«We aren't so strong ourselves,» I whispered back. «Keep quiet.» In a louder voice, I said, «Now that there are no more bad feelings… Miriam, what's on the other side of that portal?»
«Rich Man's Row in Plague-Mort,» she answered, still glaring at Garou but restraining her fists. «I recognized the street. It's night there now; a bit cold for my tastes, but nothing unnatural. The town looked pretty quiet.»
«You see?» Garou asked. «I kept my part of the bargain.»
«That's why I only threw you in the drink,» Miriam told him, «instead of feeding you your ears.»
«Then let me finish my part of the deal,» I said, «and we can get out of here. I've had enough of the Lower Planes for a while.»
The others fanned out in a watchful circle as Garou beached the skiff and I went to work with the paints. Hezekiah held Wheezle in his arms, ready to dash for safety if the need arose; and Yasmin stayed close beside Kiripao in case Brother Elf broke into more umbral babbling. Kiripao certainly had the twitches, hearing sounds and smelling odors the rest of us couldn't detect… but Yasmin reined him in with a gentle hand on his arm, and nothing unfortunate happened.
From time to time, I glanced in her direction. She wouldn't meet my eye.
It took me ten minutes to finish the last painting. My nerves were on edge the whole time – this was, after all, the Abyss, filled with some of the most hellish creatures in the multiverse – but apart from a green-fire explosion many miles away, we saw no sign of trouble. I took my time to get the final face right, did some touch-up on the other faces, then pronounced the work done. Garou wasted another five minutes on close scrutiny of each grieving figure, but that was expected; I had already sized him up as a customer who would love to find fault if it existed, but not the kind who invents last-minute changes just to impose his stamp on the artist's work (like a dog, urinating on a stick to make it smell more like himself). The faces I had painted were exact copies of the ones on the other side of the boat… and eventually, Garou had to admit it.
«Acceptable,» he said grudgingly. The boatman bowed a a fraction of an inch, and in a formal voice recited, «Britlin Cavendish of Sigil, there is no bad will between us.»
I supposed that was a ritual farewell among his people. For a moment I considered giving him my business card, in case he or his fellow marraenoloths had work for me in future. Then my gaze lighted on that picture of the man who reminded me of my father; and I decided I could do without such employment.
«Good-bye, Garou,» I told him. «Safe journeys.»
But he was already putting his skiff back into the Styx. Within seconds, he had disappeared into another pillar of mist.
Slowly, our group trudged away from the river. The archway of flies was gone; the insects, no longer glowing, had returned to picking apart the elephant carcass. They buzzed lethargically as they sucked at the leathery hide.
Wheezle cleared his throat. «It seems we must open the gate again.»
«Count me out,» Miriam snapped. «I refuse to be smothered by bugs twice in one day.»
«We could draw lots…» Yasmin said, with an obvious lack of enthusiasm.
«Don't you dare,» I told her. «Treats like this should be savored by those who appreciate them.»
And in the next minute, a million flies gave me an experience I shall not easily forget.
15. THREE HOURS OF AUTUMN NIGHT
A fly-spawned wind thrust me onto the cobblestoned streets of Plague-Mort. I landed on my knees, just short of an open sewer that was surprisingly empty of slops; water running at the bottom of the ditch showed that it must have rained here recently. The air had a just-washed cleanness to it, touched with the bittersweet fragrance of woodsmoke. As Miriam had said, the night was cooclass="underline" an autumnal chill, as if the land had grown tired of life and longed for winter's oblivion.
Footsteps sounded behind me. I turned to see Kiripao pounce onto the street, followed more warily by Yasmin and the others emerging into this plane of reality. The portal they used was simply the doorway of a house – a house whose windows had been broken and whose walls had been vandalized with the word Traitor! written in red paint. The woodsmoke smell came from inside, and suddenly the odor didn't seem so dreamily nostalgic.
Hezekiah sniffed, then turned toward the house. «Fire?» he asked, looking around at the rest of us to see if we smelled it too. The boy took a step toward the closest broken window, and said, «Maybe we should check if everything's all right.»
Miriam placed a restraining hand on his shoulder. «Whatever happened, it's over now. Anyway, this is Plague-Mort; don't borrow other people's problems.»
«But if someone is in trouble…»
«No,» she told him. «This is Rich Man's Row, Kid, the closest thing this town has to a Nob Hill.» That in itself said volumes about Plague-Mort, I thought. The houses, even the ones untouched by vandals, exhaled an air of decrepitude. Roofs sagged; cement footings were riddled with dark gummy cracks. «The people who live here,» Miriam went on, «can pay for protection against normal cross-traders and bub-heads… which means if a house like this gets smashed open, the Arch-Lector was behind the job.»
«What's an Arch-Lector?» Hezekiah asked.
«A fancy title for the head thug,» Miriam replied. «In a slumtown like Plague-Mort, you can't just call yourself king. Rulers need chi-chi titles: 'Viscount' or 'Rajah' or 'Holder of the Sacred Sphere'. All comes to the same thing, though – the guy who tells his soldiers to break down your door if you've got something he wants. Whoever lived in this house had a pretty wife, or a fast horse, or maybe just one piece of gold too many. Tonight, the Arch-Lector decided to claim it for himself… and unless you want to fight the local army, you'll mind your own business.»
«But the army isn't here anymore!» Hezekiah protested. «They've taken what they want, right? And if someone here is hurt and needs our help…»
He didn't bother finishing his sentence, as if it was obvious we should dash to the rescue. I thought, Father would have dashed in too; and he'd save the life of a beautiful woman who'd be boundlessly grateful… the berk.
«Miriam,» I said softly, «how long before the looters come?»
«At least a day,» she answered. «Even the greediest knight of the post keeps clear of the Arch-Lector.»
I nodded. «Then for a day, this house could be a safe bolt-hole.»
«Sure,» she admitted, «provided the Arch-Lector doesn't come back in the morning to finish cleaning the place out.»
«We can post a watch,» Wheezle suggested. «If the soldiers return, they will make no effort at secrecy. They have had their fun with the first attack, ripping whoever lived here out of their beds.» The gnome looked at the broken windows, the smashed-in doors. «If the soldiers left any corpses in there, perhaps we could offer the proper obsequies…»
«In Plague-Mort,» Miriam muttered, «the only last rites are cleaning out a deader's pockets.» But she didn't stop the Clueless boy from heading inside.
Hezekiah went through the door. If he'd had an open wound, he would have ended up back in the Abyss – the door was a portal, and blood was the key. However, the lucky sod had survived the last few days without so much as a paper cut, so he entered the house without incident. The rest of us went through a smashed-in window, stepping down on splinters of broken glass that crunched under the soles of our boots. Rats skittered away from the noise; in Plague-Mort, even the vermin watched their backs.
Hezekiah sped toward the back of the house while Kiripao bounded up the stairs to the top floor. Sighing, the rest of us split up to keep the two of them out of mischief… and I noticed that Yasmin waited for me to head after Hezekiah before she chose to follow Kiripao.