Читать книгу The Face of Heaven - Brian Stableford - Страница 12

Chapter 8

Burstone and Ermold haggled for an hour or more—though the time meant little or nothing to the man of the Underworld. Two warriors from Walgo, Fortex and Theogon, gave some desultory help to Ermold in his arguments, but were really only along for the ride.

The girl, on the other hand, was something different. Burstone had never seen the girl before. She was tied to Ermold—actually, physically tied. The cord was round her neck and his wrist. Occasionally, when she thought Ermold wasn’t paying any attention, she would pick at the cord with her fingernails. Ermold usually caught on and swatted her within a minute or so. Once he kicked her.

From Burstone’s point of view, the haggling was virtually a waste of time. It always dragged on too long. But he stood to gain nothing by it—the price he received for the goods in the case went to the supplier. So far as he was concerned, the material transaction was just an exchange of garbage. He was in it for quite different reasons. For the experience, in fact.

The girl was interesting. The girl could make this whole trip worthwhile. Her presence did something for the occasion, though none of the men ever mentioned her or referred to her presence. Burstone never touched her, never attempted to talk to her and never asked any questions about her, but he was aware of her, and aware of the cord which attached her to Ermold, which she seemed resolved to break. Ermold was breaking her in. He was a sadist.

The warrior had aged quite noticeably over the last couple of intervals. It seemed such a short time ago that he had been, by Burstone’s standards of judgment, a young man. Now he was past middle age. Time moved faster in the Underworld, if it could be said to move at all. Men aged faster, packed up their lives more economically, wound up their existence more tightly.

Ermold’s voice was cracked, he punctuated all his sentences with curses, and his temper seemed inordinately short. Burstone carried a gun, of course, but he knew that Ermold and his men were fast enough to have him in slices before he could kill one of them. So he was frightened. He fed on that fear, as if it was his only pleasure.

Burstone gathered from the excess of bitterness and nastiness which flowed out of Ermold that the chieftain was sick of the whole silly business. But both men knew that Ermold couldn’t do without Burstone, and in the end he had to accept Burstone’s terms. If there had been any alternative at all...but there wasn’t.

So Ermold fingered the sharp edge of his knife—a knife which Burstone had provided for him—and thought dark thoughts, indulging himself in crude fantasies of what he might do to the man from Heaven...but dared not.

In the end, however, the deal was completed, and the two parties went their separate ways. Burstone took his parcel, Ermold made Fortex carry the heavy suitcase.

Hauling himself back up to the Overworld was a long and laborious job. The hoist was properly counterbalanced and the machinery was in perfect order, but Burstone had seen a gradual deterioration in the performance of the machine over a period of time. Whether the decline was due to a failure of the operating mechanism or a failure of his own patience he was not sure. He was not mechanically minded.

Up at the top, in the roof of the Underworld and the deepest cellars of Euchronia, Burstone carefully secured the hoist and clamped the circular cap over the hole. He lit a flicker briefly to make sure of the exact direction of the path back to the ladder. It was a cursory, almost unnecessary gesture motivated by long habit. Normally he let the flame sputter for only a couple of seconds. This time, it lasted longer while he noticed the second set of footprints which led away from his doorway into Hell.

Then, giving no indication of the fact that he knew someone else was there, or that he cared, he walked away into the darkness.