The Redhaired Herring

In one of my pockets I carried a pair of opera glasses and searched among the heads in the crowd through them. Sharak-Fauz was not among the mob down in front. Glad I hadn't blown thirty bob on admission I was nonetheless concerned. Jack the Lad claimed he'd either be here or at Gambizzi's, and he hadn't been there. About that time I saw Jack striding for the exit. Our agreement was if he saw Sharak-Fauz he would leave the tent so as not to be linked to Dr. James Shea and compromise himself as the fat man's toady. Jack knew where I sat and looked in my direction on his way out. He pointed at his chest but through the glasses I saw the nuance of him gesturing at someone behind him. I swung the opera glasses to the right and picked up Sharak-Fauz in the magnified lenses.

The fat bastard parted the buttocks of a comely wench on a platform, his eyes and nostrils dilated. Her eyes bugged from her head as he poked and prodded her genitals. He took full advantage of the touching policy before moving on to the next platform. He wasn't buying, he was window-shopping. I trained the glasses on his sweaty face and fat neck for a good minute. The thrill of success elated me, albeit prematurely. I picked out his bodyguards to be able to recognize them later if necessary before stowing the opera glasses back in my coat. If Diana didn't prance through the tent flap of the Oracle about now I could move on to phase two of my plan.

As I exited Sharak-Fauz groped the breasts of a red haired slave on the next platform, his bullies circling like vultures.

I looked for Jack the Lad outside but didn't see him. At this point in the mission he was out of the loop, his job complete. I'd coordinate with two or three individual cells of operatives in the execution of the plan. Seldom did anyone know about anyone outside their own group. I like compartmentalizing manpower, it strengthens the overall security of a multi-faceted scheme like I'd concocted.

I skulked through the fairgrounds to rendezvous with another cell. Out of the corner of my eye I spied a redheaded woman in a black body suit leaving a tent. She entered the flow of foot traffic while I pushed through groups of people to catch up with her. I lost her when she rounded a corner going west, unsure if she continued down the street or detoured into another tent, the woman had vanished from sight. And demons have the ability to disappear.

Spilt milk. I turned to change direction, quickening my pace.

Time to pay a visit to Needle City anyway. Like at the train station I was supposed to have a coach waiting for me. At the park's north entrance I found it in the pre-designated spot. The driver smoked a calabash pipe and blew smoke rings at his four-horse team. He touched the bill of his cap when he saw me. I put a finger to the brim of my own hat.

"Evening, doctor," the man said with the stem of his pipe held between his teeth. "Did you and Jack suss him out?"

"We found him," I said. "Good to see you, Terence. Are the others in the back?"

"They are, sir."

"I'd say off to the races then."

"Righto, doctor, next stop, Needle City."

Home of the most devious and powerful sorcerer in the world, I thought as I went back to tap on the coach door. It opened and I stepped up and in, pulling it to behind me. Both plush benches were occupied, each by two men. A man in a hood mask and a wizened chap in spectacles faced two others in magicians' robes, their Guild badges pinned over their hearts. Either bench would be crowded with the addition of me; I chose to sit on the side of the magicians, mostly to keep an eye on the bloke in the mask. A lash of the driver's whip and the coach wheels began to roll.

We didn't converse much. One of the magicians asked for a situation report.

"I verified Sharak-Fauz dallies at the Oracle as we speak."

"Does he wear his Onyx and Amethyst amulet?" asked the one in the hood mask.

He'd initiated this intrigue by contacting me in the very beginning. I knew his identity but doubted anyone else in the coach did (although I'd bet their private speculating was pretty much on the mark). He's the banker who underwrote my expenses and those of others plotting against Sharak-Fauz. Also he's an anti-magic lobby politco in the Congress who has no scruples about dirty in-fighting with the Court for his own selfish reasons and vested interests. None of them pertain to the plan and I shan't reveal this Sodom City politician's name. For our intents and purposes he's just our money man; on his side of things my friends and I support one of his myriad of causes. The coach belongs to him and his badge of office would get us through the guarded gates of the walled Needle City. Once ensconced inside the walls he would leave us with the coach and take another to the House of the Congress. A session convened at midnight and adjourned at dawn.

I informed the masked politician Sharak-Fauz did not wear his fabled Onyx and Amethyst amulet. Verification of the amulet could not be trusted to one as unversed in magic as Jack, so I'd had to make the identification. The atmosphere in the coach lightened and everyone congratulated each other. I said we'd only won a battle, not won the war. The magicians and chap in the spectacles were as confident as Jack the Lad. The politco played his cards close to his vest.

The coach rocked and bounced along the rutted streets. I pulled aside the window curtain and saw a glow of light ahead. Needle City, so named for its spires, loomed on the horizon, as it did on almost every horizon because of the heights achieved by its towers. A great wall of stone ringed the city to protect it, mostly from the envious. Most of the residents are magicians of some stripe: wizards, sorceresses, conjurers, warlocks, witches and other lesser practitioners of the arts. There is a smattering of crime lords and politicians but they are the minority. All of them are powerful enough to fend for themselves and most live in veritable castles, but vandals and petty criminals are what the wall is designed to keep at bay. I let the curtain fall back.

The coach duly came to a halt at the gates and the hooded man's badge of office passed through the coach door. Moments later we were in the most exclusive neighbourhood on the most expensive real estate on the face of the planet. Needle City is more of a district than a city.

Where the true endeavour began.

We drove a ways before coming to another stop. The hooded man said his goodbyes and took his leave. He stepped directly out of our coach into another and rolled away into the night. I switched over to the vacancy by the bespectacled man. With the politician gone the four of us began to talk of things we'd not wanted to mention in front of him. The less the politicos know about magic the better and that one is a slithery snake.

"Let's have a look at the grid, Solomon," I said to the old chap in glasses.

He withdrew a slender case from his pocket that opened like a book. The soft silk insides showed four circular indentations in the shape of a comma, the largest circle at the top and three smaller ones forming a thumbnail beneath. Solomon explained, "The big indentation is obviously for Sharak-Fauz's amulet, you three gentlemen need to combine your own power sources to complete the grid. Jim, once all four spaces have been filled, close the case firmly so the quartet of power commingles. In minutes the grid will solidify and become a power crescent, you shall have magic sufficient to defeat any sorcerer in this solar system. You need merely carry it on your person, such as in a pocket, and you can access its power."

The younger of the magicians across from us, a fellow called Jonesy by his mates, asked me, not Solomon, "What if it doesn't work?"

Solomon glared pointedly at him.

"Then I'm up Crap Creek in a faulty kayak," I said. "But I know the risks involved." I sunk a hand into an inside coat pocket and removed my power source, a round black stone. It resembled a large thick obsidian coin and fit perfectly into the case provided by Solomon.

"Franklin, Jonesy," I said to the two robed magicians, holding out the palm of my hand to take their sources of power, a glassy azure stone and a piece like a gold medallion. I positioned the two items in place. All magicians need a physical vestment of their power, most anything will do: a ring, a marble, a staff, a shoe or sword or dagger. The Guild magicians usually adopt a precious stone, something they can carry inconspicuously on their person, accounting for why there are far fewer enchanted saddles and boulders than, say, magic rings.

"Solomon, will it retard the crescent if I close the case before the fourth stone is set?"

"The commingling of power cannot take place until all the spaces are filled. Feel free to close it, you'll need to take it inside with you and you don't want to lose any of the stones. Once you add the Onyx and Amethyst do not reopen the case after you've closed it, it will negate the grid."

I shut the rectangular case and tucked it in an inside pocket of my longcoat. Solomon is a sorcerer-scientist the magician's Guild has collaborated with for years, the power crescent his invention. None of us knew if it would work, but I'd be the first to find out. Jonesy and Franklin are ranking wizards in a faction of the Guild sympathetic to the cause of Dr. James Shea, D.O.M. (Doctor of Magick). They also happen to be men of large stature and physical strength. Muscle would be required to successfully accomplish our goal.

A rap of Terence's knuckles on the top of the coach signified we would arrive at Sharak-Fauz's house in about a minute.

"Solomon, have you got the gear I couldn't get on the train?"

"Shoved it under the bench, Jimmy, 'ang on," he said, moving his feet and reaching beneath him.

Solomon unlatched a suitcase containing a coil of silk rope, knotted at intervals, with a grappling hook attached to one end. Coppers would toss a man behind bars for transporting such an incriminating burglar tool so we'd left it till the very last. The coach came to a standstill and another rap of Terence's let me know we'd arrived. To a chorus of well-wishing I stepped onto the cobbled street, the rope and grapple in hand.

A warm breeze tugged at the panties in both of my epulats. I had forgotten they were there. My distinguished colleagues had been too polite to mention it. I raised a hand to discard them but left them there after I thought about favors given to knights riding into battle. The panties might bring me good luck and I'd take any luck I could get, symbolic or not.

Terence gestured at me with his pipe. "Best for us to keep movin', can't park the coach 'ere for obvious reasons. What I'll do is circle the block. I've already sussed out a couple three different routes that'll bring me back this way. If we're not in sight when you exit the lion's den, doctor, never fear, I'm not more than a minute off."

"Beware of coppers," I said while pulling on a pair of gloves. "The coach is a major lynchpin of the plan, without it I'm sunk."

"I'll keep you afloat, 'ave no fear."

He lifted his whip to get the four-horse team moving while I slunk into the shadows. The house of Sharak-Fauz is on a corner. A high wall separated it from his neighbours and the streets. Inside his compound a plethora of hideous creatures roamed the grounds like guard dogs to protect the home from intruders. My plan allowed for this. A giant tree, taller even than the five-storied house of Sharak-Fauz, grew in the center of the yard. Its branches are long and twisted, bowered with blackflowers, which I must avoid lest I cared to doze, a mere whiff will do it.

The grappling hook had been wrapped in layers of silk so as not to clatter and clang when it made contact. With the first throw I caught a spike atop the wall, yanked at the rope to assure the grapple properly seated. I climbed up but not over, hunched precariously on top of the wall between the spikes and spines poking out everywhere like daggers. Several windows in the house bled faint light and a streetlamp shined on the corner, otherwise I had no other light to see in. My eyesight couldn't penetrate the darkness below to detect what went on down in the yard. I wanted to save my flash for emergencies. No way would I go onto the open grounds if at all possible. Coiling up the rope from where it dangled in the street I braced myself for another throw. I whirled the grapple around while feeding out the rope before releasing it, this time at a clump of branches in the enormous tree. The grapple missed. I jerked the line that had followed the grapple into the yard. A hissing and growling rose from the uncharted darkness. When I again had the rope coiled in my hand an ooze gleamed along a portion of its length, slimy and odoriferous. I heard the hinge of a great jaw opening or closing, tried not to think about it, focusing on my next throw.

The second time the grapple connected, the hook securely in the heights of the tree.

I stepped off the edge of the wall and swung out over the yard. The tails of my longcoat flapped behind me, the trailing end of the rope dragged along the ground. I heard the movement of beasts below me, snapping at my heels, as I sailed toward the tree, heart pounding, managed to scramble onto a thick branch without falling or disturbing any blackflowers. I undid the grapple and climbed the tree as high as I could. From here I'd have to reach the house, a forbidding edifice with a variety of treacherously sloped roofs with spires and gables, clusters of dormer windows and crenellated turrets, balconies and a network of metal drainpipes snaking along the eves and down the corners. The next goal for me to attain was a lone balcony on the fifth floor.

If I could fasten the grapple there I could again sail out across the remainder of the yard, crawl up the rope, over the balcony wall and into the house. If.

After a couple of tries I hooked it, waited a moment to steel myself then swung above the grounds again. Trying to break the impact against the house with my feet, I collided with the boards of the wall harder and more noisily than I would've liked. Anyone inside would had to have heard. Spilt milk.

I began to scale the knotted rope.

Something totally unexpected happened, as it will.

I never knew exactly what occurred, maybe a rail came loose on the old balcony or perhaps the grapple wasn't as secure as I'd thought. I plummeted downward. The drop had to be seven or eight meters, but I found the loam in the yard very yielding. I rolled as soon as I hit. Rising to my feet there suddenly came a ferocious barking and roaring blended with human screams and shouts. From a pocket I drew the highwayman's old revolver, the first weapon my gloved hand seized upon. I waited for beasts of prey to surge and great jaws to click in anticipation.

When that failed to transpire I can't say I felt disappointed. Listening hard I realized the noises emanated from a separate part of the compound. Who or whatever attracted the monsters loose in the yard had my gratitude. They wouldn't be distracted away from me forever though. Without waiting for my eyes to adjust to the murky darkness I gathered up the rope that lay in haphazard loops at my feet, the thing was precious and I might have to use it again making my getaway. Nothing attacked me yet, but I'd made a hell of racket. I recoiled the rope quickly. As I finished the front door burst open to spill a big trapezoid of light across the lawn. A geezer in a loincloth and a helmet with a curtain of chain mail protecting the sides and back of his skull swaggered through the doorway, a pointy spear clamped in his hands. Very rum indeed (even for festival season).

He demanded, "Who are you?"

I stood illuminated in the light spilling out the door. Instantly the spearman charged down the steps of the porch. I had my left side to him, dropped the rope and hook when he barreled at me, spear tip aimed at my midriff. Sidestepping the attack I kneed him in the balls as he swept past. He crashed face first to the ground with a sick exhalation of breath. He bounded back up before I decided to bind him with some minor spell, or kill him. His assault was so fierce and determined he gave me no choice. We grappled in the patch of light. I clenched a fist and punched his larynx, hard. This resulted in a choked attempt to cough, his hands clutching uselessly at his throat. While he struggled with that setback I found the right nerve in his neck with a fingertip. The quietest quickest way I know to kill a man, his thrashing body went rag doll limp immediately. He died without another sound.

I backed away from the body, chest heaving, bent down to pick up my hat. It got knocked off my head as we fought. No more screaming and snarling echoed across the grounds. I hauled his corpse into some dense vegetation growing close to the side of the house and chunked his spear in after him.

Gathering up the fallen rope I rushed through the door and closed it behind me before any creatures crawled my way with gaping mouthfuls of fangs or talons bared or both. In a short vestibule lit by oil lamps I put an arm through the coil and slung it over a shoulder. I gazed at neither the paintings in elaborate frames hanging on the walls nor the other disturbing objets d'art placed on low tables or arranged on shelves in the larger room beyond. My heart hammered in my chest and I'd only got here five minutes ago. I almost plunged to my death, had killed a man and, thanks to some disturbance elsewhere, escaped the predators in the yard. Nothing stirred inside the house, nothing I could hear or sense anyway.

Our banker, the hood masked politico in the coach, had paid a huge sum for a floorplan of Sharak-Fauz's five-story mansion. I'd spent long hours poring over it the last few days, memorizing the layout. The intelligence received from Jack the Lad on the whereabouts of the Onyx and Amethyst amulet set the bank back quite a few bob as well. But the money had been well invested.

Now I was inside his mansion and knew where to go and what to glom.

The stairs were easy to find and I crept up to the third floor without incident. At the head of every flight a candelabra on a table lit each landing. An eerie unreal quiet pervaded the house. I padded softly, my footfalls seemed to magnify themselves in the stillness. My adrenaline pumped, this was a nervy caper, breaking and entering the castle keep of Sharak-Fauz. I'd hated having to kill to gain entry but too much hung in the balance. To my relief I saw nobody or anything else.

Third floor landing, second door on the left, just the way the floorplan read. I paused outside the room. Two long narrow vertical pockets are sewn into the lining of my coat under my arms, both hold a hollow bamboo rod slightly thicker and longer than a drinking straw, with plastic caps on each end to keep the contents intact. I slid one of bamboo rods out and removed the caps, my thumb over one end. The door creaked when it opened and I held my breath.

Against a wall inside the empty room a jewelry box sat on a dresser next to an unlit oil lamp. A candle burning in a sconce on the wall by the bed provided the only illumination in the room. Everything was just where I'd been assured it would be. With the length of bamboo in my left hand I reached for the jewelry box with my right. A djinn materialized from the mouth of the lamp on the dresser in a whoosh of air with a curious wood burning smell.

A ruddy huge blighter in pantaloons and turban crouched in front of the jewelry box. He wrung his hands and snickered, a gypsy hoop through the lobe of one ear. His clawed paws shot toward me at lightning speed. I stumbled in the effort to dodge them and fell flat on my back. The djinn hopped down off the dresser, leaned over me on one knee. His stare bore into my eyes, his own as liquid as milk.