Shadow of the Warmaster

4

The jit dropped us at the Dusky Gate, city drivers wouldn’t go into the Darklands for fear of losing their machines. No law past that heavy arch, only Darkland rules which said what you had was yours as long as you could keep it and only that long; whatever someone was sly enough, quick enough or brutal enough to take belonged to them under the same rules. Once you made a House, though, you could rent protection and be reasonably secure from muggers, cutpurses and assassins. That was a matter of business, there had to be an edge of danger but nothing too threatening or the slummers wouldn’t come and the game rooms would lose their pigeons, the psychodromes would spray their putchemeio dreammist on props, not people. Which meant we were safe from ambush only when we reached the Rabbid Babbit. We walked through the Gate.

Mainstreet was wide, paved with thin slabs of rough-cut stone. Right now they were wet (it must have rained while we were getting ready), with puddlets in the chisel gouges shining yellow and red as they reflected the light from the luso torches that lined the sides of Mainstreet. The torches looked real enough until you noticed they never seemed to burn down; the smell of hot tar and burning oil, the crackle and snap of the fire, the heat, they were all there; a little too much there tonight, I expect the nerp who ran the illusion was high on something and got carried away with the effects.

The Houses were set back a short distance from the street, leaving room for sidewalk cafes with tables under markVdomes where anyone interested could watch the action on the street without any danger of that action spilling over on them. There was a middling crowd out, walking from House to House for the thrill of flirting with thieves and budding duelists (and because there was no other way to change Houses, you walked or you stayed where you were). The air was cool and damp, though it wasn’t raining now. The strollers seemed more subdued than I remembered, but maybe this was just a more inhibited bunch. The body paint on a lacertine group we passed was a mix of earth colors, dull reds and grayed-down yellows; last time I was here the lacertines had gone for brilliant primaries, a slim green back could be like a shout of laughter. Now those backs were more like smiles, subtle smiles that might speak either pleasure or mockery. Times change and who can read the branches if he hasn’t watched them grow?

Adelaar walked half a pace ahead of me, no more joking for her. Made me a little sad, she’d let an imp show briefly, then shooed it home; I liked that imp, a bit more of her in the woman would improve the mix a lot, but I think she was afraid of that side of her. And I think she was already regretting the impulse that stuffed her into that costume.

We went past Amberland. Adelaar glanced at the holo-females of half a dozen species moving through a complex and beautiful melange of half a dozen ancient dances, swaying through the air across the front of the House, larger than life, gaudy, garish, down-and-dirty seductive, there was a little blonde, well, I dragged my mind back to where I was, and what I was doing; I could see Adelaar preferred the company in there to mine, poor little imp deep inside her never let off its leash; we weren’t going to be friends, Adelaar and me, maybe pleasant acquaintances if we kept off politics. There were several shadows drifting after us, but they kept back, ready to vanish down the nearest alley if either of us took a notion to chase them, which made me think they were just making sure where we went. It wasn’t the crowd in the street that stopped my attack, no one in his right mind interfered in a fight, not in Darklands. If you or your party weren’t involved, you got out of there. Fast. No lingering to gawk at the pretty fight.

We passed several other Houses, each with its identifying holo. Crezmir Tarkitzdom, bull-leapers and vodi slayers and antique idols. Surrealismo, hmm, indescribable and constantly changing (I’ve never seen that holo repeat itself and it’s always weird; when I have a moment with nothing else to occupy me, I wonder about the minds that come up with some of the things I’ve seen there). Wildwood. Tranqworld. The Rabbid Babbit. Its holo was the same as before, a collection of assorted Uglys and Hairys barbequing a Banker over a lusty pile of coals, a prim-faced character with an immaculate tunic and stovepipe trousers, chained to a spit which the Ugs and Hairs were turning and turning, wringing sweat of a sort from him, gold coins dropping like rain. Adelaar made a face at the thing, gave me a dark look and pushed through the Gate onto the Babbitwalk.

I waved the Doorman off and followed her into the House; we weren’t buying protection tonight.