The Dragons of Babel (25 page)

10 L
RD
W
EARY'S
W
AR

Will lay on his stomach, eyes closed, marveling at the intensity of his own pain. He had retreated to his spare and soldierly nest, built of stacked cardboard, clothesline, and charity blankets on a rarely used catwalk that swayed and rattled every time a train passed underneath. It vibrated now as footsteps noisily clanged up the metal rungs from below.

“We brought you water.” A refilled two-liter Pepsi bottle thumped down by Will's chest. Tatterwag sat down at the tent's entrance, folding his long legs beneath him. Jenny Jumpup sat down beside him. “I couldn't come see you sooner because Weary gave me double-shift guarding his new horses. I was dead on my feet by the time I was relieved, so I just crawled into my box and collapsed.”

With a groan, Will sat up. He took a swig from the bottle and waited.

At last Jenny Jumpup blurted, “He got no right to do that to you!”

“He has every right. But he was wrong to employ those rights in this instance.”

Jenny snorted and looked away dismissively. Tatter-wag's mouth moved silently as he worked out the implications of that statement. Then, quietly, he said, “It's war.”

“Eh?”

“Lord Weary has closed the underworld to everyone but johatsu. Not just the police—transit, sewage, water, gas, and electrical workers, too. If they refuse to leave, Lord Weary says, they're to be beaten. Orders are to mark them up good, so that if they return we'll know to kill' em.”

“That's crazy. We've always kept on good terms with the maintenance crews. They can come and go as they wish. Even the cops we don't kill. We let them know who runs things down here, but we don't threaten their safety. That's been the keystone of our polity.”

“Not anymore,” Jenny Jumpup said. “Lord Weary say that once we seize control of their transit and utilities, the uplanders ain't got no choice but to negotiate a peace.”

“They'll have no choice but to exterminate us.” Closing his eyes made Will's head spin. When he opened them, he was still dizzy. “Has Lord Weary gone mad?”

“Maybe so.” Tatterwag leaned forward, lowering his voice. “Some of us think that. And if he's mad, what loyalty do we owe him? None! Maybe this is an opportunity. Some of us think that maybe it's time for a regime change.”

“Regime change?”

“A coup d'état. You think, Will! You're close enough to him. He trusts you. Slide a knife between his ribs and the problem goes away.”

“It
sounds
simple,” Will said carefully. Particularly, he did not say, for those who need have nothing to do with the deed but to urge him on to it. “But I doubt its practicality. Lord Weary's troops would tear me apart if I pulled a stunt like that.”

“You've got backing among the officers. We talked this through, didn't we, Jenny?”

She nodded.

“They're prepared to acclaim you. This is your moment, Will. You call the Army of Night together and give' em a speech—you're good with words, they'll listen to you—and Lord Weary is done and forgotten.”

Will shook his head. He was about to explain that Tatter-wag's idea wouldn't work because Lord Weary had just started a war and consequently was more popular now than he'd ever been before or would ever be again. But then a train slammed by underfoot, making speech impossible. By the time the catwalk stopped shivering and the diesel fumes had begun to dissipate, he found that he had slumped down onto his bed again and his eyes were closed and his mouth would not form words at his command.

A random thought went by and he followed it into the realm of dreams.

I
n his dreams, the commanders of the mosstroopers were gathered around a table, staring down at a map of the underworld that was nowhere near so detailed or accurate as his own, though reliable enough, he could see, on the major and more recent excavations. One of them indicated the mouth of the tunnel where the sub-surface route broke into the outer world and became a trolley line. “We'll enter here”—his hand skipped lightly down the map tapping three of the larger subway stations—“and at Bowling Green, Tartarus, and Third Street Stations. The stations in between we can lock down to prevent Lord Weary's riffraff from retreating to the surface.”

“That still leaves his rats a thousand bolt-holes, most of which are unknown to us.”

“Let them break and run, so long as we shatter their army and account for their leaders.”

They all bent over the map, their granite faces as large as cathedrals, their moustaches the size of boxcars. “What of Jack Riddle? He looks feverish.”

Lying helpless beneath their stony gazes, pinned between parallel lines of ink, Will saw a hand come down out of the darkness, growing larger and larger until it filled his sight and then continued to swell so that it disappeared from his ken, all save one enormous finger. It was wreathed with
blue flames so that the air about it wavered and snapped like a flag in a gale. “This bug?” said its owner contemptuously. He leaned forward and Will saw that it was the Burning Man.

His finger touched the map and Will felt flames engulf him.

W
ill's eyes flew open. Tatterwag and Jenny Jumpup were gone and Hjördis knelt by his side. With hands sure and familiar she rubbed balm over his wounds. The pain flared up like fire where she touched him, and sank down to an icy residue where her hands had passed. The smell, flowery and medicinal, lingered.

“You are so good to me,” Will murmured.

“It's nothing personal,” Hjördis replied.

“Why do you always say things like that?”

“Because they're true. There is nothing special or privileged about our relationship. You are our hero and so I have body-rights over you, as I did with Bonecrusher before you, and as I have over Lord Weary even now. You, in turn, take tribute from each new community you conquer, yes? A lei of orchids, freely offered and freely taken. Settle for that.”

Will stayed silent until Hjördis finished applying the balm. Then he said, “I hear there's going to be war.”

“Yes, I know. Lord Weary came for the crates of rifles we were holding for him. This time there was no brash young stranger to offer an alternative. So it's war. If you care to call it that.”

“What else would you call it?”

“Idiocy. But I will not be here to see it. The johatsu are leaving. The tunnels are emptying out as all the communities up and down their lengths desert them for the upper world. I have sent ahead as many of my own folk as have the sense to leave. Now I am visiting the last holdouts, the obstinate and demented, one by one. When I have spoken to them all I will leave myself.”

“Where will you go?”

“There are shelters above. Some will sleep in stairwells. Others in the streets. Come with me.”

“You can't leave just because there is danger,” Will said. “This is your nation!”

“I have never believed in Lord Weary's fantasies. My folk are not warriors, but the weak and the broken who fled down below to find some semblance of safety,” Hjördis said. “As their thane, I cannot forget that.”

“Tatterwag wants me to lead a revolt against Lord Weary.” Said aloud, it sounded unreal. “He wants me to kill Weary, win over the troops with a speech, and then take control of the Army of Night and lead them upward against our oppressors.”

“Yes, Tatterwag would, wouldn't he? It's how he thinks.”

“Perhaps I should give his plan some thought. It could be tweaked.”

“You're overheated.” Hjördis rose. “I will leave the balm here; use it when the pain returns. Don't wear a shirt until the welts have healed. Avoid alcohol. Leave before Lord Weary's war begins.”

“I can't abandon my troops. I've fought alongside them, I've—”

“My work here is done,” Hjördis said. “You will not see me again.” She started down the ladder. Before the sound of her feet on the rungs had echoed into silence, Will was asleep.

W
hen he awoke, Lord Weary was sitting beside him, smoking. His pale, shrewd face looked oddly detached. Groggily, Will sat up.

“You could kill me,” Lord Weary said. “But what advantage would it bring you?”

He passed his cigarette to Will, who took a long drag and passed it back. His back still burned terribly, but the balm Hjördis had applied took off some of the edge off the pain.

“You're only a hero, after all. I am a conqueror and someday I may yet be an emperor. I know how to rule and you don't. That's the long and the short of it. Without me, the Army of Night would fall apart in a week. The alliances I have formed and the tributes I demand are all imposed by force of my own personality. Kill me and you lose everything that we have built together.”

“I don't think I could kill you.”

“No,” Lord Weary said. “Not in cold blood, certainly.”

It was true. Inexplicably, Will's heart still went out to Lord Weary. He thought he could gladly die for the old elf. Yet the anger remained. “Why did you have me whipped?”

“It was salutary for the troops to see you punished. You drew my army's admiration and then their loyalty. Therefore it was necessary for me to establish who was liege and who his hound. Had you not defied me on the horse, I would have found another excuse. This is
my
delusion, not yours.”

“Excuse me?”

“You asked me once how I came to this sad estate, living in darkness, eating rats and stale donuts, and bedding gutterhaints, and you did not like my answer then. Allow me to try again. Anyone can see I'm high-elven. Most of my soldiers think my title was self-assumed, but I assure you it was mine by birth. How could one of my blood and connections ever end up,” he gestured, “… here?”

“How?”

“It began one morning in the Palace of Leaves,” Lord Weary said. “I awoke early to find that the servants had opened all the windows, for it was a perfect day whose breezes were as light and comfortable upon the skin as the water of a sun-warmed lake. I slipped quietly from my bed so as not to disturb my mistresses and, donning a silk kimono, went out onto the balcony. The sun lay low upon the horizon, so that half the land was in light and half in shadow, and at the very center of the world, its focus and definition, was… me.

“A vast and weightless emptiness overcame me then, a sensation too light to be called despair but too pitiless to be anything else. The balcony had only a low marble railing—it barely came up to my waist—and it was the easiest thing imaginable to step atop it. I looked down the tapering slope of Babel at the suburbs and tank farms below, hidden here and there by patches of mist, marveling that I could see them at all from such a height. It would be too strong a word to say that I felt an urge to step off. Call it a whim.

“So I did.

“But so illusory did the world seem to me in the mood I was in that it had no hold upon me whatsoever. Even gravity could not touch me. I stepped into the air and there I stood. Unmoving.

“And in that instant I faced my greatest peril, for I felt my comprehension expanding to engulf the entire world.”

“I don't understand,” Will said.

“There is a single essence that animates all that lives, from the tiniest mite eking out a barren existence upon the desert-large shell of another mite too small to see with the naked eye, to the very pinnacle of existence, my own humble and lordly self. It informs even inanimate matter, a simple I
am
that lets a boulder know that it is a boulder, a mountain that it is a mountain, a pebble that it is a pebble. Otherwise, all would be flux and change.

“The body, you know, is ninety percent water, and there are those who will tell you that life is only a device which water employs to move itself about. When you die, that water returns to the earth and via natural processes is drawn up into the air, where it eventually joins up with waters that were once snakes, camels, emperors… and rains down again, perhaps to join a stream that becomes a river that flows into the sea. Sooner or later, all but your dust will inevitably return to world-girding Oceanus.

“Similarly, when you die your life-force combines with that of everyone else who has ever died or is yet to be born.

Like so many lead soldiers being melted down to form a molten ocean of potential.”

Will shook his head. “It is a difficult thing to believe.”

“No, it is easy to believe. But it is hard, impossibly hard, to
know
. For to recognize the illusory nature of your own being is to flirt with its dissolution. To become one with everything is to become nothing specific at all. Almost, I ceased to be. I experienced then an instant of absolute terror as fleeting and pure as the flash of green light at sunset.

“In that same instant, I spun on my heel and took two steps down to the balcony. I left the Palace of Leaves and went to a bar and got roaring drunk. For I had seen beneath the mask of the world and
there was nothing there!
Since which time, I have distracted myself with debauchery and dreams. I dreamt up the Army of Night and then I dreamt a world for it to conquer. Finally, I dreamt for it a champion—you.”