“That is not a denial,” Gilberec said to Wilcolac. To Matthias he said, “Come on. Let’s go. This is pointless.”
Yumiko had been listening very intently, glad that no one was looking at her.
But just then she shivered and glanced down. The collie dog had finished his caviar snack and laid himself down at the foot of Gilberec’s chair, placing his furry head on the carpet between his paws so that his bright eyes were staring straight at her.
When Gil stood up, the dog growled and coughed and made a slight sniffing noise. Gilberec turned his head, saw her in her scanty, snug costume, but this time, instead of averting his eyes, he looked at her face. A thoughtful frown creased his brow.
Wilcolac said wryly to Matthias, “At this point in the good-cop, bad-cop routine, you, as the boy good-cop, are supposed to restrain your hotheaded friend to sit again, and this will make me eager to show my cards.”
Matthias smiled and scooped up some caviar on a cracker. “I wish we were that organized. The Swan Knight is no hothead. He is slow to anger, but once he is angry, he is slow to forgive. He feels about truth the way I feel about forgiveness. Guilt and fear and hate tie men to their sins with heavy chains and long so that when they die, their tormented spirits remain on earth, haunting the scenes of their crimes. Without forgiveness, how can they be set free to go onward to their reward? So I have no qualms about entering the house of a Necromancer. You have more need of my services than any!”
Wilcolac said sharply, “What does that mean?”
“I saw a Jack-o’-Lantern in an upper window when I entered this house and smelled the spoor of many hounds. You flay the flesh of men for the benefit of wolves and expose the flesh of women for the benefit of men. Do you think I do not know who you are? What you do here?”
Wilcolac squinted at the young novice, and a look of true hatred appeared, if only for a moment, in his eye. “I think an innocent soul like yours cannot imagine the vices I sell, not even in your most sordid nightmares, little boy.”
Matthias smiled, but his eyes were sad. “You forget. Saint Jean Baptiste is only two streets away. Your patrons come to our confessional booth. My master has heard confessed every detail of all the sins you encourage. But they have been washed away, removed entirely from the dreadful scroll no man can read. I am familiar with your works and your ways and familiar with how to undo them. You are bold indeed to invite me into your house. Unlike my knightly friend, my weapons are spiritual and cannot be bound in their scabbards. No do my weapons know any truce, nor rest.”
Wilcolac’s fingers tightened on his walking stick, but he said nothing.
Matthias smiled. “Invite your servant to sit and join us. Surely it is more fitting that I should wait on her than she should wait on me.” And with this, Matthias stood. He turned and smiled gently at Yumiko and with a slight, almost courtly bow, beckoned her toward his empty chair.
Yumiko was paralyzed with indecision. Did this young man recognize her after all? She had been masked when they met in front of the Catoblepas Warehouse. Perhaps he recalled her from before she lost her memory. If so, what did he know about her?
She desperately wanted to hear what would be said next, but if she so much as raised her eyes to Wilcolac to see whether he wanted her to sit or to stay where she was, he might remember that she was the newfound Moth waitress whom he did not trust and send her away.
But she need not have worried. Wilcolac’s full attention was now on Gilberec, who did not seem to be bluffing about leaving after all.
Gilberec had gathered his sword and his dog and taken a step toward the door when Wilcolac uttered a sad laugh and motioned him back toward his chair. “Be not so hasty, sir! I see there is no need to be indirect with you, young Sir Knight!”
The dog barked, and Gilberec paused. He turned.
Wilcolac spoke quickly, “Not all Cobwebs regard the Anarchists favorably: but I turn away no customer who is well behaved and pays his tab. I do not deny that I have had dealings with them in times past! This cannot surprise you. Certain of my experiments require access to uncouth and unhallowed substances difficult to acquire without the aid of unlawful powers. Nor would I deny to them that I have spoken with you Arthurians and that I am willing to deal with you. Come! Surely you knew this of me before you accepted my invitation! Where else could such a parley take place, but here? Will you hear this deal? A means has been found to break the Black Spell of the elfs. Does it matter who has discovered the secret weak spot? If there is no firebucket at hand to dash the flames, a chamberpot will do!”
Gil said, “Well? What are you offering?”
“Perhaps in days of old, when the elfs were strong and still knew how to walk the corridors of air and pass through the windows of Heaven, men with their gold idols and bronze spears would have been no match. But now? Only Winged Vengeance knows the high and secret path back to the toppled ruins of Sarras in the sunset clouds, and what is he but a menace? Can you tell us he is not your leader?”
Gil had seated himself. “He is not. The Last Crusade serves King Arthur.”
Wilcolac said, “Then why does Arthur not walk the earth? Why is he absent from his throne in Cardiff or his seat in the Seven Hills of Rome? Who sends you forth?”
Gilberec spoke in ringing words, “Hear my voice! Arthurus Rex is king, warlord, and sovereign of the Last Crusade. To him have I sworn fealty, and my troth I keep. His laws I uphold, his words I treasure, his dreams I follow. Arthur serves truth and justice, and I serve him. Let man or elf, mortal or immortal, or the mighty demons of Hell who are the foes of Arthur know well that I oppose them with all the strength of spirit, soul, and mortal body I possess, now unto the last, so help me God. I have spoken! Who sends you?”
Yumiko stared at the young, silver-haired Swan Knight in awe. She was not sure on whose side anyone was, but, hearing such words, she hoped her side was the same as his.
Chapter Four: Truth and Half-Truth
1. Rumors of Raids and Voyages
Wilcolac said, “I am not given leave to say whom I represent. It is an interested party among the Cobwebs who are no friends to Erlkoenig nor any elf. I assure you they can break the Black Spell. But means are wanting.”
Matthias said, “What means do you seek? And why do you suppose we have it?”
Wilcolac leaned back, poker faced. “I seek the Ring of Mists. Know you of it?”
“It is one of the Thirteen Treasures of Lyonesse,” Matthias said, “It was kept in the Tower of Glass in Troynovant upon a baleful mead. The news heard among the elfs says that a fabulous digging machine with a drill on its nose, an Iron Mole, broke in through the foundations of the tower from below, where no eyes watched. Doctor Rotwang Cobweb, one of your clan, built that machine. Perhaps you should inquire of him where the lost ring resides? Have you spoken with him of late perhaps?”
Wilcolac sipped his whiskey a moment, thinking. “How did you know Rotwang built the Iron Mole? The factory was buried in a long-abandoned mineshaft in Pennsylvania and manned with the blind, who never saw what they were fabricating.”
“A little bird told me,” said Gilberec.
Wilcolac raised an eyebrow and took another sip. “Rotwang Cobweb has been known to come here to drink and watch the girls upon occasion. Most recently, he quenched his wrath in beer and whiskey, for it seems his intern, his apprentice, stole the Iron Mole and made off with it. The young man was something of a prodigy. A member of the Moth family if I am not mistaken.”
Gilberec looked startled, but Matthias’s bland expression betrayed nothing. Matthias said, “Doctor Rotwang is justly famous for the artificial woman he created. The elfs still blame him for the havoc she caused. That, and his earthquake machine, his counterfeiting apparatus, and his other tools of mischief have rendered him unwelcome among the elfish courts. So he had an apprentice, did he? A lab assistant?”
Wilcolac smiled maliciously. His voice was a soft purr. “You must have heard of this lad! He once flew to the moon in a
vehicle of his own devising and landed in the mysterious Blue Area in the Sea of Rain, south of Plato’s Crater, at the ruined non-Euclidean towers of Azathothopolis, where it is forbidden for mortals to go.”
Gil grimaced, irked. Wilcolac spoke on, smiling slightly.
“Or surely you have heard of his adventures in faraway places, or his many wonderful machines, such as his supersonic dirigible, his giant searchlight, his war tank, or his amazing motorcycle which needs no refueling?”
Yumiko’s heart beat rapidly in her chest, and her face was warm, but she did not know why. She glanced down at her fingers. They were trembling. Was it fear or shock? Was it joy? What did her lost self know?
Wilcolac’s smile deepened. “Now, last I heard, this youth had involved himself in the affairs of Winged Vengeance and was aiding him in his ghastly crime spree. Did neither of you hear anything of the sort, perhaps, from your sources? Your birds or your confessional booths or wherever it is teenagers pick up top-secret intelligence?”
Gil started to speak, but once again Matthias held up his hand. “For a second time you mention the vigilante. Out of curiosity,” Matthias asked quietly, “Why do you ask about him?”
“Why do you ask why I ask?” asked Wilcolac.
“Because it is an odd coincidence that you mention him,” said Matthias.
“Odd why?” asked Wilcolac.
“After you, if you please, Mr. Cobweb.” And, when Wilcolac hesitated, Matthias said, “You have to volunteer information to get information.”
“You must promise not to repeat this to anyone,” said Wilcolac.
Gil shook his head. “That promise is too broad.”
Wilcolac smiled slightly, “Then promise you will not repeat this to the Supreme Council of Anarchists, their servants, or their spies. I fear them.”
Gil said, “I will not knowingly aid the Anarchists in their work. Is that sufficient?”
“From the mouth of a man who never lies, it is sufficient,” said Wilcolac. He dropped his voice. “The Anarchists until recently, very recently, had control of a dark doorway, a moon-door. The hinges are forged from iron taken from the Ocean of Storms, and the doorknob is a nugget of moon-crystal large as a fist found in the Sea of Dreams. The master craftsmen of old knew the secrets of their making. That is lost, as is so much. The Anarchists used this door to send their hordes swiftly through the mist from one hemisphere to another, directly into the Iron Mole, directly into lower parts of the Tower of Glass. Rotwang had hidden it on his vehicle before it was stolen. You see? The thing was arranged. A trap. This clever inventor’s apprentice was played for a fool by Rotwang. Isn’t that always the way with clever boys, book-fed geniuses cloistered in ivory towers? Too smart to realize they are rubes and chumps.”
Gil stirred restlessly and looked as if he would like to strike Wilcolac in the face.
Wilcolac said, “The clever boy was allowed to steal the Iron Mole to bring the moon-door into the Tower. At the right time, the door popped open. Countless loyal fighting slaves of the Anarchists poured forth, without any of the trouble of crossing the watched and guarded grounds between.”
Gilberec said grimly, “They poured forth to their deaths, or so I hear. The main force of fighting men was wiped out, and now the surviving Anarchists resort to more dangerous and desperate measures to regain lost power.”
Wilcolac smiled. “They have more power than they seem. Force of arms is not where strength lies. You would not understand this, young knight.”
Gilberec raised both eyebrows. “Would I not? That, Magician, is the most surprising thing you’ve said all evening. Not that you said it but that you believe it.”
Matthias said, “Mr. Cobweb, if I may? You say Rotwang does not have the ring. Why did he not leave by the same dark door he used to enter? Why did he leave any of the Treasures of Lyonesse behind?”
Wilcolac stopped smiling. “Winged Vengeance entered the Glass Tower by an unknown means, unseen, and dismounted the door, took it, and used it to escape, leaving all the Anarchists and their armies stranded with no retreat.”
Matthias said, “You say he has the ring? The vigilante?”
Wilcolac said, “No, but I say let us not rule out the possibility that he has it. Or soon will.”
“Why?” asked Matthias.
Wilcolac wagged a finger at him. “Not so fast. It is your turn to answer. What is the odd coincidence?”
Matthias said, “Just that I saw the vigilante’s sidekick, the Foxmaiden. In New Jersey. A few days ago. I think her master was burning down a warehouse.”
Wilcolac said, “Why is that odd?”
“Because she is dead.” Matthias said.
Yumiko controlled any reaction from showing on her face, but she felt the prickling sensation of sweat beginning to form on her skin. No one seemed to notice, except the dog raised his nose and looked at her.
Wilcolac picked up his cigar and inspected it thoughtfully. “This is interesting news. I know some unsavory people who would welcome it. Are you saying you can see ghosts?”
“I can see ghosts,” said Matthias, “And she was not one.”
Wilcolac said, “Or perhaps you did not see who you thought you did. Anyone can wear a mask.”
“Not anyone can teargas a pack of wolves with a smoke pellet, swing on a wire like a trapeze artist, leap to the top of a telephone pole like an acrobat, pull a longbow taller than she is out of thin air, and then, with the accuracy of a trick-shot artist, pepper her pursuers with those poisonous arrows of red meteoric iron the police have plucked out of so many corpses so recently. I’ve seen her in action before.”
Yumiko wondered at that word. Poisonous…? What had she been shooting?
Wilcolac said, “An apparition then? Some signs shown us by the hidden world seem solid. I saw one myself, a fortnight ago. It was on the evening of February 29th—a day that is between the calendar months, hence highly significant in occult matters, you understand. And as I was coming out of the Fixer’s magic shop, I saw there, floating in the air above my head, a vision of a dark-haired girl who was not wearing any…” He looked at his two guests judiciously, cleared his throat, and said, “Well, I took it as an omen and hired the next dark-haired girl who asked for a job here. For luck!”
Matthias squinted, opened his mouth, but then closed it again and shook his head, looking troubled. “No apparition kills enemies with real and solid arrows.”
Wilcolac said, “Why are you so sure she is dead?”
“I have it on good authority that she is,” said Matthias.
Wilcolac raised one eyebrow. “Who would that be?”
Matthias said, “Trade secret.”
But Gil interrupted, “Me. I told him.”
Matthias sighed.
Wilcolac stared in wonder at Gil. “And how did you know?”
Gil said, “The Queen of Hell likes little black cats and lets them go into and out of her domain unharmed by the same secret back way Orpheus once used. I talked to one. A little black cat from Ulthar. She swore by Bast that the Foxmaiden had died and her shade had been seen by the riverbank, waiting for Charon.”
Wilcolac had an odd look on his face, a look of envy, or jealousy. “But even when you can force a spirit into a cat, and force a cat into a Carabas cap, and get the little monster to talk in human speech, it never gives straight answers. It lies.”
Gil said shortly, “Not to me. Not twice.”
Wilcolac seemed annoyed.
Matthias said, “Your turn, Mr. Cobweb. Why are you sure the vigilante has the Ring of Mists?”
Wilcolac said, “I am not sure, but, as I said, let us not rule out the possibility. I know from my sources he is here in the city and the Anarchists are hunting for him. He engineered the destruction of their main host. And yet with their every resource, natural and unnatural, they cannot find him. The Anarchists can overthrow nations, wreck economies, smash rail lines, and ruin industrial combines and international banks. Everything the humans think
was done by the CIA or the KGB or terrorists from the Middle East has their hand behind it! Their fingers pull the strings of all the marionettes in the world! And yet this one man eludes them. How?”
Gil said, “Every elf can summon the mist and walk unseen among men. And many a Moth and Cobweb knows this art as well.”
Wilcolac made a dismissive gesture. “To be sure. But as their earthly image grows dim in the minds of men, their unearthly image grows bright to elfs and nephilim, ghosts and cats, and all night creatures! To blind the elf, one needs the Ring of Mists or the Robe of Mists. And everyone knows Sir Garlot the Red holds that.”
Matthias said, “Which does not tell us why you think the vigilante has the Ring of Mists.”
Wilcolac leaned back. “Simple logic. Who was present at the Glass Tower when the elfs lost the ring? If the Anarchists do not have it and the mad scientist’s intern does not have it, who has it? The vigilante has it, or else someone loyal to him does.”
Yumiko kept her face very still when Wilcolac said this. He was speaking of her.
She realized with a shock that, despite everything, despite her loss of memory and his master’s suspicions and scorn, she was loyal to Winged Vengeance. She had to keep him safe also.
And save Elfine. And avenge her mother. And save her boyfriend. And not get caught, tortured, or killed.
But she realized the problem was larger, deeper, weightier. For apparently her ring held the key to breaking the Black Spell, which held all mankind in thrall. It robbed mortal men of the sight of the glories of the world in which they lived, hid whole continents, and disguised the elfish thefts and abductions. It blinded men’s eyes and erased memories.