Black Tattoo, The

Less than two minutes later, she was back on the theater's roof. She unhooked the latch on the pigeon coop and flung it open. Esme stood there and watched the birds go: an explosion of wings, clattering off into the London night. Then, when she was ready — when she'd fully accepted that she (like the birds) might never come back — she followed them, dropping away into the dark.

  By the time the Sons of the Scorpion Flail even got the door to the roof open, she was long gone.

  * * * * *

  "Esme, listen to me," Felix was saying presently, as they approached the ludicrous cream-colored pillars outside the Light of the Moon, the pub that was a gateway to Hell. "I've got to say, I'm really, really not sure about this. I mean, quite apart from the whole idea of you going on your own, I..." He winced inwardly, hearing the sound of his own voice. "Well, I don't know what it is you think I can do."

  Esme wasn't even looking at him. She had her hands on the heavy padlock that held the pub's wide glass doors locked tight. There was a soft click. The padlock fell open.

  "You're right about my never being fully freed," Felix went on, "but if you think there's enough of the Scourge left inside me to help you open the Fracture, then—"

  "Come on," Esme said, and set off into the darkness beyond.

  Felix sighed heavily and followed.

  The pub had closed only a few hours before, and it stank, but it wasn't this that was making Felix uncomfortable. He was remembering the horror of the last time he had come here. The night when — through him — the Scourge had almost triumphed; the night when the woman he loved had died. Even in the dark, his footsteps led him unerringly on. Felix felt sick in his heart.

  "Here," said Esme.

  Felix put out a hand, and icy cold slid down his arm. There it was; the same cold space in the air, just above waist level. Beside him, he heard Esme take a deep breath.

  "Ready?" she asked.

  "Not really," said Felix. "No."

  "Well, we're doing it anyway. Go."

  The both closed their eyes.

  For six long seconds, nothing happened. Felix felt a stir of hope and relief. Perhaps the dreadful power that had taken him over all those years ago was really gone: perhaps there was nothing of it left inside him. "There," he was about to say. "Now let's go home."

  But then, quietly at first, the whole room started to hum.

  It was a sound that seemed to come from everywhere. The air thickened, tightening around them like polyethylene; then an eggshell-thin line of ruby-red light was appearing just in front of where he and Esme were standing. The crack in the air began to widen, revealing the freezing whiteness beyond. And in another moment...

  It was done. The Fracture was open. All too easy.

  Esme opened her eyes. Then she looked down at her hands.

  "Esme?" said Felix.

  "What?"

  "The Fracture," said Felix, gesturing. "I didn't do anything."

  "What do you mean?" Esme asked him. "It's open, isn't it? Maybe you did it without realizing."

  "No," he replied. "I'm sure I — well, I think you did it by yourself."

  They looked at each other.

  "Esme," he began, "I—"

  Esme cut him off. "Felix, if you're going to start telling me all that stuff about all my power coming from the Scourge again, then I don't want to hear it. All right? I know you don't want me to go. But I have a job to do."

  She adjusted the strap that held the pigeon sword on her back. She checked the elastic bands holding her hair in place: they hadn't moved. She squared her shoulders and turned to face the gateway to Hell.

  "Esme, wait!" said Felix.

  "Goodbye, Felix," she told him. Already she was moving. She took one more deep breath, and she—

  "FREEZE!" yelled another voice — one that definitely didn't belong to Felix.

  She turned. The Fracture had lit up the whole room, which was now filling up with some forty armed men. It was the Sons of the Scorpion Flail. At last, it seemed, they had caught up with her. Esme blinked, and her chest and belly lit up with the bright red spots of laser sights as the men took aim.

  "Wait, mademoiselle!" Number 3, the scar-faced man she'd spoken to before, was standing at the top of the steps: his mask was still off and his eyes were wild. "We can 'elp you!" he shouted again.

  Esme just smiled grimly. No one could help her. She turned her back — on the men, on Felix, and on the world. She stepped into the freezing white light, feeling it take her—

  —and she vanished.

  * * * * *

  I am Ebisu Eller-Kong Hacha'Fravashi," the Emperor announced, sitting up on his throne. "God of Rulers, God of the Dead, God of Darkness, God of Gods, I am the Voice of the Void, whose breath is the wind and whose rage makes all worlds tremble. I am the Lord of Crossing-Places, the King of All Tears, and the Suzerain Absolute of the Dominions of Hell."

  "Esme," said Esme. She was standing in the throne room, in almost the exact same spot where Jack had stood when he'd arrived. "So," she added, "you're in charge here."

  The Emperor's gaze narrowed and sharpened. "Yes," he said dryly. "I am in charge here. And what brings you to Hell, if you please?"

  "I've come for the Scourge," said Esme.

  "Really?" said the Emperor without much interest. "Why?"

  "I'm going to recapture it and put it back in its prison," said Esme.

  The Emperor's eyes went wide.

  "Oh, but this is fascinating !" he said, clapping his cloven hands.

  "I'm glad that makes you happy," said Esme. "Now tell me, please. Where's the Scourge?"

  "I'm afraid," said the Emperor, slowly and with relish, "that if you want a favor from me, you'll have to fight for it."

  Esme looked at him. "What?"

  "I won't let you see the Scourge without my permission. And if you want my permission..." The Emperor trailed off, smiling delightedly.

  Esme blinked, then took a step toward the throne. "Fine," she said. "I'm ready."

  "We shall see," was the reply.

  Suddenly, Esme found she couldn't move. Some kind of jelly stuff seemed to have slithered up over the sides of the red carpet and trapped her feet. Already it was climbing up the legs of her combat pants. In another second it had pinned her arms to her sides and was slopping up over her shoulders.

  "You will be taken to the gladiator pits," said the Emperor, sitting back on his throne, "together with the rest of the supplicants."

  "I confess," he added, as the stuff covered her completely, then stiffened, ready for transport, "I can't wait to see you in action."

  He gestured with his cloven hands. Esme disappeared.

  Alone on his throne, the Emperor smiled. Really, the next day's action in the pits might prove the most diverting in a very long time.

  AKACHASH

  "Ah, what? " said Jack

  The jelly stuff had left him, but he wasn't at all where he'd been expecting to be. Instead of standing in the stone passageway again, he'd appeared in the auditorium's stands.

  The banks of seats were filling up rapidly with other spectators: wherever Jack looked, sticky columns of jelly stuff were shimmering into being, then vanishing to reveal demons underneath. Dimly, Jack realized that he was going to need to find a place to sit down. But before he could search for any place other than where he was, which was practically next to the blancmangelike shape-shifting monster he'd met the night before, it was too late. It had noticed him.

  "Hey!" it belched. "Wotsyerface!"

  "Oh... hi," said Jack.

  "Whatcha waiting for? Siddahhn. It ain't the royal box, but it's all we got, so..." The thing made a lashing gesture with one clammy pink flipper.

  Reluctantly, Jack did as he was told.

  "Jagmat," belched the blancmange monster.

  "Jack," said Jack, hoping the creature had actually been telling him its name.

  "Ehhh," it said, "about last night. You know when I did all that..." Here the creature broke off, abruptly doing a sped-up
version of the trick it had performed when they'd first met. It was every bit as disgusting as the first time, and Jack hadn't really needed reminding.

  "Yeah?" he asked.

  "Just a bit of fun, y'know. Someone always pulls some stunt on the fresh meat. S'traditional. Didnmeanuffinbyit."

  "That's all right," said Jack distractedly. His attention had been caught by another demon settling itself down beside him: a flat-headed, oily-looking eel-like creature, about two meters long and as thick as Jack's leg. It nodded at Jack politely.

  "Er, Jagmat?" Jack asked.

  "Yep?"

  "What's going on? I mean, I thought I was going to be fighting Shargle today. Not that I'm disappointed or anything," he added quickly.

  "Big fight this time," was the reply.

  "Yeah?" asked Jack. The auditorium was crowding up quickly, and before lone he found himself pressed up a lot closer to his neighbors than he'd've liked.

  "Oh yeah. The program's been all switched around. Even Inanna got a last-minute call-up."

  "Really?"

  "I reckon we're looking," the blancmange monster added, leaning even closer to Jack, "At an Akachash."

  "A what?" said Jack. The word had left little moist pink spatters on his chin when Jagmat had said it. But the blancmange monster didn't answer.

  Loyal subjects of the Emperor Hacha'Fravashi! boomed Gukumat's voice. A thrill went around the arena. It gives me great pleasure to announce for you now that the next bout—

  "Whaddatellyou?" belched Jagmat.

  —is an AKACHASH!

  Instantly, Jack found he was standing up. He'd had no choice in the matter — the place was now so packed with demons that he couldn't have remained seated if he'd tried. Jack was in a bubble of sound, a cocoon of noise. All around him was hooting, roaring, baying, barking. His ears were battered with it.

  SEVEN GO IN! roared the voice in his head, making stars blossom in front of Jack's eyes.

  "ONE COMES OUT!" roared the crowd in answer, in a horrible clashing battery of tongues.

  SILENCE! boomed the voice suddenly. As one, the crowd sat down.

  First gladiator, the voice announced, as one of the arena's massive entrance slabs began to rise, undefeated in seventeen straight bouts, with claws of steel and the cold of the Void itself in his heart — SVATOG THE CANCELER!

  "YAAAAAAAAAAGH!" yelled Jagmat. His whole wet pink amoeba body sprang into a glistening mass of thrashing tentacles, each one with a shrieking mouth at the end of it.

  "Whoa," said Jack.

  'Svatog the Canceler' shambled into the arena and stood there, blinking. He was a good size for a demon, perhaps eighteen feet tall. From the waist down, his body was glossy and black, a little like a horse's: his powerful-looking springy back legs ended in two great hooves that actually smoked (Jack couldn't help but notice) where they touched the ground. But it was Svatog's arms that tended to catch your eye first: they were huge. Forming a great horseshoe-shaped expanse of hulking muscle, they were so long that Svatog could comfortably lay each entire, massive, three-fingered hand out flat on the hot sand to either side of him. By contrast, Svatog's head looked almost comically small, to so much perched between his shoulders as set into his chest. He looked mean, Jack thought — mean and stupid.

  "That's Svatog," Jagmat confided. "He's my mate, and he's going to KICK AAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRSSSSSSE!" The blancmange monster suddenly leaped up again on the last word, his voice rising to a roar. The demon in the ring apparently heard him, for Svatog's eyes narrowed, and one of his great arms suddenly lifted to point in their direction.

  SHHINNNG!

  Jack and Jagmat found themselves looking down two great yard-long spikes of gleaming steel that seemed to have sprung from the spaces between the Svatog's fingers.

  "YOU THE BOSS!" shrieked Jagmat. "YOU THE BOSS!"

  Svatog winked slowly and retracted his claws. As his arm sank back down to his side, the wide slash of his mouth burst open in a wet and toothless smile.

  Second gladiator, said the voice, a firm favorite among fight fans in the years that she has graced the pits — GLADRASH THE BLUNT!

  From somewhere beyond the great raised entrance stone came a deep, rhythmic rumbling sound. Suddenly, to the accompaniment of a howl of ecstasy from her fans, Svatog's first opponent came rocketing out of the gate and into the arena, like—

  You have to be joking, thought Jack.

  —well, like a bull at a bullfight.

  Gladrash the Blunt looked a lot like a bull: a heaving great brown-black mass of meat and muscle, with wild white rolling eyes and mountainous haunches that humped and sank as her hooves pummeled the ground. The main thing about Gladrash the Blunt that was different, however, from any bull Jack had ever seen, was her size: Gladrash the Blunt was big. Very big. About the size of a bus, in fact.

  At the sound of their heroine's name, a whole section of the audience erupted in cheers and screams of delight. Svatog's smile vanished, his eyes narrowing into a gormless but vivid scowl as the great cow shot out of her gate and trampled past him, kicking up dust. Gladrash skidded to a halt on the opposite side of the ring, snorting as she pawed at the sand with one plate-size front hoof. Jack just stared.

  Third gladiator, said the voice, TUNKU THE SNOOL!

  Another entrance slab ground upward, and the audience fell suddenly quiet. When Jack saw what came out next, he understood why. It looked like nothing more than a large floating jellyfish: as it drifted out into the arena, its dimpled tentacles trailed delicately in the air beneath it.

  "But that's ridiculous," said Jack, echoing the sentiments of most of the crowd. "What chance has that third one got? That Svatog guy'll just step on it."

  "Wait and see, kid," muttered Jagmat. "Believe me, just 'cos Tunku's invertebrate that doesn't mean he hasn't got it where it counts."

  Fourth gladiator, said the voice, RIPITITH GUNCH!

  The figure that strode out into the ring was broadly human looking, if a bit on the tall side. Rititith Gunch was wrapped in a long black cloak that covered him all over, even down to his feet. The skin of his face was deathly pale, and his head was thin and strangely elongated, culminating in a great foot-long shock of blinding white hair that stuck straight out of his head like a crown of spikes. The crowd started booing.

  "Cheat! Shrieked the eel thing. "CHEAT!"

  "I hate that guy," said Jagmat, getting an acknowledging wild-eyed nod from the eel.

  "Why?" asked Jack.

  "All that transfiguration crap, 'stead of a straight fight," snorted the blancmange. "Cowardly, I'd call it."

  "'Sright!" yapped the eel thing.

  "I see," said Jack — though he obviously didn't.

  * * * * *

  "No, no, no," snapped the Emperor, up in the royal box. "I asked for the pickled spleens today, not the sugared ones! I specifically asked for the pickled ones!"

  "A thousand apologies, Your Excellency," gasped the small lizardlike creature beside him, shuddering beneath a silver tray that was bigger than itself. Charlie looked on in disgust.

  "I would have Lord Slint chew your legs off," said the Emperor, "if I didn't think such a puny job might hurt his feelings." He sat up and beckoned to Gukumat. "Where is Lord Slint, by the way?"

  He is preparing to make his entrance, Sire.

  "Good, good." Scowling, the Emperor turned to the lizard creature, who was still trembling at the corner of the dais. "Are you still here?"

  "S-sire?"

  "Didn't I just tell you what I want? Or are you waiting for me to have you skinned? "

  "In-indeed, Sire," stammered the lizard. "I shall fetch them at once."

  "Leave the tray," said the Emperor.

  "As you wish, Sire," the lizard replied, grunting with effort as he set the tray and the greenish-gray pyramid of its contents down within his master's reach. "I live to serve you," it squeaked, bowing low once more before scuttling from the room.

  "I think you'll find this quite interesting, Charli
e," said the Emperor, selecting a sweetmeat and turning to Charlie with a wide grin.

  "I can't wait," Charlie replied, doing his best.

  Fifth gladiator, Gukumat's announcing voice boomed out, fresh in from the twelfth-segment stench pits — the GRAKULOUS SLOAT!

  A gasp of delighted disgust rose up from the crowd as they saw what came into the ring next. Charlie barely suppressed a shudder. It was something between a centipede and a hedgehog. Some forty feet long, its cockroach-brown segmented body marched forward on a selection of disgusting, crablike pincers, and a ridge of shuddering black spines ran in a line down the center of its back. Emerging into the white-hot light of the ring, the hideous creature suddenly reared up on its hind legs, exposing a flat, disc-shaped head and two evil yellow eyes. Its mouth a mass of dripping mandibles, hinged open to let out a terrible gurgling hiss. The creature eyed its opponents, then shook itself contemptuously, as if shrugging them all off.

  "Ah, the Sloat," said the Emperor, chewing luxuriously. "I think we're going to see great things from him."

  Sixth gladiator, boomed Gukumat's announcing voice: a longtime supplicant, first-time entrant, give a warm demon welcome to... INANNA TWELVE-SWORDS!

  The rest of the audience fell quiet, content to gaze curiously as the big blue swordswoman strode into the ring — but the section of the auditorium where the uncalled gladiators were sitting erupted with cheers. Charlie watched the newest entrant. The dark blue, leather-clad figure was well built, muscular, and bristling with weaponry, but to his eyes she didn't look like much, not next to more imposing contestants like Gladrash, Svatog, or the Sloat.

  "Remember what I said, Gukumat," said the Emperor, in an uneasy tone that made Charlie turn and look at him. "No surprise results."

  Do not disturb yourself, Majesty. Lord Slint has been alerted to your feelings on this matter, It has all been taken care of.

  "Good." The Emperor and the Overminister exchanged a look, then, still grinning widely, Hacha'Fravashi turned to look at Charlie. "I've another surprise for you," he said.

  "Yeah?"

  "A new acquisition for the gladiator pits," said Emperor airily, though the golden slits of his eyes never left Charlie's for an instant. "She arrived yesterday. Another acquaintance of yours."