The Universe Twister (14 page)

"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?"