Adventures Of Myhr Part 27

"Then what is it?" she demanded.

"I suggest we try a seance."

Her face went a touch funny, and her tone went flat. "A seance. That'sit ?"

"As a way of contacting Anton; then he can tell us what to do."

"Unless he's too busy being tortured by demons to hear."

"There's that, but if he's not, then I think he is most likely to be in the best position to advise us on a suitable course of action. The advantage of a seance is that one does not require magic to obtain results.

Of course, magicis a help. Otherwise there is a chance that whatever answers our call to the Otherside might not be Anton. I've heard some of the ent.i.ties over there are very good at imitation and misdirection.

Since they're not subject to the laws of time they love wasting ours, you know. Having a Talent on this side who can tell the difference between the overduke and an astral impostor would be handy."

"Yes, I see what you mean, but right now all the Talents are sitting around Rumpock roofs watching the h.e.l.l-river . . . except for Filima."

An awful thought occured to Cadmus. "What if she's helping Botello?"

"Filima? Don't be absurd, she has more sense."

He was suitably abashed. Ofcourse his darling wouldn't dirty her hands with Botello's schemings. "Then we must bring her in." "But the curfew's on. What do we say at the gate? 'Excuse me, mister guard, we have an emergency seance to conduct, let us through, please.' "

"Dear lady, we have the palace doctor with us. He has no need to explain himself. Just ask him to toddle over to Darmo House with a note for Filima explaining things. Or not explaining things. She might find them difficult to believe just written out cold. You can tell her everything when she gets here. And I would strongly recommend you both avoid contact with Botello. From past talks I got the impression he was none too pleased with his wife-er-widow, that is to say. If he sawher he might get the wind up."

"Don't worry, I know how to handle him."

"But it's not the him you know! Not Anton. He's Botello."

"He's a man. I know how they work."

Cadmus wasn't sure how to take that, feeling a vague need to defend his gender, but so long as she was lending a hand to the cause what did it matter? "Fine, now go write that note to Filima and bring her down here."

"Here? Why?"

"Out of consideration for Captain Rockbush. He won't let me out."

"Strange place to hold a seance," she muttered.

"Indeed, they are rather more a.s.sociated with candlelit parlors, but one must make do. Now,please hurry along before Botello takes it into his head to chopmine off."

"You think he would do that?"

"At the earliest opportunity."

"Why didn't he kill you when he had you in the Black Room?"

"I wondered myself until I remembered some lore I once read about the energies of death. A lot gets released and transformed when one dies, and murdering me there would have disrupted whatever power construct he set up. He must need things left well enough alone for the moment. Probably waiting for dawn when the Talents come over."

Velma's gaze flicked at Rockbush. She leaned closer. "There's a little problem we have about sending the doctor to fetch Filima."

"Which is . . . ?"

"I already sent him out to warn the Talents not to come here after all."

"Oh. Then you thought of the emergency loophole, too." Cadmus had intended to recommend it at some point.

"Uh-huh." "Well, that was very clever of you, but deuced bad timing. I don't suppose you could slip out of the palace and fetch her yourself?"

"If I have some help."

"I'd offer my services, but as you can see . . ." He gestured at his cell.

She straightened and turned. "I'll ask for the captain's a.s.sistance."

As she spoke in such a way as to indicate he was now a part of the conversation, Rockbush relaxed his "I'm not listening" posture. "Yes, lady?"

Velma told him she required an escort to take her to Darmo House.

He smiled and nodded. "I'll be pleased to see to it myself, lady. We can leave at first light."

She did not look overly surprised. "You must be aware that I need to leave now."

"Sorry, lady, but the overduke's curfew is on. Until he revokes it, or gives you a writ of exception, I have to follow my orders."

She gave a sigh. "d.a.m.n. I suppose you do. Even if the overduke is really someone else using his body?"

"Not my place to make those distinctions, lady. Now Lord Perdle might be able to help you if you're reluctant to speak with Lord Anton."

"What a marvelous suggestion, but Lord Perdle is not in the palace."

"It is a bit of a dilemma, lady." He was not unsympathetic in his manner, just tied by the restrictions of his office.

But Cadmus had enough. "Oh, bother! Let's have the seance here and now and take our chances. You know Anton well enough to tell the difference between him and an Otherside ent.i.ty, don't you?"

"Yes," said Velma. "But since Botello is involved we really should have Filima in on things. She needs to know what her husband is up to. I'll just have to go myself."

"When you have a writ of pa.s.sage, lady," the captain reminded her. "My men won't let you out the gates without one."

"And if I should avoid the gates and sneak over the wall?" she challenged.

"Then they would have to arrest you. Sorry, lady, but they have their orders."

"Yes, one must have those, mustn't one? d.a.m.n and blast! Out of my way!" She stormed toward the door.

Rockbush made haste to remove himself from her path.

Cadmus called after her. "Velma! You can't risk arr-" Velma, coming even with Rockbush made a very fast, strong uppercut motion with her near fist. She was quite a bit shorter, which put her into an ideal position to inflict the most awful damage to his groin area. Rockbush emitted a piteous sound-Cadmus winced in wholehearted sympathy-and doubled over. Without mercy, Velma struck again, this time with a flexible object she pulled from a pocket in her riding jacket. It made a nasty thumping noise upon connecting with the captain's head, and thereafter he ceased all movement.

"My gawds. You've killed him!" Cadmus observed to the abrupt silence that filled the chamber.

"Just put him to sleep for a while," she said. With some effort, she turned the body over and rifled his pockets.

"What did you hit him with?"

"A stocking full of coins. My mum taught me how to save my money and keep it safe all in one." She found a largish ring full of keys, pushed up, and came over to try them on the cell lock.

"Are you sure he's not dead?"

"Yes, I had plenty of oafs to practice on when I was in the circus. Some rubes just don't get that no means no. He'll have a headache but won't remember how he got it." She fitted a key in and gave it a twist. The lock tumblers fell into place, and she pulled the door open. "Quickly, put his cloak on."

"I won't fool anyone up close."

"So? We just don't let them get close."

"And if they do anyway?"

"Then run like h.e.l.l."

Chapter Fourteen.

Burkus House, an Upstairs Hall Hours after his inexplicably ill-mannered master had ridden away to the palace, Debreban was still unsettled by the encounter. His evening meal did not sit well with him, either, his digestion being disturbed by all that he'd seen and heard that day. How a simple errand of following Captain Shankey around had turned into a major adventure involving catmen and secret tunnels and magic and grouchy wizards required much mulling over.

Debreban would have liked to talk it out with somebody, but the whole household was long gone to bed at this hour. Besides, he'd have had to provide an enormous lump of background explanation to hisaudience, which never worked too well in his experience. Better to speak with a person who had been there. That would be Shankey, of course, but he was at Darmo House, probably hearing all sorts of interesting tales from Myhr and the sickly young fellow he'd introduced as being a real wizard. He'd not looked too terribly wizardlike, but it takes all sorts to make a world.

So Debreban tried to quell his restlessness with a bout of walking, hoping it would tire him out. He patrolled the grounds until the mosquitoes drove him indoors, then paced throughout the house.

Fortunately it was a big square structure with an enclosed courtyard, enabling him to walk endlessly round and round without having to pay mind to his path. He kept to the upper floor, so the tramp of his boots wouldn't disturb the sleeping staff. Only Lord Cadmus slept upstairs, and he was gone for the night. Debreban could stalk the hallways to his heart's content, and did so for quite some time.

It didn't help as much as he'd hoped.

He partially convinced himself that the disturbing encounter with Lord Cadmus had been a misapprehension of some kind. Perhaps his lords.h.i.+p had received some upsetting news, causing him to be in a tremendous hurry to be elsewhere. That would explain his short temper. This did seem confirmed when one of the staff mentioned his lords.h.i.+p was off to dine at the palace. It did not explain the peculiar behavior of the horse. Though a fine-looking war charger, the animal had ever been as well-mannered as its master. Had he not known better, Debreban would have sworn a changeling demon steed had taken good old Whitestone's place. Strange how he kept trying to throw his rider. Lord Cadmus had barely been able to keep his seat, and he was the best horseman in the province.

Could he have been drunk? Not likely. Except at parties, his lords.h.i.+p was usually sparing in his consumption of spirits. Whether that was an economic stratagem or to do with the sodden demise of several dipsomaniac relatives was debatable. Either way, his lords.h.i.+pnever drank while riding.

Yes, something was up. Probably to do with that h.e.l.l-river the Talents were in such a twist over.

Debreban had never seen the phenomenon, but knew enough about magic to respect the concept. Magic was like air; you couldn't see the stuff, but it was very useful to have around, and when a storm was up you certainly couldfeel it.

That's how things had been in that awful tunnel. He hated closed-in dark places to begin with, and combined with the noise and stinks . . . well, it was a good thing that Myhr had been there to vanquish the bad stuff. Odd man . . . creature . . . whatever, but friendly. Why was it that Shankey had first thought him to be a man wearing a cat mask? Perhaps Lady Filima had seen a vision in her scrying mirror. Debreban did not approve of those. They were nothing less than an invasion of privacy. He'd been quite scandalized when he first learned of such devices. He was aware that Lord Cadmus had one in his Black Room, and made a point to avoid the spot.

Debreban happened to be walking past the door to that very chamber. He kept walking, and with some success quelled the creeping gooseflesh that was trying to take hold of his spine. His personal remedy for that was to mutter a childhood prayer and cross his fingers. There, he felt better now already. As usual, nothing leaped roaring from the Black Room at him and nothing ever would.

His confidence faded as he approached his master's private suite. The door was shut, as were all the others on this floor, but a strange wavery light now leaked from the threshold s.p.a.ce. It had not been there moments ago when he'd last pa.s.sed this way.

Debreban ran down a logical list of what might be causing the light, in short order dismissing the moon s.h.i.+ning through an open window, a forgotten candle or lamp, or some impossible reflection from theRumpock River. Nothing he was familiar with could possibly create that strange red glow.

The gooseflesh returned, rather forcefully.

Oh, d.a.m.n.

He wished himself elsewhere, but it didn't work. Like it or not he was the captain of the guards for Burkus House, and it was his job to protect the place. Defending against magical threats was not specifically mentioned in his contract, though. Lord Cadmus should really deal with this. If only he was here.

Oh, d.a.m.n again.

Hoping it would be something quite hilariously boring, Debreban drew his sword and cautiously opened the door. No reaction came bounding out, though the red glow got stronger, was.h.i.+ng him with crimson color. He pushed the door wide with the tip of his sword and waited. All remained quiet . . . no . . . he heard a strange low hum coming from within. It wavered with the light and made the inside of his ears itch.

Bracing, he stepped in, looking around very quickly, wanting a few hundred candles to light the way and a host of Talents to back him up.

So far as he could tell by the lurid radiance, his master's rooms were in good order. A few clothes were strewn about the dressing area, but that was normal when there was a dinner engagement on, according to his lords.h.i.+p's long-suffering valet. Only the glow and the humming were out of place. Debreban eased forward to their source which turned out to be a huge dressing mirror.

A fine piece of art in a heavy, gold-leafed frame, it stood alone in one corner, and at first glanced seemed to be on fire. Its surface roiled with blood colored clouds, yet they remained confined inside, as though reflecting some other place than the dim room. He stared at it for some time, not coming to harm, but still nerved up.

The hum grew louder. Was it meant to be a burglar alarm like that dragon-breath sound in the Darmo tunnel? If so, then perhaps throwing an object made of cold iron into the works would stop it. His own sword wouldn't do, what would . . . a fire poker perhaps?

His gaze fell upon a long shape left casually propped against a chair: a sword and scabbard of antique style that he thought he recognized. Yes, it was one of the oddities of the Burkus House armory collection, supposedly a wizard-slayer because of the composition of its metal. Why was it off its stand and up here? His lords.h.i.+p must have had some use for it. No matter; Debreban accepted the opportune gift of fate and grabbed it up.

Weighty thing, but nicely balanced, with a slightly curving black blade that still held a killing edge. The pommel felt right and rea.s.suring in his hand as he rounded on the mirror like a hero about to face down a long-sought-after adversary.

Of course it was all very well to strike a pose even if no one was around to appreciate it, but nothing happened. The clouds continued to churn, the hum steadied out. After some minutes of this they ceased to intimidate him. Perhaps he shouldn't even be here. His master might have cast some kind of spell to create this effect and would be annoyed to have it disrupted. But Debreban's instinct went against that conclusion. No, there was something afoot that wanted looking into.

He extended his arm, very gently touching the surface of the mirror with the tip of the black sword.

Oh, my.

The clouds recoiled like a slug struck with salt. The hum rose to a high shriek and cut off into sudden silence.

I broke it!

Debreban fell back a step, holding the blade in a guard position, ready for whatever might rush forth.

The clouds slowly recovered, only now there seemed to be some form to them, a roughly oval shape in their midst. Eventually he made out human features. Was this what scrying was like for the Talents?

The face-three times larger than normal-grew more solid, and though possessed of a red cast, its features seemed familiar. He couldn't quite place . . . yes, of course, it was Lord Botello Darmo. . . .

Who was dead.

Oh, d.a.m.n. Again. A lot.

Darmo looked out from the mirror, his gaze sharp as a spike as it fell upon Debreban.

"Hallo there," he said politely. "To whom am I speaking?"