“This door.” It was heavy Moraeus wood and banded with metal. There were runes and other symbols from several magical systems incised in the stone all around the door and carved into the door itself. If the Britlingen Collective were destroyed at that moment, Batanya reckoned the Hall of Witchcraft and all within it would remain standing.
She knocked on the door, the pattern of a bodyguard, four evenly spaced knocks. After a moment, it swung open, and the three walked through, falling into the pattern they would assume for the journey: Batanya in front, her eyes moving from side to side, Crick following, and then Clovache, whose task was to keep her face forward but her ears behind-a tricky thing to do, but that was the traditional job of the junior.
The door swung shut behind them, and they were faced with a veiled man in white robes. His glistening silver hair trailed almost to the floor.
Fucking witches, Batanya thought. Always posing.
“We come for transportation,” she said, though of course the witch already knew that. But she had to adhere to the ritual. The witches and the mechs went nuts if the rituals weren’t followed.
“We’re ready,” said the witch, who appeared to be smiling behind the veil. “So few want to be sent to Hell. We’ve enjoyed the preparations.” That was an unexpected bit of sharing; Clovache was almost inclined to think not too badly of him, when the witch added, “Of course, we’ve never gotten to bring anyone back.”
“Which room?” Batanya asked, her voice quite level.
He inclined his head toward the doorway behind him and turned to glide into the huge room ahead of them. He moved with an eerie smoothness. Batanya and Clovache had wondered between themselves if the witches practiced moving like that. They had entertained the whole bar at the Pooka Palace one night by acting out the Floating Walk 101 class. Batanya turned to exchange a weak grin with Clovache. That had been a very good night.
In the middle of the room was a shallow basin raised on a plinth, and in the basin was a smoky fire. A group of seven witches stood in a casual circle around the basin, and they all seemed prepared with small vials of herbs or chemicals, and a number of focus items. The children taken in by the Collective came in handy for the witches’ rituals, too. At the side of each witch was a boy or girl of ages ranging from fourteen to five. Each child held a cloudy globe.
In the corner of the room, a lone mech was seated on a stool before a vast and complex machine. Batanya saw her client’s shoulders jump a little. The Parduan was wound pretty tight, and she hoped he didn’t come unsprung. What would she do if he withdrew a weapon from his clothing and tried to kill the witches? Hmmm, that was a poser. The client’s wish was law, right? But the witches were under the protection of the Collective; in fact, they were an essential part of the Collective’s operation. The scenario presented a neat problem to debate over many tankards of ale when they returned… if they returned.
Batanya turned to the client and pointed to a little set of steps that led to a platform over the basin. “Up,” she said, and went up herself ahead of him. The three crowded onto the small platform, and the two bodyguards put their arms around Crick, which made him jump yet again. “A Crick sandwich,” he muttered foolishly, and over his shoulder Clovache rolled her eyes at Batanya, who sighed.
Then the witches began their chanting, their drawing of runes in the air, and their tossing of herbs on the fire, and the smoke began to rise, and the mech in the corner began his mysterious button punching on the machine, and then…
They were in Hell.
Of course, it was hot in the tunnel. The smell was most unpleasant. Hell had been named from the stories from Earth, and its atmosphere was not the only similarity that had spawned the comparison. Life on the surface above Hell was almost impossible because of the pools of gases that dotted the landscape. The beings that still lived aboveground were savage and very foreign. Down below, where the being named Lucifer ruled, was where almost all Hell’s life was conducted. Its curved tunnels were notoriously dangerous and difficult to navigate.
Crick had a map, which he whipped out of a pocket in his tunic. The map was made from a very flexible material, and he held the unfolded surface wide open to peer at it, angling the face of the map toward the arched roof. That was where the tunnel’s lightsource originated, though Clovache couldn’t identify the devices that issued the light, or how those devices were powered. They’d found themselves in a main passage; Clovache noticed that other branch tunnel mouths within view were much darker and smaller. For the moment, the three were alone, but there was a clear sound of footsteps from the west. It was the work of a moment for Batanya to drag Crick backward into one of the dark tunnels, though the rock floor was so inexplicably slick that she almost landed on her back. Clovache leaped after her and skidded so hard she almost hit the wall. Crick still had his map spread in his hands, and he squawked, but it was through Batanya’s fingers.
The two Britlingens pressed their client up against the stone wall of the tunnel, their bodies between the opening and Crick. Crick was very quiet now, having grasped the situation, and Batanya thought it safe to remove her hand. She eased a throwing star out of its sheath and held it at the ready.
Two demons walked past the mouth. They were perhaps five feet tall, red and bumpy, and though they had two arms and two legs, that was the end of their resemblance to humans. They did have cloven hooves and tails, and sharp pointed ears, but they were hairless and their genitals were barbed, whether they were male or female. Batanya saw Crick’s eyes lock onto the crucial area, and she shared his wince. No matter how many times you had seen the demons strut their stuff, it was awful to imagine that “stuff” in operation.
The demons passed out of view without detecting their presence.
All three of them exhaled with relief, and Batanya put the star away.
“Let’s just stay here for a moment,” she whispered. “Tell us what your plan is.” When Batanya made a suggestion in that particular voice, even if she had to whisper it, wise people listened, and Crick was at least that wise.
“All right,” Crick said, just as quietly. He extracted something from one of his pockets-his garment seemed to have a hundred of them-and pressed a button. It was a tiny lightsource, probably battery powered, and he turned so that his body was between the light and the mouth of their tunnel. He handed the map to Batanya. Clovache squatted right beside him to add her body to the screen, and they all peered down at the map.
It was detailed, showing tunnel after tunnel, chamber after chamber. “How’d you get this?” Clovache said, her voice hushed and respectful. This was a valuable item.
“You don’t want to know,” Crick said, his tenor voice cheerful. “You really don’t.” His long, thin finger moved over the markings on the map for a moment, and then he said, “Here we are.” There was a pulsing star at the spot he indicated.
“Too bad the other critters don’t show up the way we do,” Batanya muttered. “But at least we have a frame of reference.”
“I couldn’t afford the kind that shows all life-forms,” Crick said apologetically.
“What, you actually paid for this?” Clovache’s eyebrows were raised skeptically. She clearly thought he’d stolen it.
“Well, no. I mean I couldn’t afford the jail time. The better ones were locked up tighter, and I was in a hurry,” he said, without the slightest trace of shame.
“What is this object of yours that you ‘left behind’ the last time you visited this place?” Batanya said.
“It’s a conjuring ball.”
“But those are everywhere, you can buy one in any shop.”
“Not like this one. It’s for real.”