The Mysteries of Holly Diem (Unknown Kadath Estates Book 2) (19 page)

“Okay,” I grumbled, picking up my teacup. “I’ll give
you five minutes.”

“That will be fine,” Madeleine chirped, giving me a
pin-up perfect smile. “You would be amazed, Mr. Tauschen, with what I can do in
five minutes.”

There was no room for doubt. She was Holly Diem’s
little sister, after all.

“Allow me to reassure you of the soundness of my
intentions,” Madeleine suggested brightly, motioning to an odoriferous servant,
who scurried quickly over to deposit a parcel wrapped in linen on the table in
front of me. “A gesture of goodwill.”

I poked the package suspiciously, and naturally,
nothing happened. It was maybe a meter long, and heavy. Cats, lawyers, and the
witch alike watched without comment. It is exactly as difficult as stories
suggest to be the only human being at a tea party. Taking perhaps more care
than was merited, I unwrapped the parcel, bracing myself for something
horrible.

I realized I was wrong when I exposed the first of the
brass gears. Wrapped in linen and well oiled, Madeleine Diem’s former
mechanical arm gleamed on the table.

“My old arm!” Madeleine squealed. “Since I don’t need
it any longer – and because you seemed very upset for your neighbor – perhaps
she should have it. It served me well for years, and is still in excellent
condition.”

I honestly wasn’t sure how to react. Anger was
tempting, but it didn’t seem likely to be helpful. Whatever else was true,
Sumire
could
use a prosthetic arm.

“I don’t know.” I put the arm down on the ground
beside Snowball. “What do you think, Snowball?”

The cat circled the arm slowly, pausing occasionally
to sniff it.

“It is built of dhole bone and mechanisms harvested
from one of the Great Race’s submerged outposts. It is, as the witch says, in
excellent shape, and is remarkably potent.”

Snowball batted at one of the fingers with his paw,
while Madeleine sipped tea and looked pleased with herself.

“Is it safe, though? It looks…evil?”

“It
is
a witch’s arm, manufactured by servants
of the Outer Dark,” Snowball said, inspecting the mechanism lodged in the
carved bone of the wrist. “You cannot expect such things to be entirely benign.
That said, it carries no particular doom or curse with it.”

I picked the arm up off the ground, and examined it blearily.

“Are you sure it would even work?” I touched the brass
fitting that constituted the shoulder mount. “How would we even go
about…attaching it?”

“The process requires a witch,” Snowball said,
settling back beside his empty bowl. “Fortunately, one is among your
acquaintances.”

I nodded slowly, pondering implications.

“With that in mind, Mr. Tauschen…”

“Preston, please.”

“And please call me Maddy.” That smile again, with all
the impact of a downed power line. “I offered proof of good intent. Will you
hear me out?”

“Five minutes,” I said, folding the linen wrap back
over the arm. “Go for it.”

“I assume that my older sister,” she began, emphasis
on the adjective, “has already told you of the events that occurred between us,
all those years ago?”

“Yeah, she did.”

“That will save us time.”

I shook my head, which was a mistake, because it felt full
of ball bearings.

“You don’t intend to dispute her account?”

“My older sister Constance chopped off my arms and
legs, and cut out my eyes with scissors,” she explained, suddenly
matter-of-fact, even a little cool. “I returned the favor when I could. There
isn’t a great deal of room for disagreement in our story.”

I caught myself before I shook my head again.

“If you say so.”

“I do. I have waited a long time for the opportunity
to return to the Nameless City, and I will not have it spoiled by interlopers.”
If that was a threat, then the grace of the delivery muted it. “I like to
think, however, that there is room for a solution that does not bring us into
conflict. That is why I asked Lord Snowball to facilitate this conversation.”

“I get it. I’m sitting here. What do you have to say?”

Madeleine rose from the table, and gestured that I
should look. I didn’t mind much.

“You see the state of me...”

“Yeah. I liked the arm better on Sumire, honestly.”

She stroked the olive skin of her right arm with a
covetous expression better kept private.

“I do not blame you.” Her head bobbed amiably. “I
require quality replacements, however, and I tire of my artificial limbs,
despite their useful nature and exceptional workmanship. I desire
something...softer. More delicate. In keeping with my own nature.”

“Sure. I heard a bunch of girls lost their limbs in
the last few months, though. Why don’t you have, like, six legs?”

She scowled, and just like that, the scars around her
eyes were prominent, swollen with angry blood.

“As I have already mentioned, I do not take the limbs
myself. They are presented to me, by an admirer. One was suitable, the
others...less so.”

Between my digestive distress and the oddly satisfied
way she smacked her lips when she said that, I darn near lost the pitiful
contents of my upset stomach.

“I’m warning you; if you intend to come for Sumire’s
other arm, you and I have a problem, right now.”

Snowball glanced up from his personal maintenance routine.

“Exercise caution, human,” he warned. “Should you
initiate violence, our protection will not apply.”

“No need, Lord Snowball,” Madeleine said, with a
tittering little laugh. “There will be no violence. I have no such intention,
Preston. I am an unconventional beauty, and my choice of limbs will reflect
that. The idea of a matched pair bores me.”

I went through a whole sick rainbow of emotions.
Eventually, the implications of the quiet way Madeleine Diem studied me started
to sink in, my battered and overtired mind trudging in the direction of a
conclusion that it probably should have raced toward.

“You want me to betray your sister, Holly.” I shook my
head, and then remembered not to do that. The bones in my neck ground against
each other as if they had rusted. “Not gonna happen.”

“I do not.” Madeleine looked miffed. “Holly is old,
Preston. Older than you can imagine. You would find her repulsive,” she said,
licking her perfect lips at the thought, “if you knew the truth of it. I want
no part of her, and neither should you – even those that seem the most
desirable.”

Multiple choice; there were only ever three options.
If my landlady was out…

“Are you talking about Yael, or April?”

The cats watched us closely now, even those who had
not finished their blue milk, their heads swaying like spectators at a tennis
match.

“It matters to you, then?”

Madeleine seemed to think that this was funny.

“It does. Very much so.”

“The implications are delicious. I wonder; which name
do you hope to hear?”

“Preston is unwell.” Snowball’s voice was cool and
crisp, as if he was the only adult in the room, disappointed by the behavior of
children. “I suggest we continue this at another time.”

“Spit it out, witch,” I growled. “My patience is
wearing.”

“Both.” Her smile was deranged, gleeful; with her
mouth open wide, I could see that she had row after row of pointed teeth, like
a shark. “I am short an arm
and
both legs, after all.”

I stood abruptly and nearly lost my balance, grabbing
the table for support. I rose to the clatter of shifting cutlery and teacups, a
serving bowl shattering beneath my numb feet. The fever was intensifying; it
seemed impossible that the conflagration in my head didn’t spread.

“This conversation,” I mumbled, the tablecloth
sliding, bunched in the grip of my left hand, “is over.”

“Wait a moment, please,” Madeleine pled. “You haven’t
heard what I have to offer in return.”

“Don’t want it,” I mumbled, nearly tripping over my
own chair. “Just stop.”

“Anonymity, for April and yourself, and the security
that comes with it.” Madeleine spoke rapidly, but with the slick delivery of a businesswoman
confident in the strength of her offer. “An end to the Institute’s pursuit,
Preston. I will neuter them, in return for your aid. My paramours will destroy
the station and tunnel by which they access the Black Trains, consigning them
forever to the trap they built. My allies will reach into orbit and cast down
the satellites by which they hunt you. I can set you free, Preston; you and
that girl with whom you have such an
interesting
relationship.”

I swayed, as if drifting in intermittent currents. The
world froze like a paused video file, expressions distorted and movements
blurred. I kept touching my right ear, which made sloshing sounds when I moved,
and felt full of liquid. Snowball and Dunwich watched me closely, their concern
evident even through my delirium.

“I’m tired...” I managed, or I think I did. “No more.”

“I believe we should end this, Lord Snowball,” Dunwich
offered, his voice much more youthful than I would have anticipated. “By your
leave.”

“Yes, of course,” Snowball said, with the cruel pity
of a cat, which is more akin to a human contempt. “I regret to bring a
premature close to this encounter, Madeleine; however...”

“By all means,” Madeleine said, with a generosity as
patently false as a stage magician’s deck of cards. “Do consider my offer,
Preston. Freedom is a rare and precious commodity. Isn’t it worth the cost of a
single arm, no matter how shapely?” The witch’s face swam, taking on sickening
and inhuman dimensions, whether due to my fever or her malevolence, I cannot
say. “I will have a replacement manufactured, naturally; something more visually
appealing perhaps? The Drowned Empress employs talented artisans.”

“One more word.”

Snowball hopped up onto the table as if he owned it,
the dirty white cat, missing an ear and most of his tail, trotting calmly
across the tableware. I held onto the chair with both hands, legs wide and
knees bowed as if on rough seas, and shivered helplessly.

“I am tempted to consider this a slight to the office
of the Lord of Ulthar.” Snowball came to rest, knocking over the superfluous
candelabra and assuming its former position, carefully situated between
Madeleine and myself. “An affront to me, I might remind you, is an affront to
the Cats of Ulthar.” I noticed the cats shifting subtly in the cobwebbed
corners of my vision. “Have I made myself understood?”

Madeleine offered him that charming little curtsey,
and myself a playful wink.

“Of course, Lord Snowball.”

“Mr. Yog and Mr. Sothoth; my apologies.” Snowball
lowered his head just slightly. “It appears your conversation with Mr. Tauschen
must be delayed. I am certain that you understand.”

“
Certainly. We have taken the liberty of passing
along our card.
” Mr. Yog – or was it Mr. Sothoth? I could not tell the
difference – spoke with a voice like a cement grinder, while a malformed
servant offered me a business card on pewter platter. “
Sleep well, Mr.
Tauschen
.”

I remember noting the heavy stock before I shoved the
card in my pocket. I remember picking up Madeleine’s discarded mechanical arm,
and shoving it beneath my jacket. That’s about it.

I must have stumbled home from the Night Market. The
Cats of Ulthar promised me an escort, but what assistance could they have provided
to a delirious man on his way home in the early morning?

The dawn broke above the nearby hills as I turned onto
Leng Street, my head aching as if someone were pulling my hair. The silver key
was weighty in my palm; the tarnished gate of the Estates loomed like a
monument. My key turned in the lock, ungreased hinges complained; the sky spat
out occasional bursts of rain, as if it occasionally forgot what it was
supposed to be doing. I wanted to die, or to sleep.

There were a hundred thousand stairs between my front
door and me.

The gaunt curves of her hips, the rise of her cheekbones.
Restless fingers, nails gnawed to the quick and stripped of paint. Warmth,
permeated with anticipation. The relentless progress of the clock and the
possibility of dawn; a question existing only as long as it goes unanswered.   

I’m not normally one to ascribe significance to dreams. As far as I’m
concerned, dreams are basically the equivalent of the weird programming you
find on obscure cable channels in the early morning – the space needs to be
filled with
something
, so who cares if it makes sense?

In this case, though...

It had been a long time. I couldn’t remember a single
dream, since my arrival in the Nameless City – but then again, I have been
plagued with a transient sort of insomnia, spending the night drifting
ambiguously between sleep and wakefulness. The last dream I could remember was
of
the Nameless City – in a middle-of-nowhere chain motel, during the persecuted
months between the Institute and Kadath.

This was different.

***

Burgundy carpet compressed slightly beneath my feet; if I
focused, I could hear the fibers rustle. The air pushed gently through the hall,
motivated by a powerful air conditioner, sterile with notes of cleaning
solution. I passed doors at regular intervals, but knew somehow to ignore them,
until I located an imposing slab of varnished mahogany with Yog & Sothoth inscribed
across it in gold inlay. The doorknob was an intricate Deco affair, the brass
polished and bright.

I let myself in.

Madeleine Diem’s lawyers waited on
the other side, the office so dim I could hardly make my way to the chair in
front of the bulk of their impossibly oversized shared desk. They were dressed
in layers of robes, embroidered with metal thread and accented with smoky,
unfamiliar stones, faces shrouded with chainmail veils. They were little more
than shapes in the dim illumination provided by a green-glass antique lamp, but
the shapes were wrong.

“Good evening, Preston Tauschen of
the Unknown Kadath Estates, formerly of...”

“Don’t say it,” I snapped. “Mr. Sothoth,
and Mr. Yog, right?”

They nodded in sequence. Mr. Sothoth
did most of the talking, with a voice like a swarm of wasps, while Mr. Yog
scratched away at a piece of parchment with a quill pen, pausing occasionally
to dip the quill in his mouth. The pen emerged dripping in a viscous liquid,
and the parchment hissed and whimpered when he wrote.

“As you say, Mr. Tauschen.” Mr. Yog
opened a lovely ebony and cherry wood box, and offered me a selection of
cigars, snuffs, pills, and powders. I declined. “Allow me to apologize for
intruding uninvited, but the matters we wish to discuss are time sensitive.”

“It’s your dime, I guess. Let’s hear
it.”

“I appreciate your brevity, Mr.
Tauschen. One of humanity’s most admirable traits.” The chainmail shifted, and
I got the disquieting impression that his jaw had multiple joints. “I will
endeavor toward such expediency. Let me ask you this, Mr. Tauschen – what would
you require, in return for your neighbor – one Yael Kaufman?”

“You must be joking,” I moaned. “Do
you want her legs, too? They aren’t even that nice or anything.”

“Aha.” Mr. Yog’s voice was flat and
metallic, like water laced with granulated aluminum. “Competition.”

Whatever else Mr. Sothoth was, he was
certainly a lawyer through and through.

“We require the totality of Yael
Kaufman, Mr. Tauschen.” A momentary hesitation, perhaps a deep breath, though I
saw no sign of respiration in either. “Including both legs.”

“Why?”

Mr. Yog made a barking noise, which I
just assumed was equivalent to laughter.

“Your concern surprises me.” The
inhuman lawyer sounded worried for my mental state. “Does it truly matter?”

“Maybe. Why do you want her?”

“We don’t,” Mr. Yog offered, sucking
on his quill. “The client.”

“Precisely,” Mr. Sothoth agreed. “We
have no personal stake.”

They were toying with me, and I
didn’t appreciate it. I decided to take a more aggressive approach.

“What does Madeleine Diem want with
Yael Kaufman, if not her leg?”

More of the barking noise. I honestly
wanted to strangle both of them.

“I believe I understand the confusion.”
Mr. Sothoth buzzed indulgently. “I am not privileged to disclose our client’s
identity, but I can assure you that we are not working for Miss Diem in this
capacity.”

“That’s a pretty subtle distinction.”

“Nonetheless. Our firm represents
multiple clients, Mr. Tauschen, on retainer. In this matter, we represent an
anonymous client with an interest in one Yael Kaufman. After some observation,
it seems to us that you are well-positioned to assist us.”

“I see.”

Mr. Yog tormented parchment while Mr.
Sothoth studied me with black eyes.

“If I may add, without offense, then
you also seem to have the moral flexibility necessary for collaboration.”

“Ouch.”

“No offense meant!” Mr. Sothoth
protested shrilly. “Such flexibility is laudable. Transactions are so much
easier when conducted with humans who understand the nature of things, Mr.
Tauschen.”

“The nature of things?”

“Every interaction is a transaction,
Mr. Tauschen,” the lawyer explained, folding his hands over the misplaced bulk
of his abdomen. “The imperative is to maximize the return.”

“Honestly, I expected something a bit
more sinister.”

“Malice is beneath us, Mr. Tauschen.
We admire practicality. Our interests are our client’s interests. We desire
nothing, aside from payment in full for our services. And a successful outcome
for our client, if possible.”

“In this case, your client wants
Yael.”

“Just so, Mr. Tauschen,” Mr. Yog
rumbled, working away with his quill. “Our client insists that price is of no
object. A fallacy, surely, but situationally beneficial.”

“Are you offering money?”

“We can provide payment in any
currency that you desire; material, or otherwise. Our resources are
substantial, Mr. Tauschen, and many owe us favors. Name your desire, and we
will do business.”

“Why Yael?”

The barking noise, again. It was
getting on my nerves.

“Why indeed?” Mr. Yog murmured.

“Our client made the request,” Mr.
Sothoth explained. “What more is needed? Have you become emotionally entangled
in Miss Kaufman’s wellbeing, Mr. Tauschen? That would be most unfortunate.”

“You aren’t the only interested party.”
I smirked, leaned back in my chair, and kicked my legs out fully. “I’m
considering options and weighing offers.”

“As far as compensation…”

“That’s important,” I interrupted. “I
can’t set a price, though, unless I know what you have planned.”

They exchanged a look with their
cockroach eyes.

“Desire,” Mr. Yog intoned, “and
obligation.”

“Are you certain that you will not
consider remuneration in lieu of explanation?” Mr. Sothoth’s whine was really
starting to get to me. It seemed to emerge from within my frontal lobe rather
than my ears, and the buzzing made my eyes water. “We are positioned to be most
generous, Mr. Tauschen.”

 “I’m sure. We’ll get to that.
Particulars, first.”

Another silent conference.

“We will need assurance of your
confidentiality, Mr. Tauschen,” Mr. Sothoth said, the chainmail in front of his
face dripping with what I hoped was saliva. “The issue is naturally sensitive.”

“Of course.”

Mr. Sothoth leaned back in the chair,
and emitted a long, strangled sound, a mockery of a sigh.

“Very well. Are you familiar with the
details of Yael Kaufman’s personal history, Mr. Tauschen?”

I hesitated. The question was an
obvious trap. If I were to admit my ignorance, it would give the hideous lawyer
greater license to deceive. Bluffing would be dangerous, though.

“Only what I can see,” I said, with a
confident grin. “And what she’s told me, of course.”

“Surely, then,” Mr. Sothoth said
wetly, “you are aware of…”

I cut him off quickly, maintaining
the image of composure, as if I negotiated with monsters in my dreams on the
regular.

“Assume that I know nothing,” I
suggested. “It will make everything easier.”

It was possible that I was starting
to figure out their facial expressions, because I was sure the look they
exchanged was sour.

“As you say, Mr. Tauschen.” The chair
beneath Mr. Sothoth creaked and groaned as he shifted. “Yael Kaufman was originally
from Roanoke, once one of the principal cities of the Commonwealth of Virginia.”

“Once?”

“No longer.” Mr. Yog shook his heavy
head. “Lost, as Carcosa.”

“As my associate said,” Mr. Sothoth
agreed shrilly. “The place is no longer.”

“What does that mean? Was there a war
or something?”

“There were many wars,” Mr. Sothoth
said, nodding. “It was not a war that brought an end, however. It was, in order
– The King in Yellow, the Fifth Assembly, and then, finally, Yael Kaufman.”

“You’re losing me, here.”

“All you need to know is that Yael
Kaufman was born unwelcome, in a world that belonged to the King in Yellow.”
Mr. Sothoth droned on, and his voice made my teeth ache. “He is careless with issues
of dominion and possession, however, and the Fifth Assembly, from the fungal
seas of Yuggoth, took advantage of his negligence to establish a series of
colonies along the Atlantic Ocean. In Roanoke, they were called Visitors, and
Yael Kaufman’s family was intimately involved in their affairs.”

This was certainly the most detailed
dream I had ever had. Some of the details were familiar, but I couldn’t place
exactly where I might have heard them before.

“The King in Yellow may have been
indifferent to territory, but it is royalty nonetheless, and demands tribute.
The Fifth Assembly assumed control, and therefore also the responsibility to mollify
The King in Yellow. Mercantile by nature, arrangements were made with the local
population. A distrusted religious minority was assigned the burden of the
tribute, along with privileges otherwise denied. Yael Kaufman is the eldest
daughter of the oldest and most important of these families. As her grandmother
before her, Yael Kaufman was selected as tribute to The King in Yellow.”

I wasn’t sure if I believed any of
it, but I was fascinated. Mr. Sothoth leaned forward, as if to emphasize the
confidentiality of our conversations, and I could see a thick residue dripping
from his metal veil.

“At that point, Yael Kaufman had an
older brother.”

The past tense, again.

“He was perceptive – an attribute the
family shared. The details are frustratingly hazy,” Mr. Sothoth added, voice
dripping with anger, “for reasons that are still elusive, but of this much we
are certain – Yael Kaufman’s brother discovered her eventual fate, and elected
to meddle. Although he was spectacularly unsuccessful in his attempt to save
his sister, his disappearance indirectly prompted Yael Kaufman to save
herself.”

“That’s…believable. She’s a tough
kid.”

“You have no idea, Mr. Tauschen.”
There was no shred of humor in those pitch-black eyes. “Miss Kaufman has looked
into the face of The Outer Dark, and scoffed at it.”

“That I don’t believe.”

“Believe what you like, Mr. Tauschen.
Human faith is immaterial,” Mr. Sothoth said. I wasn’t sure if he was making a
joke. “The opportunity is there, nonetheless. Our client wishes to exercise a
claim to Yael Kaufman, but prefers to act indirectly, through intermediaries.”

I took a stab in the dark.

“Like Neil, the friendly neighborhood
drug dealer?”

Mr. Yog and Mr. Sothoth stared back,
eyes sparkling like polished ebony. I decided that if we were playing cards, I
intended to shoot the moon.

“What about Elijah Pickman?”

Silence and eyes as empty and black
as a starless sky.

“Agents and Operators,” Mr. Yog
offered, adding a few final touches to his long-suffering parchment. “All at
play.”