Butcher Bird_ A Novel of the Dominion

Eighteen


A Weapon for Others

Primo took Spyder and Shrike from the greenhouse to Madame Cinders' private quarters, which was located at the top of the minaret they'd seen from outside the compound.
They climbed a stone spiral staircase that had been worn smooth over centuries of use. Spyder had no idea how Madame Cinders got up and down the tower since it didn't seem big enough to house anything resembling an elevator. Shrike tugged on Spyder's arm, holding him back and letting Primo get ahead of them on the stairs.
"Since when are you an expert on demonology?" she asked. "You didn't even believe in demons until two days ago."
"My daddy used to say, 'Just because T-bones are better eating, doesn't mean you shouldn't know the zip code of the brisket.'"
"What the hell does that mean?"
"It means, that even a useless tattooist can pick up a few facts that aren't about girls or ink," he said. "Jenny was an anthropology major. Studying medieval Christianity. I used to read her textbooks when she was finished. You'd be surprised how hot and bothered a little demon and saint talk gets Catholic girls. I still know Hell's floor plan, all seven Heavens and which angels rule each one."
"You saved us back there."
"That sword trick helped. Someday you're going to have to show me how that thing goes from a cane to a blade so fast."
"Stay useful and I will."
They entered Madame Cinders' private quarters. The room was dark, as the shutters, which were carved in traditional Muslim geometrics, were closed to keep out the heat. Enough light came through the skylights that the opulence of the room was unmistakable. The walls were hung with tapestries and dark purple velvets. The furniture, a mixture of low Middle Eastern-style pillows and benches, was mixed with elegant European pieces and upholstered in rich brocades. Delicate lamps of brass and milky glass dotted the room. Above an Empire-style desk was an oil portrait of a young woman. Her skin was creamy and pale, like liquid pearls, and her hair long and dark. She wore a high-necked turquoise gown of a simple cut, but even in the painting it was obvious that it was of exquisite material and expertly made. In her hands, the girl held a book whose tattered cover and cracked spine indicated its great age and constant use. Spyder wondered if the girl in the picture was Madame Cinders in earlier, happier times. It was hard picturing the wheezing wreck in the wheelchair as a girl, much less a pretty one getting her portrait painted on her birthday.
"Yes, young man," said Madame Cinders. "A book. That is what I've brought you here for."
"You want us to steal a book, Madame?" asked Shrike.
"The one in this painting?" Spyder asked.
Madame Cinders shook her head, moving the fabric of her hijab slightly. Spyder realized that the awful stench back at the greenhouse wasn't the exotic plants, but Madame Cinders herself. The heavy incense in the tower couldn't disguise the stink of her flesh.
"You're right, I am rotting."
Spyder looked at the woman. He realized that she could read his thoughts. Or was she just picking it up from body language? He resolved to stand completely still and look directly at her.
"Do that, if it comforts you." Madame Cinders nodded toward Shrike. "She has no such worries, you see. Her world is black and full of secrets buried in darkness and deeper darkness. That's why she's so valuable to me. What's an affliction to some, is a weapon for others." Madame Cinders paused as her pump started up again. "I know you both have questions, but let me tell you how the girl in that portrait became the creature you see before you.
"Since the time of the Great Divide, when all the Spheres of the world broke each away from the other, my family has guarded a book. The first book. It contains the true names of all things. Someone with the understanding to use the book could blot out the sun. Turn the oceans to blood. Or close forever the doors of existence.
"The book was stolen from this very room and spirited to Hell by a demon. The same Asmodai I asked you about earlier. Asmodai is known to possess vast and arcane knowledge, so I assumed he had stolen the book for himself. After years of trying, I managed to pursue him into Hell to retrieve the book that was my responsibility to guard.
"In Hell, I learned that Asmodai was now in the employ of a powerful wizard who now makes his home in that dank and depraved realm. It was he who transfigured me from the young girl in the painting to the half-alive thing you see now. All of my strength and knowledge goes into keeping myself alive. I haven't the power to fight for the book anymore."
The pump stopped and Madame Cinders seemed to sag for a moment, then sat up straight in her chair, renewed by whatever potion or tincture had entered her dying blood stream.
"I was arrogant," she said. "Full of pride in my magic and fury at losing the book. I forgot a fundamental law of the universe: that no mortal may look upon Heaven or Hell and walk again among the living. What power the enemy wizard didn't bleed from me, I used up weaving a spell to escape that horrid place."
"That's why you sent for me," said Shrike. "Not because I'm the best assassin, but because I'm blind."
"Because you are both, Butcher Bird."
"I'm not blind. What about me?" asked Spyder.
"You keep her on course, it's easy to see. She's a burning fuse. You keep her from burning out. And you can be made blind temporarily, with a simple spell."
"No way."
"Then blindfold yourself and hope for gentle winds in the underworld."
"Excuse me, Madame Cinders," said Shrike, "I don't want to be crass, but what will be our payment for performing this service for you?"
"Why, child, I'll give you back your eyes."
"Can you fix mine? Make me the way I was before, able to forget all this?"
"It is an odd request and I will not be so rude as to ask why, but, yes, with the book I could do that for you."
"It's not enough," said Shrike. Spyder looked at her. "You're asking us to go to the most awful place imaginable and face both the legions of Hell and the wizard who almost killed you, a sorceress with more magic than I could ever hope to summon. And our payment is to be nothing more than becoming who we used to be? Madame, there must be something more you can offer us or, despite whatever threats you might care to make, we will have to refuse your offer." Spyder was surprised by Shrike's tone, but could tell that she was in full-on haggling mode. The traders in Tangiers had been the same way. It wasn't the easy-going bargaining of Nepal or Mexico, but a verbal fistfight. Spyder looked at Madame Cinders, waiting for her counter.
"What would be enough, Butcher Bird? Your kingdom back? Revenge on your enemies? Your father?"
"I barely recall my kingdom and my enemies will be damned in time. But to taunt me with my father's death, I didn't expect such low behavior from a lady of your standing, Madame."
Madame Cinders laughed and it sounded like bubbling sludge. "But your father isn't dead, Butcher Bird. He's merely mad. Would you like to see him? He's here, not two rooms away from us."