Richard Kadrey - The Grand Dark

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.