End of the Century

by Chris Roberson

  They had lost sight of the goat-headed monster almost immediately, but it had left a trail that was easy to follow, and so they continued on their course, moving through the Summer Lands.

  As they walked, Artor held his skyblade in front of him, turning it this way and that, examining the blade.

  “A weapon like this should have a name,” he said to Galaad, who walked at his side. “Sharp enough to slice through that great beast without a jar or jolt. And so thin that, turned this way, it appears that there is only empty space before me, but a space still solid and hard enough to fend off the strongest blow.”

  “A hard space?” Galaad replied.

  “Hardspace?” Artor mused. “That seems as good a name as any, I suppose.” He nodded, thoughtfully, regarding the blue blade. “Hardspace.”

  At last, a smooth-sided mound hove into view before them, above which rose a tower of glass. It was just as Galaad has seen in his vision.

  The surviving five stood at the water's edge, looking across at the island. To reach it, they would have to cross a spit of land that narrowed to the width of a sword blade before widening out again on the other side. It was difficult to judge distances; visibility had seemed to vary widely as they'd made their final approach, but by their best reckoning the tower stood a mile or more from the spot where they now stood.

  Artor laid his hand on the hilt of his skyblade, the newly christened Hardspace, his expression thoughtful. “Was it folly to come this long way, following a vision, leaving our long-cherished friends strewn on the path behind us? Was Caradog right, and we should have stayed in Caer Llundain and minded matters mundane?”

  Caius rested a hand on the High King's shoulder. “If truth were to be told, I thought this journey would be just a last romp, a chance for the six of us to stretch our legs, sleep out under the stars, and remember good times past while passing a wineskin from hand to hand. I hardly gave Galaad's story any credit, no offense intended, Galaad, but never expected to see the glass citadel he described.”

  “And yet there it is,” Artor said, pointing.

  The sides of the tower were completely smooth, a cylinder which tapered slightly as it rose from the base, ending at a perfectly flat top some hundred feet or more from the ground. It could not have been more than a few dozen feet in circumference, though, and Galaad was hard pressed to imagine how much could fit inside; nor how anyone could gain entrance, come to that, since there were no doors or windows in evidence. He supposed that they must be clustered on the far side of the tower, obscured from view, or else too small to see at this distance, but he knew that he'd not be surprised if on close approach no such entrances presented themselves. How they would gain entry, then, was a matter to be solved once this final bridge was crossed.

  “I'll allow I may have been wrong about spirits and saints, gods and goddesses,” Lugh said, flexing his silver-pincered hand. “There are monsters beneath the waves, and giants walk the earth.” He scowled. “But whatever gods there are, they're bastards, so far as I'm concerned, the lot of them, and I'll take what they owe me out of their hides.” He drew his skyblade, glinting blue in the twilight. “And if they don't like it, here's my answer for them right here.”

  “Pretty words,” Pryder said, and set his foot on the narrow bridge to the island. “When I've had my revenge on this Red King, perhaps you can write a song about it.”

  The others followed after, creeping over the swordblade-thin spit of land, and walked on into the eerie quiet of the island beyond.

  As relatively still and silent as the Summer Lands had been throughout the hours and days of their journey, the island was even more so. Where beyond there had been occasional signs of life—the strange birds, the lightning-fast predators, the spiral-horned creatures—here there was none, even the gently rising hills completely bare of grass, tree, or heath. Only close-packed dirt, so hard and dry it could have been fired in an oven.

  They went on and finally came to the base of the smooth-sided mound, which rose at a steeper grade than the hill sloping gently up towards it. As Galaad's vision had shown, and Artor's recollections held, it was rounded on one end, pointed on the other, and rose above the surrounding island perhaps some five hundred feet. At the crest of the off-center mound, nearest the rounded side, rose the tower of glass.

  There had been nothing but the gently rolling hills of hard-packed earth to hide their approach from the bridge, so Artor had seen little reason for stealth, but now at the very threshold of the tower of glass itself, he was surprised to have encountered no resistance, no picket of guards to halt their advance, no sentry or fence.

  “They must not worry about intruders overmuch,” Caius said when they'd completed a cautious circuit of the mound's base, “since there appears to be no way in or out.”

  The tall captain was right. Just as it had appeared from a distance, there did not seem to be any visible entrance to the tower, nor any window or arch. The smooth walls of glass were unbroken from base to top.

  “I tire of this skulking about,” Lugh said, his “answer” still in his hand. “They're bound to know we're here, since that red bastard scurried ahead with his hounds. They no doubt wait within, preparing their defenses.”

  “I agree,” Artor said, tightening his grip on Hardspace's hilt. He set his foot on the mound and began to climb the steep grade. “We'll find a way in, and then we'll find the answers we seek.”

  Standing just before the smooth glass wall of the tower, Galaad was reminded of the hedge of mist that encircled the Summer Lands. But where the mist had been hazy and indistinct, this glass was smooth, definite. It was not transparent, but had the silvery look of a mirror which did not reflect back any light which struck it, instead seeming to dance with some inner light.

  The five had made their steady way around the tower's base on reaching the mound's summit, their weapons held high and ready, but they had found no sign of a hidden entrance, as Caius had suggested they might.

  “Well, maybe we should just cut our way in,” Lugh snarled, and before anyone could respond, swung his skyblade in a wide arc that slammed into the side of glass tower.

  The skyblade rebounded, silently, but the tower's side was left smooth and unmarred.

  “So much for that notion,” Caius said with a faint smile.

  “It didn't even dent,” Galaad said and reached out a hand to touch the glass. His fingers brushed the tower's surface, which was surprisingly warm to the touch, and though the surface remained smooth and solid as ever, the lights which moved beneath began to ripple, like the water of a pond struck by a stone, radiating out from the point he had touched.

  “Arrive,” came a voice from somewhere, which Galaad immediately recognized as that of the White Lady. “Enter.”

  Galaad's hand still rested against the tower's surface, and without warning his fingers pressed into and through it, disappearing from view, the glass now indeed rippling like water.

  With a shout of alarm, Galaad pulled his arm back and his hand reappeared, sliding out of the glass as easily an oar from water. The glass, though, continued to ripple, glinting like quicksilver.

  “Remarkable,” Artor said and stepped nearer. Hardspace held in his right fist, he reached out with his left and, after a moment's hesitation, plunged his hand into the wall. His arm disappeared to the elbow, waves propagating out through the surrounding glass. “It's…warm.” He pulled his arm free and inspected his hand closely. He wiggled his fingers experimentally, satisfied that all of them remained.

  Pryder did not delay any further, but lifted his skyblade before him and strode with a will directly at the wall. It rippled with his passage, and then he was gone from view.

  “Wait for me,” Lugh called, and hurried after, plunging into the glass as though it were nothing but a curtain of falling water.

  Caius shrugged. “Well, it seems the fashionable thing to do, so…” He grinned and leapt through the wall, his feet leaving the ground just before he knifed through the
glass.

  Artor glanced to Galaad. “Well, this is the place where your visions led, the goal to which your questions drove us. Shall we see if any answers lie within?”

  Galaad smiled and nodded. Then the two of them, the High King and the young man from Glevum, stepped together through the glass wall and left behind the world they knew.

  IF THERE HAD BEEN ONLY THE TWO DOGS, Blank and Miss Bonaventure might almost have prevailed. Though their snapping incarnadine teeth were fearsome, the humans had the advantage of height and reach, and Miss Bonaventure was able to keep her attacker at bay with well-placed kicks, dodging when necessary, while Blank used a combination of thrusts with his sword-stick and wallops with his cane to do the trick. Still and all, Blank's blade failed to do as much as draw a welt on the back of the dog who harried him, and Miss Bonaventure only narrowly escaped losing a foot to the gnashing red teeth of the other more than once.

  To be charitable, it was a momentary standoff. Perhaps. At least, that was how Blank preferred to think of it later.

  Then, however, the rest of the dogs arrived, and the odds were most definitely against them.

  Four more of the beasts padded out of the darkness from the direction the previous two had come. They moved like white ghosts along the edge of the Serpentine, ears, teeth, and claws glinting red like spilt blood.

  “What is it Shakespeare said about discretion and valor?” Miss Bonaventure said, sidestepping as her attacker lunged forward and then lashing out a kick to the side of the dog's head as it passed, which seemed scarcely to faze it.

  “I suspect these beasts are after our ‘better parts,’ at that,” Blank shouted back. Then he pointed with his sword-stick, its point to the man behind the smoked-glass spectacles. “We'll take this up another time, sir!”

  Then, taking one last swipe at his attacker, however ineffectually, Blank turned and sprinted to the north, away from the newcomer hounds, Miss Bonaventure following close at his heels.

  Blank could hear the sound of the strange man trilling again, then the flying-geese sound of the hounds’ baying, and chanced a glance back over his shoulder to see that now the full half dozen of the creatures was coursing after them.

  “More speed, Miss Bonaventure,” Blank shouted, breathlessly.

  They raced along the Serpentine towards the Italian Gardens. The dogs were close behind and coming closer, their white-faced master following at some remove.

  “This way!” Blank shouted, grabbing Miss Bonaventure's hand just before they reached the Pump House. There were four small pools here, the artificial headwaters of the Serpentine, quartered by stone walkways. Blank had hoped to slow their pursuers somewhat, doglegging in a zigzag across the walkways, perhaps even causing one of the hounds to fall into the water, unable to check their speed in time.

  Instead, the water proved a more effective barrier than he'd hoped.

  Halfway to the statue of Edward Jenner which presided over the eastern side of the Italian Gardens, Blank dragged Miss Bonaventure to the left towards the Pump House and chanced a quick look behind them. The six hounds had reached the edge of the nearest pool and stopped dead, just shy of the water. It was almost as if the water, whether exposed in the pool or flowing beneath the stone walkway, served as some sort of barrier to them.

  Blank didn't waste time speculating. He turned back to the right, racing to the east, around the corner of the Pump House and back onto the footpath.

  “This way,” Blank said in a harsh whisper. “We'll find safety in York Place.”

  Miss Bonaventure resisted, tugging his hand back. “But my place is nearer.” She jerked a thumb over her shoulder.

  “True,” Blank said, and looked back at the hounds, who were even now inching their way around the Italian Gardens, trying to find solid ground. “But that way also lie our pursuers.”

  Miss Bonaventure looked back and, pursing her lips, nodded. “Fair enough.” She turned, and poured on speed. “Then let's go!”

  It was a short while later that they reached York Place, having zigged and zagged a few times along the way, hoping to throw the hounds off the scent. As it was, they reached Blank's home without any sign of pursuit for some blocks and had begun to entertain the hope that they'd lost their pursuers.

  Upon reaching Number 31, York Place, they discovered they'd been found by another pursuer altogether, though perhaps of a less menacing mien.

  It was a constable, who leaned against the doorjamb, drowsing.

  “Something I can do for you, constable?” Blank was only slightly out of breath but daintily mopped his brow as he fished in his pocket for his house key.

  The PC blinked rapidly, shaking himself awake.

  “Yessir, Mr. Blank, sir,” the constable said, hurriedly, and proffered a piece of paper.

  Blank handed the key to Miss Bonaventure, who opened the door as he read the note. It was from Melville.

  “What's it say?” Miss Bonaventure said, stepping inside and glancing somewhat nervously back the way they'd come, watchful of any pursuit.

  “It appears, my dear, that our exertions are not quite done for the day. The Jubilee Killer has struck again.”

  A short while later, they stood in Piccadilly, facing Devonshire House. It was an imposing structure, a long brick building of eleven bays, separated from the rabble of Piccadilly by a high, featureless brick wall.

  Sandford Blank remembered that wall well. It had been built shortly after the Great Fire of 1666 to keep out the mob and had done its job well. Even tonight, it seemed, it was keeping the commoners at bay, while admitting only the crème de la crème.

  The servants at the gate, in the livery of the Duke of Devonshire's ancestors, demanded to see their invitations.

  “I assure you, we've been summoned,” Blank said, brandishing the note sent to him by Superintendent Melville.

  The head servant studied the cryptic note with evident confusion, deriving about as much meaning from it as Blank had anticipated, and then turned to call over the house steward.

  “Ah,” Miss Bonaventure said, sarcastically, “now we'll see some results.”

  The majordomo crabbed over to them, looking more like an animated skeleton dressed in the costume of a Renaissance-era page than a living human being. When the situation had been explained to him, a deep frown pulled the corners of the steward's mouth down, and he glared at them with beady eyes.

  “No,” he said, his voice high and reedy. “It is simply out of the question. Bad enough that we run the risk of disrupting the mistress's party with the presence of the police”—he said this last with an expression like someone spitting out a worm found half eaten in an apple—“but I'll not make matters worse by allowing a pair of middle-class bounders to traipse through in modern dress.” He paused, glanced at Blank's lounge suit and bowler hat, and then looked with distaste at Miss Bonaventure's bicycle suit. “Much less one in bloomers.”

  “Now, see here!” Miss Bonaventure took a step forward, lacking the patience for politeness.

  Blank moved to intervene but needn't have bothered.

  “Blank! What is the delay?”

  He and Miss Bonaventure turned, and across the forecourt on the far side of the gate saw Superintendent Melville approaching at speed, dressed as the Sheriff of Nottingham.

  Miss Bonaventure stifled a laugh at the sight of the large man stuffed into doublet and hose, but Blank only smiled indulgently.

  “If you'd be so kind as to verify our bona fides, Melville,” Blank said, “I think we can get on with matters.”

  In short order, Blank and Miss Bonaventure were rushed round to the servants’ entrance at the rear of the house and outfitted in appropriate costume. They were reunited, moments later, Blank in the guise of a musketeer from the days of Louis XIII, a rapier at his side, and Miss Bonaventure as an Egyptian maiden, her eyes lined with kohl, a beaded wig on her head. Her wide silver bracelet with its lenticular gem at the end of her bared arm seemed to fit the motif, offering a counterpo
int to the broad collar she wore, from which depended a scarab encrusted with jewels of paste.

  “Why, Blank, don't you cut a dashing figure?”

  Blank swept the broad-brimmed hat from his head and bowed low. “Cleopatra at her finest was never as lovely.” He offered her his arm. “Shall we, O Vision of the Nile?”

  They stepped through the side door and found themselves at the foot of the well-known Crystal Staircase, its bronze-scrolled handrail gently spiraling around the glass newel. At the head of the staircase stood the Duke of Devonshire, in the dress of Charles V and wearing a genuine collar and badge of the Golden Fleece lent to him by the Prince of Wales. At his side was the Duchess, as Zenobia, Queen of Palmyra, a grand tiara above her brow. The pair wore painted smiles, unable to completely hide their unease from the seven hundred or so guests who crowded the Great Ballroom.

  The guests had been arriving for nearly an hour, though the quoted arrival time of half past ten had only just struck, and crowded now in the ballroom, lit by two huge chandeliers hanging from ornamented rosettes, from which radiated delicate floral motifs. The walls to either side were broken up into panels of white and yellow brocade, with long mirrors between the windows, doubling and redoubling the swelling crowd within. The reflections helped to accentuate the unreal nature of the gathering, which looked for all the world as if someone had torn down the walls of time, and from all epochs of history men and women had been thrown together. Italians of the Renaissance, French princes and princesses, Napoleons and Josephines, Cavaliers and Puritans, Orientals of lands far away and long gone, and more, and more. In the far corner, a makeshift studio had been assembled, and the partygoers one by one had their images immortalized in photograph.

  It was clear that the costumiers of London had been worked to a frazzle these last weeks. As had been explained to Blank and Miss Bonaventure, the invitations specified that partygoers should appear “in an allegorical or historical costume dated earlier than 1820.” Not a guest, nor a musician, nor a herald or servant, nor even the waiting maids who helped the ladies in the cloakroom, was permitted to appear in a dress later than the beginning of the current century, hence the pair's need for a change of costume upon arrival. In the cloakroom, they'd heard that an uninvited interloper in modern dress had been spotted early on but had been quickly ejected by the duke's servants.