Nightside 10 - The Good the Bad and the Uncanny
could keep on top of things and apply corrections when necessary. More than one top business man with a pale and sweaty face eased me to one side to whisper how Walker had destroyed this person or that, or even made them disappear ... because they put their personal financial interests ahead of the Nightside’s.
No-one was allowed to threaten the status quo, not while Walker was on the job. No matter how rich and powerful they might think they were.
The Street of the Gods came next. Walker’s portable Timeslip was working overtime now, slamming us from one place to another. Walker and I strode down the Street, side by side, and a whole bunch of Beings, Powers, and Other-Dimensional Deities decided to retire to their various churches, lock the doors, and hide under their altars until we were gone. Other Beings and their congregations made a point of coming out into the Street, just to be seen conversing amiably with Walker and me and demonstrate to everyone else that they were on good terms with us. And not in any way afraid of either of us. Walker was very polite, as always, and even allowed a few of the gods to bless him.
“Doesn’t any of this ever go to your head?” I asked him, as we left our admirers behind.
“It’s pleasant enough, in its way,” said Walker. “One of the perks of the job. But it’s not real. There isn’t one of them that really likes or even respects me. It’s the position, and the power that comes with it. They’d bow down to you as quickly if you were in my position.”
“There was a time when people did that,” I said. “Back when some quarters saw me as a potential King in waiting. Can’t say I ever liked it much. They weren’t talking to me, just who they thought I might be.”
“You’ve made people respect you,” said Walker. “You’ve put a lot of effort into building your reputation. And unlike many in the Nightside, you really have done most of the awful things you’re supposed to have done.”
“A reputation helps keep the flies off,” I said. “But it’s there to protect me, not feed my ego.”
“And it is a useful tool, to make people do what you want them to do.”
“Yes,” I said. “But...”
And then I stopped, because I didn’t know what came next. Walker just smiled. And so we carried on quietly together, for a while.
“Normally, I’d take you to the Exiles Club next,” said Walker. “Introduce you to all the otherworldly and other-dimensional royalty in exile; thrown up here on the Nightside’s shores through Timeslips or dimensional doors, or some other unfortunate celestial accident. All the lost Kings and Queens, Emperors and Divinities ... If only to show you that royalty can be a real pain in the arse, just like everyone else. Still, nothing like having a King or Queen bow their head to you to cheer up a dull day. Unfortunately, the Exiles are currently a bit mad at me, ever since I found it necessary to have some of them killed to maintain public order. You remember, John.”
I nodded. I remembered their severed heads set on iron spikes outside the Londinium Club. Queen Helena, Monarch of the Evening in a future twilight Earth. Uptown Taffy Lewis, crime boss, and the scumbag’s scumbag. And General Condor, a great leader of men from some future Spacefleet; who made some unfortunate alliances in his quest to do the right thing. Walker never hesitated to deal firmly with anyone who might challenge his authority.
Was he trying to tell me something in his own subtle way? Did he have an iron spike ready for my head if I turned him down?
That was Walker’s main strength; he always kept you guessing.
Somewhat to my surprise, our next stop turned out to be Rats’ Alley; where the homeless scrabble for thrown-out food or a place to lay their heads. Rats’ Alley is a wide, cobbled square and a few narrow tributaries, set behind some of the finest and most upscale restaurants in the Nightside. Here, out of sight of the fine clientele who swan in through the front door, exists a small community of those who have fallen off the edge and can’t find their way back. The homeless, the beggars, the lost and the ragged, the damaged and the damned, living in cardboard boxes, lean-to shelters, plastic sheeting, or only layers of clothing and the occasional blanket. Refugees from the world the rest of us take for granted.
I spent some time here, once.
Rats’ Alley was a rougher, more dangerous place these days, with the loss of
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