Back | Next
Contents

CHAPTER TEN


The Gestalt was strange to me. The parts of the Unreal I usually visited were on the brink of chaos most times, in large part because the mythic citizens of that realm were straining against the constraints of mundane reality. But if you took away the clockwork engines and predominant use of bowlers as a fashion accessory, these folks wouldn’t be much out of place walking down the street. Fancier clothes, with clockwork sticking out all over the place, but otherwise normal-looking folks.

There were obvious exceptions. The Good Doctor would have drawn attention wherever he went, and the crowd that trailed behind us included a deep-sea-diving suit that looked like it was full of water and fish, at least one impeccably dressed man-sized raven in a top hat, and three clockwork figures exchanging gears like children trading baseball cards.

“This is all so strange,” I said. “An entire town, living in an alternate timeline. I don’t think the Unreal has anything like this. Mostly it’s just covens of rat-witches running laundromats, or the court of a fallen king setting up shop in the condominium’s HOA.”

“There are ways in which the Gestalt is superior to the Unreal,” Addie said. “We are closer to the real world than you, in ways that make it easier to pass undetected among the Mundanes. After all, bowlers and corsets aren’t that far out of fashion.”

“It’s the goggles and gearwork that sticks out,” I said. “Though not as much as a zweihander. I see your point. I imagine the food’s better.”

“Much better. As our visit to the bakery will doubtlessly prove. Assuming it’s back to normal. It’s not all cheese and bread.”

“Hey, I like cheese and bread,” I said.

“That’s because you haven’t supped at the court of the elven queen, and tasted the finest lembas, or sipped the delicate wine of the elden grape,” Chesa said. “It’s all very polite and proper.”

“Still doesn’t hold a candle to French cooking,” Addie said. “You should see what they can do with butter.”

“Precious madeleines,” The Good Doctor chirped mournfully.

“Yes, we’re making him hungry,” Addie said. “Enough chatting. We’re almost there. Prepare yourselves.”

To the curious fascination of those Gestalt citizens strolling past us, I drew my sword and settled my shield firmly in place. I’d left my helmet back on the Silverhawk. Gregory never wore a helmet, due to his lustrous hair and his tendency to wink and smile and generally make a fool of himself. I thought maybe I’d try winking and smiling to see if it did me any good. But when he unsheathed that massive zweihander, the interested pedestrians got a lot less interested and a lot more concerned, gathering in their little clockwork children and hurrying down the street. As Greg and I spread out, the rest of the team fell in behind us.

It wasn’t long before we had the street to ourselves. It might have been because our pointy swords and general violent mien scared off the casual observer, but it also felt like our surroundings were changing in some fundamental way. It was the middle of the day, but a heavy murk rose out of the sewers, blotting out the sun. The buildings around us grew dark, and the gas streetlamps that stood at every corner flickered to life.

“Should that be happening?” I asked, pointing to the hissing flames of the lamps.

“Not on its own,” Addie said. For the first time since we’d met, the gun princess looked nervous. “Someone’s determined to set the mood.”

The Good Doctor chittered unhappily.

Adelaide nodded. “He’s right. This is what it felt like when we tried to enter the patisserie following the attack on Cassius. Whatever is going on, it’s spreading,” she said. “Usually the aetheric dampeners take care of this. They must be failing. Tesla will want to know about that.”

“Arthur dampening?” I asked. “Sounds a little kinky.”

“Aetheric dampener,” Adelaide said firmly. “They help stabilize the Gestalt. Part of our job is maintaining and protecting the network of dampeners. There are three of them in the Convaclation. Once we’re done here, we’ll need to swing by the closest one and check it out.”

“This feels very much like the Unreal,” Tembo said.

“Yeah, unless the Convaclation thing has a themed bubonic plague district,” Bethany said. “I’m going to scout ahead. Try not to draw too much attention.”

“Bee, wait, we should—” But she had already shadowstepped forward, disappearing in a swirl of inky black smoke. “. . . . stick together,” I finished.

“So is this a rescue operation now?” Addie asked.

“She’s pretty good about taking care of herself,” I said. “Usually.”

Around the corner and another block, and we came to the haunted patisserie. It was situated right at the corner of two streets, its facade all windows and wood paneling, with the words Boulangerie and Patisserie painted in golden script across the picture windows. Display cases filled the windows, and a pair of wide, brass-faced doors stood at the center of the storefront. Like most things in this version of Paris, it probably wouldn’t have been out of place in the modern world. There were no lights on inside and, like the rest of this part of the street, appeared to be abandoned.

“You’re sure this is the place? Doesn’t look particularly dangerous,” Gregory said.

“Madeleines,” The Good Doctor whispered.

“Alright, then. I’ll go in first, Gregory right behind. Chesa, Tembo, you and Addie hang near the door for support, and to keep Doc from eating whatever we find inside. And the Saint . . .” I looked around. “Where’s the Saint?”

There was no sign of Saint Matthew. I let out a sigh.

“Bloody healers. Just . . . the rest of you try to not wander off. Are we ready?”

“Let’s do this, Rast,” Gregory said enthusiastically.

“On you, Sir John,” Tembo answered.

“I’m anxious to see what you guys do,” Addie said. “Please proceed.”

I went to flip my visor down, remembered I didn’t have my helm with me, and turned the motion into an awkward nose scratch. “Let’s go!”

As we approached the building, I noticed something unusual. The display cases, which I assumed were usually filled with various tarts and cakes and such, looked to be filled with stacks of pancakes. An impractical number of pancakes. They leaned precariously off cake pedestals, lay in soggy columns across lace doilies, and drooped out of bread trays. Some of the pancakes were pretending to be other things: rolled into the shape of éclairs, or cut and stacked like mille-feuille. The deception was futile, and strange.

Just before we reached the doors, I noticed a furtive shape scurrying into the shadows. I pointed, but it was already gone.

“There’s someone inside,” I said.

“Your rogue friend?” Addie asked.

“Maybe. Don’t take a shot until we’ve confirmed the target,” I said, then shouldered the door open and swept into the bakery.

The air smelled like fresh bread and powdered sugar, but undercut by the damp, soggy smell of raw dough. The interior of the building was tiled, and the fixtures looked straight out of the props department Victorian-era drama: polished wood and brass, with sweeping glass display cases on all sides, and a tall mirror behind the counter, flanked by two paintings of nude women apparently fainting in the presence of cakes and bread. There were more display cases beneath the mirror, and a pair of doors that I assumed led to the kitchen. The weak light from the streetlamps outside made it difficult to see much beyond that.

“This is usually when we ask the Saint to shed a little light on the situation, but he seems to have gone walkabout,” I said, glancing at The Good Doctor. “Don’t suppose you have a similar trick?”

“He does, but it involves way more fire than you want to deal with,” Addie said. She took a pair of opera glasses from her vest pocket and unfolded them, then somehow strapped them onto the brim of her hat and started fiddling with the lenses. A second later, her eyes began glowing green. “There. Looks pretty much as I remember. Except for the pancakes.”

“Well, that does us zero good,” Chesa said. She changed arrows, said something lyrical and heartbreaking, then shot her bow straight up. When the arrow smacked into the ceiling, it burst into brilliant light. Addie swore and played with her goggles some more. “Wow,” Chesa said, staring at the ceiling. “That’s amazing.”

“It’s just a flarrow, Ches. You’ve done that . . . Oh,” I said, finally looking up. I had to squint around the glare of the arrow. The ceiling was a dome of plaster, filled with cherubs who were heralding a woman in robes, holding a laurel over her head. She was standing on a marble platform, which was in turn crushing a pile of skeletons. It was all a bit macabre, especially for a bakery.

“No offense to His Majesty Timothy of House Horton, but this is how you decorate a bakery,” Gregory said quietly.

“The ceiling was gifted by the third Duke of Camwellington, on the occasion of the presentation of a particularly good donut,” Addie said. “It was used to negotiate a peace between the Duke and his archrival, the Clockwork Earl of Boiling Green.”

“Must have been a hell of a donut,” I said.

“Not really. The Duke and the Earl were secretly in love, and just needed an excuse to stop the fighting and run away to the countryside together.”

“It’s a little much,” Bethany said, appearing out of nowhere. “And now you’ve screwed up my shadows, so I guess I’m back.”

I jumped at her sudden appearance, then tried to cover it up by whirling around in the other direction. Once I’d cleared my throat a couple times, I asked if she’d found anything interesting.

“I think there’s only one of them. Doesn’t look dangerous. Little guy, chef’s hat. Very concerned about his pancakes.” Bethany pushed her hood off her head, revealing a face covered in flour. “Which, I have to say, are pretty terrible. Even for pancakes.”

“Huh. Okay. Well, it doesn’t look like we’re going to be coming back with any pastries,” I said. Now that the lights were on, I could see that the display cases were stuffed with pancakes, just like in the window. The Good Doctor had pressed his beaked mask against the glass, tapping sadly at a stack of dry wheat pancakes, dusted with sawdust. “What’s with all the flapjacks?”

“Pancakes were a delicacy in the long ago,” Chesa said. “They didn’t even have syrup. Just . . . pancakes.”

“Well, that’s a tragedy,” I said. “Personally, I would have invented syrup first, then figured out something to put it on.”

“Is he always like this?” Addie asked, turning to Chesa. “Random? Irrelevant?”

“Yup.”

“That’s hardly fair,” I protested. “I say some very relevant—”

Something clattered loudly in the kitchen. The whole team froze in place. Addie drew her pistol, then nodded to the door. Gregory and I bumped shoulders in our rush past the counter to the swinging door that led into the kitchen. The only light in that room was a horizontal slit of flickering, orange light coming from the ovens that lined the back wall.

“Ovens are going,” I said. “Someone’s in there.”

“Be careful. If it’s the thing that overpowered Cassius . . .” Addie let the words hang.

“I’m telling you, I saw the guy. Little fellow. Hardly worth our time,” Bethany said.

“I’ve heard that said about rabbits,” I warned. “Stay close, Greg. I don’t want to have to drag your heavy ass all the way back to the airship.”

He smirked. “You just try to keep up. Gregory L’Haute isn’t going to die in some bakery.”

He kicked the door open and rushed in, zweihander gripped at his hip, wicked tip pointed forward like a spear. I had a brief glimpse of something scurrying across the oven’s light before I followed him in. Gregory must have seen it, too, because he let out a monumental bellow and lifted his sword overhead, charging forward. The creature yelped and ran for the back of the shop. I was already there, barreling into it with my shield.

The monster went down with a flop, squealing as it rolled under a heavy wooden table. In the dim light of the kitchen, it was difficult to tell what we were facing. I put one boot against the table and shoved it aside, towering over the squirming figure.

“Alright, beast. It’s time to face justice!” I shouted, lifting my sword over my head.

“Non, attendez! Je vous en pleine, attendez!”

“Wait! Wait one second!” Addie’s voice cut through the confusion. Her goggles gleamed bright green in the shadows. “Pierre?”

“Oui, madam? Madam Adelaide!” The miserable figure at my feet scrambled to his feet, blinking in the light streaming in from the front room. I noticed that the few windows in this room had been sealed over with parchment paper. The man standing before me was dressed in baker’s linens, the white of his coat stained almost black with dried blood. The stink of turned earth and rotten meat rose above the heady smell of fresh pancakes. I took a step back.

“Can we get some light in here?” I called behind me.

“Coming up.” Chesa switched arrows and was about to launch a flarrow into the ceiling when Pierre screamed.

“Non, monsieur, s’il vous plaît, non!” He threw his arms over his face. “The light, she burns!”

I motioned for Chesa to hold her fire, then bent close to the tortured baker. His wrinkled face pulled away from my hand, but slowly I was able to lift his head and get a good look at his throat. Two smooth puncture wounds lay just above his clavicle. His skin was cold to the touch.

“What’s that, on his neck?” Gregory asked, bending closer. The baker pulled away from me, but as he turned, I saw what Gregory was talking about. A small mechanical insect, like a scarab, clung to the base of the man’s skull. Brass pincers sunk into the baker’s flesh. Two glass vials made up the scarab’s back.

“I think I’ve found our problem,” I said, releasing the poor man. He returned to his shivering squat. “Little doubt what we’re facing. Doc, do you think—” I turned around to face Addie, and presumably The Good Doctor and Bee, both of whom had lingered in the front room while we chased shadows.

What I saw was Addie standing casually just inside the door, hands looped over the handle of her pistol like an old western cowboy, with considerably more class. Behind her, emerging from behind the shadows of the door, was a shape. Tall and blocky, with a pair of piercing red eyes.

Its mouth gaped open, revealing steel-bright fangs.


Back | Next
Framed