“You know what I’ve become. I’m tough.”
“I hope so,” I said. “But you know what’ll happen.; if there are any witnesses to say it was a couple of the Sawall brothers behind this? Most likely a vendetta with Hendrake.”
“Even if Dara talked them into it?”
“It’ll look like she set them up.”
“Okay,” he said. “No witnesses.”
I could have said that averting vendetta would save a lot of other lives, but that would have sounded hypocritical even if I didn’t mean it that way. Instead, “That power you gained in the Fountain,” I said, “gives you something I’ve heard referred to as a ‘living Trump’ effect. Seems to me you were able to transport Julia as well as yourself with it.”
He nodded.
“Can it get us from here to Kashfa in a hurry?” The distant sound of an enormous gong filled the air. “I can do anything the cards can do,” he said, “and I can take someone along with me. The only problem is that the Trumps themselves don’t have that range. I’d have to take us there in a series of jumps.”
The gong sounded again.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“The noise?” he said. “That’s notice that the funeral is about to begin. It can be heard throughout the Courts.”
“Bad timing.”
“Maybe, maybe not. It’s giving me an idea.”
“Tell me about it.”
“It’s our alibi if we have to take out some Hendrakes.”
“How so?”
“The time differential. We go to the funeral and get seen. We slip out, run our errand, come back, and attend the rest of the service.”
“You think the flow will allow that?”
“I think there’s a good chance, yes. I’ve done a lot of jumping around. I’m starting to get a real feel for flows.”
“Then we’ll give it a try. The more confusion the better.”
Again, the gong.
Red, the color of the fire of life that fills us, is the color of mourning garments in the Courts. I used the spikard rather than the Sign of the Logrus to summon suitable clothing for myself. I’d a desire to avoid any commerce, even the most mundane, with that Power, for now.
Jurt then trumped us to his quarters, where he had suitable garments of his own from the last funeral he’d attended. I’d a small desire to see my old room, too. Sometime, perhaps, when I wasn’t rushed…
We washed up, combed, trimmed, dressed quickly. I took on a changed form then, as did Jurt, and we went through the ritual again at this level, before garbing ourselves for the occasion. Shirt, breeches, jacket, cloak, anklets, bracelets, scarf, and bandanna-we looked incendiary. Weapons had to be left behind. We planned to return for them on the way out.
“Ready?” Jurt asked me.
“Yes.”
He caught hold of my arm and we were transported, arriving at the inward edge of the Plaza at the End of the World, where a blue sky darkened above a conflagration of mourners milling along the route the procession would take. We passed among them, in hope of being seen by as many as possible. I was greeted by a few old acquaintances. Unfortunately, most wanted to stop and talk, not having seen me for some time. Jurt had similar problems. Most also wondered why we were here, rather than back at the Thelbane, the massive, glassy needle of Chaos far to our rear. Periodically, the air would vibrate as the gong continued its slow sounding. I felt it in the ground, also, as we were very near to its home. We made our way slowly across the Plaza, toward the massive pile of black stone at the very edge of the Pit, its gate an archway of frozen flame, as was its downward stair, each tread and riser time-barred fire, each railing the same. The rough amphitheater below us was also fire-furnished, self-illumed, facing the black block at the end of everything, no wall behind it, but the open emptiness of the Pit and its singularity whence all things came.
No one was entering it yet, and we stood near the gates of fire and looked back along the route the procession would follow. We nodded to friendly demonic faces, quivered to the note of the gong, watched the sky darken a little further. Suddenly, my head was filled with a powerful presence.