"You're lucky I run into you," Yokabump was saying. "Duck your head now; low bridge."
Behind him, Lafayette maneuvered around a massive timber that half blocked the cramped way. "You're so right," he agreed. "I never would have found that stairway. I wonder how many people know about all these hidden entrances into their rooms?"
"Not many."
"Well, next time I'm chased at least I'll have somewhere to hide."
"There's some folks around here might say I shouldn't be helping you out," the dwarf said.
"I can explain all that nonsense about me being in her Highness' room," O'Leary began.
"Never mind, Sir Lafayette. I'm just the court jester; I supply the boffs and let the gentry work out their own problems. But I got confidence in you."
"I suppose you mean because of my ring—the ax and dragon."
"Nay, I don't got for that legend jazz. Anyway, that's just a story old Gory cooked up himself, back when he was new on the job. Propaganda, you know; people were restless. They kind of liked the old king, and who ever heard of this Cousin Goruble? There's still lots of folk think her Highness ought to be setting on the throne right now."
"I take it King Goruble isn't too popular?"
"Ah, he's OK—kind of strict, I guess—but you can't blame him, since this bird Lod made the scene. Him and his pet dragon—"
"More folklore, I take it?"
"Well, I never actually seen this dragon."
"Hmmm. Funny how nobody I've met has seen it, but they all believe in it."
"Yeah—well, here we are." Yokabump had halted at a blank wall. "This here is the panel that opens into her Highness' bedroom. I guess you know what you're doing—and I ain't going to ask you why you're going in there. When I trust a guy, I trust him all the way."
"Well, that's very decent of you, Yokabump. I have her Highness' best interests at heart."
"Sure. But look, Sir Lafayette, give me about five minutes to do a fade, OK? I don't want to be nowhere around in case anything goes wrong."
"If I'm captured, I won't implicate you, if that's what you mean."
"Good luck, Sir Lafayette," the rumbling voice breathed. There was a soft rustle, and O'Leary was alone. He waited, counting slowly to three hundred, then felt over the panel, found an inconspicuous latch at one side; it clicked as he flipped it up. The panel moved smoothly aside. He peered out into the dark room. Only a few hours ago, a hand had propelled him violently through the same opening; now he was back, voluntarily.
He stepped through onto the deep pile rug. He could see the shape of the big canopied bed.
"Adoranne!" he whispered, moving forward softly. "Don't yell. It's me, Lafayette! I want to explain . . ." his voice trailed off. Even in the dim moonlight filtering through the gauzy curtains at the high windows, he could see that the bed was empty.
A five-minute search confirmed no one was in the apartment. O'Leary stood by the ornately carved gold and white dressing table, feeling unaccountably let down. But after all, why should he have blandly assumed she'd be here? Probably there was a big party going on, and she was there, dancing with Count Alain.
But never mind that train of thought. It was time to go—before the fat lady-in-waiting came in and set up a howl. He went back to the inner doorway leading to the bedroom—and stopped short at the sound of voices. The door on the far side of the bedroom opened, and O'Leary ducked back as the maid came in, accompanied by an old man with a mop. The girl sniffled.
"It . . . it ain't . . . the same . . ."
"Never mind that; tears won't help nothing . . ."
O'Leary ducked across the room and tried the hall door. It opened. He peeked cautiously out; the corridor was dim-lit, deserted. Strange. Usually, ceremonial—or perhaps not ceremonial—guards were posted every fifty feet along the hall. And it was a little early for Nicodaeus' fifty-volt lighting system to be turned down so far.
He went along the carpeted corridor to the wide, ornate door, white with gold carving, that separated Adoranne's private quarters from the public area. He tried the gleaming golden handle. It opened. He went through and started off toward the next room from which he could re-enter the secret passage system.
Someone was coming; low voices muttered. O'Leary ran for it, ducked down a side hallway, slid to a halt as he saw a guard posted as the next intersection. The man was yawning; he hadn't seen O'Leary.
Just ahead was a narrow door. O'Leary stepped quickly to it, opened it, ducked through. Steps led upward. He could go up or back out into the hall. He paused with a hand on the door, hearing soft footfalls just outside. That narrowed the choice down; he turned and started up the winding stairs.
Five minutes later, winded by the climb, O'Leary reached a heavy door opening from a tiny landing at the top of the stairs. He listened, then tried the latch. The door opened noiselessly. He poked his head in, wrinkling his nose at a heavy stench resembling burnt pork that accompanied a dense cloud of greenish fumes boiling from an open pan placed over a tripod. Through the smoke he saw the tall figure of Nicodaeus, bent over a workbench, absorbed, his back to the door.
O'Leary studied the narrow, granite-walled chamber, floored with vast stone slabs, lit by giant candles guttering on stands, its ceiling lost in shadows and cobwebs. There were cabinets, shelves, chests, all piled with stuffed owls, alarm clocks, old boots, bottles and jars and cans both full and empty; against the walls wooden crates were stacked, cryptic symbols stenciled on their sides in red and yellow and black. Along one side of the room ran a workbench, littered with tools, bits of wire, odd-shaped bits of metal and glass and plastic. Above it was a black crackle-finish panel, set with dozens of round glass dials against which needles trembled. Double doors at the far end of the room were half-concealed by a heavy hanging. From the ceiling, a gilded human skeleton dangled from a wire.
O'Leary slipped inside, closed the door behind him, silently shot the bolt. The stench was really terrible. Lafayette concentrated, remembering his success with the goaty girl at the tavern. Roasted coffee, say; that would be a marked improvement . . .
He felt the subtle jar that indicated success. The color of the smoke changed to a reddish brown; the greasy smell faded, to be replaced by the savory aroma of fresh-ground coffee beans.
Nicodaeus straightened, went across to the instrument display panel, jabbed at buttons. A small screen glowed pale green. The magician muttered, jotting notes—then paused, ballpoint posed. He sniffed, whirled suddenly—
"Lafayette! Where did—how—what?"
"One question at a time, Nicodaeus! I had a hell of a time getting to you; the whole town's gone crazy. You don't have anything to eat handy, do you? I've been lying under a bush in the park all day."
"Lafayette! My boy, you've repented! You've come to me to make a clean breast of it, to tell me where you've hidden her! I'll go to his Majesty—"
"Hold it!" O'Leary sank down on a wobbly stool. "I haven't repented of anything, Nicodaeus! I told you somebody came to my room, told me Adoranne was in trouble and led me into a secret passage. Then the double-crosser gave me a push and shoved some junk into my hand, and the lights went on."
"Certainly, lad, and now you've decided to throw yourself on his Majesty's mercy."
"You mean apologize for not letting him cut me into slices for something I didn't do? Ha! Look here, Nicodaeus, there's something funny going on around here. I went to see Adoranne and explain what happened. She thinks I stole her crown jewels or . . ." He broke off, seeing the expression on the other's face. "What's the matter?" He came to his feet in sudden alarm. "She hasn't been hurt?"
"You mean—you really don't know?" Nicodaeus blinked through his rimless glasses.
"Don't know what?" O'Leary yelled. "Where's Adoranne?"
Nicodaeus' shoulders slumped. "I had hoped you could tell me that, Lafayette. She's been missing since some time before dawn. And everyone thinks you, my boy, are the one who stole her."
"You're all out of your minds," O'Leary said, finishing off a cracker with sardines—the only rations, it appeared, that Nicodaeus kept handy. "I was locked in a cell. How could I have kidnapped her? And why?"
"But you escaped from the cell. And as to why . . ." Nicodaeus looked wise. "Need one ask?"
"Yes, one need ask! I'm not likely to drag a girl away in the middle of the night just to . . . just to . . . do whatever people do with girls they drag away in the middle of the night."
"But, Lafayette!" Nicodaeus twisted his hands together. "Everyone's assumed you were the kidnapper. So who kidnapped her? And why?"
"I don't know who! You're supposed to be some kind of a magician; can't you find out things?"
"Now who believes in magic?" Nicodaeus inquired sardonically. He shot Lafayette a keen look. "By the way, I noted a severe energy drain recorded in the beta scale at 6:15 this morning. Then about ten minutes later—the would be at 6:25—there was the first of a series of lesser disturbances, that have continued at intervals all day."
"What are you measuring? Is this some sort of seismograph?"
Nicodaeus studied O'Leary's face. "See here, Lafayette, isn't it time you spoke frankly to me? I confess I don't know just what the connection might be between you and the data I've been collecting ever since your arrival—but it's more than coincidence."
"That giant!" O'Leary interrupted suddenly. "Cludd, or whatever his name is! Is there really any such ogre, or is he somebody's pet superstition, like the Phantom Highwayman and Goruble's dragon?"
"Oh, Lod exists. I can vouch for that, my boy. He visited the city, not a month ago. Thousands of people saw him; three meters tall, as broad as I can reach with both arms wide, and ugly as a wart hog!"
"Then he must be the one! Didn't they say he came here courting Adoranne? Then, when he was turned down, he planned this kidnapping—"
"And how, dear lad, would Lod—enormous, ungainly, with a price on his head and known to every subject in the country—slip into town, remove the princess from the midst of her guards and get away clean?"
"Somebody did, and it wasn't me! There are secret passages in the palace—I wouldn't be surprised if one of them led to a tunnel that would take you right outside the city walls. I want a good horse—"
"But, Lafayette, where would I get a horse?"
"You've got one waiting at the postern gate, remember? Don't stall, Nicodaeus! This is serious!"
"Oh, that horse . . . Mmmmm. Yes, perhaps. But—"
"Stop saying 'but'! Get me the horse and stock the saddlebags with food and a change of socks and . . . and whatever I might need. And don't forget a road map."
"Umm. Yes. Look here, Lafayette, you may be right. Lod could be the kidnapper. A difficult trip, though. Do you really intend to try, single-handed?"
"Yes, and I need help! You've double-crossed me a few times, but maybe that was just misguided loyalty. You are fond of Adoranne, aren't you?"
"Double-crossed? Why, Lafayette—"
There was a thunderous hammering at the door. Lafayette jumped. Nicodaeus whirled to him, pointing to the heavy hangings at the narrow end of the room.
"Quickly!" he whispered. "Behind the drapes!"
Lafayette sprang to the hiding place Nicodaeus had indicated and slipped behind the heavy hangings. There was a cold draft on his back. He turned, saw double glass doors standing ajar. A tiny balcony was dimly visible in the darkness beyond them. He stepped out into cold night air and a light drizzle of icy rain.
"Swell," he muttered, huddling against the ivy-covered wall beside the door. Through a narrow gap in the draperies he could see the magician hurrying across the room, drawing the bolt. The door burst open and armed men pushed through—two, three, more. Word must have spread that he had gotten into the palace. Probably they were searching every room.
Two men were coming across toward the hangings behind which O'Leary had been hidden a minute before. He threw a leg over the iron railing, slid down, found a toehold in the tangled vines beneath the balcony, his eyes at floor level. Through the glass door, he saw a sword blade stabbing through the drapes. The point struck the door and glass broke with a light tinkle. O'Leary ducked down and clambered in close under the shelter of the overhang of the balcony, gripping the wet vines. Above, the doors crashed wide open. Boots crunched glass above his head.
"Not out here," a gruff voice said.
"I told you—" the rest of Nicodaeus speech was cut off by the clump of boots, the slamming of doors. Lafayette held on, shivering in the cold wind; water dripped from the end of his nose. He looked down. Below, there was nothing but darkness and the drumming of rain, heavier now. Not a very enticing climb, but he couldn't stay here.
He started down, groping for footholds on the wet stone, clinging to the stiff vines with hands that were rapidly growing numb. Wet leaves jabbed at his face, dribbling water down inside his sodden jacket.
Twenty feet below the level of the balcony, he found a horizontal stone coping and followed it along to the corner. The wind was stronger here, buffeting him, driving stinging rain into his eyes. He retreated to the opposite side of the tower. He was about fifteen feet above the slanting, copper-green plates of the roof over the main residential wing now. He'd have to descend, get past the eaves, and then make it to the ground without being seen. Far below, torches moved about the gardens; faint shouts rang out. The palace guard was out in force tonight.
It was a tricky climb down from the ledge to the roof below; only the thick-growing vines made it possible. O'Leary reached the roof, braced himself with one foot in the heavy copper gutter, now gurgling with runoff from the gable above, and rested five minutes. Then he gripped the vines firmly and lowered himself out and over the wide overhang of the roof. He swung his legs, groping for support, but found nothing. The vines here were sparser than above; probably they had been thinned to clear the downspout.
He let himself down another foot; the edge of the roof was at chin level now. He tried again and again failed to find a foothold. The strain on his icy hands was getting a bit tiresome. He slipped farther down, hanging at arm's length now, and ducked his head under the overhang. The face of the building was a good three feet distant—and as bare of ivy as a billboard. There was a window there, six feet to the left—but it was dark, shuttered and out of reach even if it had been wide open.
O'Leary grunted, hitching himself along to the left. Quite suddenly, he was aware of the hundred feet of empty night air yawning below him. Was that where he was going to end, after all? His hands were stiffening; he couldn't tell if he was gripping the vines hard, or if his hold was weakening, slipping . . .
With a desperate surge, O'Leary swung his legs and managed to slam one toe against the boarded window. Out of reach; he couldn't make it. Could he go back? He struggled to pull himself up, felt the edge of the roof cutting into his wrists; he kicked his legs vainly, then hung slackly. Maybe five minutes, he thought. Then my grip will loosen and down I'll go . . .
Abruptly, the shutters on the window clanked open. A pale, frightened face looked out, framed by dark hair.
"Daphne!" O'Leary croaked. "Help!"
"Sir Lafayette!" Her voice was a gasp. She thrust the shutter back and the wind caught it, thumping it against the stone. Daphne stretched out her arms. "Can you—can you reach me?"
O'Leary summoned his strength, swung his foot; Daphne grabbed and the buckled shoe came off in her hand. She tossed it behind her, brushed back a strand of hair with the back of her hand and leaned farther out.
"Again!" she said. O'Leary sucked in air, swung himself back, kicked out; the chambermaid's strong fingers gripped his ankle. She leaned back, pulled his lower leg across the sill, then grabbed the other foot as it swung forward. O'Leary felt his grip going as the girl tugged. He gave himself a last thrust; his hands came free, and he was swinging down.
His back slammed the wall with a thud that knocked the wind from his lungs. Dizzily, he groped upward, caught the sill with one hand. Daphne seized his arm and tumbled him inside.
"You're . . . strong for a . . . girl . . ." O'Leary managed. "Thanks."
"Comes of swinging a broom all day, sir," she said breathlessly. "Are you all right?"
"Fine. How'd you happen to be there at just the right moment?"
"I heard the outcry above; I ran up to Nicodaeus' tower to see what was afoot. The guardsmen were in a pet, dashing about and cursing. Nicodaeus whispered to me it was you—that you'd gone over the balcony rail. I thought maybe I could catch a glimpse of you from the window—if you hadn't fallen, that is . . . and—"
"Look, Daphne, you saved my life. But—" he frowned, remembering his last conversation with the girl. "Why aren't you in jail?"
"King Goruble pardoned me. He was quite sweet about it; said a child like me couldn't be guilty. He wouldn't even let them hold a hearing."
"Well, the old grouch has a few redeeming traits, after all." O'Leary got to his feet, rubbing his lacerated wrists. "Listen, I have to get out of here. It's a bit too hot for me right now. I've just heard about Adoranne's kidnapping, and I—" he broke off. "You didn't think I was mixed up in that, did you?"
"I . . . I didn't know, sir. I'm glad if you're not. Her Highness is so lovely, though, and a gentleman like you . . ." She looked at her feet.
"A gentleman like me doesn't resort to kidnapping to get a girl. But I think I may have a lead. If you'll get me to one of the entries to the hidden passage system, I'll try to follow it up."
"Hidden passages, sir?"
"Sure, they run all through the palace. There are entries from just about every room in the building. Where are we now?"
"This is an unused storeroom, just down the hall from the suite of the Earl of Nussex."
"Is he in?"
"No, sir; he's off with one of the troops searching for her Highness."
"That'll do, then."
He found his shoe, put it on and followed as Daphne checked the corridor. She led him along to a locked door which she opened with one of the keys on a ring at her waist. He took her hand.
"By the way, you don't happen to know where Lod's headquarters is, do you?"
"In the desert to the west."
"Um. That's all anyone seems to know. Thanks for everything, Daphne." He leaned and kissed her smooth cheek.
"Where will you go?" she asked, wide-eyed.
"To find Lod."
"Sir—will you be safe?"
"Sure. Wish me luck."
"G-good luck, sir."
He slid inside the room, crossed to the panel Yokabump had pointed out to him earlier and stepped through into close, musty darkness.
Two hours later, O'Leary was in a twisting alleyway under the shadow of the city wall three-quarters of a mile from the palace grounds. Sheltered in the lee of a tumble-down shack, he breathed hard from the climb, the dash from one covering shrub to another across the wide palace lawns, the sprint through the gate while the sentry investigated a sound made by a thrown pine cone, the rapid walk through the streets to this noisome corner of the city slum. He was soaked to the skin, shivering. His hands were cut and scratched, yesterday's bruises still ached. The scant meal Nicodaeus had given him hardly assuaged the pangs of a day's fast.
It was raining harder now. O'Leary felt his teeth clatter; his bones felt like something rudely chipped from ice. At this rate he'd have pneumonia before morning—particularly if he spent the night standing out in the chill, raw wind.
He couldn't knock at a door and ask for shelter; every citizen in town seemed to know him. The clever thing to do would be to abandon this foolishness, shift back to Colby Corners and his room, and get what sleep he could. Tomorrow he could call Mr. Biteworse and explain his absence as being due to a sudden attack of flu . . .
But what about Adoranne? He pictured her waking up to find someone's hand over her mouth. The villain must have gotten in via the secret passage, of course. He probably gagged her, bound her hand and foot, slung her over a hard shoulder and carted her off to some robber hideout.
O'Leary couldn't abandon her. He might fail, but he couldn't leave without trying. But what could he do? At the moment he was a hunted fugitive with no one to turn to. His only friend, Nicodaeus, had been suspiciously quick about letting the soldiers in—and they'd rushed directly to his hiding place. If he hadn't climbed outside, prompted by some obscure instinct, he'd have been run through. Had the magician deliberately betrayed him? What reason would he have? True, he'd been eager to see the last of O'Leary; all that talk about fast horses at the postern gate—but then Nicodaeus had helped him at the trial . . .
He'd been lucky to get clear of the palace. The outcry inside had drawn off most of the guard force, fortunately, so he hadn't had to lie low in the mud more than half a dozen times before reaching the gate. He wiped his muddy palms on sodden trousers and shivered again. Briefly, he thought of conjuring up the image of the princess locked in the nearest hut, say. He could break in the door, and there she'd be . . .
It was no use. He didn't believe it. He was too tired to conjure up the impossible. She was miles from here, and he knew it. He needed food, warmth, sleep; then perhaps he could make his mind work again. He looked at the sagging structure against which he huddled. It was a shed no more than six feet by eight, with a roof of sodden thatch. The door was a battered agglomeration of mismatched boards, held together by a pair of rusting iron straps and hanging crookedly from one rotten leather hinge. He prodded it and it slumped even farther; O'Leary caught a glimpse of a dark interior.
He looked away quickly; no point in making that mistake again. There was no telling what that rude exterior might house—or be made to house. Perhaps it was a secret hideaway, fitted out by some adventurer with a need for private quarters away from the hubbub of busy streets—well camouflaged, of course . . .
No use carrying the rationalization too far, O'Leary reminded himself. Firmly, he pictured sound walls under the moldering slabs, a snug, waterproof roof concealed by the defunct thatch, a weatherproof door, an adequate heating system—a gas fire with artificial logs, perhaps, fed by bottled propane. Add a rug—cold floors were rough on bare feet, a shower stall with plenty of hot water—there'd been a shortage of that, even in the palace, a tiny refrigerator, well-stocked, a bunk—a wide one, with a good quality mattress . . .
O'Leary completed his mental picture, filling in the details with loving attention. Of course, it was there, he told himself; he needed a hideout.
Time seemed to hesitate for an instant; then O'Leary smiled grimly and reached for the door . . .
Half an hour later, with the door locked firmly against intruders, clean and warm after a hot shower, O'Leary finished off his second Bavarian ham on Swiss rye, quaffed the last of the sixteen-ounce bottle of lager, pulled the feather comforter up snug about his ears and settled down to catch up on some much needed rest.
The alarm clock he had thoughtfully provided woke him with chimes at dawn. He stretched, yawned, blinked at the glass door to the shower stall, the pale green walls, the olive-carpeted floor, the dark green wall-mounted refrigerator, and cheery fire on the hearth. Now, just where was he? There was Mrs. MacGlint's—or had that been an evil dream? And his room at the palace, and the bunk in the cell at the police station, and a room with a flowerpot . . . and oh, yes, the converted hut here. Quite cozy. He nodded approvingly. He was always waking up in different places these days, it seemed.
O'Leary threw back the coverlet, checked the refrigerator, nibbled a cold chicken leg, then showered while sorting out kaleidoscopic impressions of the day before. It was getting harder and harder to recall just what had been a dream and what hadn't—or whether there was any distinction. The visit to the palace, now. Had that been real? He looked at his hands. They were badly scraped. Uh-huh, that had been real all right. Nicodaeus had nearly gotten him killed, the skunk—unless it was S.O.P. to run swords through curtains first thing when searching a room.
And Adoranne was gone, kidnapped. That was the important fact. He'd have to do something about that, right away. Funny how different everything seemed in the morning, with a meal and a night's sleep behind him. He wasn't worried. Somehow he'd recover Adoranne, explain the business of the midnight visit and the bag of loot, and then . . . Well, then he could play it by ear. And now to business.
He tried the door to the clothespress, discovered a handsome outfit consisting of modern-style whipcord riding breeches, a heavy gray flannel shirt, cordovan boots, a short lined windbreaker, a pair of pigskin driving gloves, and—incongruously—a rapier in a businesslike sheath attached to a Western-style leather belt. He dressed, quickly fried three eggs and half a dozen strips of bacon and washed up after breakfast.
The rain had stopped when O'Leary closed the door carefully behind him. The shack, he noted with approval, looked as derelict as ever. Now to action. The first step . . .
He paused, standing in the garbage-strewn, dawn-lit alley. What was the first step? Where did Lod stay when he wasn't off on a raid? What was it they had said? In the desert to the west? Not much in the way of travel directions. He had to have more information—and he couldn't just collar a passer-by. The first question put to a local citizen would have the pack howling on his heels again before he could say "post-hypnotic suggestion."
Heavy boots clumped along the alley, coming closer. O'Leary made a move to duck into concealment . . .
Too late; a heavily built man in a greasy sheepskin jacket hove into view and halted at sight of him. Under the damp brim of a wide, shapeless hat, a battered face stared truculently. Then it broke into a crafty, gap-toothed smile.
"Duh Phantom Highwayman!" the newcomer squeaked. "Thay, am I glad to thee you! I wanted to thay thanks fer handing the copperth a bum thteer the other night. I don't know how youse thwung it, but they didn't theem to know me from Adam'th off okth."
"Oh, it's the Red Bull," O'Leary said cautiously. "Ah, glad to help out. Well, I have to run along now."
"I hear you're duh one dat thnatched duh princeth. Ith dat tuh thtraight goodth?"
"What, you, too? I had nothing to do with it! I've got an idea this fellow Lod is the guilty party. Maybe you can tell me: exactly where are his headquarters?"
"Youse can level wit' me, bo. I got contacth; we'll work togedduh and thplit duh take."
"Forget it. Now about Lod's hideout—"
"I get it. Youse figger to thell her Highneth to duh Big Boy. What youse figger theyee'll bring?"
"Listen to me, you, you numbskull!" O'Leary shook a fist under the flattened nose. "I'm not involved in the kidnapping! I'm not selling her to anybody! And I'm not interested in any shady deals."
The Red Bull's thick finger prodded O'Leary's chest. "Oh, thtingy, huh? Well, lithen to me, bo—what'th duh idea of working my thection of town, anyway? You thtick to yer highwayth, and leave duh thity to me, thee? And I'm cutting mythelf in on duh thnatch caper, thee? And—"
"There ithn't any thnatch caper—oh, for heavy's sake stop lisping! You've got me doing it!"
"Huh? Look, bo . . ." the Red Bull's voice dropped abruptly to its accustomed bass. "Yuh split wit' me or I cave in yer mush—and den call copper fer duh reward an' a free pardon."
O'Leary slapped the prodding finger aside. "Tell me where Lod's hideout is, you dimwit, and stop babbling about—"
A large hand gathered in the front of O'Leary's new jacket, lifted him to his toes.
"Who yuh calling a dimwit, bo? I got as good a mind as duh next gazebo."
"I happen to be the next gazebo," O'Leary said in a voice somewhat choked by the pressure at his throat. "And I'm an idiot for standing here chinning with you while there's work to be done." He brought up a hand and chopped down in a side-of-the-palm blow at the base of the Red Bull's thick neck. The grasp on his shirt relaxed as O'Leary delivered a second hearty stroke across the big man's throat that sent him stumbling back. The Red Bull shook his head, roared, started for O'Leary with apelike arms outstretched, and met a kick in the pit of the stomach that doubled him over with a grunt in time to intercept a hard knee coming up to meet his already blunted features. He stumbled aside, one hand on his stomach and the other grasping his bleeding nose.
"Hey, dat's no fair!" he stated. "I never seen duh udder two guys!"
"Sorry. That was in Lesson Three, Unarmed Counterattack. Worked quite well. Now, tell me where I can find Lod. And hurry up—this is important!"
"Lod, huh?" The Red Bull looked disapprovingly at the blood on his hand and moved his head gingerly, testing his neck. "What kind of a split yuh got in mind?"
"No split! I just want to rescue her Highness!"
"How about forty-sixty, and I t'row in a couple o' reliable boys to side yer play wit' Lod?"
"Forget it! I'll ask somebody else." O'Leary straightened his jacket, rubbed the bruised side of his hand, gave the Red Bull a disgusted look and started off up the alley.
"Hey!" The Red Bull trotted to his side. "I got a idea! We split thoidy-seventy; what could be more gennulmanly dan dat?"
"You amaze me; I didn't know you knew that much arithmetic."
"I taken a night course in business math. How about it?"
"No! Get lost! I have things to do! I'm conspicuous enough without Gargantua padding along at my heels!"
"I'll settle for a lousy ten percent, on account of you got such a neat left hand, and duh knee work was nice, too."
"Go away! Depart! Dangle! Be missing! Get hence! Avaunt thee, varlet! No deal!" A small man probing hopefully in a sodden garbage bin gave O'Leary a look as the two passed.
"You're attracting attention!" O'Leary halted. "Listen, I give in. You're just too smart for me. Now here's the plan: Meet me an hour before moonrise at, uh—"
"How about duh One-Eyed Man on duh West Post Road?"
"Sure—just the place I had in mind. Wear a red carnation and pretend you don't know me until I sneeze nine times and then blow my nose on a purple bandanna. Got it?"
"Dat's duh way to talk, bo! Nuttin' I like better'n a slick plan, all worked out wit' snazzy details an' all. Uh . . . by duh way, where do I get duh carnation, at dis time o' year?"
O'Leary closed his eyes, concentrated briefly. "Just around the next turn," he said. "On top of the first garbage bin on the left."
The Red Bull nodded, eyeing Lafayette a trifle warily.
"Sometimes when youse ain't in such a hurry, pal, I want youse should clue me how yuh work some of dese angles."
"Sure," O'Leary said. "Hurry along now, before someone steals your flower." The Red Bull hustled away along the street; O'Leary turned into a side alley to put distance between himself and his volunteer partner. He'd like to know himself how he worked the angles, he reflected. He was beginning to take all this as seriously as though it were really happening. It was becoming increasingly difficult to remember which was the illusion, Artesia or Colby Corners.
In a small café consisting of a faded striped awning over a patch of cracked sidewalk, Lafayette sipped a thick mug of strong coffee. He had to have the location of the rebel HQ—but any question on the subject would immediately point the finger at him. As a matter of fact, the girl behind the charcoal stove where the water boiled was giving him sidelong glances right now. Maybe it was just sex appeal, but he couldn't afford to take the chance. He rose abruptly and moved on. His best bet was to keep moving and hope to overhear something.
It was a long day. O'Leary spent it wandering idly through open-air markets, browsing in tiny crack-in-the-wall bookshops, watching the skillful gnarled hands of silversmiths and goldsmiths and leather and wood workers as they plied their crafts in stalls no bigger than the average hot-dog stand back home in Colby Corners. He ate a modest lunch of salami and ale at an inn where low-sagging foot-square beams black with soot crossed above an uneven packed-earth floor. An hour before sunset he was near the East Gate, pretending to eye the display in a tattoo artist's window, while keeping an eye on a lounging sentry who gave him no more than a casual glance. It would be no trick at all to slip through, if he just knew where to go from there . . .
A large man standing a few yards away was looking at him carefully from the corner of a red-rimmed eye. O'Leary whistled a few bars of Mairzey Doats with suddenly dry lips. He eased around the corner into a dark alleylike passage. He stepped along briskly and when he looked back he saw only looming shadows. He went on, following twists and turns. The last of the light was rapidly fading from the sky.
The alley abruptly ended in a garbage-strewn court. He cast about, found another narrow way leading off into blackness, ducked into it and turned to see a dark figure, then another, step into dim view. He whirled silently and started off at a trot. He had gone twenty feet when he tripped over a tub of refuse and sent it clattering. At once, there was a rasp of feet breaking into a run. By instinct, O'Leary ducked, threw himself aside as a dark cloaked figure slammed past, tripped and fell with a clangor of steel and a choked-off curse. Lafayette crouched, squinting into the dark and saw the man rise to hands and knees, groping for a dropped weapon.
It was no time for niceties. He took a quick step and planted a solid kick in the side of the jaw. The man skidded to his face and lay still. O'Leary moved off up the alley, scanning the way for other members of the reception committee. There had been at least two of them—maybe more. This would be an excellent place to get away from—fast. But there was no point in running into the waiting arms of an assassin.
A shadow moved against deeper shadow ahead. One of the party, it seemed, had circled to cut him off. O'Leary stooped, picked up a hand-filling cobblestone and stood flat against the wall. The shadow came closer; he could hear hoarse breathing now. He waited; the man came on, staring into the shadows, not noticing O'Leary.
"Hold it right there," O'Leary hissed. "I've got a musket aimed at your left kidney. Put down your weapon and stand where you are."
The man stood like a wax figure illustrating Guilt Caught in the Act. He stooped slowly, put down something that glittered in the moonlight and took a hesitant step.
"That's close enough," O'Leary breathed. "How many of you are there?"
"Just me and Moe and, and Charlie, and Sam and Porkeye and Clarence—"
"Clarence?"
"Yeah; he's a new boy, just learning the trade."
"Where are they?"
"Spotted around front. Hey, how'd you get past 'em bud?"
"Easy. I went over them. How did you happen to be staked out here?"
"Well, after all, you had to try one of the gates if you planned to get clear of the city."
"How did you know I was still in the city?"
"Look here, fellow—you expect me to rat on my own chief? I'm not saying any more."
"All right, there's just one more thing I want from you: Where's Lod's headquarters located?"
"Lod? Out west someplace? How do I know?"
"You'd better know, or I'll be annoyed. When I get annoyed, my finger gets twitchy, very twitchy."
"What the heck, everybody knows where Lod hangs out, anyway. I guess if I don't tell you, somebody else will, so what's the percentage in me being a hero, know what I mean?"
"Last chance—the finger is getting nervous."
"Ride west—you'll hit the desert after a half a day's travel. Keep going; there'll be a line of mountains to your left. Follow the foothills till you come to the pass. That's all." O'Leary thought he heard a snicker.
"How far is Lod's stronghold from the pass?"
"Maybe five miles, maybe ten, due west. You can't miss it—if you get that far."
"Why shouldn't I get that far?"
"Let's face it, pal; we got you outnumbered five to one."
O'Leary took a quick step and slammed the five-pound stone in his hand against his informant's skull just above the ear. He folded silently and lay on his face, snoring gently. O'Leary stepped past him, moving off up the alley. He emerged five minutes later half a block from the East Gate. Ready to duck and run if necessary, he strolled past the guard just as the fellow yawned, showing cheap silver filling. Once past him, O'Leary let out a long breath and set out to circle the town. His feet were already getting sore; the new boots had a tendency to pinch. Too bad he hadn't taken the time to steal a horse. He had a long trek ahead; maybe three miles around the town walls, then ten to the desert, then another ten . . .
"Well, there was no help for it—and thinking about blisters didn't help. He settled down for the hike ahead, watching the moon rise above the castellated city wall.
There was a light ahead, glowing in the window of one of the buildings huddled against the wall near the West Gate. Lafayette made his way to it, clambered over a heap of rubbish and came around to the front that faced the twenty-foot wide dirt road that led off to the west. He was ready for a good meal and a bottle of stout ale before he tackled the long night's walk ahead. The shack with the light seemed to be an inn; a sign nailed to a post bore a horrendous portrait of a bush-bearded pirate with a patch over one eye. Not a prepossessing establishment, but it would have to do.
Lafayette pushed through the door and found himself in a surprisingly cozy interior. There were tables to the left, a bar straight ahead, a gaming area to the right where half a dozen grizzled gaffers were arguing querulously over a checkerboard. Oil lanterns on the bar lent a warm light to the scene. O'Leary rubbed his chilled hands together and took a seat. A vastly fat woman wobbled from a shadowy corner and plunked a heavy pewter mug down in front of him.
"What'll it be, love?" she demanded cheerfully. O'Leary ordered roast beef and baked potato and then sampled the beer. Not bad at all. He'd stumbled into a pretty fair eating place, it seemed.
"Hey, youse is late, bo," a familiar voice rasped in O'Leary's ear. He jerked around. A red face with flattened features looked at him reproachfully. "I been waiting around dis dump for an hour."
"Listen here, Red Bull," O'Leary said quickly. "I told you not to speak to me until I blew my nose six times and, uh, waved a red handkerchief."
"Naw, youse said you'd sneeze nine times and blew yer schnozz on a poiple hanky. An' look, I got my red carnation; kind uh wilted, but—"
"It's the coolest, Red. I can see our partnership is going to be a fruitful one. Now, I have further instructions for you. Just go along to the palace; most of the guard force is away, looking for the princess. You can sneak inside without much trouble, and gather in all kinds of loot before they get back."
"But duh city gates is locked."
"Climb over the wall."
"Yeah—dat's a nifty idear—but what about my horse? He ain't so good at climbing."
"Hmmm. Tell you what I'll do, Red. I'll take care of him for you."
"Say, dat's white of yuh, bub. He's hitched out back. Now, where'll we meet?"
"Well, just stick around the palace gardens; there's good cover there. We'll rendezvous under a white oleander at the second dawn."
"Duh scheme sounds slick, chum. By duh way, what'll youse be doing in duh meantime?"
"I'll be scouting some new jobs."
The Red Bull rose, gathered his cloak about his broad frame. "OK, I'll see youse in duh hoosegow." He turned and strode off. The waitress stared after as she clanked O'Leary's platter down before him.
"Hey, ain't that the well known cutpurse and footpad—"
"Shhh. He's a secret agent of his Majesty," O'Leary confided. The woman looked startled and withdrew. Half an hour later, well fed and with three large beers inside him, O'Leary mounted the Red Bull's horse—a solidly built bay with a new-looking saddle—and, keeping in mind all he'd read about the equestrian art, spurred out of the inn yard and off along the West Post Road.