13

Rimsplitter was standing next to a pot plant, staring at his reflection in the polished surface of a black marble pillar as Matt strode across the lobby.

“Think the wattle’s a bit too effin’ red?” Rimsplitter asked, lifting his chin. “Could ’ave gone a tad more bleedin’ orange, if you ask me. But the red goes with me eyes. What do you think?”

“I think you look exactly like a red-headed vulture should,” Matt said carefully.

“Yeah, that’s what the effin’ ladies all say.”

“So, you do have lady friends, then?”

“Wouldn’t call them friends exactly. If it moves, eff it, I say.” Rimsplitter turned and glared at Matt. “Anyway, never mind about me. How did it go with the bleeder at the desk?”

“Um…it went surprisingly well, I think.”

“So what you comin’ over as? Halsatian? ’Usky? Black Lab? Everyone wants to be a bleedin’ dog. ’S that loyalty thing. I got money on you bein’ an effin’ canine person. Although, why anyone would want to be dependent on others for their food effin’ beats me.”

“As opposed to depending on other people dying for their food, you mean?”

“Oi, we’re the ultimate recyclers, us vultures. Bleedin’ green all the way through.”

“The only thing that’s green all the way through, in your case, is what comes out of your back end.”

Rimsplitter did a broody shoulder hunch, which, being a vulture, wasn’t that difficult. “Come on, what sort of effin’ dog?”

“I’m not coming back as a dog. In fact, I’m not coming back at all. I’m going back, instead. As me.”

Rimsplitter let out a squawk and began flopping around. He squawked and flopped so much that Matt thought he was having a fit. Finally, he calmed down enough to say, “You’re an effin’ comedian, did you know that? I aven’t laughed so much since my mate Elvis—so called ’cos he likes to eat ’em while they’re still shakin’, rattlin’ and a-rollin’—landed on that effin’ bloke thinking he was in his death throes, when actually ’e was just asleep and dreamin’. Got made into an ’eaddress for his troubles. You stupid cee. No one goes back; it’s im-effin’-possible. Everyone knows that. Even cees like you should effin’ know that.”

Matt waited for the tirade to finish. “Well, I asked, and they said yes. There’s the gorilla factor, you see.”

“What effin’ gorilla?”

“Me. I’m the gorilla.”

Rimsplitter shook his head. “You’re goin’ back as a gorilla?”

“In a way. I’ve got a free pass. I can do what I want. And what I want is to go back and reclaim my body. I was wondering if you’d come with me?”

“Me?” Rimsplitter choked on the word. “Me, go back? Them Ghoulshee aren’t too bleedin’ choosy about what they eat, or use to check the weather. Don’t want me entrails on the six o’clock news, thanks very effin’ much. They used Tarquin to check for squalls and then ’ad the rest of ’im with some bleedin’ yams last week. Bees. What the eff do you want to go back for, anyway?”

Matt shrugged. “Mr. Porter, Kemoch, and Birrik. Kylah. Mostly Kylah. Maybe I can do something.”

“You against a million plus Ghoul-effin’-shee? ’S like a bunch of nuns playin’ Argentina in the World Cup final. Effin’ suicide.”

Rimsplitter was, of course, right. An alien looking in on such situations would have been laughing like a kallapsian tree venk at the very thought. But what did aliens know? This was a peculiarly human bit of insanity Matt was contemplating. Because there was a good chance this wouldn’t work. Every other human he knew was meant to be descended from chimpanzees, but that didn’t mean they could hang from a tree with one arm and peel a banana with their feet at the same time. At least not without a lot of practise and a safety net. So even if Matt was descended from the gods of chaos, and even if he could get robbers to tie themselves in knots and fraudsters to mess up and expose themselves in New Thameswick, there was no way of knowing if he could do any of that at home or in Uzturnsitstan.

He’d had no evidence of being able to so far, but he had to try something. It was the same instinctive, illogical feeling that made ordinary people jump into icy rivers to save drowning kids. Leaping fully clothed into freezing water did about as much for your chances of survival (even if it is likely to up one’s sperm count by a notch or two) as drinking the venom of a beaked sea snake. It flew in the face of every Darwinian principle ever espoused. Yet, people still did it.

Bloody human nature.

Matt looked over at Mr. Thornton, who continued to beam at him across the lobby.

“Nah, forget it,” Rimsplitter was still blathering on. “Let’s you and me find a nice little gamblin’ den. Now we know that you’re the luckiest bee in existence, we could take the cees to the effin’ cleaners. There’s this little country called Vietlombardia, nice-lookin’ girls who can play ping-pong without bats for you, and sweet young hooded vultures for me.” He made a noise that was presumably the avian equivalent of a lascivious grunt.

Matt winced. God, he’s insufferable. What he needs is a short sharp shock. Like, if his feathers all suddenly fell out, that would certainly shut him—

It happened so fast that Matt could only gawp in horror.

“Is it me, or has it become effin’ cold in here all of a sudden?” Rimsplitter said. “As I was sayin’, Vietlombardia—”

“Rimsplitter,” Matt said, cutting the vulture off mid-flow.

“What?”

Matt nodded at the polished marble pillar, and Rimsplitter swung around.

The vulture leaped three clear feet in the air. He let out a strangled squawk and flapped his wings frantically. But, being featherless and consequently aerodynamically knackered, he landed flat on his naked backside with a thud. The tirade that followed contained more “bees” and “cees” than a list of brassicas.

“Rimsplitter,” Matt said after a long two minutes.

“Don’t even effin’ look at me,” the vulture wailed. “Gallopin’ halopecia, that’s what I got. Ess aitch a brick, I’m bald.”

Rimsplitter,” Matt said, more firmly this time, “look at me.” Matt thought about how much better the vulture might look re-feathered.

“What for? Effin’ ’ell, I’m effin’ bald, I’m effin’ ruined, I’m…” Rimsplitter turned to look at himself again and stopped. There followed a frantic three minutes of pacing up and down while, breast, and tail were inspected. Rimsplitter swivelled his head, very slowly, back towards Matt.

“You did that, didn’t you?”

Matt nodded.

“So, if I don’t come with you, I can stay here, but effin’ naked, is that it?”

“I need someone to do the repairs,” Matt said, hands up in apology. “You’re all I’ve got.”

“Repairs? What effin’ repairs?”

Matt explained about what he had in mind and the vulture listened. When he’d finished, Rimsplitter told him, “You’re effin’ mental, you know that?”

“Probably. But I need your help.”

“Fine,” Rimsplitter said. “What effin’ choice do I have?”

“You have a choice. I did the feather thing to shut you up.”

The vulture glared at him and slouched in his usual position. “Nah, I’ll come,” he said. “Why not? Besides, if I stay here and go for an optimal environment like the Kruger National Park, I’ll only get effin’ bored waiting for a tiger to mangle an ibex so I get fed. At least I’ll get some effin’ action with you. Though I can’t see it lasting very bleedin’ long.”

“Thanks,” Matt said, before heading back to Mr. Thornton to get directions.

On his instruction, they exited the lobby through a door to the left of the reception desk and found themselves in a smaller lobby, which looked much more opulent. On the desk was a sign that read “VIP Guest Services.” Another grey-suited man, complete with sycophantic smile, greeted them. It was clear that they’d been expecting him. The concierge gave Matt a small pill.

“For the pain,” he said, with a very knowing smile, and pointed them in the direction of a door marked “Returns.”

“Thing is,” Rimsplitter said, hopping towards the door, “I’m not sure what the eff I’m supposed to do. I mean,you’re okay ’cos you’re a bleedin’ freak, but I’m not certain I’m meant to do inter-dimensional travel.”

“It’s okay,” Matt assured him. “Really.”

“Really?” Rimsplitter said. “So—”

Matt put the pill in his mouth, put his right hand on the door handle, and shot his left hand out to grab on to the vulture’s neck. Rimsplitter let out a strangled squawk as Matt dragged him across the threshold and…fell. Matt flailed into emptiness and let go of the bird as everything went black. It lasted no more than a few seconds, and then falling was replaced by a searing pain in his chest and shoulder. It was the sort of pain that left you speechless in a gagging, open-mouthed, can-someone-please-kill-me kind of way, a horrible sensation of drowning and choking all at the same time. There was no air, just the pain and a vague awareness of how stupid an idea all of this was. He remembered the pill and swallowed it. The pain in his chest grew, if anything. In fact, it was as if someone was trying to yank a six-inch blade from between his ribs.

Oh, right.

There was a disgusting sucking noise, and air began to rush in through the hole. Matt tried to breathe and couldn’t. The feeling of drowning got worse. Matt forced himself to think. Think about how he might have been really lucky if the blade had slid between the organs instead of through them, and how it might be if the sucking wound in his chest suddenly sealed itself and if bushes had cushioned his fall instead of those hard and craggy rocks. All one in a million chances, he knew, but…

Matt opened his eyes. He was lying on a narrow bank near a river, surrounded by half a dozen vultures. Some of them had bits of his scalp in their beaks, while one had a long and wicked-looking blade.

“Thanks,” Matt croaked.

The one holding the blade dropped it and said, “Don’t mention it, you effin’ bee.”

“Was it difficult?” Matt asked, gingerly moving his bruised, but no longer smashed, shoulder.

“Took four of us to drag that blade out. Nearly sliced off me effin’ talons.”

“Sorry.”

“The skull fractures, they were the worst. ’S’been like effin’ ER. Lucky Jeremy ’ere was an effin’ dentist once. Struck off for fondlin’, he was. Still, knew his way around your ‘ead. Couple of them shards of skull was in deep, I’ll ‘ave you effin’ know.”

“I appreciate it,” Matt felt his skull. There were a couple of impressive bumps, but it seemed intact.

“So, no broken bones, then?” Rimsplitter asked.

“No,” Matt said. “I suppose I’m just lucky.”

The vultures all laughed.

“What’s so funny?” Matt asked.

“’S just we don’t usually get to see marinade turn back into walking flesh and blood. Effin’ ’ysterical, that’s what it is.”

Matt nodded, delighted to have provided an afternoon of entertainment for a bunch of scavengers.

“I’m here all week. Now, I need the quickest way to the Rendering, please. Once I’m there, your job is done. I don’t expect you to do anything else.”

“Okay,” said Rimslitter. “The boys ’ave already been to check out the picnic site. Follow us. Oh, and it might be just as well if you ’ave an effin’ dip in that there pool. At the moment, you’re all dust and blood, and there are things in that jungle that would consider them the equivalent of a bleedin’ sherbet dip.”

Matt got up with great caution and shook out the stiffness. He caught his reflection in the pool and splashed water on his face. When he looked again, there was no reflection. He’d completely forgotten the Krudian anomaly, but felt a lot better once he remembered it. Being invisible might have all kinds of advantages. His clothes, though, were very badly stained, and it would have taken a whole box full of Radiant biological and two cycles on the industrial-waste setting to get them clean. So he took them off instead and stood up, completely naked.

The thing about being naked is that you feel such an idiot with all that stuff flapping around. He hoped that the Krudian thingy was permanent, and that it wasn’t going to wear off when he got close to Kylah. If it did, he’d either feel very foolish or have somewhere temporary to hang his hat.

He sighed. No, it was no good. Naked wasn’t going to work. What were the chances of him having brought across the clothes he’d worn in New Thameswick, which also, through sheer luck, would be Krudian’d up? No reason why it should have happened, but you never knew your luck. Except that, right now, Matt did. He looked back and saw a neatly folded pile next to where the vultures congregated. He slipped them on. They felt fresh and clean.

“Any better?” he asked Rimsplitter.

“Where the eff are you?”

“I’ll take that as a yes, then.”

There was a path of sorts. Matt kept an eye on the circling vultures above, just to make sure he was going in the right direction. The jungle was a dense wall of greenery, and Matt would have given much for a machete. It was all made worse by the myriad large insects that kept flying or slithering or crawling into him, making him feel like a windscreen on the A40 in June. After a struggle, Matt arrived at the edge of a rise. Here, the vegetation thinned and, looking down, he could see the vast plain before him. What was on it made his innards constrict with aching dread.

There were many more captives than he’d thought, upwards of two hundred. Kylah, Kemoch, and Birrik had joined their ranks, all tied to wooden stakes, all facing the hordes of robed acolytes. Between them stood a dozen or so brightly attired officials doing ceremonial things with chalices, urns, and bits of offal.

“Bugger,” Matt said to himself. Stealthily, he made his way down through the bamboo and grass to the valley floor. He moved slowly, conscious of the grey-winged elite guards patrolling the perimeter of where the captives were being held. Although Matt might be invisible, disturbing the grass too much was going to be a sure giveaway. The closer he got, the more he could sense the dread and fear that hung over the captives like a pall.

They were an eclectic mix, many of them dressed in exotic clothing, captives from other parts of the Fae world. But some wore Aquascutum, and Matt knew they were from closer to home. Several of them were moaning and crying, hopelessness etched into their faces. Right at the front was Mr. Porter. He seemed strangely resigned to his fate. On the far side, Kylah looked angry as she fought in vain against the ropes that tied her.

Matt crept forward in a low crouch and turned his attention to the priests. A variety of animal carcasses lay surrounded by clouds of flies. Most of them had been gutted, and their entrails lay in gently steaming piles over which the Ghoulshee shamans crouched. Occasionally, one or another of these idiots would stand up and wave his hands in the air, shouting something significant; it was a lot like watching Today in Parliament.

One (whom Matt assumed was their leader, since he wore by far the most ornate costume) put up his hand and turned to address the hordes. Everyone, including the guards, turned to look. Matt took his chance and slipped between two of them, carefully averting his eyes. They were hideous things, complete with arthropod limbs and leathery folded wings. A single appraising glance was more than enough, thank you very much, since the memory of having been intimate with one was pushing through in disquieting Technicolor, and sending himself into a state of shitless paralysis by closer inspection wasn’t on today’s menu. A minute later, he was standing on the killing field itself, mere yards behind the head priest, awaiting his pronouncements.

This ought to be good. Just so long as they don’t start screaming.

Somehow, Matt knew he would understand what was going to be said, even though he spoke no Ghoulshee. He stared at the high priest, feeling extremely exposed. But since no one was taking a blind bit of notice of him, he assumed that the Krudian anomaly was still firing on all cylinders. The high priest was two feet taller than everyone else, thanks to an elaborate headdress constructed out of feathers, bones, and an animal skull with its jaws prised open. Why, oh why, was it always a bloody snake? Mind you, it had been an impressive snake, judging by the size of its fangs. Despite himself, Matt shuddered.

“Children of the mighty Cthran,” the priest bellowed. Cthran came out sounding like he was trying to cough up a swallowed fly. “Today is an auspicious day.”

The acolytes all cheered. Well, it was more of an ululating yodel, but Matt got the gist.

“Our harvest has been bounteous.” The priest swivelled and waved a stick adorned with bones and shriveled reptiles at the captives. “Soon there will be blood. Soon there will be the tearing of flesh and the stretching of sinew. Soon there will be the RENDERING.”

The ululating volume doubled. The last time Matt had heard such an enthusiastic response was William Wallace firing up the Scots in Braveheart (except that here, the High Priest didn’t have that tell-tale Aussie lilt).

“After years of struggle, after years of patient waiting, the followers of Cthran the Mighty will be appeased. The infidels—”

Matt groaned. Snake gods and infidels. For crying out loud.

“—have tried to crush our faith. In silence we have endured and in silence we have reviled them for their smug ignorance. We have watched them and waited for our opportunity. For we are Cthran’s children, whose spirits will pass into Virhana while the infidels burn.”

Virhana? It sounded like a Japanese people carrier to Matt. The way the acolytes all screamed hysterically in response, the thing had either won car of the year on Top Gear, or was an afterlife that promised eternal joy and an unending supply of rendering refills. Whichever it was, the snake-headed priest was on a roll. “We are the chosen ones,” he bellowed. “We shall be silent no more!”

Oh, puh-lease. Not another monotheistic religion peddling an afterlife of milk and honey (or blood and human flesh, in this instance) and sod the here and now? Judging by the downtrodden, clone-like appearance of their followers, the priests and the guards were doing an excellent job of repressing any kind of individuality amongst the faithful. Was it some sort of theistic law that gods had to have jealous streaks? A decree that they should all have green eyes that made them view anyone who didn’t believe in them, and them alone, as blasphemers? Love me, and salvation is yours; hate me, and death will visit you with sharp macharas and bloody renderings.

He couldn’t even blame the Fae, because Matt could think of a million examples, from crusades to pogroms, which proved that Homo sapiens were just as deluded. All in the name of someone’s faith. This little circus was another bloody example of what had about as much to do with what was real and meaningful and good as sitting under a box in the shape of a pyramid had to do with curing cancer. What it boiled down to was another way of saying, “Join my gang, or look out!” All nothing more than a way for some elite bunch of twats in headdresses to impose their bloodlust on a group of gullible, hapless sheep. In fact, Matt was so incensed he couldn’t resist the urge to shout out.

“Bollocks!”

He knew it was a mistake immediately. The high priest jumped so far off the ground he nearly lost his headdress. The alabaster guards all swung in his direction, sniffing the air and peering. Swiftly and silently, Matt changed position, keeping moving to confuse the guards. From the way they kept turning this way and that, it was working too. Emboldened, he tried another fusillade of words.

“There is no Cthran,” he yelled.

The acolytes all looked at one another and started burbling. High above, the vultures circled.

“It’s just a bloody big snake. Just a bloody, great, hungry snake, that’s all.”

“There is a djinn amongst us. Do not be deflected from the path,” the high priest bellowed.

“The path is crooked,” yelled Matt. “The rendering is codswallop. These are people. People who deserve to live.”

“Infidels,” yelled the priest.

“Rubbish,” Matt yelled back. He’d had enough of this jumped-up Quetzalcóatl lookalike by now. Matt moved in closer so they could have a little one-to-one.

“I know all about your lot,” Matt said as he closed in on the terrified Anaconda Head. “Proselytizing berks peddling fundamentalist fantasy because of words on a piece of parchment. Grow up, for crying out loud.” He was within ten feet of the high priest now, and saw how ugly a bugger he was. Blue paint on his eyebrows, bone earrings dangling from his elongated lobes, two rows of teeth modelled on mud-coloured tombstones. If he didn’t have this gobbledygook to occupy his time, no one else would have him, at least not within the length of a barge pole.

But his preoccupation with the high priest had diluted Matt’s vigilance. He didn’t see one of the alabaster guards moving towards a wooden bucket, and only saw the moving bucket as a blur in his peripheral vision as it was thrown toward him. But the bucket didn’t come through the air; the throw was merely a move to launch its contents at speed. A gout of dark red liquid spewed out, and the edge of it caught the high priest on the face and shoulder. He screamed and pawed at his eyes. When they opened, they went straight from fear to fury, without passing go. It took Matt three seconds to realize that the fury was aimed in his direction. He glanced down and saw, to his dismay, that half of him was also now covered in dark, red, stinking boar’s blood.

“Shit,” he said.

As all-encompassing and succinct words went, that one was a doozy, since it covered the smell that assailed his nostrils, his predicament, and the contents of his bowels, which were threatening to emerge unbidden.