Dancing With Bears - Michael Swanwick [54]
“Fool! This is Hell! All existence is Hell for our kind, for no matter where we are, we know your kind still exists unpunished.”
The strannik nodded. “We understand each other completely.”
“For the moment,” the underlord said with obvious regret, “I must refrain from destroying you.”
“I in turn will pray to the living God to forgive and punish you through all eternity.”
The stranniks departed, leaving behind them a leather satchel, whose contents the underlord began to unpack with extreme care.
Darger had lifted a crate as the factor hurried away, as if to carry it into the bar. Now he set it back down and sat atop it, thinking. He had intended to spend another week or so underground before bringing the great scheme to a head. But as a humble worshiper of Fortuna, he believed that there was a time and tide in the affairs of men which was often triggered by sudden, unexpected good luck. Luck that one ignored at one’s peril.
Surely this windfall of tobacco was a sign that he should advance his timetable. He could immediately see how it could be used to publicize his fictitious discovery. Surplus might experience a moment’s surprise to see events moving ahead of schedule. But Darger was certain his friend would be quick to adapt to the changing winds of circumstance.
A door opened onto a steaming kitchen and a worker in a stained apron scurried out on an errand. A delivery man staggered by, bent under a side of raw beef. Them he ignored. But then a clutch of five ragged boys ran past.
“Young people!” Darger called after them. “Are you interested in earning some pocket money?”
The boys skittered to a stop, and stared at him with glittering, unblinking eyes, wary as rats. The biggest of the lot squinted skeptically, spat, and said, “What’s the pitch?”
Darger removed the factor’s money from his pocket and slowly peeled off several bills. He understood these slum-children perfectly, for he had been much the same as they in his boyhood. Thus, when one of the smaller ones surreptitiously eased closer, he tightened his grip on the money and favored him with a sudden sharp look. The imp hurriedly backed away.
“What’s your name?” he asked the ringleader.
The boy’s mouth moved silently, as if he were chewing over the implications of giving out this information. Then, grudgingly, he answered, “Kyril.”
“Well, Master Kyril, I have something to celebrate, and I wish to celebrate it by giving away all these crates of cigarettes.”
Kyril looked the pile up and down. There were twenty crates. “Okay. We’ll take this shit off yer hands.”
“Nice try, but no. I’ll be giving them away a pack at a time. What I want you and your comrades to do is to spread the word through the underground—to the Diggers, to the Outcasts, to pretty much everybody except the Pale Folk—that I’ll be handing this stuff out free. Come back in half an hour, and if you’ve raised a large enough crowd, you can help distribute it. For which, I’ll pay you this much”—he extended the bills, and young Kyril snatched them away—“up front, and an equal amount when the job is done. Are you up for it?”
Kyril’s face grew still as he mentally searched for a way to sweeten the deal. “Do we get some of the cigarettes, too?”
“If you must.” Darger sighed. “Though you really shouldn’t, you know. They are bad for you.”
The guttersnipe rolled his eyes in scorn.“I don’t fucking care.”Then he addressed his gang: “Dmitri—Diggers! Oleg—Psychos! Lev—Outcasts! Stephan—Bottom Dwellers!”
They scattered.
In less than the prescribed half an hour, a crowd had gathered, as uncertain and murmurous as the sea. Darger climbed to the top of the stack of crates to address them. “Good friends, congratulate me!” he cried. “For today I have made a discovery that will leave my mark in history. I have found that which everybody said could