Theatre of the Gods Read Online Free PDF

forgotten sailors, the ones who’d long ago lost their ship, their crew, their will to live, and whose song was more painful, more unbearable, than the crying of a million orphan babies. Even the words of these songs were enough to make you leap from a pier.
    Black Jess he was a goodly friend,
    A goodly friend o’ mine – Oh!
    But lately something’s changed in him,
    It ain’t hard to define.
     
    Oh, I wish I had me Jess’s gal,
    And I ain’t bein’ cute.
    I would convince her that I loves her,
    But the point, ’tis probably moot – Oi!
     
    But the earplugs were working. As they sat in the corner of the tavern to wait for the traps to fall on the Necronaut, all Fabrigas andhis servant had to endure were the gaping pink mouths and tearful, red-rimmed eyes of the sailors. They had nothing to fear from these scoundrels so long as they were busy singing. Behind the bar were racks of bottles marked with skulls and Xs. Any sailor knows the code. One X, that’s a breakfast whisky. Three Xs, that’s for ‘fivesies’, or cleaning the barnacles from your ship. Five Xs and a skull, that’s for when you’re tired of living. One skull with a clown’s nose, that’s for pirate-children’s parties. When the innkeeper looked over, Fabrigas nodded gravely. The innkeeper sighed, shook his head, then brought Fabrigas his jasmine tea.
    ‘It might be,’ ventured Carrofax cautiously, ‘that this … “Necronaut” … never shows up. It might be that he doesn’t even exist.’
    ‘I can’t hear you,’ Fabrigas said, as he adjusted the plug in his right ear. He was lying. The earplugs were of his own design. They were constructed to block out all but pleasant sounds, and his servant had a mellow and well-modulated voice. Fabrigas took a long, slow sip of tea and squinted, then said, ‘Of course he exists. If he doesn’t exist then who has been escaping from our traps and stealing our bounties all week? Anyway, he will show. He is waiting for dark.’
    ‘For dark? But in Carnassus it is always night.’
    ‘He’s waiting for ten bells, when they reboot the generators. He is no fool.’
    Carrofax sat patiently, spine straight, hands clasped in front of him while Fabrigas watched silvery shadows through the grimy glass of the tavern window. He watched the naval agents in the street – disguised as longshoremen and prostitutes – attempt to act naturally. He watched spiders big as rats pounce on rats as big as cats. He watched a man pick another man’s watch, then offer him the time of day. Inside the tavern he watched the pink mouths moving, silently. He watched the sailors, steel arms slung across each other’s shoulders, sway like masts. There were no naval agents in the tavern to protect him if the locals turned nasty: if they ran out of Four-X Special, orif their steam-powered accordian broke. There was no telling how unpleasant things would get if these seamen had to sing without accompaniment.
    He waited.
    The clock above the bar struck ten bells. The lights across Carnassus dimmed briefly, then rebooted.
    *
    It has been estimated that more pockets are picked during the ten seconds of darkness when the airport’s generators reboot than the rest of the day combined. As the lights rose again Fabrigas saw that a boy was sitting at their table. ‘Begone, child, this table is taken!’ shouted Fabrigas. He had finished his tea, but he hated being rushed. Astonishingly, the boy did not scurry away. He removed his hood. His face made Fabrigas all but gasp aloud.

THE NECRONAUT
    The boy put his finger to his lips. ‘Shhhhhhhhhhhhh.’ He had a young face. A hard-eyed, weathered and dreadful face. The boy spoke and Fabrigas was struck dead by his black eyes and defiant jaw. It was a face to break a mother’s heart, or any heart. He wore gun belts that criss-crossed his torso under a heavy leather coat; the brass cartridges twinkled in the half-light. Fabrigas was so stunned that he watched the boy speak for a full