Atomic Underworld: Part One (14 page)

Positioned
at the bow at the moment, holding the lantern and searching for obstacles,
Sophia turned back to him, and he marveled at how composed she appeared,
despite the coating of tainted water, despite the terror and horror of the last
few hours. By the light of the lantern, she was pale and her face set, but
there was no trembling, no stuttering, nothing to indicate what she surely felt
inside—what
he
felt, anyway.

“Do
you know what it was?” she asked.

He
didn’t hesitate. “It was the cult of Magoth. It had to be. I recognized one of
those guys on the docks—it was the preacher spreading the word of Magoth in
Muscud.”

She
considered. “When I left Muscud, the cult of Magoth was just rising, and since
I’ve been away I’ve heard rumors of it growing like crazy. I knew there were
many chapels to it, not just in Muscud but other undercities, too—but I never
imagined its followers would build ...
could
build ... something like that.”

“Maybe
they didn’t. Maybe they found it. Restored it. They were working on it,
remember. Installing the windows. Also, I think I saw some other construction.”

“Yes,
maybe.”

“What
worries me more than their remodeling project is the fact of that singing. That
light. Could it really be …
Magoth itself
?
”
He blinked his eyes fast, trying to
calm the pounding of his heart. “I thought it was just a bogeyman.”

She
sort of smiled, and the gesture contained a hint of her old mischievousness.
“You should know better than that. Down here there are no
just
bogeymen.”

He
tried to laugh. It came out more of a whinny. “Well, we’d better get our story
straight. Word is going to go around that Taluush burned and the G’zai rose up,
and some will know we were there.”

She
rolled a shoulder. “We’re refugees—like many others, surely. Well, I am. You
were just visiting.”

“Why
was I visiting?”

“Coming
to see me, I guess.” She smiled ruefully. “
Some
will believe that.”

“We’ll
have to keep a low profile. Remember, the Octunggen have a presence in Muscud:
the factory. So does the Church of Magoth. We’re going into the lair of our
enemies.”

“Are
the people of Magoth really our enemies? I mean, the singing, it was so …
lovely ...” She shook herself. “Maybe their religion is their own affair.”

“Look,
I don’t know what they were worshipping—call it what you like, what the hell
was
that light coming from, anyway?—but
it’s no coincidence it was close to the tunnel of the slugmines, where the boat
was.”

“I
don’t get you.”

“Remember,
the Octunggen agent was delivering the briefcase to someone. He said they would
meet him nearby. Who else could it be than worshippers of Magoth?”

“So
... the
Magothians
and the Octunggen, in league
together on the eve of war. You know, Two-Bit, I think it might be time to
consider a move.”

*

They
came into wider, more traveled halls. Here the fog exuded by the sewer water
was beginning to break up. The boats Tavlin spied kept their distance when they
could and, when they came close, much playing of flashlights and lantern-lights
was needed to put both sides at ease, a sort of code. The tunnels of the
underworld were notorious for thievery and murder, but also stranger, more
otherworldly dangers.

Soon
they came into the great cistern chamber of Muscud, and Tavlin couldn’t help
but breathe a sigh of relief at the sight of the so-called city sprawled across
the lake, thousands of lights twinkling eerily through the fog, like rheumy
yellow eyes. It was early morning, and the city was just beginning to rouse for
the day. He saw cranes loading and unloading things from larger boats along the
docks, saw fisherpeople casting nets over the sides of their small boats out in
the harbor, fog still coiling around their hulls. Few paid Tavlin and Sophia
much attention, and he was glad they weren’t close enough to see any details.

The
two docked and paid a marina official too much to put the boat up for the day.
It was necessary. Tavlin was drenched in crusted blood from head to foot. Even
in Muscud keeping that quiet cost a little extra. Sophia went ahead and found a
bathhouse that advertised “safe” water, and Tavlin crept his way toward it,
keeping out of sight as much as possible. Two feral
bagriths
,
a species of batkin, fighting over what looked like a human thigh bone growled
at him as he passed a certain alley, and he didn’t linger.

The
bathhouse had three wings, one for men, one for women, and one for both. Sophia
vanished into the women’s side, and Tavlin, reluctantly, chose the men’s. He
was in no mood or condition to fool around in the common area. The bath was the
best thing he’d ever felt in his life, steaming hot water pouring over his
tired, aching, filthy body, washing away the grime, the despair, the horror.
Steam surrounded him, and all he could hear was the slap of water and the
echoing laughter of other men. In the dressing room one of them let him bum a
hand-rolled cigarette, and he smoked it down to his fingers, relishing every
inhalation. He did miss his pipe, though.

The
bathhouse employees did what they could for his clothes, but they were ruined
and he knew he needed something new to put on. He found Sophia lounging in the
courtyard that comprised the middle of the building, in the midst of spreading
fronds and cobbled walkways. Incense burned from a golden lion’s head, and she
drank something out of a coffee mug—coffee, maybe, but likely with something a
little stronger in it, too. She looked refreshed and healthy. Pink bloomed in
her cheeks, and her lips were very red. Her eyes seemed tired, but calm, and
they sparkled just a bit as he emerged, dressed in his ruined, stained clothes.
A grin twisted her full lips. She was dressed in a white bathrobe, and her wet
red hair hung down past her shoulders.

Glancing
him up and down, she said, “I think we need to go shopping.”

They
set out from the bathhouse, both dressed in their soiled attire, and toured the
nearest cosmopolitan district on
Aimes
Street, where
hunched brick buildings with large warped-glass displays and patios piled with
chipped flowerpots and stolen sculptures did a brisk business, even this early
in the day, and the two eagerly whittled away what money Tavlin still had on
him. Just the same, he felt much better when, an hour later, he and Sophia took
breakfast at a café overlooking the Ulong Canal, which cut through the heart of
Muscud, both wearing their new clothes. The Ulong was a busy commercial artery,
and Tavlin enjoyed the sight of small barges and motorboats plying its thick
dark waters.

“I
miss the nurse’s uniform,” Tavlin said, of Sophia’s new knit top and jeans.

She
pursed her lips but said nothing. Perhaps she was trying to figure out if he
was flirting or not, and how she should take it if he were. As for himself, he
too wondered where they stood with each other. Maybe if he said nothing they
could pretend like the harsh words of yesterday had never happened.

“I’m
bushed,” she said. “The coffee’s worn off, and, I can’t believe I’m saying
this, but so has the fear.”

“Yeah.
It’s past time for me to crash, too. I have a room at the Skirt.”

She
visibly tried to repress a certain pain. “You are a
good
customer.”

“Not
like that. I was hiding out. We’re been very visible this morning. We need to
go there, lay low, and not come out for awhile. I’m hoping the Octunggen won’t
be looking for us here, but they will, sooner or later. Probably sooner.”

“I
don’t know how I feel about staying at the Skirt ...” She rubbed her upper arm
nervously, for a moment looking very young. She gulped down a deep breath. “But
hell, I guess I spent ten years there. One more night won’t kill—” She stopped.
“Well, we’ll see.”

They
navigated back roads into the Jasmine Quarter, where the Twirling Skirt stood
sandwiched between two other buildings. There was already a john waiting in the
parlor smoking a cigar on a chaise lounge, while a couple of yawning young
women in negligees kept him company. He presumably waited for some girl in
particular.

A
pretty woman in her middle years approached; she wore an exotic silk robe of
turquoise-and-amber cinched with a red belt, and her hair fell in ringlets down
the back of her neck. Tavlin didn’t recognize her, but Sophia did.

“Abigail!”
Sophia rushed forward and they embraced, carefully, so as not to ruin Abigail’s
make-up.

“Soph,
don’t tell me you’re
back
.”

“What?
I—”

“I
mean, your old room’s always open to you, you know that, but I heard you were a
nurse
now.” She seemed disappointed
somehow, as if she had taken comfort in the thought of a working girl made
good.

“No,
no, I’m with Two-Bit here. Well, not
with
him. He had a room here.”

“Oh.”
Abigail looked at Tavlin, nodded, “Yes, of course. I remember you. I didn’t make
your acquaintance the other day. I’m the new madam now, by the way. The ladies
voted on it.”

“
Madam
,” Sophia said. “Well,
congratulations.”

“Is
my room still available?” Tavlin asked.

“You
paid through the week, so yes,” Abigail said. “Now, that was a special
accommodation, and it wasn’t made with me, but I’ll honor it. I can’t promise
I’ll renew it, though. Some things are going to change around here.”

“I
understand.”

One
of the girls accompanied them upstairs to the room, though Tavlin remembered
quite well where it was; he suspected Abigail didn’t want him patrolling the
hallways unescorted, and she evidently didn’t trust Sophia to keep a tight
enough rein on him.

“Not
much,” Tavlin said when he opened the door to reveal the narrow, cramped room.
“But it’s home.”

The
girl that had accompanied them had left, and Sophia gave an inscrutable look
first at Tavlin, then at the room. “There’s only one bed.”

“I’ll
take the floor.” He waited for her to suggest otherwise, but she didn’t. It
didn’t matter. He was so exhausted he figured he could sleep anywhere.

She
made him turn around while she undressed and slipped under the covers, and he
made a show of hiding his body from her view as he undressed. He thought she
looked amused but couldn’t tell by the light of the single candle; she had
drawn the threadbare drapes, and it was very dark, almost oil-dark, despite the
day-lit lamps throughout the city. It smelled of old wood and mildew, and the
air was thick with humidity. A misshapen moth flapped about the candle.

Tavlin
found an extra blanket to throw over himself and used a shoe for a pillow. The
boards of the floor dug into his back, and he tossed and turned, trying to get
comfortable. True, he was exhausted, but he couldn’t stop thinking about a
naked Sophia just a few short feet away, all clean and pink, long and lean and
ripe like the ripest melon, maybe even a little overripe. The sounds of Skirt
business from an upstairs bedroom didn’t help any.

He
wondered what would happen if he should try to make a move on her. Maybe he
should. Maybe she would make a move on him. Why not? She was an independent
woman. They could forget the past, let bygones be whatever the hell bygones
were.

Or
maybe she would welcome his attentions. Yes, almost certainly. She was probably
waiting for him right now. He need only turn around and arch his eyebrows
suggestively, and she would draw back the sheet, revealing a long, naked leg,
then let the sheet fall away from a naked shoulder, then pull it lower,
revealing the top of a large firm breast ... then she would pull it a little
lower, and a sharp, red nipple would just out, slightly erect in the cool room
... and then ...

He
couldn’t take it anymore. He rolled over and reached out for her.

Stopped.

A
low, groaning snore came from her recumbent shape. Then another.

He
drew back his hand. Grunted. He rolled over and tried to sleep. The sound of
banging, gasping and moaning continued above. He plugged his fingers in his
ears.

*

They ate
and
coffeed
in the women's kitchen area downstairs.
The Twirling Skirt was in full swing, and there was much music and laughter
trickling in from the front rooms. All the lights blazed, and the air smelled
of cooking biscuits, seafood and cayenne pepper. Tavlin couldn’t help share
frequent looks with Sophia as he dined, but they didn’t talk much. For some
reason, he felt very warm.

“I
wish I could visit with the girls,” Sophia said, wiping her lips. She had just
finished her fish and biscuits and had inclined her head, listening to the
sounds of the parlor.

“I
know,” he said. “I’d like to take a crack at the piano. It’s out of tune, but I
could make do.” He loved musical instruments, especially the trombone and the
piano. Many a night back in his old life, he had played with the band, either
here or at the Wide-Mouth. He remembered when he had first started courting
Sophia, he would play the trombone for her while she circled through the
gathering, ostensibly to find a john for the hour but really to keep her eyes
and ears on him. He remembered how their eyes would lock through the smoky
gloom, softened by all the gleams of light on brass and aged wood, and the
music would pour out of him into the trombone, and into the air, into her ...