The Good, The Bad, And The Uncanny Part 13

"Because of his special gift?" I said. "The Collector has always had a weakness for unique items."

"If the Collector is holding Tommy against his will, then we go where he is and take Tommy away from him," said Larry. "Whatever it takes."

"The Collector is a very powerful personage," I said carefully. "The only reason he's not a Major Player in the Nightside is because he can't be bothered. He's dedicated his life to acquiring rare and valuable objects. To help him in his search, he mastered sciences and magics and a whole bunch of other disciplines most people have never even heard of. Also, he steals time machines. He's a fanatic, and dangerous with it."

"I know," said Larry. "And I don't care."

The rain was getting heavier. I moved us under a candy-striped awning to continue our conversation. Being dead, Larry probably didn't care about getting soaked, but I've always been susceptible to chills.

"Look," I said, "he isn't in it for the money. His collection is everything to him. So if he has taken to collecting people, you can be sure he won't give Tommy up without a fight."

"I know," said Larry. "And I still don't care. One of the few good things about being dead is that you only have to care about the things you choose to care about. Let him do his worst. He can't hurt me."

"Maybe not," I said. "But he could destroy you. Or make you into one of his exhibits. Or do a hundred other awful things that death could not protect you from."

Larry thought about it. "What are his protections like?"

"Top of the range, magical and scientific, and a few things we don't even have a name for. Weapons and defences he's collected from the past, the future, and any number of alternate realities. Plus his own private army of vicious little rococo robots. And let us not forget his latest acquisition, a time-travel device that apparently allows him to jump inside other people's heads and look out through their eyes."

"Ah," said Larry. "Better kill him on sight, then."

I had to smile at his confidence. "Better men than you and I have tried and failed. I've managed to outwit him on a few occasions, but only because he's not too tightly wrapped. In his own way he's just as dangerous as his old friend Walker."

Larry looked at me sharply. "They know each other? I didn't know that."

"They started out together," I said. "Thick as thieves and twice as tricky. And the fact that Walker is sending us, rather than facing the Collector himself, should tell you something."

"Why is nothing ever simple?" said Larry, wistfully.

I shrugged. "It's the Nightside. Everything's complicated here, including the Collector. He wasn't always crazy. He isn't always the villain. For all his many sins, he did help save us all from Lilith during the War."

"I don't care," Larry said stubbornly.

"What do you care about?" I said. I was honestly interested in the answer.

He didn't hesitate. "I care about family, and friends. No-one else. Nothing else. We're going to get Tommy back even if we have to do it over the Collector's dead and lifeless body."

"I seem to remember you saying something about Heaven and h.e.l.l seeming a lot closer, since you died," I said. "Are you really ready to murder a man, before you know the whole story? He could be innocent in this."

"No-one's innocent in the Nightside," said Larry. "Innocent people don't come here. You know the Collector better than me; can you honestly say he hasn't done anything to deserve being killed?"

"No," I said. "I can't say that. But that's not a good enough reason to shoot him on sight. Let me try talking to him first."

"Getting soft, Taylor," said Larry.

I remembered meeting the Collector in a horrible, devastated future Nightside, the one I was supposed to bring about and had worked so hard to prevent. I remembered the horrible things the Collector did there, and the worse things he was prepared to let happen. I remembered how, long ago, he had found my mother for my father and put them together, and all the terrible things that came out of that. Including me. But I still wasn't ready to see him dead. If only because he'd also been Uncle Mark, when I was a kid.

I used my gift to find the Collector's current lair. He was always on the move, hiding his vast collection in more and more obscure locations, away from enemies and rivals and people like me. My inner eye snapped open as my gift manifested, and I shot up out of my head, my Sight soaring higher and higher into the night, sailing weightlessly in the star-filled skies, looking down at the twisting, turning streets of the Nightside.

So much light for so dark a place.

Street-lights and neon signs, and all the blazing multi-coloured come-ons from a town where sin is always in season. Scientific and magical glows, sputtering and flaring and detonating in the night, as a thousand forbidden experiments ran their inevitable courses. The dazzling streaks and smears of light from cars and trucks and other things as they roared endlessly along the Nightside roads, never slowing, never stopping. Neon illuminations, gleaming defiantly from clubs and bars and emporiums, beckoning on men and women with empty hearts and overburdened wallets. Let a thousand poisoned flowers bloom, pus.h.i.+ng back the dark with their harsh glamour.

I sent my Sight flying over the Nightside, and it turned slowly beneath me, a city within a city, a world within a world. My Sight showed me the world as it really was and not as we would have it. Huge and transparent, their crowned heads sc.r.a.ping against the sky, the colossal Awful Ones went about their unknowable business, striding through solid buildings as though they weren't even there. Long, sleek, bat-winged shapes soared through the chill upper air, flames leaping up from deep-set eyes and wide, fanged mouths. And wee-winged faeries came streaking through the night in s.h.i.+mmering flocks, speeding and darting back and forth in intricate patterns, leaving behind sparkling trails of sheer exuberance.

But no matter where I went or where I looked, I couldn't See the Collector or his lair. I looked up into the frigid glow of the huge oversized Moon that dominated the Nightside sky. The Collector had a base there once, hidden away deep under the Sea of Tranquility; but he hadn't gone back. It isn't easy, to look at the Moon in the Nightside. There is no man in the Moon in that pallid, cratered sphere. It's so big, so overwhelming, the whole thing seems like one great senile face. And if that face had ever known anything worth knowing, it had forgotten it long ago.

A thought occurred to me. Since the sun never has and never will s.h.i.+ne in the Nightside, exactly what light is our oversized and eternally full Moon reflecting? A disturbing thought ... for another day.

I looked down at the Nightside, spread out before me like the most seductive wh.o.r.e in the world. Promising everything and anything, her wide smile and inviting eyes hiding the cold calculation in her heart. The Collector belonged in a place like this, where we all know the price of everything and the value of nothing. The Collector could be richer than anyone if he'd only sell the smallest part of his magnificent collection. He could give up running and hiding and settle down in comfort. But he'd never give up his collection. It was all he had.

The more I looked down, the more I could feel the Collector's presence even if I couldn't See him. He was there, somewhere. I looked down and down, and my Sight plunged suddenly through the packed streets and further on down, into the places below the Nightside. I ignored the World Beneath, and the subterranean galleries, and the worms of the Earth, following a trail I could sense, if not put a name to. My Sight led me on, like a hound hot on a scent. And all at once I knew where the Collector had gone to ground this time.

The many tunnels and platforms and stations of the Underground rail system spread out spiralling before me, an endless series of branching and interconnecting tunnels, twisting and turning through the bedrock, sometimes diving dangerously deep. I could See travellers on their platforms, and trains roaring through their tunnels, blinking on and off as they dropped in and out of other-dimensional short cuts, to take them to places that weren't really places. And there, hidden quietly away in the heart of the system, deep in the insanely complicated mess of new and old stations, was the Collector's new secret lair.

My first clue was heavy-duty magical s.h.i.+elds where there shouldn't have been any. My Sight drifted lightly through the defences, and immediately I Saw signs of life and power and arcane energies emanating from a shut-down station no-one had used in years. There are a great many stations in the Underground that no-one visits any more. Replaced or abandoned, or sealed off and forgotten because they'd become too dangerous, or disturbing. Just like the Collector, to hide his precious collection in a place no-one would want to go. Essentially he now had his own private station, no longer listed on any destinations board, that no-one could get to because they didn't know where to tell the train to stop.

I eased out through his s.h.i.+elds, and shot back up into the light-studded night. I dropped back into my own head and shut down my Sight, carefully re-establis.h.i.+ng my mental s.h.i.+elds. It's never safe to keep an open mind in the Nightside; you never know what might walk in. I told Larry where we had to go to find the Collector and hopefully Tommy. Larry nodded. We were on our way to rescue his long-lost brother, and go face-to-face with one of the most dangerous men in the Nightside, in his own lair, but there wasn't a trace of emotion in the dead man's face or his cold blue eyes. He'd said often enough that the dead only had room for one emotion at a time. And he was still running on vengeance.

We walked through the rain, not speaking to one another, and entered Cheyne Walk Station. We paid Charon his price, acquired our tickets, and went down into the Underground. There was a time they'd let me ride for free, but nothing lasts forever; least of all grat.i.tude in the Nightside. The crowds seemed thicker than ever, pus.h.i.+ng and jostling through the packed tunnels, oblivious to everything but the needs and pressures that drove them. Larry led the way, opening up a path with the impact of his blunt, unfeeling frame, while I wandered along behind, thinking my own thoughts. The air was hot and close, with steam rising from people's damp clothes. There was fresh graffiti on the walls. I don't know where people find the energy. Or the wit. Walker moves Walker moves in in mysterious ways, Don't let them out of the mirrors! Dagon is back, and this time it's personal. mysterious ways, Don't let them out of the mirrors! Dagon is back, and this time it's personal. And, in very neat, educated handwriting: And, in very neat, educated handwriting: If this is consensus reality, some of us are cheating. If this is consensus reality, some of us are cheating.

There were even new T-s.h.i.+rts on sale, courtesy of Harry Fabulous, the Nightside's premiere con man, fixer, and Go To man for everything that's bad for you. He'd set up a stall at the bottom of the escalators and was busy being his usual effervescent, bulls.h.i.+tting self, with a big happy smile for everyone, only slightly undermined by dark, desperate eyes. Harry had undergone a close encounter of the spiritual kind, and it showed. I wasn't surprised to find him in the Underground. Harry never stayed anywhere long because someone was always after him. He might or might not have actually reformed, but there were still any number of old creditors and aggrieved past customers very keen to track him down and have a few words with him.

He was currently wearing a T-s.h.i.+rt that said bluntly, No Questions, No Refunds, No Questions, No Refunds, over a pair of cheap knock-off Levis and even-less-convincing trainers. He was doing everything but sing and dance for his supper, thrusting his bagged T-s.h.i.+rts into people's faces as they pa.s.sed. The display frame at his side boasted s.h.i.+rts with such messages as over a pair of cheap knock-off Levis and even-less-convincing trainers. He was doing everything but sing and dance for his supper, thrusting his bagged T-s.h.i.+rts into people's faces as they pa.s.sed. The display frame at his side boasted s.h.i.+rts with such messages as Go Down Lilith! h.e.l.l Is Other Drivers. The Eyes of Walker Are Upon You, Go Down Lilith! h.e.l.l Is Other Drivers. The Eyes of Walker Are Upon You, And the slightly disturbing And the slightly disturbing Everyone's d.a.m.ned Except Me and My Dog. Everyone's d.a.m.ned Except Me and My Dog. Harry recognised Larry and me as we approached, tensed for a moment as though considering running, then settled for an extra-wide smile and a studied pretence that he was actually glad to see us. Harry recognised Larry and me as we approached, tensed for a moment as though considering running, then settled for an extra-wide smile and a studied pretence that he was actually glad to see us.

"h.e.l.lo, Harry," I said. "Keeping busy?"

"Oh, you know how it is, Mr. Taylor," said Harry, s.h.i.+fting nervously from foot to foot. "Make a bit here, make a bit there ... All strictly legit, of course, these days. The hereafter seems so much closer than it used to be."

"Lot of that about," Larry said solemnly.

"Heard anything about the Collector, Harry?" I said casually.

He tensed again, his eyes blinking rapidly. "The Collector, Mr. Taylor? Not as such ... But a lot of people have been asking after him just recently. Some of them quite official if you know what I mean."

"But you didn't tell them anything, did you, Harry?" I said.

"I never tell anyone anything, Mr. Taylor. Bad for business. Speaking of which, can I point out that you are quite definitely scaring off my customers, and I do have a living to make..."

"Be good, Harry," I said, moving off. "For goodness' sake."

Larry and I made our way down, heading for the more dangerous platforms and the more dangerous destinations. The crowds began to thin out. We pa.s.sed a whole new bunch of buskers. A burning man stood stiffly among leaping blue-white flames that blackened and split his flesh but failed to consume him, singing a wistful song of unrequited love. A blind busker sang a torch song in Greek, about his mother. And a shadow blasted onto a wall sang a sad song in j.a.panese. I dropped them all a few coins without getting too close. Larry ignored them.

When we finally got to the deepest platform of all, it was practically empty. Only a couple of knights in dark armour, grim and threatening. They both bore Satanic markings on their breast-plates, daubed in fresh blood. Deep red flames burned behind the eye-slits of their steel helms, following Larry and me as we pa.s.sed. I couldn't help remembering King Artur, of Sinister Albion. A different history, where Merlin Satansp.a.w.n never did reject his father. King Artur was currently missing, presumed killed by Walker. I wondered whether I'd find the dark King in the Collector's lair, part of his new collection ...

A tall, naked woman, generously daubed with blue woad, ignored Larry and me completely as we pa.s.sed, immersed in her Wall Street Journal. Wall Street Journal. A man with a fossilised p.e.n.i.s in a gla.s.s tube hanging round his neck sat by himself, looking very glum. And a soft ghost drifted along behind us, barely there at all, tugging wistfully at Larry's sleeve with transparent fingers. Larry just walked faster until he'd left it behind. A man with a fossilised p.e.n.i.s in a gla.s.s tube hanging round his neck sat by himself, looking very glum. And a soft ghost drifted along behind us, barely there at all, tugging wistfully at Larry's sleeve with transparent fingers. Larry just walked faster until he'd left it behind.

We stopped at the end of the platform, and I looked thoughtfully at the destinations board on the wall opposite. All the usual stations on the Infernal Line, from the well-known halts like Shadows Fall, to the disturbing Red Lodge, to the enigmatic Slaughter Towen. But the more I stared at the board, the more my gift insisted there ought to be one more name, at the very end of the line. A very old name, of a place no-one went to any more.

Lud's Gate.

The next train came rus.h.i.+ng in, blasting a wave of displaced air ahead of it, heavy with the scent of attar and myrrh. Deep claw-marks gouged into the side of one carriage were already healing. Nightside trains have to travel strange and dangerous ways to get to some of their destinations. Larry and I got into the carriage nearest the driver's cab. The other people on the platform decided to wait for the next train. I get that a lot. Larry didn't even notice. The train waited a moment, just to be sure, then the carriage doors slammed together, and the train set off. The journey was unremarkable, no problems, no attacks, but still no-one got on at any of the other stops. I lounged easily on my seat, while Larry sat stiffly upright, staring straight ahead; and whatever he was thinking didn't touch his dead face at all.

The train finally reached the end of the line, and slowed to a halt at Slaughter Towen. The carriage doors slid open, and Larry and I didn't move from our seats. The train huffed and puffed for a bit, waiting for us to make up our minds, and finally I stood up and addressed the blank steel wall that separated us from the driver's cab. There was no driver, of course. No human driver could stand the strain. In the Nightside, the trains run themselves, and very efficiently, too. The trains are perfectly safe. As long as you're careful to avoid the mating season.

"h.e.l.lo, train," I said cheerfully. "This is John Taylor. And I want to go to the next station. The station no-one goes to any more. I want to go to Lud's Gate."

The train powered down. The carriage stopped vibrating, the lights dimmed, and the engine was ominously silent. The train was sulking.

"Take us to Lud's Gate," I said, "or I will find out when your holidays are and have them all cancelled."

There was a long pause, then the train powered up again. The lights blazed, the carriage doors slammed shut, and the engine made a series of rude noises before engaging. The train set off, and I smiled a bit as I sat down again. Larry looked at me.

"You fight really dirty, don't you?"

"You just have to know how to talk to them," I said solemnly.

The train ran smoothly through the dark, not turning at all; heading in a remorseless straight line for Lud's Gate. Once, something outside in the dark ran its fingernails along the side of our carriage, a soft sc.r.a.ping sound that made all the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Larry stared straight ahead, as though he hadn't heard anything; and perhaps he hadn't. There are some things only the living can hear because warnings are wasted on the dead. We travelled on for ages, the air growing steadily colder. Frost appeared on the inside of the carriage, forming harsh abstract faces on the inner walls. I huddled inside my trench coat, my hands thrust deep in my pockets. Larry didn't feel any of it. Not even when frost began to form whorled patterns on his dead face.

The train suddenly screeched to a halt, rocking Larry and me back and forth in our seats. The carriage doors jerked open, a few inches at a time, splinters of ice falling from the frozen metal frame. I got to my feet and moved over to the doors, standing well back as I looked out. Larry got up and stood behind me. Outside, on the platform, the lights were a corrupt yellow glow, more organic than electric, like something from the sick-room. Dust and cobwebs everywhere, and deep dark shadows. Hot sweaty air gusted in through the open carriage doors, heavy with the stench of dying things. The frost on the doors melted and ran away. Larry moved forward to leave the carriage, but I stopped him with a raised hand. There was no-one out there on the platform, no obvious threat, but still I felt uneasy. Someone was watching.

Larry stirred impatiently, and I made myself step out of the carriage and onto the platform. Sweltering hot air hit me like a slap in the face. Larry was at my side, glaring about him. The frost on his dead face quickly melted, running away like unfelt tears. The carriage doors jerked together behind us, and the train roared away, getting the h.e.l.l out of the station before something bad happened. Ahead of me, the old station sign of Lud's Gate was set out in heavy black Gothic lettering. The bottom of the sign was soaked in old dried blood.

Thick mats of vine and ivy covered the station walls, stirring slowly when I looked at them, agitating in long green tremors beside me as I walked slowly down the platform. Fierce bright eyes peered out of the heavy greenery. Black flowers thrust up through the platform floor, turning slowly to watch as Larry and I pa.s.sed them by. One of them hissed at Larry, and he deliberately stepped on it, crus.h.i.+ng it under his heel.

"Plants should know their place," he said loudly.

His voice didn't echo at all in the quiet. The silence was so deep and long-established it seemed to swallow up all new noises, including our footsteps. It was like walking through a painting of a place rather than the place itself. Larry stopped abruptly and glared about him.

"Is this supposed to scare me?" he said loudly. "I'm dead! My house is spookier than this!"

"Way too much information," I murmured. "And so much for the element of surprise."

"Leave it out," said Larry. "This place is deader than I am. Whatever happened here, it's over. We missed it. This ... is just the mess it left behind. I want the Collector. Where is he?"

"He must know we're here by now," I said. "But it's a big station. The entrance to his lair could be concealed anywhere. And I really don't feel like wandering around ... Lud's Gate had a really bad reputation back in the day, before the old Authorities sent a squad in to shut it down."

"Hadleigh led that squad," said Larry. "Back when he was the Man ... Didn't you know?"

"No," I said. "But the Nightside does so love its little coincidences."

"Couldn't you ... ?"

"No, I couldn't," I said quickly. "The Collector knows me of old. The number of times I've casually wandered into his secret hideouts and made a complete nuisance of myself, he's bound to have set up b.o.o.by-traps, keyed to my gift."

"That's right," said Larry. "You and he go way back. What's he like?"

"Crazy, spiteful, and vindictive, and dangerous with it," I said. "He's lots of other things, too, as the mood takes him, but those are the ones to bear in mind."

"I meant," said Larry, "what's he like as a person?"

I thought about it. "I'm not sure how much of a person is left any more. He didn't always use to be like this. He had a name once, a position, friends, and a life. But one by one he gave them all up to pursue his obsessions. And now he's just the Collector."

"So how do we find him?"

"We won't have to," I said. "He'll find us."

We both looked round sharply as a spotlight stabbed down out of nowhere, a brilliant s.h.i.+mmering pillar of light filling one of the exit arches, clear and sharp against the rotten corrupt light of the platform. And in that spotlight, glaring at me: the Collector. A barely medium-height man, badly overweight, wrapped in a simple white Roman tunic. His face was red and sweaty, his piggy eyes were fixed solely on me, and his podgy hands clenched and unclenched at his sides.

"John Taylor," he said heavily. "Once again you come knock knock knocking at my door. How did I end up with you as my personal cross to bear? It's not as if I shot an albatross. And which part of secret lair do you find so hard to comprehend? If I wanted visitors, I'd advertise. And who the h.e.l.l's that?"

"That's Larry Oblivion," I said. "You'll have to excuse his manners. He's dead."

The Collector looked Larry over and shrugged. "I've already got a zombie. And a lich. I used to have a mummy, but the d.a.m.n thing fell apart when I tried to steam-clean its bandages. What do you want this time, Taylor? Whatever it is, you can't have it. I'm very busy right now."

"What's with the new outfit?" I said cunningly. The Collector never could resist showing off his latest acquisitions.

"Oh, this old thing?" said the Collector. "It is rather fine, isn't it? This is the very tunic Pontius Pilate was wearing when he washed his hands. Would you believe I found it tossed away in a laundry basket? If people can't be trusted to look after things, they shouldn't be allowed to have them." He scowled suddenly as he realised he'd allowed himself to be distracted. "Why can't you just leave me alone, Taylor? What did I ever do to you?"

"You know what you did," I said, and he looked away, not meeting my gaze.

"That was a long time ago," he said. "How many times must a man pay for his sins? There ought to be a statute of limitations on guilt." He glared at me sullenly. "You can't keep on dropping in on me, whenever you feel like it! If I wanted company, I'd put a personal ad in the Inquirer Inquirer! Oh h.e.l.l, tell me what you want this time, and let's get on with it. I'd keep guard dogs, but they pee on the exhibits."

"You were right," Larry said to me. "Crazy as a bag of a.r.s.e-holes."

"Shut up, grave dodger," said the Collector.

I cut in quickly. "The last time we met, Collector, you said you were busy with something new. And now you say you're still busy ... I have to ask: have you taken on a new interest? Something ... different?"

The Collector stared at me for a moment. He seemed honestly puzzled. "No ... Not really. I've spent most of my time recently trying to pin down a particularly elusive Arthurian artefact that isn't when it's supposed to be, but that's not enough to bring you here ... So, what is it, Taylor? Spit it out!"

"Word is, you've started collecting people," I said bluntly. "Unique, important, and significant individuals. Larry thinks you've got his brother Tommy here, because of his gift. Have you?"

The Collector actually gawked at me. "That's it? That's why you're here? Are you crazy? What the h.e.l.l would I want with people? Nasty, noisy, demanding things. Which part of I live alone in secret lairs as far from b.l.o.o.d.y people as I can get I live alone in secret lairs as far from b.l.o.o.d.y people as I can get have you failed to grasp? I collect rare and fascinating objects, from all ages of history. Mainly to protect them from other people, who wouldn't appreciate them. I like things. You know where you are with things. Oh ... come and take a look, then, if that's what it will take to get rid of you. You can have half an hour to admire my collection and satisfy yourselves that I'm not stockpiling people, then I'm throwing you out of here." have you failed to grasp? I collect rare and fascinating objects, from all ages of history. Mainly to protect them from other people, who wouldn't appreciate them. I like things. You know where you are with things. Oh ... come and take a look, then, if that's what it will take to get rid of you. You can have half an hour to admire my collection and satisfy yourselves that I'm not stockpiling people, then I'm throwing you out of here."

He turned and stalked away into the recesses of the station, and his spotlight went with him. Larry and I hurried after. We'd barely pa.s.sed through the exit arch when a dozen of the Collector's personal security robots appeared out of nowhere to stride along beside us. I dropped a warning hand on Larry's arm to keep him from reacting, but he shrugged me off. All his attention was fixed on the Collector's back. He hadn't believed a single word the Collector had said. I wasn't sure myself. Walker wasn't usually wrong about things like this, but ... the Collector was right. He really didn't care about people. Only things.