Charlaine Harris Read online

  At last the prolonged contract session was over. Since Crick was a first-time customer of the Britlingen Collective, it had taken a bit longer than usual. Batanya noticed that Crick had asked some very shrewd questions.

  “Will you sign?” Flechette asked formally, when Crick declared himself satisfied.

  Crick picked up the pen and signed the contract.

  “The client has agreed. Will you sign, senior?” Flechette asked Batanya. She sighed, but she picked up the pen and scribbled her name.

  “You, junior?” Clovache followed suit.

  “Now what?” Crick asked brightly.

  “We withdraw, you give your bodyguards your place of destination, and they fetch the appropriate gear. They meet you here, then you go to the witchwing through that door. The witches and the mechs take over the transportation.” Trovis was bored now, and showing it. He hadn’t found an excuse to provoke anyone into a fight, the client had the money and had paid the asking price, and furthermore Trovis had arranged to rid himself of his most irritating subordinates for at least a few days—possibly permanently. There was nothing more to be wrung from the situation. He took the earliest opportunity to slip out of the room, if a rather solid man six feet tall can “slip” anywhere.

  “Where’s he slinking off to?” Clovache muttered.

  “Some quiet spot where he can think of some other way to make me miserable,” Batanya answered, and then was sorry she’d spoken. She hoped Flechette hadn’t heard. Going over the head of one’s superior officer to complain to a higher rank was not admired among the members of the Britlingen Collective.

  But Flechette seemed intent on observing the courtesies required by her position as commander: she wished the client a successful journey, clapped Clovache on the shoulder and shook Batanya’s hand, and advised them to eat before they left . . . her standard farewell. Then she drew herself up, gave the Britlingen salute, and said, “What is the law?”

  “The client’s word,” Batanya said smartly. Clovache was a beat behind her.

  Crick was watching, his eyes intent behind the ridiculous goggles. When Flechette had left, the two bodyguards drew closer to him.

  “What temperature should we pack for?” Clovache asked. “What kind of fighting?”

  Crick had been listening while the contract was explained, but nonetheless he asked, “You can’t tell anyone what I say; is that right?”

  Batanya nodded. Clovache just looked resigned.

  “To Hell,” Crick said. “We’re going to Hell.”

  After a long moment of silence, Clovache said, “We’ll need our summer armor, then.”

  “What happened was this,” Crick said, suddenly chatty. He’d taken a seat at the table, and Clovache and Batanya followed suit. “I obtained a certain item from the King of Hell, and I misplaced it when I had to leave. I definitely didn’t enjoy my stay with the king, and I’m afraid my abrupt departure may have angered him. As you may have deduced, I need to avoid Lucifer. I very much need to avoid him. I must get in and out of Hell as quietly as possible. Since I can’t look in every direction at once, I hired you two to help me watch.”

  “So you’re a thief.” Batanya was entering a list of things she needed to take, using her wrist communicator. She glanced up long enough to make sure he was listening.

  “Ah, yes. But a thief with a cause,” Crick added brightly.

  “Don’t care,” Batanya said. “No matter what you are, no matter what your cause or motivation, we’ll do what we’ve been hired to do.” She looked him square in the eyes.

  “Then we’re all fine,” Crick said, in his most foolish voice. One of the castle cats wandered in and leaped into his lap. He stroked its long orange fur. Batanya eyed it indifferently. She’d never been one for pets, though cats were at least preferable to dogs.

  Anything was preferable to dogs.

  “How long do you expect we’ll be gone?” Clovache asked Crick.

  “If we’re not back in two weeks, we’re not coming back,” Crick said with a pleasant smile. “That would be my best evaluation.”

  Batanya remembered that Clovache had tickets to a concert in a week’s time.

  “Can you turn those tickets in?” Batanya asked. She ran her fingers through her short, inky hair.

  “Nonrefundable,” Clovache said gloomily. “Oh, well.” She rose to her feet. “Senior,” she said, her voice formal, “I ask leave to go prepare.”

  “I’ll be there in a minute myself,” Batanya said. “Go ahead.” She eyed their client narrowly. As soon as Clovache had gone, Batanya said, “I know there’s much you’re not telling us. No client ever tells us the whole story. You always lie. But if there’s some word you could speak that would help us prepare to guard you, now is the time to speak that word.”

  Crick looked down at the table for a long moment. The cat jumped out of his lap and left by a window. “Nothing,” he said. “There’s nothing else I can tell you now that will be of any assistance.”

  “All right then,” she said grimly. “You’ve got two of Britlingen’s best protecting you, Crick. I hope you appreciate that.”

  “I am paying well for the service,” he said. His voice was cool.

  Batanya might have told him that no amount of money could make up for the loss of their lives, but that wouldn’t have been true. The Britlingen Collective had put a price on that, and Crick had paid it.

  “I’ll return shortly,” she said, and rose to her feet. “The witches and mechs will be ready by then, too.” She saw, with a grim satisfaction, that the mention of the witches made Crick shiver. Witches gave everyone the creeps.

  Standing in the middle of her little room, Batanya hauled her backpack from the footlocker. She checked her wrist communicator. It showed her the list she’d made—not in written words, but in symbols. Some of the weapons she often carried would be useless in Hell. Any fray would take place suddenly and at close quarters, almost certainly, so taking some of the missile-firing guns would be useless, as would any of the weapons relying on sun power. Hell was underground in a vast network of intersecting tunnels.

  “Batanya,” called Clovache, whose room was across the hall, “What about crossbows?” The wrist crossbows were incredibly powerful and ranked at the top of Clovache’s list of favorite devices.

  “Do they kill demons?” Batanya called back. “I don’t think so. I think we should take the . . .” What did kill a demon? The bespelled throwing stars, of course. “The throwing stars,” she called. Steel? Silver? What else would be useful?

  She went over all the armaments in her head as she pulled on her summer armor, which was a very lightweight porous fabric spun by spiderlike creatures from Moraeus. The summer version was like wearing chain mail all over, though it had the texture and appearance of cloth. It was even more expensive and harder to find than liquid armor. The Britlingen company store sold it at what they said was cost—but Batanya had had to save for two years to purchase it. She’d loaned Clovache the money to buy her own summer armor during Clovache’s first year as Batanya’s junior. “Damn Collective,” Batanya muttered as she put the few extra things she’d need into the prepared waterproof backpack that all Britlingens carried on their travels. It was always stocked with a few microthin clean garments, compressed cooked food that could be eaten on the run, a pill or two that provided bursts of energy and had to be used judiciously, some bandages and antibiotics, and a bottle of water. To forestall other kinds of emergencies, all the Britlingens, male and female, were injected with birth control drugs on a monthly basis. Those who skipped this injection were listed in bright red chalk on a big board in the entrance hall.

  “Got your list?” she asked from Clovache’s doorway. “Oh, have you checked your pocket?” Batanya had already touched her tongue to the artificial pouch in her right cheek, and she nodded when Clovache’s right hand flew to her left armpit. Clovache nodded in confirmation and then burrowed back into her closet.

  “Yes, I just need to write Geit
a note.” Clovache’s voice was muffled. She was probably searching for some paper and a pen, items Clovache didn’t need too often.

  “Are you and Geit knocking armor?”

  “Yes. He’s very vigorous.”

  Smiling, Batanya shook her head, though Clovache couldn’t see her. “You’d do better to keep Geit as a friend,” she said. “But I guess it’s too late for that.”

  Her junior reemerged. “He will be. I always stay friends with my lovers. It’s my gift.” Clovache’s light brown hair stuck up in spikes all over her head. She hadn’t pulled on the armor’s hood yet. It was her least favorite piece of protection. Batanya was none too fond of it either, though her own close-clipped curly black hair lay so close to her skull she might as well have been wearing the hood already.

  Together, checking and rechecking their equipment, the two bodyguards went down the list. Traveling very light made careful preparation even more crucial. The older warrior noticed that Clovache had slipped the frame of her wrist crossbow into the special compartment on the outside of the pack, and she kept her mouth shut. If it made Clovache feel stronger, the slight extra weight was worth it.

  At last the two decided they were ready, and they walked out of the dormitory. Neither Batanya nor Clovache bothered to lock their doors behind them. Theft was a rare occurrence in the castle. It was punishable by death. Of course, unlocked doors made elaborate practical jokes very easy to stage. Batanya touched the scar on her cheek.

  Their employer was waiting in the Hall of Contracts, just as he’d been bid. Batanya gave the Parduan a sharp nod to indicate they were ready to go. Crick stood, brushed the wrinkles out of his outer tunic, and said, “I suppose now we meet the witches and the mechs?”

  “Yes,” Clovache said. “No way around it, Crick.”

  He looked startled for a brief moment. “It shows, then.”

  Batanya snorted.

  “That would be a yes, I take it. Well, well. Where do we go?”

  “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.”

  The two Britlingens stared at their client. Conjuring balls, full of tiny machinery and spells and capable of performing very innocuous bits of magic like lighting candles or drying plates, were hugely popular gifts for children. Even a cheap one could entertain a child for hours until the magic ran down, and the more expensive models were almost as good as giving someone a pet. They might last two or three years, and could do quite a variety of tasks and tricks. But everyone knew that the balls were not permanent sources of magic. Sooner or later, they’d exhaust their power.