Chapter 12 - All About The Orb
The Count threw the doors open with a flourish. "Welcome," he said, "to the Temple of the Brotherhood of the Orb!"
Spike strode in, lip already curling disdainfully. It was bound to be a miracle of bad taste - these places always were.
………….
Buffybot skipped down the street, lantern in hand, heading for the Tower of the Unseen University. If you wanted to attract the attention of something that flew, she reasoned, you should go the highest point and wave. She smiled, proud of her own reasoning power. Mr Vimes was very clever of course, and everyone said he was an amazing copper, but he was just going the wrong way about the matter. What he needed to do was look at things from the dragon's point of view. Did it want to be chased by lots of men in armour and shot at with big crossbows? Almost certainly no. What it wanted, much more likely, was to get its Orb back and go home. Buffybot knew how to activate the Orb of course - though she hadn't quite worked out how to do that without sending herself to another world along with the dragon. But she can tell me, thought Buffybot happily. And maybe even send me home if she wants, though I'm not sure if dragons do favours. She skipped onward into the night, the twenty fifth verse of 'Gold, Gold, Gold' on her lips.
…………..
"Greetings, my Brothers!" cried the Count expansively. "I bring our third dark servant, someone finally capable of assassinating the creature Vimes, as I pledged to you all I would do." He indicated Spike with an expansive gesture, chalky white features splitting in a ghastly grin. "Looks as mean as a weasel, doesn't he?"
Spike scowled. He could do without personal remarks from someone who resembled an albino bat in a frock coat. It was insulting - and he was nobody's bloody servant - dark or otherwise.
The Brothers looked up. They were clad in dark brown robes, their faces shadowed by dark cowls, their hands lost in the long sleeves. But Spike had his nose to guide him. He smelt riches - rich foods, rich wines, rich perfumes and spices - and the faint metallic reek of gold itself. He nodded, grimly. Rich men, all of them, and not one with even a sniff of magic of their own. And yet here they were dabbling with necromancy and demon summoning. Tut tut.
The lead Brother stepped forward, waving a languid hand inside his robe. "He does have an evil and criminal look, true. And heaven knows we've all wasted enough money trying to get Vimes wiped from the board. But I do hope he proves to be more use than the dragon, Winkelson old chap. It's been here three days now. And what do we hear? Any buildings burned? Villages terrorised? Livelihoods ruined? Virgins torn limb from limb?" He licked his lips a little at this last image. "Not a one - and each time you summon the creature into the city it turns around and flies right out again. There should be panic in the streets and mobs calling for Vetinari's head by now. It's not good enough, you know."
The Count frowned. "Once I have the Orb in my hands, the dragon must bend itself to my-our will …"
"But you don't have the Orb," interrupted the Brother. "Here we are, the Brotherhood of the Orb. And yet with no Orb upon the altar. Because you lost it."
The other Brothers all nodded and murmured, as though he'd made an excellent point.
The Count ground his teeth. "If you recall, I did not lose the Orb. The great serpent and your servant Porphyry fought one another across vast vistas of time and space, locked together in mortal combat for many days, as they fought for its possession. Finally the serpent tumbled out of the Void and into another world, where apparently it lost the Orb."
"Well we didn't see any of that, did we?" It was another brother - smaller and wider than the first.
"And the effect is the same anyway, from our point of view." It was the first Brother, a smug note in his voice. "What we need to concentrate upon here as a Brotherhood is the outcomes, not the processes. You do the executive stuff, Winkelson. It's what we hired you for."
Spike grinned. Seemed he wasn't the only creature in the room that the Brotherhood was mistaking for a servant.
………
A dark carriage veered out of the darkness, drawn by four coal black horses, their heads decorated with nodding black plumes. It drew to an abrupt halt, and a carriage door bearing a large golden crest creaked gently ajar. Buffybot stepped up to it, delighted. Perhaps someone wanted to ask for directions! She'd been studying her map of Ankh Morpork religiously all week, to be Prepared.
"Hello, pretty little Watch Person," said a husky voice from the carriage, with a rather delightful foreign timbre to its voice. "What a very interesting jewel you are carrying."
"Hi!" said Buffybot. "I am pretty aren't I? And you have a funny accent!"
There was a chuckle from the depths of the purple velvet lining. "A naïf. How delightful." There was a faint creak, as the person in the carriage leant forward. A very pale face appeared. "I wonder," said the elegant lady now revealed, "if you would care to give me the pretty jewel. I am sure I can replace it with something you would like better. Turkish Delight, perhaps?" She produced a satin padded box, lifted the lid and proffered it towards Buffybot, her dark eyes boring into Buffybot's clear hazel ones, which gazed guilelessly back. The Lady's pupils lengthened to slits, and then widened into blackness until no iris remained. The air became thick and cloying as a heavy scent arose from the sweetmeats in the box. A pale beringed hand reached out confidently towards the Orb.
"That's very kind of you," said Buffybot, "and I'm sure Turkish Delight is very tasty. But the Orb belongs to someone else. Sorry!" And she turned and skipped off around a right angled bend in the alley, beyond the light cast by the carriage lamp, disappearing into the fog in an instant.
A faint rumble of laughter came from the depths of the carriage. "Vell, vell, my dear. I do believe you are losing your touch. Not enough glamour for one innocent little girl, travelling through this dark forest of brick and stone, alone and unafraid."
The box shut with a snap, and just for a moment fangs flashed beneath rouged lips. Lady Margolotta turned to her invisible companion. "If you make that offensive snickering sound again, Boris my dear, you will be leaving my carriage. Head first."
Boris made a tutting sound, and a long white finger appeared in front of her ladyship's eyes and wagged from side to side. "My dear Margolotta, I do believe you have forgotten the sacred promises you have made as the wearer of ze Black Ribbon." The long white finger gestured casually to the bosom of the lady's dress, where the ribbon was affixed with a beautiful gold pin. "We are creatures of peace now, my delightful one, are we not?" he added. He chuckled again.
Lady Margolotta slapped the side of the carriage sharply, and it jolted into movement. A moment later the door opened and a male figure flew through the air in a great parabola, to land with a sickening crunch on the cobbles. The crumpled form stirred, turned on its side and coughed some blood, then turned further onto its back, gleaming white shirt front uppermost. Lord Boris chuckled again, and then laughed, blood bubbling in the corner of his mouth. I do believe she's broken a few of my ribs, he thought. How delightfully retrogressive of her.
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Spike looked around him. The Temple of the Brotherhood of the Orb had a lot of the classic features a House of Black Magic might be expected to feature. A large brass censer hung from the ceiling, for example, incense-heavy smoke pouring from it and defying convention to fall heavily downwards and spread across the floor in oily billows. A huge pentangle was inlaid into the floor in what looked remarkably like silver. Inside the pentangle a large white altar stood in the centre of the room, covered in ominous stains, while various sculptured winged and scaled creatures stood in shadowy niches around the walls, cold jewelled eyes gazing down upon the chicken, the goat, and the scantily clad young woman who were all tethered there.
The thirteen Brothers stood in a circle around this odd little group, dressed in black robes, heavy cowls covering their heads, and a symbolic pair of sickles crossed across each Brother's chest. So far so traditional. Though the sight of the Count lurking behind them in his evening wear, Gladstone bag on his lap, struck a slightly odd note. The coffee tureen and the plate of biscuits on a table to one side simply struck Spike as practical. Black Magic rites were thirsty work.
He rolled his eyes briefly. He recognised the set-up all right. Blood rites, bringing access to the Void and communion with demons. And all to get their precious Orb back. What a bunch of bloody idiots the Brotherhood were. Anyone with a lick of commonsense knew the demons would eat them in the end. The only question was when, and how much of the town they'd take with them. Oh, and there was also the question of whether the Count would be getting chewed up as well - except he wasn't a Count was he? He was some bloke called Winkelson.
Spike looked at the girl lying limp on the altar. And I suppose the Slayer'd tell me to leap in there and save that stupid bloody girl, would she? he thought savagely. And the witches would probably tell me to save dear little Benjy, and Cock-a-Doodle as well. Even though I've got silver handcuffs on, even though the Phantom of the Opera over there has a garnet ring that can stop me in mid stride, even though I can't even give one of these wankers as much as a scratch without this bloody chip giving me the migraine from hell. So how am I going to do that, eh? Bloody impossible, innit? And I'm going to die in terrible agony trying, aren't I? And I still don't know what the Man U score was. God, I hate my unlife.