from the kitchen carrying trays piled high with mugs and steaming piles of meat. Thick, vermilion clouds jetted from the brass pipes of bleary-eyed coral smokers, hiding anyone or anything from scrutiny in the flickering orange lamplight.

Feeling conspicuous, Enoch rushed to catch up with Rictus, who strode through the gaggle of drunkards, thieves, and worse as though he had just arrived home. Few people looked up at the gangly apparition, and those who did so showed only casual interest. This frightened Enoch, for what could be more dangerous than a place where specters were a common sight?

This train of thought was interrupted by a strange sound coming from the back of the tavern. It was oddly out of place in this din—the odd part being that something could actually sound so uniquely incompatible in this boiling stew of sounds. Enoch was reminded of a pan flute, common enough in sheep country, but this was something different—more complex in tone, yet beguiling in its melody. Wistful and elegant, the music swam untouched through the heavy air, weaving in and out of the mumblings of the crowd in melodious counterpoint.

It was a music that, for a few sweet moments, brought Enoch out of the harshness of his immediate surroundings. He would have been content to stand there listening forever, but Rictus had almost disappeared into the crowd, heading straight for the source of the music. Enoch scurried after him.

“Cal, you dried out piece of fly candy, how’s it hangin’?” Rictus’s voice rose in raucous greeting.

The music stopped just as Enoch reached the front of a small stage. At first he had to look around to see who Rictus was addressing. There was an ape on the stage, connected to some weird apparatus, but he could see no one else.

Just then the ape crouched, bringing the apparatus on its back into the light. Enoch gasped. A wrinkled human head was strapped to the animal, wrapped in dusty skin almost as leathery as Rictus’s. And, like Rictus, a snakelike metal tube emerged from the withered neck stump and connected to a steel box which was adorned with a dull red light. It blinked in syncopation to the one nested in his companion’s chest. As the ape scratched itself, the head turned to glare at the tall specter, and then lifted an eyebrow.

“It is ‘hanging,’ my crude friend, just as it always has. In the antique store across the street on a very large stand.”

Enoch jumped back as both of the apparitions burst into sandpaper laughter. He didn’t know what surprised him more, that Rictus was friends with an animated head, or the fact that the head spoke with a cultured, high-society accent. Strapped to one of the ape’s shoulders was a thin metal stand which held in its branching arms an odd assortment of whistles, flutes, and reeds.

Is this the musician I heard earlier?

As if in response to Enoch’s thought, the head leaned down and blew a short, staccato melody on one of the pipes. The ape cocked its head in attention and then leapt up to the crossbeams above the stage, swinging from one hairy arm. The head blew into another pipe, this time a short copper tube. A piercing whistle rang through the crowd, and all eyes turned towards him.

“Attention, ladies and gentlemen, all esteemed clientele of this most hospitable of drink-houses!”

Laughter rang out from all corners of the room, both for the genuine pride in the speaker’s voice and for the insinuation that ladies, gentlemen, or even anything as banal as “clientele” would ever frequent this tavern. Another whistle quieted them.

“It is my honor as proprietor of the Headsman’s Hole to announce the long-awaited return of the most despicable villain ever to survive the Schism, my drinking chum for the past three centuries or so, and the one-time lead guitarist for the extremely overrated Dogfish Knights. Drinks are on the house.”

As drunk and buzzed as they were, the crowd understood the last sentence, and a lusty cheer went up. Several entirely drunk fellows actually walked up to Rictus and patted him on the tattered shoulder in warm congratulations for something or another. Rictus looked up at the simian-mounted head with a boney grin.

“Cal, you unrequited ham, come down from there and talk with us.” He unstrapped the monstrous sword from his shoulder and leaned it against the little stage. “And the Dogfish Knights had three platinum albums, unlike your woefully undersold little recordings.”

The head, which Enoch guessed was Cal, whistled another short blast and was soon back on the stage in front of them. Cal’s parchment skin pulled into a dramatic scowl, exposing a yellow patch of skull above his wrinkled brows.

“I played to sold-out crowds in San Vegas for fifty years, Ric,” growled the animated head. “The Knights were a lucky flash in the pan right before it all went dark and you know it.”

Rictus grinned as he tapped the pulsing red light at his chest.

“At least I could afford to get the
latest
LifeBeat tek, Cal. Full body preservation, they called it. She be a marvelous thang.” He stretched his long arms in a mock yawn. Enoch thought the gesture oddly vain in such a hideous character, but he couldn’t repress a smile.

I guess it’s all relative.

“The preservation being what it is,” smirked Cal, eyeing Rictus up and down, “I’m glad I opted for the economy model. You look more like the Grim Reaper every century.”

“Look who’s talking, monkey-boil!” retorted the specter. “The biggest tragedy of the Schism was that it failed to remove modern man’s most annoying creation—the self-righteous musician.”

Rictus winked at Cal as he reached down to scratch the ape behind the ears. “The second-biggest tragedy is that out of all the dubiously serviceable parts of your lackluster body, you had to preserve this one.” He rapped Cal on the pate with a bony knuckle.

The grumbling head broke into laughter and invited Rictus to have a seat over in the corner.

“So who is your short companion?”

Rictus pulled some of the shroud away from Enoch’s face.

“This is Enoch Gershom, Shepherd Extraordinaire.” Enoch wasn’t sure, but he thought he was being insulted. He pulled the shroud to one side, letting Cal see the
derech
at his belt.

“Enoch Gershom of Midian, charge of Master Levi, at your service, Sir.” He tried to remember formal speech from his lessons, but wasn’t sure it was coming out right. “We seek safe haven.”

For some reason, Rictus was grimacing and making slicing motions with his hands. For some other reason, Cal wasn’t impressed. He turned towards Rictus, catching him in mid-gesture.

“What is this? A refugee kid with illegal blades? I know better than to ask this, but are you mad?” Cal was angry, and Enoch could see the red light at his neck pulsing faster. Even the ape looked agitated.

Rictus winced, leaning close to his furious friend and whispering.

“You know me, Cal. I would never bring danger to your doorstep if I had any other options. There is something important going on and I knew you were the only one I could trust to help me out. This is big stuff.”

Cal laughed bitterly at this.

“You’ll notice,” he remarked, addressing Enoch, “that he says that as though I’m at the top of the list of his dearest chums. He still thinks he can run around with that big sword of his and change the world. He still thinks he matters, that he’s a star.”

He blew three quick notes into a tiny silver flute, and the ape responded by pointing a long, hairy finger at Rictus.

“You, my skeletal friend, have become the stuff of nightmares. The few of us sad, sorry remnants of the old world are now mythology. We’re out of style, Ric. The curtain is down. Show’s over.”