Hold The Dark: A Markhat story (12 page)

 Chapter Nine

Four more church mainholds.

My visit to Clathis might as well have been a replay of Wherthmore, aside from the pawing and fawning I was subjected to after only a single mention of Encorla Hisvin’s name. I was led from office to office and treated to denial after denial by every mask in the structure. I gather Hisvin had made some offhand comment critical of Clathis some years ago and the reverberations of terror had yet to die down.

Enrolt proved a much more resilient bastion of faith. I was actually made to wait, cooling my newly shoed heels while I was peeped at, discussed and finally ushered into a dusty alcove. I watched mice play beneath the tattered crimson curtains until I tired of waiting and marched myself right past a startled pair of white-masked priests and into the biggest office I could find.

I slammed the heavy door behind me.

That woke him up, at last.

“Encorla Hisvin isn’t pleased,” I said, by way of greeting and introductions. “When Encorla starts asking for names, shall I give him yours?”

The priest—who by the size of the mask he groped for may have been The Priest—gobbled and blanched.

I pulled back his company chair, spun it around and sat.

“My name is Markhat,” I said, holding up my hand for silence. “I work for Encorla Hisvin. I’ve been here for an hour getting the run-around about this.”

I held out the silver comb.

“How dare you—”

“I don’t dare, Father, but Hisvin does. Want to call the Corpsemaster on his manners?”

The name sunk in. All the way in.

The priest reached out, took the comb.

I laid out the whole spiel, crates and lead boxes and sunken barges and all.

And got not a hint of guilt for my troubles.

What I did get was the usual parade of denials and badly concealed indignation. And another denial that the comb had been Cleansed, though Father Gillop was less than impressed by Father Foon’s estimate of a Cleansing’s longevity.

“It might last ten years, perhaps fifteen. But no more.”

Which did nothing to help me at all. Convinced I’d sowed as much terror as I could at Enrolt, I bade the red-faced Father Gillop a heartfelt farewell and ambled happily outside.

Halbert was there, brushing his ponies. But before he saw me, the street began to clear, Watchmen’s whistles rose above the din of street noise and I heard the first of the screams.

I turned.

Charging down the street was a monstrous black carriage.

No horses. Just a carriage.

People dived and ran. Dogs barked, but dared not nip at the wheels. Along both sides of the street, horses reared, cabmen cursed and grabbed and dodged.

Crows wheeled and swung above the carriage. Something like a cloud rode above it, around it.

Though there were no horses, a driver perched atop the thing. His grin was too white and too wide. As it drew nearer I understood the source of the screams, because the driver was a corpse, had been for too many days of sun. As I watched, a crow darted down, alighted on his shoulder, and tore away a scrap of grey flesh from the side of his skull.

I heard, but did not see, Halbert leap aboard my cab and take his beloved ponies away.

I knew. Encorla’s black horseless carriage, driven by the remains of whoever had displeased him last, was the stuff of legend. So while all those around me fled, I stood rooted, while everyone from street whores to supposedly blind Oltish jugglers jabbed priests in the gut and dashed nimbly around them into the dubious safety of the church.

The carriage neared, rattling and rushing. The cloud that enveloped it buzzed, and by the time the smell hit I knew the cloud was a seething mass of blue-belly flies.

It rolled to a stop before me. The dead driver turned his rotted face toward me, clacked his lipless teeth in a silent caricature of speech and bade me enter his carriage with a gesture from a skeletal hand.

The door opened. A blinding mass of blue-belly flies poured out.

“Do join me, goodman Markhat,” said a woman’s voice. I could see nothing within the shadows of the cab. The voice was bubbly and thick.

The stench was overwhelming.

“I must insist,” she said. “Do not darken my mood by refusing.”

I took a deep breath, squeezed my eyes shut—whether out of terror or against the flies I still do not know—and clambered into Hisvin’s black carriage.

Wet laughter greeted me.

“You may open your eyes, goodman,” said the voice. “I picked my prettiest helper, just for you.”

I steeled myself and opened my eyes.

The flies were gone, every one, and most of the stench, else I simply couldn’t have breathed.

Not locked in a cab with a corpse.

And corpse she was. She’d been beautiful, once. She’d had red long hair, big green eyes and the kind of body the Velvet would charge double for.

But all that was gone. Her face was bloated and dark, her green eyes filmy and leaking, her lips a parody, her tongue a swollen black worm that wiggled sluggishly over teeth going dry and yellow.

She laid a blue-black hand on my shoulder. The nails were peeling away.

It is estimated that Encorla Hisvin personally slaughtered eighty thousand or so Trolls during the last three months of the War. Hisvin was a rarity among sorcerers, in that rather than just swooping in and pointing spells at the enemy, Encorla had camped with and moved with the troops.

We’d called him the Corpsemaster. No one ever saw Hisvin himself. Just a small black tent that always drew flies. Hisvin wore dead bodies when he was out and about. The War had provided plenty of those, so many that he was reputed to change them out every morning during the height of the fighting. Rumors flew as to why, but speculating on the motives of sorcerers is like combing ogres—it serves no good purpose, and is likely to end in tragedy if the ogre notices.

One thing was certain. The Corpsemaster’s wrath was a thing to be feared. Hell, the mere attention of the Corpsemaster was something to be feared, and I’d conjured him up with nothing less than his name.

“Don’t you like her, finder?” said Encorla. “Why, men were always in pursuit of her. She was the daughter of a Duke, renowned the Kingdom over for her beauty, and her wit.”

The corpse leaned forward, and her voice dropped to a slurred but conspiratorial whisper. Black blood leaked from her nostrils as she leaned.

“It was her wit, frankly, that resulted in her present state,” said Encorla, through the corpse. “Oh, she was amusing, at first—but her wit quickly fell flat, and soon I fear she failed to amuse. Failed horribly, some might say.” The dead woman sighed a long wet sigh. “But happily, she may yet be of service, for some brief time.”

The carriage thumped, tilted and beneath it a scream sounded and was cut short. The dead woman giggled.

“I was flattered by your assertion that my name alone would flush these miscreants from hiding, goodman,” she said. I could hear fluids bubbling deep in her chest, see a thick dark liquid beginning to push past her lips. “Naturally, I decided I simply had to meet such an imaginative fellow. My name, as you have guessed, is Encorla Hisvin—how do you do?”

And then she grinned and held out her hand for me to kiss.

“An honor to meet you.” I let the hand hang there, forced myself to meet those moist dead eyes. “You saved my unit twice, out in the Serge.”

Hisvin giggled, and the hand fell away.

“Well done,” said the corpse. “You should know I’d have gutted you had you dared to kiss my toy.”

I swallowed, nodded.

The corpse hissed as something inside it burst, and the smell of it filled the cab and I fought back the urge to retch.

“I’ve been so bored since the Truce,” it said, winking and dabbing at the black fluid gathering at the corners of her mouth. “Why, I was just ambling about my rooms when word came from Avalante of some small amusement concerning blood-cults, kidnappings and a bold finder with a plan to end it all.”

The carriage charged around a corner, throwing the corpse against me. She was cold, and even her hair smelled strongly of death.

“I’m just trying to bring a woman home.” My skin crawled where she’d touched it. “What happens after that is no concern of mine.”

“Oh, you needn’t worry about what happens after,” said Encorla through the corpse’s decaying throat. “I’ll be seeing to that.”

I just nodded, falling back on the old Army maxim that the less said around officers, the better.

“I thought it might increase your potency if you were seen entering and then leaving my carriage,” said Encorla, with another big dead smile. “I’ll let you out in front of Wherthmore. Will that suit you, goodman?”

Another nod. I even forgot about the smell long enough to briefly ponder how Father Foon would react to the news that Encorla Hisvin’s famous horseless carriage was pulling to a halt at his door.

The dead woman clapped her hands together in something like girlish glee.

“Oh, isn’t this such fun?” she gurgled. “Deception, secret meetings, all this skulking about!”

“It’s a riot,” I managed. Old stories of Encorla’s infamous snits were clamoring inside my head, each one more horrific than the last, each one vying for my immediate and total attention.

“I thank You for Your assistance,” I said, making the capital letters in my words as plain as I could.

The dead woman waved away my thanks. “Do not thank me. Amuse me. Scatter these miscreants. Save your imperiled damsel. I shall watch, of course.” She trailed a shriveled finger across my chin. “If an opportunity presents itself, I might even join you, on your noble quest.”

I gobbled something like thanks, refusing to pull away from that awful cold digit.

The Corpsemaster laughed, spewing black gobs of spittle on the carriage’s red velvet seats. Then she let me turn away.

Screams followed us, and the sounds of panicked horses. Just before the dead cabman brought the carriage to a screeching, bone-jolting halt, the cab suddenly filled with flies, and the stench, renewed, rose up and engulfed me.

“Be about our business, finder,” said the dead thing beside me. “Use my name whenever and however you please, but use it well, you hear?”

The door swung open. Flies buzzed, scattering into the suddenly empty street.

I gagged, stumbled out and swatted.

The dead thing tittered. “Oh, and goodman—if you would like the company of this woman, just say so. I can send her around. Any night.”

I reached out, caught the door and slammed it closed.

The dead thing laughed, loud enough to echo. Crows flapped and cawed.

I threw up in the gutter, and turned so I didn’t have to watch the dead driver wave goodbye.

I sat in a shade and waited for the shakes to pass.

People gave me wide berth. The ones who’d seen me leave the black carriage pointed and whispered. That wouldn’t hurt my plan, so I sat there and pretended to watch a pair of mockingbirds have it out with a scraggly tailed squirrel.

Encorla Hisvin. Not a name I ever wanted to hear again. Certainly not a person with whom I wanted any association. Like everyone else, I’d heard that Hisvin’s friends tended to die just as horribly and just as frequently as his enemies.

I waited an hour. I could still smell the stink, still imagine blue-bellies crawling at the nape of my neck and buzzing close to my mouth. I was about to get up and find Halbert and make my last stop at my last church mainhold when a hand fell on shoulder.

I whirled. My right hand was instantly in my coat pocket, grasping my old Army knife.

Darla saw, and stepped back—hands held up and open.

“I’m sorry, Markhat. I spoke, but you didn’t hear me.”

I let out my breath.

“Sorry,” I gruffed. “I picked a loud bench.”

Darla shook her head. Her eyes were locked on mine, not playfully. “I heard…the black carriage.”

I just nodded.

“I don’t know what that…person would have to do with Martha.” She spoke carefully, pausing in her words to let pedestrians pass, pitching her voice so only I could hear. “Are you all right?”

I stepped around the bench. Darla’s hands were warm, warm and soft. She hugged me, wordlessly, and she smelled of soap and a fruity perfume and thank the Nine High Heavens nothing else.

“We just had drinks,” I said. We started walking. I went with the flow of traffic. Soon Darla’s hand slipped into mine. “Turns out Hisvin is just a lonely old soul who loves cats and longs to be loved.”

Darla kicked my shin. “Not everybody has a sense of humor,” she hissed.

I saw the dead woman’s bloated face again, heard that wet, slurred laugh.

“No, no, I suppose they don’t.”

“So what now, Markhat?”

We passed a jeweler’s shop as she spoke. I saw us, briefly, reflected in the glass. She was tall and pretty. I was merely tall. Tall and worried. My clothes were rumpled. My hair needed some attention.