Dead Reign (18 page)

Sanford Cole sat upright and gripped Marla by the throat, choking her with phenomenal strength, and Marla went to one knee, gasping, barely able to break his hold, even though his attack was hardly sophisticated. Cole lunged up out of his chair, looking terrified and suddenly very old. He said, “Marla?” in a voice of infinite bewilderment.

“Sorry, Cole,” she said, rubbing her throat, her voice a croak. “You wouldn’t wake up. I knew you could never sleep through San Francisco being threatened, so…” She shrugged and got to her feet. “I psyched myself out.”

“You…didn’t really mean it.”

“Oh, I meant it,” Marla said. “Right then, at that moment, destroying San Francisco was my one and only goal. But I don’t mean it
anymore.
I just needed you to wake up.”

“That’s clever.” Cole sat down again. “Nasty, mean, rather unconscionable…but clever.”

“Pelham, make some coffee, too!” Marla shouted. She knelt before Cole. “Good to see you again, old fella. I hear you’re having some trouble staying awake.”

He sighed, and looked stricken. “It’s hard to remain conscious. I want to train Bradley, I promised you I would, but after sleeping for so long, wakefulness is hard, when my city isn’t being threatened.” He looked longingly toward San Francisco. “And it’s changed so much, it saddens me. Susan Wellstone is a perfectly adequate leader, don’t misunderstand me, but…she’s self-righteous. Smug. Elitist. When San Francisco began, it was a jostling boomtown, high and low culture mingled. Oh, there was always a world of difference between Nob Hill and the Barbary Coast, but the divisions didn’t seem quite so unbridgeable back then. Or perhaps I’m only a sentimental old fool, viewing the present through a lens of nostalgia.”

“B asked me if he could be my apprentice if you went back to sleep,” Marla said.

Cole’s eyes widened. “He’s a
seer,
Marla. A wizard of perception, of finding oracles and magic, of looking-in. You are…a different sort of sorcerer.”

“I know,” Marla said. “You study things, and I kick them. I’d teach him in your tradition as best I can, but some of my flavor is bound to rub off on him. Still…”

“A somewhat incompatible teacher is better than no teacher at all,” Cole said.

Marla nodded.

“I wish…I think…” He winced. “I think that might be best. If you took over as his teacher.”

“Okay,” Marla said, and it was decided. Sanford Cole was one of the wisest and most powerful sorcerers on Earth, and if he said it was for the best, Marla would go along with it, however inconvenient it might prove to be.

Pelham entered bearing a silver tray, a pot each of coffee and tea, and several cups. “I didn’t even know we had a full tea service,” B said. “Where did you find that?” He noticed his conscious master. “Cole! So good to see you! Has Marla told you why she’s here?”

Cole frowned. “I assumed you called her because you were concerned about me.”

B shook his head. “No. I mean, I did mention you were having trouble staying awake, but that’s not why she’s here. It’s…quite a story.” He glanced at Marla. “May I?”

She nodded, and B told Cole about Death’s demands, and Marla’s banishment, succinctly and accurately enough that Marla only felt compelled to butt in and clarify half a dozen points. When B was done, Cole frowned. “I see. Well. That certainly doesn’t sound like the Death
I
know.”

“You know Death?” Marla said.

“I should,” Cole said. “I’m the man who won the dagger from him.”

“Y
ou
won Death’s dagger?” Marla waved away the cup of coffee Pelham brought to her side.

“Yes, in a Senet game in Egypt, just before I came to America in the early 1700s.” Cole accepted a cup of tea, and his eyes took on a faraway look. “I gave it to one of my apprentices, a man named Malkin, before he went off to seek his fortune.”

“Everett Malkin?” Marla said. “He was the first chief sorcerer of Felport, back when it was barely just a city!”

“Yes,” Cole said, nodding. “He did well for himself.”

Marla was stunned. “Why did you never tell me one of your guys founded my city?”

“You must understand, he was only one of countless apprentices I brought with me to the New World,” Cole said. “Many of the early chief sorcerers were my men, in New York, Chicago, Pittsburgh, Norfolk, Savannah, Detroit…. All dead now, of course, or immortal and mad.”

Marla nodded. Cole was partly legendary for his involvement in helping European sorcerers get a foothold in America during the early settlements, sometimes clashing with the local totemic and shamanistic magic in the process. “So you won the knife off Death, and just gave it away?”

Cole shrugged. “In human hands, though useful, it is essentially a weapon, and weapons are not my forte. Malkin was the most accomplished martial magician under my tutelage—indeed, I was a poor fit for him as a teacher.” He glanced at B, and then at Marla, but didn’t comment further. “I thought he could use it more effectively than I could. I was building a nation in those days, you see, and I tried to make sure everyone had tools to suit them. Felport was a haunted place in those days—’the fel port’ the first settlers called it, and an early attempt to make a permanent home there ended with all the inhabitants vanished or dead. Even the natives shunned that place by the bay. Malkin cleaned up the bad element, drove away the dark spirits that dwelt there, and the knife helped him do it. He worked a great magic to make sure the blade would stay forever in that city.” Cole shook his head. “But Death would not return for his weapon, not after losing it fairly. He was an honorable god.”

“I think that particular Death retired,” Marla said. “There’s a new god, calling himself the Walking Death.”

“Heavens,” Cole said. “I’d heard tell of such things, that long ago there was a different Death…it makes a certain amount of sense. Death is tied to life, and birth, and rebirth, to the harvest and the tides and the seasons and cyclical things. So the old Death is gone.” Cole bowed his head. “He was no crueler than he needed to be, that one, and he was a gracious loser. I’m sorry his son, or heir, or new incarnation, is such a sad replacement.”

“What on earth did you wager against his dagger?”

“It was not a dagger then, but a sword,” Cole said. “Death’s terrible sword. It can cut through anything. Dreams. Hopes. Memories. Ideas. Certainties. In human hands, its powers are greatly diminished. Imagine a child trying to lift a two-handed broadsword—it never could. But a small knife, yes. We mortals are as children to the gods, in strength, at least, and I could not wield the sword, and so it transformed into a dagger when the hilt touched my hand, and a dagger it has remained.”

“Interesting,” Marla said. “But, again, what did you
bet
?”

“A gemstone, mined from the depths of Hades, according to legend, reportedly the most beautiful jewel in Hell. Death wanted it very much, and I agreed to play a game of chance with him.” He shook his head. “I don’t have the jewel anymore. I gave it to another of my protégés, to help him found a settlement in the Pacific Northwest. I was so bold in those days, Marla. Nearly as bold as you are now. Invading the underworld.” He chuckled. “Good show.”

“Do you think it’s possible?” Marla said.

“Possible, yes. Possible for
you
? I don’t know. The journey will be perilous, even if Bradley can find an entry point for you. How exactly it will prove perilous, I don’t know. I’ve never been to the underworld. But from the hints Death dropped during our long game, I understand it is a mutable place, shaping itself to fit the unconscious expectations of the soul that enters. As malleable as the medicine lands. What do
you
think Hell will be like, Marla?”

“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “When I was a kid I was generic Protestant, but once I got old enough to think about it I became an atheist. Nowadays I know there are gods, or things so much more powerful than people that we might as well call them gods, but I don’t especially worship them—most of them are just as fucked up as people, with no more moral or ethical sense than a jackal.”

“They have morals and ethics,” Cole said. “Very strict codes, in fact. Just not human ones. There’s no telling what Hell will look like for you. But when you get there, fight your way forward, always forward. The direction doesn’t matter—direction is a convenience there, a conceit. Just don’t backtrack. Eventually, after who knows how long, you should reach the center of that realm, and there you will find a throne. It seems that throne is likely to be empty now, as its rightful ruler is playing house in Felport. All you have to do is sit on the throne, and Hell will be yours to command.”

Marla grunted. “That’s all it takes? Then why doesn’t some dead guy sit on the throne?”

“The dead may not. They cannot sit on that throne any more than you could sit on a throne of water or smoke. And as for the demons and administrators and tormentors who staff Hell, they would never dare. They are merely the fingernail cuttings and stray hairs of Death, and he can dispel them with a glance, with a thought. Death himself could kill you, of course, and then you would be in his realm, at his mercy. He would have killed you already, I’m sure, but the dagger would just pass to your successor, so your death does him little good. Assuming you survive long enough to sit on his chair, however, you will become like a god, too—and, I suspect, the knife will change to a sword in your hand.” He paused. “You will have great power then. Promise me you will only use that power to make Death return your city to you, and trouble you no longer.”

“Cole, all I want—”

“Promise.”
His eyes were suddenly fiery. “You are a human. You should not have the power of a god. You are not bound by the rules they are bound by, and to have such power without such rules would be disastrous.”

Marla swallowed. “Okay. Whatever you say. I don’t want to rule Hell, Cole. I just want Felport back.”

“Then I wish you well,” Cole said. “Be careful in the underworld, Marla. I’ve heard stories. The dead…they can be dangerous to the living. They may not be rational, reasonable. Some may even be mad.”

“You’re telling me that dying makes you go bat-shit crazy?”

“Dead people aren’t insane,” Cole said. “Ghosts are, often, because they are lost, confused fragments stuck in the wrong place. But the dead, when they’re in the underworld, are no madder than you or I. However, when faced with a living person, the dead can
become
insane, as the touch of water can send a hydrophobe into a rage. Others may become delusional, lost in time and space, forgetful of whether they’re alive or dead. And that confusion can be contagious. Be on your guard. The dead may not be able to kill you—I’ve heard conflicting reports—but they can confuse you, enchant you, wrap you in illusions that prey on your insecurity and guilt, leave you lost and wandering.” Cole yawned enormously. “Forgive me. I think I need a nap.” He leaned his head back, and just like that, he was asleep.

“That was more informative than I’d expected.” Marla went to sit with B and Pelham on the deck, leaving Cole to his sleep, not that their conversation was likely to disturb him. “That old guy just settled what are, as far as I can tell, millennia-old questions about the nature of death gods and the afterlife. I mean, assuming he’s right.”

B rolled his eyes. “Cole is always right. It’s annoying.”

“I’m always right, too.” Marla took the cup that Pelham patiently proffered. “Do you find me annoying?”

B said, “I keep asking how old he is, and he won’t tell me. I made a joke that I thought he was actually Merlin, and he said Merlin wasn’t all he was cracked up to be. I couldn’t tell if he was kidding. And now he can’t even stay awake.”

“He’s had a long life. It’s no surprise he’s tired,” Pelham said, and Marla looked at him quizzically. Pelham came out with the funniest things sometimes, things that hinted at depths Marla couldn’t imagine. Literally couldn’t imagine—how much wisdom or experience or insight could Pelly have possibly developed as a ward of the Chamberlain’s estate?

They looked out at the city. Marla was unwinding, almost against her will, as she sipped from her cup. Twenty-three hours before she could make her rush for the underworld. She’d have to spend the time preparing herself…somehow. Cole probably had quite a magical library. Maybe she’d study up. Cole had talked about how Death’s dagger had formidable powers in the right hands, and she was curious about that, but she doubted he would wake up anytime soon. Maybe his journals would have the answer, if they weren’t enciphered.

“So,” B said after a while, “did you two decide my fate?”

“Oh,” Marla said. “Sure. You can come back with me, assuming we return from the underworld in one piece.”

“Marla, that’s amazing,” B said. “I can’t thank you enough. I’ll miss the West Coast, but it’ll be good to spend time with you and Rondeau.”

“I’m going to bust your ass, Bowman. And not in a good way. It’s going to be hard work, being my apprentice. Lots of on-the-job training, if you know what I mean. Starting tomorrow. You’ve been to the underworld before, so I’ll need your help.”

“About that,” B said.

“You’ve been to the afterlife?” Pelham said, awed. “Truly?”

B squirmed a little, and even in the darkness he looked uncomfortable. “Before I really knew about magic, I had these dreams, and sometimes spirits talked to me, or monsters. Once I realized I wasn’t going crazy—or at least that the source of my craziness was external, not internal—I started trying to help the people I dreamed about. One guy wanted me to help him find the underworld, so he could bring back his girlfriend, who’d died from a bee sting.”

“Did it work?” Pelham asked.

B shook his head. “I don’t know. I never saw him again.”

“What was it like down there?” Marla said. “You never told me.”

“For me, there were monitor lizards, and trees made of stone, and a cavern so big it had its own night sky, and a woman who had a beehive in her chest. So, basically, it was like one of my prophetic dreams. I think Cole’s probably right—it’s an individual experience.”

“We’ll see how it looks tomorrow night, then,” she said.