James Enge - This Crooked Way

Morlock nodded and paused his unofficial responses while the soldiers made their way through the market crowd. They wore gear exactly like the city guards who stood at the gates, except they had the fist insignia on their shields: Keepers of the Peace.

"No fighting in the Market," the senior Keep said, as he came up. "You'll have to come along."

"This man is a slaver," Morlock said.

"So?"

"Slavery's illegal."

The senior Keep scratched his face and stared at Morlock for a while. "I guess it is," he finally admitted. "Technically. But this guy paid his market fee just like everyone else. What do you want me to do about it?"

"Let's check his wagon."

The senior Keep shrugged and gestured at the Anhikh. The Junior Keep dragged him to his feet and checked the number on his market pass. We all trooped over to the matching wagon. On the outside brightly colored letters said (in two languages I knew, and probably others I didn't) that this was the roving headquarters of the Perambulations of Evanescent Joy and Portable Fun Company. Inside, the wagon was one big cage. When we dropped the back flap of the wagon and let in the light, dozens of eyes gleamed at us hopelessly through the bars. The wagon was half full of children of various ages, sizes, colorations (fashionable and unfashionable).

"They're orphans," the Anhikh slaver said sullenly.

"There's no orphan exception to the slavery law," Morlock pointed out.

As the senior Keep hesitated, Morlock forced the lock on the cage with something he had in his pocket and opened the door. The children, suddenly mobile, streamed out and vanished into the nearby alleys like water into sand.

The Anhikh muttered a few words that sounded like curses.

"Cool it," said the senior Keep. "Thanks to this gentleman you're a lawabiding citizen again. Keep it that way, or the girls'll be calling you `Stumpy. "'

We left the Anhikh muttering imprecations over his broken lock. "Hey, pal," said the senior Keep to Morlock, "your face is sort of familiar. Didn't I cut your head off once?"

"It seems unlikely."

"It seemed that way at the time, let me tell you. But this guy whose head I cut off, or maybe didn't, he was an imperial outlaw. You'll still have to come with me; your young friends can go about their business."

Morlock silently handed the guard a piece of paper with a seal of dark blue wax on it.

The senior Keep whistled as he read it. "An immunity. Signed by the imperial commander at Sarkunden, Vennon himself. Only good for one day, but it must have been expensive."

"An associate acquired it for me."

"He must like you a lot."

"Not really."

The Keep tapped the seal with one finger. "This thing isn't actually valid, you know. Commander Vennon, may he lick his own elbow, can't suspend the Emperor's order of outlawry. I could still bring you in, or kill you on the spot."

"Could you?" Morlock wondered mildly.

"Uh." The Keep's face took on a remembering look. "Maybe not," he admitted. "Anyway, my skipper wouldn't half-bless me if I did. It'd bring down the market value for those temporary immunities, for one thing. My name's Thrennick-no, don't tell me yours, not when we're getting along so well. See you around sometime."

We continued across the marketplace until we came to a place that proclaimed itself, in a large banner, as CHARTS'S DISCOUNT EMPORIUM OF DELUXE WONDERS. A smaller sign burbled, No job too large or too small! Satisfaction guaranteed! Charis and his team of expert thaumaturges will not rest until-The rest was water-damaged and I couldn't read it, but I doubted I was missing much. A still smaller but more convincing sign said firmly, No Credit.

We pushed our way inside. As my eyes were still adjusting to the dimness, the shopkeeper rushed up to us, his blunt pale features stretched to display a somewhat oily professional friendliness.

"Honored sirs, young lady, what can we do for you?"

"You can bring me Charis," Morlock said.

I could see reasonably well by now-well enough to catch sight of a convincing replica of Morlock's head staring down at us from a tall, tomblike display case. I turned around to point it out to Thend, but he'd already noticed it.

"I am afraid that Charis sees no one, absolutely no one, unless it is absolutely necessary," the shopman purred. "It is one of his little ways. I am Stokkvenn, his chief assistant master thaumaturge-in-training, and I can almost certainly meet your needs. In all honesty, you might prefer to deal with me. Charis is a brilliant man, the greatest wonder-worker of our establishment, but his manners are a trifle-Excuse me, sir, but have we not met before? I'm almost sure of it."

Morlock pointed at the head glaring down at us. Stokkvenn looked at it, back at Morlock, and said, "Charis will be out to see you in a moment."

Stokkvenn disappeared into an inner room. Presently the same door opened and another man emerged. He was almost the opposite of Stokkvenn-tall, sharp-featured, somewhat distant in his manner. But he was pale-Death and justice was he pale-skinned! At one time I'd thought Morlock was the whitest man in the world, but next to him this other fellow was practically translucent: ice white skin, yellow hair and eyebrows, green squinting eyes.

"Morlock Ambrosius," the newcomer said. "This is indeed a pleasure." If it really was a pleasure, his face didn't show it.

"Charis," Morlock said.

"I hope-At our last meeting-K-k-k-k-k. Or quasi-meeting, rather-" Charis's face hardly moved as he spoke, but from his strange disjointed speech I gathered he was terrified of Morlock.

"Do you have what I came for?" Morlock asked briskly. "If so, we need not consider the past."

"Er. K-k-k-k-k. I have. That is, I have some of the information you asked for."

"Paid for."

"K-k-k-k-k. Yes. Quite. Indeed, I got it right away. But months have passed since then, and I thought …K-k-k-k-k. Matters may have changed, you see. So I purchased an update, at great expense and for your personal convenience."

"Then?" Morlock replied, stepping closer and looking intently at Charis's face.

"The messenger from the guard captain is due. K-k-k-k-k. Is due any moment. Won't you wait, and-k-k-k-k-k-await him, as it were?"

"Hm," said Morlock. He reached over and tore out one of Charis's eyeballs.

All right-I admit it. I screamed. So did Thend, no matter what he says.

But the funny thing is: Charis didn't scream. No blood poured from the empty eye socket. He just stood there, squinting with one eye and saying, "K-k-k-k-k. I understand. K-k-k-k-k. Your impatience. K-k-k-k-k. Very understandable, even laudable, impatience. K-k-k-k-k-"

Morlock turned toward us, displaying the eyeball in his hand. Except, now that I brought myself to look at it, it didn't really look like an eyeball. More like a glassy imitation of one. The black glittering shreds hanging from the back of the eyeball didn't look like nerves, or anything that had grown inside a human body. Thend, obviously nerving himself up, stepped forward to take the thing and look closer at it.

"It's glazed clay," Morlock said with something like contempt in his voice. "The iris is painted on!" Apparently that was bad.

He turned back to the thing he had called Charis and, drawing his knife, split it open from collarbone to belly. I managed to keep from screaming this time, but only barely. It was babbling all the while about "-an investmentk-k-k-k-k-as it were, in time, to pay off royally-" but, increasingly, I couldn't look on the thing as human. It stopped speaking and moving when Morlock drew something out of the gap in its chest-a scroll of some sort.