From Hell With Love: A Secret Histories Novel (36 page)

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Authors: Simon R. Green

BOOK: From Hell With Love: A Secret Histories Novel
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I strolled back to the creature, smiling on it in what I hoped was a friendly and not at all threatening way. It looked up from its work, but didn’t stop, slowly and methodically removing all traces of my presence. Up close, it looked more like a Neanderthal than anything else: brutal but still basically humanoid, heavy browed and heavy boned, with a wide face, no chin, and sharp crafty eyes. It nodded briefly to me.
“You shouldn’t be here,” it said, in a low growling voice. “Come to take on the Immortals, in their own place of power, have you? Be welcome, fool. Try to die well, with honour.”
“I’m a Drood,” I said calmly. “Other people do the dying.”
The kobold looked at me sharply. “Then you should know better than to be here. You might stand a better chance than most, but you’re still a damned fool to break into Castle Frankenstein. And a doomed one. Doomed . . . No one can beat the Immortals. They go on forever, because they can.”
“Everything comes to an end eventually,” I said, with a confidence I wasn’t entirely sure I felt. “You’re a kobold, aren’t you? What are you doing here, working for the Immortals?”
“Kobold. Yes. Very old people. We were here before the Immortals. Before this Castle. We were miners, then. Digging deep, deep under the earth. Left to ourselves, and liked it that way. We stayed on after so many of the other underfolk left, because no one bothered us, down in the depths of the earth. There was still a lot of gold left, and we like gold. They built a Castle above us, and we didn’t care. Until he came. The one everyone talks about. The Frankenstein, the living god of the scalpel. He discovered us, brought us up into the light, made us his servants. And after he left the Immortals moved in, and they made us their slaves. Put these yokes upon us.”
He lifted his head to show me the cold iron collar around his throat, etched with runes. He was careful not to touch it.
“The Immortals own us now. Generations of kobolds have been born in this cold stone tomb, never to know the comforts of the dark, and the earth, the mines and the gold. Once there were thousands of us, then hundreds, now less than one hundred. We do not belong in this world. And we were never meant to be slaves.”
“I can rip that yoke right off you,” I said. “If you want.”
“No you can’t. The yoke will kill me, rather than let me go. The Immortals never let go of anything they own.”
“Then I will bring down the Immortals,” I said. “And make them free you. All of you.”
“Why should you?” said the kobold. “Why should you give a damn about the underfolk? You’re human.”
“Because I’m a Drood,” I said. “And that’s what Droods do.”
The kobold leaned forward, fixing me with its cold, bright eyes. “Kill them all, Drood. They’ve earned it.”
I walked the whole length of the hall, looking vaguely around for a map of some kind, or a floor plan of the Castle. Preferably something set out neatly on a wall, with YOU ARE HERE, and all the important areas clearly marked. But of course, there was nothing like that. The people who lived here didn’t need a map, and they actively discouraged tourists. I had no idea of what I was looking for, and where I should be going; that’s what happens when you plan a mission in a hurry. All my thoughts had centred around how I was going to get in, and not enough about what I’d do afterwards. We should have got more specific information out of Rafe, but I was too impatient. Now I was here, I wanted information, which meant records, which meant computers. While I was standing at the foot of a long sweeping set of stairs, at the end of the hall, looking vaguely around in search of inspiration, a side door opened, and out came a teenager with long floppy hair, in sweatshirt, jeans and trainers. He stopped abruptly, and looked at me.
I smiled and nodded easily, secure behind my Rafe face. The teenager glared at me, and opened his mouth to shout a warning. I sprinted forward, crossing the space between us in a few moments, and hit the teenager a savage straight finger jab under his sternum. All the air shot out of his lungs before he could shout a single word, and the force of the blow sent him staggering backwards. All the colour dropped out of his face as he struggled to get his breath. I hustled him quickly backwards into the room he’d just left, checked it was empty and then closed the door behind us. The teenager reached out to me with a shaking hand, perhaps to grab me, maybe just to ask for help. I hit him once, expertly, and he slumped forward into my arms, unconscious. The whole scuffle was over in a few moments, hardly long enough to qualify as a fight. I dropped him into the nearest chair, and considered him thoughtfully.
Why hadn’t my disguise worked? Why hadn’t he accepted me as an Immortal? Maybe . . . they didn’t keep track of all the people they replaced. He was young, maybe he didn’t have access to information like that. I arranged him in his chair so he looked like he was just dozing, and then paused as another thought struck me. Rafe’s face might not be familiar here, but this teenager’s had to be . . . So I used the Chameleon Codex again, and suffered the shudders that ran through my flesh, as I became him.
I did consider changing clothes with the teenager—but there are limits.
With all the changes I was putting myself through, I was in danger of suffering a real identity crisis, but that’s business as usual for an agent in the field. I considered the unconscious teenager in his chair. He looked so young, to be part of such a family of monsters. Given how hard I’d hit him, he shouldn’t wake up for ages, but who knew what his shape-changing flesh was capable of? He could wake up any time, and sound the alarm. The sensible and prudent thing to do was kill him, and put an end to the problem. Part of me wanted to kill him. For what his people had done to me, to Molly, and Rafe, and all the Droods who’d fallen to the Accelerated Men. But I couldn’t bring myself to kill him in cold blood. I’d executed Rafe without a second thought, but this was different.
I am an agent, not an assassin.
So I left him, apparently sleeping in his comfortable chair, and went back out into the hall, shutting the door carefully behind me.
I trotted up the long sweeping staircase, which gave out onto the next floor, and strolled down the wide passage. And almost immediately I started bumping into people, Immortals coming and going, and every single one of them was a teenager. They were dressed in a curious mixture of fashions and styles, from the past to the present: everything from Elizabethan ruffs and tights to Edwardian dandies to seventies punk. A little thought suggested that this was because they were all most comfortable in the periods they grew up in. They all had the same arrogant poise, the same aristocratic ease, an almost palpable sense of entitlement. And they were all teenagers because . . . that was when the Immortal genetic inheritance kicked in, and they stopped aging. No wonder the one downstairs hadn’t accepted me. Rafe was too old.
I nodded and smiled perfectly casually to the people I passed, and they just smiled and nodded back to me. Because I was acting like I had a perfect right to be where I was, they all just assumed I had. I must be one of them or I wouldn’t be there. Attitude can get you a long way, as a field agent. I studied them all carefully, behind my borrowed teenage face. They didn’t look like monsters. But they didn’t exactly seem like teenagers, either. There was something
wrong
, in the way they moved, and talked, and acted. They had none of the usual teenagers’ awkwardness or high energy; instead, they all moved with a certain cold confidence, presumably the result of living lifetimes. And in their eyes I caught a glimpse of more experience than anything human should ever have.
I got to the end of the corridor without anyone shouting out or pointing at me, and then I looked about me, wondering where to try next. Or whether I should pick one Immortal out from the pack, drag him into an empty room, and beat the information out of him. I was getting impatient again. And then I saw another kobold, peering round a far corner. It gestured to me urgently, and I set off towards it as though I’d meant to go that way all along. The kobold was indistinguishable from the one I’d met downstairs, wearing the same blue overalls.
“Drood,” it said, in the familiar low growling voice. “You have come to free us.”
“Well, I’d like to,” I said. “But I have to complete my mission first. I need information. Records, computers . . . you know computers?”
“Of course I know computers,” it growled. “I’m a slave, not stupid. We keep informed, up to date. How else could we serve our hated masters efficiently? You want the computer rooms, down in what used to be the dungeons. Better for the machines, down there. Temperature controlled. I know all about computers. I read
Wired
magazine. Every month.”
“Sorry,” I said.
“Follow these back stairs, all the way down. Watch out for the guard on duty. And the alarms. Did you really break in here, without first doing some reconnaissance?”
“I was in a hurry,” I said, with as much dignity as I could muster.
It gave me a long hard look. “And you’re our great hope for liberation. I think I’ll go and have a little lie down.”
It sniffed loudly, pointed out the back stairs with quite unnecessary thoroughness, and shuffled off. Almost immediately, a door to my right swung open, and a whole crowd of teenagers rushed out, talking loudly. I stood back to let them pass, and although they all did so, several of them looked at me oddly, as though I hadn’t said or done something they expected. One of them actually paused and looked back at me, the look on his face clearly suggesting that he thought something was wrong, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. I couldn’t get past them to the back stairs, so I just turned casually away and made a point of going into the room they’d just come out of.
It turned out to be some kind of common room, with more teenagers standing around in groups, sitting in comfortable chairs, drinking and talking. There was a bar in one corner, manned by yet another kobold. I drifted over to the bar and acquired a Beck’s in a bottle, and the kobold actually slipped me a sly wink as it served me. God save us all from amateur conspirators. Even if they did have one hell of a gossip network. I was a bit concerned I might be promising the underfolk more than I could deliver. I was here for information to take back to my family, not to start a revolution of the downtrodden. If I found the kind of information I was looking for, I might have to grab it and run. My duty to the family came before anything else. I fully intended to come back, sometime, preferably at the head of a large army of armoured Droods, and bring down the Immortals in blood and fire. And then, of course, we’d free all the kobolds. But that wouldn’t be today or tomorrow. Might even be years. The Immortals were the deadliest and most devious enemy we’d ever faced; any attack would have to be carefully planned. And there was still the problem of the Apocalypse Door, and the end of the world. I had a lot to do, before I could even think about freeing the kobolds.
But it still didn’t feel right, to take their help under false pretensions.
I wandered round the common room, sipping from the bottle when anyone got too close, nodding and smiling and listening in on as many conversations as possible, without seeming like an eavesdropper. Everyone in the room was a teenager, fifteen or sixteen years old at most. And they all had the same cold, ancient eyes, as though they’d seen everything there was to see, and put their mark on it. None of them were particularly handsome, or beautiful; striking would be a better word. Long experience had put its stamp on their faces, but not in wrinkles or sagging flesh; more in their expressions, and the way they held themselves. They all had perfect skin, perfect teeth, and not a blemish among them. They all looked to be in good shape, though that could be flesh dancing. None of them would need to be fat for long, and they could just grow what muscles they needed . . . or that terrible bone armour I’d seen down in the Hotel. They could be anything, so why hadn’t they made themselves attractive? All of these
teenagers
were defiantly ordinary.
All the better to walk among you . . .
The common room itself had the air of a peculiarly old-fashioned Gentleman’s Club; nothing like a teenage hangout. It was all very calm, and ordered, and tidy, and no one raised their voice. They all seemed very relaxed, and comfortable in their own skins, and there was a basic ease you get only among people who’ve known each other forever. And maybe they had . . . That was why I was still getting glances. I wasn’t acting like one of them. I didn’t immediately recognise faces, or say someone’s name; I didn’t know catchphrases and familiar gestures established over long years. I sat down in a chair in the corner, away from everyone, and did my best to radiate
I want to be alone
with my body language. I was wasting time here, but I was fascinated by the Immortals. Know thy enemy . . .
Two teenagers sat at a chess board, the pieces flying back and forth at incredible speed. Half a dozen more were playing some complicated game with human knucklebones. Others were playing a word game that made no sense to me at all. There was a huge wide-screen television on one wall, tuned to a twenty-four-hour rolling news channel, and no one was watching it. And all through the room I heard a dozen different languages spoken simultaneously, along with others I didn’t even recognise. Dialects and special patois so obscure they sounded almost alien. Could it be that the Immortals remembered and still used languages that had actually died out in the outside world?

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