“Sorry, I’m running on empty, too. Rossignol, any chance of a song?”
“Darling, right now I couldn’t even squeak out a note. There must be something we can do!”
“Oh, shut up and die,” said Mrs. Cavendish.
The two of them approached us, guns extended, taking their time, enjoying seeing their enemies helpless before them. They were going to shoot us all, and I had no magics left to stop them. But I’ve never relied on magic to get me through the many and varied dangers of the Nightside. I’ve always found using my wits and being downright sneaky much more reliable. So I waited till the Cavendishes were right in front of me, then I dug a good handful of pepper out of my hidden stash and threw it right into their smug, smiling faces. They both screamed pitifully as the pepper ground into their eyes, and I slapped the guns out of their flailing hands and gave the two of them a good smack round the back of the head, just on general principles. Dead Boy kicked their feet out from under them, and they ended up sitting on the stage, huddled together and clawing frantically at their streaming eyes.
“Condiments,” I said easily. “Never leave home without them. And once the Authorities get here, I’ll rub salt into your wounds as well.”
At which point, an unconscious combat magician came flying onto the stage from the wings, upside down and bleeding heavily. He’d barely hit the stage with a resounding thud before two more combat magicians were backing quickly onto the stage, retreating from an unseen foe. Zen magics spat and shimmered on the air before them, as their rapidly moving hands wove cat’s cradles of defensive magics. But Julien Advent, the great Victorian Adventurer himself, was more than a match for them. He bounded onstage with marvelous energy, dodging the thrown spells with practiced skill, and proceeded to run rings around the bewildered combat magicians with breathtaking acrobatics and vicious fisticuffs. He moved almost too quickly to be seen, impossibly graceful, smiling all the time, smiting down the ungodly with magnificent ease.
Being an editor for thirty years didn’t seem to have slowed him down at all.
He finally stood over three unconscious combat magicians, not even breathing hard, the bastard. Dead Boy and Ross and I applauded him because, you had to, really. Julien Advent actually was all the things they said he was. He shot me a quick grin as he took in the defeated Cavendishes.
“I see the cavalry probably wasn’t needed after all. Good work, John. We were afraid we might be a little overdue.”
I’d only just started to process the word we and get the beginnings of a really bad feeling, when Walker strolled on from the wings, and all I could think was Oh shit. I’m really in trouble now.
Walker strode over to consider the weeping, red-eyed Cavendishes, his face as always completely calm and utterly unreadable. Walker, in his neat city suit and bowler hat, representative of the Authorities, and quite possibly the most dangerous man in the Nightside. He had been given power over everyone and everything in the Nightside, and if you were wise, you didn’t ask by whom. I would have run like hell, if I’d had any strength left.
The Cavendishes became aware of Julien’s presence. They forced themselves up onto their feet and faced him defiantly. He studied their faces for a long moment, his smile gone, his eyes cold.
“I’ve always known who you were,” he said finally. “The infamous Murder Masques, still villains, still unpunished. But I could never prove it, until now.” He looked at me. “I knew if anyone could bring them down, it would be you, John. If only because you were too dumb to know it was impossible. So after you came to me, I contacted Walker, and we’ve been following you ever since. At a discreet distance, of course. We even stood in the wings and listened as the Cavendishes incriminated themselves with their gloating. It was all so very interesting I almost didn’t hear the combat magicians until it was too late. I should have known the Cavendishes would bring backup.”
“I speak for the Authorities,” Walker said to the Cavendishes. “And I say you’re history.”
“It all began with them,” said Julien. “They Timeslipped me because they wanted to seize my transformational potion, as their first big business venture. Typical, really. They couldn’t just earn their money. They had to cheat. Little good it did them, because it was only after I was gone, slammed eighty years into the future in a moment, that they discovered there was no formula anywhere among my notes. I’d kept all the details in my head.”
He stopped then and looked directly at Mrs. Cavendish. She stood a little straighter, still knuckling tears from one eye. The legendary Victorian Adventurer and his legendary lost love, the betrayed and the betrayer, face to face for the first time in over a century.
“Irene…”
“Julien.”
“You haven’t changed at all.”
“Oh, don’t look at me. I look awful.”
“I’ve always known it was you. Hidden behind your new names and identities.”
“Then why did you never come for me?”
“Because even the greatest love will die, if you stick a sharp enough knife through its heart. I knew it was you, but I couldn’t prove it. You and your husband were very well protected. And in the end, I just didn’t care any more. It was all such a long time ago, and I never did believe in living in the past.”
She gaped at him, almost horrified. “All those years we spent waiting for you to come after us. Spinning webs and layers of protections around us, always hiding … all those years of being afraid of you, and you didn’t give a damn.”
“I had a new life to build, Irene. And there were far worse things than you in the Nightside that needed fighting.”
She looked away. “I thought, sometimes, that you might have held back … because of me.”
“My love died a long time ago. I don’t know you now, Irene.”
“You never, did, Julien.”
Mr. Cavendish moved in possessively beside his wife. “Enough talk! We all know why you’re here! Have your precious revenge and be done with it! Kill us, for everything we did to you!”
“You never did understand me,” said Julien. He looked at Walker. “Take them away. Destroy their business, dismantle it, and you destroy their power. Bring them to trial and send them down. Make them into little people, like all the ones they hurt. What better punishment, for such as these?”
“I’d be delighted,” said Walker, tipping his bowler hat to Julien. “My people are already on their way.”
Julien gave Walker a hard, thoughtful look. “These two probably know all sorts of top people and secrets. Don’t let them wriggle out.”
“Not going to happen,” Walker said easily. “I’ve been looking for an excuse to bring the Cavendishes down. Troublemakers, always rocking the boat, never playing well with others. They might even have become a threat to the Authorities, in time. And we can’t have that, can we?”
He turned unhurriedly to look at me, and I braced myself. “Well, John,” said Walker. “You’ve led me quite a chase. Who’s been a bad boy, then? But… not to worry. Helping me put away two big fish like these goes a long way to making up for all the trouble you’ve caused the Nightside tonight. Only just, mind…”
Julien looked at me sharply, suddenly scenting a story. “John, what is he talking about?”
“Haven’t a clue,” I lied, cheerfully.
Coda, with a Dying Fall
A week later, I caught Rossignol’s new set at Caliban’s Cavern. It was a sell-out, she was singing up a storm, and the audience loved it.
A lot had changed in the past week. The Cavendishes had had to sell Caliban’s Cavern, for quick cash, to help them pay their mounting legal bills. The charges against them were building all the time, with more and more people coming out of the woodwork to kick the Cavendishes while they were safely down. It was fast becoming the Nightside’s favourite sport.
Rossignol was under new management. Some group of show business lawyers who knew a good thing when they heard it and were wise enough to present Rossignol
with a reasonably fair contract. They were putting a lot of money behind her, and the word was she was going to break big. She was already recording her first album, with a respected big-name producer.
The club that night was really swinging. The audience packed the place from wall to wall and danced in the aisles. It was a more usual mix this time, with hardly any of the old Goth element. Rossignol was moving upmarket with her new material. I was there on my own. Dead Boy was off working on another case, and Julien Advent had a paper to put out. I could have asked my secretary Cathy, but she’d lost interest in Rossignol once she’d gone mainstream. Cathy was strictly cutting-edge only.
Backed by two Ian Augers, a new drummer, and all new backing singers, Rossignol sang of love and light and rebirth in her clear glorious voice, touching the hearts of all who heard her. She was strong and vibrant and magnificently alive. She still hung off the microphone stand and smoked like a chimney, though. The crowd loved her. She took three encores, to rapturous applause, and nobody even looked like they were thinking of killing themselves. It’s nice when a case has a happy ending.
After the show, I went round the back to her dressing room. To my surprise, the door was being guarded by Dead Boy. He had the grace to look just a little embarrassed.
“So, this is your new case,” I said. “No wonder you didn’t want to talk about it. Bodyguarding is a bit of a step down for you, isn’t it?”
“It’s only temporary,” he said with great dignity.
“Until she and her new management can agree on someone they trust.”
“She could have asked me,” I said.
“Ah,” said Dead Boy. “John, she’s trying to forget what happened. You can’t blame her, really.”
“What happened to the bullet hole in your forehead?” I said, deliberately changing the subject.
“Filled it in with builder’s putty,” he said briskly. “Once I’ve grown my hair out a bit, you’ll never notice it.”
“And the hole in the back?”
“Don’t ask.”
I knocked on the dressing room door and went in. The room was full of flowers. I would have brought some, but I never think of these things. Rossignol was taking off her make-up in front of the mirror. She didn’t seem particularly pleased to see me. She gave me a quick hug, kissed the air near my cheek, and we sat down facing each other. Her face was flushed, and she was still a little breathless from the set.
“Thank you for all your help, John. I do appreciate it, really. I would have phoned, but I’ve been very busy putting the new set together.”
“I was out there,” I said. “It went over great.”
“It did, didn’t it? John … don’t take this wrong, but, I don’t want to see you again.”
“There doesn’t seem any good way to take it,” I said, after a moment. “What brought this on, Ross?”
“You remind me too much of bad times,” she said bluntly. “I need to move on, leave it all behind. Now I’m alive again, I see things differently. I live only to sing. It’s all I’ve ever wanted or needed. There’s no room for anyone else in my life, right now. And especially not for you, John. I am grateful for everything you’ve done, but… as near as possible, I want to live a normal life now. I’m not staying in the Nightside. It was only ever somewhere to make a start. I’m going places, John.”
“Yes,” I said.
“I’ll write a song about you, someday.”
“That would be nice.”
She turned away and started removing her make-up again, pulling faces at herself in the mirror. “You never did say—who hired you to look after me?”
“It was your father.”
She looked at me sharply. “John, my father’s been dead for two years now.”
She dug into her bag and found an old photo. It was unmistakably the man who’d come into Strangefellows to hire me. So—a ghost. Not all that unusual, for the Nightside. Rossignol was touched.
“He always was very protective.”
“Well,” I said, “I guess I don’t get paid for this case, either.”
I gave Rossignol a goodbye kiss, wished her all the luck in the world, and left her dressing room. Humming the blues.
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Simon R. Green, Nightingale's Lament
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