Nebula Awards Showcase 2010 (44 page)

Udo continued. “Look, I have a cunning idea of how to get some cash, and it’ll be easy, too. I happened to be walking by the post office on the way home this afternoon, and look what I noticed on the wall!”

I smoothed the crumples out of the paper and angled it toward the overhead light. “‘Dead or alive,’” I read. “ ‘Ringtail Peg, the Masher Queen. Wanted for grand larceny, gambling, fixing, mashing, arson, and murder. Five thousand divas in gold payable upon delivery of prisoner or corpse. By command of the Attorney General of Califa, under the Warlord’s Sigil and Sign.’”

“See?” Udo waved more papers. “There are tons of them. Droolie Bee, wanted for larceny, fifteen hundred divas in gold. Firefly Andrews, tax evasion, two thousand divas in gold. Springheel Jack, fifty thousand divas in gold. It would be easy money! Just like taking candy from a baby. We’d be rich and we’d be doing the City a favor. What? Why are you giving me that evil eye?”

“You want to take up bounty hunting?” I said. “You have got to be kidding me!”

“Think on it! Five thousand divas in gold. And keep your voice down—I don’t want anyone to steal my idea.”

“Udo, you don’t like to get your hands dirty and now you are suggesting that we go out and track down criminals and bring them in? How are we going to do that?”

“Well, I figure we’d need some capital, but I’m willing to put out a little to get a little back. We go South of the Slot and—”

“And get ourselves robbed. Remember what happened last time we went South of the Slot? We were jacked by a ten-year-old kid!”

Udo ignored my cold hard truth. “And check out some of those dives.”

“Remember the last dive we checked out? Pete’s Clown Diner? We got caught in a riot!”

Again, with the ignoring: “Grease a few palms—”

“We’ll be killed, or worse.”

Udo said huffily, “Would you let me finish! Grease a few palms and then track them down, tie them up, and bring them in. It will be easy. I mean, they don’t even have to be alive, so if they give us any trouble, we just peg ’em and we still get the cash. And even though it was my idea, Flora, I’ll be happy to cut you in for 10 percent.”

“Oh how kind,” I said sarcastically. “Ten percent of being robbed, killed, or worse. You are so generous.”

“It’s a good idea, Flora. Didn’t Nini Mo go into bounty hunting for a while?”

“Ayah, but she was Nini Mo, the Coyote Queen. She had her reputation behind her. They just took one look at her and folded. I don’t think the people you have mentioned are going to let you walk right up, introduce yourself, and say, ‘Oh by the way, I’m taking you in, dead or alive; would you please come with me.’”

Udo said, exasperated, “Well, of course they will not. I’m not an idiot, Flora. I thought of that, too. See?” This time he fished in the inner pocket of his greatcoat, then displayed a small red enamel case. “This is going to make all the difference in the world.”

“It’s a compact. Are you going to powder their noses if they refuse to come with you?”

“Well, in a manner of speaking, yes, I am. This is no ordinary powder—no, don’t open it! If you spill it, we’ll be in super-big trouble. It’s Sonoran Zombie Powder. One whiff of this stuff and you are no more willful than a piece of cheese. They use it in Huitzil to control sacrifices and wanton wives. Makes the most obnoxious hellion as smooth and easy as glass.”

“Where’d you get it?” I took the compact from him and inspected it more closely. The red enamel top was embossed with a sigil shaped like a spiky wheel, and the clasp was cunningly fashioned like two hands holding each other at the wrist. The label pasted on the bottom read: MADAMA TWANKY’S SONORAN ZOMBIE POWDER.

“Oh, I have my sources,” Udo said mysteriously.

“You got it from an advertisement in the back of the
Califa Police Gazette,
didn’t you? Those adverts are all cheats, Udo. Remember when you ordered that lotion that was supposed to turn your skin the color of bronze, and it turned you green instead? You’ve wasted your money.”

“Ha! Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on you. Do you think I’m a baby, new-dipped in milk? Of course, I tested it out already, and it worked perfectly. On the way home from Sanctuary, I stopped at the Park and zombified a duck. It followed me right home and we ate it for dinner.”

“Udo!” That poor duck. Before I could ask him how he could be so mean, the horsecar jolted to a halt.

“Back door! Back door!” Udo pounded on the handrail. The door popped open and we scrambled out into the drizzly night.

The street in front of the Poodle Dog was packed with people; I’d had no idea that the Horses of Instruction were so popular. It looked like every wolfgirl, b-boy, gawker, masher, glitterette, and gothick in Califa were loitering outside the Poodle Dog, hoping to throw themselves at the band’s feet. A knot of City militia stood to one side, watching the crowd suspiciously.

I grabbed at Udo’s sleeve, trying to keep up with his push through the crowd. “Did you get tickets already?”

“We’ll get them at the door!”

“I thought you said you were going to get tickets!” My heart sank. If we didn’t have tickets already, we were out of luck.

“There’s a line!” a b-boy protested as Udo tried to push his way past. “And the end of it is back there.”

A chorus of angry voices joined the b-boy’s protests, and in the face of clear-cut menace, we fell back to find the end of the line. When we finally found it, my heart sank further. It was two blocks away from the club and there was no way we were going to get in.

“Pigface Psychopomp,” Udo swore. “I never thought the show would be this packed.”

“What are we going to do now?” I demanded. “My whole evening is blown, Udo.”

“We’ll go around back and see if we can get in that way. After all, we know Firemonkey. We ought to be able to get through the Bruisers that way.”

Udo’s suggestion seemed like a long shot, but it was our only shot, and it would get me closer to Firemonkey, anyway. We tried to make our way to the alley that led to the backstage entrance; the throng was thick. We were pushy, but it was still hard going, and at the rate of our progress, we weren’t going to get around back before my curfew was up. Blast Udo!

Then, before us, a Chickie materialized out of the crowd like cold air bursts out of an icebox. The crowd fell back for her and she pointed a gloved finger at Udo. “Come with me.”

In the fluttering streetlights, the Chickie looked like congealed darkness: hair black as coal, eyes black as coal, lips black as coal. Her skin was corpse white, and just in case the moonlight was too strong for her fragile coloring, she was sheltering under a large black parasol. A gloom of Boy Toys stood behind her, each dressed somberly in black sack-suits, black ties, black shirts, and each with some variation of a bored snarl on his face.

“Me?” Udo croaked.

“Ayah, you,” the Chickie said impatiently. “Come on. The show’s about to start.”

Udo stood mesmerized, staring slack-jawed at the Chickie, though whether he was drooling over the Chickie herself or her fabulous leather trenchcoat with the huge ruffy black wolf fur collar was unclear. She turned and the crowd continued to melt out of her way, as ice melts before salt, and Udo, hypnotized, followed. Well, I wasn’t going to wait outside—alone—nor was I going to let Udo go forward—alone—so I, too, sailed, falling in behind the Boy Toys, who didn’t even give me a glance.

Past the rest of the line we went, and not a quibble came from the queue. The Chickie’s powers to strike dumb were not confined to Udo. The doorman said not a word as we approached, just unclipped the red velvet rope and waved us in.

I
nside, the Poodle Dog was a mob scene: wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling hipsters, packed tighter than pickles in a jar. The air was heavy with the smell of Madama Twanky’s Bear Oil hair pomade and a gauzy haze of cigarillo smoke. Outside, the night had been chilly; inside, it was so hot that I immediately regretted wearing my redingote. Not two steps and I was bathed in sweat.

The Inside Mob parted for the Chickie, just as the Outside Mob had, with Udo, the Boy Toys, and me coasting along in her wake. Up the stone staircase we marched, to where it widened into a landing and split into two sweeping curves. Then around the right-hand curve and out onto the dance floor.

The Poodle Dog’s grand hall is designed to look like the courtyard of a small village. Fake stucco covers the walls, creating a facade of small stone houses, each with doors that don’t open and windows that look into darkness. High above, fake rooftops support the balcony. Higher above, the rounded ceiling is painted a vivid nighttime blue, pricked with ignis stars, and swirling with lights that simulate clouds. A huge red velvet tent takes up the far end of the hall; when the show starts, the front of the tent rises, revealing the stage behind.

Ahead, the Chickie, Udo, and the Boy Toys were swallowed whole by the crowd, and I was abandoned. I had meant to enlist Udo’s help in getting to Firemonkey, but clearly he now had no time for me. Well, let them go. I would have more success without Udo hanging on my neck, anyway.

One of the many annoyances of shortness is that you are invariably crushed in a crowd. And you can’t see anything. And people spill their drinks on you and ash their cigarettes in your hair. It seemed as though everyone at the club was taller than me. Thus, my view was mostly of people’s chests, even when I hopped. But even if I had been in the front row, once the show started I still would not have been able to see the stage because Weatherhead, the opening act, is notorious for their pyrotechnics. Their music is great, but best not to stand too close or you might find yourself on fire.

In anticipation of a crowd, I had left my spurs on; it’s amazing how a few good jabs will get people out of your way. By this action, I was able to make my way through the throng. One small benefit of being short is that you can slide out of the way before people realize it was you who just put a rent in their red velvet knickers.
Hurry, before they notice,
said Nini Mo.

In front of the stage, a mosh pit had already formed. Bully-boys in lacy black kilts and wolfgirls with electric-blue hair were kicking and shoving and flinging themselves against each other, smacking heads and fists—this despite the only music being the dull roar of anticipatory chatter. In the flickering foot-lights, the red gape of the still-curtained proscenium arch looked very much like a hungrily gaping mouth.

I skirted the mosh pit and kicked my way toward a small wooden door set in one of the towers that flanked the stage. Halfway there, I saw a flash of moldering green and, by bouncing up on my tippy-toes and craning my neck, spotted the back of a familiar tricorn hat: Firemonkey. Behind him filed a chubby man in a gauzy white robe, carrying two drumsticks, and a tall figure in a wide-brimmed hat, pulled low, and a black leather duster, with a banjo slung over one shoulder.

I put some muscle into my push, adding elbow to spurs, but the crowd had thickened and I couldn’t seem to catch up to him—Firemonkey was always just out of reach. And then suddenly my way was barred by a wide expanse of purple-and-yellow-checked weskit, a noxious color combination that no doubt would have had Udo salivating.

“Where are you going, girlie?” A huge round face floated above the floppy black tie that emerged from the weskit: a Bruiser set to guard backstage access. I pretended I didn’t hear and tried to dodge around him, but I was blocked on one side by a sweaty bully-boy and on the other by a rum-bubbler, so the only way in was through the Bruiser, who was as solid as a brick wall.

“You got a backstage pass?” the Bruiser growled, and though he didn’t raise his voice, I could hear him easily. There was something strange about his face. It seemed oddly flat and one-dimensional, as though it was a flesh-colored mask. His lips moved stiffly, and his eyes were two points of emptiness sunk into hollow sockets.

“A what?” I pretended ignorance. The longer I stared up at the Bruiser, the more papery flat his face seemed, and I realized why: He wore a Glamour. I blinked, and for a brief flashy second saw what was behind the Glamour. Small tusks punctuated a large flappy mouth, and tiny pink eyes glared under tufty mouselike eyebrows. I recognized him from the Entity Spotter appendix in the back of
The Eschata
: an obstructionist dæmon; extremely bad juice and almost impossible to get through. If Firemonkey had brought him in for muscle, he really did not want to be disturbed.

The Bruiser growled, “Backstage. You ain’t allowed backstage if you ain’t got a backstage pass. You got no pass, you skedaddle.”

“Look, I have to speak to Firemonkey. It’s important. You are impeding my way.” I tried bluster and made to push by, but he was as solid as a rock. “Let me pass.”

“Firemonkey don’t talk to no one before the show. They all wanna talk to him. He gotta have quiet to banish and invoke. He don’t talk to no one.”

If blustering fails,
said Nini Mo,
try flustering
. I remembered also from the Entity Spotter that flattery was an obstructionist dæmon’s weakness.

I looked up at the Bruiser through fluttering eyelashes. “Oh sieur, I do so adore your weskit. It’s supercool. Where did you get it?”

The Bruiser looked down at himself, and a tiny smile floated over his pudgy lips. He tucked bananalike thumbs into the edges of the weskit and preened. “I designed it myself. And made it, too.” He was puffing up, literally. If I slitted my eyes, I could see through the Glamour, see his head actually inflating like a balloon. His forehead distended upward, and his eyes began to bug out like little red marbles. Yuck.

“You are so clever,” I wheedled, thinking,
I can’t believe I sound so soppy
. But it was working. “Do you design professionally?”

“I gotta shop down in LoHa; make suits, too. Fine tailoring, no fusing for me, all hand-stitched. I give you me card, you come down, lolly, and I make you over, better than that slop jacket you got on.” The Bruiser fished in the pocket of the awful weskit and pulled out a damp piece of cardboard, which I had no choice but to take. “I make you pretty.”