The folly looked much as it had when they had first found it. Dark leaves were strewn again across the floor, obscuring the peculiar mosaic and the capstone that covered the secret passage.
“Who moved them back?” wondered Brian, biting his lower lip.
“Speculant,” suggested Gregory.
The dark-haired boy moved to shove the leaves off the capstone with the side of his shoe. Gregory stood with his hands in his pockets, watching his friend work. He said, “Hey, as a dog returns to its vomit, so doth a fool return to his folly.”
The capstone was clear. Heaving, they lifted it out of its socket and dropped it once more on the tile floor with a crunch. Brian’s pale face was red, and his collar had slipped. He pulled at the shirt and stuck his fingers behind the starched collar until it was straight. Gregory worked at lighting one of the lanterns. When they were ready, they went down.
The Speculant had listened to their complaint and brought the boat back to the Dark Marina. Once more, the two of them climbed in, unhooked the skiff from the clips on shore, and started up the ornate engine.
They drifted through the passageway that rang with the roar of their engine; they passed out onto the surface of Lake Gwarnmore. The noise of the engine was swallowed by the huge cavern around them.
The boat crawled across the surface of the subterranean lake. Nothing disturbed the surface of the dark water, although a thousand times, in the boys’ minds, the boat was capsized by some heaving, coiled, glistening monstrosity.
Brian sat with the perfume bottle in his hands.
They heard a sharp crackling. There was light in the cavern. Green light.
They ducked low in the boat and peered over the side. It sloshed from side to side.
A fleet of ghost ships rode the waters, glowing. An orchestra played a weird symphony on a barge, a symphony shot through with dissonance, while dancers executed remarkable hops and leaps on a floating stage. Flags and pennants hung over the water, where synchronized swimmers in goldfish plumes spun their arms. On another barge, on a throne, sat the young blond man they had seen at the hunt, his crown glistening in long-faded sunlight. The music fluted through the cavern.
And then, with a snap, the vision was gone.
They were left in darkness. Brian was clutching the perfume bottle to his chest.
They sat back on their seats. The boat puttered onward.
After what seemed like ages, they passed beneath the ornate arch and went down the Taskwith Canal. Brian looked nervously at the prow, thinking of the beast that waited for them. Gregory made rhythmic tapping noises with his tongue and the roof of his mouth, sucking in his breath, impatiently drumming his fingers against the rim of the boat.
He turned around at the whiffling of the atomizer. Brian was smothering himself in the scentless perfume. His eyes were closed, and he squeezed the bulb again and again, spritzing it onto his skin and clothes. When he was done, and had squirted even his ankles, he handed the bottle to Gregory, and Gregory began to cover himself. They could smell nothing but wet stone. Gregory held up his arm and sniffed under it. Nothing.
Everything depended on that.
Finally, the boat pulled up to the Steps of Doom. Solemnly, the boys began to fasten the boat to the shore.
They got out. Snoring echoed from Snarth’s Cavern.
They walked up the stairs. The ogre was curled up against the stalactites and stalagmites, grumbling to himself in his sleep. Gregory and Brian began to creep across the floor.
He shifted.
They froze.
His arm crept out from his body. The fingers were padding across the pitted floor.
Brian and Gregory moved softly toward the exit into the city.
The nose twitched.
The sleeping giant fumbled with his hand.
Rock grated beneath Gregory’s feet.
Snarth snorted and lifted up his head. He growled. They ran. He rose.
He was standing, sniffing. They had reached the steps. He yowled. The echoes bounced around the room. Everywhere, there was the clatter of hard-heeled shoes against stone. The beast thrashed one way, and then another, feeling at the stone. He drew in great drags of air, his head thrown back. He charged one way and another across the cavern, smelling.
The boys had made it down the steps. They could hear the ogre thumping at the walls.
They ran down the street.
They could hear him headed the other direction, toward the boat—toward its tang of gasoline.
His footsteps faded.
Gregory held up his lantern.
They were alone, in the City of Gargoyles.
It was impossible to judge the size of the cavern that housed the City of Gargoyles. The dim beams of the lantern, when swung about, only served to reveal a few abnormally steep gables or a grotesque bit of statuary or an empty street—never any complete picture. There were no echoes. The dark void was vast and silent.
They began walking. Street after street of empty, stone-carved houses lay around them. Tiny alleys with lopsided, overhanging dwellings could be found next to wide avenues with large town houses. Everywhere, complex, steep roofs and towers flashed through the lantern light. On every window, on every lintel, on every chimney were wide grins and subtle sneers, growling jowls and slumbering lips, glaring eyes and blank stares—the expressions of a thousand intertwined gargoyles, elves, and beasts. The creatures wrestled with one another, they embraced one another, they crawled in vines and hung from swags of laurel. Some of the buildings, obviously shops, sported large carvings of their trade over their doorways: loaves of bread; fish strung through the gills on lines; woolens; scooters; furs.
Everything was empty inside. Whatever was there had rotted years before. A few of the buildings had collapsed long ago, leaving only a few twisted stone hands grasping out of the rubble as a clue to what once had been.
The first specter they encountered was in a town square. It appeared when they were admiring a statue in the center of the square—a stocky, strong-thewed man whose arms were crossed in disapproval.
“Looks like a Viking,” said Gregory, noting the chain mail beneath the regal robes.
“Except for the ears,” said Brian, wobbling the lantern at the figure’s head. The ears were pointed and elongated, projecting from the great mass of braided hair and beard.
They stepped away from the statue, and there was a crackle of energy. Two people, a man and a woman, were sitting by them at a table, the man in a bowler hat. They took tea and glowed bright green. They spoke the runic language.
Gregory stumbled backward. The couple shut off like a light. Gone. The two friends looked around the square. It was dusty and empty, and looked like it had been so for centuries. They kept on walking.
Now the boys were on a great causeway where, in cobbled circles, trees had probably grown. Huge private palaces and houses were spread along the avenue, and white marble obelisks lined the sides of the streets. Carriages flashed briefly into vivid green life. Men and women were walking with parasols. Pointy-eared businessmen in high collars tapped the cobbles with their canes. When the boys moved on, the specters snapped off, and it was once again dark.
The boys found the dockyards, looking out over what was probably Lake Gwarnmore. Victorian streetlamps lined the pier. A stone dock with heavy iron mooring rings lay below, where once great ships had stood.
Abruptly, there were sailors there, glowing green, dressed in striped shirts, tossing crates to the shore, shouting orders to the rigging.
Later, high on a hill, they found a cathedral. Robed saints and angels, carved in white stone, posed in a thousand little alcoves, holding the symbols of their sainthood: here a palm leaf, a little ruined tower, a masquerade mask, a pair of blue jays, a pennywhistle. The great doors of the cathedral were slightly ajar, ringed by a choir of carved angels.
Beside the cathedral stood the castle, at the crown of the hill. A vast palace of steep roofs and gables, of slim turrets and parapets,
rose across a chasm. A heavy drawbridge led from the cobbled square into the dark gate of the castle.
“Let’s go,” said Brian, walking toward the castle. Gregory followed him. They crossed the square, hard shoes clacking against the cobblestones, and started across the bridge.
Gregory paused on the threshold of the drawbridge. “This wood is new,” he pointed out.
Brian looked down. Indeed, the slats beneath his feet were of yellow, rather splintery wood, looking not older than a few months at most. “You’re right,” he said.
“Well, it won’t bite us,” said Gregory, shrugging, and they continued across.
Halfway to the gatehouse, unable to resist, they went to peer over the edge of the drawbridge. Although they shined their lantern down into the fissure, nothing but the uneven stone walls could be seen.
They continued through the archway of the gatehouse and into the courtyard of the palace. Dark gates and pas-sageways led in all directions, winding away into the depths of the huge castle.
As they walked, the castle was filled with spirits. In the kitchens, chefs with windup keys in their backs labored over steaming cauldrons. In the vaults beneath, there were glowing barrels and bundles. Ghostly servants, wound up and ticking, walked among the crates, sifting through packing hay to pluck out jars of strawberry preserves or to draw forth bottles of Avalonian wine from moldy wine racks. As the two boys stared about, the vision faded.
In the ballroom, there was abruptly a ball. A dwarfish emperor sat on the throne, swamped by his robes and his crown and his ears, while around him, people curtsied and danced, and the band played, “Farewell, Fair Broceliande.” The tiny emperor stood on his throne and pointed and shouted things, obviously tipsy.
In a bedroom, a counselor or statesman paced, frowning, dressed in a tight wig and long coat.
In another bedroom, there were two men who resembled Jack Stimple—dark rings around the eyes—the same grim look—Thusser—who wore sashes over their tailcoats. They had out a map of the city and were whispering together, as if scheming.
The rooms briefly sprang into phantasmal life as the boys passed through, and then, when they had gone, once more became dark and hollow. The ghosts seemed unaware of the boys’ presence. Spirits wandered on the balconies over the dark city and giggled on the stairs. They practiced fencing in the courtyards. They fixed loose tiles on the slanting roofs.
The gardens were blooming again after centuries, with wide, translucent flowers. Fountains sprayed spectral water from their dry throats, and sundials glimmered in the light of a long-dead sun. Pointy-eared courtiers in long, silk frock coats strolled together and talked.
“These aren’t ghosts,” said Brian. “What we’re seeing is the past.”
“I can’t take any more of this,” said Gregory. “I’m hungry. I’m tired.”
Brian nodded. “Let’s eat,” he said.
“Feasting hall, this way.”
They went to the feasting hall and took out their sandwiches. There was a fireplace at one end, a minstrels’ gallery at the other. The mayonnaise was getting ripe. On the wall hung an ancient tapestry of browning cloth. In the lantern light it was difficult to make out the details of the complex design, but it appeared to be a hunting scene. Determined-looking elfin creatures, dressed in Elizabethan costumes, rode through a cavern away from a white-spired castle; bats with little colored hoods hung from the hunters’ heavy gloves. A rather small dragon-like creature slithered into a bone-strewn lair, glaring back at his mounted pursuers.
“What’s next?” asked Gregory.
Brian shrugged.
Gregory said, “I wonder what Jack Stimple’s up to.”
“I hate to think,” said Brian.
“Let’s look at the board.”
Gregory took the board out of his pack and laid it down. The City of Gargoyles was now drawn in fully, surrounding Lake Gwarnmore on two sides. A main avenue led up to St. Diancecht’s Cathedral and, next to it, the Palace of Norumbega.
“Look,” said Brian. “The finish line. We’re close. Really close.”
The finish square was right next to the cathedral. But in the space for the cathedral, it said, FINAL CHALLENGE. SOLVE RIDDLE OR LOSE TURN.
“Let’s go,” said Gregory. “Let’s find out what this challenge is before Jack Stimple gets there.”
“If he hasn’t already,” said Brian.
They went back down into the castle’s courtyard and across the drawbridge. They walked across the square to St. Diancecht’s, shining their light across the statues of saints and angels.
They pulled the great doors open. The vast nave of the cathedral was spaced out with pillars and sarcophagi. The two walked in, their footsteps whispering on the floor. Mosaic tiles formed spirals and sunbursts on the floor.
Ghosts flickered momentarily on phantom kneeling pads, praying devoutly, then disintegrated. A few chanting monks, dressed in dark robes, drifted, glowing down the center aisle before fading away, their voices still echoing in the high vaulting of the cathedral.
Right before the altar of the cathedral was a marble statue of a king seated upon a throne. He had no face. The boys went up to inspect the statue. The crown, a slim coronet, was made of cheap, crumbling plaster.
“That’s sort of strange,” mused Brian.
“There’s something written here,” said Gregory.
“Hmm?” Brian moved in to look at the inscription as well.
I AM A KING WITHOUT A CROWN. MY SUBJECTS ARE FLED AND MY KINGDOM THROWN DOWN. FIND THE CROWN THAT LOOKS JUST THE SAME AS THIS ONE ON ME—AND WIN OUR GAME.
At the base of the statue, near the carved folds of the king’s robes, lay two metal boxes held together with duct tape, each with a red button on it. One was labeled GREGORY BUCHANAN, and the other one BRIAN THATZ.
“What is it?” asked Gregory.
“I d’know. They have our names on them, though.”
Gregory picked the boxes up. “Should I push the button?”
“No,” said Brian. “Put it down.”
Gregory did, looking quizzically at his friend.
“Now,” said Brian, “let’s toss something heavy on it.
Something that will push the buttons while we’re standing a little ways away.”
They moved away from it. Gregory snapped at the buttons with his blanket. “My aim is usually perfect,” he said. “I mean, with a towel.”
He snapped the blanket again, and the button went down.
The boxes disappeared.
The boys stared at the empty floor.
“Great,” said Gregory. “Great suggestion.”
Brian went closer and looked at the space where the boxes had been. Nothing.
“Um,” said Brian. “Sorry.”
And then the boxes reappeared. Brian picked them up.
He and Gregory looked them over. “Hmm,” said Gregory. “Looks like something you order out of the back of a comic book—s’posed to give you X-ray vision or something.”
A row of monks faded into place before the plain stone altar, chanting quietly to themselves.
Gregory said, “Let’s push the buttons.”
“Both of them?”
“Where you go, I go,” said Gregory.
They both put their thumbs on the buttons. They pressed. They waited.
The monks gained form and color. Torches and candles burned in iron candelabras all around the great cathedral, and priests wandered about in groups of two or three, whispering to one another.
“Excuse me,” said the archbishop they had seen outside in the hunt. Now he was approaching them, dressed in his pointed miter. “Excuse me. No teleportation in the cathedral, please.”
“Oh,” said Gregory, choking. “Sorry.”
“No problem. Just makes us antsy. And if you’d come in the middle of a service, well, that would have been more than a little bit embarrassing.” The archbishop smiled lightly.
“Yes, of course,” agreed Gregory.
“Oh, wait! You’re the ones who are trying to save the world or something, aren’t you?” the archbishop speculated, bobbing his finger at them while, with the other hand, he stroked his chin.
“No, no. We’re playing a Game,” offered Brian.
“Oh. Well, you told us you were trying to save the world.”
“We’ll say anything for a chuckle sometimes,” said Gregory, mystified.
“Wait,” said Brian. “When did we say that?”
“When you took the emperor’s coronet,” answered the archbishop. “A few years ago.” He looked bewildered. “Don’t you remember?”
Brian insisted, “Where were we? It’s very important. Where did we get the coronet?”
“Oh,” said the archbishop, “we were—”
The color drained from his face. He was pallid green. He had begun to glow once more. The candles faded, and the two boys were standing in the empty cathedral again, the ghost of the archbishop peering about, attempting to find them. “Hello? Hello?”
“Hello,” called Gregory.
“Hello?”
“Hello!” insisted Gregory, running to place himself right in front of the archbishop. He waved his hands. “Hello!”
“Hello?”
“He can’t hear you,” said Brian. “We went into the past. Then we came back. He’s looking for us hundreds of years ago.”
Gregory turned, frustrated, reciting, “Five cents please. For an additional two minutes, insert five cents please.” He crossed his arms.
The archbishop scratched his forehead and removed his miter to run a hand through his dark hair. He looked around, bewildered, then snapped his miter so it turned inside out. A new and more complex pattern was revealed. He put it back on his head, at a jauntier angle, and walked away.
“Hey!” said Gregory appreciatively. “His hat thingy is reversible!”
“Oh,” said Brian. “What a neat idea.”
The archbishop and his reversible miter faded away. The sanctuary was dark, save for the flickering light of the lantern that rested on the floor.
“So what are you saying happened?” said Gregory.