I LEFT STRANGEFELLOWS AND HEADED OUT INTO THE NARROW RAIN-SLICK streets of the Nightside. The night was bustling with people, and some things very definitely not people, all in hot-eyed pursuit of things that were bad for them. Hot neon burned to every side, and cool music wafted out of the open doors of the kind of clubs that never close; where you can put on the red shoes and dance till you bleed. Exotic smells from a hundred different cuisines, barkers at open doors shilling thrills so exotic they don’t even have a name in polite company, and, of course, the twilight daughters, patrolling every street corner; love for sale, or something very like it. You’re never far from heaven or hell in the Nightside, though they’re often the same place, under new management.
I was heading for the old Market Hall, where the Once and Future Collectibles were currently set up, when someone eased up alongside and made himself known to me. He was got up like a 1950s biker: all gleaming black leathers, polished steel chains, peaked leather cap, and an almost convincing Brando swagger. He couldn’t have been more than sixteen, seventeen, with a corpse-pale face and thin colorless lips. His eyes were dark, his gaze hooded and malignant. He matched my pace exactly, his hands stuffed deep in the pockets of his leather jacket.
“The name’s Gunboy,” he said, in a calm, easy monotone, not even looking at me. “Mister Sweetman wants to talk with you. Now.”
“All lines busy,” I said. “Call back later.”
“When Mister Sweetman wants to talk to someone, they talk to him.”
“How nice for Mister Sweetman. But when I don’t want to talk to people, I have a tendency to push them off the pavement and let them go play with the traffic.”
Gunboy took one hand out of his jacket pocket and pointed it at me, the fingers shaped like a child’s imaginary gun. He let me have a good look at it, and then pointed the single extended finger at a row of blazing neon bulbs set above the door to a Long Pigge franchise. His hand barely moved, but one by one the bulbs exploded, sparks flying wildly on the night air. A large man in a blood-soaked white overall came hurrying out to complain, took one look at Gunboy, and went straight back in again. Gunboy blew imaginary smoke from his finger and then stuck it casually in my ribs. He wasn’t smiling, and his dark gaze was hot and compelling.
“Conceptual guns,” he said, his lips barely moving. “Conceptual bullets. Real, because I believe they are. The power comes from me, and so do the dead bodies. Come with me, or I’ll make real holes in you.”
I considered him thoughtfully. Down the years, I’ve acquired several useful and really quite underhanded tricks for dealing with guns aimed in my direction, but they all depended on there being some kind of actual gun to deal with. So I gave Gunboy my best I’m not in the least intimidated smile, and allowed him to take me to his master. Gunboy was kind enough to put his hand back in his pocket as we walked along together. I’m not sure my pride would have survived otherwise.
MISTER SWEETMAN TURNED OUT TO BE STAYING AT THE HOTEL DES HEURES: a very upmarket, very pricey establishment, where all the rooms were individually time-coded. Stay as long as you like in your room, and not one moment will have passed when you step outside again. The ultimate in assured privacy—as long as you keep your door locked. You could spend your whole life in one of those rooms—though don’t ask me how they manage room service.
Gunboy guided me to the right room, performed a special knock on the door, waited for it to open, and then pushed me inside. The single finger prodding me in my back was enough to keep me moving. Mister Sweetman was waiting for us. A very large Greek gentleman in a spotless white kaftan, he rose ponderously from an overstuffed chair and nodded easily to me. His head was shaved, he wore dark eye makeup, and he smiled only briefly as he gestured for me to take the chair opposite. We both sat down, looking each other over with open curiosity. Gunboy stayed by the door, his hands back in his jacket pockets, looking at nothing in particular.
“Mister Taylor!” said Sweetman, in a rich, happy voice. “An honor, my dear sir, I do assure you! One bumps into so many living legends in the Nightside that it is a positive treat to encounter the real thing! I am Elias Sweetman, a man of large appetites, always hungry for more. You and I, sir, have business to discuss. To our mutual benefit, I hope. You may talk candidly here, Mister Taylor; dear Gunboy will ensure that we are not interrupted.”
Gunboy gave me a brief look, to indicate that I’d better behave myself, and then leaned back against the door. His eyes were immediately elsewhere, as he thought about whatever teenage thrill-killers think about. I was going to have to do something about Gunboy, for my pride’s sake. I smiled easily at Sweetman while he arranged the folds of his kaftan for maximum comfort. He looked like a man who liked his comforts. He smiled on me like some favorite uncle who might bestow all manner of treats if he felt so inclined.
“Your reputation precedes you, Mister Taylor, indeed it does, so let us not beat about the bush. You are currently in pursuit of a certain prize that I have a special interest in; the box, Mister Taylor, the rosewood box. It has gone by many names, of course, inevitable for a treasure that has passed through so many hands down the centuries, but I believe you might know it as Heart’s Ease.”
“I know the name,” I said, carefully noncommittal.
He let out a sharp bark of laughter. “I do admire a man who plays his cards close to his chest, indeed I do, Mister Taylor! But there’s no need to be bashful here. I have pursued the rosewood box for many years, through many lands in many worlds, disputing with equally serious collectors along the way, but now . . . the box has come to the Nightside. So here we all are. Yes . . . I must ask you, Mister Taylor: what, precisely, is your interest in the box?”
I didn’t see any good reason to conceal the truth, so I gave him the reader’s-notes version of what Holly told me, concealing only her name. When I was finished, Sweetman gave his short bark of laughter again.
“Whatever the rosewood box may turn out to contain, Mister Taylor, I can assure you it is most definitely not the heart of some unimportant little witch. No, no . . . the box contains a source of great power. A great man’s heart, perhaps even a god’s . . . Some say the box contains the preserved heart of the great old god Lud, the original foundation stone for London. Others say the box contains the missing heart of that terrible old sorcerer, Merlin Satanspawn. Or perhaps the heart of Nikola Tesla, the broken and bitter saint of twentieth-century science. No one knows for sure; only that the box contains a power worth dying for. Or killing for . . . Certainly, the box has become so famous in its own right it has become a collectible in itself, whatever it might eventually prove to contain.”
“So,” I said, “a source of wealth, and possibly power. No wonder so many people want it.”
“Passed from hand to hand down the years, acquiring blood and legends along the way, Mister Taylor. Priceless because there isn’t enough money in the world to buy it. You have to be man enough to take it, and hold on to it.”
He was leaning forward now, licking his lips, his eyes gleaming. He was so close to what he’d chased for so long he could almost taste it, and only his need to be sure that he knew everything I knew kept him from harsher methods of interrogation. And since he had no way of knowing how little I did know, I made a point of leaning back in my chair and stretching easily.
“What do you think is in the rosewood box?” I said.
He leaned back in his chair and studied me thoughtfully, taking his time before answering. “I have been given good reason to believe that the box contains the heart of William Shakespeare, Mister Taylor. The heart of England itself, some say.”
“And what would you do with such a thing, once you got hold of it?”