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The Grand Dark
Richard Kadrey


‘The Great War was over, but everyone knew another war was coming and it drove the city a little mad.’A new fantasy world from the bestselling author of SANDMAN SLIM.























Copyright (#uee51e213-a568-55fa-9da5-f2b2cdc5d29f)


HarperVoyager

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)

First published in Great Britain by HarperVoyager 2019

Copyright © Richard Kadrey 2019

Cover design by Jeanne Reina © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019

Cover illustration © Will Staehle and Shutterstock.com (http://Shutterstock.com)

Richard Kadrey asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008288853

Ebook Edition © May 2019 ISBN: 9780008288860

Version: 2019-05-17




Dedication (#uee51e213-a568-55fa-9da5-f2b2cdc5d29f)


To Drexel and Conan,

both of whom should have been

around a lot longer




Epigraph (#uee51e213-a568-55fa-9da5-f2b2cdc5d29f)


There were a few short, wonderful years of euphoria when the slaughter was over. Of course, nothing had been settled and we knew it but, in its own way, watching the cataclysm hurtle toward us made the madness of the wild time even sweeter.

—Günther Harden, Cocaine and Bullets: My Lost Years


CONTENTS

COVER (#ue5e5e7ab-3d5f-5529-a2f8-a880c08fa6e0)

TITLE PAGE (#u0b88d854-8b37-5942-aa69-e2ff7acbd5a7)

COPYRIGHT

DEDICATION

EPIGRAPH (#u8f387c41-c88a-5917-88c2-3778115d5a1d)

MAP

CHAPTER ONE

THE CITY. THE AIR.

CHAPTER TWO

THE SECRET FETE

CHAPTER THREE

A CURSED PLACE

CHAPTER FOUR

ABOVE THE CITY

CHAPTER FIVE

HINTERLAND

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

THE REFUGEE ROAD

CHAPTER EIGHT

EUGENICS

CHAPTER NINE

SERVANTS AND WARRIORS

CHAPTER TEN

AT THE STREET MARKET BY THE CROSSROADS

CHAPTER ELEVEN

XUXU: ARTISTIC MOVEMENT OR ACADEMIC PRANK?

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

THE WALKING WOUNDED

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

THE WONDERS OF THE SOUTH

CHAPTER TWENTY

THE SHAPE OF THE WORLD

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

THE CORRUPTER OF INNOCENCE, ACT 1

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

FOOTNOTES

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

ALSO BY RICHARD KADREY

ABOUT THE PUBLISHER




Map (#uee51e213-a568-55fa-9da5-f2b2cdc5d29f)










CHAPTER ONE (#uee51e213-a568-55fa-9da5-f2b2cdc5d29f)


The great war was over, but everyone knew another war was coming and it drove the city a little mad.

Near dawn, Largo Moorden pedaled his bicycle through the nearly deserted streets of Lower Proszawa. It was exactly one week since his twenty-first birthday. Fog from the nearby bay and smoke from the armaments factory left the center of the city looking like a flat, ashen mirage. As Largo sped over the Ore Bridge, the edges of Gothic office buildings, dwellings, and cafés coalesced into view. Streetcars gliding atop silent magnetic tracks in the street and above, old church spires—shadowy outlines a second before—solidified and were gone.

At the bottom of the bridge, where Krähe Vale crossed Tombstrasse, a line of Blind Mara delivery automata sat waiting for the crossing signal to change. Some of the larger contraptions—the Black Widows carrying machine parts for the factory—resembled wrought iron spiders the size of pushcarts, while the little tea and breakfast Maras were wooden bread boxes decorated with wings and carvings of flying women. Largo was tempted to veer into the line of machines and kick over one or two of the smaller ones. He knew that someday soon the Maras were going to put human couriers like him out of business. Each time he thought about it, a little wave of panic bubbled up from his stomach because, aside from a strong set of legs, the only things Largo possessed that were worth money were his bicycle and an encyclopedic knowledge of every street and alley in the city.

To Largo’s surprise, while the crossing signal still read HALT, one of the little winged bread boxes crept past the other Maras and whirred quietly across Krähe Vale. With a mechanical rumble, a squat, armored juggernaut carrying soldiers sped around a corner and crushed the bread box under its metal treads without slowing. All that was left of the little carrier were a small motor sputtering blue sparks, splinters, and a flattened sandwich. Largo hadn’t eaten for a day and the sight of food made him hungry. Still, he smiled. Indeed, the Blind Maras would put him out of business one day, but not today, and not for many days to come. When the signal clicked to PROCEED he guided his bicycle through the remains left in the intersection as the rest of the automata split up, carrying their goods all over Lower Proszawa.

The clock over the Great Triumphal Square—renamed, perhaps a touch optimistically, after the war—showed that it was just a few minutes before six. Largo had spent far too long in bed that morning with Remy, his lover, but it was so hard to leave her. He bent over his handlebars, pedaling faster, knowing all too well that being late at the beginning of the work week was a good way to have Herr Branca snapping at you until Friday. Worse, it could result in a humiliating dismissal.

The edges of the plaza were coming to life. Bakers laid out loaves and pies in the windows of their shops. The newspaper kiosk attendant by the underground tram station cut open piles of tabloid yellowsheets full of political intrigue and reports of the previous night’s murders. All-night revelers wandered through the square, still jubilantly drunk from the evening before. Along the gutters, purring piglike chimeras cleared the street trash by devouring it.

Beyond the edges of the plaza, prostitutes flirted with men in strange masks made of steel and leather—Iron Dandies, they were called, but never where they could hear it. They were war veterans considered too disfigured to be glimpsed by the city’s ordinary citizens—Largo among them. He’d heard that if you stared too long at a Dandy he’d rip his mask off, giving you a good look at his mutilated face. Seeing a Dandy that way was considered bad luck.

Bad luck or no, the truth was that Largo didn’t want to see what was under the masks or think about how the wounds, or the war itself, had happened. He just put his head down, pedaled harder, and arrived panting at the courier service as the plaza clock rang six.

Dropping his bicycle next to those of the other couriers, Largo ran up the stairs to the office and made it inside before the head dispatcher, Herr Branca, noticed his tardiness. He lingered at the back behind the other messengers so that his supervisor wouldn’t see him sweating.

Herr Branca was a burly man, one of the strange sort who seemed to have been born old. None of the couriers knew his age, but depending on the season and whether he’d shaved or not, they guessed it to be anywhere from thirty to sixty. He wore the same thing every day: pinstriped pants, matching vest, and a white shirt with an old-fashioned starched collar that he left open except when visiting their superiors. The bottom button on his vest was always missing. This could mean only one of two things: that Herr Branca was an eccentric who cut the bottom button off all of his vests, or that a second vest was beyond his means. No one at the service took Branca for an eccentric, so that had to mean their supervisor was so poorly paid that his choice in clothes was no better than the couriers’. This possibility always depressed Largo. He liked being a courier, but if Herr Branca was his future, perhaps it was time to make other plans.

But what?

Different futures weren’t easy to come by in Lower Proszawa.

As he did every morning, Branca leaned heavily on a standing desk, shouting names and the addresses where couriers were to go while old, battered Maras handed them whatever documents or parcels they were to deliver.

When Branca had called most of the morning’s deliveries and the room was nearly empty, Parvulesco, Largo’s closest friend at the service, gave him a worried look as he carried a parcel out the door. Largo shrugged. Maybe Branca had seen him come in late and was keeping him back for a good talking-to. There was nothing to do but wait and endure whatever was coming. Parvulesco mouthed, Good luck, before heading out.

Soon, everyone else had been given an assignment and it was just Largo and Herr Branca. The supervisor didn’t look up for two or three minutes as he took his time filling out a small pile of paperwork. As the seconds ticked by, Largo imagined all sorts of scenarios. A simple dressing-down. Having his pay docked. Maybe he’d even be fired. He stood still, hoping to not draw attention to himself, but after a couple more minutes passed he couldn’t stand it anymore. He cleared his throat.

“Do you have a cold, Largo?” said Herr Branca. “If so, kindly keep your distance, as it would be inconvenient for me to be ill at this time.” He spoke quietly. Branca always spoke quietly, no matter the topic or circumstances. The couriers joked that if he were an executioner, you’d never know he was there until your head was on the ground.

“No, sir. It’s nothing like that. I was just wondering if …”

“If I noticed you come in late, then hide in the back like a cockroach from the light?”

“Yes,” Largo said. “Something like that.”

Herr Branca looked up wearily. “Rest easy, Largo. While you were tardy and more than a bit insectile in your earlier behavior, you’re not going to be fired.

“In fact, you’re being promoted.”

Largo frowned, afraid he’d misheard his supervisor. “Promoted?”

Branca set down his pen and sighed. “You’re aware of the word, aren’t you? It’s a verb meaning ‘to advance in rank.’ ‘To ascend to a higher position.’ Must I explain it further?”

“No, sir. It’s just that … it’s a bit unexpected.”

“Quite, especially considering your less-than-cordial relationship with the clock,” said Branca. “That’s going to have to stop. Do you understand me? This promotion brings new responsibilities, and promptness is one of them. Can you handle that?”

“Yes, sir. I can.”

“Very good. Now stop cowering at the back of the room and come up here so I can explain the lofty position to which you have ascended without having to shout.”

Largo was still wary as he approached Herr Branca’s desk, waiting to find out that the promotion was a mistake or a cruel joke and his supervisor was going to fire him after all. Branca was looking over more papers when he reached the desk and once more Largo couldn’t help himself.

“Why?”

“Why the promotion or why you?” said Branca without looking up. “Both, I guess.”

“Did you happen to notice König was not with us this morning?”

König was the company’s chief courier, a tall, handsome man just a few years older than Largo. “No, sir. I didn’t,” he said.

Branca tugged at his collar. “I didn’t expect so. But it’s true nevertheless—he wasn’t with us. And it’s likely you won’t see him again here … or anywhere else,” Branca said. “He’s been arrested by the Nachtvogel.”

Largo didn’t say anything for a moment, still not sure whether Branca was playing him for a fool. König was a nobody, as were all the other couriers at the company. Why would the secret police take away a nobody?

“You saw it happen? I mean, they arrested him here?”

Branca nodded. “Right where you’re standing now.”

Largo looked at the floor, not sure what he was expecting to see. Then, feeling foolish, he looked back at Branca. “I don’t understand. What would the Nachtvogel want with König?”

“I have no idea because I didn’t ask, an attitude I advise you to emulate should you ever find yourself face-to-face with them.”

Largo took a step closer to his supervisor and said very quietly, “What were they like?”

Branca cocked his head for a moment as if looking for the precise words. “Men. They looked like men. Very serious men.”

“That’s it?”

“Except for the horns and hooves. And their long, forked tongues, of course,” said Branca. He made a face at Largo. “Don’t ask silly questions, boy. They were citizens like you or me. And before you ask one more idiotic thing and I’m forced to reconsider your promotion, I’ll tell you this. I heard one significant word as they were putting König in irons: anarchist. Personally, I never took the man for a political extremist, but there you are.”

Largo shook his head. “I wouldn’t have guessed. I mean, he never talked about politics. It was always about money, his girlfriend, and work. The same things we all talk about.”

“Would you expect an anarchist to shout slogans from the loading dock at lunchtime?” Branca said. “And as for his talk about money, well there you are. More than one good man has been turned to crime by dreams of easy cash. Don’t let that happen to you. You’ve been given a rare opportunity. Use it wisely.”

Largo nodded, his earlier fear giving way to feelings of guilt at his good fortune. Good fortune that came on the back of—no, not a friend, but someone like him, at least, someone he knew and moreover had nothing against. He felt a little queasy, but then he straightened. Branca was right. This was an opportunity, and a promotion would mean more money in his pocket. With luck, there would be enough that he wouldn’t ever feel hungry again at the sight of a crushed sandwich in the middle of the street. He thought of Remy and his mood lightened slightly. He couldn’t wait to tell her about it after work.

Branca leaned on his desk to get closer to Largo. When he spoke, his voice was quiet. “The reason I’ve told you all this was to impress upon you the importance of your new position. It’s a great embarrassment for the company to have one of its trusted employees hauled away in chains. If the news got out it would be very bad for business. Therefore, we must redouble our efforts and do everything we can to keep up the company’s good name. Do you know why?”

“Because we’re grateful to them for the opportunities they’ve given us?” he said.

“Don’t be naïve.” Branca tapped his pen on his desk. “Because you and I are utterly disposable. Never forget that.”

“I won’t.”

“Good. Now, welcome to your new position, chief courier.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Branca held out a hand to him. When Largo shook it, he was surprised by the force of his supervisor’s grip. He’d never seen Branca move more than a step or two in any direction, so it was a shock that there was any strength left in his large body. And what an even greater shock to hear the man’s concern for his own position. It didn’t exactly make Largo like the old fossil any more, but he couldn’t help feeling a bit of sympathy to hear someone Branca’s age refer to himself as “utterly disposable.”

“Does the promotion mean that I’ll be spending more time in the office?” Largo said.

Branca let out one grunting laugh. “God help us all if it did. No, you’ll continue your normal duties, making deliveries and picking up goods, but you’ll be doing it in parts of the city that you’re not used to—including some of its most prosperous districts. That’s why I chose you. None of the other rabble here know Lower Proszawa as well.” He paused for a moment, then said, “Also, you seem generally honest, which is important. Some of the parcels and documents you’ll be carrying will be worth considerable sums of money. Can I count on you to do your job honorably and intelligently?”

Largo was a little shocked by the question. No one had ever asked him anything like it before. “Yes, sir. Of course,” he said.

“Good. I thought so. Here are some forms for you to sign to make your promotion official,” said Branca. He handed Largo a stack of papers, then dropped a leather box about ten inches long on top. “And here is a new tool of your job. With luck, you’ll never need it.”

Largo took the papers to a nearby table, set them down, and picked up the box. Turning it over in his hands, he found a small brass lock. With just a little pressure it popped open. At first, Largo wasn’t sure what he was looking at. It was made of a dull gray metal. There were holes in it that were clearly meant for his fingers. He put them in and felt a sort of metal grip against his palm while the rounded loops over his knuckles were studded with spikes. He pulled the strange object the rest of the way out of the box. It was a knife. A trench knife from the war, with blood channels down the blade and brass knuckles over his hand. Largo looked at Herr Branca.

“Sir?”

His supervisor glanced at him. “You wear it in a harness under your coat,” he said. “Understand, with every job comes certain liabilities. Your promotion will bring you new respect and a larger salary. Unfortunately, it will also make you a target.”

“Oh,” Largo said. He hesitated for a moment, not liking the word target. However, he shook off the feeling and reached back into the box, pulling out a tangle of worn leather straps and clasps. The harness, he guessed. “I don’t know how to put it on.”

The old man nodded. “I’ll show you. Welcome to your future, Largo.”

Having Herr Branca strap him into the harness was an embarrassing experience. The couriers were all required to wear black suits and ties while making their deliveries. Years before, the company had given them a clothing allowance to make sure they remained clean and tidy on their rounds. However, the allowance had stopped during the war and never been reinstituted. Largo’s one suit was of cheap wool and barely thicker than paper. Worse, the seam had split along one side of the white shirt he’d worn that day, so it was held together with safety pins. To his credit and Largo’s relief, Branca said nothing about any of that as he wrapped the harness around the young man’s back and shoulders so that, with his jacket on, it and the knife were entirely invisible. Largo moved his shoulders and twisted this way and that, feeling tight and uncomfortable.

Branca said, “How does it feel?”

“Strange. But not bad. I’m sure I’ll get used to it quickly.”

“See that you do. Keep it on whenever you’re on your rounds. If I were you, I would also wear it coming to work and going home at night.”

Largo looked at Branca gravely. “Do you really think it’s that dire? I’ve traveled these streets all my life and except for places like Steel Downs and the docks, I’ve never felt myself to be in much danger.”

“Well, you are now. And not just from street bandits. There are young men in this very company that you need to keep an eye on.”

“You can’t mean that, sir. Who?”

Branca went back to his desk and pressed a button on the side, summoning a small Mara. “Andrzej. Weimer. They’re both convicted criminals. Did you know that?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Their convictions weren’t for violent offenses—otherwise the company wouldn’t have taken them on. But management likes to hire a few unfortunates every year as a show of good faith in the government’s rehabilitation efforts.”

Largo shrugged. “If they’re rehabilitated, then what’s the problem?”

Branca shook his head. “Largo, you can’t afford to be this naïve anymore. I said their convictions were for nonviolent crimes. God knows what else they did before they were arrested. Do you understand?”

“I think so,” Largo said, touching his elbow to the hilt of the knife under his coat. He didn’t like Andrzej or Weimer, but saying so might cause trouble. “Still, we’re all friends now. Of a sort.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Let’s hope that Dame Fortune smiles upon you and it remains that way.”

Largo didn’t say anything. It was a lot to take in all at once. A promotion. Herr Branca’s speaking so frankly to him. A lecture on the dangers all around him. Plus, he hadn’t had a dose of morphia since the previous night. A chill was building inside him and he was afraid that if he was stuck in the office for more than a few minutes, his hands might begin to shake.

Sure enough, Branca said, “You’re looking a bit pale. Are you all right?”

“Fine, sir. It’s just a lot to think about.”

“Think at lunch. Right now, you have your first delivery.” From the Mara, Branca took a wooden box about the size of the one that had held the knife and tossed it to Largo. “The address is on the parcel. You know the area, I believe?”

Largo checked a slip of paper affixed to the box with red wax. It was a street in Haxan Green. He drew in a breath, wondering if this was some kind of test. Unpleasant as he knew the delivery was going to be, he wasn’t going to let that stop him. “Yes. It’s at the far end of Pervitin Weg, where it crosses the canal.”

“Very good. Not the best part of town, but not bad for a first run in your new position.” Branca took a leather shoulder satchel and tossed that to Largo too. “Keep your new deliveries in that. It’s old and if you think the stains inside look like dried grease, they are. It’s the type of bag used by many of the workers at the armaments factory. A nondescript way to haul your cargo and perhaps save your hide. Do you have any questions before you go?”

“None,” said Largo. “Thank you again for the opportunity, sir.”

“Stop thanking me and stop saying ‘sir’ all the time. That’s for the others. Not the chief courier.”

Largo’s bones felt icy. He needed to get away. “All right,” he said, having to choke back a reflexive sir. “Before I go out, do I have time to use the toilet?”

Branca went back to doing paperwork. He didn’t look up when he spoke. “Use the toilet if you need to. Better now than being arrested for pissing into the canal.”

Largo put the box in the shoulder bag and started out. His hands were beginning to tremble.

“One more thing, Largo,” said Branca.

He stopped nervously midstride. “Yes, sir?”

“Your chum Parvulesco. Keep an eye on him too. He’s never been arrested, but he has a most colorful reputation.”

“Thank you. I’ll remember that,” said Largo before hurrying out of the office and down the hall to the employee toilets. Once inside, he locked himself in the farthest stall from the door. His cold hands shook as he pulled the bottle of morphia from an inside pocket of his jacket. Earlier, as Branca had taken it off him to fit the harness, he’d been nervous that his boss would discover the drug. Now Largo couldn’t care less. The only thing that mattered was the bottle.

He unscrewed it, drew a portion into the rubber stopper at the top, and squeezed three drops under his tongue. It was one more drop than usual, but these were dire circumstances and he needed the relief an extra drop would give him.

Within seconds, the blizzard inside him began to calm and he felt warm again. The muscles in his shoulders and back unknotted. The tension in his jaw eased so that he wasn’t tempted to grind his teeth, which, along with the shakes, was one of the sure giveaways of morphia addiction.

Not that any of that mattered now. His nervousness over the promotion and Branca’s paranoid warnings meant nothing. His stomach settled as his hunger pangs vanished. He felt wrapped in safety even as he thought again of the humiliation of staring hungrily at the sandwich in the street.

Never again.

Never.

Again.

Remy’s beautiful face swam into his head and he couldn’t help but close his eyes. Just for a second.

And drifted back to earlier that morning.

Remy was in bed, wrapped in a sheet. She turned the pages of a script with one hand and smoked a cigarette with the other. Largo was in the little kitchen of her flat making tea for them both. It was still dark outside. They hadn’t slept much the previous night.

While he waited for the water to boil, Largo took a step out of the kitchen and called to her. “Is there any cocaine left? I could use a bit to help me wake up.”

Remy glanced at the bedside table. “Not a speck.”

“Damn.” He leaned back against the wall. “It’s your fault for keeping me up so late.”

She didn’t look up from her script. “Yes, dear. I distinctly remember you saying how much you wanted to sleep as you took my clothes off.”

The teakettle whistled and Largo turned off the burner. “If only I could have found your pajamas, none of this would have happened.”

“Hush,” Remy called. “I need to learn this script.”

As the tea steeped, Largo went back into the bedroom and lay down next to her. “Please. You don’t need any time. You memorize those things in a flash.”

She stubbed out her cigarette. “You think so?”

He laid his head sleepily against her shoulder. “No question. It used to take you days. Now it seems like you have a new script in your head by the time you finish reading it.”

“I hadn’t really noticed.”

Largo yawned. “You learn the words and blocking faster and better than ever. Are you doing something different?”

Remy shook her head. “Nothing. But I’ve felt better since the doctor gave me a shot. Sharper. More clear-headed.”

“What kind of a shot was it? I could use one.”

“Vitamins, I think.”

As he went to check on the tea, Largo said, “You haven’t had one of your attacks in a while.”

“That’s a relief. Now leave me alone. I have to work.”

He poked his head out from the kitchen. “You’re quite sure there’s no more cocaine?”

Remy playfully tossed a pillow at him. “Finish making the tea and be happy I don’t push you out the window for interrupting my work.”

Largo froze in the doorway. “Work …”

He lurched to his feet in the bathroom stall, realizing he’d nodded off. He checked the address on the package one more time and left the building through the loading dock so that he didn’t have to pass Herr Branca’s office again. Promotion or not, he’d had enough of the old man’s scrutiny for one day.

Outside, the fog had begun to lift somewhat, but the sky was still gray under the smokestacks of the armaments factory. A light mist fell as Largo pedaled along Tombstrasse, making the air smell fresh and clean. With the welcome promotion, good air in his lungs, and morphia in his blood, Largo felt better than he had in days.




THE CITY. THE AIR. (#uee51e213-a568-55fa-9da5-f2b2cdc5d29f)


From Noble Aspirations and Hard Realities: Life in Lower Proszawa by Ralf Moessinger, author of High Proszawa: A Dream in Stone

A haze, perpetual and gray, hangs over much of Lower Proszawa, like a murder of crows frozen in flight. Below, the coal plants that dot the city smolder and roar, roiling black ribbons of soot into the atmosphere. There, they’re caught by the wind and distributed throughout the city. The dust settles everywhere, on the rich and poor alike. Of course, the wealthy have the means to sweep their streets clean, as if soot wouldn’t dare venture into their districts, griming the windows and tower rooms that overlook the roofs of the less fortunate.

But even the rich can’t entirely keep ahead of it. The dust invades homes, offices, and churches, drifting down chimneys, snaking through cracks in window frames and under doors. The outdoor cafés and markets that display fruits and bread in the open air employ troops of ragged children armed with horsehair brushes and dustpans to wipe every surface clean. They throw the soot into the sewers, where it mixes with the city’s waste and drifts out to sea in a black tide that stains the hulls of fishing boats and smuggler ships alike a uniform gray. People call the color “city silver” and laugh it off because what else is there to do?

Thus, the citizens of Lower Proszawa have learned to live with the dust, even be amused by it. Of course, in the postwar elation that’s gripped much of the city, almost everything is amusing. Besides, it rains frequently and when the clouds part, the streets are washed clean, if just for a day or two.

Rain or shine, however, the power plants are nothing compared to what truly fills the skyline. Dominating much of the city are the cluster of immense foundries and assembly lines that make up the armaments factory. Unlike the streets, it is never completely clean. The coal dust clings to its sides and roofs. When the rains fall, they leave strangely beautiful ebony streaks and rivulets down the exteriors of the buildings, making the factory look ancient—like a mountain range that has been rooted to the spot forever.

Districts such as Kromium and Empyrean are kept pristine by cleaners who work in clouds of filth. Ironically, in some ways these workers are the lucky ones. While they go about their jobs, the crews wear surplus gas masks left over from the war. That means that for a few hours every day, they breathe air cleaner and sweeter than that of even the wealthiest industrialist or banker. Still, not everybody has the means to cope with the gray air so easily. It is a particular problem in the Rauschgift district.

Among the people I interviewed for this piece, Frau Mila Weill’s story is typical of the area. She lives in a cramped apartment with her children and grandmother. Herr Weill died suddenly from the Drops a few months earlier, leaving Frau Weill as the sole breadwinner. There are many explanations for the Drops among the ignorant class in these poorer districts: that foreigners from the southern colonies put it in the food shipped north or that chimeras that gobble trash in the gutters spread it with a bite. Frau Weill saw her husband die in agonizing convulsions and wonders if that is her fate too. She has a chronic cough, which is typical in the area, and it has advanced to the point where there is often blood in the sputum. Unable or, perhaps, afraid to go to one of the city’s hospitals for the indigent, she relies on the advice of her grandmother. The old woman tries to comfort Frau Weill using the only tools she has: folk remedies from the ancient past. She assures Frau Weill that she merely has a “touch of Rote Lungen,” and that “thistle-root tea will clear that right up.”

Frau Weill wants to believe her grandmother, but no amount of tea helps her condition. Each day, the red marks on her handkerchief grow. During one of our interviews she confessed that she had thought about finding someone—anyone—to marry so that he would be obliged to care for her family after she was gone. (There was an awkward moment in that day’s discussion when I suspect she considered asking me.) Though she still uses her grandmother’s tea remedy, she continues to believe that her condition is really an early stage of the Drops. However, she has formulated her own theory: that the disease isn’t spread by foreigners or chimeras. Frau Weill believes that it comes from the very air.

Spurred on by what can be seen only as a new urban folk belief, one morning Frau Weill took some of the household money and attempted to buy a gas mask from one of the cleaners in Kromium. She says that he laughed in her face. To make matters worse, the conductor on a tram asked her to get off, as her coughing fits were disturbing the other passengers. Since then, she remains at home, waiting for what she believes is the inevitable. Frau Weill keeps a constant watch on her arms and legs, certain that someday soon the convulsions will come. As our final interview came to a close I once again had that sense that she was on the verge of proposing marriage, and I was obliged to leave more abruptly than is my normal fashion.

Whatever the truth is about Frau Weill’s condition, we must agree on one point—that the “city silver” air in Lower Proszawa is as much a defining characteristic of the place as prewar High Proszawa’s clear blue skies. While the high city was known for its universities, museums, and sprawling stone mansions, the swirling gray gusts of the low city represent progress, industry, and strength. And while those things might inconvenience some, the power plants that fuel the place and the armaments factory that keeps all of Proszawa prosperous and safe are national treasures every bit as much as the high city’s more traditional elegance.







CHAPTER TWO (#uee51e213-a568-55fa-9da5-f2b2cdc5d29f)


While the trip to Haxan Green had been fast and pleasant, his arrival in the old district was decidedly less so. Largo hadn’t been in the Green in years and the place was grimmer—and grimier—than he’d ever seen it.

The Green had once been a fashionable district where wealthy families from High and Lower Proszawa enjoyed their summers, spending many nights at the enormous fair at the end of a long pier. But the pier and fair had collapsed decades ago and were now nothing more than a pile of waterlogged timbers festooned with canal garbage and poisonous barnacles that killed wayward gulls.

The derelict homes that lined the broad streets had once sported gold-leaf roofs and sunny tower rooms that gave the inhabitants views of both the High and Lower cities. Now the buildings were rotting hulks, the gold leaf long gone and the roofs crudely patched with wood from even more run-down habitations. Most of the lower windows were blocked with yellowsheets and covered with metal bars from fallen fences. Few had any glass to speak of. The addresses of the old homes had all been chiseled away. This was by design rather than neglect, though. Only those acquainted with the district could find any specific dwelling. Fortunately, Largo knew the Green well.

He chained his bicycle to the charred skeleton of an old delivery Mara outside one of the tower blocks. Skinny, filthy children played war in the weed-strewn yard, throwing imaginary grenades of rocks and dirt clods at one another. The children stared at Largo for only a moment before going back to their game, but he knew their eyes were on him his whole way into the building. He checked his pocket to make sure he had a few coins so there wouldn’t be any trouble later.

He walked up three flights of stairs littered with stinking, overflowing trash cans and sleeping tenants too sick or drunk to make it all the way home. There were holes in the walls where old charging stations for Maras and wires that provided light for the halls had been torn out, the copper almost certainly sold to various scrap yards along the canal.

Without numbers identifying the individual flats anymore, this could have been a difficult delivery, but through long practice, Largo knew how the apartments were laid out—even numbers on the north, odd on the south—so he found his destination without trouble.

Out of habit, Largo straightened his tie before knocking on the door of the flat, then felt foolish for it. A straight tie was the last thing that would impress Green residents; it might, in fact, make them hostile. But it was too late now. He’d already knocked.

A moment later an unshaven man wearing small wire-rimmed glasses opened the door a crack, leaving the lock chain across the gap. “Who the fuck are you?” he said.

Largo took the box from his shoulder bag and said, “Delivery,” in a flat, indifferent voice. Saying anything more might invite suspicion. Speaking any other way definitely would.

The unshaven man tilted his head, taking in Largo and the box. His hair was gray and thin. There were scabs on his forehead near his hairline. It looked like he’d been picking at them. “Where’s the other one?” he said.

It took Largo a second to understand that the man meant König. He shook his head. “He doesn’t work there anymore. It’s just me now.”

“Huh,” said the man. “You’re a bit pretty for this neck of the woods.”

Largo straightened, feeling the knife under his jacket. His sense for the mores of the old neighborhood was coming back to him—as was his hatred for them. He knew what would come next from the scabby man and how he was supposed to respond, and the cheap game brought back frightening childhood memories. He said, “Fuck off, my fine brother. I grew up by the canal on Berber Lane.”

“Did you now? You’ve cleaned up since then.”

“My compliments to your spectacles.” Largo loathed the ritual posturing of the Green, and he’d hoped never to have to do it again. Yet his promotion had brought him straight back to this awful place. It wasn’t an auspicious beginning for the new position. He pressed on, holding up the little box and waggling it up and down. “Do you want it or not? I don’t have all day.”

The man was starting to say something else when a piercing scream came from somewhere in the flat. “Wait here,” he said, and closed the door. Standing in the hall, Largo heard more screams through the door. Questions and images flowed through his head. Had the scabby man kidnapped someone? Was someone—a woman, he was sure it was a woman—being beaten in another room? Or was she dying in childbirth? The next scream wasn’t just a wail, there were words: “Now! Now! Now! Now!” Largo dug his heel into a splintered part of the floor as it dawned on him that he recognized the screams.

It was someone deep in the throes of morphia withdrawal.

He looked at the box. There weren’t any markings to indicate its origin. He wondered if it was medication from a hospital. He was sure Herr Branca wouldn’t send him out on his first delivery with something illicit. It must be medicine, he told himself.

A second later, the flat’s door opened again. The man stuck out a grimy-black hand and grabbed for the box. “Give it to me.”

Largo took a step back out of his reach. He got the pad and pencil from his bag. “You have to sign for it,” he said.

The man’s hand dropped a few inches. “Please. I need it now.”

“Not until you sign.” Largo knew the rules of the Green. If he backed down now it would be a sign of weakness, and if anyone was watching the exchange it would put him in danger. He gave the man a hard look even as he felt a few beads of perspiration on his forehead.

“Wait,” said the scabby man. He closed the door for a moment and when he opened it again there was a pile of coins in his hand, including two small gold ones. “Take it.”

“Are you trying to bribe me?” he said, a little surprised by the offer.

There was another scream from the flat. Largo felt like a heel for continuing to play the game, but he knew he had to.

“It’s a tip,” said the man. “For your trouble and my earlier rudeness. Only you have to sign the form.”

Largo looked at the money. Whether it was a bribe or a tip, it was the largest amount of money anyone had ever offered him for a delivery.

There was another scream, this one more violent than the others. Largo grabbed the coins from the man’s hand and gave him the package. “Good luck,” he said, but the man had already slammed the door shut. Largo put the coins in his pocket and looked at the delivery form. There was no name on it, just the address.

Perfect. My first delivery as chief courier and I’ve already committed an offense that could get me fired.

With no other choice in the matter, Largo signed the form Franz Negovan, the name of a boy he’d known growing up in the Green. He was anxious and angry as he left the building, thinking that if all of his deliveries were like this, he wouldn’t last long as chief courier.

Downstairs, as he expected, the children who’d been playing war earlier were clustered around his bicycle. A dirty blond girl of about ten sat on the seat and looked at him with eyes that were forty years older and harder.

“We watched it for you,” she said. “Made sure nothing bad happened to it.”

Largo had been through similar shakedowns before and had known this other ritual of the Green was coming. When he’d been in similar situations as a child, when he’d had little to give or trade, the result was usually a beating or his running as fast as he could—and his bicycle being stolen or destroyed. These were only children, but in the Green, age didn’t mitigate danger. Fortunately, now things were different. He hoped.

He reached into his pants pocket and came up with some of the coins he’d brought from home and a few from the gray-haired man—all silver. He’d put the gold ones in his jacket. He said, “And you did an excellent job, I see. Here’s something for your trouble.”

The girl accepted the coins and counted them carefully. When she was done she nodded to the other kids and hopped off Largo’s bicycle. As soon as they were across the yard, the girl distributed the money to the other children and the war game resumed without missing a beat. Largo unchained his bicycle, dropped the lock into his shoulder bag, and pedaled slowly back down the route he’d taken earlier. As much as he wanted to speed away from the misery and memories of the Green, he kept to a moderate pace. To go faster was something else that he knew would show weakness. There were many unspoken but universally understood rules in the district, and he’d learned them all the hard way. The one odd thought that struck him as he pedaled away was that if, as a younger man, he hadn’t left Haxan Green, a hard-eyed little girl like the one at the tower block could have been his daughter. It made him think of his own family.

Largo had grown up with his parents in a decaying mansion by the canal. His father had a wagon and a sick horse that he’d probably bought under the table from an army stable. Father rode the wagon all over Lower Proszawa looking for scrap to sell and, like Largo, making the occasional delivery. Largo’s mother panhandled and picked pockets in the street markets around the Green. Largo had been a pale, scrawny child, and his parents had been very protective of him. Maybe too much, he thought now. He was always cautious and nervous around confrontations. Even his encounter with the scabby man, as well as he’d handled it, left him feeling slightly ill, which was humiliating.

Because no one had been home during the day to take care of him, Largo went with his father on his rounds. His mother worried about taking a small boy to some districts even more dangerous than Haxan Green—kidnappings were frequent and children were often sold off to fishing ships along the bay or pimps in the city. To protect the boy during his rounds, his father put him in a wooden crate up front in the wagon. It was through the air holes in the side of the crate that Largo first learned Lower Proszawa’s winding streets and alleys.

Later, he would become an expert while running from gangs wielding chains and knives or bullocks looking for his parents. Of course, he’d never admitted any of this to Remy. It was too embarassing. Besides, she talked as little about her family as Largo did about his, and it made him wonder if she had secrets too.

On his way back to the office, Largo was delayed by a caravan of double-decker party Autobuses. The city’s merrymakers always grew more boisterous in the days before the anniversary of the end of the Great War. Buses and street parties were some of the few places where the upper and lower classes mingled easily because each had the same goal—a gleeful obliteration.

When Largo returned to the courier office, Herr Branca was waiting for him.

“And how was your first foray into new territories?”

“Excellent. It went very well,” Largo said.

Branca glanced up from his paperwork. “I’m glad to hear that. König was seldom so cheerful when returning from Haxan Green.”

Largo smiled but wasn’t sure it was entirely convincing. “That’s too bad. As for me, I found the building, delivered the parcel, and made my way back without any problems.”

“Good. And there was no trouble with the client?”

Largo’s stomach fluttered for a moment as he thought of the forged receipt. “None, sir. Our meeting was both cordial and efficient.”

Branca chuckled. “Efficient. Again, something I’ve not heard about the Green before,” he said. Then he became more serious. “Tell me about the client. What was he like?”

The question took Largo by surprise. Herr Branca had never asked him about a client before, let alone one as peculiar as the gray-haired man. “He was just a man. An old man with gray hair and spectacles.”

“How did he appear to you?”

“Sir?”

“Was he in good health? Happy? Apprehensive? Was there anyone with him?”

Largo considered how best to answer the question. “He was surprised that I wasn’t König, but when I explained that he had moved on—I didn’t mention the bullocks, sorry, the police. After that he accepted the package without incident.”

Branca looked Largo up and down. “And was there anyone with him?”

“Yes.”

“A man or woman?”

“I’m not sure. I think a woman. But the person was in another room and I couldn’t see.”

“Of course,” Branca said, and Largo wondered what that meant. He started to say something but Branca cut him off.

“What was his condition? Dirty? Clean? Did you see his hands?”

“No. I didn’t see his hands.” But he recalled that that wasn’t true. The gray-haired man had tried to grab the parcel. “Well, I did. But only for a moment.”

Branca scribbled something on his papers. “Were his hands dirty, by any chance, especially the fingers?”

Largo thought about it. “I suppose they were, a bit. His fingers, I mean. A bit black.”

Branca held out his hand. “Let me have your receipt book.”

Largo handed it to him nervously.

His supervisor looked at the signed form for a long time. “And this is his signature?”

Quietly, Largo said, “Yes, sir.”

“I don’t see any smudges or dirt. Anything to indicate his dirty fingers. You’re sure they were blackened?”

Largo nodded. “Yes,” he said, then quickly added, “I held the book for him. He didn’t touch it. I’m sorry if that was against procedure.”

Branca tore the signed page out of the book and put it with the papers on his desk. Then he put the book in a drawer. “Not against procedure at all, Largo. However, in the future it would be best if the client was in possession of the book when they signed it. Please remember that.”

“Of course. I will,” said Largo, relaxing a little. It seemed that Branca’s preoccupation with procedure had kept him from examining the signature closely enough to recognize Largo’s handwriting. But he couldn’t help being curious. “If I may ask, sir, was this client special?”

“How do you mean?” said Branca, leaning casually on his desk.

“I mean, will I be questioned like this after each client? It’s no bother, you understand. I just want to know if I should pay special attention to them.”

“It’s always good to pay attention to clients,” Branca said, distant and officious, “especially for a chief courier. And no, I won’t interrogate you like this after each delivery. However, this was your first in your new position, so I thought it best to go over it carefully.”

“I hope I performed satisfactorily,” Largo said, hating himself because it sounded like groveling—and he had been sounding like that the whole day. Still, his position was tenuous enough that it seemed better to err on the side of caution, especially with Branca, who had dismissed other couriers as if swatting a fly.

“You did fine. But from time to time I’ll be asking you about other clients. A new procedure from management. Quality control and all that. They may wish to conduct interviews with some of them to see that we’re staying on our toes. I’m sure you understand.”

“I’ll make sure to pay more attention,” said Largo.

“Very good.” Branca gave Largo a new receipt book, then pressed the button on his desk that called a Mara. It brought out a large green folder that looked as if it might contain papers. “The address is on the front. You’ll find this delivery a bit less colorful and more posh than your last one. The Kromium district. Do you know it?”

“Very well.”

“Good. Herr Heller is an important client, so get there quickly. After this delivery you may go to lunch. And take your time. As chief courier you get a full forty-five minutes. Do you know why regular couriers only get thirty?”

“Because we, I mean they, are in such demand during working hours?”

Branca shook his head. “It’s to keep them from drinking too much and getting into trouble. It’s assumed that there will be no problems like that from the chief courier.”

“No, sir. I never drink on the job.” Largo wondered if Branca had caught sight of the morphia bottle in his jacket.

“Very good. I myself am accorded the luxury of sixty minutes for lunch. See? You and I are more and more alike.”

Oh god. What a miserable thought.

“I’ll do my best to live up to the company’s standards.”

Branca waved his pen at him. “Get going. I have papers to deal with,” he said. “Oh—and Largo? There’s no need to sneak out the back this time. The door you came in through is the shortest way out.”

Largo hurried away, surer than ever that Branca knew his secret. But if he did, why would he have given him the promotion, and why would he cover for him now? It didn’t make sense. In any case, there was nothing he could do about it right then. He’d just do his job, and sort this out when he had time. He thought then about Rainer Foxx. His friend was older and understood more about the real world than Largo felt he ever would. He sometimes imagined what life might have been like if Rainer had been his brother back in the Green. Maybe he wouldn’t have grown so afraid all the time.

He’ll know what to do. I have to talk to him soon.

Largo checked the address on the envelope, stuffed it into his shoulder bag, and pedaled away from the office as quickly as his legs would carry him.

Of course, Herr Branca had been right about the Kromium district. Its bright, wide streets, quaint cafés, art galleries, and cinema gave the place an open and pleasant atmosphere—the exact opposite of Haxan Green. Largo thought that if all his deliveries were to districts so violently in opposition to each other he might suffer whiplash.

The streets in Kromium were named for various metals, and the deeper you traveled into the district, the more valuable they became. They began at Boron Prachtstrasse, then Tin, Copper, and Iron. Alloys such as Bronze and Steel crossed the pure metal streets. The address Largo was looking for wasn’t among the loftiest metals such as Platinum, Osmium, and Iridium. However, it was still quite respectable and, he thought, it had a much more poetic ring to it than the more precious streets.

The Heller mansion stood near the corner of Electrum and Gold. Largo leaned his bicycle against a wrought iron gate twisted into elegant nouveau curls. He didn’t bother locking the bicycle this time. With luck, he wouldn’t have to worry about that again for quite a while.

The mansion’s front door was decorated with a sunburst made from a dozen precious metals. Even under the overcast sky, it shone brightly. Like many doors in the district, this one was solid steel—not for security reasons, but to keep within the aesthetics of the neighborhood. Rather than rap on the thick metal door with his bare knuckles, Largo used the gleaming rose-colored knocker. It was heavy and slightly dented on the underside. Gold, he thought.

I wonder how long that would last in the Green?

A moment later, a maid in black brocade and a small white bonnet answered the door. Before Largo could have her sign for the envelope he heard a woman’s voice from behind her. “Who is it, Nora?”

“A courier, madam. With a package for Herr Heller.”

A moment later, an elegant red-headed woman in an arsenicgreen gown appeared beside the maid. “I’ll deal with it, thank you,” she said. The maid curtsied and disappeared into the house.

A mechanical din boomed from the street as a driverless juggernaut rolled down the prachtstrasse. It was festooned with flags and large photochromes of the war dead. Patriotic music blared from speakers mounted on the front and sides of the juggernaut and the songs echoed off the buildings as it passed.

Frau Heller made a face at the behemoth. “Those things clatter by day and night. Of course, we all supported the war. I, myself, lost a cousin in the trenches of High Proszawa. But must we be reminded of the unpleasantness at all hours?” She looked at Largo.

He shook his head in agreement. “No, madam. It seems like a great inconvenience.”

“Do these dismal little parades go through your neighborhood too?”

“No. I’ve seen them in the Triumphal Square and some of the business districts, but not where I live.”

“You’re a lucky young man,” said Frau Heller. When she turned back to Largo her radiant smile faltered for a second, then recomposed itself. “What an interesting jacket,” she said. “Wool, is it?”

Largo was tired of clients commenting on how he looked, but he smiled back at the woman. “Yes, madam. Very comfortable on cool, gray days like this.”

“You have a lighter one for the summer, then?”

“Well, no, but with my new position—”

“Silk,” she said, cutting him off. “You’d look much better in silk than wool.”

“I’m not sure I can afford silk, madam. But thank you for the suggestion.”

“Try one of the secondhand shops along Tin and Pinchbeck. Some of the servants’ families sell their clothes when a family member dies. I’m told there are some wonderful bargains.”

Largo looked at Frau Heller, trying to grasp her meaning. At least in the Green he knew when he was being tested, but here he wasn’t sure if he was being mocked or given what this woman thought was truly useful advice. However, it wasn’t his place to ask or be offended by anything a client said, so he replied, “That’s most helpful of you. I’ll be sure to stop by very soon.”

“Here, this might get you started on your way to manly splendor,” said Frau Heller. She plucked the envelope from his hand and laid a gold Saint Valda coin on his palm, equal to almost a week’s wages.

“Madam, I couldn’t,” he said.

“Of course you can and you will. What’s your name?”

“Largo. Largo Moorden.”

She looked him up and down and smiled. “You’re a handsome young man, but I don’t want to see you here in wool again, Largo. You’ll frighten the neighbors.” She laughed as she signed his receipt book. Once she’d handed it back, her eyes shifted to a place over Largo’s shoulder and she frowned. “Oh dear.”

He turned to look and saw a small group of Iron Dandies in the street. They often followed the patriotic juggernauts, carrying small flags and begging.

Frau Heller called one of them forward and handed him a few coins, though they totaled less than she’d given Largo.

“Thank you, lovely lady,” said the man in a grating, tinny voice through a small speaker embedded in his scarred throat.

“You’re very welcome,” said Frau Heller. “God bless you for your service.”

She watched as the ragged procession of wounded soldiers continued on, limping and swaying on crutches behind the juggernaut. Without looking at him she said, “Were you in the war, Herr Moorden?”

Largo wasn’t used to being addressed so formally. However, he had a lie prepared for just such occasions. “I’m afraid not. You see, my elderly mother was quite sick at the time—”

“Ah. Your mother. Quite understandable,” said Frau Heller, cutting him off again. “I only ask because my husband is one of the heads of the armaments company, and I wondered if you might have used one of his creations.”

Largo became nervous. Most people stopped asking questions after he mentioned his mother, and he didn’t have many lies prepared to follow up. “No, I’m afraid I didn’t have the honor in this war.”

Frau Heller laughed lightly. “Perhaps you will in the next one, then.”

The next one?

Largo felt a little jolt of panic. There were always rumors of war in the north, but did Frau Heller know something? He ached to ask her, but knew to keep his mouth shut.

“Don’t be a stranger, Herr Moorden,” said Frau Heller, and she gave him a wink.

Not quite sure how to respond, Largo smiled and put the Valda in his jacket pocket with the other gold coins. He wasn’t sure exactly what had just happened, whether Frau Heller had flirted with him or insulted him. However, he now knew he had a price for any similar future encounters.

One gold Valda and you can say anything you like.

As he got on his bicycle he laughed, thinking how odd the wealthy were, understandable only to themselves and others of their particular species.

Riding out of Kromium, he turned and pedaled past the secondhand shops at Tin Fahrspur. The encounter with Madam Heller had been interesting, but not enough to convince him to spend his newfound wealth on a coat to please a woman he’d probably never see again.

The sky darkened and a light rain fell on his way back to the office. Along Great Granate, one of the city’s new automaton trams slid by silently, guided by magnetic rails laid beneath the paving stones. Largo grabbed a protruding light fixture on the rear of the tram and let it pull him all the way to the Great Triumphal Square. There, Largo used some of his remaining silver coins to buy a steak pie from the bakery he’d passed earlier that day. None of the other couriers ate lunch in this part of the plaza and that was fine by him. His new deliveries had put him in a peculiar mood.

He ate his steak pie, wondering if his parents had ever tasted steak in their whole lives.

When he’d been a boy riding in the crate in the scrap wagon, his father had sometimes told him about his adventures scavenging the city for goods to sell. One story that always amused Largo was that he would sometimes steal scrap from one foundry, drive it across town to sell to another, then steal it back in the night and resell it to the first. His father always laughed when he talked about it, and, in his little box, Largo laughed too.

What Largo’s father never talked about were his special deliveries. They could happen any time of the day or night and anywhere in Lower Proszawa. Over his mother’s objections, his father insisted that Largo come with him on the special trips because, he said, “The city at night and the city during the day are different beasts and you need to make friends with them both.” There was one particular delivery that Largo never forgot, no matter how much he drank or how much morphia he took.

It had been late afternoon along Jubiläum, a long way up the stinking canal. There was a small crowd buying fish and meat from the moored boats. Soon after they arrived, Largo’s father had handed an envelope—not unlike the one Largo had just given to Frau Heller—to a man dressed in much finer clothes than Largo normally saw in the district. Once his father had turned over the envelope, though, he and the well-dressed man got into an argument. His father shouted something about being cheated out of his payment and when he grabbed the envelope back, a group of other men, who had been lounging on cargo crates nearby, rushed him. A scuffle broke out. Unlike scrawny Largo, his father had been tall and strong and he knocked two of the men down without any trouble. But three others were on him like a pack of dogs. Before Largo understood what was happening, he saw a flash of silver. The men ran away and his father lay on the ground bleeding from a knife wound in his side. Largo cried for help, but the people in the crowd just stood and stared before going about their business.

Later, Largo’s friend Heinrich said that the knife had probably pierced his father’s lung. It took what seemed like hours for him to die, and the whole time he wheezed and gasped like a fish suffocating on the banks of the canal at low tide.

No one called the police because that wasn’t done in the Green. People brought his mother back from the market and she took Largo home to their squat. Neighbors buried his father in the garden of a stately home that was once one of Lower Proszawa’s more elegant brothels, but that was the end of the community’s involvement.

His mother seldom let him out of her sight after that. She taught him to keep quiet and not upset people. At first, Largo, who’d felt so free by his father’s side, fought with his mother about being locked in the house. He felt more confined there than he’d ever felt in the small crate on the wagon. One afternoon, while his mother was at the market, he’d sneaked out of the house.

It was winter and his breath steamed in the damp air. Largo ran to find Heinrich, who, he knew, would be by the stables, where the children often played. When he arrived, Largo found Heinrich surrounded by a gang of older boys from the Green. Largo crouched behind one of the stable doors so they wouldn’t see him, and was frozen there as the scene reminded him of the same one his father had endured. One of the gang demanded that Heinrich give them his heavy winter coat, and after some shoving and punching, he did it. Once they had the coat, he tried to run, but one of the boys hit him with a chain. He continued to beat Heinrich as the other boys kicked and hit him with pipes they’d hidden under their clothes. Once the gang had run off—and only then—had Largo crept from the stable to his friend’s side.

Heinrich lay in a pool of sticky blood. There was a crack in his forehead where part of his skull had caved in. Largo shook him and, stupidly, yelled his name. Across the road from the stables was a stand of withered trees, and the gang that had beaten Heinrich had been there, well within earshot. They came racing out, heading straight for him. Though Largo was small, he’d always been a fast runner. He darted away from the stables into Haxan Green’s back alleys and side roads. The boys chased him for what seemed like hours, but Largo kept ahead of them, ducking through basements, out through coal chutes, and doubling back on himself through the complex web of streets.

The sun had been going down when he finally managed to get home. Luckily, his mother hadn’t returned from the market yet. One of Largo’s chores in the evening was to start a fire in the old cast-iron oven so that she could cook them whatever she’d stolen that day. Instead, Largo hid in his room scouring Heinrich’s blood off his hands in a washbasin. After that, he didn’t fight when his mother told him to stay inside. He instead spent his time with old maps of Lower Proszawa he found in the attic, tracing the routes he’d taken on rides with his father and learning by heart the layout of the brilliant city, formulizing his paths of escape but also dreaming of life on those other streets.

After lunch, Herr Branca didn’t question him about the delivery in Kromium. He simply gave Largo another assignment right away in one of the few parts of town Largo didn’t know well—Empyrean.

It was one thing for a young man in shabby clothes to ride through Kromium without attracting too much attention. After all, that district wasn’t just for stuck-up bluenoses. It housed famous artists among the higher metals, along with scandalous bohemians within the lower alloys. Empyrean was different. Many of the best families from High Proszawa had migrated there during the early days of the war. It was a neighborhood of marble palaces, gleaming steel towers, and luxury flats in high-rises with facades of emerald and vermilion bricks imported from halfway around the world. At night they glowed brighter than the moon, and the people inside shone down on the rest of the city even brighter.

It was to one of those glowing buildings that Largo brought his last delivery of the day. At first, the uniformed doorman didn’t want to let him into the building and even tried to take the package away from him. When Largo wouldn’t let him, he threatened to call the police.

“Please don’t do that,” said Largo reflexively.

The doorman continued to stare at him. “Let me see your identity papers,” he said.

Largo took them out and reluctantly handed them to the man. He hated himself for doing it, but this was Empyrean, not Haxan Green. I can’t just bluff my way through this. If the police came, he knew that it would be a scandal for the company. He might get demoted for it, or even fired.

The doorman made a great show of studying Largo’s face and comparing it to the photochrome on his papers. Eventually the doorman said, “I’ll need to speak to your superior to allow you into the building.”

Feeling deflated, Largo grudgingly gave him Herr Branca’s caller number at the courier company. The doorman went into the lobby and picked up a gold-and-sky-blue enameled Trefle. It looked a little like a candlestick with a mouthpiece at the top. Twin listening pieces were attached to the base with thick green wire. It took him a full minute to get an operator to put the call through, and then it took several minutes more for Herr Branca to convince him that the “cheeky scarecrow” with a box under his arm was a legitimate courier. Finally, the doorman relented and let Largo inside.

“Go up to floor fifteen and come right back down again,” said the doorman. “I’ll be timing you. Take too long and no voice on a Trefle will save you from the bullocks.”

Largo wanted to say a lot of things to the doorman, but he knew that the call already guaranteed him a dressing-down by Branca, so there was nothing he could do about the officious prick at the door, the bullocks—any of it.

The lift he rode up in was larger than his flat, and with its crystal chandelier, golden fixtures, and pearl floor buttons, more opulent than most of even the well-off homes he often delivered to.

On the fifteenth floor he knocked on the door, hoping desperately that whoever opened it wouldn’t be as chatty as the gray-haired man or Frau Heller.

Largo got what he wished for.

When the door opened, he took out his receipt book, hoping to get business over with quickly with a servant. What greeted him instead was an elegant Mara. It was almost as tall as he was and decorated with silver and bright gems, by far the most spectacular Mara he’d ever seen. “May I help you?” it said.

The voice startled Largo. When most Maras spoke, the sound was small and tinny, but this Mara’s speech was soft and melodious. He pressed the parcel and receipt book forward.

“Delivery,” he said.

The Mara bent slightly, its eye lenses adjusting to take in Largo and what he carried. After only a few seconds’ hesitation, the Mara took the box and set it down gracefully on a nearby table. Yellowsheet scandal tabloids were piled high there and a few had fallen to the floor. A week’s worth of papers, at least. From another room, Largo heard laughter and music swelling from an amplified gramophone. The residents of the flat were having a party. He looked back at the pile of yellowsheets.

Has it really been going on for a week? Is that even possible?

As his pondered this, the Mara came back and held out its hands for the receipt book. He handed it to the machine without looking at its face. That was the most disturbing thing about the situation. The owners had placed a steel-and-leather mask on the Mara’s head, the kind worn by Iron Dandies. Largo didn’t think he could loathe Maras more, yet here he was staring at this monstrosity. He wondered how the owners had obtained the mask and what had happened to the Dandy who’d lost it. He thought of Rainer and wanted to snatch the mask off the automaton but knew that it would guarantee a beating from the police when the doorman called them. In the end, he took back his book and the Mara slammed the door in his face.

While waiting for the lift, Largo saw something he’d missed on his way up. Set into the wall was a large fish tank holding a colorful variety of chimeras—custom-made mutant creatures favored as work animals by the municipal services and pets by the well-heeled of Lower Proszawa.

Speckled black-and-white eels covered with long spines wriggled among a school of transparent bat-like fish. A pink lizard thing pulled itself across the bottom of the tank with bright red tentacles. Largo tapped the glass lightly with a fingernail. Ever since childhood, when a pack of wild hound-like chimeras had terrorized Haxan Green, he’d been fascinated by the strange creatures.

A gray starfish lifted from the bottom of the tank and affixed itself to the glass directly in front of him. As he leaned in close to get a better look, the starfish twisted its limbs and torso into a startlingly accurate imitation of Largo’s face. As he watched, the pink lizard crept up from behind and attacked it, dragging the twitching starfish to the bottom with its red tentacles and devouring it. Largo pulled back in shock. He shook his head—that was the one thing he could never understand about so many chimeras. If people could make them in any shape and with any temperament, why were they so often ugly and savage?

I would make only beautiful ones.

Pieces of the dead starfish floated to the top of the tank.

On his way out of the building, the doorman wanted to check Largo’s pockets to see if he’d stolen anything. Despite being afraid for his job, this was too much. When the doorman reached for him, Largo shoved him back against the building and jumped onto his bicycle. As he pedaled away, he was sure he could hear the doorman cursing him all the way out of Empyrean. He couldn’t help but smile.




THE SECRET FETE (#uee51e213-a568-55fa-9da5-f2b2cdc5d29f)


From A Popular History of the Proszawan Underworld by Stefan Kreuz

Der Grandiose Kanzler had been an elegant establishment before the war, serving some of the finest food and wine in Lower Proszawa. However, it had fallen on hard times and closed for good after the owner embezzled the remaining funds and eloped with one of the serving girls. A series of lawsuits kept the place shuttered since then.

But not out of business.

Now dubbed Der Fliegende Schwanz, it was a thriving speakeasy on the edge of the Pappen district, where it served the best bootleg whiskey, cocaine, and morphia in the city. Der Fliegende Schwanz was mainly a working-class establishment, but members of the gentry would sometimes visit when they were in the mood to slum for an evening. They were always welcomed with open arms because they had better pockets to pick than the usual rabble.

The bar was a merry place most nights, fueled by drugs and the ubiquitous postwar delirium. It was a gathering spot for war veterans, workers from the armaments factory, laborers from the docks, and prostitutes to drink, tell stories, and make love in the bar’s immense but empty wine cellar. Musicians played for coins all day and night. There was dancing and laughter, but seldom any fights, which was unusual for an underground saloon, with its heady mix of alcohol, drugs, and sex. Perhaps the reason the bar sidestepped so much random violence was a special sort of entertainment it offered its patrons.

A makeshift ring stood at the center of Der Fliegende Schwanz. At the top of each hour two or more Maras—freshly stolen, their functionality modified—fought gladiatorial battles to the death. Most of the purloined Maras came from bluenose families in the city’s most expensive districts, so watching them beat each other with clubs was doubly entertaining. Bookies took bets on the battles and liquor sales always went up because the winners bought the losers a round and the losers bought even more rounds to soothe their aching egos. And the music never stopped. Neither did the laughter, the lovemaking, or the drip of morphia under happy tongues.

Around midnight each night, everything in the bar stopped and the patrons sang obscene, drunken versions of patriotic songs. Many of the men were veterans and had fought in High Proszawa, so after the singing they played a game in which they spat streams of alcohol at photochromes of the Chancellor and the Minister of War nailed to the wall. The players stood behind a line on the floor and the one who came closest or hit the chromes the longest drank free for the rest of the night.

Der Fliegende Schwanz never closed. The party never stopped. The delight never ebbed. Every night was a holiday and every morning a feast. And if, on some nights, the crowds got a bit out of control during the Mara fights and started breaking bottles and glasses, who cared? Like the Maras, they were stolen. Everything was fun and nothing mattered because everyone knew that sooner or later the cannons would boom again and nothing would be fun and everything would matter.

Until then, there was always time for one more drink or one more kiss or one more drop under the tongue.




CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_2c10aca6-f281-5dbf-93be-ef44bdf9d09d)


When Largo returned to work, Herr Branca showed some compassion by not bringing up the call from the doorman immediately. His only acknowledgment came when Largo turned in his receipt book. Branca said, “We’re going to have to do something about your appearance.”

Largo touched his rain-soaked suit and looked at Branca. “Sir?”

“Your clothes. We can’t have the chief courier roaming the streets looking as if he’s just escaped the penitentiary, can we?”

“No. I suppose not.”

“Good. I’m delighted that you approve.”

“But I didn’t think my clothes were that bad.”

Branca filled in some figures on a form. “What you think about these matters doesn’t concern the company.”

“Of course,” said Largo, feeling like a prize pig on the auction block. “I didn’t mean to overstep.”

“Never mind. I’ve arranged that you will soon receive a certain sum of money with which you will purchase clothes and shoes that look a bit less like you stole them from a … what was the word the caller used?”

“Scarecrow?”

“Yes, that’s it. As you saw today, some districts don’t appreciate the working classes begriming their streets. Arrogant bastards. When you’ve acquired your new wardrobe, I’ll want to see it. Under no circumstances will you wear the clothes except on company business. Is that understood?”

“Completely.” Though both knew full well that he was lying.

“Good. Now to the important part. Seeing as how you’re an adult apparently capable of feeding and bathing yourself, please tell me that there is no need for me to accompany you on this excursion.”

Quickly, Largo said, “No, sir. Not necessary at all.” The thought of Herr Branca hovering around him as he tried on pants was horrifying. He remembered what Frau Heller had said. “I even know where to go.”

“Thank heavens. It’s the little mercies that help us sleep at night, don’t you agree?”

“Entirely,” said Largo, not quite certain what he was agreeing with.

“That will be all today. I’ll see you tomorrow promptly at six, yes?”

“On the dot, sir.”

“Very good. And you’re still saying ‘sir’ too much. Work on that.”

“I will,” he said, once more having to choke back the word sir and happy that he managed it.

When he left the office, he saw some of the other couriers gathered around the loading dock, smoking and talking. Weimer passed around a flask, making a great show of it that he wasn’t letting Parvulesco have a drink. Andrzej was the first to notice Largo approaching. “If it isn’t the Lord High Chancellor himself,” he said. “Good evening, Your Lordship. How lovely of you to grace us with your presence.”

A few of the other couriers laughed. Others just glared at Largo. He’d been through enough for one day and wondered if he could leave through the back exit and avoid Andrzej’s nonsense. However, he’d already been called out in front of the couriers and knew there would be trouble if he didn’t answer in kind. There was nothing to do but speak as if he were still in the Green. “What’s up your ass, my fine brother?”

“You. You’re what’s up my ass,” Andrzej said coldly. He was five years older and a head taller than any of the other couriers. “König isn’t gone a day and you’re in there mincing around with high and mighty Branca, trying to steal his job.”

“I didn’t steal anything. When Branca gave me the job I was as surprised as anyone. I was even late this morning, for shit’s sake.”

Parvulesco grabbed Weimer’s flask, took a quick drink, and tossed it back to him. Weimer, whose right arm was a simple wood-and-steel prosthetic, fumbled with it in the air and finally dropped it. He claimed to have lost his real arm in the early days of the war, but no one believed him. When asked where he had served, he could never name the same company or regiment twice. Plus, he didn’t have a Red Eagle medal, something all wounded soldiers received. Worse, while drunk one night, Andrzej had told the others that someone else’s name was carved into the underside of the prosthetic, all but saying that Weimer had stolen it. It had been an amusing story at the time, but Largo had never trusted either of them since.

“König is going to kick the guts out of you when he gets back,” Andrzej said. “We’ve all seen you brown-nosing Branca. He’ll know you stabbed him in the back.”

“Like Weimer knows you told us about his arm?”

Weimer lowered the flask. “What did he tell you?”

“Nothing,” said Andrzej. Then to Largo, “Shut up.”

Largo wondered if this was why Branca had warned him that morning. The problem was that if he was attacked, he knew he couldn’t use the knife. It would be his word against Andrzej’s and he wasn’t sure how many of the other couriers would side with him against the bully. Besides, he had to admit that after today, more than ever, he was afraid for both his safety and his job. Still, Largo was pleased by the image of Andrzej on the business end of his brass knuckles, even if he knew that he couldn’t do anything but reflect the bastard’s arrogance back at him.

Luckily, he didn’t even have to do that.

“Fuck off, you loudmouth,” said Parvulesco. “You would have taken the job and laughed in König’s face when he got back. Besides, from what I hear, König won’t be coming back any time soon.”

“What do you mean?” said Weimer. “Where is he?”

“Yeah. Where?” said Andrzej.

Parvulesco dropped the butt of his cigarette and crushed it with his boot. “From what I hear, and unlike certain people who like to play at being tough, König has joined the army to fight the northern hordes.”

No one said anything at first. Then Andrzej made a disgusted face at Parvulesco. “You’re a liar and just as much Branca’s whore as Frau Moorden over there.”

Parvulesco lit another cigarette … and then casually flicked it so that it bounced off Andrzej’s cheek.

The big man screamed and danced back, batting at his face. Largo and the other couriers laughed. When Andrzej regained his composure, he charged at Parvulesco, who jumped and easily rolled onto the loading dock. Andrzej, on the other hand, had to rush up the stairs at the end of the dock—where he almost ran face-first into Herr Branca. Andrzej stopped just before crashing into him.

Branca said, “Enjoying the evening air, are we, Andrzej?”

He took a step back and his shoulders slumped. “Yes, sir. Just sharing a smoke and a chat with the boys.”

“Running with a cigarette can be bad for your health.” Branca looked farther down the loading dock. “Don’t you agree, Parvulesco?”

“Yes, sir,” he said. “Very much. I was about to point that out to the lads when things became a bit …”

“Boisterous?” said Branca.

“Yes, sir. Exactly. But you needn’t worry about that. We were all headed home. Isn’t that right, boys?”

There was general agreement among the couriers that they were, in fact, all heading home at that exact moment.

“Then I wish you all a good evening and expect to see you all here bright and early tomorrow. I’m led to believe that it will be a busy day.”

“Thank you, sir. I’m sure we’re looking forward to it,” Parvulesco said.

Branca turned his head downward. “And you, Andrzej? Are you looking forward to a busy day’s work?”

The big man smiled up at his supervisor. “Very much. Busy is always better than bored. Right, sir?”

“And employed is better than unemployed,” said Branca. “Good evening, gentlemen. Have safe journeys home.”

The group broke up without another word.

Parvulesco and Largo rode out through the employee gate together. Largo got close to his friend and said, “Where did you hear that König had joined the army?”

Parvulesco looked at him in shock. “I just made it up. Do you know where he really is?”

Largo looked straight ahead, shaking his head slightly. “I shouldn’t say. It’s too dangerous.”

Parvulesco veered his bicycle closer and spoke in a mock-conspiratorial tone. “Come on. You can’t say something like that and leave me to wonder forever. Give me a hint.”

“I can’t.”

“Look, if it’s dangerous, shouldn’t you share at least some of the information with a friend?”

Largo looked at him. “You’re trying to make me feel guilty.”

“Yes. That’s exactly what I’m doing.”

They rode on in silence for a few more minutes as Largo considered what Parvulesco had said. He wondered if he didn’t owe his friend, who’d just stood up for him, some special consideration. Looking straight ahead at the road, Largo said, “König was taken away by a pair of black birds.”

For a moment, Parvulesco looked as if he didn’t believe him. “The Nachtvogel? You’re not serious, are you?”

“Believe what you like,” Largo said. “But you didn’t hear anything from me on the matter.”

Parvulesco looked at him gravely. “Shit. Do you think that means they’ll be watching the rest of us?”

“It wouldn’t surprise me,” said Largo. “And thank you for standing up for me back there.”

Parvulesco smiled. “Any day I can goad that walking pile of boars’ balls is a good one.”

Largo laughed and Parvulesco said, “I won’t whisper a word of what you told me to anyone.”

“Thank you.”

Parvulesco looked thoughtful. “To change the subject to something a bit happier, you know that with your promotion you have a good chance to make some extra money.”

“You mean the tips? I know. Isn’t it great?”

“I’m not talking about that,” said Parvulesco. “König said there were other ways, but the prick would never say what. So keep your eyes open for money falling from the sky.”

Largo was intrigued by the idea, but annoyed at König for keeping the secret to himself. “He didn’t give any hints about how or what to look for?”

“Not a one.”

Something occurred to him. “How do you know about it? Did everybody know about it but me?”

Parvulesco let go of the handlebars and rode that way for a few minutes. “I’m probably the only one. I caught him with a pretty prostitute by the girlie cinema near the docks. That’s when he told me and gave me a few coins to keep my mouth shut.”

König wasting his extra money on prostitutes struck Largo as the height of stupidity. There were so many better things to spend your money on, he thought. Like Remy. “I’ll be sure to be on the lookout for opportunities.”

“Good. And when you find one, you’ll owe me a beer.”

“Done.” They slowed when they reached a fork in the road. As Largo steered away, he shouted, “Good night. And thanks!”

Parvulesco veered off in the opposite direction, calling, “Say hello to Remy for me.”

“And hello to Roland for me,” Largo replied.

With the image of Remy’s face in his head, Largo rode to his dismal flat in record time.

He lived in a third-floor walk-up in the Rauschgift district, more commonly known as Little Shambles. While his building was superficially cleaner than the one he’d entered in Haxan Green, the stairs and halls nevertheless reeked of cooking fat and rotting vegetables. Layers of wallpaper flaked from the walls, revealing generations of decorations, like geological layers. Red and white peppermint stripes lay atop a beige pattern of waterfowl, which revealed flocked turquoise squares. Largo’s flat was at the end of the hall near the shared bathroom, which was both a blessing and a curse. If he was careful, he could be first to wash and shave in the morning, but it meant that he had to listen to everyone else on the floor groan with dawn hangovers and curse the lack of hot water.

He opened the three locks that secured his flat and went inside.

Without turning on the lights, Largo went to the tiny kitchen and turned on the small Bakelite wireless Remy had given him the previous Christmas. Tinny dance music, all trumpets and drums, filled the flat. Through the small living room, he went to an even smaller room that housed a loft bed and a wooden writing desk that Largo hardly ever used for its intended purpose. The desk, with its numerous drawers and cubbyholes, functioned mainly as his dresser. He stripped off his clothes, hanging his damp suit from the underside of the loft bed, before turning on the light. More than the smells in the hall or his cramped quarters, it was the light that drove Largo mad.

The lone bedroom bulb hung from the ceiling by a thick cord. It flickered twice before fully illuminating. The light it gave off was a yellowish white that made Largo think of piss or cheap cheese. It covered everything, including him. He couldn’t comb his hair in the morning without feeling slightly dirty. Remy, of course, loved it. On the nights she’d stayed there she said it was like swimming in egg custard. Largo always smiled at the description, but he died a little inside each time he heard it.

The reason for the piss light and the perpetually black skies over Little Shambles was simple: the coal-stoked power plant on the next block. You couldn’t escape the stink and it covered all the streets and windows with a fine layer of soot. So different from Remy’s flat in Kromium’s artists’ quarter, which was powered by cool and lovely plazma. Her wireless was twice the size of Largo’s and the lights throughout her rooms were as bright and white as new-fallen snow. As he dropped the small coins and the Valda into a tin box he kept under his mattress, Largo debated with himself.

With my new position and the prospect of more tips like today’s, there’s only one question: New clothes or a new flat? If the company is going to supply me with a new suit, maybe I can think about rooms in Dolch or even Geschoss. No coal in Geschoss.

It was a wonderful thought until reality hit him. A flat in Geschoss would cost easily more than double his current rent. And yet … it was sure to come with a private bath. That alone might be worth the expense. As much as his custard-colored flat amused Remy, rooms in Geschoss would really impress her. They would make him seem more serious and substantial, and less of a frazzled boy. And, just maybe, perhaps a new flat would be enough that she’d even consider moving in with him.

But that’s a long way off. One Valda and a couple of small princes aren’t going to get me far. I need to cut my expenses and save every penny. It’s only the essentials from now on.

Which made him think of morphia.

It had been hours since he’d fortified himself and he was beginning to feel the lack of the drug. He took the little bottle from his jacket and put two drops under his tongue. The effects were immediate and heavenly. He dropped to the rickety wooden desk chair and let his head fall back. When it came to cutting expenses, morphia wasn’t an option. It was the only thing that made the squalor of his rooms and the monotony of his job bearable. What else was there to cut down on, then? But his mind was already drifting, softened in morphia’s gentle warmth. He’d worry about expenses in the morning. Now there was nothing but bliss, and soon there would be Remy—another, even better kind of bliss.

On his way across town, the coal-powered streetlights of Little Shambles gave way to the plazma illumination of Kromium. Where Copper Weg crossed Bronzegasse, a Black Widow carried a load of machine parts to the armaments factory. With his general hostility toward Maras and his frustration at the confrontation with Andrzej, a delicious thought came to him.

Largo knew that interfering with the armament factory’s business was a jailing offense and could get you a sound beating by the bullocks. Still, after checking the street twice for police, Largo sped along in front of the Widow and, while passing a shuttered greengrocer, kicked a trash can into the street. Under its load, the burdened Mara was too slow to sidestep the obstruction. One of its front feet came down on top of the can and pierced its side such that the can became stuck on its leg. The Widow stumbled drunkenly this way and that, trying to kick the can off. Before he turned off Copper Weg, Largo looked back and saw that a crowd had gathered where the great black spider was still hopping in the street. They smiled and applauded the contraption’s improvised dance routine.

That’s one for our side, he thought. He was sure Parvulesco would have agreed.

The marquee for the theater—his destination—lay a long block ahead, but it was still bright enough to light the whole street. With the morphia in his system and the theater just ahead, whatever memories Largo had of his strange day faded away.

Of course, the Grand Dark wasn’t the theater’s real name, but it was the one everyone knew it by because its real name was a mouthful. Over the box office, the marquee proudly shouted its true name to the whole district.






THEATER OF THE GRAND DARKNESS

Dr. Krokodil presents

Elegant Butchery

Sensual Slaughter

Voluptuous Demises

The top of the marquee was sculpted into the upper jaw of a great steel reptile. The lower jaw surrounded the doors and thrust several feet over the street. The pointed teeth along each jaw glowed a bright plazma white. For the patrons, entering the Grand Dark was a gleeful surrender, a leap down the gullet of an alluring monster.

Largo chained his bicycle near the back of the theater and Ilsa in the ticket booth waved him inside. He crept through the lobby and slipped between the red velvet curtains into the performance area. The first play of the evening was already under way.

He found a seat in the last row and sat down. The Grand Dark specialized in Schöner Mord, little productions of violence and depravity performed by life-size puppets controlled by actors backstage in galvanic suits. The dolls required no crude strings, but were instead powered by nearly invisible wires along the floor furnishing the watts needed to make them seem almost alive. They moved with fluid, eerie grace, like a three-dimensional zoetrope brought to life.

The night’s first production was called The Boudoir Phantasm. It was a fiction in which the ghost of a murdered wife possessed the body of the husband’s new bride and killed him with a cleaver, the same way he’d killed her. When the new wife came out of her hypnotic state and saw what she’d done, she threw herself from the boudoir’s window to her death, much to the delight of the murdered bride. It was a simple tale but elegantly produced. In fact, the run had been extended for two weeks. Since the end of the war, spiritualism was all the rage in Lower Proszawa, so ghost stories were very popular.

When the play ended, Largo wanted to rush backstage and tell Remy what a wonderful job she’d done as the murdered bride, but she never liked to socialize between plays, so he remained in his seat. Normally he would have joined the other patrons in the lobby for a smoke or a drink, but he was thinking about expenses again, so he stayed where he was. Besides, it wasn’t as if the show had stopped completely.

The small band that provided the soundtrack for the plays performed during the intermission for tips—and the Trefle numbers of elegant gentlemen and ladies they might meet for trysts later in the night. An evening of murder in the Grand Dark was known to get even the stodgiest patron’s blood up. And the drugs helped, of course. By intermission, the air in the theater was heavy with hashish smoke. In the dark corners of the lobby, men and women snorted cocaine together and kissed in groups of two and three. It was a condition of the tension that gripped the city: after the horrors of the Great War, grab as much pleasure as possible before the next, inevitable conflagration. Largo felt a stab of jealousy watching as other theatergoers with money spent it on such pleasures and indulged in them so deeply and openly.

As he pushed himself down into his plush seat, his hand touched something hard stuck between the bottom cushion and the armrest. Curious, he dug down and pulled out a small vial of white powder. Largo looked around to see if anybody had noticed him. Satisfied that no one had spotted his good fortune, he opened the vial, dropped a few grains onto the back of his hand, and sniffed. The sudden rush of energy and sense of well-being confirmed that he’d stumbled on someone’s lost cocaine. He screwed the top back on the vial and quickly stuffed it into his pocket before anyone saw him. It would be a special treat he could share with Remy after the night’s final performance. Between the gold coins and now the cocaine, the strangeness of the day seemed to have finally been balanced out. He leaned back in his seat, tapping his foot to the music, relishing the bitter taste of the cocaine as it dripped down the back of his throat.

The second play of the evening began fifteen minutes later.

The Erotic Underworld of Blixa Konstantin was a tale of sex, murder, and political revolution lifted from a lurid yellowsheet story—at least, the murder and revolutionaries had been cribbed from the sheets. The sex, Una Herzog—the Grand Dark’s owner and chief auteur—had added herself. Finding the erotic in even the most depraved stories was one of her specialties.

The production was straightforward. Blixa Konstantin, a dedicated anarchist, was betrayed to the Nachtvogel by his lover, Eva. To spice up the story, Una added an affair in which both Blixa and Eva were secretly seeing the same woman—a simple but lusty shopgirl—shifting the story from one of bland political treachery to a lovers’ triangle gone terribly wrong.

And keeping everyone rapt in their seats.

While Remy had played the vengeful bride in the first play, in this one she was Eva, because being murdered was one of her greatest talents. She’d studied dance and acrobatics as a girl and was able to contort her body into strange and grotesque positions, which made her death in doll form all the more disturbing and exciting for the theater’s patrons. Largo was always mesmerized by her performances. He loved Remy for herself, but her talent made her dazzling.

As the curtain finally went down on the still and bloody puppets, the audience erupted into a standing ovation. Some of the patrons shouted for the players to come out and take a bow, but Una strictly forbade it, afraid that seeing the humans behind the dolls would break the spell of the performances. She insisted that the puppets were the stars, not the actors. Since she paid everyone’s salary, they were quick to agree.

As the theatergoers filed out, more drugged and happier than ever, Largo finally made his way past them to the rear of the theater. The effects of the cocaine had worn off and he wanted to show Remy his find.

Backstage, the theater’s dressers helped the players out of their galvanic attire, skintight aluminized suits studded with wires and small switches that covered the entirety of the actors’ bodies. Largo caught sight of Remy at the far side of the stage, slipping a bit wearily into her dressing room. He started her way but was stopped by Una, who maneuvered in front of him and put a hand on his chest.

“Largo, how are you this evening?” she said. She was an inch or two taller than he was, but carried herself so that she seemed even larger.

“Fine. Thank you.”

“What did you think of the plays tonight? You know it was poor Blixa Konstantin’s last hurrah. His sordid little tale is being retired for a newer, even more exciting story. Would you like to know what it is?”

At that moment, there was nothing Largo wanted to hear less than one of Una’s new obsessions. However, since she was Remy’s employer, politeness seemed the best course. “Yes, please,” he said.

She got closer and showed him a yellowsheet clipping with a bold headline and an illustration of a human head mounted on what looked like a Blind Mara. The headline read MAD SURGEON MELDS HUMAN AND MACHINE INTO A CREATURE OF DIVINE HORROR.

“Can you believe it?” said Una. “Some lunatic put a corpse’s head on a Mara and used galvanics to animate it. Only for a few minutes, you understand, but that’s long enough to make a wonderful story for the theater, don’t you think?”

Largo had to turn away from the illustration. Looking at it made him queasy. “It’s perfect. A surefire hit.”

Una folded the clipping and put it in a pocket of her brocade bustier. “It will be when I’m through with it. Imagine a mad scientist constructing a lover from machine and flesh. There are so many possibilities. I can’t wait to write it.”

Largo hesitated, then said, “You don’t think it might be just a little far-fetched …?”

Una looked at him as if he were a little dim. She said, “Stranger things happen every day. Science and lust? Who says they can’t be intertwined?” She patted him on the shoulder as if he were a small dog. “But I’m keeping you from your lady love. Go and see her. She’s going to make a brilliant monster for her scientist lover.”

“Thanks. Lovely seeing you, Una. I can’t wait for the new play.” But she had already moved off, distracted by a player complaining that his suit was giving him electric shocks. Largo used the moment to duck into Remy’s dressing room.

She was naked when he went in, toweling the sweat of the performance off her body. Her hair and eyes were dark, and her body was as trim as an athlete’s. Largo was fairly certain that if they ever had a fight, she could easily overcome him, a fate to which he wasn’t entirely averse.

When she saw him in the mirror, she ran over and threw her arms around him, kissing him hard and for a long time. When she pulled away she said, “What took you so long getting here? I thought you’d forgotten about me.” She handed him the towel and turned around. Largo began wiping the sweat off her back and legs. She laughed and pulled away for a second when the towel tickled her thigh. Then she leaned against his chest.

“It was Una,” he said, bringing the towel around to wipe her front. She pushed herself into the thick material when he reached her breasts and he lingered there as her hands wrapped around his and she dug her nails into him. “She was telling me about how she wants to cut off your head and turn you into a Mara.”

Remy threw the towel away and guided his hand down between her legs, where she ground against his fingers. “I know. Isn’t it wonderful? Science, lust, and death. The cornerstones of the world!”

“That’s only three cornerstones,” he said, nipping her shoulder. “Aren’t there supposed to be four?”

She sighed and said, “You’re right. I left out one. Morphia. You brought some with you, right?”

With his free hand, he took the cocaine vial from his pocket and held it in front of her. “Look at what else I have.”

Remy spun around, kissed him, took the vial, and pressed it lovingly between her breasts. Her smile was both wicked and silly, like a naughty child’s after she’d been caught stealing sips of the adults’ dinner wine. He loved seeing her in such a delighted mood. “What a treat. But we’ll keep it for later, all right? We’re going to a party at Werner Petersen’s house. Do you know him? He’s a great arts patron.”

Largo’s heart sank a little and the desire from a moment before evaporated. He always felt clumsy and drab around Remy’s artist friends, and his clothes were pathetic. But maybe more cocaine would help his mood. He took the vial back and dropped it into his jacket pocket.

Remy pressed against him and cupped his groin in her hand. In her silkiest voice she said, “Morphia, please. Now, please.”

Her hunger helped to lift his mood once more. He kissed her lips when he took out the bottle. Remy grinned as she closed her eyes and opened her mouth. Largo put two drops under her tongue. Then she snatched the bottle from his hand and did the same for him. They kissed, letting the morphia mix and melt their bones at the same time. A moment later, Remy let her head fall back. “Why is it so necessary for people to get dressed when they go out? I feel too wonderful for clothes. Why can’t I just go like this?”

“You’d certainly be the hit of the party,” said Largo. She shivered when he touched her nipples. “But I’m afraid we might both be arrested on the way. Besides, it’s cold out. You’d freeze your poor toes.”

Remy dropped down into a chair by the dressing table. “All right, I suppose for the sake of my toes I’ll put on shoes.”

Largo went to the clothes stand where her dress hung from a padded hanger. It was black silk and opaque for the most part, but with a flower pattern down the front that revealed glimpses of her skin and the flesh-colored brassieres she favored. He held it up before her and said, “Come on. I’ll help you put it on.”

“Fine,” she said. “But I’m not wearing anything under it. I plan to fuck you quite violently when we get home and there’s no point in wearing anything that will get in the way.”

“A bold fashion choice, but one I heartily endorse.”

Remy stood and held up her hands as Largo slipped the dress over her and zipped her up in the back.

“Can you see my tits?” she said, standing in front of a full-length mirror mounted behind the dressing room door.

“Quite well,” he said.

“Good. I want everyone to be jealous of you tonight. Some of the people who will be at the party are quite delightful, but you know how it is with rich art benefactors. A lot of their friends are more prudish than a country priest.”

“Trust me, you’ll make them forget their vows,” said Largo. “But I’m not so sure about me.”

“What’s wrong?” said Remy, turning and touching his cheek.

“Look at me. My coat has holes at the elbows and my shirt looks like someone stole it from a corpse bound for Potter’s Field.”

“But you look adorable that way. My handsome waif with the lovely cock.”

Largo looked at her and said, “Am I how you go slumming?”

“Don’t be silly,” said Remy. “I love you for you, and because you’re not like the jaded snots I work with. Pretty boys from rich families who expect the world to open its legs for them. I know that you’ve worked for what you have, and that makes you better than them.”

Largo kissed her when she was done. Remy had saved the day after all, the way she had so many times before. “Thank you,” he said. “But I still look like a scarecrow.”

Remy waved away his worry as if it were nothing and ran her fingers along Largo’s jaw to his lips. “Your coat is perfect. Some of the artists will be wearing much worse. Everyone will think you’re a famous painter or poet. As for the rest, wait here.”

Remy left the room and came back a moment later with a pressed white shirt with mother-of-pearl buttons down the front. “Where did you get that?” Largo said.

“From the doll that plays Blixa. This is one of his extra shirts. Try it on. I think it will be perfect.”

Feeling extremely foolish, Largo stripped off his shirt and slipped on the new one. Earlier he’d been tempted to wear the knife and harness to amuse Remy, but now standing foolishly in her dressing room in doll clothes he was glad he hadn’t. Remy buttoned the shirt for him. “You look wonderful,” she said. “It’s like it was made for you.”

“The collar is a bit tight,” he said.

Remy rolled her eyes at him. “Practically everything women wear is too tight or too loose or too hot. Welcome to our world,” she said.

Largo gave her a small bow. “Then as one lady to another, shall we go?”

Remy took his hand and led him to the door. On the way out, she swatted him on the rear end. “Lovely ass, Fräulein.”

“Am I to suffer all the indignities of a woman tonight too?” said Largo.

“We’ll see,” said Remy. “I think you’d look darling in lipstick, but not false eyelashes, so you’re safe for the moment.”

“It’s the little mercies that help us sleep at night.”

She cocked her head and looked at him. “Pardon?”

They went out the backstage door and Remy hailed a Mara cab for them.

“It’s just something Herr Branca said at work today,” said Largo. He left his bicycle chained behind the theater and held the door for her as they got into the cab.

“No,” said Remy firmly. “I forbid you to talk about him or work. This is a night for fun, not worrying about the cares of stuffy old men.”

“I agree completely,” said Largo as Remy spoke Werner Petersen’s address into a small Trefle mounted in the back seat of the cab.

“Thank you,” said the Mara in a static-filled voice. It whirred to life and sped off. Largo put his arm around Remy and she rested her head on his shoulder. While he was still nervous about the party, the morphia helped him to not care too much.




A CURSED PLACE (#ulink_ebfb4e92-f095-55e7-be3d-ade834d8dc5d)


From the profile “The Theater of the Grand Darkness” in Ihre Skandale

It seems entirely appropriate that the land where the Grand Dark sits was once known to the area’s residents as “Ein Verfluchter Ort”: a cursed place.

A boardinghouse once stood where the theater is now. Among the house’s long-term residents was Otto Kreizler, the serial killer better known as the Brimstone Devil for his habit of burning his victims alive. In the year it took the authorities to track Kreizler down, he murdered at least thirteen people. After a short trial, he was hanged and his body was buried in an unmarked prison grave. Still, it seemed that the Brimstone Devil hadn’t finished his work, since soon after his death the boardinghouse where he’d once lived burned to the ground, killing three people.

After the boardinghouse burned, the land stood vacant for some time. Since the area was known as an entertainment district for the lower classes, the first building to occupy the spot was Kammer des Schreckens, a wax museum of horrors depicting famous historical murders. This was later expanded to include a small cinema specializing in illicit erotica, thus adding to the area’s already dire reputation. Still, the Kammer drew steady business, so local cafés and merchants didn’t complain.

During the Great War, stray bombs leveled every building on the street—except for the Kammer. However, during those years of social repression and heavy censorship, the authorities eventually forced the theater to close.

Una Herzog, along with her business partner and lover, Horst Wehner, purchased the Kammer just a few weeks before the armistice was signed. Wehner is acknowledged to be the Dr. Krokodil in the theater’s name, but little else is known about him, as he disappeared soon after the site was rechristened the Theater of the Grand Darkness.

Like Wehner’s, Una Herzog’s past is shrouded in mystery. It is rumored that Wehner had been a spy during the war and might have been killed on one of his assignments. It’s further rumored that Una was credited with seducing one, and perhaps more, enemy officers and obtaining vital war plans. A darker version of the story goes on to say that, having grown weary of Wehner’s secrecy and possessiveness, Una convinced one of those officers to arrange for his murder.

Of course, this remains mere conjecture.

Una has stated publicly that the Brimstone Devil’s murders were her original inspiration for the Grand Dark. She’d already seen Schöner Mord—short one-act plays of murder and depravity—while abroad and believed strongly that she could bring the form home to Lower Proszawa.

While the theater went through renovations, Una’s theater troupe performed in the nearby ruins of bombed-out buildings, giving the productions a level of verisimilitude never before seen in the city. Even with the area’s unsavory reputation, the plays brought in viewers from all over Lower Proszawa, and the theater was a success from its early days.

There is one question that certain critics and conspiracy theorists always come back to when discussing Una Herzog: Where did her puppets originate? No other theater in the city had them and few people had seen similar appliances outside of the military and large corporations such as Schöne Maschinen. Whatever the truth, the strange stories swirling around Una have only enhanced her enigmatic reputation and added to the otherworldly luster of the Theater of the Grand Darkness.




CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_4fc91409-b705-54ae-a632-d0ccb0abb762)


The Mara cruised them past bright cafés, restaurants, and dance halls. The music was frantic, the crowds laughing and boisterous. Though they were moving through Kromium, Largo knew that the streets in Little Shambles were just as wild. It had been this way since soon after the armistice was signed, an endless frantic party.

Largo frowned when he saw Petersen’s home. It was nothing more than a large but old-fashioned Imperial mansion—a great granite-and-marble box meant to show off old money. He expected more from an art patron.

Remy paid for the cab and Largo held the door for her. He could hear music, and shadows flitted by the bright windows. “What a mausoleum,” he said.

“What?” said Remy, adjusting her hair in the cab’s side mirror.

“The house. I didn’t expect your friend to live in such a dull old place. It’s not a home. It’s a bank vault.”

“If it were a bank vault he might have made it himself. His family supplies most of the steel to the government so they can make the little bombs and tanks they’re so fond of.”

“I suppose rich codgers like that have to keep up appearances,” Largo said. He turned to Remy. “Which makes you and your friends his attempt at radicalism. At least he has good taste in vices.”

Remy kissed her index finger and pressed it to Largo’s lips. “I’m your vice, dear. As for Petersen, I’m here to drink his champagne and smile prettily so he’ll shower more of those lovely war profits on us poor, deluded artists.”

She looped her arm around Largo’s as they went up the long walkway to the mansion. Maybe it was the morphia wearing off, but Largo’s self-consciousness returned. He held his free arm straight at his side, hoping that the holes in the elbow wouldn’t show. This would be so much easier, he thought, if he really were a failed poet or an aspiring musician. He wasn’t even sure he could lie well enough to pass himself off as either to justify his shabby clothes. The best he could hope for was that everyone would already be so drunk and drugged that it wouldn’t matter what he said.

A tall servant Mara, like the one in Empyrean, greeted them at the door.

“Lovely to see you,” it said, and ushered them inside. Seeing the automaton did nothing to improve Largo’s mood. Still, he forced himself to smile. The last thing he wanted to do was let Remy down in front of these people.

A large Proszawan flag on the wall directly across from the front door caught Largo’s eye. He supposed it was there to signal patriotism during uncertain times, but festooned as it was with balloons and tinsel, the flag looked more like something that would be up in the back of the Grand Dark as a joke. Next to the flag was a winding marble staircase lined with ancient tapestries and flowers in golden pots. Below that was a white grand piano. A man in a tuxedo played something light and fast, but Largo couldn’t pick out a melody over the sound of an amplified gramophone in the next room. Remy took his hand and led him inside.

The living room was enormous, the largest Largo had ever seen. The ceiling was two stories high and the large windows overlooking Heldenblut Bay were each a single pane of flawless glass. Almost everything in the room was white, except for the sofa and chairs, which were a vivid crimson.

The room was crowded with guests and heavy with smoke. Young couples in tuxedos and evening gowns and older men with waxed mustaches mixed easily with artists in clothes that were no better than Largo’s. However, he noted that the artists were comfortable and wore their garb stylishly. Seeing the shabby artists made Largo feel better and more determined to relax and at least appear at home in his rags.

Remy waved to a group of about eight people across the room. She tugged Largo to an oversize chaise longue where Lucie, another performer from the Grand Dark, had fallen asleep on her side holding a full flute of champagne that, miraculously, hadn’t spilled. Remy sat down next to Lucie and pulled Largo down beside her. She reached across the sleeping woman and gently plucked the champagne from her hand. “Lucie won’t mind,” Remy said, and downed the whole glass.

Her artist friends, reclining on the floor atop pillows and draped on the sofa, laughed. Largo recognized Enki Helm, the blind painter who worked in the absurdist Xuxu style more, Largo suspected, out of luck than talent. There was Bianca, an aspiring opera singer whom Largo liked and who—famously—was discovered while singing for pennies in the streets. Baumann was there too. Of course he’s here. He was a young up-and-coming film actor so handsome that Largo wanted to slap him. Instead, he smiled at them all and they raised glasses or nodded in response.

“Where have you been, Remy?” said Baumann, not even acknowledging Largo sitting beside her. “The evening couldn’t properly start without you.”

Remy said, “I could say that I was working, but really I was waiting until you were done with your boring stories about which society ladies you’re sleeping with.”

Baumann sat up in feigned indignation. “My affairs are never boring, and my stories even less so.”

“That depends on how many times you’ve heard them,” said Bianca. “Really, you must bed either more of these old fraus or fewer more-interesting ones.”

“Does anyone else have love advice for me?” said Baumann. “How about you, Largo? You’ve charmed lovely Remy here. What’s your secret?”

Largo froze. He couldn’t think of a thing to say to the bright and witty group. Luckily, before his silence became awkward, he was saved by a Mara that approached the group with more champagne. During the minute or so it took for everyone to get a glass, Largo had time to think. “I’m just the right size,” he said.

“What does that mean?” said Enki.

“For her to dress.”

Remy laughed, spilling champagne onto her lap. She took a napkin lodged under Lucie’s arm and wiped herself off, saying, “It’s true. He is the absolutely perfect size. Do you like his shirt? It belongs to Blixa Konstantin, the tragic victim in our second show.”

Bianca gave a snorting laugh and fell against Enki. Hanna, a biological artist who designed custom chimeras for Lower Proszawa’s richest families, tugged open Largo’s jacket and ran her fingers teasingly over the shirt.

“It’s lovely material,” she said. “If you were to die tonight you’d make a gorgeous cadaver.”

Remy took Hanna’s hand away from Largo’s chest and placed it on her own. “And what about me? Would you sneak a feel of my corpse?”

Hanna placed another hand on Remy’s breasts. She said, “Alive or dead, you always look good enough to eat.” Remy gave her a dainty kiss on the cheek.

“Already on to necrophilia, are we?” said Strum, the poet. “Or is it cannibalism? And barely eleven o’clock.”

Hanna sat down on a pillow at Remy’s feet. She looped an arm around one of Remy’s legs and one around one of Largo’s. He looked at Remy and she clinked her champagne flute against his. He didn’t know what that meant, but he smiled as if he did, wishing they could sneak off together and take more cocaine.

Lucie said, “Strum was telling us about his new epic poem. What was it called again?”

“The Sailor’s Call. It’s all empire and blood and sacred duty. Complete garbage.”

“Then why did you write it?” said Bianca.

“Because it paid more than my last two books combined,” he said in an attempt at a joking tone. “There’s art and there’s keeping a roof over one’s head. Sadly, in those moments, the roof always wins.”

“How sad for you,” said Hanna.

“If only you enjoyed the rain more,” said Baumann. “Then you could look at a roof as a luxury.”

“True,” said Strum. “It’s my fault for being born a poet and not a duck.”

A few of them laughed, but most smiled politely. Largo felt a pang of pity for the man. Seeing a respected artist forced to betray his gifts made him happy that he had no such ambitions. Before he could dwell on it, a shout cut into his thoughts.

“It’s Frida!” Bianca said, pointing across the room to where an elegant woman in furs and a salmon-colored gown looked this way and that. “She must have married that Baron she’s been after. Frida!” yelled Bianca. The woman waved her over. Bianca and several other members of the group got up and went to her.

The only ones left around the chaise were sleeping Lucie, Remy, Largo, Hanna, and Enki.

“A Baron,” Enki said contemptuously. “The very class that’s ruining this country. They’ll drag us into another war before any enemy does.”

“Please don’t start a tedious screed, Enki,” said Hanna. “Can’t you see I’m trying to seduce these young innocents? You’ll put them right to sleep.”

“They’re already asleep,” said Enki. “So are you. So is everyone in this room. I’m telling you, we’re heading for a catastrophe.”

Largo had never heard anyone speak with such passion about politics before. Well, he had, but only for a few seconds. He sounds like one of those cranks standing on a chair in the Triumphal Square, condemning both the upper classes and the bourgeoisie. If he hates everyone, though, who is he speaking to?

“We must organize and resist the ruling class’s bloodlust,” said Enki. “Take up arms, if necessary.”

“Arms?” said Remy. “I used to think your speeches were scandalous fun. But if you insist on being arrested for treason you’ll have to do that alone.”

“I thought you were smarter than the others, Remy,” he said. “But you’re just another dullard artiste.”

Largo stared at Enki, angry but torn, wondering if it was his place to speak up to someone so prominent in Remy’s artists’ circle. Finally, he couldn’t stand it. “Don’t talk about her like that. She’s right. You are a bore. And I’ve never liked your paintings. They’re as pretentious as your politics.”

Remy laid a hand on Largo’s back and Hanna gave his leg a squeeze. “Good boy,” she said. Slowly, Largo settled back onto the chaise. It felt good to speak up, but it left him confused. Had he made a terrible mistake that would ruin Remy’s reputation with her friends? Enki said, “Largo to the rescue, so eager to attack a blind man.

I wonder how brave you’ll be when the bullocks come knocking on your door?”

“Why would they do that?” Largo said.

“Do they need a reason?”

What the hell does that mean? he wondered, before Branca’s comment about König came back to him. “It’s likely you won’t see him again.” Largo’s day had returned to being strange.

As he considered that, the other members of the group came back with Frida in tow. Bianca had the elegant woman’s fur draped across her shoulders. “You might want to keep your trap shut for a while, Enki,” said Hanna. “The vile ruling class is almost upon us.”

Frida greeted Remy and Hanna like old friends, and gave Largo a peck on each cheek when they were introduced. She and Enki studiously ignored each other.

“How is everyone?” Frida said.

“Still sober,” said Hanna. “So, in a word, tragic.”

Frida made a complex hand gesture at one of the servant Maras.

“At once, ma’am,” it said, and left the room.

She winked at the others. “A little secret I learned from the Baron. It’s not necessary to even talk to them,” she said. “We’ll have more drinks momentarily.”

Largo couldn’t help noticing a chimera—a long snakelike body with a miniature wolf’s head—with its fangs buried in the Mara’s leg so that the automaton limped. More ugliness, he thought. He wondered if the chimera was one of Hanna’s creations. He’d ask her later, if he got a chance.

“While we wait for our champagne …,” said Frida. She reached into her purse and took out what Largo thought at first was a tube of lipstick. Frida unscrewed the top with great care, tapped out some powder onto her hand, and sniffed it up. Then she held out the tube to the others. “Does anyone care to join me?”

The cocaine made its way quickly around the group. No one tried to hide what they were doing because many other partiers were doing the same thing. Even Enki took some of the powder. Largo wondered if he was trying to fit in or was simply a hypocrite. With luck, I won’t spend enough time with him to ever know.

On the end of the chaise, Lucie sat up and looked around sleepily. “What happened to my champagne?” she said. Everyone in the group laughed. No one replied because Frida handed her the tube and Lucie squealed with delight. She snorted a copious amount of the powder and looked at Remy in surprise. “When did you get here?” she said.

Remy put an arm around her and pulled her close, saying, “You’re a goose.”

In a few minutes, Baumann presented the group with hashish cigarettes, which they also passed around. Riding the blissful high of the cocaine and hashish, Largo disliked the too-handsome actor a little less.

The cigarettes made their way around the group once, then twice. The third time Remy puffed one she doubled over in a coughing fit. Lucie and Baumann laughed together. Largo patted Remy’s back, hoping it would help clear her lungs. It didn’t.

“My god, she’s turning blue,” said Bianca. Hanna spun around and looked up at Remy’s face. She pushed Lucie and Largo off the chaise and laid Remy on her back. She was limp.

“We have to get her breathing properly,” Hanna said. She tilted Remy’s head back and breathed into her mouth.

Frida touched Baumann’s shoulder. “Do you know Dr. Venohr?”

“Of course.”

“Bring him here. Quickly.”

Baumann jumped up and disappeared into the crowd, which remained oblivious to Remy’s situation. Largo held Remy’s hand as Hanna kept forcing air into her lungs. When, in a few minutes, she began to breathe on her own again, everyone relaxed. But it didn’t last long. Remy began to shake. Her arms bent up to her chest and her fingers twisted into claws. She grimaced and Largo had to hold her legs to keep her from kicking herself off the chaise.

Hanna looked at him. “Has this ever happened before?”

“Once or twice,” he said, “but never this badly.”

“Was she taking drugs those other times?”

Largo shook his head. “No. We were perfectly sober.”

“Does she take medication for it?”

“Not that I know of.”

After subsiding for a few seconds, Remy’s convulsions came back stronger than ever. “Oh my god,” Bianca whispered over and over like she was praying.

A moment later, Baumann returned in the company of a bald, bearded man in a tuxedo. Dr. Venohr gently pushed Hanna away from Remy so that he could look into her eyes. “How long have the convulsions been going on?” he said.

“A few minutes,” said Largo. “They’ve never been this bad before.”

“I’m afraid they have, but she didn’t want you to know about them,” said Dr. Venohr.

Largo stared at the man. “You’ve treated her?”

“I’ve known Remy her whole life. I’m an old friend of the family.”

Largo wondered what else Remy hadn’t told him. But all he could think about right now was whether she was truly ill.

What if she’s dying?

“Can you help her?”

Dr. Venohr opened a small black leather bag he had with him. “I believe so,” he said, and filled a syringe with a clear liquid from a small bottle. Tilting Remy’s head to the side, he injected the fluid directly into her jugular vein. Bianca continued repeating “Oh my god.” It was annoying, but no one bothered to stop her.

With the shot, it took only a few seconds for Remy’s convulsions to subside. Her arms and hands relaxed. Her legs stopped shaking. The grimace faded from her face. It looked almost as if she were asleep.

Largo said, “Is that it? Is she all right now?”

“For the moment,” said Dr. Venohr.

“Should we take her to a hospital?”

“That shouldn’t be necessary. But we should get her home. And she mustn’t be alone tonight. I assume you can stay and watch her?”

“Of course. For as long as it takes.”

“Good,” said Dr. Venohr. He packed the bottle and syringe in his bag. “I’ll call for my car. Can someone help you bring her to the door?”

Hanna and Baumann both volunteered.

Dr. Venohr got up and went to call his car. Largo pulled Remy up from the chaise. Hanna got on the other side and together they lifted Remy to her feet. Baumann went ahead of them, making an opening in the crowd. When they reached the door, Largo said, “Could someone find her coat? I don’t want her to get cold.” Frida, who had followed them, gestured to a Mara. It bowed and moved off. When Dr. Venohr’s car pulled up outside, they bundled Remy into her coat and laid her down in the back seat. Largo got in with her. Dr. Venohr got in the back on the other side and checked her pulse.

“Don’t worry,” said Frida through the open door. “She’ll be fine now that the doctor is here.”

Hanna said, “I’ll call tomorrow to see how she is.”

“Go,” Dr. Venohr told his driver, and they sped away.

They rode in silence for what felt like a long time. Largo kept an eye on Remy while Dr. Venohr periodically checked her pulse. Finally, he nodded. “She’s stable. I’ll give you some pills for her. With the injection, she should sleep through the night, but you aren’t to leave her side for any reason.”

“I won’t,” said Largo. Then, “I—I don’t have any money to pay you.”

Dr. Venohr waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t be foolish. As I said, I’m an old friend.”

“Thank you.” But he did feel foolish, and embarrassed. He felt like he needed to say something more, but he wasn’t sure what. “I notice you have a human driver. I thought someone in your position would have a Mara.”

Dr. Venohr frowned. “I practically live with Maras all day and night at the laboratory. I don’t need them bothering me at home too.”

“You don’t have any Maras at home?”

“None. Don’t misunderstand me. Maras are lovely devices and invaluable to my work, but there are times when I prefer the company of humans or to be left alone.”

“I understand. I’m not all that fond of them either,” said Largo, thinking of the dancing Black Widow. He wished he could tell Remy about it. He knew it would make her laugh.

They fell silent again until Dr. Venohr said, “I hesitated to bring this up earlier with Remy’s friends present, and I don’t want to alarm you, but I’ll need to take some of Remy’s blood before I leave tonight.”

“Why?”

Dr. Venohr sighed. “Have you ever heard of what laypeople call the Drops?”

Largo stiffened. People talked about the Drops all the time in Little Shambles, though he’d never seen a case himself. Supposedly, perfectly healthy people could be walking along the street, fall into a seizure, and be dead in an instant. Largo had never believed the stories, but now they made him afraid. “Yes, I have,” he said.

“There’s a slight chance—and I must emphasize that it is slight—that Remy’s convulsions are brought on by the virus that causes the Drops.” Dr. Venohr looked at Largo. “Tell me, does Remy buy goods on the black market? It doesn’t have to be anything large. It could be as small as a piece of jewelry.”

“I don’t think so,” said Largo. “I’m sure she would have mentioned it.”

“Excellent. Many black market goods are brought here from the ruins of High Proszawa. These goods can be contaminated with traces of the plague bombs dropped by the enemy during the Great War. The petty scavengers who loot the ruins are putting us all at risk.”

“Oh,” said Largo. “I had no idea.” He could barely understand what was happening tonight. He looked at Remy. The possibility of her dying was absurd. Impossible. Still, he gripped her hand tighter. “She had a shot recently. She said it was vitamins. Could that be the problem?”

Dr. Venohr said, “I’m aware of the injection. An associate of mine gave it to her. It has nothing to do with her current condition, I assure you.”

“That’s a relief,” said Largo, feeling as lost as ever.

The doctor checked Remy’s pulse again and said, “As I was saying before, even in the face of plague, life plays its jokes and presents us with little ironies.”

“What do you mean?”

The doctor looked at him. “Have long have you been addicted to morphia?”

“I don’t … I mean, I wouldn’t …”

“Come now. I’m not a police officer or your mother. I’m merely asking as a physician.”

“Perhaps a year,” said Largo quietly. “Though I’m not really addicted. I just, Remy and I, we just like it.”

“Of course. Of course.”

Largo leaned closer to the doctor. “How did you know?”

“It’s your eyes. Morphia affects the shape of the pupil. It’s very subtle. You have to look for it. Don’t worry, people on the street, your employer, even most police officers are unlikely to notice unless you go too far.”

“Thank you for the advice,” Largo said. “But before, why did you say there were ironies?”

Dr. Venohr chuckled to himself. “Because it appears that morphia may give users a certain amount of immunity to the plague virus.”

“That’s good news, then. Remy uses morphia too.”

“As much as you?”

Largo sagged against the back of the car. “No.”

“There you are,” said Dr. Venohr. “Continue to addle your senses, young man. Morphia might ruin your life, but it just might save it. That’s what I meant by irony.”

Largo looked out the window. “We’re almost there.”

When they arrived, Dr. Venohr helped Largo walk Remy into her flat and get her into bed. The doctor took a blood sample from her arm and placed it in his bag. On his way out he said, “Remember: do not leave her alone. I believe that Remy has a Trefle?”

“She does.”

Dr. Venohr took a card from his pocket and gave it to Largo. “You may reach me at this number day or night.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

“I’ll see myself out,” he said. “Oh, and one more thing.”

“Yes?” said Largo.

The doctor laid a finger along the side of his nose. “Don’t tell anybody about our little chat regarding the plague. We don’t want to start a panic, do we?”

“Of course not. I won’t say a word.”

“You have some morphia with you, I take it?”

“A little.”

Dr. Venohr took a vial from his bag and set it on a gilt end table. “Here is a bit more. I don’t want you fainting tonight or being tempted to leave to purchase more. Of course, if anyone asks, you did not obtain this from me.”

“I appreciate it, Doctor. We both do.”

“Don’t appreciate it. Merely stay alert. Remy should be fine by morning. I’ll call then. Good night.”

“Good night.”

Largo sat down by Remy’s bed. The chair had a straight back and was uncomfortable because Remy didn’t buy it for sitting in. She used it as a place to drape her clothes when she got home from the theater. However, recently she’d bought a broken full-size Mara and used it like a dressing dummy. Now the chair belonged to Largo’s clothes when he spent the night. Tonight, though, he remained fully dressed and listened to Remy breathe. Every minute or so he touched her chest just to feel her heartbeat.

Remy’s flat was how Largo imagined all artists lived or, at least, wanted to. In her bedroom was a large framed poster from the Grand Dark. It was for a show called Cannibal Nuns of St. Maria; Remy’s first starring role had been that of the mad mother superior. The floor was covered in exotic, though worn and sometimes moth-eaten, carpets. The carpets were covered in shoes, clothes, magazines, books—whatever Remy had become bored with and couldn’t be bothered to put away. In the living room was a large, comfortable black sofa—a gift from a wealthy admirer. Because of that provenance Largo hated sitting on it, but he never mentioned it. By the window was a cage with a parakeet inside. The cage was covered at this hour and the small bird was asleep.

The walls were crowded with paintings and photochromes of friends. There was even an Enki painting hanging over the mantel. Largo disliked it, but less than the sofa. Since he was blind, Enki painted by feel, using his hands instead of a brush. He’d grab fistfuls of oil paint, then dab and splatter them across images of older artists and political figures. Trying to appear radical and dangerous, thought Largo. Just like all the other Xuxu artists, thinking they can bring down the government with a few paintings and posters.

To Largo, Enki’s paintings looked like drop cloths you might find in a child’s bedroom. Still, the man’s work was well thought of and his paintings were in great demand. Largo suspected that the canvas over Remy’s mantel had been his clumsy attempt at seducing her. Despite his defensiveness when it came to Remy’s admirers, in Enki’s case he just smiled.

She would never fall for something so obvious.

The lamp next to Remy’s bed lit the room with a pale white plazma glow and reflected off her porcelain Trefle. Largo thought of Rainer, whose old Bakelite Trefle wasn’t nearly as impressive. It was going to be a long night standing watch over Remy, and Rainer was older and smarter.

Maybe he’ll know something about Remy’s condition. And after that ridiculous party I wouldn’t mind hearing a friendly voice.

Largo touched Remy’s chest and felt her breathing steadily. When he was satisfied she was stable, he took the Trefle into the living room. Removing the handset, he waited for an operator. When she came on, he spoke Rainer’s number and waited. There was a click as the connection was made and then a soft purr as Rainer’s Trefle rang. Largo let it ring twenty times before hanging up.

He’s probably on the roof with his damned telescopes. Is there a meteor shower tonight?

He looked out the window, but the plazma diffused any light he might have seen streaking across the sky.

He went back into the bedroom and sat down, but the little chair immediately began hurting his back again, so Largo kicked off his shoes and climbed into bed with Remy. He lay down next to her with his hand over her heart and stayed that way until dawn.




ABOVE THE CITY (#ulink_0ebd70b5-4b51-5e61-9db0-191df92160d3)


An excerpt from the Diaries of Gräfin Beatrice Henke




It was a few minutes after ten in the evening. Or perhaps it was eleven. They’d lost track of time.

The airship moved along Lower Proszawa’s southeast border in a light rain. Buffeted by cool crosswinds, it turned slowly, tracing the eastern border over the Krieghund Mountains, heading north. The ship swayed in the updrafts from the somber peaks, but settled again as soon as it reached the open fields of Die Gefallenen.

None of this, however, was of any interest to the partiers in the ballroom, who were focused on Greta, the Chancellor’s wife’s niece—entirely naked and eating a slice of honey cake with her hands as she fell into Orlok’s lap. A handsome man with long ginger hair, he was the singer in one of the city’s most popular dance bands. Greta mashed the cake into his face and proceeded to kiss it off as the rest of the party laughed.

“Lucky Orlok,” said Gustav. “Another rich little bird lands right in his lap. What is his secret?”

“Don’t whine,” said Petersen. “You had your chance with her.”

“But I’m merely a poet. Not a musical god. All of my little birds flit away in the slightest breeze.”

Greta leaned away from Orlok and pulled Gustav over by his tie. She mashed the last of her cake into his face and began kissing him too. The three fell into a pile on the lounge’s silk pillows.

The gathering had begun as someone’s birthday party, but around the end of day three it had turned into something else. What, no one knew yet. Perhaps it would become clear after another day or two.

For now, though, people were interested in doing everything they could to feel anything … or nothing. The languid hedonism in the ballroom. And the foggy boredom in the airship’s forward observation deck. It was a greenhouse full of exotic plants, wrapping around the front of the craft. Helene watched as an industrialist named Frölich pried open one of the side windows and threw out a full champagne flute. “For my customers,” he said, giggling drunkenly. Soon, others were throwing things—food, plants, articles of clothing. Whatever they found amusing. Helene watched them from a bench by herself, growing bored with these people, their dull games, and the surroundings. She was wondering if there was some way that she could get off the airship without the others knowing when the small squirrel-like chimera that Frölich kept in the breast pocket of his jacket leaped to the floor and ran away. Instead of chasing his pet, Frölich and the others laughed as it disappeared from sight. Without thinking, Helene jumped from the bench and ran after the poor creature.

She soon found it cowering along one of the interior walkways. Picking it up, she cooed until it stopped trembling. When she heard boring Frölich heading down the corridor behind her, Helene didn’t hesitate to push through a door marked Authorized Personnel Only.

Once inside, she found herself on a bare metal gangway in the true interior of the airship. The craft’s skin stretched over and around her. It’s like being swallowed by a great silver whale, Helene thought. Along the ribs that kept the ship’s skin taut, an army of robin-size Maras scuttled up and down, occasionally darting out onto the skin to mend small holes. Brief bolts of white-blue plazma shot from a central shaft to the ribs, jolting the little Maras with power. Instead of being scared, Helene was delighted by the interior lightning storm.

“Fräulein?”

Helene jumped at the sound of the man’s voice, almost dropping the little chimera. She turned and found herself face-to-face with a tall, ruddy man in the white uniform of the ship’s crew.

“I’m very sorry,” she said. “I’ll go back with the others.”

“There’s no need for that,” the man said. “The Kapitän saw you rescue your little pet and sent me to invite you to see the control room. Only if you like, of course.”

It wasn’t a hard decision, as Helene had no desire to return to the tedious decadence of the party. She stroked the little chimera and said, “Thank you. I’d love to.”

The man made a small bow. “I’m Leutnant Dietze. Please follow me.”

As they went down a short flight of metal stairs, Helene told the Leutnant her name.

“It’s delightful to meet you, Helene. The control room is right through here,” Dietze said, opening a door for her.

It was a whole different world in the control room. A crew of six men and women nodded at her when she came in. The floor rumbled and the noise of the engines was like thunder. Helene looked around, startled by the sound.

A gray-haired man in a uniform with gold stripes on his shoulders approached her. “It is a bit loud, isn’t it? But you get used to it,” he said. “I’m Kapitän Siodmak. Welcome to my ship …”

“Helene,” she said quickly. Like the Leutnant had, he made a small bow, but he didn’t extend a hand as she expected. She realized why when she looked closer. Both of his arms were mechanical, intricate contraptions of wood and metal. When Helene looked at the rest of the crew again she realized that many of them also had artificial limbs or eyes. War veterans, she thought. To keep herself from staring, she turned back to the Kapitän and locked her gaze on his eyes.

If he noticed her shock, he didn’t let on. “Would you like to see how we pilot the ship?” he said.

“Very much,” said Helene, gripping the little chimera nervously.

Kapitän Siodmak swept his mechanical arm toward an intricate control panel that took up much of the room. Helene approached it tentatively. A complex array of dials, switches, gauges, and levers covered the console, which was strangely shaped. Instead of the hard lines she expected, the control panel was somewhat rounded, with small pipes that looked like veins running along the top and sides. The panel appeared vaguely organic to her, which wasn’t nearly as startling as what she saw under a glowing dome in the forward center of the console. There was a large knotted mass of what looked like pink tissue. It pulsed slightly with each bump and turn of the ship.

“Is that …?” she said.

“A chimera?” said the Kapitän. “Why, yes, it is. It’s why I’m able to chat with you. Our little friend here can pilot the ship for short periods and even set course for us. In case of emergency, it can help us land, but I don’t recommend the experience. It’s usually a bit bumpy.” The crew chuckled quietly at that.

Before she could stop herself, Helene said, “Is that what happened to your arms?” The moment the words were out of her mouth she went pale, shocked by her own rudeness. “I’m sorry. I had no right to ask.”

The Kapitän shook his head. “It’s perfectly all right. And yes, that is what happened.”

“In the war?” she said.

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry.”

“There’s no need. I was happy to do my duty.”

Feeling awkward now and wanting to leave as soon as possible, Helene said, “Thank you very much, Herr Kapitän. I’ve truly enjoyed meeting you and your crew.”

However, before she could leave, the Kapitän said, “Actually, I was hoping that you could help us for a moment.”

She looked at him and wondered if he was mocking her for her impertinent question. “I don’t understand what you mean,” she said.

Siodmak pointed out the window at the front of the room. “We’ll be turning into an area with more airships soon. We like to warn them of our approach with a signal flare. I was wondering if you’d like to send it up for us.”

Helene smiled. “You’re not making fun of me, are you?” she said.

The Kapitän shook his head. “Not at all. It’s a simple procedure and quite pretty to see. But, of course, if you’re not interested—”

“But I am. Really.”

“Then step over here, please.”

Attached to the bulkhead was what looked like a pistol grip connected to a long tube that led outside the ship. The Kapitän took a brass cylinder from a small box nearby and loaded it into the tube.

“Is that the flare?” said Helene.

“Yes. There’s a small chimera inside.”

Helene frowned. “The flare is a chimera?”

“You’ll see,” said the Kapitän. He cocked the hammer on the gun and stepped aside.

Helene approached the gun nervously and wrapped her hand around the grip. It was bulky and slightly cold—probably, she thought, from the outside winds coming down the metal tube. She looked at Siodmak and said, “Now?”

“Whenever you like.”

She pressed Frölich’s little pet to her chest and squeezed the trigger. There was a loud whump as the flare shot up and out of the ship. A few seconds later, it burst into purple flames. The chimera was like a fiery bat, flapping its wings as it climbed into the sky. Helene craned her neck to watch it go. A few seconds later, there was a bright flash of light as the bat exploded above the dense clouds overhead. Then something fell from the sky—a thousand small, burning points of light, like a rain of diamonds.

Below the ship, the clouds parted for a moment and Helene could see the edges of the city and her home, Empyrean. For the first time in a long while, she felt at ease. Forward in the ship, Frölich and some of the older men would be talking about steel production and plazma stores for the army. But here, between the ground and the burning clouds above, there were no worries. No talk about the restless poor or war. Helene never wanted to see the city again. She wanted to explode in the sky and rain down on the world like burning jewels.

Eventually, though, she thanked the Kapitän, the Leutnant, and the rest of the crew and made her way forward again. After delivering the little chimera back to Frölich, Helene went into the greenhouse observation deck and found the window he’d pried open earlier. In a few seconds, the freezing wind numbed her face. It would be so easy, she thought, to step out into the sky like the little bat. Helene wondered how far up she could go if she jumped as hard as she could …

The rain grew heavy, though, and soon she closed the window and returned to the party. Helene found Greta still wedged between Orlok and Gustav on the pillows. She and Orlok were making love, but drunken Gustav had fallen asleep. Helene pushed him aside and kissed Greta as Alex pulled her down to join in the fun.




CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_db300478-83d3-5843-8ed6-927a764d8564)


Dr. Venohr had been right. When Remy woke up in the morning she appeared to be fine. She didn’t even remember getting sick at the party.

“It was very frightening,” Largo said. “You scared everybody.”

Remy patted his cheek. “You don’t have to worry about me, silly boy. I’m not going anywhere.” Before he could say anything, she looked down at herself and then at Largo. “Why are we still dressed?”

“I told you. You were sick. Dr. Venohr and I put you straight to bed.”

She tilted her head and looked at him. “I don’t mean why are we dressed. I mean why aren’t we undressed?” Remy pulled her dress off and threw it on the chair. Naked, she began to unbuckle Largo’s belt as he quickly unbuttoned his shirt. He barely got it off in time. Remy tugged his pants down over his thighs and climbed on top of him, guiding his cock inside her. Together, they rocked and thrust and scratched each other’s bodies. Largo was amazed that this was the same woman he’d carried home comatose the night before. However fragile she’d seemed then, that was all gone now. This was the Remy he knew. His Remy. And she dug her nails into his chest as she made a few last violent thrusts down onto him before holding still and squeezing him with her thighs. He laughed. Her strong, athletic body held him in place. He couldn’t have moved if he’d wanted to. Finally, Remy relaxed and fell heavily on top of him.

Still breathing hard, he said, “Well, that was unexpected.”

“Because I’m such a delicate flower?” said Remy.

“Because you were as dead-eyed as one of your theater dolls last night.”

“I trust I’ve convinced you that I’m not about to collapse like an old hausfrau or deflate like a balloon?”

“I pronounce you fit enough to fight an ox.”

She kissed him just as the bell in the Triumphal Square rang the half hour. Largo sat up and looked at the little clock on Remy’s bedside table.

“Shit,” he said. “I have to get to work.”

Remy rolled off him reluctantly and said in a joking whine, “I want to prove to you how well I am again. Can’t you be just a little late?”

“I’m sorry. I can’t. Herr Branca promoted me to chief courier, and he can take the promotion away just as easily.”

Remy sat up on her elbows. “Why didn’t you tell me? We could have celebrated.”

Largo pulled on his pants and shoes. “The party was celebration enough.”

“We’ll have to do something tonight.”

He looked around for his shirt. “Damn. The only shirt I have is the one from the theater. I don’t have time to get one of mine. Is it all right if I wear it today?”

Remy lay down on her stomach and waved a hand in his direction. “Go ahead. They’ll never miss it.”

“Thank you.”

“We must at least have some morphia together before you go.”

He shrugged into his coat and said, “That sounds lovely.” From the gilt table, he picked up the little bottle Dr. Venohr had left the night before. He tossed it to her. “That’s for you.”

“Ooh,” said Remy, pressing the bottle to her cheek. “This will last a while. Where did you get it?”

“A friend,” said Largo. He went to the bed and knelt down next to her. “Now hurry. I really have to go.”

Remy opened the bottle and squeezed out a drop under each of their tongues. When they kissed, Remy held Largo’s face fast in her hands. When he felt the first effects of the drug, he pulled back and gave her a last peck on the lips. “Now I really have to go.”

Still naked, Remy followed him through the living room to the door. As they kissed once more, Remy’s Trefle rang. She ran to pick it up.

“Dr. Venohr. How nice of you to call. No, I’m fine …”

Largo closed the door. It was then that he realized he’d left his bicycle at the Grand Dark the night before. In theory he could take a Mara cab there, but he’d left his tip money at his flat. There was no choice. He took a breath and knocked on Remy’s door. She opened it a moment later, still undressed.

“Are you the rent boy I sent for? Hurry inside before my lover finds out,” she said breathlessly.

Largo smiled tightly at the joke. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but I left my bicycle at the theater and I have no money for a cab or the tram.”

Remy went to her purse and brought back a few bills, which she held just out of his reach. “Take this. But just remember that I’m going to make you and your cock earn every penny of it tonight, you tart.”

This time Largo’s smile was genuine. He took the money, kissed her, and ran out of the building, where he hailed a cab. “The Theater of the Grand Darkness,” he said. “And hurry please. I’ll pay extra.”

“No need, sir,” said the Mara.

Largo sat back as it took off through the foggy morning streets.

That was humiliating, asking for money, he thought. At least there will be more tips today so I can pay Remy back. Then it will be payday soon. But I can’t go on like this if I’m going to convince her to move in with me.

Largo wondered about Remy’s health and whether it had been a good idea to leave her with a full bottle of morphia. He decided that as soon as he had any tip money, he’d call her from a public Trefle.

There was nothing to do but stare out of the window as the cab made its way through the city. Chimeras ate street trash as usual. Drunken couples weaved their way home, also as usual. Posters covered the sides of tram shelters. Ads for the cinema. Antigovernment broadsheets. A faded sign for a performance by Anita Mourlet, billed as the Madonna of Depravity. Largo sighed. It was all so ordinary and dull. And slow. He wondered what time it was.

When the cab finally stopped in front of the Grand Dark, Largo tossed the money Remy had given him to the Mara and dashed out. Thankfully, his bicycle was where he’d left it behind the theater. He unlocked it and sped off to work.

He stayed off the main streets because he knew that they’d be crowded at that hour. He went down trash-strewn alleys and cut through the ruins of buildings that had been hit by stray bombs during the war. Largo went all the way out to the bay and pedaled down the causeway where ships were unloading. Fishermen and scowling dockworkers stared at him. He ignored them as usual—while the route was longer, the empty streets meant he could make up a lot of time.

He steered back onto city streets in the butchers’ quarter. Blood pooled on the cobblestones and ran in little clotted rivers down to the sewers. There was a small plaza nearby where old men and young boys had carts where they cooked meat from the shops and sold pieces of it on long yellow skewers. Normally Largo could find a shortcut through it, but today he found the far end blocked—by, of all things, a traveling carnival.

It was promoting its arrival in the city with a small impromptu show. Since it was in the butchers’ quarter, clowns juggled raw chunks of meat while pretty women acrobats swung from the old coal gas lamps that lit the plaza at night. A large man in a tiger-striped suit barked orders in a guttural foreign language at a half dozen catlike chimeras as they leaped in the air and came down on their front legs. They’re perfect, Largo thought. Just the kind of creatures I’d make.

But they’re making me late.

The happy crowd pressed in around the performers. There was no way for him to get through to the exit, so he turned the bicycle around and went back the way he’d come. All he could do now was go around the butchers’ quarter onto the main streets and hope that traffic was clear enough that he could make it to work before six.

Just as he reached the exit, a woman screamed and a man yelled, “Get back!” For a moment, Largo thought they were shouting at him. His first instinct was to get away from whoever was bellowing at him, but when he looked back he saw a man on the ground writhing in convulsions. By his heavy state-issued coat, the mask hiding his face, and a few medals on his chest, Largo identified him as an Iron Dandy. The man’s contortions were much worse than Remy’s had been the night before. He arched his back so far and hard that it broke, the crack echoing off the plaza walls. His shoulders rolled and his head looked like it wanted to twist itself off his neck. But worse than that, the soldier’s arms and legs snapped and bent back at odd, unnatural angles. People shouted for a doctor, but no one would approach the sick man. Even those who’d never seen the Drops knew what it was and no one wanted to risk becoming infected.

Finally, the Dandy’s neck cracked and his head flopped back and forth like a dying fish. Blood oozed from his mouth. However, the more Largo looked, the less certain he was about what he saw. What came from the Dandy’s mouth wasn’t red.

It was black and thick and smelled like scorched oil.

“Don’t get it on you,” someone shouted, and the crowd moved farther back. Largo felt sympathy for the soldier, but he couldn’t waste any more time. He was starting to ride away from the scene when someone grabbed him from behind.

“Where do you think you’re going?” said the police officer. He was about Largo’s height, with dark lanky hair that fell into his hard eyes. His black uniform had three silver stripes near the cuffs. A bullock Sergeant, thought Largo. The officer had a fistful of Largo’s coat in one hand and a truncheon in the other.

“Nowhere, sir,” said Largo. “I can’t think of anywhere else I’d like to be on such a beautiful morning.”

The officer looked up at the fog- and smoke-choked sky, then back at Largo. “What a clever young man you are,” he said. “Wait here.”

The Sergeant left and came back with a man in a long gray coat. He was much older than the Sergeant and very thin, with sharp protruding cheekbones. An undercover bullock. Largo despised ordinary police, but this covert one frightened him. Could he have signaled the Sergeant to grab Largo?

The undercover officer wore thick rubber gloves and held a large rolled-up sheet of paper.

“Do you know what this is?” he said.

“I have no idea,” said Largo.

The officer let the poster fall open. It was something political. There were strange symbols in one corner. In the center was a burning Proszawan flag being held by a caricatured figure Largo assumed was a politician.

“I’m Special Operative Tanz,” said the undercover officer. “What do you know about this?”

“Nothing,” said Largo.

“Really? They’re all over the city. Are you claiming to have never seen one before?”

“I’m not very political, sir.”

Tanz and the Sergeant glanced at each other. The Sergeant said, “What’s your name?”

“Largo Moorden.”

Tanz said, “That man back there is a radical. An anarchist. How do you know him?”

“I don’t,” said Largo.

“You were trying to run away,” said the Sergeant.

“No, I wasn’t. I was going to work.”

“You told me you had nowhere else to be.”

Largo gave the Sergeant a tentative smile. “It was a joke, sir. I was nervous.”

“Nervous?” said Tanz. “About what? Because you knew you’d been caught with a fellow conspirator?”

This was everything he feared, everything he’d been taught to avoid growing up in the Green. He tried to relax and keep his voice steady.

“No. I’ve just received a promotion and now I’m going to be late.”

“Who would give a fool like you a job?” the Sergeant said.

“Besides spreading sedition,” said Tanz, “what is it you do?”

“I’m a courier, sir. I deliver documents and packages.”

Tanz gave him a look as he rolled up the poster. “What a fine way to distribute propaganda. What’s your supervisor’s name?”

“Herr Branca.”

“His full name,” said the Sergeant.

“That’s all I know.”

The Sergeant made a disgusted sound and spit into the bloody street.

“Didn’t we arrest a Branca the other day?” said Tanz. “He was making bombs in his mother’s attic. The poor woman had no idea she was harboring a madman.”

Largo looked from one man to the other. He knew that no matter what he said, the police would find a way to turn it against him.

“That couldn’t be Herr Branca,” said Largo. “He’s an upstanding supervisor at the company.”

“What’s the company’s name?” said Tanz.

Largo told them. As soon as he said it the officers looked at each other.

“The Nachtvogel,” said the Sergeant.

“Yes. They have their eyes on your place of work,” said Tanz.

“I swear to you, sirs, I’ve done nothing wrong.”

The Sergeant grabbed him and roughly patted him down. He reached into an inner pocket of Largo’s coat and took out a small bottle. “What’s this?” he said.

“Medicine,” said Largo. “A doctor gave it to me.”

Tanz unscrewed the top of the bottle and smelled the contents. “What’s the doctor’s name?”

Largo’s throat went dry. He wished Rainer were there to tell him what to say. He’d been in the army. He knew how to deal with bullocks.

“That’s what I thought,” said Tanz. “What should we do with him?”

The Sergeant rapped the truncheon against his hand. “An anarchist and a drug addict? At headquarters they’d feed him to the dogs.”

“Please,” said Largo. He looked around and for a moment considered riding away, but that would just confirm the police’s worst suspicions. “I’m sorry about the morphia. But I’m not a criminal or an anarchist. I just want to go to work.”

Tanz looked over his shoulder. A group of men in thick gray rubber suits with hoods and gas masks were putting the dead veteran’s body in a sealed box. Armed Maras patrolled the edge of the crowd, keeping bystanders back.

“You’re lucky,” sneered the Sergeant. “We have bigger fish to fry than you.”

“Go to work, Largo Moorden,” said Tanz. “But we’ll be checking up on you and your Herr Branca.”

The Sergeant said, “You’re lucky it’s just us. Consorting with a criminal radical like this—people much worse than us would be interested in that.”

The Nachtvogel.

Largo couldn’t help himself, though. He said, “I wasn’t associating with him. He was sick. I was trying to get away.”

“You make me sick,” said the Sergeant.

“Get out of here,” said Tanz.

It was 6:15 before Largo arrived at the office. Other couriers were already filing out with parcels and letters. Some grinned and a few sneered at him, knowing what was waiting for him inside. Andrzej bumped his shoulder into Largo’s on the way out. “What happened to you?” said Parvulesco. “Branca asked about you twice.”

Largo shook his head. “I’ll tell you later.” His friend gave him a pat on the arm and went to his bicycle.

Margit was the last courier to come out of the office. She was small and blond and wore her hair short like a young boy’s. Because it was rumored that she preferred women romantically, some of the other couriers teased her constantly. Her eyes were covered by glasses with round dark lenses. Largo lightly touched her elbow. “I need to speak to you,” he said.

She raised an eyebrow at him. “About your funeral? Herr Branca has it planned out. We’ll all be attending.”

“I need some morphia,” Largo whispered.

Margit looked around. “I don’t have any with me. Maybe at lunch. Do you have cash?”

“I will by then.”

“See that you do,” she said sternly. “I can’t give credit anymore. Even to you.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll have money.”

“At lunch then.” She turned and went to her bicycle. Largo looked at the door to Herr Branca’s office, took a breath, and went inside.

Branca glanced up at him when Largo entered the room. He made a great show of capping his pen and setting it down on his desk. “Thank you for joining us this morning, Largo.”

“I’m very sorry I’m late.”

“I thought we discussed this. As chief courier, you have to be an example to the others.”

“Yes sir. I understand, but the bullocks, that is, the police wouldn’t let me go.”

Branca frowned and came around his desk. “The police? What did you do to attract their attention?”

“Nothing. There was an incident in the butchers’ quarter and I was trying to leave.”

“What kind of incident?”

“A man was ill. It might have been the Drops.”

“How dramatic,” said Branca. “Why did the police think it was necessary to question you?”

“They accused me of being the man’s accomplice.”

Branca stepped closer to Largo. “Accomplice? Accomplice in what?”

“They said he was an anarchist.”

Branca opened his eyes wider. “And are you?”

“Sir?”

“Are you an anarchist?”

“Of course not.”

“That’s good,” said Branca. “I can’t abide seditionists and neither can the company.”

“There’s something else …,” said Largo.

“Well?”

“I’m afraid they might come to talk to you.”

“Here? You told them where you worked?”

“I had no choice.”

“I see. I assume they searched you? What did the officers say when they discovered your knife?”

Reluctantly, Largo said, “I didn’t have it.”

Branca looked at the ceiling. “Where is it?” he said.

“At home.”

“I see. You didn’t go home last night?”

“No. I was with a sick friend.”

“Of course,” said Branca. He looked thoughtful for a moment. “Perhaps it was a lucky thing, this sick friend of yours. If the police suspected you of a crime they might have misconstrued the knife.”

“Do you think it’s safe for me to continue wearing it?”

Branca clasped his hands behind his back. “You must make a choice. Which is the greater fear: the police, or losing your job and possibly your life?”

“I want to keep my job. And my life.”

“A wise choice. See that you don’t forget the knife again.”

“I won’t.”

“All right. Enough of this nonsense. You have deliveries to make,” said Branca. He went back behind his desk.

“Then I’m not fired?”

“We’ll see. I’m not happy about the police incident, but I applaud you for your honesty.” Branca looked at a few parcels stacked on a battered wooden worktable. He picked up one and weighed it in his hands. “This will do nicely. I suspect you’ll wish you had your knife with you this morning.”

Largo looked at the package and wondered what was inside. He tried reading the address, but it was too far away. Is the old bastard just giving me a hard time or sending me off to get killed? he wondered. “I’ll get the knife during my lunch break,” he said.

“Another wise choice,” said Branca. “Tell me, does this sick friend of yours have any other friends?”

“Yes. Many.”

“Then perhaps one of them can visit tonight so that you won’t be tardy tomorrow.”

Largo shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “It won’t be necessary. She’s much better now.”

“I’m nearly fainting in delight,” said Branca, handing the parcel and an old shoulder bag to Largo, who took them and started out.

“Largo,” said Herr Branca.

He stopped and turned around.

“I approve of your shirt. It’s good to see you dressing a bit more professionally. I should have the money for your clothing stipend tomorrow. That’s all.”

Largo nodded to Branca and went out to his bicycle. He was excited at the prospect of having some decent clothes to wear. However, when he read the address on the parcel the excitement evaporated.

I was right.

The prick wants me dead.




HINTERLAND (#ulink_17a8f501-2852-552e-8430-b0ba115c1853)


Machtviertel had never really been a neighborhood, merely a collection of coal power plants, warehouses, and rail hubs. The plants produced power for much of the western half of Lower Proszawa, but its location had been chosen primarily to provide an endless source of heat and electricity for the armaments factory. However, when it switched to plazma power many years earlier, that left a surplus of coal in the district and more workers than it needed. Yet no one lost their job. The government kept the trains coming and let the coal pile up. They calculated that it was better to pay the workers than let them sit idle. And so the coal continued to grow. The coal continued to burn. And thus Machtviertel became a walled city within the city, ringed by a moat of filth.

Smoke from the coal towers blanketed the district in perpetual darkness. A thick crust of carbonous dust covered everything. Around the active buildings, workers left black footprints in their wake. By the warehouses where trains offloaded their cargo, there were great ebony dunes that turned to thick mud in the rain. Machtviertel had a hellish reputation in the city, partly for the environment, but also for its inhabitants. People lived in the older, disused power stations and warehouses. There was a saying in Lower Proszawa: “Those who live in Machtviertel are insane. But those who seek them out are madmen.”




CHAPTER SIX (#ulink_483ba630-d291-51c6-8acd-572a54bb7e69)


It took Largo almost an hour to bicycle there. He stopped beside the largest of the abandoned power plants, commonly known as the Black Palace. When it had been built, the dynamos’ home was a showcase for Lower Proszawa’s strength and ingenuity. The smokestacks rose one hundred feet into the air and the stonework on the front of the plant had been carved into old mythological scenes. At the top, giants pulled iron from the ground and molded it with volcanic fire. Lower and at street level, smaller spirits and artisans molded the iron into metal towers and wires, spreading light and power to a darkened land. Now, however, the Black Palace was a crumbling ebony hulk of sooty stone and rusted beams in a bleak field of coarse weeds.

Largo chained his bicycle to the base of a collapsed light tower. A murder of crows huddled a few yards away. They lifted off at the sound of his chain on the steel, cawing and circling overhead, black bird-shaped holes against an obsidian sky. He looked up at the building, sure that if Herr Branca wasn’t trying to get his throat slit, then the delivery was his supervisor’s way of telling Largo that he’d been demoted to the point that he’d spend the rest of his days delivering God knew what to Lower Proszawa’s most desolate wastelands.

Maybe I’ll be lucky enough to visit High Proszawa’s plague pits. Perhaps I’ll even get hazard pay. Then I’ll be able to afford a new flat and Remy can visit me there as I die of every foul disease known to man.

The address on Largo’s parcel was for an office on the Black Palace’s fifth floor. He squeezed through a junk-filled gap where the towering front doors had once stood. The building was absolutely silent and as he climbed the stairs Largo began to wonder if the delivery was some kind of sick joke—the company sending him far into the outlands on a pointless trip to remind him that he was lucky to have a job at all. At each landing he became less scared, instead finding himself growing angrier at the idea that the trip might be for nothing. Maybe his fellow couriers were above him in the building, waiting for him to knock so they could all laugh in his face.

Andrzej would love that.

On the fifth floor, Largo found the office under a cracked skylight so caked with coal dust that the dim light that made it through a few open areas came down in gray shafts. He held the package under one of the light patches and read the address one last time. Yes, he was at the right door. But the building remained utterly silent. It was strange. In the worst hovels in Haxan Green, there were always sounds of life, even if it was just rats in the walls. The silence of the Black Palace was what Largo imagined being walled up in a tomb must be like.

He went to the office and raised his hand to knock, but instead pressed his ear to the door. No—there was a sound. Low and rhythmic. Not the sound of voices or people, but the steady sound of a machine. Now Largo’s nervousness returned and he missed having the knife under his coat. His options were limited, and a quick look around showed nothing he might use to defend himself. He either had to turn tail and run, losing his job—and almost certainly Remy—or he could knock. In the end, he had no choice.

He knocked.

Nothing happened for a moment. But when he listened again, the sound of the machine had stopped. Before he could lean back from the door it swung open suddenly. Largo jumped back in surprise. The man in the doorway was as tall as Andrzej, but much larger. He wore a filthy sleeveless undershirt that revealed bulging arms and a barrel chest. His black beard was going gray and his greasy hair was combed straight back from his forehead. But as massive as everything about him was, it was his eyes that caught Largo’s attention. They were yellow, as was his skin. Jaundice, he thought, and quickly tried to remember if he’d ever heard about yellowed skin having anything to do with the Drops. He didn’t get to think very long before the man spoke.

“Who are you?” he said in a deep, rasping voice. “I haven’t seen you in the Palace before.” The big man wiped sweat from his face with a green bandanna that hung loosely around his neck. His shirt was soaked through and there were large patches of glistening red on the front. To Largo he looked like a thief preparing stolen meat to sell on the black market. But who would run a butcher shop this far out, even if it is a crooked one?

Largo stood up straighter and held out the parcel. “I have a delivery for this address,” he said. The room behind the jaundiced man looked empty except for the angular shadow of something distinctly machinelike on the back wall.

The man’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not expecting anything,” he said. Turning, he shouted into the room, “Is anyone expecting a package?”

To Largo’s surprise, several voices answered at once, men and women. A woman’s voice said, “Who’s it from?”

The big man gestured at him. “Who’s it from?”

Largo said, “I’m sorry, but there’s no return address.”

Footsteps echoed as someone else came to the door. A woman said, “Let me see,” and pushed the big man out of the way.

Largo leaned forward when he saw her, surprised.

“Margit?” he said.

She froze and stared at him. Her voice was angry. “What the hell are you doing here? I told you I’d see you at lunch.”

“I know, I know. I’m here because of the parcel.” He held it up, as if it were all the explanation needed.

“You know this whelp?” said the jaundiced man.

Margit patted him on the arm. “It’s all right, Pietr. Largo is a friend from work.”

“One of your customers, I suppose? An addict?”

“No—shut up. Look at him. He just uses for fun, like a lot of people. Isn’t that right, Largo?”

“Yes,” he said quickly. “Just for fun.” But he was already feeling a chill from the lack of morphia.

“What’s he doing here?” said Pietr, menace creeping into his voice.

Margit took the parcel from Largo’s hands and looked it over. “This is the right address. Someone must have sent for it.”

“That’s madness,” said a man Largo couldn’t see. “No one would do that.”

“You can’t speak for everyone. They’re not all here,” Margit said.

“To hell with this,” Pietr said. He snatched the parcel from Margit, pulled out a stiletto, and cut open the wrappings. There were six large jars inside, each one a different color. The big man pulled one out and showed it to Margit. “Ink,” he said.

“Yes. I can see,” said Margit. “It has to be one of the others. We do need more ink.”

“I don’t like it,” growled the jaundiced man. “Maybe we should keep him here until everyone arrives.”

“I’m telling you, Pietr, Largo is no one to worry about,” said Margit. She turned to Largo. “You should go now. Please don’t tell Branca you saw me.”

“Of course not,” said Largo. “I take it you’re not here making a delivery, are you?”

Margit gave him a thin smile. “Hardly,” she said. She reached into a pocket of her coat and pressed a bottle into Largo’s hand. “Forget what you’ve seen here. All right?”

“But I have to tell Herr Branca something. And someone needs to sign for the package.”

Pietr and some of the other unseen people laughed. The big man took Largo’s receipt book, scrawled something in it, and shoved it back into Largo’s hands. Margit said, “That should be enough for the old bear.”

Largo looked at the signature. It was an indecipherable scrawl of loops and slashes. “It looks fine,” he said. “But what are you doing here?”

“None of your business,” a voice yelled from the back, while at the same time the jaundiced man said, “Trying to educate fools like you.”

“I don’t understand.”

Pietr disappeared for a moment and—after what seemed like a whispered argument with whoever else was inside—came back with a piece of paper. He thrust it into Largo’s hand. The ink was still tacky and some smeared on Largo’s fingers. There was a small target symbol in the bottom right corner. “Here,” said the big man. “Now the audience is over.” He started to close the door, but Margit caught it.

“I’ll talk to you later,” she said. “By the gate. After work.”

“I’ll see you there,” Largo said, still confused by the scene.

For the first time Pietr smiled. His teeth were dark and stained. “Be careful that the crows don’t peck your eyes out, pup,” he said, and slammed the door shut. Largo pressed his ear against it and heard shouting voices on the other side.

Largo didn’t linger to hear what they were arguing about. He shoved the paper Pitr had given him into his pocket and ran down the stairs.

He composed himself as he got to the ground floor, however, knowing that like the Green, Machtviertel wasn’t a place to show fear. He’d missed his chance with the people upstairs, but he could at least appear unconcerned to anyone outside.

But then Largo remembered the bottle Margit had put in his hand.

He took it from his pocket. It was morphia. A bottle of it as big as the one Dr. Venohr had given him at Remy’s. He stood in a shadow by the stairs and stared at it happily. He quickly unstoppered it and put two drops under his tongue. Almost immediately, the chills left him and a gentle warmth moved through his muscles and bones. Pure morphia, he thought. Not watered down. Magical.

Feeling much better, he put the receipt book into his shoulder bag and made his way out of the Black Palace to his bicycle. As he unchained it, the crows shuffled and cawed at him, utterly unafraid. But with the morphia in his system, so was Largo. He rode swiftly back toward the courier depot.

On his way out of Machtviertel, however, Largo had a coughing fit so violent that he had to stop on the side of the road. When he blew his nose with a handkerchief, what came out was as black as soot. As good as the morphia made him feel, he was still relieved to put Machtviertel behind him.

It was a long ride back to the office.




CHAPTER SEVEN (#ulink_61e0c015-7dbf-585e-930a-b85ba7f1813f)


Herr Branca set down his pen and applauded mirthlessly when Largo arrived. “The prodigal son returns, and in one piece. Did you receive a warm welcome in Machtviertel?”

“I was greeted with open arms. At least by the crows.”

“And the people?”

“They were more reluctant, but I successfully delivered the parcel.”

“Merely reluctant?” said Branca. “I hadn’t heard that shyness was common among the denizens of the district.”

“Maybe ‘shyness’ isn’t the right word. They certainly weren’t used to receiving deliveries.”

Branca leaned on his desk. “What were they like, your reluctant customers?”

Largo thought carefully about his answer. He’d formulated a story on the ride back, but the morphia let his mind drift and now he couldn’t remember much of it. “There was a man and woman. An old couple. They didn’t want to come to the door at first, but I talked to them until they were reassured that it was safe to accept the package.”

“That was very professional of you. It was just the two of them then?”

“As far as I could see.”

Branca put out his hand. “Do you have your receipt book?” Largo handed it to him and he looked it over. “That’s quite a signature. Is it the man’s or woman’s?”

Even light-headed from the morphia, Largo remembered the most basic rule of lying: stay as close to the truth as possible. “The man’s. It is a bit of a mess, isn’t it? His hand shook a bit as he signed it.”

“That explains it, then. I take it there was nothing else interesting or notable at the Black Palace?”

Largo looked at his supervisor. “You’ve been there?”

Branca placed the receipt book in a desk drawer. “Many times,” he said. “I wasn’t born behind this desk, you know. I made my share of deliveries when I was your age.”

Largo tried to picture a young Branca riding a bicycle through traffic, cutting around pedestrians, cabs, and speeding military juggernauts. It was like something from a dream of flying—very strange and extremely hard to believe.

“I’m sure it’s changed since you were there, but it was my first trip so I’m not sure what qualifies as unusual. Perhaps if I go back sometime—”

He immediately regretted saying it. What if the bastard takes it as an invitation to make me the company’s representative to the hinterlands? I’ll have cancer in a year and no tips to show for it.

Herr Branca turned his head and looked at Largo from an odd angle. “Did you hurt yourself on the way back?” he said.

Largo looked down at himself. “I don’t think so.”

“Your hand is bleeding.”

Damn, he thought. He wiped his fingers on his coat. “I’m fine, sir. It’s just a little ink.”

“Ink from what?”

Damn again. Why didn’t I wash my hands on the way in? he thought. It was the morphia, of course. He promised himself to be more careful in the future.

“Just something I found on the street on the way out of Machtviertel. To tell you the truth, I didn’t even read it.”

“Do you still have it?”

Largo felt stuck like a butterfly with a pin through its middle. If he said he didn’t have it Branca would ask why he didn’t say that in the first place. And what if Branca searched him and found the paper and the morphia? That would be the end of all his dreams. Besides, he didn’t really owe them anything—although thinking about Margit made him feel a bit unsure. Still, he couldn’t think of any alternatives, so he gave in. Largo patted his pockets, trying to look calm and composed. He smiled when he seemed to discover the paper in one of them, and reluctantly handed it over.

Branca opened the sheet and scanned it slowly. “Did you read this?”

“No, sir. What does it say?”

“Seditionist trash,” said Branca. “You say you found it on the ground?”

“Yes, sir.”

Branca turned the paper over and looked at the back. “It’s remarkably free of dirt. And the ink was still wet when you found it? I can’t say I’m surprised. Machtviertel is swarming with radical hotheads. It’s all the dust, you see. It addles the brain.”

Largo nodded, trying to look as if he agreed completely. “That makes sense.”

Branca looked back at the paper. “You should be careful about what trash you pick up in the future. Your policeman friend—Tanz, I believe, is his name—was here earlier. After the incident this morning, I can’t imagine what he’d think if he found this on you.”

Just hearing the undercover officer’s name made Largo tense. The sweet calm of the morphia all but disappeared. He thought about the Sergeant and what he’d said earlier. “An anarchist and a drug addict? At headquarters they’d feed him to the dogs.”

“I see what you mean. I’ll be more careful in the future.”

Branca wadded up the paper and threw it in the trash. From a desk drawer, he removed a new receipt book and handed it to Largo. “For this afternoon’s deliveries.”

Largo was putting the book in his shoulder bag when something occurred to him. “Excuse me. This book is new, as was the one you gave me this morning. If you don’t mind me asking, will I always get new receipt books?”

Branca held out the previous receipt book so that Largo could see the red stains along the edges. “This one is soiled. We can’t have our customers signing dirty books, can we?”

“No, of course not.”

“I’m glad you approve.” Branca took out a pocket watch and checked it against the office clock. “You had a long ride this morning. You may take an early lunch so that you can go home and fetch your knife.”

“Thank you,” said Largo.

“And wash that filth off your hands before you contaminate another book.”

“Right away, sir.”

Branca picked up a Trefle that sat on the side of his desk and waited for the operator. He flicked his wrist, waving the back of his hand. “That’s all, Largo. You may go.”

“I’ll be back soon.”

“How delightful.”

Largo went to the employee toilet near the loading dock and washed the red ink off his hand with a coarse bar of gray soap.

With the extra time, Largo was tempted to have another drop of morphia, but he couldn’t afford to be foggy-headed again. He checked an inside pocket of his coat and found the vial of cocaine. It was just small enough that the Sergeant hadn’t found it earlier, especially after he’d been distracted by the morphia. Largo thought it over and decided to use a little powder when he was back at his flat. It would sharpen him up for his afternoon deliveries and still leave enough to share with Remy in the evening.

With those warm thoughts, the morning was already fading away.

When he reached Little Shambles, the traveling carnival he’d seen earlier in the butchers’ quarter was there, giving another impromptu performance. Largo hung at the back of the crowd at first, not watching the show but looking at the people, scanning the ragged mob for the police. When he didn’t see any he got closer—but stayed on his bicycle in case he had to get away quickly.

The performers were the same ones he’d seen in the morning. Keeping with the habits of Little Shambles, the clowns didn’t juggle meat this time but bottles of beer and whiskey. The beautiful acrobats did tumbling runs in the dirty street. There were some contortionists he’d missed earlier, bending themselves in unpleasant ways that reminded Largo of the convulsing man. Not wanting to relive that moment, he went around to the far edge of the crowd, where the chimeras were performing.

The tiger-suited man was there, barking orders at the small catlike creatures. Now Largo finally got a good look at them. They were hairless and had large, comical ears. The bare skin along their sides and legs changed colors as they went through their routines. At one moment they were striped with purples and at another spotted red. When they ran and jumped, they pulsed with a dozen colors, as if fireworks were going off under their skin. So beautiful, he thought. To be able to create such things.

He could have spent all afternoon there, but he needed to go to his flat, have lunch, and get back to the office without being late for once. It was heartbreaking to leave such beauty behind for something as mundane as another round of idiotic deliveries, but when he remembered the cocaine in his coat, it wasn’t quite as depressing.

After pedaling the last few blocks, Largo ran up the filthy stairs to his flat and locked the door. He put the harness and knife on first, got his bag, and then went to the tin box under his mattress and took a few coins for lunch and a Trefle call. Before he left, he laid a short, thick line of cocaine on the back of his hand and sniffed it up. At the bottom of the stairs, the rush and sense of well-being and beauty were overwhelming. Largo took off on his bicycle, thinking of Remy naked in her flat, her skin crawling with light and colors, catlike and perfect.




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