It was a bumpy twenty-minute trip. Lafayette held on, feeling his teeth clack at each uneven cobble, regretting that he had neglected to provide padded seats and a window. The wagon swayed, mounted a slight incline and then halted with a jolt. Feet clattered; voices muttered. The door clanked and swung open. Lafayette stepped down, looked around interestedly at a wide, cobbled courtyard fronted on all four sides by elaborate façades of rusticated stone, ornate with columns, pilasters, niches with statues, bright-lit rows of high, Gothic-arched windows. Far above, the slopes of massive mansard roofs gleamed a dull green in the moonlight. There were flower beds and geometric shapes of manicured lawn; clumps of tall poplars shimmered their silvery leaves in the night breeze. Flaming lanterns atop tall poles lighted a cavernous colonnaded entry, beside which two brass-helmeted, ramrod-stiff guardsmen in baggy knickers of Bromo-Seltzer blue and puff-sleeved jackets in red and yellow stripes stood with arquebuses at order arms.
"Now, if you'll just step this way, ah, sir," the sergeant said nervously, "I'll turn you over to the household detachment. After that you can disappear any time you like, just so I get a receipt from the desk sergeant first, OK?"
"Be calm, Sergeant," O'Leary soothed. "I'm not going to vanish just yet." He shook his head admiringly. "This if the fanciest police station I ever saw."
"You kidding, mac? I mean," the noncom amended hastily, "uh, this is the palace. Where the King lives, you know. King Goruble the First."
"I didn't know," said Lafayette, starting in the indicated direction. He stumbled and grabbed for his hat. It was difficult, walking in unfamiliar boots across uneven paving stones, and the sword had a disconcerting way of attempting to get between his legs.
The rigid sentries snapped to as the detachment mounted the wide steps; one barked a challenge. The sergeant replied and urged O'Leary on into the well-lit interior of a high-vaulted, mirror-lined hall, with a floor of polished marble in red and black squares. Elaborate gilt chandeliers hung from the fretted ceiling; opposite the mirrors, vast, somber draperies reflected woodland scenes.
Lafayette followed his escort along to a desk where a man in a steel breastplate sat, picking his teeth with a dagger. He cocked an eyebrow at O'Leary as the party came up.
"Book this, uh, gentleman in, Sarge," Lafayette's escort said. "And give me a receipt."
"Gentleman?" The desk sergeant put the dagger away and picked up a quill. "What's the charge?"
"A 902." Lafayette's cop looked defiantly at the pained expression that appeared on the other's lined face.
"Are you kidding, Sarge?" the desk man growled "Grow up! You can use a 902 to hold a drunk overnight, but you don't book 'em into Royal Court—"
"This one's the real article."
"That's right, Sarge," Shorty chimed in. "You oughta see what he done to Gertrude!"
"Gertrude? What is this, an assault?"
"Naw, Gertrude's the wife. He took fifty pounds off'n her and put the old shake back in her hips. Wow!" Shorty made lines in the air indicating Gertrude's new contours, then looked guiltily at O'Leary.
"Sorry, Bud," he whispered behind his hand. "I appreciate the favor, but—"
"You guys are nuts," the desk man said. "Get out of here before I lose my temper and have the lot of you clapped into irons!"
The musketeer sergeant's face darkened. He half-drew his sword with a rasp of steel. "Book him and give me a receipt, or I'll tickle your backbone from the front, you paper-pushing son of a—"
The desk sergeant was on his feet, whipping a saber from the sheath hung on the back of his chair, which fell over with a clatter. "Draw on a member of the Queen's Own Light Cavalry, will you, you flat-footed night watchman—"
"Quiet!" someone barked. Lafayette, who had been watching the action open-mouthed, turned to see a dapper, gray-haired man in short sleeves frowning from an open doorway, surrounded by half a dozen elaborately garbed men in fantastic powdered wigs.
"What's the meaning of this altercation, right outside our gaming room?" The newcomer aggrievedly waved the playing cards clutched in a hand heavy with rings.
Everyone came to attention with a multiple clack of heels.
"Ah, Your Majesty, sir, this police officer," the desk sergeant stumbled, "he was wising off, sir, and—"
"I beg your Majesty's pardon, Your Majesty," the arresting sergeant cut in, "but if Your Majesty would—"
"See here, can't you go somewhere else to argue?" the king demanded. "Confound it, things are coming to a pretty pass when we can't play a few quiet hands of stud without some unseemly interruption!" The monarch turned to re-enter the room, his courtiers scattering from his path.
"If it please your Majesty," the formerly mustached musketeer persisted, "this prisoner is—"
"It doesn't please us in the least!" The king thrust out his mustached lip. "Scat, we say! Begone! And silently!"
The sergeant's face grew stubborn. "Your Majesty, I got to have a receipt for my prisoner. He's a dangerous sorcerer."
The king opened his mouth, then closed it.
"Sorcerer?" He eyed O'Leary with interest. At close range, Lafayette noted, the king looked older, more careworn, but meticulously groomed, with fine lines around his eyes and mouth.
"Are you sure of this?" the king asked in a low voice.
"Absolutely, your Majesty," the arresting cop assured him.
The desk sergeant bustled around the desk. "Your Majesty, I'm sorry about this; these nut cases, we get 'em all the time—"
"Are you a magician?" The king pursed his mouth, raising one carefully arched eyebrow at Lafayette.
"Why does everyone ask the same question?" Lafayette shook his head. "It would all be lots more fun if you just accepted me as one of yourselves. Just consider me a . . . ah . . . scientist."
The king's frown returned. "You show less than proper respect for our person. And what in the name of the Sea-field is a—what did you call yourself?"
"A scientist. Someone who knows things," O'Leary explained. "You see, I'm engaged in an experiment. Now, none of you fellows realize it, but none of you actually exist."
The king was sniffing loudly. "The fellow reeks of wine," he said. He sniffed again. "Smells like good stuff," he remarked to a satin-coated dandy at his elbow.
"Phaugh, Majesty," the courtier said in a high nasal, waving a hanky under his nose. "Methinks the scoundrel is well and truly snockered. Didst hear him but now? None of us exist, quoth he—including your Majesty!"
"Sire, he's a warlock, take my word for it!" the sergeant burst out. "Any minute he's liable to poof! Disappear!"
"Yeah, yer Majesty," Shorty added, wagging his head, making his curls flop. "The guy is terrific!"
"How say you, knave?" The courtier fixed O'Leary with a slightly blood-shot eye. "Art a dabbler in the Black Arts?"
"Actually, it's all very simple," Lafayette said. His head was beginning to throb slightly as the glow of the wine faded. "I just—ah—have this slight ability to manipulate the environment."
The king's forehead wrinkled. "What does that mean?"
"Well . . ." Lafayette considered. "Take wine, for example." He squinted his eyes, concentrated on the upper right drawer of the desk beside him. He felt a slight, reassuring jar. "Look in the drawer," he said. "The top one."
The king gestured. "Do as he says."
One of the perfumed flunkeys minced forward, drew open the drawer, glanced inside, then, looking surprised, lifted out a bottle and held it up.
"Hey!" The desk sergeant started.
"Drinking on duty, eh?" The king beetled an eyebrow at the unfortunate fellow. "Ten days in the dungeon on canned soup."
"B-but, your Majesty, it's not mine!"
"That's right," Lafayette put in. "He didn't even know it was there."
"Then it's ten days for not knowing the contents of his own desk," the king said blandly. He took the bottle, looked at the label, held it up to the light and squinted at it.
"Good color," he stated. "Who has a corkscrew?"
Four manicured hands shot out with four elaborate corkscrews. The king handed over the bottle and watched as the cork was drawn with a loud whok!
He took the bottle, sniffed, then tilted it and took a healthy drag. A delighted expression lifted his rather sharp features.
"Zounds! We like it! Damned good vintage, that! Better than we find at our own table!" He looked at Lafayette approvingly.
"Still say you're not a magician, eh?"
"No, 'fraid not. After all, magic's impossible." O'Leary wagged an admonitory finger. "I suppose I seem a little unusual to you, but there's a perfectly simple explanation. Now, in this dream—"
"Enough!" The king held up a manicured hand. "This talk of dreams, we like it not—and yet, this wine we like right well. 'Tis a matter for our council to consider." He turned to a slight, pasty-faced man with a large moist nose, who was dressed in powder-blue silk with ruffles at the throat.
"Summon my councilors, we shall look into this affair. Mayhap the fellow has a simple explanation for these, ah, irregularities." He smacked his lips, looked fondly at the bottle and handed it to O'Leary. As the latter reached for it, the monarch seemed to start suddenly, half withdrew the bottle, then held it out again, staring at O'Leary's hand as he took the flask.
"We'll meet—immediately," the king said, sounding shaken.
"Tonight, Majesty?" a fat man in pink velvet squeaked.
"Certainly! In the High Chamber in a quarter of an hour!" King Goruble waved a hand at the musketeers. "Be there! And as for you—" he shot a sharp glance at O'Leary. "You come with us, lad. We have a few questions to put to you."
The king waved his retainers back and closed the heavy door behind himself and Lafayette, who stared around the richly decorated gaming room admiringly. There were huge gilt-framed pictures against the paneled walls, a well stocked bar, deep rugs, soft lights to supplement the bright luminaries hanging over the card and billiard tables.
"I see you have electric lights here," O'Leary commented. "I can't quite figure out just what sort of place this is I've wandered into."
"This is the kingdom of Artesia." The king pulled at his lower lip, watching O'Leary speculatively. "Have you lost your wits, boy? Perhaps, ah, forgotten your name, your station?"
"No; I'm Lafayette O'Leary. I don't have a station: It's just that I can't quite place the, ah, context. Swords, steam cars, knee breeches, electric lights . . ."
"O'Leary, eh? A curious name. You came from a far land, I wot; you know nothing of our fair realm of Artesia?"
"Ummm," said Lafayette. "I guess you could say that; but in another sense, I live here—or near here."
"Eh? What mean you?"
"Oh, nothing much. You wouldn't understand."
Goruble worried his lower lip with even, white, false-looking teeth. "What errand brought you hither?" He sounded worried, O'Leary thought.
"Oh, no errand. Just . . . looking around."
"Looking for what?"
"Nothing special. Just sight-seeing, you might say."
"You came not to, ah, crave audience with ourself, perchance?"
"No—not that I'm not honored."
"How came you here?" Goruble demanded abruptly.
"Well, it gets a little complicated. To tell you the truth, I don't really understand it myself."
"You have—friends in the capital?"
"Don't know a soul."
Goruble took three paces, turned, took three paces back. He stopped and eyed O'Leary's right hand.
"Your ring," he said. "An interesting bauble." His eyes cut to O'Leary's face. "You, ah, bought it here?"
"Oh, no, I've had it for years."
Goruble frowned. "Where did you get it?"
"I guess you could say it came with me. It was hanging around my neck on a string when they found me on the orphanage doorstep."
"Orphanage? A place for waifs and strays?"
O'Leary nodded.
Goruble became suddenly brisk. "Just slip it off, there's a good fellow; I'd fain have a look at it."
"Sorry; it's too small to get over the knuckle."
"Hmmm." The king looked at O'Leary sharply. "Yes, well, let us make a suggestion, my lad. Turn the ring so that the device is inward. Others, seeing the symbol of the ax and dragon, might place some bothersome interpretation on't."
"What kind of interpretation?"
Goruble spread his hands. "There's a tale, told in the taverns. A mystical hero, 'tis said, will appear one day bearing that symbol, to rid the land of, ah, certain encumbrances. Sheer balderdash, of course, but it might prove embarrassing to you to be taken for the warrior of the prophecy."
"Thanks for the tip." O'Leary twisted the ring on his finger. "Now, do you mind if I ask a few questions?"
"Ah, doubtless you're wondering why you were brought here to the palace, rather than being trussed in chains and cast into a dungeon along with the usual run of felons."
"No, I can't say that I am. Nothing around here seems to make any sense. But now that you mention it, why am I here?"
"'Twas our royal command. We instructed the captain of the city garrison a fortnight since to comb the city and bring to us any person suspect of witchery."
Lafayette nodded, found himself yawning and patted his mouth. "Excuse me," he said. "Go on, I'm listening."
"'Tis a most strange manner of deportment you affect," the king said snappishly. "Hast no respect for royalty?"
"Oh, sure, uh, your Majesty," O'Leary said. "I guess I'm just a little tired."
The monarch sat himself in a deep leather chair, and watched open-mouthed as Lafayette settled himself in another, crossing his legs comfortably.
"Here!" the king barked, "we've given you no leave to sit!"
O'Leary was yawning again. "Look, let's skip all that," he suggested in a reasonable tone. "I'm pooped. You know, I have an idea these dream adventures are just as fatiguing as real ones. After all your mind—part of it, anyway—thinks you're really awake, so it reacts—"
"Have done!" the king yelped. "Your prattle threatens to unhinge my wits!" He glared at O'Leary as though pondering a difficult decision. "Look here, young man, you are sure there isn't something you'd like to, well, tell us? A matter we might ah, discuss plainly?" He leaned forward, lowering his voice. "To our mutual advantage?"
"I'm afraid I don't know what you mean."
"Answer us plainly, yea or nay? Speak without fear; we offer you amnesty."
"Nay," Lafayette said flatly. "Absolutely nay."
"Nay?" the king's shoulders slumped. "Drat it, I was hoping . . . perhaps . . ."
"Look here," Lafayette said in a kindly tone, "why don't you tell me what your problem is? Maybe I can help you. I do have certain, ah, techniques—"
The king sat erect, looking wary. "We took you here aside to, ah, advise you privily that you'd have our royal pardon in advance for the practice of your forbidden arts in the service of the crown. You spurn our offer—and in the same breath hint at the possession of demonic power. Almost it seems you ask to have your bones stretched!"
"I wonder," O'Leary said. "If I went to sleep now, would I wake up here—or back at Mrs. MacGlint's house?"
"Bah!" the king exploded. "But for a certain mystery we sense about you, we'd banish you forthwith to the county jail on a charge of lunacy!" He eyed the wine bottle on the table. "Tell us," he said in a confidential tone, "how did the bottle get in the desk drawer?"
"It was always there," O'Leary said. "I just pointed it out."
"But how—" the king shook his head. "Enough." He went to a bell cord. "We'll hear your case in open court—if you're sure you have nothing to impart in confidence?" He looked at O'Leary expectantly.
"This is all nonsense," O'Leary protested. "Impart what? Why don't you tell me about yourself? I have an idea that you represent some sort of authority symbol."
"Symbol?" Goruble roared. "We'll show you whether we be symbol or sovereign!" He yanked the cord. The door opened; a squad of household troops stood waiting.
"Escort him to the bar of justice," Goruble ordered. "He stands accused of sorcery."
"Oh, well," O'Leary said airily, "I guess it's no use trying to be reasonable. It may be amusing at that. Lead on, my good man." He gestured sardonically at the bull-necked corporal as the squad moved to box him in.
It was a five-minute walk along echoing corridors to the chamber where the hearing was to be held. A crowd of gaudily clad men and a few women in full skirts and cleavage eyed O'Leary curiously as he came in under guard. The ceremonial sentries beside the double doors motioned him and his escort through into a domed chamber, a rococo composition in red and green marble and heavy hangings of green velvet with gold fringes that reminded Lafayette of the lobby of the Colby opera house. At one side of the room a vast chair occupied a raised dais. A row of boys in baggy shorts, long stockings, pointed shoes, sailor's shirts and bangs raised long horns and blew a discordant fanfare. Through doors at the opposite side of the room the figure of the king appeared, wearing a scarlet robe now, followed by the usual retinue of hangers-on. Everyone bowed low, the women curtsying. Lafayette felt a smart kick in the shin.
"Bow, bumpkin!" hissed a bearded stranger in pea-green knickers. Lafayette bent over, rubbed the spot where the other's boot had bruised him. "How would you like a punch in the jaw?"
"Silence! Wouldst have me rub your nose on the floor, wittol!"
"You and what other six guys?" O'Leary came back. "Ever had a broken leg before?"
"Before what?"
"Before you had a broken arm. I may just cross your eyes, too, while I'm at it."
"Art daft, varlet?"
"Maybe you haven't heard. I'm here on a witchcraft rap."
"Ulp?" The man moved away hastily. The king was seated on his throne now, amid much bustling of courtiers stationing themselves in position according to an elaborate scheme of precedence, each elbowing for a spot a foot or two closer to the throne. There were more trumpetings; then an old dodderer in a long black robe stepped forward and pounded a heavy rod on the floor.
"The Court of Justice of His Majesty King Goruble is now in session," he quavered. "All those who crave boons, draw nigh." Then, without pausing: "Let those who have offended against the just laws of the realm be brought forward."
"That's you, bud," a black-haired guard muttered. "Let's go." O'Leary followed as the man pushed through the throng to a spot ten feet from the throne where King Goruble sat, nibbling a slice of orange.
"Well, how plead you, my man?"
"I don't know," O'Leary said. "What's the charge?"
"Sorcery! Guilty or not guilty?"
"Oh, that again. I was hoping you'd thought up something more original, like loitering at the post office."
An effeminate-looking fellow in parakeet green stepped from the ranks of the retainers grouped around the throne, made an elaborate leg and waved a bit of lace from which an odor of dime store perfume wafted.
"An't please your Majesty," he said, "the fellow's insolence gives him away. 'Tis plain to see, he has a powerful protector. The villain is, I doubt not, a paid spy in the hire of the rebel Lod!"
"Lod?" Lafayette raised his eyebrows. "Who's he?"
"As is doubtless well known to you, this creature, thus y-clept is the fearsome giant, the bandit who impertinently presses a suit for the hand of her highness, the Princess Adoranne."
"And dreams of the day he will usurp our throne," Goruble added. He slapped the carved arm of the throne, looking angry.
"Well, fellow, do you deny it?" the green-clad exquisite persisted.
"I never heard of this Lod," Lafayette said impatiently. "And I've already told you the sorcery business was silly. There isn't any such thing!"
Goruble narrowed his eyes at O'Leary, pinched his chin between jeweled fingers.
"No such thing, eh?" He gestured. "Let Nicodaeus come forward."
A tall, well muscled but slightly paunchy gray-haired man in yellow tights and a short cloak ornately appliquéd with stars and crescent moons stepped from the ranks, bowed medium low before the throne, took a pair of rimless glasses from a breast pocket, put them on, turned and studied Lafayette.
"You deny the existence of magic, eh?" he asked in a mellow baritone. "A skeptic." He wagged his head, smiling ruefully, reached up and took an egg from his mouth. A little murmur of wonder went through the crowd. The gray-haired man sauntered a few feet, paused before a plump lady-in-waiting, plucked a gaily-colored scarf from her well filled bodice, tossed it aside, drew out another, and another. The fat woman retreated, squealing and giggling as the onlookers tittered.
"Well done, Nicodaeus!" a fat man in pale purple puffed. "Oh, jolly well done!"
Nicodaeus strolled to the dais, and with a murmured apology took a mouse from the king's pocket. He dropped the tiny animal on the floor and it scurried away, amid dutiful squealing from the ladies. He plucked another from the king's shoe, a third from the royal ear. The monarch twitched, shot a sharp glance at O'Leary, waved the magician aside.
"Well, how say you now, O'Leary!" he demanded. "True, the feats of my faithful Nicodaeus are harmless white sorcery, blessed in the temple of Goop the Good and employed only in defense of our crown; but none can deny the ordinary laws of nature have here been set aside."
"Fooie," Lafayette said. "That's just sleight-of-hand. Any carnival sideshow prestidigitator has a better routine than that."
Nicodaeus looked thoughtfully at O'Leary, walked over to stand before him.
"Do you mind telling me," the magician said quietly, "just where you come from?"
"Well, I'm, ah, a traveler from a distant land, you might say," O'Leary improvised. Nicodaeus turned to face King Goruble.
"Majesty, when I heard your police had picked up a sorcerer, I looked over the report. The arrest was made in a tavern in the Street of the Alehouses, about eight P.M. All the witnesses agree that he performed some sort of hocus-pocus with a wine bottle. Then when the officers were taking him out to the wagon, he reportedly tried to vanish, but didn't quite have the skill to manage it. I also heard a story that he cast some sort of spell on a woman, the wife of one of the arresting officers; changed her appearance, it seems."
"Yes, yes, I know all that, Nicodaeus!"
"Your Majesty, in my opinion all this is meaningless gossip, the product of wine-lubricated imaginations."
"Eh?" Goruble sat forward. "You're saying the man is innocent?"
"Not at all, Majesty! The really important point hasn't been mentioned yet. The accused was first seen, as I said, in the alehouse . . ." He paused dramatically. "Before that—no one had caught a glimpse of him!"
"So?"
"Your Majesty doesn't seem to get the point," Nicodaeus said patiently. "The city guards say he wasn't observed to approach the street where he was taken. The sentries at the city gates swear he never passed that way. He came from a far land, he says. Did he come on horse back? If so, where are the stains of travel—and where's the animals itself? Did he walk? Look at his boots; the soles show no more dust than a stroll in a garden might account for!"
"Are you saying he flew here?" Goruble shot a sharp look at Lafayette.
"Flew?" Nicodaeus looked annoyed. "Of course not. I'm suggesting that he obviously slipped into the city by stealth—and that he has confederates who housed and clothed him."
"So you agree he's a spy?" Goruble sounded pleased.
Lafayette sighed. "If I wanted to sneak into town, why would I suddenly walk into a tavern in plain sight of the cops?"
"I think the costume explains that," Nicodaeus said, nodding. "You've tricked out as the Phantom Outlaw, I believe. You intended to convince the gullible patrons of the dive that you were this mythical ghost, and then force them to do your bidding by threats of supernatural vengeance."
Lafayette folded his arms. "I'm getting tired of this nonsense," he stated loudly. "Starting now, this dream is going the way I want it to, or I'm just going to wake up and to hell with it!" He pointed at Nicodaeus. "This phony, now; if you'll detail a couple of men to hold him down while somebody goes through his pockets, and the trick compartments in the dizzy-looking cloak, you'd find out where all those mice come from! And—"
The magician caught O'Leary's eye, shook his head. "Play along," he whispered from the corner of his mouth.
Lafayette ignored him. " . . . I'm getting just about fed up with nonsense about magic and torture chambers," he went on. Nicodaeus stepped close. "Trust me, I'll get you out of this." He turned to the king and bowed his head smoothly. "The king is wise—"
"Nuts to all of you," O'Leary said. "This is just like a dream I had a couple of weeks ago. I was in a garden with nice green grass and a little stream and fruit trees, and all I wanted to do was relax and smell the flowers, but people kept coming along, bothering me. There was a fat bishop on a bicycle and a fireman playing a banjo, and then two midgets with a pet skunk—"
"Your Majesty, a moment!" Nicodaeus cried out. He threw a comradely arm about Lafayette's shoulders, led him closer to the throne. "It just came to me!" he announced. "This man is no criminal! We've been making a terrible mistake! How stupid of me not to have realized sooner."
"What are you babbling about, Nicodaeus?" Goruble snapped. "One minute you're sewing up a watertight case, the next you're hugging the man like a long-lost brother!"
"My mistake, my liege!" Nicodaeus said hastily. "This is a fine young man, an upstanding subject of your Majesty, a model youth."
"What do you know about him?" Goruble's voice was sharp. "A moment since, you said you'd never seen him before!"
"Yes, well, as to that—"
There was a tinkle of bells, and a face like a gargoyle's appeared between the king's feet.
"What's afoot?" a deep bass voice rumbled. "Your patterings disturb my slumbers!"
"Be quiet, Yokabump!" King Goruble snapped. "We're conducting important business."
The face came farther out, a small body behind it. The dwarf, rising to bandy legs, looked around, scratching his chest.
"Solemn faces!" he bellowed. "Sour pusses! You're all a bunch of stick-in-the-muds!" He whipped out a harmonica, tapped it on his oversized palm and started a lively tune.
"Sticks-in-the-mud, you mean," Goruble corrected. "Go away now, Yokabump! We told you we're busy!" He glared at Nicodaeus. "Well, we're waiting! What do you know of the fellow that should prevent his hanging by his thumbs!"
Yokabump stopped playing.
"You mean," he boomed, pointing at O'Leary, "you don't recognize this hero?"
Goruble stared down at him. "Hero? Recognize? No, we don't."
Yokabump bounded forward and struck a pose.
"When the dragon came out of the west.
The worst ran away with the best;
But one man with an ax stopped the beast in his tracks
And came home with the hide of the pest."
King Goruble frowned darkly. "Nonsense!" he said flatly. He turned to the dwarf. "No interference from you, manikin; this is a matter of deepest import. Don't distract us with foolish stories."
"But he is, in very truth, sire, the dragon slayer of the prophecy!"
"Why, ah, as a matter of fact . . ." Nicodaeus patted O'Leary heartily on the shoulder. "I was just about to make the announcement."
Yokabump waddled up to O'Leary, threw back his head and stared at him.
"He doesn't look like a hero," he announced in his subcellar bass. "But a hero he is!" He turned his heavy head, winked grotesquely at the magician, faced O'Leary again. "Tell us, Sir Knight, how you'll face the foul monster, how you'll overcome those mighty jaws, those awful talons!"
Goruble chewed at his lip, staring at O'Leary.
"Jaws and talons, eh," Lafayette said, smiling condescendingly. "No wings? No fiery breath? No—"
"Scales, yes—I think," Nicodaeus said. "I haven't seen him myself, of course, but the reports—"
A slender fellow in a pale yellow suit with a starched ruff came forward, sniffing a snuff box. He closed it with a click, tucked it in a sleeve and eyed O'Leary curiously.
"How say you, fellow? Wilt dispatch the great beast that guards the approaches to the stronghold of Lod?"
There was a sudden silence. Goruble blinked at O'Leary, his lips thrust out.
"Well?" he demanded.
"Agree!" Nicodaeus muttered in O'Leary's ear.
"Certainly!" Lafayette made an expansive gesture. "I'll be only too pleased to attend to this little matter. My favorite sport, actually. I often kill half a dozen dragons before breakfast. I'll promise to annihilate any number of mythical beasts, if that will make you happy."
"Very well." Goruble looked grim. "A celebration is in order, we suppose," he said sardonically. "We hereby decree a fete for tonight in honor of our valiant new friend, O'Leary." He broke off and shot Lafayette a fierce look. "And you'd better deliver the goods, young fellow," he added in an undertone, "or we'll have the hide off you in strips!"