The Grand Dark Read online

  Map

  Dedication

  To Drexel and Conan,

  both of whom should have been

  around a lot longer

  Epigraph

  There were a few short, wonderful years of euphoria when the slaughter was over. Of course, nothing had been settled and we knew it but, in its own way, watching the cataclysm hurtle toward us made the madness of the wild time even sweeter.

  —Günther Harden, Cocaine and Bullets: My Lost Years

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Map

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter One

  The City. The Air.

  Chapter Two

  The Secret Fete

  Chapter Three

  A Cursed Place

  Chapter Four

  Above the City

  Chapter Five

  Hinterland

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  The Refugee Road

  Chapter Eight

  Eugenics

  Chapter Nine

  Servants and Warriors

  Chapter Ten

  At the Street Market by the Crossroads

  Chapter Eleven

  Xuxu: Artistic Movement or Academic Prank?

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  The Walking Wounded

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  The Wonders of the South

  Chapter Twenty

  The Shape of the World

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The Corrupter of Innocence, Act 1

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Richard Kadrey

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter One

  THE GREAT WAR WAS OVER, BUT EVERYONE KNEW ANOTHER WAR WAS COMING and it drove the city a little mad.

  Near dawn, Largo Moorden pedaled his bicycle through the nearly deserted streets of Lower Proszawa. It was exactly one week since his twenty-first birthday. Fog from the nearby bay and smoke from the armaments factory left the center of the city looking like a flat, ashen mirage. As Largo sped over the Ore Bridge, the edges of Gothic office buildings, dwellings, and cafés coalesced into view. Streetcars gliding atop silent magnetic tracks in the street and above, old church spires—shadowy outlines a second before—solidified and were gone.

  At the bottom of the bridge, where Krähe Vale crossed Tombstrasse, a line of Blind Mara delivery automata sat waiting for the crossing signal to change. Some of the larger contraptions—the Black Widows carrying machine parts for the factory—resembled wrought iron spiders the size of pushcarts, while the little tea and breakfast Maras were wooden bread boxes decorated with wings and carvings of flying women. Largo was tempted to veer into the line of machines and kick over one or two of the smaller ones. He knew that someday soon the Maras were going to put human couriers like him out of business. Each time he thought about it, a little wave of panic bubbled up from his stomach because, aside from a strong set of legs, the only things Largo possessed that were worth money were his bicycle and an encyclopedic knowledge of every street and alley in the city.

  To Largo’s surprise, while the crossing signal still read HALT, one of the little winged bread boxes crept past the other Maras and whirred quietly across Krähe Vale. With a mechanical rumble, a squat, armored juggernaut carrying soldiers sped around a corner and crushed the bread box under its metal treads without slowing. All that was left of the little carrier were a small motor sputtering blue sparks, splinters, and a flattened sandwich. Largo hadn’t eaten for a day and the sight of food made him hungry. Still, he smiled. Indeed, the Blind Maras would put him out of business one day, but not today, and not for many days to come. When the signal clicked to PROCEED he guided his bicycle through the remains left in the intersection as the rest of the automata split up, carrying their goods all over Lower Proszawa.

  The clock over the Great Triumphal Square—renamed, perhaps a touch optimistically, after the war—showed that it was just a few minutes before six. Largo had spent far too long in bed that morning with Remy, his lover, but it was so hard to leave her. He bent over his handlebars, pedaling faster, knowing all too well that being late at the beginning of the work week was a good way to have Herr Branca snapping at you until Friday. Worse, it could result in a humiliating dismissal.

  The edges of the plaza were coming to life. Bakers laid out loaves and pies in the windows of their shops. The newspaper kiosk attendant by the underground tram station cut open piles of tabloid yellowsheets full of political intrigue and reports of the previous night’s murders. All-night revelers wandered through the square, still jubilantly drunk from the evening before. Along the gutters, purring piglike chimeras cleared the street trash by devouring it.

  Beyond the edges of the plaza, prostitutes flirted with men in strange masks made of steel and leather—Iron Dandies, they were called, but never where they could hear it. They were war veterans considered too disfigured to be glimpsed by the city’s ordinary citizens—Largo among them. He’d heard that if you stared too long at a Dandy he’d rip his mask off, giving you a good look at his mutilated face. Seeing a Dandy that way was considered bad luck.

  Bad luck or no, the truth was that Largo didn’t want to see what was under the masks or think about how the wounds, or the war itself, had happened. He just put his head down, pedaled harder, and arrived panting at the courier service as the plaza clock rang six.

  Dropping his bicycle next to those of the other couriers, Largo ran up the stairs to the office and made it inside before the head dispatcher, Herr Branca, noticed his tardiness. He lingered at the back behind the other messengers so that his supervisor wouldn’t see him sweating.

  Herr Branca was a burly man, one of the strange sort who seemed to have been born old. None of the couriers knew his age, but depending on the season and whether he’d shaved or not, they guessed it to be anywhere from thirty to sixty. He wore the same thing every day: pinstriped pants, matching vest, and a white shirt with an old-fashioned starched collar that he left open except when visiting their superiors. The bottom button on his vest was always missing. This could mean only one of two things: that Herr Branca was an eccentric who cut the bottom button off all of his vests, or that a second vest was beyond his means. No one at the service took Branca for an eccentric, so that had to mean their supervisor was so poorly paid that his choice in clothes was no better than the couriers’. This possibility always depressed Largo. He liked being a courier, but if Herr Branca was his future, perhaps it was time to make other plans.

  But what?

  Different futures weren’t easy to come by in Lower Proszawa.

  As he did every morning, Branca leaned heavily on a standing desk, shouting names and the addresses where couriers were to go while old, battered Maras handed them whatever documents or parcels they were to deliver.

  When Branca had called most of the morning’s deliveries and the room was nearly empty, Parvulesco, Largo’s closest friend at the service, gave him a worried look as he carried a parcel out the door. Largo shrugged. Maybe Branca had seen him come in late and was keeping him back for a good talking-to. There was nothing to do but wait and endure whatever was coming. Parvulesco mouthed, Good luck, before heading out.

  Soon, everyone else had been given an assignment and it was just Largo and Herr Branca. The supervisor didn’t look
up for two or three minutes as he took his time filling out a small pile of paperwork. As the seconds ticked by, Largo imagined all sorts of scenarios. A simple dressing-down. Having his pay docked. Maybe he’d even be fired. He stood still, hoping to not draw attention to himself, but after a couple more minutes passed he couldn’t stand it anymore. He cleared his throat.

  “Do you have a cold, Largo?” said Herr Branca. “If so, kindly keep your distance, as it would be inconvenient for me to be ill at this time.” He spoke quietly. Branca always spoke quietly, no matter the topic or circumstances. The couriers joked that if he were an executioner, you’d never know he was there until your head was on the ground.

  “No, sir. It’s nothing like that. I was just wondering if . . .”

  “If I noticed you come in late, then hide in the back like a cockroach from the light?”

  “Yes,” Largo said. “Something like that.”

  Herr Branca looked up wearily. “Rest easy, Largo. While you were tardy and more than a bit insectile in your earlier behavior, you’re not going to be fired.

  “In fact, you’re being promoted.”

  Largo frowned, afraid he’d misheard his supervisor. “Promoted?”

  Branca set down his pen and sighed. “You’re aware of the word, aren’t you? It’s a verb meaning ‘to advance in rank.’ ‘To ascend to a higher position.’ Must I explain it further?”

  “No, sir. It’s just that . . . it’s a bit unexpected.”

  “Quite, especially considering your less-than-cordial relationship with the clock,” said Branca. “That’s going to have to stop. Do you understand me? This promotion brings new responsibilities, and promptness is one of them. Can you handle that?”

  “Yes, sir. I can.”

  “Very good. Now stop cowering at the back of the room and come up here so I can explain the lofty position to which you have ascended without having to shout.”

  Largo was still wary as he approached Herr Branca’s desk, waiting to find out that the promotion was a mistake or a cruel joke and his supervisor was going to fire him after all. Branca was looking over more papers when he reached the desk and once more Largo couldn’t help himself.

  “Why?”

  “Why the promotion or why you?” said Branca without looking up.

  “Both, I guess.”

  “Did you happen to notice König was not with us this morning?”

  König was the company’s chief courier, a tall, handsome man just a few years older than Largo. “No, sir. I didn’t,” he said.

  Branca tugged at his collar. “I didn’t expect so. But it’s true nevertheless—he wasn’t with us. And it’s likely you won’t see him again here . . . or anywhere else,” Branca said. “He’s been arrested by the Nachtvogel.”

  Largo didn’t say anything for a moment, still not sure whether Branca was playing him for a fool. König was a nobody, as were all the other couriers at the company. Why would the secret police take away a nobody?

  “You saw it happen? I mean, they arrested him here?”

  Branca nodded. “Right where you’re standing now.”

  Largo looked at the floor, not sure what he was expecting to see. Then, feeling foolish, he looked back at Branca. “I don’t understand. What would the Nachtvogel want with König?”

  “I have no idea because I didn’t ask, an attitude I advise you to emulate should you ever find yourself face-to-face with them.”

  Largo took a step closer to his supervisor and said very quietly, “What were they like?”

  Branca cocked his head for a moment as if looking for the precise words. “Men. They looked like men. Very serious men.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Except for the horns and hooves. And their long, forked tongues, of course,” said Branca. He made a face at Largo. “Don’t ask silly questions, boy. They were citizens like you or me. And before you ask one more idiotic thing and I’m forced to reconsider your promotion, I’ll tell you this. I heard one significant word as they were putting König in irons: anarchist. Personally, I never took the man for a political extremist, but there you are.”

  Largo shook his head. “I wouldn’t have guessed. I mean, he never talked about politics. It was always about money, his girlfriend, and work. The same things we all talk about.”

  “Would you expect an anarchist to shout slogans from the loading dock at lunchtime?” Branca said. “And as for his talk about money, well there you are. More than one good man has been turned to crime by dreams of easy cash. Don’t let that happen to you. You’ve been given a rare opportunity. Use it wisely.”

  Largo nodded, his earlier fear giving way to feelings of guilt at his good fortune. Good fortune that came on the back of—no, not a friend, but someone like him, at least, someone he knew and moreover had nothing against. He felt a little queasy, but then he straightened. Branca was right. This was an opportunity, and a promotion would mean more money in his pocket. With luck, there would be enough that he wouldn’t ever feel hungry again at the sight of a crushed sandwich in the middle of the street. He thought of Remy and his mood lightened slightly. He couldn’t wait to tell her about it after work.

  Branca leaned on his desk to get closer to Largo. When he spoke, his voice was quiet. “The reason I’ve told you all this was to impress upon you the importance of your new position. It’s a great embarrassment for the company to have one of its trusted employees hauled away in chains. If the news got out it would be very bad for business. Therefore, we must redouble our efforts and do everything we can to keep up the company’s good name. Do you know why?”

  “Because we’re grateful to them for the opportunities they’ve given us?” he said.

  “Don’t be naïve.” Branca tapped his pen on his desk. “Because you and I are utterly disposable. Never forget that.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Good. Now, welcome to your new position, chief courier.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Branca held out a hand to him. When Largo shook it, he was surprised by the force of his supervisor’s grip. He’d never seen Branca move more than a step or two in any direction, so it was a shock that there was any strength left in his large body. And what an even greater shock to hear the man’s concern for his own position. It didn’t exactly make Largo like the old fossil any more, but he couldn’t help feeling a bit of sympathy to hear someone Branca’s age refer to himself as “utterly disposable.”

  “Does the promotion mean that I’ll be spending more time in the office?” Largo said.

  Branca let out one grunting laugh. “God help us all if it did. No, you’ll continue your normal duties, making deliveries and picking up goods, but you’ll be doing it in parts of the city that you’re not used to—including some of its most prosperous districts. That’s why I chose you. None of the other rabble here know Lower Proszawa as well.” He paused for a moment, then said, “Also, you seem generally honest, which is important. Some of the parcels and documents you’ll be carrying will be worth considerable sums of money. Can I count on you to do your job honorably and intelligently?”

  Largo was a little shocked by the question. No one had ever asked him anything like it before. “Yes, sir. Of course,” he said.

  “Good. I thought so. Here are some forms for you to sign to make your promotion official,” said Branca. He handed Largo a stack of papers, then dropped a leather box about ten inches long on top. “And here is a new tool of your job. With luck, you’ll never need it.”

  Largo took the papers to a nearby table, set them down, and picked up the box. Turning it over in his hands, he found a small brass lock. With just a little pressure it popped open. At first, Largo wasn’t sure what he was looking at. It was made of a dull gray metal. There were holes in it that were clearly meant for his fingers. He put them in and felt a sort of metal grip against his palm while the rounded loops over his knuckles were studded with spikes. He pulled the strange object the rest of the way out of the box. It was a knife. A t
rench knife from the war, with blood channels down the blade and brass knuckles over his hand. Largo looked at Herr Branca.

  “Sir?”

  His supervisor glanced at him. “You wear it in a harness under your coat,” he said. “Understand, with every job comes certain liabilities. Your promotion will bring you new respect and a larger salary. Unfortunately, it will also make you a target.”

  “Oh,” Largo said. He hesitated for a moment, not liking the word target. However, he shook off the feeling and reached back into the box, pulling out a tangle of worn leather straps and clasps. The harness, he guessed. “I don’t know how to put it on.”

  The old man nodded. “I’ll show you. Welcome to your future, Largo.”

  Having Herr Branca strap him into the harness was an embarrassing experience. The couriers were all required to wear black suits and ties while making their deliveries. Years before, the company had given them a clothing allowance to make sure they remained clean and tidy on their rounds. However, the allowance had stopped during the war and never been reinstituted. Largo’s one suit was of cheap wool and barely thicker than paper. Worse, the seam had split along one side of the white shirt he’d worn that day, so it was held together with safety pins. To his credit and Largo’s relief, Branca said nothing about any of that as he wrapped the harness around the young man’s back and shoulders so that, with his jacket on, it and the knife were entirely invisible. Largo moved his shoulders and twisted this way and that, feeling tight and uncomfortable.

  Branca said, “How does it feel?”

  “Strange. But not bad. I’m sure I’ll get used to it quickly.”

  “See that you do. Keep it on whenever you’re on your rounds. If I were you, I would also wear it coming to work and going home at night.”

  Largo looked at Branca gravely. “Do you really think it’s that dire? I’ve traveled these streets all my life and except for places like Steel Downs and the docks, I’ve never felt myself to be in much danger.”

  “Well, you are now. And not just from street bandits. There are young men in this very company that you need to keep an eye on.”