Treachery of Kings

FORTY-TWO

Grave doubts, indeed…” If Finn wasn't certain the Bullie had no place for whimsy in his life, he'd accuse the fellow of a play upon words, and a meaningful play at that.

The air was chill with the damp scent of raw, unfinished stone, for this passageway bore no kin to the King's polished granite halls. The twisting corridor was hewn from the earth itself, a course so narrow and close it was all Finn could do to hold back the panic that threatened to crush him, choke him in its grip.

Would it be better, or worse, he wondered, if he could see, instead of feeling his way in the dark?

“No torch, no light at all,” Bucerius had warned him in no uncertain terms.

Why? Finn had wanted to know. If this was a secret way, who would guess that he was there?

“Didn't say that no one knew, now did I, Master Finn?”

Thus, another chill to add to his growing list of fears, things to remember, things to brood about as he made his way through the smothering dark. For Bucerius had given him a map, a map he couldn't see, a map he must carry in his head:

Twenty-seven steps, then right…

One hundred nine, then left, and left again…

Finn had a good head for cogs, gears, springs and silver wheels, minuscule wires that wandered this way and that. He could keep a dizzying array of lizard devices in his head, but he wasn't fond of numbers at all.

And why, he asked himself, if Bucerius has my interests at heart, why not share the dire secrets he knows about Llowenkeef's court? Why not give me a better chance to get out of here alive, with Letitia and Julia Jessica Slagg?

He had no answer to that. It did occur to him, however, that a good way to get rid of meddlers was to dump them in a tunnel where they'd never get out, and bid them fond farewell. He shook his head and cast the thought aside. That sort of dark speculation made little sense at all.

For a fact, it was no great surprise to Finn that the Bullie knew a lot more than he liked to tell. He had known about this secret way all along, and had never said a word when he'd ushered him into the palace with the “help” of Devius Lux.

When Finn had confronted him with that, the Bullie had merely laughed. “An’ why would I be tellin’ you ‘bout that? You don't be sneakin’ in a place when you can go politely in the door.”

“That's not what I was asking,” Finn said.

“No, you be askin’ why I don't be tellin’ you everything I know. …”

Did the tunnel seem somewhat wider than before? Was it slanting deeper now?

“Pikes and Spikes, how am I supposed to keep all this in my head. There's enough churning about in there as it is!”

There was much he had to tell Letitia Louise. He wished he could recall all the amazing things the Coldie king had told him before he disappeared. Letitia would surely have a great deal to say about Prawn-Wallis’ revelations, for she firmly believed there was an afterlife. All the Mycer folk did, and many other Newlies as well.

And, though he wanted very much to share Letitia's beliefs, he had grown up among his own kind. Most everyone of the human persuasion believed what they could see: You became a Coldie when you shed the mortal coil. Period. That's what you did.

“This is all there is, right here!” as the specter king Prawn-Wallis had said.

So why were there no Newlie Coldies about, no wispy Bullies and Snouters gathered in the night? Letitia had an answer to that: “Why, because they pass on to a greater Being when they die.”

“Nonsense,” most any human would say. “You're not going to see no Newlie specters, ‘cause they're not the same as us. They're animals, still. They don't go anywhere at all…”

This way or that? Left, he was nearly certain, though it could be right as well. The breeze from the left seemed more intense, as if the inner winds, the earthen streams of air, were coming from a source closer to this labyrinth's end.

And, scarcely a moment after that, the wind brought a sound, a sound so faint Finn could not be certain it was more than a deviation of the current itself

He stopped, listened for a moment, heard nothing more and moved on, his fingers feeling the way ahead. Almost at once he paused again, certain that a pale luminescence had appeared past the tunnel's subtle bend. That, or the constant darkness was playing tricks on his eyes.

“It's not in my head, it's a light, and it's damn well there… “

He moved very slowly, counting each breath, determined to keep his wits about him now, for light meant danger as well as release from the dark.

That light, though faint and indistinct, was very real, he no longer doubted that. The sound was real as well, no trick of the wind, though he wished that were so, for it bore such sorrow, such deep and terrible loss, it filled him with a sadness he couldn't explain.

He was struck, then, by a chilling premonition, a feeling of such dread he could hardly bear to look past the corridor's end, for fear of what he might see. And when, at last, he made himself peer upon the scene, he could not begin to comprehend what lay before him there…

They were silent, still, in the faint amber light, amidst that awful sound of desolation and regret. Eleven, in all, the Royal Family of Llowenkeef-Grymm. Each solemn, naked form dozed in its carven stone vault, and each was attended by a robed attendant, one of the Gracious Dead.

Near each of the vaguely deceased was a low stone table, and upon each table sat an array of jars, bottles, salves and glass vials of liquid in varicolored hues. Some of these containers were fitted with coils of copper tube, and each tube ended in a small ellipse, much like one might see on a flute or a fife.

As he watched in horrid fascination, Finn saw what these bizarre devices were for. One of the Gracious Dead bent down and gently lifted the head of a royal cousin, niece or noble aunt, parted her lips and thrust his fingers in her mouth. Then, he inserted some instrument designed to keep this orifice agape.

When he was satisfied, he lifted one of the copper-tubed vials, and slowly fed some dark and turgid soup into the royal's mouth. Finally, the task done, he laid the woman's head gently down and moved along to the next naked form.

Farther along the row of vaults, another robed figure turned a heavyset man on his ample belly and carefully kneaded the fellow up his legs, his buttocks and his back. It might have been the King himself, for all Finn knew, and he was much relieved that it was too dark to tell.

He couldn't say how long he'd been staring at this incredible sight before he noticed the smell. He supposed it had been there all the while, but he had been so stunned and astonished by the horde of unclad nappers he had failed to notice the scent at all. It was a sweet, heavy scent, somehow familiar, though one he couldn't name.

The sound he had heard, even before the shadowy chamber came in sight, was still very present there. Now, though, as he came aware of the powerful scent, the source of this sound was clear. It was not an errant wind, but the solemn lament of the Gracious Dead, the song they sang for their masters, the royal sleepers of Heldessia Land, the Deeply-or somewhat deeply-Entombed. With the words of the Coldie fresh in his mind, Finn was unsure just what he was watching now. Whatever it was, it was surely an odd, disturbing scene.

On the other hand, it was really quite nice, peaceful and very satisfying. If one could simply rest for a while, breathe the sweet sedation and drift into long and pleasant dreams Finn caught himself, suddenly alarmed, and shook himself awake. He recognized that numbing scent before it dragged him under again. It was, for certain, a deadly drug of the East, the dark distillation of the poppy that enslaved men's minds!

This, then, was the source of the haze that hung in the air about these silent forms. It was not the sooty smoke of torches as Finn had perceived. The Gracious Dead kept those they served in a trance, in a deep and timeless sleep, until it was time to wake them again.

And why did these cowled servants not succumb to the paralyzing fumes themselves? Were they somehow immune to the drug's effects?

A dozen questions whirled about in Finn's head. And, most puzzling of all: Who was behind all this? Who was responsible for the feeding, kneading, cleaning and constant care of these royal lunatics?

“Someone knows when to start this flummery, and when to stop… “

He realized, with a start, that he had spoken his thoughts aloud, that he had nearly fallen under the spell of the poisonous stuff again.

He knew he must keep his wits about him, leave, get away from this place at once. A wrong turn had brought him to this damnable chamber, and now he must find another way.

And which way might that be? Finn hadn't the vaguest idea. It could be any turn he'd passed, to the left or to the right, anywhere along the way Finn started. Someone moved within the dimly lit room, and he knew at once it was not the slack, lethargic manner of the Gracious Dead. It was a figure who slipped from one vaulted hollow to the next with sure and agile steps, scarcely leaving a shadow on the wall.

He watched, never letting his eyes off this nimble form, who darted from one patch of darkness to the next.

Someone in this dreary place is not napping at all. Someone is extremely lively, very much awake…

Even as the thought touched his mind, the figure stopped, paused in its flight, caught, for an instant, in the light of a flickering torch.

Finn drew a breath of the sweet and noxious air. The figure was a tall and slender beauty, lithe as a willow and endowed with a haunting, sensuous grace. She was only there for a moment, hardly long enough for a shaft of amber light to brush across her naked flesh.

Long enough for Finn to see another figure reach out and embrace DeFloraine-Marie, and draw her into shadow out of sight…