Good as they were, I was getting a bit tired of beer and arsters, so I wandered down the street and had breakfast at a nearby restaurant. When I got back to the Free Lunch, Gwendolyn and The Roach were finishing a platter of arsters at the table in the corner. After a moment's hesitation, I decided that avoiding them would be undignified. So I made my way over and accepted The Roach's invitation to sit.
A somewhat strained silence followed, which Gwendolyn broke by saying: "I have to make arrangements to go visit the General. I'll be back shortly."
After she left, the silence returned. I was trying to think of some pleasantry to break the awkwardness when The Roach suddenly exclaimed some meaningless noise. He stood up abruptly and glared around the room. His great beard bristled fury at the universe.
"Absurd situation!" he exclaimed. Then, glancing down at me, he said: "Come on, Benvenuti, let's go outside."
I followed him out of the tavern, not sure what to make of things. He began pacing restlessly back and forth in the courtyard, staring down at the pavement. I soon gave up trying to match his immense strides, and stood unmoving. After a minute or so, he looked over at me and motioned with his head toward a bench against the wall.
Once we were seated, he leaned back against the wall and emitted a great sigh.
"Had I realized the situation soon enough," he said suddenly, "I would have gone elsewhere to spend the night."
"I don't see why," I said, very stiffly. "I have no claim on Gwendolyn."
"Who does?" he demanded. "No man has any claim on any woman. Certainly not Gwendolyn."
He looked over at me, and then burst into a barking laughter.
"Ah, and will you look at those square shoulders! A Sfondrati-Piccolomini of the old school! Face the ovens of hell with a stiff upper lip."
My upper lip was stiff. "I assure you, sirrah, that your concern is misplaced. I hold the lady in the highest esteem, but—"
His laughter became positively canine. When the grotesque mirth ebbed, he shook his head and said:
"I don't think there's anyone in the world who can be such a jackass as a man trying not to be a jackass."
I let this unseemly comment pass. My upper lip, I believe, now resembled the prow of a war galley. Suddenly, I broke.
"I—I just—" I stammered. "I'm only trying—what I mean—" I took a breath. "It is true what I said. There has been nothing—well, nothing serious—between Gwendolyn and me. That is, well, of a physical nature."
Again, that barking laughter.
"Think I give a damn where your pecker's been?" For some reason, this crudity was not offensive, coming from him. When I looked at him, he was gazing at me with a strange look in his eyes. But then, as I've said, his eyes were hard to read.
"This is not about you and me," he said quietly. "Nor, to be honest, do I care a fig about your relationship with Gwendolyn."
He looked away for a moment, and then continued.
"Gwendolyn and I have known each other for many years. During those years, we have been friends and comrades-in-arms. And, whenever the occasion permitted, we have been lovers. It is a hard world we live in, she and I, with few enough of life's joys and comforts." A hint of sorrow came into his voice. "I have thought sometimes, if—well, no point in that." His eyes grew distant, as if gazing at an unreachable horizon.
"During those years," he continued, "neither of us has ever asked any questions of each other. The truth is, for all that I love the woman, and I believe she loves me, there is no great passion in it."
He stared down at his long fingers, restlessly intertwining. "Passion is not something that I can give her. It's the legacy of my own line. Goes all the way back to the first Roach, that." Bleakly, but with great pride: "Our passion is directed elsewhere."
He took a deep breath. "You are something new to her. Quite new, and she doesn't know what to make of it. I'm not certain—who knows, really, what moves another?—but I think you stir up in her all the feelings of a young womanhood that she never had. She was thrown into the revolution at such an early age. Took to it, too, like a fish to water. Little enough chance, she's ever had, to enjoy her life. And most men are too intimidated by her to do more than stare from a distance."
That brought a smile to my lips. "It's a bit disconcerting, when it dawns on you the lady could bend you into a pretzel."
The Roach shook his head. "It's not even that. It's the fierceness in her soul. She could be a third her size, and she'd still terrify most men."
I thought about that, and nodded my head.
The Roach scratched his beard. Even a hand his size almost disappeared in the great mass of hair.
"Anyway, the point I'm trying to get to is this. It was not until this morning, after listening to her talk about you through most of the night, that I finally realized what was going on. Of course, then I was furious." His beard bristled. "I don't like being used."
"How are—oh. You think she's trying to make me jealous?" I frowned. "I don't think—no, I don't believe that. It doesn't seem—"
"You idiot," he said. "Of course she's not trying to make you jealous! What is she, some schoolgirl playing children's games? No, she's trying to drive you off, that's what. Doesn't realize it, of course. But that's what it is, sure as I'm sitting here. And she used me to do it, and I am not pleased."
He stood up abruptly. "I'm not sure why I'm talking to you about this," he said, looking away. "Partly it's because I refuse to be a part of it." Again, the bristling beard. "Damn the woman! Let her solve her own problems!"
He looked down at me. "You really don't understand, do you? Not surprising, you're so like her. I can tell, even on such short acquaintance. Well, lad, I've done my duty by my own lights. I told Gwendolyn this morning that it'd be pure and simple movement business between us until she straightens out the knots in her own love life. I am not a tool. If she wants to chase you off, fine. Let her do it. If she doesn't, that's fine also. I will tell you, for whatever it's worth, that I think you're both fools—you more than she."
He bestowed a world-class glare on me.
"Damn all romantics, anyway! Do you really think you're prepared to give up all your dreams and ambitions?" He laughed, not very pleasantly. "Don't deny it. Your branch of the Sfondrati-Piccolominis all have that madness. Want to shape the world's great art, you do. Statues in the park, paintings on the great cathedrals, only the finest gold filigree! Can you picture Gwendolyn in a noble's salon, arguing over the latest style?"
I avoided his eyes.
"Not likely, is it? And what about you? Are you ready to give that up? I don't mean the company of the rich—I know that doesn't mean anything to you. But if you want to muck around in fine art, you've no other choice, Benvenuti. Precious few patrons you'll find, in Gwendolyn's world."
I was silent.
"Romantics! Stubborn and stupid, like no mule even dreams of being."
At that moment, Gwendolyn came striding into the courtyard. When she saw us, she hesitated, then continued on into the tavern without a word or a glance.
My eyes followed her all the way in. When I looked back at The Roach, his expressionless gaze had returned.
"What the hell," he said. "Whoever said life was easy?" He turned and followed Gwendolyn into the Free Lunch. I remained in the courtyard, seated on the bench. My thoughts were hard to describe. Stupid. Stubborn.
* * *
Some time later, Gwendolyn reemerged into the courtyard. The Roach followed a few steps behind, then stopped. Gwendolyn turned back to face him.
"You're sure you won't come?"
The Roach shook his head. "There's no need, Gwendolyn. You can fill the General in on the situation, and I need to get to Blain as soon as possible. Except for Prygg, the initial blows will land there the hardest. And the comrades in Blain have the best contacts with Pryggia."
She hesitated.
"Go," he said gently.
PART XIV
In Which Our
Heroes Complete
the
First of Their Self-Appointed
Tasks, Falling Thereby Into the Most
Unseemly and Questionable Company,
At Great Peril To Their
Good Reputation.
CHAPTER XVII.
A Search for a Secret Door, Thwarted by a Clumsy Dwarf. A Surprising Entrance Found, Thanks to a Clumsy Dwarf. The Secret of Its Entry Sought By the Mage's Lore, Undone By a Doltish Apprentice. A Stairway Leads Up!
The following day, under cover of a heavy rainfall, wizard and apprentice set out on their mission. Guided by his cunning, Zulkeh quickly found the location of Magrit's house. It was much as described the evening before: a gray, dilapidated building, four stories in height, surmounted by a profusion of turrets, crenelets, and whatnot architectural monstrosities. Even from a distance, the main entrance was plainly evident: a large wooden door, painted yellow, facing directly onto the street.
"Seek we now another entry," whispered Zulkeh to his apprentice. "Quiet now, Shelyid! Enemies lurk all about!" And so saying, the mage circled the block and came up to the rear wall surrounding Magrit's domicile.
"Doubtless there is to be found a secret door in this wall," spoke the mage. "Search now, dwarf, and be quick about it!"
Alas, the dwarf's efforts at finding the concealed entrance were sorely hampered by the overhang of his sack, the which prevented him from approaching the wall closer than two arm-lengths away. Shelyid began to whimper and complain.
"But master, I can't see anything and I can't even get close to the wall."
"Clumsy dwarf!" oathed Zulkeh. "Is the advance of science to be thwarted by the stubby limbs of such as you? Stretch your joints, dolt! Again, I command you: find the secret door!"
Grumbling but obedient, the dwarf made a valiant effort to reach the wall. But in his clumsiness he stepped upon a wooden storm drain grate, the which, overcome by the bantamweight gnome and the heavyweight sack, broke beneath his feet.
"Help, master! Save me!" shrieked Shelyid, as he plummeted into the hole. In an instant he was gone.
"My sack!" cried Zulkeh, and leapt after the gnome.
The gentle reader may imagine the difficult moments which ensued, what with wizard and apprentice swept along down a storm drain torrential with rainfall. Fortunately, though much battered about, our heroes quickly came to rest upon a ledge within the sewer below. All was as dark as a cellar at midnight. But it was only a moment before Shelyid produced a taper from the sack, the which soon produced enough light to see a few feet.
"Diminutive clod!" oathed Zulkeh. "Did I not entrust you with the safekeeping of my thaumaturgic possessions?" He cuffed the gnome soundly.
"Yet all was not in vain," continued the wizard. "For look you, wretch of an apprentice!" His finger pointed to a large gate in the wall next to Shelyid. Through the gate could be seen a passageway beyond, which was dry as a bone. "No doubt yon passage leads direct to some hidden entry into the witch's quarters. Seek we now the trick of its opening."
For long moments did the wizard remain poised in silent stillness, examining the iron gate with that degree of concentration which is the unique attribute of great sorcerers, a depth of perceptive focus which is as far beyond the understanding of common folk as is the eagle's power of flight to frogs in the fen. Meanwhile, Shelyid shivered and hugged himself, looking both bedraggled and woebegone.
At length the mage spoke.
"Know, my stupid but loyal—I graciously leave aside the scandalous events of the evening past—apprentice, that the problem which presents itself to us at this moment is of the deepest intricacy."
"What problem's that, master?" queried Shelyid.
"What problem, you say? It is obvious, lummox! In what manner—and by what means?—are we to open yon secret gate which leads to yon secret passageway which, in turn, leads to yon, not as yet seen, secret door?"
"Why don't we—"
"Quiet, if you will! I must concentrate my full attention on the task, undisturbed by the idle ramblings of an ignorant gnome." Abashed, Shelyid fell silent.
"Of course," mused the mage, "the obvious approach would be the utilization of either the Tomb Robber's Cantrip or the Grave Despoiler's Cantation. But the first runs the risk of arousing the pharaohs from their necrotic sleep, and the second, as is well known, will summon every zombie within miles. The pharaohs, of course, can be encapsuled in a cartouche, and even a mage much less puissant than myself can thwart any number of zombies. But the use of the cartouche will release great goetic energies, which Magrit—the noxious harridan!—will be sure to detect. And, as all experience attests, thwarted zombies would raise so great a din of protestation as to awaken every deaf mute in the city. No, no, 'twill not do." And again the wizard fell to musing.
"But, master," whispered Shelyid timidly, "I think if we—"
"Did I not bid you to be silent?" demanded the mage. Then, seeing the hurt reproach on his apprentice's face, the wizard sighed deeply. "My loyal but stupid apprentice, you do not begin to grasp the difficulty. It is utterly pointless for you to fumble about in your feeble mind for the solution to the problem."
Here the wizard wagged a solemn finger at the dwarf. "Know, Shelyid, that for eons the greatest minds of mankind were united in the opinion that secret doors and passageways, buried entries and the like, were impenetrable to any not privy to their secrets. 'Twas only the supreme genius of Schliemann Laebmauntsforscynneweëld which finally proved this universal belief incorrect, when he opened up to the world's understanding the hidden treasures of the lost and fabled cities of antiquity. His example before them, other members of the clan have since followed in his footsteps, of whom the great Breasted Laebmauntsforcynneweëld is perhaps the most notable."
The mage settled himself comfortably, preparing, 'twas clear as day, for the pleasure of a learned lecture. It seemed, on the other hand—judging, at least, from the furrow on his brow, the clutching of his shivering limbs to his body, the wrinkling of his nose at the noxious odors emanating from the proximate sewer—that his apprentice did not fully share the wizard's anticipation of the didactic prospect. But the mage took no heed, being totally engrossed in the pressing subject at hand.
"Sad to say, however, the prodigious progress made by the descendants of Schliemann in advancing the lore of secret doors, buried treasures and such, were not matched by any comparable feats emanating from their rivals in the normally noble, but in this instance sadly remiss, clan of the Sfondrati-Piccolominis. This peculiar archaeologic imbalance 'twixt the great clans—well-known to the world's cognoscenti—has itself been the subject of much scholastic inquiry and debate. Indeed, 'twould be the proper subject of a profound dissertation on some future occasion—remind me of this point, gnome!—to examine this problem at our leisure. But now is not the moment—for even as I exposit, time wanes! Let me simply say here that it is my tentative opinion that the reticence of the Sfondrati-Piccolominis is best explained as the result of their collective shame at the disrepute brought upon their scholarly traditions by the jackanape Houdini Sfondrati-Piccolomini, the which charlatan and rogue did so—"
The mage's discourse was interrupted by a loud clangor. Looking up in surprise, Zulkeh was even more astonished to discover that the large iron gate, the very item the complexities of whose secret of opening had been the proximate cause of his study, was even now, at that very moment, lying flat upon the ledge. The way to the passage beyond lay open and unhindered.
"I'm sorry, master," said Shelyid. "My hand must have slipped."
"Several times, it would appear," spoke the mage stonily. He eyed the many clasps and latches which were strewn about the ledge, the which had previously held shut the gate and had, or so the evidence indicated, been detached by the clumsy dwarf.
"Bah!" oathed Zulkeh. He glowered at his apprentice. " 'Tis fortunate for you, my stupid but loyal apprentice, that Magrit in her cunning has placed here a common and ordinary gate, cleverly disguised as a secret entry." He glowered further,
then shrugged.
"But what boots it? 'Tis perhaps fitting that the debauched harridan should be undone by her excessive trickery. Follow me closely, Shelyid!"
This command given, the wizard strode through the gateway into the passage beyond. A few short steps were taken by our heroes to the end of this passageway, where, opening to their right, was unmistakable proof of the sorcerer's prescience. For there, even before them, was a small and dingy room, empty of all furnishings. At the far end, but a few steps away, a narrow and winding staircase wended its way upward.
"Magrit's basement," proclaimed Zulkeh, his voice filled with satisfaction. "And there lies a staircase, the which, I have no doubt in my mind, leads to a secret entrance into the witch's very lair. Leave the sack behind, dwarf, for you are clumsy enough without it. And remember—the utmost trickery and maneuver!"
CHAPTER XVIII.
The Witch Encountered. Indignities and Introductions. The Dwarf Behaves Badly. His Conduct Reproved by a Reputable Agent. The Astonishing Sequel Thereto. Uncouth Merriment and Wagers. A Salamander Protests!
The creaky stairs climbed up and up. The mage and his apprentice ascended, moving with utmost stealth and cunning. At length, they espied a landing above. Beyond the landing lay a door, standing slightly ajar.
"The utmost stealth and cunning, Shelyid!" spoke the mage in a low voice. "Even now do we approach the witch's lair."
"But, master," grumbled the dwarf, "why do we have to creep around like this in your friend Magrit's house? I'm tired! Why don't we just go up and knock on the door?"
"Bah!" oathed Zulkeh. "What absurd proposal is this? The witch is not my friend—and this, for two reasons. Imprimis, she is not my friend because she is a crass termagant, a loathsome virago, grotesque in both habit and mind. Secundus, and even were this not so, she is not my friend because I have long since eschewed friendship. For know, dwarf, that friends are as detrimental to the pursuit of science as enemies. I say this to caution you against your regrettable tendency—so sorrily evident in your recent conduct—to become ensnared by goodfellows, jovial sorts, and the like."