Queen of the Dark Things (30 page)

“Anything. Ask it.”

“Swear to me. Swear that you will grant me one last request and I promise that you will never see the inside of this bottle.”

“I swear it.” He said. “Anything.”

“I need for you to get me . . . the ring.”

C
HAPTER
41

T
HE
F
IVE
D
UKES
OF
THE
B
ATAVIA

T
his may be the worst idea you've ever had,” said Yashar through clenched teeth.

“What choice do I have?” asked Colby, seated once more at the bar, Gossamer panting with concern beside him.

“You have the choice either to do it or not to do it. I vote not.”

“Rhiamon said the things that knew what was going on weren't talking. She meant them. The Seventy-two.”

“You can't trust that old witch and you know it.”

“Do you think she's wrong? That they don't know what's going on?”

“No. I think they know exactly what's going on. I just don't believe that you're really involved in this. I think they want you to be.”

“I only want to summon the Horse. He speaks nothing but the truth. He's their oracle, nothing more. He's already appeared to me. He's already watching me. You said as much. How much more trouble can I really get into with him?”

“The answer to that question is entirely what concerns me.”

“It's not like I'm going to make a pact with him or anything. We need information. He has it.”

“We can get it other ways.”

“HOW?”

Yashar looked long and hard at Colby from across the bar. “I . . . I don't know.”

“Rhiamon said that what the Queen has over me is the fact that she'll do anything to get what she wants, but I won't. Maybe it's time I took a risk. Did what no one expects me to do.”

“Trafficking with demons. That's a
risk
?”

“Yes.”

“This is how it starts.”

“No. Hopefully this is how it ends.”

“Don't say things that might be far too prophetic for your own good. How much of your soul are you willing to leverage for this?”

“To make things right? As much as it takes.”

Yashar tapped the bar nervously, mulling over Colby's rash decision. “Just Orobas?”

“Just the Horse.”

Yashar sighed. “Do it. Make it quick before—”

“Before what?”

“Before I lose my nerve.”

Colby looked down at Gossamer. “You should go home. You don't need to be here for this.”

“I'm not going anywhere, boss.”

“This isn't something you want to be around for.”

“I've been shot at by Sidhe and chased by monsters. What makes you think I'm going to get spooked by a horse?”

“Because he's not really a horse.”

Gossamer nuzzled up to Colby, putting his forehead against his leg, tail wagging. “I won't leave you.”

Colby scratched Gossamer behind the ear, melting a little. “Stay behind the bar, close to Yashar.”

“Okay, boss.”

Colby stepped back, letting Gossamer slip between his legs as he trotted behind the bar. Then he took a deep breath, held out his arms, and the world began to ripple, swirl, bend against the flow of time. Everything slowed down, the single bulb dangling on a wire from the ceiling flickered and buzzed. A hole opened in space, the gravity of it bending even the light around it.

“Colby . . . ,” muttered Yashar, terrified.

“I haven't said anything yet.”

“I noticed.”

The hole contorted, shimmered, took the form of a horse. And then it was a horse, its fur an inky black darkness, its eyes darker still.

“I didn't summon you yet,” said Colby.

“You didn't have to,” said the Horse.

“You were listening.”

“For some time now, yes.” The Horse, Orobas, took one trotting step forward, its body melting, morphing into the shape of a man—a man with hooves where his feet should be and the head of a stallion. “I can change further, if you'd like. Appear in the form of a man if that will make you more comfortable.”

“No,” said Colby, harshly. “I don't want to forget for a moment what you really are.”

“As you wish. What is it you need of me?”

“I need to know what's going on.”

The Horse took a seat at the bar, turning its large equine head toward Colby. “We don't entirely know.”

“Tell me what you do know.”

“Have a seat.”

“I think I'll stand.”

“Have a seat, Colby. The tale is a long one, going back quite some time.”

Colby sat at the bar next to Orobas, placed his hands together on the battered plywood bar top. “Tell it.”

Orobas nodded. “This began many years ago, in the year 1628.”

“Oh shit, you weren't kidding.”

“Five dukes met in Amsterdam, each there for the same reason. The Dutch East India Trading Company had just built the biggest, boldest ship ever then to sail the seas. Over one hundred and eighty-six feet long. Thirty-four feet wide. One hundred and eighty feet at its highest point. It carried in its belly twenty-four cast-iron cannons and could accommodate up to three hundred and fifty souls on board. It was christened . . . the
Batavia
.

“In their hubris, the Dutch East India Trading Company proclaimed repeatedly that she was not only unsinkable, but that
God himself could not put her beneath the waves
. God himself. As you can imagine, many of my brothers couldn't resist such a dare. And five of them answered the call. Duke Astaroth, the Naked Angel. Duke Berith, the Alchemist. Duke Bune, the Three-headed Dragon. Duke Focalor, the Stormbringer. And Duke Dantalion.”

Yashar sighed. “The Thousand-faced Djinn,” he said.

“Yes. The five squabbled from sundown to sunup over who would get to sink her but could find no accord. Until, that is, Duke Dantalion proposed a wager. He bet the other four dukes that he could bring to an end more lives aboard the vessel and connected to the ship than any of the other dukes. The rules were simple. They could use any of the powers at their disposal but could not sink the ship in open water nor kill anyone by their own hands. Once the remaining crew and passengers had reached their destination, outside involvement was strictly forbidden, and they would watch the wager play out to its last. The remaining four dukes were intrigued by this, realizing that together, dueling against one another, they could take the grandest ship yet to sail the seas, and destroy her in the most glorious fashion imaginable.

“Duke Astaroth, who was already in Amsterdam, seducing many to heresy and sin through the perversion of a local Rosicrucian order, inspired a series of events and secured a position aboard the ship for one of his most corrupted playthings: one Jeronimus Cornelisz. Cornelisz was already a man of little moral character when Astaroth found him, but by the time he was done with him, he was absolutely diabolical. Astaroth knew that such a man, aboard a vessel carrying a kingdom's worth of riches, would not be able to resist trying to take them for himself. And thus the game began.

“Dantalion made the next play on the day the ship's passengers came aboard. He inspired a number of the crew, chief among them the ship's master merchant and fleet commander Francisco Palsaert, to fall in love with a wealthy young traveler named Lucretia Jans. Such was the power of Palsaert's affection for the woman that he would try night after night to ply her out of her garments with wine and liquor. But Dantalion saw to it only to strengthen Jans's love for her husband, whom she was sailing to reunite with—a man she had no idea was already dead of the fever. Travel by ship takes a long time and there is little privacy, and the passions of the men for her overwhelmed them, consumed them, and brought them to squabble amongst themselves.

“Focalor's play was much more masterful. Dantalion's wager was wise. He knew that Focalor could bring down a ship with a single storm, and often did, but wanted to reserve the right to run the ship aground if he needed to. While he expected Focalor to use his powers over the wind and sea to steer the ship toward some deserted island, he was no master of the sea. He didn't know about the isolated reef and chain of small dead islands off the coast of Australia that Focalor would subtly nudge them toward.

“And now the stage was set. Cornelisz had begun arranging a mutiny, supported by a number of the men as equally in love with Jans as Palsaert, and it would have been bloody and violent were it not for Focalor's impeccable timing. When the ship finally ran aground on the reef, the chaos that ensued was assured. The ship's most essential and highest-ranking crew members manned a lifeboat headed for their original destination, with the aim of sending a rescue party, leaving none other than Cornelisz in charge. Terrified of having his mutinous plans revealed to the survivors, Cornelisz arranged to divide them among the several small islands.

“Focalor kept the rains away, dwindling the supply of water much faster than anticipated. Some died of thirst, others for stealing rations to stay alive. Berith inspired many to murderous rages, while Astaroth drove even moral men to execute thieves and the mortally ill. Dantalion convinced Cornelisz to draft a loyalty pledge, which he made the few remaining sign. But it would be Bune who would make the most daring and brilliant play.

“By this point, Bune had not claimed a single soul for his own. His gift was far less direct than most, and so he had long learned to be patient in applying it. Bune's touch can turn a dying soul he is responsible for condemning into a demon of his choosing. Instead of staying behind for the carnage of the islands, he chose to follow the lifeboat. He knew that Focalor couldn't resist the chance to drive men to thirst, so he followed the officers, keeping them safe from storm and tide. With his help, they arrived safely at port and sent back the rescue party they had promised.

“By the time they arrived, full-scale war had broken out among the survivors, and it was left to the rescue party to quell it. And this is where Bune's genius had become clear to everyone. As he was responsible for the rescue, he was also responsible for the capture and execution of Jeronimus Cornelisz and his fellow mutineers. Their souls were rightfully his. Before they were finally hanged for treason, each had one of his hands cut off at the wrist. Cornelisz in turn lost both. There they were, dangling in the sun, their last breaths escaping their bodies, Bune touching each one, swallowing their last breath for himself, turning them into demons under his thrall.”

Colby's eyes went wide. “Kutji. He turned them into kutji.”

Orobas nodded. “Indeed. Their souls were his now, and he commanded them to seek out everyone who had signed that traitorous pledge of loyalty or who had escaped prosecution for their mutiny, and—here was the stroke of genius—their descendants. They were to take their victims' hands and then their souls, and turn them into kutji, just like them. In that way, Bune's play was potentially limitless. Dantalion had stipulated
connected
to the ship in his wager. And these unborn souls were now connected. Bune promised the kutji that once they had secured the soul of the last remaining descendant and made themselves whole by finding their basket of hands, they would have peace. And thus, that is exactly what they've done for the last four hundred years.”

“Why has it taken so long?” asked Colby.

“Two mutineers, both of whom had committed terrible crimes, threw themselves upon the mercy of the court and were afforded special circumstances. Their death sentence was commuted and they were instead punished to banishment, given a rowboat, and pointed to Australia. Australia was not yet settled by colonists and the Aboriginals thought them simply to be of a dreaming from across the sea. With two of the ship's crew still technically at sea, the wager was unfinished, and Bune spoke with a Clever Man belonging to the nearest tribe. He tasked the Clever Man with finding the strangers, taking them in, and protecting them from any spirits that might come for them. This the Clever Man did in exchange for wisdom and an abundance of food in the coming season.

“When the kutji finally arrived to claim their souls, they found themselves at odds with a Clever Man more clever than they, and the two survivors soon wed and fathered children whose lineage went on now for four hundred years. Once the Clever Man was gone, they were free to claim the souls of the descendants, but by then, they were scattered throughout the land, protected by a dozen other Clever Men. It has taken them four centuries to track down every last descendant of the
Batavia
's mutineers. Now, only one remains.”

“Kaycee,” said Colby.

“Kaycee Looes, direct descendant of Wouter Looes.”

“Why didn't they just kill her?”

“They can't find their hands. To this day, they have chopped off the hand of every soul they've gathered, sending a kutji after its shadow to find its final resting place. But they've never found it. Once they discovered that Kaycee could dreamwalk, they believed it to be divine providence. She would lead them to their hands. So they made a pact with a wise old Clever Man already in league with another powerful spirit. He agreed to help cut the cord that tethered her to her body in exchange for the assurances he would need to keep her body alive and protect his people from their wrath once they found out.”

“Mandu?”

“Yes.”

“But he didn't cut the cord. I did.”

Orobas looked long and hard at Colby, waiting for all the new information to sink in.

“I cut it. I cut the . . .” Then it hit him. “Mandu tricked me into doing it.”

“He did.”

“WHY?”