Authors: Zachary Rawlins
The city was either an architect’s nightmare or
perverse fantasy. Ancient gambrel rooftops competed for space with the gentle
curvature of domes and minarets. Neon adorned the arches of century-old
commercial buildings, blocks of dark green stone cut and drilled to allow
modern utilities. At the level of the buckled and uneven asphalt, the streets
were lined with dusty and heavily-curtained stores. Sidewalks and alleys were
crammed with vendors and sidewalk kitchens. Every third building was a tenement,
crawling with a dense and diverse population. There was an overwhelming array
of signage in the universal language of Babel, which no one seemed to find
remarkable. Yael’s mouth watered at the scents of fresh bread and curry, stewing
tomatoes and fried garlic.
“I can’t believe I finally made it,” Yael said,
pausing at an intersection to allow traffic to pass and to admire the
buildings. The lack of planning was dizzying and grotesque, antique wooden
houses cheek-and-jowl with gothic skyscrapers and brutalist concrete apartment
buildings. “This is amazing. I think.”
“This city is many things, including a grave for the
unwary. You aren’t out of the woods yet.”
“I thought you said that you had friends here? That
all we had to do was make it to the Night Market?”
Tobi paused and looked back at her as if she were the
difficult one.
“It isn’t that simple, I’m afraid. The Night Market
isn’t the kind of place one simply goes to. First, we need to find someone who
knows when and where the market will be held, someone who can offer us protection
and guide us to its current location.”
The dull thud of an explosion from the train station,
several blocks back, rattled windows and brought all the conversation on the
street to a dead halt. Then, as a tendril of black smoke rose to the grey sky,
the chatter resumed, redoubled and excited. Yael glanced back, tongues of flame
reflected in the lenses of her mask.
“And I am certain you know just such a person, Tobi. I
know I can rely on your resourcefulness.”
Tobi led her to a small park a few blocks away, out of
sight of the distant smoke. It was a bleak place: a few withered trees and an
oblong patch of half-dead grass with a concrete canal running through the
center of it. Tobi sat on the edge of the canal and then began the laborious
process of cleaning his paws. Yael dangled her legs from the lip of the concrete
channel, over what could generously be called a stream, wishing for the sun to
come out. She didn’t take her mask off, even though the readout claimed the air
was clean.
She wasn’t ready to face the city without a filter.
Not yet.
“You are correct,” Tobi said coolly, shifting his
attention from one forepaw to the other. “Actually, I know any number of people
– shoppers and vendors both – who frequent the Night Market. Any of them could
tell us when and where the next one will be held, in trade or in return for
past favors. But few of them are in a position to shield us until then. And
there are fewer still...”
He trailed off.
“That you can trust? Are my enemies really so
powerful?”
Tobi looked at her with obvious scorn.
“You poisoned an avatar of Nyarlathotep. The Outer
Dark was already moving against you, no doubt, but I’m afraid you made it quite
personal. Bringing Jenny Frost to the Nameless City – a very questionable
decision, I might add – when it becomes common knowledge that you had a hand in
that, then we will be left with precious few allies. And I would imagine that
your family’s legal firm will make that information public very soon.”
“Maybe that was a bad idea,” Yael admitted, tossing a
pebble into the slow, murky water. “But I owed Jenny. I am not certain that I
would have survived the journey without her.”
“And those are your only reasons for helping her?”
Yael winced inside her mask, glad for the privacy.
“I will take all the help I can get. As you said, my
enemies are powerful. Enough of this nonsense,” she said, shaking her head and
throwing another pebble. “Tell me what we should do now, Tobi.”
The cat glanced up from whatever was occupying his
attention on his hindquarters.
“I will think. Why don’t you take a nap?”
Yael had to agree – she was tired, after all. And she
had an important meeting, she thought, sliding out the business card that Jenny
had given her. Yael clutched it to her chest so she could feel the weight of
the silver key through the cardstock resting on her palm. Then she shuffled to
a nearby bench and peeled off her mask, attempting to make herself comfortable
by using her duffel bag as a pillow.
Yael was worried that she wouldn’t be able to sleep
on the hard wooden slats, but her worry was short lived, as she started yawning
as soon as she was prone.
***
“This is folly!”
“Or inspired.”
Yog & Sothoth, the sign read,
embossed gold on mahogany in a san-serif font. Very professional, fashionably
antiqued. The tasteful wallpaper it was mounted on was as false as the burgundy
carpet she stood on and the air she breathed. She heard the whir of air
conditioning, the muffled sounds of business in nonexistent neighboring offices.
Yael smiled at the laboriously detailed illusion despite herself.
The door was open. Yael didn’t bother
to introduce herself. There were two men in the poorly lit office behind a
massive desk with an antique lamp that cast an abbreviated cone of the blue
light that the Visitors preferred.
They wore voluminous robes with
scarves wrapped around their heads, draped around the neck in a way that made
them look North African to Yael. Their veils were constructed of chain-mesh
links of the Visitor’s metal, treated to refract light like a prism, making it
impossible to look at them directly. Above their veils, their eyes were as
black and calm as those of insects.
Their shape, overall, was simply
wrong, in a manner that defied nature and decency. Their chests were too broad
and their skulls overly elongated. The contours of their veils traced the bizarre
dimensions of their faces.
“Good evening, Yael Kaufman of
Roanoke,” Mr. Sothoth buzzed, in his grating, high-pitched voice, like worrying
a splinter just below the surface of the skin. “I am pleased to see you again.”
“And I,” Mr. Yog agreed flatly.
“Is that so?” Yael asked, her voice
light and friendly. She had always been nervous around them, despite Mr.
Sothoth’s general solicitousness, despite their reliable, stolid natures – Yael
had always been afraid of them, of what they represented. Something inside her
had changed, apparently, because as she walked into the plush office, running
her hand along the smooth wood banister beside the stair, she felt only echoes
of the old fear, the same way a playground that seemed massive in memory would
be mundane in the present. “Your actions suggest otherwise.”
Perhaps it was the potential they had
once represented, future and nightmare rolled into one. Yael’s mother had
rushed into marriage and children, she knew, to avoid being eligible.
Whatever the case, it was irrelevant
now. Yael knew where she stood.
“Oh?” Mr. Sothoth blubbered
curiously, his black eyes glinting. “What action do you speak of, Miss Kaufman?
We have always served your family faithfully.”
“To the best of my knowledge that is
true. Tell me, then – do you serve my family at the moment? In your current
capacity?”
“Ah,” Mr. Yog said quietly, playing
with an ornately engraved puzzle box with his odd, multi-jointed fingers. “She
speaks to the heart of things.”
“Agreed. And deserves an answer. Our
client, I’m afraid, must remain confidential. The truth is, however, that we
always keep the best interests of your peculiar family at heart.”
Yael took a seat in front of the desk
and crossed her legs so that she could rest her hands on her knees. She used an
expression reserved for moments of state and conversations that she did not
wish to participate in, with private gratitude to her stepmother for teaching
it to her.
“I see. And when you employed Jenny
Frost?”
“To watch over you, Miss Kaufman of
Roanoke,” Mr. Sothoth enthused, slobber glistening on the mail covering his
mouth. “Admittedly, not the best class of chaperone, but your abrupt departure
left us few options...”
“I would imagine so,” Yael said,
smiling at the memory of the familiar path down the brick chimney adjoining her
room, her fingers having years before memorized the spaces between the bricks
where they could find holds. “Still, your decision to inform such an admittedly
questionable character about the Silver Key in my possession seems somewhat
unwise. From the perspective of my continued existence, of course.”
“No such mention was made,” Mr.
Sothoth insisted. “You have been deceived. Tell me – did she mention the Silver
Key first, or did you?”
Yael felt her confidence momentarily
falter, though she kept her face composed. Nonetheless, she found herself
wishing for her mask, even in a dream.
“I did,” Yael admitted hollowly.
“Nonetheless, it is suspect...”
“Nonsense,” Mr. Yog said flatly, as
another plane of the intricate box snapped into place. “Frost is lost. Not to
be trusted.”
“My colleague is right. It is not in
Miss Frost’s nature to be trustworthy...”
“...this is why it is suspect that
you would choose such a questionable character to escort me, if your concern
was truly for my safety, sirs.”
They exchanged a slow, calculated
look, implying a private conversation beyond her hearing. Yael had lived long enough
amongst the upper classes and their emulated Visitor fashions to know it was a display
for her benefit; a play for time and a show of power. She pressed her
advantage.
“And that is not all, sirs. I have
spoken to another of your clients, and he showed less discretion than your own
admirable selves...”
The silence was broken by the eerie,
broken glass sound of the puzzle box in Mr. Yog’s gloved palm rotating into
place.
“Chaos,” Mr. Yog said softly. ”A most
challenging client.”
“Most challenging,” Mr. Sothoth
echoed wetly. “What did Nyarlathotep tell you?”
Yael took a deep breath and thought
of her brother’s face, which had been kind, though her memory of it had grown
indistinct.
“He offered me assistance and in the
process he revealed that he had done the same for my brother, in his own quest
to defy the King in Yellow. There is no need for further deception, sirs. I am
well aware that I am in the presence of enemies.”
“Motivation?” Mr. Yog said, setting
the box down on the table and then pressing a brass button inset on one side. A
clockwork mechanism within rotated the gleaming box into a new configuration. “A
terrible risk.”
“Again, my colleague is perceptive.
Why would you put yourself into our hands, Miss Kaufman, if you believe us to
be your enemies?”
“Because I do believe that you served
my family honestly in your own way. My family sought to defy the King in Yellow.
My brother tried to play the Outer Dark against itself and paid a terrible
price. He tested his wits against the unthinkable and he lost. I don’t blame
you for your part in that,” Yael said firmly, tapping the heel of her shoe
against the beveled wood of the antique chair. “You were simply doing your job.
I simply felt you deserved the courtesy of a warning.”
The face plates on the puzzle box
split and reformed, blades blossoming like a flower from the interior.
“Warning?”
“What sort of warning, Miss Kaufman?”
“That I intend to oppose Nyarlathotep,
the King in Yellow, the whole of the Outer Dark including its legal counsel. It
seemed only fair to tell you in person given your professional relationship
with my family.”
Yael smiled back confidently at the
sparkling black eyes, knowing that faltering, even for a moment, would rapidly
become failure.
“Chaos,” Mr. Yog said approvingly.
“Everything is permitted.”
Mr. Sothoth shook his heavy,
misshapen head in an imitation of regret.
“We regret the loss of your brother.
We will regret your loss all the more, Miss Kaufman.”
“Don’t be so certain,” Yael said,
standing up from her chair and calmly tearing the Yog & Sothoth business
card in half, then in half again. She crumpled the pieces, then deposited the
shredded remains on the ancient wood of their desk. “I am not as kind as my
brother.”
“You are just a girl,” Mr. Sothoth
hissed, the links of his veil clinging damply to the bizarre contours of the
face it hid. “Nothing more.”
“And you are simply a bad dream,”
Yael said, tugging the Silver Key out of her shirt and wrapping her fingers
around the smooth, tarnished metal. “It is time for me to wake.”