Dead Reign (31 page)

“It’s your funeral!” Cherie called. “I’m leaving!” She glanced at Rondeau. “You?”

“Nah, not yet. If there’s going to be a plague of blood-sweating instant death, I need a little free champagne first.”

She looked at him quizzically. “So whose crew are you with?”

“I’m freelance at the moment.” Rondeau excused himself, following the other apprentices so he wouldn’t accidentally wander into a bedroom or something. They led him straight to the ballroom.

The vast space had been subdivided by immense cloth hangings that draped the walls and hung in swoops and arcs from the ceiling, and the first room was sky blue. Medieval-sounding string music drifted in from deeper in the ballroom, and the smells of sweat and incense and rich food mingled in the air. Dwarves in tasseled costumes jumped and tumbled on a stage, and a crowd of living people stood at one end watching, while at the other end, a good selection of the ghosts of the founding fathers watched them, too, with deadly seriousness.

Rondeau had never seen the ghosts before. He’d been expecting a sort of spectral version of the cast of the musical
1776,
all waistcoats and spectacles and beards. There were a couple of prosperous-burgher ghosts, but others looked more like thugs in nice suits, faces craggy and scarred. The women wore enormous skirts. Why the hell did nobody ever mention the founding
mothers
? They were here, too. The ghosts all looked a bit like figures in a fog—grayish, not exactly translucent, but fuzzy at their edges. Marla said that even those rare ghosts who retained consciousness and sense of self were still basically forced to assemble their ectoplasmic forms constantly from memory, and after so many years of death, their mental visions of themselves got a little frayed. The dwarves executed an impressive series of flips, crossing one another in the air, and a couple of the female ghosts clapped, and the men gestured with what appeared to be real cigars. How the hell did they hold them? Ghosts were supposed to be immaterial, except maybe for dampness, or slime. Did they get extra physical definition on the night of the Founders’ Ball?

“You shouldn’t be here.” Hamil appeared at Rondeau’s elbow, pretending to watch the dwarves. He wore a mask, of course, red and black, but his size made him unmistakable. “It’s dangerous.”

“Not as dangerous as it will be,” Rondeau said.

“He must know you’re coming,” Hamil said. “Even the theme of his party, the Masque of the Red Death, it’s as if he expects an unwelcome visitor. Striking here, now, it’s not wise.”

“Yeah, but it’s happening. He doesn’t know I have the cloak, at least. Go on. You probably shouldn’t be seen with me, in case I fuck things up and get caught.”

Hamil started to move away, then paused. “Be warned. In the last room, the black room, two of your associates are…on display.” He hailed someone across the dance floor and moved away.

Shit. On display? What did that mean? Heads on pikes? Rondeau hurried through the other rooms, noting that the servers moving about with trays all wore costumes that matched the colors of their chambers. He almost paused by a groaning buffet heaped high with delectable-smelling food, but decided to move on. He saw the Bay Witch—who had a clump of seaweed sitting on top of her head, which was maybe her idea of a costume? Someone who might have been Ernesto, wearing an elaborate mask of hammered metal. The Chamberlain herself, standing by a troupe of musicians, laughing with a crowd of ghosts who seemed to be having a merry time. For now. Rondeau moved on, weaving among the dancing, chatting, eating people, and finally reached the black room.

This is like being on the inside of a cancerous colon.
There were slits in the black cloth, with crimson light pouring through. And there, suspended above the center of the room, right in the intersection of three beams of red light, were two metal cages. Beadle’s cage was an asymmetrical tortured teardrop of metal, all eye-wrenching curves and angles, probably covered in symbols of chaos magic. He lay at the bottom of the cage, pale and weak, and he was probably responsible for the puddle of vomit on the floor below. Partridge’s cage was square, but rimed with ice, and Rondeau saw the pyromancer’s teeth chattering, and puffs of cold air coming from his mouth. They were both hung just high enough that Rondeau couldn’t quite touch the bottom of their cages, and they were guarded by a row of undead, including the Lincoln zombie. This room, perhaps because of the prisoners, perhaps because of the color scheme, was nearly empty. The only people here were a few dozen ghosts….

And, way in the back, almost hidden by overlapping folds of black cloth, Death. He seemed incredibly bored, and sat on a throne made of something glittery and black, with a number of pale, dark-haired goth girls in black lace and shredded white wedding dresses sitting at his feet, gazing up at him.
Guess none of the guests like hanging with the host.

Rondeau started to turn and leave the room, unwilling to be spotted, but then he heard a scream in one of the other rooms, and the sound of people gagging and retching. He didn’t smell anything—with his nose
or
his mind—but then, his mask was enchanted to protect him from the psychic stink bomb. Sounded like people were stampeding out there. He worried briefly that someone might get trampled, but these were sorcerers, or at least apprentices, and they could probably protect themselves. Those who couldn’t, well, call it sorcerous Darwinism. Magic was a tough business.

“What’s happening?” the goth girls said, and then gagged, and fled the room. Partridge and Beadle, in their cages, seemed oblivious, their binding spells making them numb to the world, no doubt. The zombies guarding the cages didn’t even twitch, but Rondeau wasn’t too worried about them. If they came at him, he could cut them up like a chainsaw through rotten logs. The ghosts were also unaffected by the psychic stink bomb, though they frowned and gestured in a little clump. That was too bad. Rondeau wasn’t thrilled to have an audience.

Okay. Moment of truth.
Viva la revolución.
Nothing to lose but everything.

“Hey, Death!” Rondeau called. “Nice party!” The ghosts all turned and looked him.

“Finally.”
Death stepped down from his throne. “I didn’t think you’d ever show up. The leader of our local revolution in miniature. I’ve got a cage all picked out for you. It causes pain without killing. It’s wonderful. I’ll clean out this stink and then bring all the guests back, so they can throw things at you for spoiling the party.” He came around the cages and got his first clear look at Rondeau. He went even paler, if that were possible. “What…what is that on your
back
? Where did you get that?”

“This old thing?” Rondeau said, and reversed the cloak.

Though there was no apparent way in or out of the throne room besides the door they’d entered through, a fine carriage pulled by four black horses came rolling in. The driver was the same man, or thing, who’d driven the bone train, and now Marla could see him for what he truly was, without the knowledge skittering out of her brain right away. Such vision was part of being a goddess, she supposed—seeing the truth of things. The driver was a terrible being, but he had a certain dignity, too. Pelham carefully avoided looking at him.

Marla glanced at her—oh, crap, really—husband. “A limo might have been more inconspicuous.”

“Why not make a grand entrance?” the Sitting Death said. “The carriage will take you to the Founders’ Ball, which is a grand masque this year, I’m told. There are costumes in the coach.”

Marla swore. “It’s the Founders’ Ball already? We were down here that long? So, wait—the
Walking Death
threw the party?”

“Indeed.”

“Huh. I’ll have to thank him before I kill him. That’s something I won’t have to worry about for another five years.”

Pelham opened the coach door for her. He was limping a little, but his leg was bound up in a bandage, and he didn’t seem too bad off.

“Come give me a kiss good-bye,” the Sitting Death said.

“Save it for the honeymoon,” she said, and got into the carriage, followed by Pelham.

The inside of the carriage was bigger than the outside, as big as a good hotel suite, complete with a bed and a couch, Tiffany lamps, a bathroom, and a walk-in closet. Though there was some vague sense of motion, it was mostly as steady as a good train ride.

“Costumes here,” Pelham said, and Marla went to examine the clothes hanging in the closet. Nothing too objectionable. She’d seen how men of a certain age liked their trophy wives to dress, and she wasn’t going to put up with that shit. Her outfit was more swashbuckling than slutty, all black silk trimmed with silver, a white shirt with lace at the throat, a black-and-silver domino mask, and a hat with a giant red plume. It would go well with her black-and-silver cloak, too. There was even a sword belt and a sheath that fit her terrible sword perfectly. There were elaborate boots with heels too high for her liking—she would keep her own battered work boots with the magically reinforced toes. “It’s a pirate pimp look, I guess.” She ripped the feather out of the hat. She had her limits. Pelham’s own costume was very simple, a tuxedo with tails and a black mask. They each got dressed, then sat down as the coach rocked and swayed.

“I bet you’ll be happy to be home,” Marla said after a while.

“Actually, Ms. Mason, the past few days have been the most wonderful of my life. Even when I was terrified, it was wonderful, in its way. I was never terrified when I lived at the estate, you know. That was a new experience.”

Marla laughed, and there was the sudden sensation of slowing, and the driver’s voice, from a concealed speaker, said, “Doors are opening.” Pelham swung open the door, and Marla slipped out. They were in the driveway before the Chamberlain’s mansion.
Quick trip.
She was achingly grateful to be home, but she had work to do.

One of the Chamberlain’s lackeys stepped in front of the door as Marla went up the steps. “Invitation, miss?” he said, bored.

She lifted up her mask. “I’m Marla Mason, you idiot.”

His eyes bugged out, and he stepped aside, tripping over himself to apologize. “Of course, but, ah, that sword. You aren’t supposed to…”

“What?”

“Nothing, ma’am. Go on in.”

“I will. Don’t mention I’m here. I’d hate to spoil the surprise. Tell anyone I’ve arrived, and
you’ll
get a surprise. A nasty one.”

He swallowed and nodded, and Marla swept past him, Pelham following. She remembered the route to the ballroom, and when she entered the first room, which was blue, she was annoyed to see so many familiar faces, sorcerers of high and low standing, milling around, eating, chatting, and having a fine old time. None of them recognized her. Wasn’t anyone fighting against the Walking Death? Had they all just rolled over in the past week? She saw Hamil, and Ernesto, and Nicolette, and wanted to beat the crap out of all of them just for being here, but she had work to do first.

She’d only made it to the green room when people started screaming and running. Marla looked around for the source of the disturbance, but couldn’t find anything. She grabbed Pelham and swung him out of the way, behind a giant ice sculpture of Death, so they wouldn’t get trampled. Pelham doubled over, gagging. “The smell,” he said, “it’s in my
head,
it’s awful.”

Marla smiled. So, somebody
was
doing something on her behalf, then, ruining the party with some kind of psychic stink. That would piss off the ghosts, which would be big trouble, but she was heartened just the same. “Get out of here, Pelly. I don’t smell anything. I guess that’s one of the Sitting Death’s wedding presents.”

“I should stay,” he said, and then doubled over, retching.

“No, get out of here, find the Chamberlain, tell her I’m back, and sorting things out, would you?”

Pelham nodded and scurried away, joining the last of the fleeing guests. Marla tore her mask off. There was no one left in the room but some of the ghosts of the founding fathers, gray (and fuzzy) eminences all, and Marla said, “Hey, fellas! It’s me, Marla. Sorry for the disturbance. Want to come watch me kick Death’s ass?”

The ghosts consulted. One, with muttonchops and a unibrow, nodded. “Indeed. He’s in the black room.”

Marla set off, sword swinging at her belt, grinning so hard it made her cheeks hurt. She picked up more ghosts on her way, until she had a good crowd coming after her, but when she entered the black room at the end of the ballroom, she saw there was already an event in progress.

Rondeau was there, fighting with Death. He leapt around with fiendish dexterity, struck out with incredible ferocity, cackling all the while, and he seemed to be holding his own against Death, who bled from a cut on his cheek. But Marla scarcely paid attention to the fight. She was focused on the
thing
clinging to Rondeau’s shoulders. It was a monstrous flap of grayish-green skin, a ragged gangrenous beast with leprous patches and hundreds of rheumy red eyes, and teeth like straight pins, and it clung to Rondeau’s neck and shoulders with those teeth, fastened into him, seeming to feed on him, swelling up like a tick engorging itself. And, gods, it
reeked,
like something half-digested and rotting.

Marla blinked, and blinked again, consciously trying to dispel the strange new sight she’d gained since marrying the Sitting Death, and in a moment, she saw Rondeau with normal vision—he was wearing her purple-and-white battle cloak. But that hideous monstrous form, she knew, must be the cloak’s
real
shape, a parasitic thing that pretended to be clothing, the way the venom-dripping sword of Death had pretended to be a simple dagger. She’d let that thing fasten onto her intermittently for years, and now it was fastened on Rondeau. He was fighting for her, but now that she knew what the cloak was, she had to stop him.

“Rondeau, get back!” she shouted, and even in the grip of his battle fever Rondeau heard her voice, and turned, and then suddenly the cloak reversed itself, the purple cloud around him replaced with pure white, and he collapsed, unconscious, the cloak’s healing energies tending to his injuries. Marla, briefly, stepped up her goddess vision, and the cloak was still a horrible thing, but now its red eyes were slowly drooping closed, one after another, as if it was dropping off to sleep. Maybe it was only really awake when it was being used to fight, and for a short time afterward. That explained the way its malign intelligence lingered in the mind for a few seconds—or even minutes—after battle.