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DISCIPLE
    City of New Jerusalem, Aethir
    Six Months Later
    S hadrak let out an appreciative whistle. “Look at the jugs on that.”
    Amid a shower of sparks and a billowing cloud of smoke, the near-naked Dame Consilia floated down from the ceiling above the stage. Well, not floated exactly; she was lowered from the fly floor. You could see two sweating stagehands paying out the ropes, if you knew where to look.
    Shadrak knew, but he wasn’t looking anymore. He couldn’t take his eyes from those swollen breasts, barely covered by a wisp of silk. A ruby sparkled in her navel with reflected light from the lanterns above the proscenium. Beneath that, strips of diaphanous gold did little to hide her womanhood, leaving her long, graceful legs smooth and bare. Atop her head, her platinum hair had been wound up into two devil’s horns.
    “Look, I tell you.” He kept his voice low; stuck well and truly to the shadows at the back of their box.
    Albert was looking, but not at the stage. He hoicked his paunch to the loge’s low, velveteen wall. Obviously, standing was proving too much effort. “You watch the jugs; I’ll keep an eye on the husband.”
    Shadrak followed his gaze.
    Koort Morrow was in the box opposite. If he’d noticed Dame Consilia’s dramatic entrance, he was hiding it well. He was engaged in hushed conversation with the goons either side of him. All business, Morrow. Shadrak guessed that’s what made him the greatest threat to the Night Hawks. Maybe the only threat left.
    Morrow held up a hand to the man whispering in his ear, long enough to take a bite of pie. Cherry pie. His favorite. Albert had it all filed away in his head, what people liked to eat, what they had a weakness for. That’s why he’d had some sent over to Morrow’s box, courtesy of Queenie’s Fine Diner.
    “Enjoy,” Albert said, rubbing his hands together, and making it all too obvious, as far as Shadrak was concerned.
    There was a flurry of movement up in the gods. Shadrak couldn’t see much without showing himself. Didn’t help there was a thick pall of weedstick smoke hanging overhead. Not just weedstick, going by the smell. He was sure there was a hint of sweetness mingled in with it; the pungent odor of somnificus.
    “What’s going on up there?”
    Albert took out his hanky to mop his brow as he glanced up, then straight back down at Morrow.
    “Mal Vatès is here.” He leaned forward over the edge of the box, blocking what little was left of Shadrak’s view with his pinstriped arse. “Probably had a few too many after the inauguration.”
    “Bit late, ain’t he? Seeing as this bollocks is for him.” Shadrak angled another look at the stage. Had to be better than what Albert was presenting him.
    Well, maybe not.
    Dame Consilia was dancing suggestively through a chorus line of muscular slaves, giving each a quick feel as she spouted some crap about the Abyss or something.
    “Not every day you get elected First Senator of New Jerusalem,” Albert said.
    Shadrak shrugged to himself. Guessed it was a big thing to most. Hadn’t been exactly unexpected, what with Vatès’ predecessor, Reegers, getting into bed with the guilds. Not that it was such a bad thing. There’d been an agreement between the Senate and the Night Hawks, who pretty much accounted for ninety percent of all the shit that went down in the city since the Night of the Guilds. Problem was, Morrow had gone and blown the whistle on Reegers, and that left the Senate with nowhere to go but back to the polls.
    “What is this shite, anyway?” Shadrak said, pressing himself back against the curtain at the rear of the loge. He noticed Albert’s hands clenching into fists and said, “Don’t look so eager. Someone will see.” Morrow had goons everywhere. Half the theater was his tonight; the other half filled with Vatès’ hangers-on.
    Albert sat back in his chair and stole a quick glance at the stage. Dame Consilia was approaching the ogling crowd at the front,