In the Forest There Are No Lines

Conversation died abruptly when Marik tripped over an unseen step and fell against the screen in front of the door.  She used it to steady herself, set it carefully upright, and turned into the common room of the Eye of the Sea, into the steady, noncommittal gaze of the bartender.

He was a huge man; even leaning far over the bar he towered above the other men standing there.  His arms, the length and breadth of most men's legs, spanned the bar, embracing it protectively as he gathered in empty glasses on either end.  His hands, the size of dinner plates, with short, thick fingers, did not grasp the glasses as much as caress them, coerce them into grabbing on and going for a ride.  Marik was sure that if he had grasped them, the glasses would be little more than dust.  The hands swept the glasses tenderly away and deposited them unerringly in a tub of soapy water directly behind him; then they returned to the bar in front of him, resting quietly until called upon again.

The man's face seemed unconcerned with the activities of his arms, even unaware of them.  It remained fixed, impassive, unmoving, directed toward the door and Marik standing there on one foot, still holding the screen lest one or the other of them should fall.  The face was pleasant enough, for being lumpy and scarred and too small for the head it found itself attached to, but Marik found it disquieting.  It looked at her, nothing more, and she felt a thrill of terror in the base of her spine.  There was nothing hostile about the look or the face, nothing even remotely threatening, nothing -- just nothing; there was nothing at all, nothing to indicate awareness, or involvement, or interest, or any other sort of basic human emotion.  The face might as well have been painted on a barrel, and Marik found it most discomfiting to have that placid, disconnected blandness turned on her.

"Sorry," Marik said, giving the screen a final adjustment and edging slowly into the room in case there was another step.

"Nothing," said the bartender.  "Happens all the time."  His voice, an otherwise pleasant baritone, was as lifeless as his face. 

Marik tore her eyes away from him and glanced about the room as she approached the bar.  The tables -- large, round, oak, scarred with years of unvarnished use -- sat close together; the patrons -- not oak, but otherwise much like the tables -- did not.  Perhaps twenty people, alone or in pairs, sat strewn about the room, from the shadow of the cold stone fireplace against the far wall to the alcove behind the stair beyond the opposite end of the bar.  Twenty people, and not one of them besides the bartender was looking at her.  They were aware of her, she knew, from the interrupted fragments of conversation still hanging in the air, from the tiny scrape of a chair as it shifted round a bit, from the feeling that the room itself was holding its breath.

If people could cock their ears like dogs, she thought, she'd have twenty pairs pointed at her right now.  The thought made her giggle, but she kept it inside and arrived at the bar with, instead, a silly grin.  She thought of Gorbo and remembered her disguise, and pitched her voice low, with a hint of a growl.  "Hello," she said, grinning up into the impervious face of the bartender.

The eyes blinked once, quickly, and the hands spread out a couple feet, palms down.  "What'll you have, um, sir?"

"I'm looking for Pidge.  Is he in tonight?"

The eyes scanned her from the top of her watch cap to as far down as the bar would let them see.  "Depends," the bartender said.

Marik reached into her pocket and pulled out the handkerchief holding her money.  "Oh?  On what?"

The bartender's fingers curled, then straightened.  "On what you're having."

Marik glanced around, confused.  What possible difference could that make?  The men at the bar huddled at one end, studying three dice on the hard wood before them.  They looked deep in consultation, but they did not speak, nor did they look up.  "What I'm having?"  Marik took a deep breath.  "Well, what've you got?"

The bartender tapped one finger on the bar, sending thumping shivers down its length.  "This is a tavern, um, sir.  We have what taverns have."

Marik's mind went blank until a familiar face winked at her from the bar.  Her father's dear friend and client, the actor Charok Ombresor, the beloved Uncle Char of her childhood, had been for many years the spokesman for the Newgate Brewing Company, appearing in countless ads as the legendary adventurer Melika.  The Melika of the tales was a cunning and ruthless thief, the founder of organized crime in Kuhesos.  Uncle Char, a great, sweet, teddy bear of a man, had played him that way at first.  Over the years, the brewery's Melika had grown softer, friendlier, even cuddly; had become in short more like Uncle Char himself.  The original Melika could never have said with a straight face, "Me like a Melika Laguh."  Uncle Char couldn't either, but his current, befuddled, grandfatherly Melika could.  And did, in an endless series of ads that Marik had at first found hysterical, but that quickly became nauseating.

The character had changed, but the label on Melika Lager had not.  There on the bar, from a half-full bottle, young Uncle Char, in all his piratical glory, winked at her in a deliciously wicked leer.  She smiled and promised to send the old man flowers.  She turned to the bartender, tried to copy Melika's wink, and growled, "Me like a Melika."  The bartender blinked and turned away.

As if that was the signal it had been waiting for, the room exhaled.  Fragmented conversations reknit themselves and wafted to the ceiling in muted murmurs.  Chairs scraped all around the room as the patrons turned back to their tables.  With the clatter of dice and a cry of "Teeth!" the game at the end of the bar resumed.

The bartender soon returned with a tall glass of frosty goodness, as Uncle Char would say.  "Never a bite, but a mighty big taste."  The bartender's hands caressed the glass as they set it down, wiping off the foam.

"Now," he said.  "Who was it you wanted?"

Marik opened her mouth, but before she could say anything a voice in her ear said, "Pidge, wasn't it?"  She started, sloshing Melika Lager on the bar and the bartender's hands.  The man beside her grinned and handed her a paper napkin.  He was middle-aged, short, and stout, with one dark brown eye and one eye clouded over.

"That's right," said Marik, nodding once to the man and turning back to the bartender.  "Pidge."

"Yes, I couldn't help but overhear," the man said.  "I'll take it from here, Varkin."

The bartender looked from the man to Marik, then shrugged one shoulder, wiped the bar clean with a rag from his belt, and disappeared through the bead curtain behind the bar.

The man took Marik's elbow and pulled her away from the bar.  "Come over to my table, little lady.  We can talk there."

Marik grabbed her Melika and followed.  The table was in the corner farthest from the front door, in the shadow of the great stone fireplace.  It sported four glasses, three empty, but only two chairs.  The man deposited her in one and sat in the other, the one against the wall, facing the room.  He watched her settle in, sipping his drink, which was clear and had ice.  Then his eyes returned to the room, traveling back and forth like a dog on sentry duty.

"What do you want to see Pidge about?" he asked, still scanning the room.

Marik glanced over her shoulder to see what he was watching, but nothing appeared to be happening.  Just regular people with regular drinks, talking regular talk in the regular way. 

"You did want to see Pidge?"  The man's tone was sharp, and Marik turned back to him with a gasp.

"Are you Pidge?" she asked.

He looked at her with both eyes for a second.  The clouded one winked at her.  Then he looked away again and slowly shook his head.  "If I say yes, would you believe me?  And then would you tell me why you're here?"

Marik sipped her lager.  She hadn't expected all this cloak and dagger stuff.  All she wanted was directions.  Who did this Pidge think he was?  Well, she'd put up with his little games if it got her to Holy Goatherds.  "I'm trying to find a place," she said, setting her glass down carefully.  "It's called --"

"Stop!"  The man sat forward suddenly and stabbed the table in front of her with his first two fingers held stiff like a knife.  "Don't say too much here," he said in a low voice.  "There are places to talk openly, and this isn't one of them right now."

Oh, what now, she thought.  Are the secret police here tonight?  "It's all right, Pidge," she whispered.  "I only want directions."

He sat back, his eyes still running circuits of the room, but now including her.  "Let's get this straight," he growled.  "First, no one comes to Pidge for 'only' directions.  Second, Pidge don't do business in a bar.  And third, I'm not Pidge."

"But you said ... oh, I see what you said.  All right.  You're not Pidge.  What do you do, then, screen his visitors?  You his secretary or something?"

The man cocked an eyebrow at her and barked a short laugh.  "Got you riled some," he said.  "No, it happens Pidge isn't here tonight; I am.  I throw a little his way, watch his house while he's away, so to speak, he'll do the same for me.  That's how it is, missy.  Two fish in the same school."

Marik sat back and looked around the room.  Still nothing going on.  "Same school, eh?  Maybe you can help me, then.  What is your name, by the way?"

The man snorted.  "My name's my own," he said.  "You can call me Tembat if you want."  He swallowed the rest of his drink in a gulp, including the ice.  "And as for taking Pidge's trade, that's more than my life's worth, I'll tell you that up front."

"What are you talking about, Pidge's trade?  I'm not anybody's trade."

Tembat sighed.  "You're a stranger here.  Somebody told you to go to Pidge.  Fine.  Now, what happens when that somebody asks Pidge tomorrow how'd that little bit I sent you work out, and Pidge don't know what he's talking about, and pretty soon comes asking around here, and Varkin says old Tembat got her?  I ask you, what's Pidge going to think of Tembat then?  He maybe, just maybe, won't do nothing to me, but he sure as spit won't do nothing for me.  And I don't know anyone, me most of all, that volunteers for Pidge's shitlist.  Got it?"

Marik nodded.  This was a different world; she knew that going in, but the more she saw of it, the more different it got.  She had thought of Pidge as a kindly old gent in an information booth, but now it seemed he was some kind of underworld kingpin.  What was it about Holy Goatherds that she had to go to a man like that for?

"Good," said Tembat.  "Then let's go."  He stood up and dropped a coin into one of the empty glasses.

Marik took a last sip of her beer, leaving over half of it.  She grimaced; it was bitter, despite Uncle Char's promises.  She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, got up, and headed for the bar.  Tembat's hand on her elbow stopped her.

"Not that way," he hissed.

"But I've got to pay for my beer."

He pulled her toward a door on the other side of the fireplace.  "That's all taken care of."

She resisted his pull.  "I want to thank the bartender for his help."

"What for?  He didn't do anything.  Come on, it's getting late."  He tugged again, and this time she went a couple steps.  "Look," he said.  "You wanted to see Pidge.  If you've changed your mind, all right.  No coin from my purse, whatever you do.  Just don't get skittish on me.  If you still want to see Pidge, pick up your heels and let's go."

Marik looked one last time around the Eye of the Sea.  No one was watching them.  Should she refuse to go, at least refuse to sneak out the back?  Should she make a fuss so someone would know what happened to her?  Her eyes reached the bar and Varkin the bartender, watching her with his no expression.  One of his massive hands raised a bit and waggled back and forth.  Then he turned and disappeared through the curtain.

"All right," said Marik.  "Lead on."

The door beside the fireplace opened onto a long dark hallway, which debouched into an alley cleaner than most she had seen in the Warrens.  Still holding her elbow, Tembat hustled her around the corner into a narrower, darker alley, then through a lot strewn with shattered crates and charred timbers, across an empty but well-paved street, and down two more alleys of indifferent cleanliness.  He didn't say a word the whole way; neither did Marik.

At last he turned into the darkest alley of all, a cul-de-sac ending at a loading dock.  On either side stood heavy metal doors, scarred and dented and defaced with graffiti.  Tembat stopped at the door on the left and doubled over, breathing heavily.  His hand quivered on her elbow.  Was he nervous, or just tired?  Either way, she'd had about enough.  She pulled her elbow from his grip and turned on him, hands on hips.

"This is it?" she asked.  "This is the audience hall of the great and powerful Pidge?"

Tembat glanced nervously about the cul-de-sac.  "Ssh!" he said.  "Keep it down.  You never know who's about."

"Well, well," said a harsh voice from the mouth of the alley.  "Tembat.  What have you brought us tonight?"

Marik turned to face the voice and backed slowly toward the loading dock.  Three shadowy figures advanced down the alley toward them, resolving as they approached into three hard-faced men carrying cudgels.  Tembat jerked upright when they appeared, whirled toward the door, and pounded on it.

"Open up!" he cried.  "Help!"

The man in the middle gestured with his left hand, and the man on the left darted toward Tembat.  His cudgel seemed to hover in the air; then it fell, and so did Tembat.  The man in the middle laughed.

"Tembat can be such a fool," he said.  "And he's no fun at all."  He stopped about ten feet from Marik and looked her up and down.  "You, on the other hand, promise to be great fun."

Marik shot a glance left, then right.  A short ladder led up to the loading dock about six feet to her left; another was about five feet to her right.  She could probably reach one, but certainly couldn't mount it before they dragged her back.  The doors were out of the question.  The men on either side were now directly in front of them, and they were probably locked anyway. 

The man in the middle smiled, showing sharp white teeth.  "No escape, pet," he said.

Marik looked past him, toward the mouth of the alley, and gasped.  "No," she said.  "Not you, too!"

The man in the middle did not turn around, but he started to, and that was all Marik needed.  She darted to the right, to the ladder, and swarmed up it two rungs at a time.  A hand brushed her heel, and she kicked back.  She grinned at the muffled crack and the yelp of pain.

The loading dock was only about ten feet deep, and ended in two large corrugated tin garage doors, padlocked down.  She yanked at the handle anyway.  The door rattled hollowly, but didn't budge.

"Nice try.  Sorry it didn't work."

She turned, pressing her back to the garage door.  The flanking men were both on the loading dock, standing by the ladders.  The one she had kicked was cradling his left hand in his right, his face twisted with pain.  He was quiet, though, and watched her without blinking.  The leader stood at the center of the loading dock, still on the alley floor, his smile wider than before, a double row of glistening daggers, like the mouth of a hungry shark.

"Yes," he said.  "So sorry.  I'm afraid it will be worse for you now.  Jafford doesn't like pain, you see, and you've given him quite a bit.  Afraid he'll want to give it back, and frankly I don't see how I can stop him."

Jafford grunted and took a step forward.

"Not yet, Jafford.  You must wait your turn."

Jafford snarled and fixed Marik with a look that made Marik's heart pound against her chest and stopped her breath.  She pressed into the door; it groaned and gave an inch or two.

The man with the shark smile laughed.  "Good, you think about him, pet."  He vaulted onto the loading dock.  It was at least five feet up and he did it from a standing start using only one hand, yet he landed on his feet, as light as a cat.  "Think about him, pet, don't ever think about me."  His voice had dropped to a low growl, almost a purr.  He walked slowly toward her, his men keeping pace, and he whistled to himself as he advanced, a quick, gay air that sounded sinister in his breathy rendition.

Marik fixed her eyes on the bright yellow eyes of the man with the shark smile.  Her left hand slipped into her pocket and curled around her clasp knife.  She pressed the release button, felt the blade disengage, and held it down with her forefinger.

The yellow eyes did not waver as they approached; the haunting whistle did not falter.  She waited till he was four feet away.  She could feel the others close by, but did not dare look.  In a single motion, she pulled the knife from her pocket, released the blade, and slashed at the face in front of her.

She missed.  The face was no longer there.  Her stroke continued through the space where he had been, and she felt the knife slice through something to her left.  A man screamed.  Rough hands grabbed her about the waist and threw her down.  She landed painfully on her hip and the knife skittered away.  She stifled a sob and closed her eyes.

"So," said the gravelly purr.  "The pet has claws."

She opened her eyes.  She was lying on her back, a heavy weight on her feet, her arms stretched straight over her head.  Her hands tingle.  The yellow eyes and the shark smile were right above her, her knife poised delicately in front of them.  Something wet hit her cheek; it was warm.  She glanced up.  The man who had been approaching from her left was holding her arms; a long gash on his face bled freely.  A drop fell.  She recoiled, but not fast enough; it hit her in the eye and trickled down her cheek.

A cold pinprick on her throat made her gasp.

"Careful you don't move too quickly," the shark smile purred.  "This is some sharp claw you have.  Isn't that right, Pak?  Oh, I'm afraid, my pet, I'll have to let Pak have a bit of you, too.  You really shouldn't have cut him."

She slowly looked up at him.  He nodded.  "I have your attention now, I see."  With the tip of the knife, he traced the lines of her cheekbones and along the edge of her jaw.  She clenched her teeth and tensed her neck muscles to keep from jerking away.  The knife continued, down her throat, almost tickling, and came to rest at the top button of her shirt.

"Oh my, what's this?"  The knife twitched.  The button bounced off the corrugated tin of the garage door and chittered off into the darkness.  The tip of the knife parted the shirt, and when it came to the second button, it twitched, and that button followed the first.  Marik twisted away from the touch of the knife.

Fire tore through her shoulders and she cried out.

"Shouldn't have done that, pet.  Pak is very good with arms.  He could dislocate both of them as quick as you can blink, but I think he'd like you to squirm a little more first.  As much as I like Pak, I think you'll agree that we should delay his pleasure a bit.  What do you say?"

She looked up at Pak.  He grinned wolfishly and bled onto her face.  She shuddered, and this time the sob would not be suppressed.

"That's right," came the purr.  "This isn't playacting any more."  The point of the knife traced the seam of her brassiere across her sternum and up a bit on either side.  She shivered and shrank away, but a warning squeeze on her shoulders made her subside.  The knife continued down and the next button flew.  "No more playacting, it's time to get rid of the costume." 

Her stomach muscles quivered as the knife played across them.  The last two buttons followed the rest, and the knife rested.  The man with the shark smile sat back to admire his work.  He continued to whistle expressionlessly under his breath, and at last Marik put a name to the tune.  It had been naggingly familiar before, hovering just on the far side of the known.  Now, in a flash, it came to her. 

It was the theme song from "Uncle Didey's Playhouse."  She had watched it faithfully for about six years and sporadically for three, and hadn't even thought about it for fifteen, and here on a loading dock in a back alley in the Warrens, it all came back to her.  "At Uncle Didey's Playhouse, everything's gonna be fine; at Uncle Didey's Playhouse, we'll all have a really good time."  Uncle Didey, with his goofy clown smile and his ruffled purple shirtfront; Etchebar Ellerbee the Elephant, with her passion for cheesecake; Lil Rare Bit, the rabbit, always playing cruel jokes on poor Uncle Didey.  A giggle tickled the back of her throat; then the knife pricked the skin between her breasts and the giggle died.  She stared up into the yellow eyes.

"Good," said the shark smile.  "Thought I'd lost you there."  He split her brassiere between the cups and gently, using the point of the knife, careful not to touch her skin, folded back first one cup, then the other.  "Wouldn't want you to miss anything."

"I think the only thing she won't miss is you," said a voice from behind them.  The man with the knife slowly turned his head, then quickly got up to face the speaker.

"Wolf!" the new voice called.  "Now!"

An animal snarl split the night.  Marik heard claws scrabbling over concrete, then a man screamed and the pressure on her shoulders went away.  She kicked out with both feet, but Jafford was apparently not there; she was free.  She rolled toward the garage door, squeezed into a corner, and turned to watch, pulling her buttonless shirt tight about her.

To her right, Pak was on his back, his body hidden by a frenzy of yellow fur.  He was still screaming, but he wasn't fighting.  He was just trying to cover his face.  The man with the shark smile stood facing the alley, her knife still in his hand.  Jafford was nowhere to be seen. 

Standing insouciantly in the alley, his arms loosely folded and one foot casually ahead of the other, Bray Relmartyyan looked up at the scene, one corner of his mouth lifted in a mirthless grin.

"I thought you were dead."  The man's voice had lost its purr; now it was more of a croak.  "You want a piece of her?  You can have when we're done."

Bray Relmartyyan laughed.  "I think you're done now."

The yellow eyes turned right, where Pak had managed to curl up in a ball with his arms over his head, then left, where Jafford was still missing.  The man's shoulders slumped for a moment.  Then, without visible preparation, he leaped off the loading dock, straight at Bray's head.  Bray leaned to one side and watched him pass.  The man landed in full stride and quickly disappeared into the night.  Bray shook his hand and turned back to the loading dock.

"Wolf," he said conversationally.  "You can stop now."

The yellow frenzy stopped worrying Pak and looked up.  The dog barked once and sat back on his haunches, watching Pak closely.  Pak did not move for a bit.  Then he peeked between his arms, saw the dog sitting there, and scrambled to his feet.  He ran.

Marik, trying to stand, stumbled forward into his path; he struck her aside and continued down the dock.  She spun into the garage door, slowly sinking to the ground.  The dog was beside her instantly, licking Pak's blood off her face.

She lifted one hand to his ruff.  "Thanks," she said.  Then the concrete loading dock came up to kiss her cheek; her eyes rolled back in her head and she knew no more.