Dradin shuddered again from the cold of the drink, and thought he felt the deck beneath him roll and plunge in time to the music of the Ravens. Was it possible that he had never fully recovered from the fever? Was he even now stone cold mad in the head, or was he simply woozy from Red Orchids? Or could he be, in his final distress, drunk on love? He had precious little else left, a realization accompanied by a not unwelcome thrill of fear. With no job and little money, the only element of his being he found constant and unyielding, undoubting, was the strength of his love for the woman in the window.
He smiled at the couple at the next table, though no doubt it came out as the sort of drunken leer peculiar to his father. Past relationships had been of an unfortunate nature; he could admit that to himself now. Too platonic, too strange, and always too brief. The jungle did not approve of long relationships. The jungle ate up long relationships, ground them between its teeth and spat them out. Like the relationship between himself and Nepenthe. Nepenthe. Might the woman in the window also be called Nepenthe? Would she mind if he called her that? Now the deck beneath him really did roll and list like a ship at sea, and he held himself to his chair, pushed the Red Orchid away when he had come once more to rest.
Looking out at the parade, Dradin saw Cadimon Signal and he had to laugh. Cadimon. Good old Cadimon. Was this parade to become like Dvorak’s wonderfully ugly tattoo? A trip from past to present? For there indeed was Cadimon, waving to the crowds from a float of gold and white satin, the Living Saint beside him, diplomatically clothed for the occasion in messianic white robes.
“Hah!” Dradin said. “Hah!”
The parade ended with an elderly man leading a live lobster on a leash, a sight that made Dradin laugh until he cried. The lights along the boulevard began to be snuffed out, at first one by one, and then, as the mob descended, ripped out in swathes, so that whole sections were plunged into darkness at once. Beyond them, the great spits no longer turned, abandoned, the meat upon them blackened to ash, and beyond the spits bonfires roared and blazed all the more brightly, as if to make up for the death of the other lights. Now it was impossible to tell parade members from crowd members, so clotted together and at-sea were they, mixed in merriment under the green light of the moon.
Around Dradin, busboys hastily cleaned up tables, helped by barkeepers, and he heard one mutter to another, “It will be bad this year. Very bad. I can feel it.” The waiter presented Dradin with the check, tapping his feet while Dradin searched his pockets for the necessary coin, and when it was finally offered, snatching it from his hand and leaving in a flurry of tails and shiny shoes.
Dradin, hollow and tired and sad, looked up at the black-and-green-tinged sky. His love had not come and would not now come, and perhaps had never planned to come, for he only had the word of Dvorak. He did not know how he should feel, for he had never considered this possibility, that he might not meet her. He looked around him—at the table fixtures, the emptying tables, the sudden lull. Now what could he do? He could take a menial job and survive on scraps until he could get a message to his father in Morrow—who then might or might not take pity on him. But for salvation? For redemption?
Fireworks wormholed into the sky and exploded in an umbrella of sparks so that the crowds screamed louder to drown out the noise. Someone jostled him from behind. Wetness dripped down his left shoulder, followed by a curse, and he turned in time to see one of the waiters scurry off with a half-spilled drink.
The smoke from the fireworks descended, mixed with the growing fog traipsing off the River Moth. It spread more quickly than Dradin would have thought possible, the night smudged with smoke, thick and dark. And who should come out of this haze and into Dradin’s gloom but Dvorak, dressed now in green so that the dilute light of the moon passed invisibly over him. His head cocked curiously, like a monkey’s, he approached sideways toward Dradin, an appraising look on his face. Was he poisonous like the snake, Dradin thought, or edible, like the insect? Or was he merely a bit of bark to be ignored? For so did Dvorak appraise him. A spark of anger began to smolder in Dradin, for after all Dvorak had made the arrangements and the woman was not here.
“You,” Dradin said, raising his voice over the general roar. “You. What’re you doing here? You’re late … I mean, she’s late. She’s not coming. Where is she? Did you lie to me, Dvorak?”
Dvorak moved to Dradin’s side and, with his muscular hands under Dradin’s arms, pulled Dradin halfway to his feet with such suddenness that he would have fallen over if he hadn’t caught himself.
Dradin whirled around, intending to reprimand Dvorak, but found himself speechless as he stared down into the dwarf’s eyes—dark eyes, so impenetrable, the entire face set like sculpted clay, that he could only stand there and say, weakly, “You said she’d be here.”
“Shut up,” Dvorak said, and the stiff, coiled menace in the voice caught Dradin between anger and obedience. Dvorak filled the moment with words: “She is here. Nearby. It is Festival night. There is danger everywhere. If she had come earlier, perhaps. But now, now you must meet her elsewhere, in safety. For her safety.” Dvorak put a clammy hand on Dradin’s arm, but Dradin shook him off.
“Don’t touch me. Where’s safer than here?”
“Nearby, I tell you. The crowd, the Festival. Night is upon us. She will not wait for you.”
On the street below, fistfights had broken out. Through the haze, Dradin could hear the slap of flesh on flesh, the snap of bone, the moans of victims. People ran hither and thither, shadows flitting through green darkness.
“Come, sir. Now.” Dvorak tugged on Dradin’s arm, pulled him close, whispered in Dradin’s ear like an echo from another place, another time, the map of his face so inscrutable Dradin could not read it: “You must come now. Or not at all. If not at all, you will never see her. She will only see you now. Now! Are you so foolish that you will pass?”
Dradin hesitated, weighing the risks. Where might the dwarf lead him?
Dvorak cursed. “Then do not come. Do not. And take your chances with the Festival.”
He turned to leave but Dradin reached down and grabbed his arm.
“Wait,” Dradin said. “I will come,” and taking a few steps found to his relief that he did not stagger.
“Your love awaits,” Dvorak said, unsmiling. “Follow close, sir. You would not wish to become lost from me. It would go hard on you.”
“How far—”
“No questions. No talking. Follow.”
6
Dvorak led Dradin around the back of the Drunken Boat and into an alley, the stones slick with vomit, littered with sharp glass from broken beer and wine bottles, and guarded by a bum muttering an old song from the equinox. Rats waddled on fat legs to eat from half-gnawed drumsticks and soggy buns.
The rats reminded Dradin of the Religious Quarter and of Cadimon, and then of Cadimon’s warning: “It’s not safe for priests to be on the streets after dark during Festival.” He stopped following Dvorak, his head clearer.
“I’ve changed my mind. I can see her tomorrow at Hoegbotton & Sons.”
Dvorak’s face clouded like a storm come up from the bottom of the sea as he turned and came back to Dradin. He said, “You have no choice. Follow me.”