The Universe Twister (33 page)

"How do I look?" He rotated before her.

"You look like one o' them strolling minstrels—the Spots Brothers, the smart one—Grumpo."

"Well, it will have to do."

"Sure; it's swell. Listen, Lafe: forget about seeing the duke. You can make like a strolling minstrel yourself. We'll find us a snug garret someplace and fix it up with curtains on the windows and a pot o' pinks, and—"

"Don't talk nonsense, Swinehild," Lafayette reproved her. "Duke Rodolpho's my only hope of getting out of this miserable place."

Swinehild caught at his hand. "Lafe—don't go back to the palace. If they catch you again, this time it'll be
zzzt!
for sure. Can't you just settle down here and be happy?"

"Happy? You think I enjoy being hit on the head and thrown in jail and hiding in the bushes?"

"I'll . . . I'll hide with you, Lafe."

"There, there, Swinehild, you're a nice girl and I appreciate all your help, but it's out of the question. I have a wife waiting for me, remember?"

"Yeah—but she's there—and I'm here."

He patted her hand. "Swinehild, you run along and pursue your career. I'm sure you're going to be a great success in the big city. As for me, I have more serious business to attend to—alone. Good-bye and good luck."

"D-don't you want to take the lunch?" She offered the bottle and what was left of the sausage. "In case you wind up back in the pokey?"

"Thanks—you keep it. I don't intend to eat again until I'm dining in style . . ."

There was a clip-clop of hooves on the street beyond the hedge. Lafayette ducked to the nearest gap and peered through. A party of mounted cuirassiers in lemon-colored coats and plumed helmets was cantering toward him, followed by a matched pair of gleaming black horses with silver-mounted harness drawing a gilt-and-pink coach.

At the open window of the vehicle, Lafayette glimpsed a gloved feminine hand, a sleeve of pale-blue velvet. A face leaned forward in profile, then turned toward him . . .

"Daphne!" he yelled. The coachman flicked his whip out over the horses; the coach rattled past, gaining speed. Lafayette burst through the hedge and dashed after it, raced alongside. The passenger stared down at him with a wide-eyed look of astonishment.

"Daphne!" O'Leary gasped, grabbing for the door handle. "It
is
you! Stop! Wait!"

There was a roar from the nearest of the escort; hooves clashed and thundered. A trooper galloped up beside him; Lafayette saw a saber descending in time to duck, trip over a loose cobblestone, and skid two yards on his jaw. He pried his face from the street and saw the coach bowling away across the plaza before his view was cut off by the legs of the prancing horses that had surrounded him. He looked up into the fiercely mustachioed face of the captain of the escort.

"Throw this miserable bum in the dungeons!" he bellowed. "Truss him in chains! Stretch him on the rack! But don't spoil him! The Lady Andragorre will doubtless want to witness his death throes personally!"

"Daphne," Lafayette mumbled brokenly as a trooper prodded him to his feet with a lance. "And she didn't even look back . . ."

Lafayette's new cell was somewhat less luxurious than the first he had occupied, featuring a damp floor the size of a card table and a set of leg irons which had been riveted to his ankles, not without occasioning a few bruises. Beyond the bars, a big-armed man in ominous black leathers whistled with more cheer than tune, poking up a merry blaze on a small grate beside which hung an array of curiously shaped tongs, pincers and oversized nutcrackers. To the right of the fireplace was a metal rack resembling an upended bedstead, but for a number of threaded rods running its full length, with crank handles at the ends. Balancing the composition on the left was an open, upended sarcophagus studded with rusted three-inch spikes.

"Listen to me," Lafayette was saying for the ninth time. "If you'll just get a message to the duke for me, this whole silly misunderstanding will be cleared up!"

"Have a heart, pal." The technician gave O'Leary a weary smile. "For you, this is all new; but I been through it a thousand times. Your best bet is to just relax and keep your mind on something else. Flowers, now. Flower is nice. Just think about 'em poking up their purty little heads on a spring A.M., all bedewed wit' dew and all. You won't hardly notice what's happening."

"You have more confidence in my powers of contemplation than I do," Lafayette said. "Anyway, my case is different. I'm innocent, just an inoffensive tourist; all I want is a chance to explain matters to his Grace the duke, after which I'll put in a good word for you, and—"

"Tch. You're wasting your wind, fella. You goofed when you didn't ditch your mad-monk suit before you pulled the caper. Half the ducal guard's been combing the town for a week to apprehend that blackguard, which he's pulled ten jobs right under their noses. And you musta been consumed wit' unholy lusts or something to jump her ladyship's carriage right in front of the gate, not that I blame you. She's a looker, all right, all right."

"Is that, er, all they have on me?"

"Jeez, kid, ain't that enough? The duke hisself's got a eye on her Ladyship. He don't take kindly to mugs which they make a pass at her."

"I mean, there isn't any old charge left over from yesterday or anything silly like that? Anything they'd want to, say, cut my head off at dawn for?"

"A beheading rap? Naw, this is nothing like that, just the standard workout wit' the irons and then a nice clean garroting. There
was
a axing slated for dawn, but I heard the guy turned out to be a wizard: he turned into a bat the flew up the chimbley."

"How clever of him. I wish I knew his secret." Lafayette squeezed his eyes shut.

"I'm back in Artesia, out in the desert," he whispered urgently. "It's a nice night, and the stars are shining, and all I have to do is walk about twenty miles through loose sand and I'll be back at the palace and—"

"Hey, nix on the spells," the executioner broke in reproachfully. "You got enough on your plate wit'out a necromancy charge."

"It's no use, anyway," O'Leary groaned. "I thought I had it back, but I guess I was just kidding myself. I'm stuck here—unless I can talk to the duke," he finished on a note of desperation. "Won't you at least try? If I'm telling the truth, it could mean a nice promotion for you."

"I don't need no promotion, chum. I'm already at the top o' my profession; I'm happy wit' my work."

"You
enjoy
being a torturer?"

"That ain't a term us P.P.S.'s like, mister," the man said in a hurt tone. "What we are, we're Physical-Persuasion Specialists. You don't want to get us mixed up wit' these unlicensed quacks, which they're lousing up the good name of the profession."

"You mean it takes special training to raise a blister with a hot iron?"

"There's more to it than that. You take like the present assignment: I got strict instructions to keep you in what we call an undergraduate status until her Ladyship gets back. And since she figures to be gone a couple weeks, you can see I got a delicate fortnight ahead. Not any slob could do it."

"Say, I have a suggestion," Lafayette offered brightly. "Why not just kind of forget I'm here until maybe just before the deadline? Then you can paint on a few stripes with Mercurochrome and fake up some wax welts, and—"

"Hold it right there," the P.P.S. cut in sternly. "I'm gonna pretend like I never heard that. Why, if I pulled a stunt like that, I'd be drummed outa the guild."

"Tell you what," O'Leary said. "If you promise not to tell, I won't either."

"Cheese—it's a temptation—but no." The P.P.S. poked at the coals, rotating the iron he was holding to ensure an even cherry-red heat. "I got tradition to think of. The honor of the calling, all that stuff. I mean, it's thoughtful of you, bub, but I couldn't do it." He lifted the glowing poker and studied the color critically, licked a finger and touched it lightly, eliciting a sharp hiss.

"O.K., I guess we're ready. If you don't mind just stripping to the waist, we can get started."

"Oh, no hurry," Lafayette protested, retreating to the back wall of the cell, his hands searching frantically over the rough masonry.
Just one loose stone
, he pleaded silently.
One little old secret tunnel . . .

"Candidly, I'm already behind," the P.P.S. said. "What say we warm up on a little light epidermal work, and then move into the pressure centers before we break for midnight snack? Hey, I forgot to ask: you want a box lunch? A buck-fifty, but I hear they got chicken salad tonight and a jelly roll."

"No thanks, I'm on a food-free diet for the duration. Did I mention I'm under a physician's care? No sudden shocks, particularly electrical ones, and—"

"If it was me, I'd throw the chow in free, you know, American plan. But—"

"What do you know about America?" Lafayette blurted.

"Everybody knows Luigi America, the big noodle and egg man. Too bad the duke's too tight to go along wit' the meal-ticket scheme—"

"I heard that, Groanwelt," a resonant baritone voice rang out. A tall, well-muscled but slightly paunchy man with smooth gray hair and rimless glasses had stepped through a door in the far wall. He wore tight-fitting yellow trousers, red-leather shoes with curled-up toes, a ruffled shirt, a short cloak trimmed with ermine. Jewels sparkled on his fingers. Lafayette looked at him, speechless.

"Oh, hi, your Grace," the torturer said casually. "Well, you know I never say anything behind your back I w'unt say to your face."

"One day you'll go too far," the newcomer snapped. "Leave us now. I'll have a word with the prisoner."

"Hey, no fair, your Grace; I just got my number-four iron up to operating temperature!"

"Need I point out that I would find it somewhat difficult to carry on a lucid conversation with your client amidst an odor of roasting callus?"

"Yeah—I guess you got a point." Groanwelt shoved the iron back into the coals and cast a regretful look at O'Leary. "Sorry, chum. But you see how it is."

The gray-haired man was studying O'Leary with narrowed eyes. As soon as the door had closed behind the P.P.S., he stepped close to the bars.

"So it
is
you," he said and broke off, frowning. "What's the matter with you?" he demanded sharply. "You look as if you'd seen a ghost."

"N-N-Nicodaeus?" O'Leary whispered.

"If that's supposed to be some kind of password, I don't recognize it," Duke Rodolpho barked.

"You're . . . not Nicodaeus? You aren't a sub-inspector of continua? You can't make a fast phone call and have me whisked back to Artesia?"

The duke glared at O'Leary.

"Enough of these obfuscations, Lancelot. First you burst into my audience chamber spouting nonsense; then you escape from my maximum-security dungeon under the very eyes of my alert guard staff. Next, you openly appear in a waterfront dive, fairly begging to be brought in again—whereupon you once more fly the coop—only to invite arrest a third time by accosting a certain great lady in full view of her guard. Very well, I may be a bit obtuse, but I think I get the message: you have something to sell."

"Oh?" Lafayette squealed. "That is, oh. So you finally caught on."

"And?" Rodolpho glared.

"And, uh . . . what?" O'Leary inquired brightly. The duke frowned.

"So you intend to keep me on tenterhooks, do you? Well, it won't wash, fellow! Disappear again, go ahead, amuse yourself! But don't expect me to come crawling to you begging for information regarding the Lady Andragorre . . ." He finished on a semi-interrogative note, almost a pleading look in his eyes.

"Lady Andragorre?" Lafayette mumbled. "Me, tell you . . .?"

"Very well," the duke sighed. "I can see I've handled you wrongly from the beginning, Lancelot. All right, I acknowledge my mistake. But you can hardly blame me, considering the affair of the poached egg and the incident of the bladder of ink! Still, I'm ready to make amends. I'll even apologize, though it goes against the grain. Now will you consent to sit down with me and discuss this matter in gentlemanly fashion?"

"Well, ah, of course I want to be reasonable," Lafayette ad-libbed desperately. "But a torture chamber is hardly the proper surroundings for a heart-to-heart."

The duke grunted. He turned and yelled for Groanwelt.

"See that this nobleman is released, washed, fed, garbed as befits his station, and brought to my apartment in half an hour," he commanded. He gave O'Leary a sharp look. "No disappearing until then, Lancelot," he said gruffly, and stalked from the room.

"Well, that's the breaks," Groanwelt said philosophically as he unlocked the door. "Looks like we don't get together on a professional basis tonight after all. But it was swell meeting you anyway, kid. Maybe some other time."

"I wouldn't doubt it," Lafayette said. "Say, Groanwelt, what do you know about this, er, Lady Andragorre?"

"Nothing special. Just that she's the richest, most beautiful dame in Melange, is all, which the duke is carrying a torch the size of the Chicago fire for her."

"You know about the Chicago fire?"

"Sure. A beer joint. Burned down last week. Why?"

"Never mind. You were saying?"

"Too bad fer his Grace, he'll never get to first base wit' her Ladyship."

"Why not?"

Groanwelt leered and lowered his voice. "On account of there's another guy, natch. It's the talk of the locker rooms."

"Another guy?" Lafayette felt his heart lurch violently under his sternum.

Groanwelt dug an elbow into Lafayette's ribs. "Duke Rodolpho don't know it, but he's playing second fiddle to a rogue name of Lorenzo the Lanky—or is it Lancelot the Lucky?"

"Lorenzo the Lanky?" Lafayette croaked as Groanwelt struck off his gyves.

"As a matter of fact," the P.P.S. said in the tone of one who imparts a confidence, "right now milady is officially on her way to visit her old-maid aunt and twelve cats. But between you and me, the word is she's headed for a hunting lodge in the Chantspels for a trial honeymoon wit' the lucky geezer."

"T-trial honeymoon?"

"Yep. Now, let's go turn you over to the chamberlain, which he'll doll you up in shape for yer audience wit' his Grace."