Part 22 (2/2)

”Hey, what do you think you're doing-”

Too late. The dwarf had folded the piece of official vellum into a chevron, and was aiming- ”You don't dare!”

The paper soared out the window before the Lion could s.n.a.t.c.h at it. ”Now we're all in the same boat,” said the dwarf affably. ”No one is supplied with special defenses against being aggrieved by the Messiars, or whichever army gets here first. So stop stalling, Lion. Get us out of here before the soldiers arrive.”

Brrr could have sprung on the dwarf, swiped him sideways out the window. Mashed him to an ugly organic patty, internal organs extruded like sausage meat through a grinder. Good-bye to Mr. Boss's unblinking unretreating stance, his outthrust bearded chin and agate eyes. His belligerence. His confidence. In one so small: so concentrated. Like Sakkala Oafish. Where did it come from?

Was the dwarf a Glikkun-avenging the Traum Ma.s.sacre, after all this time?

No: That was his own nerves attacking him, a case of the humors. Or, as some called it, paranoia. As much to shake himself up as anything else, Brrr roared. The boys started. The dwarf did not.

The Lion tensed and sprung, rolling his spine forward and sideways, to take the brunt of the impact on his shoulder rather than his skull.

There was a gratifying thud, a shriek of splitting wood, and an echo, but the door did not split. The old oaken planks ran in two depths on the bias, they were laid tongue-and-groove and reinforced by iron braces. And the doorjamb was stone.

”Good one,” said the dwarf. ”Very nice, that. Expected no less.”

”In words of one syllable or less,” said the Lion, ”first: ow. Next: shut up. You want to take a turn, be my guest.”

Ilianora came up to Brrr to press her hands on his shoulder muscles. ”Your old auntie needs help,” she said. ”Wasn't that Munchkinlander maunt who locked us in here a healer? An apothecaire? We must find her.”

”You don't understand. If Yackle is failing at last, the last thing she wants is help,” said the Lion, shaking Ilianora off. ”But I'll try again.”

Three, four times at the door.

”Who's in a hurry?” said the dwarf. ”Not me. I can't see the army approaching through that high window. I'm too short. So I'm totally unconcerned. I think I'll sit here and teach myself to count in a foreign language. One, two, three, f.u.c.k, f.u.c.k, six, seven, eight, nine, f.u.c.k.”

”Mr. Boss,” said Ilianora.

”Hey, look at the see-through p.u.s.s.y,” said one of the boys. ”She having the genuine hissy fit?”

”Hair ball, more likely,” said another.

”Gla.s.s hair ball? Ouch.”

Brrr thought: It's as if Shadowpuppet is as alarmed by the loss of the writ as I am. Attuned to my jitters. Some sweet, small consolation.

In protection of Shadowpuppet, if no one else, the Lion made another half-dozen lunges at the door. Eventually the wood split along the grain, and the iron doork.n.o.b and lock hung at a drunken angle. It appeared that Sister Apothecaire had left the key in the keyhole. They had some job reorienting the lock to line up, but eventually they managed, and opened the remains of the door.

”Are you coming?” said the dwarf.

”She's not in a condition to be moved,” said Ilianora. ”You go, get things in order. We'll follow as soon as we can.”

They pelted away. Their footsteps retreating down the stone stairs made an isolating sound. The mauntery echoed like a mausoleum.

Still Yackle twitched, like a blind fish unable to see the string coming out of its mouth or the fisherman overhead, but responsive to every tug. Ilianora kept one hand on Yackle's shoulder or at her wrist.

”You have a talent for comforting the sick?” said Brrr.

”None,” she replied. ”Why don't you go with them? Nothing is holding you here.”

He had no answer so he offered none. ”What's your answer to that same question?” he said.

”By long habit,” she replied, ”I don't answer questions.”

”Could we get her on my back?” said Brrr. ”Maybe I could carry her down the stairs?”

”She's too brittle, and she's still being bothered by a spell of something.”

”Maybe she'll wake up and find herself an infant this time,” said Brrr, almost to himself. ”With a cowardly Lion and a whatever-you-are for parents. What are you?”

”I'm the handmaiden of the Clock, I suppose,” said Ilianora.

”That tells me less than I want to know.”

”Are you taking notes?”

”No,” he said, ”and that's a promise.”

She drew her knees up to her chin. She looked like a small Ice Monkey, almost, in her white veil. With Yackle in her white, too, they might be Granny Ice Monkey with Granddaughter. Two weird characters in their matching shrouds.

”Are you Mr. Boss's daughter, or are you married to him?” asked Brrr. ”I can't see why anyone would commit herself to a clockwork oracle, unless it was the family business.”

”I am not married, and will not be so,” said Ilianora. ”I'm no longer fit for bearing children.”

”You have white hair, but you aren't that old...”

”I had myself closed,” she said, ”after having heard enough of human iniquity to despair of the species. Closed. So I tread the world lightly, lightly as possible, and I bring no infants forward to suffer as I have done. I worked with the underground vigilantes who struggle against the tyrant on the throne of the Emerald City-our Emperor Apostle-until I learned that in the service of their honorable goal they are capable of actions as dishonorable as the Emperor's-then I gave myself up for lost. I wandered without aim or ambition, a sad folly of a way to spend one's life.”

”I wouldn't know, being drenched in accomplishment each time I open a new door-”

She laughed at him; a bell-like sound so devoid of malice that it made his ears ring. Brrr pressed her to continue, not just for the story but because he was blus.h.i.+ng. ”And the Clock found you and took you hostage?”

”You could say that,” she said, ”if you believe in oracles. Since I don't believe in fate, it can't hurt me. Its capacity to predict my days is nil. I have apprenticed myself to the Clock's company, and I serve as a kind of watchdog of its prophecies. The dwarf is unscrupulous, just doing his job; he doesn't care what mayhem is rucked up by the Clock. The boys who cycle through the company for months or even years at a time join because they are young and scared of the possibilities of life. A belief in preordained history is consoling to those with few prospects, and the boys generally come from the families of blue-coal miners or serfs. They see a little of Oz, watch the Clock tell its predictions and stir up trouble, and do the dwarf's bidding. I suppose they think it is a way to secure a brighter future.”

”Perhaps the boys know more than you do,” said Brrr. ”Maybe believing in the Clock is its own reward. You've never seen it tell your future for you?”

”I have no future. It wouldn't dare.”

”You sound very cynical.”

”You've seen enough of life to suggest I should be otherwise?” she asked.

”As I said, a bed of roses and a walk in the park, that's my life story. But look, here comes Yackle blinking back to life. She is an oracle without a bevy of spies or a clockwork instrument. She's the real goods. What might she say to you, if you asked her?”

”I wouldn't listen to it, and anyway I wouldn't ask her,” said Ilianora. ”Regularly I ask blank paper, and in all my life I've never known magic writing to appear on its blank surface.”

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