The Fall of the House of Cabal (26 page)

Yes, existence was full of hard decisions that would sting for a while, but one just had to think in the long term. The very,
very
long term. She stiffened her resolve. A brief moment of pain, and then everything would be all right.

*   *   *

‘Hello, darlings!' said Zarenyia as she breezed back into Satan's throne room, a shambling, scuttling sound in her wake assuring her that Ratuth Slabuth was following. ‘Forms signed,
bona fides
authenticated. You will be delighted to hear that I am now declared a legal visitor to the scenic heart of Hell. Hooray for me!'

‘Finally.' Cabal looked up sourly from the table where he, Miss Smith, and the demons De'eniroth and De'zeel were engaged in a game of cards under the eyes, antennae, and other sensory organs of the hellish horde there gathered. He flung down his hand of cards and rose, removing his jacket from the back of his chair as he did so. ‘I lost interest in this ridiculous game somewhere during the initial deal.'

There was another of those idiosyncratic sharp intakes of breath from the audience of demons; they took their cribbage very seriously.

‘His Lord Satan here'—Zarenyia carelessly jerked her thumb over her shoulder in Ratuth Slabuth's direction—‘has been an absolute doll. I believe we now know where we should be going to next.'

Miss Smith unfurled a jet-black parasol and placed it upon her shoulder to ward off the rays of a non-existent sun. ‘Excellent. We should be moving on, really.' She nodded politely. ‘Thanks, Satan. Lovely Hell you have here, but time is pressing, I should think.'

‘And where precisely is it that Ragtag Slyboots here thinks we should be going?' said Cabal, having apparently lost at the card table any vague sense of diplomacy he may once have enjoyed.

‘Still trying to bait me, eh, Cabal?' said Satan, and chuckled. ‘I really don't have the luxury to indulge in such pettiness these days, I am afraid. I wish I
could
indulge you, but simply too busy. You understand, I'm sure?'

‘Not really,' said Cabal. ‘You being in charge of Hell is tantamount to a second undermanager at a Pompeiian olive orchard being given responsibility for the Roman Empire. You are a small sort of demon, Ragtag. You were over-promoted once and it didn't end well. I don't see it going swimmingly for you or your charges this time, either.'

‘We shall see, shall we?' said Ratuth Slabuth, and chuckled again. He gave the air of being very pleased with himself. ‘But I haven't answered your question. In the centre of the Ninth Circle, below the now disused throne of the old Satan (I really can't be bothered with all that lava and so forth, and as for a basalt throne, whatever was he thinking of? Terribly uncomfortable, believe you me), there is a tunnel that leads down to his original stronghold, the Ivory Citadel. It is a place secreted away and forgotten by almost all. There, all and every destined time and inevitable place may be reached. There, Fate itself awaits.'

‘That sounds like a powerful sort of location,' said Cabal, his suspicion evident. ‘Very useful in a variety of ways, I would think. Why, then, is it secreted away and forgotten?'

This time Satan did not chuckle, but the jaw of the horse's skull he used for a head curved into a deeply satisfied smile. ‘Because who truly wishes to confront their fate, of course?'

*   *   *

When Johannes Cabal had undertaken to find the truth at the heart of
The One True Account of Presbyter Johannes by His Own Hand,
he had at no point imagined that it would involve leading a procession of demons through the ruins of the Ninth Circle to the great shattered edifice that had once been the palace of Lucifer, before he decided to resign and seek opportunities elsewhere. Yet here he was, striding alongside the shambling disgrace of planar geometry Ratuth Slabuth that—in the real Hell—would be a resolute foe, accompanied by Zarenyia the succubine spider-devil and the dead and dismantled (yet looking very good on it, considering) Miss Smith the necromantrix. In their wake walked, shuffled, and oozed a horde of demons, who seemed to be along out of curiosity as much as representing any sort of court for the second Satan.

The former throne room was a very different place than Cabal remembered it. Then it had been heated and underlit by a vast pool of lava, the throne of Satan rising massively in the centre of a peninsula thrust out into the deadly lake. Without an army of imps equipped with pokers, however, the lava's surface had been permitted to cool and was now a ruffled field of grey stone, liquid caught and frozen forever in flows and wavelets.

Cabal considered the physical organisation of Hell as he understood it, and now saw the significance of this place. It had begun to dawn upon him how he had misinterpreted the geography of Hell as they approached Lucifer's palace and he could see that it rose up limitlessly above the surrounding plains until it was lost from sight in the crimson gloom. When he had come here on previous occasions, he had descended directly through the rings via the palace itself—a spindle in the midst of endless open spaces, its base here in the Ninth Circle, its zenith forming the gatehouse to Hell in the middle of the Desert of Limbo.

It seemed that perhaps not even the Ninth Circle was truly the palace's foundation; if what Ratuth Slabuth had told Zarenyia was true, then below it was a place that extended the spindle's ability to touch every circle of Hell out into all else. To Cabal's mind there was a
rightness
about this. So much in the occult followed “as above, so below”, then here, of all places, should contain the archetype of the principle.

‘This way!' said Ratuth Slabuth, leading the conga of the damned across the isthmus towards the empty throne. He seemed to be enjoying himself. ‘Almost there!'

They followed him counterclockwise around the great stump of the basalt throne, massive and inspiring of awe even when vacated. Even Cabal felt his spirits depressed in its presence. The last time he had seen it, it was occupied, and the occupant had not been friendly. Some ghost of that animosity hung around and coloured his thoughts a morose shade of dark blue stabbed through with arterial red.

He was not displeased that Ratuth Slabuth did not pause to offer a guided tour, but instead brought them smartly to a broad crevasse some ten yards wide at the rear of the throne's base. The crevasse gave out into a rough tunnel and, from somewhere out of sight beyond the twists in the path, a milky glow dimly emanated. Though the lava had long since solidified, there was still a steady warmth emanating from the frozen lake. Despite this, the breeze that blew up from the place beneath was chilly and, in some way Cabal could not quantify, disturbing. It smelled of bad decisions and unforeseen eventualities. He did not care for it at all.

‘This is it, then?' he asked of Ratuth Slabuth, or Satan.

‘It is, indeed, yes.' Satan seemed enormously pleased with the outing. Cabal half expected him to reach into some intra-dimensional space in his ribs and produce a picnic hamper.

Cabal looked down into the tunnel. ‘The Ivory Citadel is just down there?'

‘It is, yes. Your fate awaits you, Johannes. I do so hope that you enjoy it.'

Cabal did not truly understand how it was that he finally understood, but there was a pressing certainty that had grown so heavily upon him as they had made their way there, it rendered him soul-weary and saddened.

‘It isn't really the next step in our journey at all, is it?'

‘Ah, now, then.' Satan looked up at the roughly hewn vault of the great audience chamber as he weighed his words. ‘Yes, and no. It's not
exactly
what you wanted, but it's certainly the next step. Indeed, it is the last step.' He shook his head in a slow mockery of sadness. ‘Alas.'

‘The Ivory Citadel doesn't exist.' Cabal looked at the horde of demons arranged in a loose arc around them, hedging them in and preventing any easy escape. At ground level, at least, but if one's party included somebody who was very good at running up walls …

He slid a glance at Zarenyia to prime her to be ready to act. She, however, was looking the other way. His glance turned into more of a glare, but still she seemed to be finding all sorts of things interesting with the sole exception of the imminent emergency at hand. Cabal would like to have hissed or gently side-kicked one her legs to draw her attention, but there was Satan, beaming at him with awful unctuousness.

‘Doesn't exist? Of course it exists!' Satan laughed at the wonderful joke he was playing. ‘I was entirely honest about it … up to a point. The point being that the citadel leads anywhere. Rather, it specifically leads nowhere. There is nothing within those pale walls but the final death, the utter extinction, the snuffing out of every vital essence.'

Cabal swallowed. ‘The final death is a myth. Something always survives. Even when Madam Zarenyia here devours a soul, there are leavings.' He looked urgently at her, hoping that by mentioning her name he would finally attract her attention. But no, she was still finding her sudden interest in diabolical vulcanology supremely absorbing. With a growing sense that he had been handily outmanoeuvred, he plunged on. ‘There is always something left. The soul is a very resilient thing.'

‘So it is, it takes a great deal to destroy every last little peck of one. And, guess what, Johannes? The Ivory Citadel is just the place to make it happen.'

‘You're going to kill us? Just like that?' Miss Smith was understandably upset at the revelation. ‘I'm not even properly alive and you're going to kill me?'

Satan seesawed his head from side to side while he considered. ‘Your destruction isn't vital, but really, my dear, you are
such
an aberration. I cannot help but think that the cosmos would be a tidier place without you. So, yes. You're going to die. Permanently. Sorry.'

‘Madam Zarenyia,' said Cabal in a taut undertone. ‘I think we should be making a sharp exit at about this time.'

She seemed to ignore him yet again, but this time she turned, her legs cascading back and forth as she did so until she was facing the tunnel. ‘Yes, darling.' Her voice was strange and faraway, as if she was thinking of something else entirely. ‘I think you should. Run along now, you and Miss Smith.'

Cabal looked around. It wasn't immediately obvious where exactly they should run; the cordon of demons was tight and unbroken. He looked up at Zarenyia and saw she was looking him in the eye, and her face was sad. She nodded towards the tunnel. ‘Off you pop, Johannes, there's a dear. Take Miss Smith with you, and good luck.'

Perhaps Hell is seismically active, for Cabal felt the ground shift beneath his feet, or perhaps he didn't. His legs grew weak. His stomach squirmed. ‘Madam Zarenyia, you can't mean…'

‘Her Highness, the Princess Zarenyia.' Satan unfolded his Jacob's ladder of a body and grew huge and hateful. The horse's skull leered down from beneath the glimmering Roman helmet, reflecting a dim orange glow as the lake around them grew hotter and hotter. ‘Show a little respect, Cabal. You are in the presence of royalty.'

‘Zarenyia, please…' Cabal realised that for the first time he was honestly, truly pleading for his life. All the times he had not deigned to do so, because of all those other times he had gone into danger with contingency plans already in place or he had seen a flaw in the deathtrap, an oversight in the ambush. This was the first time the noose was around his neck, and the contingency plan was drawing it tight. He searched for something,
anything
that might bring her back to his side.

‘You … you
dibbed
.'

‘Her Highness's promise was not to hurt you, I understand?' said Satan. ‘Well, she shan't. The citadel needs no help to do its work. Or, of course, you could try to make a run for it here. I would be fascinated to see how many steps you manage. Just think, Cabal, it was in this very chamber that you humiliated me. And now this happens.' Beyond the demons, the surface of the lake cracked and lava slipped through, the solid surface breaking up as ice floes do in the arctic spring. Satan looked around with palpable satisfaction. ‘Now I shall have good memories of the place. Quite cosy, actually. I may move my court here. Tradition is a fine thing, isn't it?'

‘Hurry along, Johannes,' said Zarenyia. Her smile was false and her eyes tortured. ‘Go on. Don't want to keep the old Ivory Citadel waiting now, do you?' Her synthetic gaiety cracked in her throat.

‘We trusted you,' said Miss Smith. She pointed at Cabal. ‘
He
trusted you, and he doesn't trust anyone. How could you?'

‘Ha ha ha ha, foolish mortal.' They were just words drawn from a penny dreadful, as impersonal as a motto in a Christmas cracker. Zarenyia's eyes darted to the tunnel. ‘Go meet your fate. Go
on
!'

Her eyes met Cabal's, and he understood. ‘Very well,' he said quietly. He turned to face Satan. ‘You win, Ragtag Slyboots.'

‘
Must
you call me that? It seems very petty at this juncture.'

‘It's your true name. Before all your airs and graces. Call yourself Ratuth Slabuth or even Satan, but you're still the same milk-souring non-entity you ever were beneath it all. You have been lucky, not clever. At least I shall finally be shot of you. Yes, you win. Congratulations.' He held out his arm to Miss Smith. ‘Shall we? Our fate is sealed. We may at least go to it with dignity.'

Miss Smith removed her crown and tossed it at Zarenyia's feet. ‘You'll need to look the part,
princess
,' she said. Then she took Cabal's proffered arm and, like a couple promenading in the park on a Sunday afternoon, they entered the tunnel.

Zarenyia said nothing, but she took up the crown as if it were precious to her, and carefully donned it.

Satan watched them go with enormous satisfaction, soured only by a lack of polite grovelling on Cabal's part. That would have been enjoyable, but one cannot have everything. Still, at least he had the pleasure of watching the infuriating mortal go to his oh-so-richly-deserved final deserts. Miss Smith was blameless in the affair, but Satan being Satan, collateral damage was a perk rather than a liability. There they went, disappearing into shadows, betrayed and doomed. Lovely. And here was his new Princess of Hell, watching them go. She could have cackled a bit more as she rubbed Cabal's nose in it and generally enjoyed her act of wickedness more demonstratively, but that would come in time, he was sure. Perhaps he should run a course on the correct deportment of senior demons.