Agnes Day

by Lionel Fenn

  "Tag, I don't even know where they've gone."

  Tag cut himself off with a gasp, and looked at him strangely. "You don't?"

  Gideon shook his head.

  "Well, why not?"

  "Ivy didn't tell me."

  "She didn't?"

  "There wasn't much time, Tag. We were discussing the situation when those... those things broke into the tent and took her off."

  "They did?"

  He waited.

  "Right," Tag said. "They did." Then the boy glanced behind him at the camp, hunched over, and leaned closer. "Well, listen," he whispered. "Don't tell anybody, but I know where they are."

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Gideon wasn't sure he had heard the young man correctly, and wasn't at all sure he wanted to. Destiny, however, and the machinations that had contrived his life thus far, prevented him from forgetting what he thought he had heard.

  Tag looked at him expectantly.

  Gideon struggled with the temptation just to carry on as before and convince himself that Ivy, being no slouch in the killing and battle areas of her life, was probably already on her way home. She was, after all, an independent woman who took what she wanted when she wanted it, and only occasionally did she err on the side of wanting what she couldn't take when she wanted to take it.

  In this case, that just might be her freedom.

  On the other hand, if she found Agnes, there was no way in hell Agnes was going to let her go, not until she had Gideon firmly in her grasp.

  In other circumstances, under other skies, that might not have been so bad a prospect as to cause his flesh to dimple; but this was here, and now was now, and his flesh dimpled, and his throat went dry.

  Tag cleared his throat.

  Gideon lifted his shoulders in silent resignation and said, "What did you say?"

  "I said, I know where they are."

  Damn, he thought, I knew this was going to happen.

  "You? But how?"

  "Ivy told me."

  "She did?"

  "Sure. First thing yesterday morning. She was planning a major raid there before the big fight so she could knock out some of the bad guys and keep them from coming after us. We were going to kill a few, maim a few, raise a little heck, if you know what I mean."

  "You were?"

  "Sure we were. We weren't going to tell everybody, because then it wouldn't be a raid, it would be a battle. She didn't want a full-scale battle."

  "She didn't?"

  Tag managed to look disgusted and sympathetic simultaneously. "Of course not. Not while Agnes is loose. Can you imagine what would happen if she tried a battle now, with Agnes loose, and the Wamchu loose, and..." The boy shuddered. "You really shouldn't talk like that, Gideon. You'll scare everyone away, and then there'll be no one left to fight."

  Gideon took a deep breath, held it, stared at the sky, stared at the lorra who was curled up beside him, stared at the boy and closed his eyes briefly. This was growing painful, primarily because he was actually beginning to understand what was going on, and that understanding was making him dizzy with the knowledge that he wasn't, he didn't think, going crazy.

  "So what you're saying is—and correct me if I'm wrong, for god's sake—what you're saying is that those things tonight took Ivy to Agnes's camp, the location of which you already know, and that if you take more than a few men with you to rescue her, the Wamchu will get mad because he'll think the last battle is starting before you guys agreed it should."

  Tag nodded vigorously.

  "That," he said with a calmness that amazed himself, "is the dumbest thing I've ever heard of. How the hell can you agree with the enemy when to start the war?"

  Tag was astonished, but when he looked around there was no one to help him. "But the war's already started, Gideon. It's just the fighting we have to agree on."

  Gideon stood, walked away with his hands in his pockets, walked back with his hands out of his pockets, and told himself to be reasonable, that the rules here weren't necessarily the rules back home as he understood them, and he really shouldn't let his blood pressure work its way to the boiling point just because the rules for war here were just as stupid as the rules for war there, only different.

  "All right," he said at last. "All right, you win. Let's go and have it done with. Up and at 'em, boy."

  "For what?"

  "To get Ivy."

  "Now?"

  "Right now."

  "Gideon, we can't!"

  "What are you talking about? This was your idea in the first place, wasn't it? Weren't you the one who wanted me and Red to surround them?"

  Tag, instantly recognizing the semantic trap he had fallen into, spread his arms helplessly in an attempt to recover; Gideon, seeing the lad's distress, was not moved to help him, and repeated his determination to get on with the timely rescue, though by now it was doubtful that timely had anything to do with it.

  "But if we go after Ivy now," Tag protested, "some of the rest of the guys, or maybe even all of the rest of the guys, will know what we're doing and they'll come after us, and if they come after us, then we really will get into a—"

  For the first time in a long time, Gideon lost his temper.

  He reached down, grabbed Tag by the vest and pulled him roughly to his feet, off his feet, held him face-high and did his best not to shake him until his neck broke. "I don't give a damn about your rules, boy," he said, hoping he sounded meaner than he felt. "Ivy is caught, and I am going to get her back. You can come with me if you want, or you can stay here and explain to all those men back there how the rules have stopped you from rescuing their leader. It's your choice."

  Tag's face grew faintly red.

  "All I need from you, in fact, are directions."

  "But—"

  Gideon held him a bit higher and smiled without a trace of mirth. "Directions, boy. Now!"

  Tag's legs kicked weakly, his face darkened, his eyes stared wildly over Gideon's shoulder, and his vest began to tear at the seams. He gurgled. Gideon glowered. He sputtered, and Gideon managed to catch a few words, the last of which made him loosen his hold.

  Tag dropped, swayed, sprawled on the ground, and readjusted his vest.

  "What did you say?"

  The boy gurgled.

  "No, after that."

  The boy sputtered, and Gideon nodded. "That's what I thought you said."

  The boy gulped for air, rubbed his face and neck, and pushed himself painfully up to a sitting position. "True," he gasped. "It's true. Ivy isn't the leader. Not the real leader. She just wanted to impress you."

  "I'm impressed."

  "She knew you would be. She told me so. She said you were a very impressionable person."

  Gideon's nod was brusque, as much to tell himself not to blame the lad for Ivy's deception as to chase off a ringing in his ears. The discordant ringing that began whenever he hesitated to ask the question he knew had to be asked, but didn't want to ask because the answer would only bring him more trouble than he already had. He thought it probably would in this case, since he had a sinking sensation of already knowing the answer.

  "So," he said. Swallowed. Tried again. "So, where is the real leader?"

  Tag seemed reluctant to say anything, and Gideon immediately looked suspiciously around him, just in case the real leader was standing in the shadows, waiting for a dramatic entrance. She wasn't, not this time. Not that she didn't always make dramatic entrances. The first time he'd met Glorian Kori, she had come out of his pantry, slugged him, got him into a fight with a monster in his kitchen, and brought him back here with her—to search for the white duck.

  "So?" he said.

  "I don't know where she is," Tag insisted as he staggered to his feet and ruefully examined the damage to his vest. "She never tells me anything. She never tells anyone anything, for that matter, but she specifically doesn't tell me anything because she's afraid I'll tell someone."

  Gideon nodded, nudged Red with his boot and stood back as the lor
ra scrambled to his feet snorting and lashing his tail and generally behaving as if he were ready for a good bloody fight. Then he suggested to both Tag and Red that they get some sleep because, at first light, they were heading out to find Ivy and bring her back.

  "Alone?" Tag asked nervously.

  "We'll get some people to help us."

  "Not a lot, though," the boy cautioned. "We can't have a lot or the Wamchu will get mad."

  Gideon frankly didn't give a damn if the Wamchu was mad or not, didn't much care if Tag was worried that the Wamchu would get mad, and muttered that he wished to hell someone would tell him what he was doing here in the first place so that he could tell them what they could do with their explanations so he could go back home and do his crossword puzzles.

  "What's a crossword puzzle?" Tag asked.

  "None of your business," Gideon snapped, and waited for Red to recurl himself on the ground. He snuggled down beside the lorra and closed his eyes, listened to the hubbub of the camp fade slowly to silence, and wondered why no one else had launched a search party yet. Surely one or more of the Vondels would have done so in their eagerness to prove to Ivy their worth, their love, and their undying loyalty; surely one of the other leaders must be angry enough to want to avenge the humiliating attack in the midst of their own camp; surely Glorian, who didn't really care for Ivy one way or the other but knew what a good fighter she was, would have done something to bring her back.

  So many possibilities, and nothing happening at all as far as he could tell.

  Unless, he thought so suddenly that his eyes blinked, I'm missing something here.

  He sat up and scratched idly at his beard and neck.

  None of this makes sense. Ivy is too valuable. They shouldn't be taking it all this calmly.

  Unless, he thought suddenly a second time, they know something I don't, like... it was planned from the beginning, and this is the way it was supposed to be.

  But that was silly. Why would they risk the lives of the Vondels and others just to get Ivy captured?

  Unless, he thought suddenly, and winced at the headache he was getting, it was to get someone into the enemy camp so some expert spying could be done.

  He smiled at himself. That wasn't much better, but it did make a perverted kind of sense, the only thing missing being a way to get messages out without having the messenger killed in the process.

  Unless...

  He took his time.

  Unless they chose Ivy from all the others who could have done it because they knew that Gideon would go after her, which would result not only in her rescue but also in the retrieval of whatever vital information she had, and the only cost would be the possible forfeiture of his life.

  He lay down again.

  He thought about the dark figure on the red-washed plain, and the smile he was sure had been directed at him; he wondered if the vision was merely symbolic of the Wamchus' hatred of him, or if it was a real place, and the place where Ivy was being held right now.

  He wondered, dully, if any of it mattered.

  He listened to Red snoring, he listened to Tag snoring, and he listened to his heart thumping miserably away in his chest, too much like a prisoner thumping on the cell door. It meant that he was afraid; it meant he was looking for a way out; it meant he was feeling inadequate again because it meant that he, among all the giant canaries and bubble-eyed centipedes and not quite human men, was expendable.

  After all he had done for them since he had arrived, he, Gideon Sunday, was expendable.

  Shit, he thought.

  And "Shit," he said.

  And he sat up again and wondered just what the hell it was he had to do to make them accept him.

  And where the hell was Tuesday when he needed her? Why wasn't she here, waddling ridiculously along at his side, needling him, scolding him, showing him the way to save his life and, at the same time, do his duty without shame, without guilt, without the trauma of his past?

  Red snored.

  Tag snored, and whimpered a little.

  Of Tuesday there was no sign, and he knew then that he was truly alone in this dismal predicament.

  He stood with a martyred groan that only made Red roll over and snore louder, and walked wearily away from the camp, into the featureless plain, and suggested to his equivocations that perhaps he was only feeling sorry for himself, for the mistakes he had made, and for the mistaken impressions he'd had about what a hero's lot ought to be.

  He watched the sun come up and was mildly astonished because he didn't remember falling asleep.

  He watched the blue sun come up, and realized it wasn't the sun at all.

  After all this time, after all his wishes and hopes, it was a Bridge, an honest-to-god Bridge just like the one he had crossed to come here all those months ago.

  "Damn," he whispered.

  Because its appearance, here and in this place, made him feel worse than ever, because a Bridge only appeared when there was need, and he understood, fully and for the first time, that his need, whatever it was now, was greater than his desire to save this world, or rescue Ivy. It was even greater than his familial duty to help his beloved Tuesday get back her steak-loving body, god help him.

  It was, Gideon thought, a lousy deal, but one that stood shimmering before him, waiting for his decision.

  With a glance back at a world that he thought didn't really want him, didn't really care, Gideon felt a sharp pang of regret before he stepped through.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  "Well, I'll be damned and gone to hell," said Gideon almost reverently, when his vision cleared and his head cleared and he saw where he was.

  A miracle, and no question about it; it was a pure and simple miracle of the sort that defies all explanation.

  He was in a pantry. His by-god-and-burn-the-lease pantry, if his eyes weren't deceiving him and those ratty, untrustworthy shelves and patina-enhanced jars of his sister's preserves hadn't been cleverly duplicated by someone with an extraordinarily perverse sense of humor. If it was true, and there was no reason to believe it wasn't save for the roaming instability of his mind's present condition, then all he had to do was walk through that door over there and he would be in his kitchen. His very own kitchen. In the splendid Garden State of New Jersey and as far away as he could get from the insanity he'd just left behind.

  Which he checked immediately he thought it, and saw that the rear wall still resembled an oversized and slightly tilted window overlooking a dark and featureless plain, and a darker and starless sky. No one seemed to be out there. No one seemed to have followed him.

  He took a step back, and the window remained.

  There was still no one in apparent pursuit, either to bring him back or to make sure he didn't come back.

  He backed all the way to the door and put his hand on the familiar, clammy brass knob, turned it, grinned abruptly at his good fortune—after all, he could have ended up in Fort Worth or Philadelphia—whirled, and stepped boldly into his kitchen.

  True, he thought then; it's true!

  "Hot damn, it's home!" he shouted, hands raised in victory and feet doing a passable two-step in escapist jubilation. "Hot damn, the boy has finally returned to the land of the living!"

  And he didn't even move right away when a woman screamed, and didn't flee when a second and then a third woman screamed shrilly, and something was flung at him from the direction of the sink, which, he noted as he ducked and the plate smashed on the floor behind him, had been replaced with one much larger than the one that had come with the house when he'd bought it.

  He straightened cautiously, his hand automatically cupping the knob of his bat, which, when he looked down, suddenly appeared unnervingly ordinary.

  Then he looked up again, at the three women huddled together by the sink.

  They were, conservatively, old.

  They might even have been ancient.

  It was difficult to tell, since they were primly swaddled in bulky bathrobes that had long
since lost their color and wearing floppy slippers that had the faces of bunny rabbits on them, and their hair, what there was left of it, was netted and haircurled and otherwise unnaturally twisted into shapes they couldn't have managed in their teenage years, which had to have been at least sixty years ago.

  One of them, rotund and indignant, advanced on him with an upraised rolling pin. "Who the hell are you?" she demanded, while one of the others scuttled out of the room.

  "I live here," he said in amazement. Not only was the sink changed, the whole damned room was changed. Everything, from cupboards to microwave oven, was new, gleaming, and smelled of old ladies, burned toast, and bread that had baked just a fraction too long. "What's going on here?"

  "Don't talk to him, Daisy," the second woman said. She was not as heavy as the first, but her jowls were impressive. "Just hold him there while Rose gets the cops."

  Daisy, her arm and all that dangled from it quivering under the weight of the rolling pin, nodded and glared at him fiercely. "Who are you?" she asked again, and took a step toward him, intending menace in spite of the bunnies covering her feet.

  "I told you," he said. "I live here. So would you mind telling me what's going on?"

  Daisy looked to her companion. "He says he lives here."

  "He can't live here. Look at him!"

  Daisy did, and lowered her weapon with a sigh. "Yes, I am."

  The second woman snorted in disgust, marched forward, snatched the rolling pin from Daisy's hand, and shook it under his chin. "Don't you dare try anything, pal. I'm not as fragile as I look."

  "Lady—"

  "Violet," she corrected huffily. "The name is Violet Dumark, which is none of your business. That's Daisy LaRoy, who is also none of your business."

  "Pleased to meet you," he said absently, walked around her and peered down the hall toward the foyer. There was a dim glow from the living room, but otherwise the house was dark. It was not, however, empty. After a moment, he could hear excited high voices coming from upstairs. Obviously, the place had been taken over by an army of bag women, or squatters, and he was going to kill the neighbors for letting this happen without telling him first.