The courtyard was a grim rectangle of granite walled in by the looming rear elevations of the servant's residential wings of the palace, gleaming coldly in the light of a crescent moon. The chill in the air had sharpened; it was close to freezing now. Lafayette looked around at the crowd that had gathered to watch the fencing lesson. They formed a ring three or four deep around the circumference of the impromptu arena, bundled in cloaks, stamping their feet and conversing in low, excited mutters. The wagers being made, O'Leary noted, were two to one in favor of the opposition.
"I'll take your coat," Nicodaeus said briskly. O'Leary pulled it off, shivered as a blast of frigid wind flapped his shirt against his back. Twenty feet away, Count Alain, looking bigger than ever in shirt sleeves, chatted casually with two elegant-looking seconds, who glanced his way once, nodded coldly, and thereafter ignored him.
"Ah, I see the surgeon is on hand." Nicodaeus pointed out a portly man in a long gray cloak. "Not that there'll be much he can do. Count Alain always goes for the heart."
The count had accepted his blade from one of his aides now; he flexed it, tested its point with a finger and made a series of cuts at the air.
"I'd better warm up, too," O'Leary drew his rapier from its scabbard, finding it necessary to use both hands to get the point clear. "It's kind of long, isn't it?" he said. He waved the weapon, took up a stance.
"I hope your practice has been against skilled partners," Nicodaeus said.
"Oh, I just practice by myself." O'Leary tried a lunge, went a little too far, had to hop twice to get his balance.
"This thing's heavy," he commented, lowering the tip to the ground. "I'm used to a lighter weapon."
"Be grateful for its weight; Count Alain has a superb sword arm. He'll beat a light blade aside like a wooden lath."
"Hey," Lafayette said, nudging the magician. "Look over there, in the black cloak. That looks like—"
"It is," Nicodaeus said. "Don't stare. The cloak is accepted by all present as an effective disguise. It wouldn't do for a lady of her rank to witness an affair of this sort."
Lafayette fumbled out Adoranne's hanky, fluttered it at her and tucked it in his shirt pocket. Across the yard, Count Alain, watching the byplay, set his left fist on his hip, proceeded to whip his blade through a dazzling warmup pattern. O'Leary gaped at the whistling steel.
"Say, Nicodaeus," he murmured thoughtfully, "he's good!"
"I told you he was a winner, Lafayette. But if, as you said, you're better—"
"Look, ah, maybe I was hasty." He watched as the count described a lightning series of figure eights, finished with an elaborate redoublement and lowered his point with a calculating glance at O'Leary.
"Go ahead," Nicodaeus whispered. "Show him a little swordsmanship. It will give you a psychological advantage if you can slice yours a hair closer to the test pattern than he did."
"Ah, look here, Nicodaeus, I've been thinking; it wouldn't really be fair of me to show him up, in front of his friends."
"He'll have to take that chance. After all, he was the one who insisted on the meeting."
Alain's seconds were nodding now. They turned and started across toward O'Leary.
"Nicodaeus!" O'Leary grabbed his second's arm. "This isn't going just the way I'd figured. I mean, I assumed that since Alain—that is, I don't see how—"
"Later." Nicodaeus disengaged his arm, strode across, engaged in deep conversation with his two opposite numbers. Lafayette hefted the sword, executed a pair of awkward thrusts. The weapon felt as clumsy as a crowbar in his cold-numbed fingers. Now Alain stepped forward a few paces and stood waiting, his slim blade held in his bronzed fist as lightly as a bread stick.
"Come along, Lafayette." Nicodaeus was at his side. "Now, I'll hold a white handkerchief between your crossed blades . . ."
Lafayette hardly heard Nicodaeus, who was talking rapidly as he urged him forward. Perhaps if he fell down, pretended to hurt his knee . . . no, no good. Maybe if he sneezed—a sudden attack of asthma—
It wouldn't do. There was only one course left. Damn! And just when he'd started having a good time. But it couldn't be helped. And this time it had better work. O'Leary shut his eyes, conjured up the image of Mrs. MacGlint's Clean Rooms and Board, the crooked hall, the cramped bedroom, the peeling, stained wallpaper, the alcove, the sardines . . .
He opened his eyes. Nicodaeus was staring at him.
"What's the matter? You're not sick?"
O'Leary snapped his eyes shut, muttering to himself: "You're asleep, dreaming all this. You're in bed, feeling that broken spring in the mattress—the one that catches you under the left shoulder blade. It's almost morning now, and if you just open your eyes slowly . . ." He opened one eye, saw Count Alain waiting ten feet away, the rank of expectant faces behind him, the stone wall looming above.
"It's not real," he hissed under his breath. "It's all a fake, an hallucination! It isn't really here!" He stamped a boot against the stone paving. "This isn't real stone, ha ha, just imaginary stone. I'm not really cold; it's a nice night in August! There's no wind blowing . . ."
His voice trailed off. There was no use in kidding himself: The stone was solid as ever underfoot. The icy wind was still cutting at his face like a skinning knife and Alain waited, light glinting on the naked steel in his hand. Nicodaeus was looking at him concernedly.
" . . . instructions," he was saying. "Well, do the best you can, my boy." He took out the white handkerchief and flapped it.
"It's the distractions," O'Leary mumbled to himself. "I can't concentrate, with all these people watching."
"Gentlemen, on guard!" Nicodaeus said sharply. Count Alain raised his sword, held it at the engagé. Dumbly, Lafayette stepped forward, lifted his heavy blade, clanged it against the other. It was like hitting a wrought iron fence.
"Say, just a minute!" O'Leary lowered his blade and stepped back. Alain stared at him, his black eyes as cold as outer space. O'Leary turned to Nicodaeus. "Look here, if this is a real duel, and not just a friendly lesson—"
"Ha!" Alain interjected.
" . . . then as the challenged party, I have the choice of weapons, right?"
Nicodaeus pulled at his lower lip. "I suppose so, but the meeting has already begun."
"It's never too late to correct an error in form," O'Leary said firmly. "Now, you take these swords—primitive weapons, really. We ought to use something more up to date. Pistols, maybe; or—"
"You demand pistols?" Nicodaeus looked surprised.
"Why not pistols?" At least—O'Leary was thinking of the princess's eyes on him—he wouldn't look as silly missing with a pistol as he would with Alain chasing him around the courtyard slashing at his heels.
"Pistols it is, then," Nicodaeus was saying. "I trust suitable weapons are available?"
"In my room," O'Leary said. "A nice pair of weapons."
"As Sir Lafayette desires," one of Alain's seconds was saying. "Subject to Count Alain's agreement, of course."
"I'm sure the count won't want to chicken out at this point," O'Leary said. "Of course pistols are pretty lethal—" he broke off, suddenly aware of what he was saying. Pistols?
"On second thought, fellows—" he started.
"I've heard of them," Alain was nodding. "Like small muskets, held in the hand." He shot O'Leary a sharp look. "You spoke only of cold steel when you goaded me to this meeting, sirrah; now you raise the stakes."
"That's all right," O'Leary said hastily. "If you'd rather not—"
" . . . but I accept the gage," Alain declared flatly. "You're a more bloodthirsty rogue than I judged by the look of you, but I'll not cavil. Bring on these firearms!"
"Couldn't we just cut cards?" But Nicodaeus was already speaking to a mop-haired page, who darted away, looking eager.
Alain turned his back, walked off a few paces, spoke tightlipped to his seconds, who shot back looks at O'Leary. He shrugged apologetically, got scowls in return.
Nicodaeus was chewing his lip. "I like this not, Lafayette," he said. "With a lucky shot, he could blow your head off, even if you nailed him at the same time."
Lafayette nodded absently, his eyes half shut. He was remembering the pistols, picturing them as they lay snug in their jeweled holsters. He envisioned their internal workings, visualized the parts . . . His ability to manipulate the environment seemed to come in spells, but it was worth a try. Tricky business, at this range. He felt a reassuring flicker, faint but unmistakable—or was it? Perhaps it had just been a gust of wind.
The boy was back, breathing hard, holding out the black leather belt with its elegant bright-work and its burden of long-barreled pistols.
"I'll take those." Nicodaeus lifted the guns from the page's hands, crossed to the waiting count and offered both pistol butts. Alain drew one from its holster, hefted it, passed it to his seconds, who turned it over, wagged their heads, muttered together and handed it back. O'Leary took his, noted distractedly that it was a clip-fed automatic with a filed front sight. It looked deadly enough.
"What distance is customary, Lafayette?" Nicodaeus enquired in a whisper.
"Oh, about three paces ought to be enough."
"What?" Nicodaeus stared at him. "At that range, no one could miss!"
"That's the idea," O'Leary pointed out. "Let's get on with it." He licked his lips nervously, hardly hearing as Nicodaeus instructed both combatants to stand back to back, their weapons held at their sides, and at the signal to take three paces, turn and fire.
Alain stepped into position and stood stiffly, waiting. Lafayette backed up to him.
"All right, go!" Nicodaeus said firmly. O'Leary gulped, took a step, another, a third and whirled, raising the gun.
Alain's weapon was already up, pointed straight at O'Leary's heart. He saw the count's finger tighten on the trigger at the same instant that he sighted on the white blob of the other's shirt front and squeezed.
A jet of purple ink squirted in a long arc, scoring a dead center hit as a stream of red fluid from Alain's gun spattered on his own shoulder.
"I got you first!" O'Leary called cheerily, snapping another shot that arched across to catch Alain on the ear. It was a good, high-pressure jet, O'Leary noted approvingly. It followed the haughty count as he reeled back, played over his face and down the already empurpled shirt, and piddled out just as Alain, in retreat, collided with his own startled seconds and went down. The crowd, in silent shock until then, burst out with a roar of laughter, above which a distinct titter from the direction of Princess Adoranne was clearly audible.
"Well, I guess I win," O'Leary lowered the gun, smiling and taking the accolade of the crowd. Alain was scrambling to his feet, scrubbing at his face with both hands. He stared at his violet palms, then with a roar leaped at his second, wrested the sword from the startled man's grip and charged.
"Lafayette!" Nicodaeus roared. O'Leary looked around in time to see his rapier flying toward him, hilt first. He grabbed it and brought it up just in time to receive Alain's onslaught.
"Hey!" O'Leary back-pedaled, frantically warding off the count's wild attack. Steel clanged on steel as the bigger man's fury drove O'Leary back, back. His feet stumbled on the uneven pavement and the heavy blows numbed his arm, threatening to knock his weapon from his grip. There was no question of counterattack.
A mighty chop sent Lafayette's blade spinning. He had a momentary glimpse of Alain's face, purple with ink and fury, as he brought back his blade, poised for the thrust.
There was a flash and a resounding clong! as something white shot down from above to strike the count's head, bound aside and smash against the wall. Alain dropped his sword, folded slowly, knees first, and slammed out flat on his face.
A fragment of the missile clattered to O'Leary's feet. He let out his breath in a hoarse gasp, stooped and brought up the shard. It bore a familiar pattern of angels and rosebuds: the chamber pot from his room.
He looked up quickly, caught a glimpse of a saucy face, ringed with dark curls, just withdrawing from a darkened window.
"Daphne," he muttered, "nice timing, girl."
* * *
Back in the ballroom there was a great deal of hearty laughter and congratulatory slapping of Lafayette's back.
"As pretty a piece of foolery as I've seen this twelve-month," chortled a grizzled old fellow in pale yellow knee pants and a monocle. "Young Alain's had it coming to him, what? Bit of a prig, but a trifle too stout a lad to bait!"
"You handled the situation nicely, my boy," Nicodaeus nodded sagely. "A fatality would have been in rather bad taste, and of course, you've made your point now, statuswise."
Adoranne came up, looking prettier than ever with her cheeks pink from the cold air. She put a hand on Lafayette's arm.
"I thank you, noble sir, for sparing the count's life. He's learned a lesson he'll not soon forget."
A sudden loud shriek rang out across the crowded ballroom floor, followed by the piercing accents of an angry female voice. At this new diversion, Lafayette's circle of admirers broke up and moved off craning their necks to make out the source of the outbursts.
"Whew!" O'Leary looked around for a waiter and lifted the ninth—or was it the tenth?—brandy of the evening from a passing tray. "Adoranne," he started, "now's our chance to get away from the mob for a minute. I noticed there's a nice garden outside."
"Oh, Lafayette, let's discover what it is that's set the duchess to clamoring like a fishwife spoiled of a copper!" She tugged at his hand playfully. He followed as Nicodaeus moved ahead, calling for way for her Highness.
"It's a chambermaid," someone was passing the word. "The saucy minx was mingling with her betters, wearing a stolen gown, mind you!"
O'Leary had a sudden sinking feeling. He'd forgotten all about his invitation to Daphne. The petite chambermaid, transformed in rose-colored silk set off by white gloves, silver slippers and a string of luminous white pearls, defiantly faced a bony matron buckled into stiff yellowish-white brocade like a suit of armor. The latter shook a finger heavenward, her neck tendons vibrating like cello strings, the coronet atop her mummified coiffure bouncing with the vigor of the verbal assault.
" . . . my girl, and I'll see to it that after the flogging, you're sent away to a workhouse where—"
"Ah, pardon me, Duchess," O'Leary stepped forward, winked encouragingly at Daphne and faced the incensed noblewoman. "I think there's been a slight misunderstanding here. This young lady—"
"Lady! I'll have you know this is a common servant girl! The audacity of the baggage appearing here—and in my gown! My seamstress completed it only today."
"You must be mistaken," O'Leary said firmly. "The dress was a gift from me and I invited her here."
Behind him there was a sharp gasp. He turned. Adoranne looked at him, wide-eyed, then managed a forced smile.
"Another of our good Sir Lafayette's jests," she said. "Be calm, Veronica dear; the girl will be dealt with."
"No, you don't understand," O'Leary protested. "There's been a mistake. I gave her the dress this evening."
"Please, noble sir," Daphne broke in. "I . . . I'm grateful for your chivalrous attempt to aid a poor servant girl, but it's no use. I . . . I stole the dress, just as her ladyship said."
"She did not!" Lafayette waved his arms. "Are you all out of your mind? I tell you—"
The duchess pointed a skeletal finger at a decorative motif on the bodice of the gown. "Is that, or is that not, the crest of the House of High Jersey?" Her voice was shrill with triumph.
"She's quite right of course," Nicodaeus muttered at O'Leary's side. "What's all this about giving her the dress?"
"I . . . I . . ." O'Leary stared from the duchess to Daphne, who stood now with downcast eyes. A suspicion was beginning to dawn: somehow, his ability to summon up artifacts at will wasn't quite as simple as he'd thought. When he had called for a bathroom, he'd gotten a tub—complete with occupant—transferred, the girl had said, from her garret room. And when he had ordained a dress in the closet, he hadn't created it from nothing; he had merely shifted the nearest available substitute to hand—in this case, from the wardrobe of the duchess.
"I'll pay for the dress," he blurted. "It's not her fault. She didn't know it was stolen—that is, I didn't steal it—not really. You see, I invited her to the party, and she said . . ."
He trailed off. Interested smiles were fading. Adoranne tossed her head, turned and moved grandly away. The duchess was glaring at him like a mother tyrannosaurus surprising an early mammal sucking eggs.
"Adoranne, wait a minute! I can explain—" He caught Daphne's tear-brimmed eye.
"Come along, Lafayette," Nicodaeus tugged at his sleeve. "The joke didn't go over; these people are pretty stuffy about protocol."
"Daphne," O'Leary started. "I'm sorry—" The girl raised her head, looked past him. "I do not know you, sir," she said coldly, and turned away.
"Oh, dammit all!" O'Leary grimaced and let his arms fall at his sides. "I wish I'd never thought of the infernal dress in the first place."
There was a startled yelp from the duchess, a squeak from Daphne, a delighted roar from the males in the audience. Lafayette gasped and caught a fleeting glimpse of a curvaceous white flank as Daphne, clad only in silver slippers, a few bits of lace and blushes, vanished into the crowd, followed by a rising storm of applause.
"Oh, capital, old fellow!" A stout gentleman in deep red velvet slammed O'Leary's shoulder with a meaty hand. "Done with mirrors, I suppose?"
"Ah, Sir Lafayette, you are a sly fox!" boomed another appreciative oldster. The duchess sniffed, glared, stalked away.
"Where's Adoranne gone?" Lafayette rose on his toes, staring across heads.
"This wasn't exactly the kind of prank to impress her Highness with," Nicodaeus said. "You won't see her again this evening, my boy."
Lafayette let out a long sigh. "I guess you're right. Oh, well; the party's breaking up, anyway. Maybe in the morning I can explain."
"Don't even try," the magician advised.
Lafayette eyed him glumly. "I need some time to figure out a few things before I try any more good deeds," he said. "Maybe if I sleep on it—but on the other hand, if I go to sleep—"
"Never mind, my boy. She won't stay angry forever. Go along and get some rest now. There are a few things I want to discuss with you in the morning."
Back in his room, Lafayette waited while a soft-footed servant lit a candle. In the dim light he pulled off his clothes, used the washbasin to slosh water over his head and toweled off. He blew out the taper, then went to the four-poster, pulled back the blankets and clambered in with a grateful sigh.
Something warm and smooth cuddled up against him. With a muffled yelp he bounded from the bed and whirled to stare at the bright-eyed face and bare shoulder of Daphne, looking up tousle-headed from under the covers.
"Count Alain gave you an awful drubbing, didn't he, sir? Come along and I'll rub your back."
"Uh, thanks for dropping that, uh, missile on him," O'Leary started. "But—"
"Never mind that," Daphne said. "It was nothing. But your poor bruises . . ."
"Lucky for me he used the edge." Lafayette moved his arm gingerly. "It is pretty sore, at that. But what in the world are you doing here?"
She gave him an impish smile. "Where else could I go, milord, in my condition?"
"Well . . ." O'Leary froze, listening for a sound. It had been a stealthy sort of creak.
"Hssst!" the voice came from across the dark room. O'Leary tensed, remembering his sword, across the room on the floor in a heap with his clothes.
"Sir Lafayette, come quickly," the voice hissed. "It concerns the welfare of her Highness. Make no outcry! Secrecy is vital!"
"Who are you?" O'Leary demanded. "How did you get in here?"
"No time to talk! Hurry!" The voice was a throaty rasp, unfamiliar. Lafayette squinted, trying to get a glimpse of the intruder. "What's happened?"
"No more talk! Follow me or not, as you choose! There's not a moment to lose."
"All right; wait until I get my pants on . . ." He fumbled his way across to his clothes, pulled on breeches and a shirt, jammed his feet into shoes and caught up a short cloak.
"All right, I'm ready."
"This way!" Lafayette made his way across toward the sound of the voice. As he passed the bed, Daphne's hand reached out, tugged him down.
"Lafayette," she breathed in his ear, "you must not go! Perhaps it is a trick!"
"I've got to," he whispered back, equally quietly. "It's—"
"Who's that?" the voice snapped sharply. "To whom do you speak?"
"Nobody," Lafayette pulled free, went toward the voice. "I always mutter to myself when I don't know what's going on. Look here, is she all right?"
"You'll see."
A line of faint light showed against the wall and widened as a four-foot rectangle of paneling slid aside. A cloaked silhouette showed against it for a moment and then slipped past. O'Leary followed, barely able in the deep gloom to make out a narrow low-ceilinged passage and the stealthy figure of his guide. He cracked his head on a low beam, swore, scraped aside cobwebs that clung to his face. There was an odor of dust and stale air and mice; somewhere wind whined in a cranny in the wall.
The passage led more or less straight, with an occasional jog around a massive masonry column, then turned right, continued another fifty feet and dead-ended at a coarsely mortared brick wall.
"We go up here," the hoarse voice said shortly. Lafayette groped until he found rough wooden slats nailed to a vertical post against the wall. He went up, stepped off into a new passage and hurried after his guide. He tried to estimate his position in the palace. He was on the third floor, about halfway along the east wing.
Just ahead there was a soft creak, a faint rusty squeal. A hand caught his arm, thrust a coarse-textured sack into his hand—a sack heavy with something that clinked.
"Hey, what's—" A hearty shove thrust Lafayette violently forward. He stumbled, struck something with his shoulder, felt a rug underfoot now and caught a scent of delicate perfume. He whirled, heard a panel slam in his face; his hands scraped fruitlessly across a solid-seeming wall. There was a stir behind him in the room, a sharp cry, quickly cut off. O'Leary flattened himself, trying desperately to see through the darkness. Someone called in the next room. There were hurried footsteps; a door opened across the room, fanning soft light across a wedge of rich-patterned rug, a slice of brocaded wall, an arch of gilded ceiling. O'Leary saw a window with dainty ruffles, a vast canopied four-poster. A short, fat woman in a flounced nightcap puffed through the open door, holding a candle high.
"Your Highness! You cried out!"
Lafayette stood frozen, staring at a vision of bare-shouldered femininity sitting up in the huge bed, staring across at him in astonishment. The fat woman followed Adoranne's gaze, saw Lafayette, screeched, clapped a hand to her broad bosom and screeched again, louder.
"Shhh! It's only me!" Lafayette started forward, shushing the woman frantically; she yelled again and backed against the bed.
"Stay back, villain! Touch not one hair of her Highness's head—!"
"It's all a mistake." O'Leary indicated the wall through which he had entered. "Somebody came into my room and told me—"
There was a pounding of feet, a clash of steel. Two immense guardsmen in flaring helmets, polished breastplates and greaves thundered into the room, took one eye-popping look at Adoranne, who quickly pulled the pink silk sheet up to her chin.
"There!" screamed the fat lady-in-waiting, pointing with a plump finger. "A murderer! A ravisher! A thief in the night!"
"Let me explain how I happened to be here, fellows—" Lafayette broke off as the two men rushed him, pinned him against the wall with six-foot-long doubleheaded pikes at his chest. "It was all a mistake! I was in my room, asleep, and all of a sudden—"
"—you took it into your head to violate the boudoir of her Highness!" the fat woman finished for him. "Look at the great wretch, half-dressed, burning with unholy lust—"
"I was only—"
"Silence, dog," one of the pikemen grated between set teeth. "Who thinks to harm our princess begs for bloody vengeance!"
"Did he—did he—" The other guard was glaring at O'Leary with eyes like hot coals.
"The monster had no time to achieve his evil purpose," the chubby woman bleated. "I placed my own body between him and that of her Highness, offering it gladly if need be to save her Highness from this fiend!"
"Has he taken anything?"
"Oh, for heaven's sake," O'Leary protested. "I'm no thief!" He waved his arms. "I—" The bag, still clutched in his hand, slammed the wall. He stared at it dumbly.
"What's he got there?" One of the men seized the sack, opened it, peered inside. Over his shoulder, Lafayette caught of glimpse of Adoranne, an expression of mischievous interest on her perfect features.
"Your Highness!" The man stepped to the bed and upended the contents of the pouch on the rosebud adorned coverlet—a sparkling array of rings, necklaces, bracelets, glinting red, green, diamond-white in the candle light.
The fat woman gasped. "Your Highness' jewels!" Lafayette made a move, felt the pike dig into his chest hard enough to draw blood. "Somebody shoved that into my hands," he called. "I was in the dark, in the passage, and—"
"Enough, thief!" the pike wielder snarled. "Move along now, you! I need little excuse to spit your gizzard!"
"Look, Adoranne, I was trying to help! He told me—"
"Who? Have you an accomplice in your felony?" The guard jabbed again to emphasize the question.
"No! I mean there was a man—a medium-sized man in a cloak; he came into my room—"
"How came the rogue here?" the fat woman shrilled. "Did you great louts sleep at your posts of duty?"
"I came in through some kind of sliding panel," O'Leary turned to the princess. "It's right over there. It closed up behind me, and—"
Adoranne's chin went up; she gave him a look of haughty contempt and turned away.
"I thank you, Martha," she said coolly to the fat lady-in-waiting. "And you, gentlemen, for your vigilance in my defenses. Leave me now."
"But, your Highness—" the fat woman started.
"Leave me!"
"Adoranne, if you'd just—" A painful prod in the solar plexus doubled O'Leary over. The pikemen caught his arms and hauled him from the room.
"Wait!" he managed. "Listen!"
"Tomorrow you can tell it to the headsman," the guard growled. "Another word outta you and by the three tails o'Goop I'll spare the crown the expense of an execution!"
In the corridor, Lafayette, still gasping, fixed his eye on the intersection ahead. Just around the corner, he improvised. There's a . . . a policeman. He'll arrest these two.
The pikemen shoved him roughly past the turn; the corridor was empty of cops. Too bad. Must be a spot he'd already seen and thus couldn't change. But that door just ahead: it would open, and a python would come slithering out, and in the confusion—
"Keep moving, you!" the pikeman pushed him roughly past the door, which failed to disgorge a snake.
A gun, then, in his hip pocket—
He reached, found nothing. He should have known that one wouldn't work; he had just put the trousers on a few minutes earlier, and there had been no armaments bagging the pockets then—beside which, how could he concentrate with these two plug-uglies hauling at him? A sharp jerk at his arm directed him down another side way. He stumbled on, assisted by frequent jabs and blows, down stairs and more stairs, into a dim malodorous passage between damp stone walls, past an iron gate into a low chamber lit by smoking flambeaux in black iron brackets. He leaned against a wall, trying to decide which of his bruises hurt worst, while his pike-wielding acquaintance explained his case in a few terse words to an untrimmed lout with thick lips, pale stubble and pimples.
"One o' them guys, huh?" The turnkey nodded knowingly. "I know how to handle them kind."
"Wait . . . till I get my breath," O'Leary said. "I'll . . . visit you . . . with a plague of boils . . ."
A blow slammed him toward a barred gate. Hard hands hustled him through to a moldy oak-plank door. Keys jangled. The blond jailer cuffed him aside and hauled the door open with a rasp of dry hinges. O'Leary caught a glimpse of a stone floor and a litter of rubbish.
Damn! If he'd just thought to picture something a trifle cozier, before he saw it.
"Kind of crummy quarters fer a dude like youse, Buster," the turnkey leered. "You got straw, but I'll give ye a clue: Use the bare floor instead. We got a few fleas and stuff, you know?" Then a foot in the seat sent O'Leary spinning inside and the door thudded behind him.