“And for such occasions when you do long for diversity of a nonsexual mode . . . there, in the corner opposite.”
You follow Howard’s finger to said corner, and see a troop of well-weaponed Conscripts surrounding one of those glowing green holes you saw the Privilato disembarking before he took his entourage into the Fetal Aperitifs bar.
“The Conscripts of the famed Diocletian Brigade will serve as your bodyguards when you wish to travel, and for traveling, you have at your constant disposal your very own Nectoport,” Howard says.
For when I want to go out on the town, you think.
You must admit now . . . the possibility is sounding better and better.
“But wouldn’t I need money?”
“Ah. The filthy lucre!” Howard takes you back inside, through one stunning hall after another, and down myriad jeweled corridors. Eventually, he turns into another room.
Jesus!
The room’s ceiling causes you to look involuntarily up.
“The Unholy Coffer-Vault,” Howard says.
The room must be a hundred feet high and hundreds deep. It is filled with pallet after pallet of banded paper money.
“There must be a billion dollars here!”
“Six billion, Mr. Hudson, though not dollars. Hellnotes.” Howard’s focus drifts off. “I once wrote a longish tale entitled ‘Dreams in the Witch-House.’ I thought it was most abysmal, but a friend submitted it and got for me the unheard sum of $140. I’ve often wondered what that would be worth in Hellnotes.”
As usual, you don’t hear Howard; your attention, instead, has been highjacked by the airplane-hangar-size vault of cash.
That’s A LOT of MONEY!
“You also need to be apprized, sir, that once you’ve expended the entirety of this vault, Satan’s Treasurers will simply fill it up again.”
Now you’re getting dizzy looking at all of it . . .
“In spite of all of Hell’s horrors, there’s quite a bit for a wealthy man to do,” Howard goads on. “Especially one who will know wealth for eternity . . .”
“Take me out of here,” you say suddenly. “I’ve got to think . . .”
Howard smiles.
CHAPTER EIGHT
(I)
When Krilid received the coordinates for his next familiarization surveillance, he squinted hard through the accommodating headache. He had headaches all the time simply as an aftereffect from the Head-Bending job the Satanic police had treated him to; the telepathic orders from Ezoriel’s mental antennae array only felt worse. As the illegal Nectoport soared high and fast through clouds like coal dust, the Troll rested his head in his clawed hands and felt it literally throb.
There was no aspirin in Hell.
But he had to hand it to the Contumacy’s skill in stealing and then replicating Lucifer’s leading-edge Sorceries. Krilid need only receive the coordinates and then think once very hard, and he was on his way.
A nebulous intelligence memo had slammed into his head along with the coordinates. When the headache passed, he thought, This might be very interesting . . .
If the intelligence wasn’t counterfeit.
Krilid had revivified the Hand of Glory only when he finally began to descend toward the next assignment. He liked the idea of nobody being able to see him while he could see entire Districts of Hell with any given glance. Now, miles below, he could see the staggering Pol Pot District and its smoking crematories, its killing fields, and its almost endless landscaping of heads on pikes. Didn’t know this burg was so big, he thought, but then his gaze fixed on a break in the District’s layout, an irregularly shaped construction site of some kind. At this altitude, it was tiny of course, but as the cloaked Nectoport slipped lower . . .
I don’t believe what I’m seeing. They really did it.
The thing stood immobile in the middle of the fortified site, a thing taller than any skyscraper in the District. The wedged, neck-less head sat propped upon dark shoulders straining with inanimate muscles. The monster’s arms—which had to be 200 feet long—hung just as muscularly at its sides; and the corded legs shined blackly in the sky’s scarlet light. Krilid took the Nectoport lower, to encroach upon the Demonculus’s face and—
Aw, shit . . .
He nearly vomited at the sight at the pitted muck that had been sculpted to comprise the most revolting and indescribable visage.
Krilid retook to the clouds, his stomach in queasy turmoil. That face’ll take a LOT of getting used to, he reminded himself.
But only if he succeeded, and the odds of that seemed to be shrinking very quickly. But he knew this full welclass="underline" If the Master Builder brings that thing to life, there’ll be a world of hurt coming down the pike for Ezoriel and the Contumacy . . .
Krilid hovered next, to focus his Monocular, actually laughing to himself now that he was considering his odds of success. I don’t stand a chance in Hell—pun intended. There were Noble Gas Skiffs floating all over the place, full of Conscripts and Warlocks armed to the hilt with every weapon in the Satanic Arsenal. All I have is this Nectoport, a pistol, and a couple of muzzle-loading long rifles, and then he laughed again.
He thought: I’m a pawn in a chess game that Ezoriel KNOWS can’t be won . . .
The field, hundreds of feet below, was impenetrably walled with Hexed Blood-Bricks and full of ranks of more soldiers, not to mention marching formations of Ushers, Golems, and Flamma-Troopers.
All that . . . against little old me . . .
He homed the Monocular in on the Demonculus’s chest, noticing the protective plate bolted into it. Two more Security Balloons floated to either side, to discourage a sneak attack. Krilid just laughed and laughed, knowing that Ezoriel’s plan meant certain death.
Oh, well. What else do I have to do?
A third balloon seemed to be disengaging from the others about the chest plate. Krilid’s eyes narrowed—from that particular Skiff an Imperial Flag was flying from the balloon net. Krilid quickly checked his folder of vellum sheets containing target identification diagrams . . .
The flag’s insignia showed an emblem of a bat with a fanged skull-head, while the bat’s dripping talons grasped hammers, ladders, and shovels.
The Master Builder’s regimental colors! Krilid knew. He focused the Monocular further and saw the crowned, withered-faced Human in the rearmost seat. The shimmering surplice of spun lead told all. It was the Supreme Master Builder himself, the acclaimed Warlock Joseph Curwen . . .
I can’t have this pressure! Krilid’s thoughts exploded. His gnarled hands snapped up his rifle, fixed the Monocular on the barrel; and then he dumped his powder cartridge and rammed a ball. If Ezoriel’s Clairvoyants are so great, how come they didn’t know Curwen would be in the Skiff?
Krilid brought his rifle to bear, cocked the hammer, and lined up his sights right on the Master Builder’s head . . .
He took in one full breath, let half of it out, and began to depress the trigger—
The sudden headache hit him like a ball bat. Holy shit! Krilid dropped the musket and landed flat on his back on the Nectoport deck, cringing from the pain like a dentist’s drill boring straight into unanesthetized nerve pulp, only the pulp wasn’t a tooth, it was his entire brain.