The End of Oz
Page 17
“Guys?” Madison piped up. “I’m pretty hungry over here? Can we lay off the conference and eat something?”
“Of course. Forgive me, I’ve been a terrible hostess,” Lang said, not sounding very sorry at all.
As soon as the words left her mouth, a massive, shiny black beetle the size of a cow scuttled into the room from a doorway I hadn’t noticed, bearing an assortment of chairs, trays, and dishes improbably balanced on its immense back. But that wasn’t the weird part. The weird part was that its neck and body sprouted dozens of heads of different sizes and shapes. Some of them were almost human, others distinctly insectoid. The humanlike heads wore various expressions; some were smiling, revealing more than one row of teeth, and others were weeping or snarling with rage. Hundreds of beady black beetle eyes glittered at us from its insect heads. Its humanlike mouths moved as though they were speaking, but no sound came out as their jaws worked noiselessly. It was definitely up there with the Wheelers in the category of super-gross, super-creepy creatures that I never, ever wanted to see again, let alone stand next to while it set up the table and laid out the dishes with its long, segmented black legs and spikily jointed talons.
Madison looked slightly faint.
“I don’t think it will hurt us,” I said softly, although I wasn’t sure if I was trying to reassure Madison or myself.
“I’m terrified of bugs,” she whispered. “Like, irrational paranoia, get-the-sweats terrified.”
“All this time and I never knew,” I said with a grin I couldn’t help. “A well-placed cockroach at school could have changed everything.”
“Greta is not a cockroach,” Lang snapped, silencing us both immediately. “And she can hear you. Several of her bites are quite poisonous, so I’d watch my mouth around her if I were you.”
“Sorry,” Madison said hastily, but she still flinched as the beetle set a chair down in front of her.
If a many-headed beetle is capable of bowing sarcastically, Greta was definitely doing it. She set down chairs for the rest of us and delivered the dishes to the table in front of the princess, who uncovered them and shoved them toward us.
“Eat,” she said unceremoniously. “And sit.”
We sat. I wasn’t too excited about the eating part. Whatever Lang was serving us looked a lot like mushrooms. Lots and lots of mushrooms. At least there was water.
“It’s more than most people get here in a week,” Lang said shortly, watching me stare at the unappetizing brown mess.
“Of course,” I said quickly, helping myself to a spoonful. “I’m sure they’re delicious.”
They weren’t, not even a little bit, but at least they were filling. The three of us chewed in polite silence.
“Now that we’re all tight and stuff, can I ask about the heads?” Madison asked, swallowing a glutinous mouthful of mushrooms. Lang raised an eyebrow. “You know, the whole heads-on-sticks thing outside? And your decor? It’s a little unsettling, to be honest. Like way more Vlad the Impaler than Martha Stewart Living.”
“I don’t know your Vlad or Martha,” Lang said, her tone polite. “These are witches of the Other Place, presumably? But the heads are decorative, yes.”
“That stuff out there—those people—are decorative?”
“Those heads aren’t real,” Nox said. “They’re a glamour. An illusion. All of this”—he gestured at the palace, the mirrors, her nondescript clothes—“is an illusion. A mask. Right?”
“That’s the point,” Lang said with a shrug. “I know what people say about me. That I wear my murdered subjects’ faces stitched together over my own. That I swap identities the way other women change clothes. I don’t mind the rumors; I’m the one who started most of them. It pays to be unrecognizable. To have no one know for sure what I look like. I could be anywhere, or anyone.”
“So that stuff Nox was saying about you skinning people alive or whatever—that’s not actually true?” Madison asked.
Lang smiled. “I learned plenty about torture in the Order,” she said in a pleasant voice that belied her words. “Nox can tell you all about that. But actually hurting innocent people isn’t my style. The rumors let me move around Ev as I please. They keep the palace safe from trespassers, along with the Wheelers. Even the Nome King doesn’t know how much of it’s true and how much is just embellishment. Skinning people alive is certainly his style.”
That shut Madison up pretty quickly.
“And you and the Nome King . . .” Nox trailed off. I could guess at what he was about to say. How could she work for that monster? Especially if she’d been in the Order?
Lang glanced involuntarily at her silver bracelet. And now that I looked more closely, I could see that the pale skin of her wrist was circled with a web of silvery scars.
“It’s unbreakable,” she said, following my look. “The Nome King takes service contracts very seriously. I’ve tried to get it off with magic. Metal hammer, enchanted knives, half a dozen spells. He just laughed at me.” She pulled the fabric of her robe away from her neck briefly and I saw more scars knotted across her back, thick and painful-looking. “Or sent me to the Diggers to be whipped,” she added matter-of-factly. “After a while, it got easier to make him happy. I’ve had a lot of practice lying.”
“But the Order sent you here to spy. How did you become his prisoner?” Nox said. “What happened?”
Anger flashed through her green eyes.
“The Order?” she spat. “What did the Order ever do for me, Nox? The Order couldn’t even take out Dorothy. I don’t work for anyone. I do what the Nome King asks in order to stay alive long enough to find a way to take him down. Him and Dorothy both.”
“It seems to be working out for you,” Nox said, indicating the lavish palace with a nod of his head. I wanted to kick him. It was obvious that whatever work she was doing for the Nome King, she hated him. If he’d captured her when the Order sent her here and turned her into his slave, no wonder she hated the Order so much. Nox seemed dead set on antagonizing this girl and I didn’t understand why. That, or he was just oblivious to the fact that everything he said to her was exactly the wrong thing.
Which, knowing Nox, was just as likely. Fighting, he was good at. Tact, not so much.
“The Nome King didn’t buy me this place. I earned it. The few wealthy people in Ev pay a lot of money to gamble in my clubs.”
I thought I’d misheard her. “Your clubs? Like . . . nightclubs?”
She shrugged. “No matter how poor people get, they have to drink. And gambling makes them feel like they have a chance to make their lives better. It’s a public service of sorts, but it also puts me close to the action. There’s not a lot to do in Ev. Everyone who’s anyone comes through my clubs, and I pay attention to what comes out of their mouths. That’s the work I do for the Nome King. The work I do for myself . . .” She let that trail off, leaving us to digest her words.
“You cheat people and steal information from them for a really evil guy who’s magically keeping you a permanent prisoner?” I countered.
“It’s an exchange. I give them a place to forget their troubles for a while. Ev is a dangerous, violent place, but inside the walls of my clubs, my patrons are safe. I guarantee it. That’s a huge piece of why they do so well. And no one’s dumb enough to talk real politics within my walls—they know who I work for. I get just enough information to feed the Nome King useful tidbits to keep him satisfied. The rest of my intel I keep for myself.”
“Of course. Forgive me, I’ve been a terrible hostess,” Lang said, not sounding very sorry at all.
As soon as the words left her mouth, a massive, shiny black beetle the size of a cow scuttled into the room from a doorway I hadn’t noticed, bearing an assortment of chairs, trays, and dishes improbably balanced on its immense back. But that wasn’t the weird part. The weird part was that its neck and body sprouted dozens of heads of different sizes and shapes. Some of them were almost human, others distinctly insectoid. The humanlike heads wore various expressions; some were smiling, revealing more than one row of teeth, and others were weeping or snarling with rage. Hundreds of beady black beetle eyes glittered at us from its insect heads. Its humanlike mouths moved as though they were speaking, but no sound came out as their jaws worked noiselessly. It was definitely up there with the Wheelers in the category of super-gross, super-creepy creatures that I never, ever wanted to see again, let alone stand next to while it set up the table and laid out the dishes with its long, segmented black legs and spikily jointed talons.
Madison looked slightly faint.
“I don’t think it will hurt us,” I said softly, although I wasn’t sure if I was trying to reassure Madison or myself.
“I’m terrified of bugs,” she whispered. “Like, irrational paranoia, get-the-sweats terrified.”
“All this time and I never knew,” I said with a grin I couldn’t help. “A well-placed cockroach at school could have changed everything.”
“Greta is not a cockroach,” Lang snapped, silencing us both immediately. “And she can hear you. Several of her bites are quite poisonous, so I’d watch my mouth around her if I were you.”
“Sorry,” Madison said hastily, but she still flinched as the beetle set a chair down in front of her.
If a many-headed beetle is capable of bowing sarcastically, Greta was definitely doing it. She set down chairs for the rest of us and delivered the dishes to the table in front of the princess, who uncovered them and shoved them toward us.
“Eat,” she said unceremoniously. “And sit.”
We sat. I wasn’t too excited about the eating part. Whatever Lang was serving us looked a lot like mushrooms. Lots and lots of mushrooms. At least there was water.
“It’s more than most people get here in a week,” Lang said shortly, watching me stare at the unappetizing brown mess.
“Of course,” I said quickly, helping myself to a spoonful. “I’m sure they’re delicious.”
They weren’t, not even a little bit, but at least they were filling. The three of us chewed in polite silence.
“Now that we’re all tight and stuff, can I ask about the heads?” Madison asked, swallowing a glutinous mouthful of mushrooms. Lang raised an eyebrow. “You know, the whole heads-on-sticks thing outside? And your decor? It’s a little unsettling, to be honest. Like way more Vlad the Impaler than Martha Stewart Living.”
“I don’t know your Vlad or Martha,” Lang said, her tone polite. “These are witches of the Other Place, presumably? But the heads are decorative, yes.”
“That stuff out there—those people—are decorative?”
“Those heads aren’t real,” Nox said. “They’re a glamour. An illusion. All of this”—he gestured at the palace, the mirrors, her nondescript clothes—“is an illusion. A mask. Right?”
“That’s the point,” Lang said with a shrug. “I know what people say about me. That I wear my murdered subjects’ faces stitched together over my own. That I swap identities the way other women change clothes. I don’t mind the rumors; I’m the one who started most of them. It pays to be unrecognizable. To have no one know for sure what I look like. I could be anywhere, or anyone.”
“So that stuff Nox was saying about you skinning people alive or whatever—that’s not actually true?” Madison asked.
Lang smiled. “I learned plenty about torture in the Order,” she said in a pleasant voice that belied her words. “Nox can tell you all about that. But actually hurting innocent people isn’t my style. The rumors let me move around Ev as I please. They keep the palace safe from trespassers, along with the Wheelers. Even the Nome King doesn’t know how much of it’s true and how much is just embellishment. Skinning people alive is certainly his style.”
That shut Madison up pretty quickly.
“And you and the Nome King . . .” Nox trailed off. I could guess at what he was about to say. How could she work for that monster? Especially if she’d been in the Order?
Lang glanced involuntarily at her silver bracelet. And now that I looked more closely, I could see that the pale skin of her wrist was circled with a web of silvery scars.
“It’s unbreakable,” she said, following my look. “The Nome King takes service contracts very seriously. I’ve tried to get it off with magic. Metal hammer, enchanted knives, half a dozen spells. He just laughed at me.” She pulled the fabric of her robe away from her neck briefly and I saw more scars knotted across her back, thick and painful-looking. “Or sent me to the Diggers to be whipped,” she added matter-of-factly. “After a while, it got easier to make him happy. I’ve had a lot of practice lying.”
“But the Order sent you here to spy. How did you become his prisoner?” Nox said. “What happened?”
Anger flashed through her green eyes.
“The Order?” she spat. “What did the Order ever do for me, Nox? The Order couldn’t even take out Dorothy. I don’t work for anyone. I do what the Nome King asks in order to stay alive long enough to find a way to take him down. Him and Dorothy both.”
“It seems to be working out for you,” Nox said, indicating the lavish palace with a nod of his head. I wanted to kick him. It was obvious that whatever work she was doing for the Nome King, she hated him. If he’d captured her when the Order sent her here and turned her into his slave, no wonder she hated the Order so much. Nox seemed dead set on antagonizing this girl and I didn’t understand why. That, or he was just oblivious to the fact that everything he said to her was exactly the wrong thing.
Which, knowing Nox, was just as likely. Fighting, he was good at. Tact, not so much.
“The Nome King didn’t buy me this place. I earned it. The few wealthy people in Ev pay a lot of money to gamble in my clubs.”
I thought I’d misheard her. “Your clubs? Like . . . nightclubs?”
She shrugged. “No matter how poor people get, they have to drink. And gambling makes them feel like they have a chance to make their lives better. It’s a public service of sorts, but it also puts me close to the action. There’s not a lot to do in Ev. Everyone who’s anyone comes through my clubs, and I pay attention to what comes out of their mouths. That’s the work I do for the Nome King. The work I do for myself . . .” She let that trail off, leaving us to digest her words.
“You cheat people and steal information from them for a really evil guy who’s magically keeping you a permanent prisoner?” I countered.
“It’s an exchange. I give them a place to forget their troubles for a while. Ev is a dangerous, violent place, but inside the walls of my clubs, my patrons are safe. I guarantee it. That’s a huge piece of why they do so well. And no one’s dumb enough to talk real politics within my walls—they know who I work for. I get just enough information to feed the Nome King useful tidbits to keep him satisfied. The rest of my intel I keep for myself.”
