“Hey, there, doc!” it shouted, bouncing and fidgeting in front of Barber. “Hey, there, Si! How’s about some gutbucket, huh? Um-pum, um-pum.” It balanced adroitly on one toe, whirled till it was a blur, and went round and round him.
“Beg pardon,” said Barber, “but could you tell me how to get to those hills?”
The thing stopped whirling and did handsprings instead. “Aw, what d’you want to waste your time there for, Mac? Only saps work. Come on down to the clambake. We got a new scat-singer; you won’t have to watch no flutes swish. Diddy-boom, diddy-boom. We’ll make you a side man—”
“Sorry, but I have to get to those hills. Business—for the King.”
“Oh, a Joe Union, eh? Thought you was a goman.” The thing went into a wild callisthenic dance that made it into a mere whirl of dust again, but the voice came out of it. “What was it you wanted to get smarted up on? Hotcha, hotcha.”
“How to get to those hills. The more I walk toward them the farther away they get.”
“Chill it, handsome, chill it. Face away, look back over your shoulder, ankle backward toward ’em, and you’ll be right in the groove.” It danced on its hands. “What d’you play—Jibbo? Slushpump? Doghouse? Woodpile?”
“I’m not a musician, if that’s what you mean.” Barber stood up; the wind from the mountains was slightly chill about him, and the onrushing clouds were heaving huge shadows across the desert ahead.
“Not even a longhair? You mean you got brains?” It stood clapping, but trembling slightly in the wind. “Come on, be a satchel, be an alligator. Buddlydoop, buddlydoop.”
The storm was coming on fast now, and Barber thought he could make out lines of rain beneath the clouds. All round and past him more of the dust whirlwinds were dancing, revealing now an arm, now a leg or a curious face. But they didn’t seem to be getting away from the storm. “You wouldn’t care to come with me, would you?” asked Barber.
“Who, me? Not when there’s greasepots can sling a potful. I’m a rug-cutter; come on, gang, bite your nails.” A dozen other individuals joined it in a spinning maze of acrobatics.
“But wait,” said Barber, “won’t that storm—”
“Aw, go get a permit!” The dust devils whirled around him, singing:
“What do we want with books of knowledge?
Spin, you hep-cats, spin;
You don’t learn to spin in college;
Spin the livelong day . . .”
“When that gets here we’ll all have whiskers.” With a shout of derisive laughter they were off. The storm was still rushing on, but now the hills stood out, black against its underedge. Barber tried walking toward them by the dust devil’s method, backward, with his head over his shoulder. It gave him a frightful crick in the neck, but he found that by walking a hundred paces while watching over one shoulder and then changing to the other, he could ease the difficulty.
The storm, after all, proved one of those summer thundershowers, with a terrifying play of lightning along its front, a wind that tore briefly at him before it passed, and only a few big, wet drops.
But as he changed from one shoulder to another to watch the nearing hills, he could see how it had swept away all the dust devils right before it, or beaten them out of existence. However, there would doubtless be more, and they were not very human anyway.
CHAPTER VIII
Dust devils were not the only things to think about.
Long before the hills were high about him, Barber was conscious of their clamor on that still air. The rhythm was set by an insistent metallic beat, up and down the scale like a set of tuned tympani, so near waltz time that he found himself thinking “The Blue Danube” to it. But as the sounds drew nearer and louder, a melody joined the resonance; a chorus of many male voices from tenor to bass, singing indistinguishable words. The air was now gay, now melancholy, but always in the same fascinating three-quarter beat; for a bar or two Barber would catch the hint of something familiar in it.
Around him the ground was soaring into steeps of declivities; the soapy green shrubs of the desert had given place to scrub oak, birch, and pines, then full-standing trees, their arms black-green in the westering light. Definitely among the hills now, he turned to walk forward in a more normal fashion, and was relieved to find the landscape had ended its antics, but the ceaseless song and drumming now changed direction, coming from one side, then the other. As he opened out a thickly wooded draw a great burst of the music came charging down at him; among the trees in that direction were freshly cut stumps, and high up in the side of the hill a glare of warm red light challenged the dying sun among the branches.
An entrance of some kind—should he chance it? He hesitated for a moment, then decided against. After all, he could return, there was not the vaguest hint of a plan in his mind. Even if he made one, whatever lay beyond the next spur would probably cause him to modify it. He pressed on, noting that along here the ground was seamed with little paths, crisscrossing among the trees, pale in the fading gloom. From a hill on the left another rollicking chorus swept at him, another beam of red light splashed across a fan of tailings at an entrance to the hills.
As he stood looking at it the thought came to him that one of the most striking things about Fairyland was its sameness. There was no escaping an experience; whatever one did, whichever way one turned, it was repeated until a solution had been found. Like the case of Three-eyes on the road here. Apparently whatever force controlled his destiny was driving him toward those cave entrances. Wondering whether he had solved the problem of Malacea satisfactorily, he turned toward the entrance and began to climb.
Just before his head came level with it, a new note, high and piping, joined the roaring melody of the chorus. It was a bird song, a nightjar, perfect in time and melody, and Barber recognized the tune as that of the “Waldweben” from Siegfried.
Ominous. But no use turning back now. He drew a breath, heaved himself across the rubble heap and stepped into—
A short passage, with a smooth-polished stone floor, slanting slightly down into a great hall whose upper reaches were lost in smoky dimness. It was filled with tables and lined with guttering red torches in brackets. Every seat at all those tables was occupied by a little man, but there was no type resemblance—some clean-shaven with round, jolly, cherubic faces, some skinny with goatbeards, some with jowls and pointed mustaches. They had mugs of beer before them, and barmaids in bright dresses were hurrying among the tables with more. As Barber watched, a fat elf pinched one of the girls on the buttock. She jumped, tripped and came down with a crash; one of the dwarfs at the nearest table emptied his beer mug on her head, and as the dripping face came up, those nearby burst into roars of laughter, clinging to each other’s shoulders, helpless with merriment.
The incident passed unnoticed in the general uproar, for the singing Barber had heard during his approach was now clear as coming from the throats of these drinkers, who were pounding out the time with their mugs. But it was not quite the joyous concord he had heard from a distance. Every little group of kobolds and sometimes every kobold in a group was working away on a different song, flatting hideously. Whatever pretense to harmony the din could make was accidental, the result of one set of voices striking into the right note to accord with those of another lot six tables away. Only the metallic waltz beat of the drumming, louder now, lay under and united the clashing sounds.
Barber was granted time to observe so much before the kobolds at the nearest table noticed him. They stopped singing and stared at him with slack jaws, whispering and pointing, drawing more after them till silence spread across the room like ripples on a pool. It had nearly reached the far end, where the doors through which the barmaids came were barely visible, when three kobolds, neatly uniformed in gray, came hurrying toward him. The leader wore a badge in complicated gold filigree. He bowed low before Barber, and said: “Good evening, highborn sir. It is my pleasure to extend you the welcome of the Kobold Caverns. How intelligent of you to
come and see the wonders of our beautiful place with your own eyes! May I hope you will be with us for a long time? Will you permit me to join you in a glass of beer?”
The last words came out loud in an enormous silence punctuated only by the waltz drumming. Barber knew what it was now; it was the sound of hammers.
“Why, I wouldn’t mind some beer, thanks,” he said. “But what I really want is to see whoever’s in charge here. I’m an ambassador from King Oberon, and—”
A vertical frown leaped into being between the gray dwarf’s eyebrows. “Excuse, please,” he said, and turning to the room, threw up his arm. “Go on!” he shouted. “This does not concern you.” All over the room faces turned back to the tables and the uproar of song instantly began again in full volume. Gold-badge turned back to Barber.
“Ah,” he sighed, “observe how cheerful the dear fellows are. Only the industrious can be so truly happy. Is that not the answer to the slanders that are pronounced against us? Will you come this way, please?”
He gripped Barber’s arm and steered him down an aisle between two tables of shouting kobolds, with the other two guides coming along behind. “I trust you enjoyed your journey, highborn sir?” He glanced at Barber’s shoulder, then sighed again. “Ah, but you winged fairies are fortunate—born in a different world, so to speak. All we poor kobolds obtain we must earn by the sweat of our brows.”
Barber thought of his trip through the desert and smiled internally. “You seem to have made yourselves very comfortable here, though,” he said courteously. It would not do to push matters about the swords.
“We do our best. All we ask is peace in which to carry on our honest labors.” He swung Barber around at a table in a recess where five bearded kobolds were trying to sing a part song but missing badly because none of them seemed able to remember when he should come in. “Here we are. You can go.” He motioned to the occupants of the table. Two of them stood up docilely enough, but the one at the back brought his beer mug down with a bang.
“This is organized inefficiency!” he bawled. “I’ll make a report to the section! I’ll—”
He came to a mouth-open stop as Barber’s guide stepped forward, fingering the filigree badge, then leaped to his feet, bowing and knuckling his forehead. “I beg your humble pardon, worshipful sir. I did not know you were authorized. I—”
“Next time it will be the White Pit,” said Gold-badge evenly. “Please be seated, highborn sir, and try our kobold beer. Drink—and die, you know; don’t drink—and die anyway. Therefore, let’s drink. Ha, ha, ha.”
“Ha, ha, ha,” clacked his two companions in obedient chorus. A mug of beer was thrust into Barber’s hand. It was delicious, somewhat with the flavor of bock, but had a tang that gave warning of a particularly heady brew.
“Are you not partly of mortal kindred, highborn sir?” inquired Gold-badge. “I thought so; something about the eyes. You will enjoy seeing our mushroom plantations. Krey here can show you all through them. He used to be a deputy in the Provender Section.”
“Till the medical discovered I had a natural affinity for beer,” said one of the gray-clads. He had a young face and pleasant smile over a jaw heavy enough to be cast iron.
“I’d like very much to see them sometime,” said Barber, “but just at present I’m here on really important business.”
“Oh, business!” All three burst into a gale of laughter, which the two assistants ended by sputtering into their beer, while Gold-badge laid a hand on Barber’s arm. “Pardon us, highborn, sir, but it is not permitted to discuss business at this hour in the Kobold Caverns.”
That beer was heady; Barber could feel a spot of warmth on each cheekbone. But he was not so far gone as to miss the fact that this was a particularly elaborate version of the run-around. He grinned to show appreciation of a joke on himself, and pushed ahead: “You’ll have to excuse me. I don’t know your local customs. But I’m an ambassador and by international custom have the right of transacting business at any time.”
“So?” Gold-badge’s eyes narrowed a trifle. “I did not really understand, highborn sir. It is most fortunate that we have met; for in addition to being of the Incoming Section which receives guests, I am also of the Welcoming Section to greet ambassadors. Doubtless you have special credentials to prove your character—our lady Titania’s wand, or His Radiance’s ring, or even a mere warrant in writing?”
“I did have but I—” Shame flooded Barber at the memory of how he had lost the wand and he came to a halt. The triple laughter blended into the sound of the ceaseless waltz song, and Gold-badge dug him in the ribs: “Ha, ha, ha! Never mind, Mr. Ambassador, we won’t give you away. We take things easy in the Kobold Caverns and the drinks are on the government. Finish that one and have another.”
Barber drank.
At one point in the subsequent proceedings he caught himself trying to explain the Binomial Theorem, of which he knew rather less than his audience, to a group that seemed passionately interested. At another he was leading them in a vigorous rendition of “The Bastard King of England.” Then Gold-badge seemed somehow to have slipped away, the hall and chorus were gone, and he was descending a long, dim passage with Krey and the other gray-clad receptionist, a passage where the only sound was the three-quarter beat of the forges.
The passage slanted in involuted curves under a ceiling just tall enough to give him headroom. Torches smoked on the walls here and there, dripping an occasional spark, and where their light fell strongest the wall was perspiring in big, dank drops. The black mouths of other tunnelings yawned to right and left at each turn; there were no lights in them.
“. . . our mountain mushrooms, cooked in a butter of beechnuts,” Krey was saying. “I have mush room in my stomach for them. Ha, ha, ha.”
“Ha, ha, hahaha,” the passage echoed sepulchrally. At each branching tunnel the sound of the hammer beats was louder and clearer. When they reached the next turn-and-entrance Barber pretended to stagger, and a little illogically vexed at finding how easy it was to let himself go, clutched vainly at the smooth wall, slid and lay with his head half in the side tunnel. The hammer blows drowned Krey’s footsteps (he had on some kind of soft shoes) but Barber’s ear caught the accent of his voice and the note of a retreating laugh. Bumpity-bump, bump-bump, bump-bump went the hammers to the sound of a mentally hummed “Blue Danube”; and the floor was cold stone, but an enormous alcoholic weariness invaded Barber’s limbs and it was suddenly pleasant to lie right there.
“Mus’ get up,” he told himself fuzzily, but only managed to twitch a leg while half his brain cried a warning to a too-well-satisfied other half.
Clang! Somebody dropped something. The eldritch idea assailed Barber that the sound represented the fall of Krey’s face when that strong-chinned worthy discovered his disappearance. Laughter released his paralysis; chuckling over the inane drunken humor of the idea, he pulled himself to knees, then feet. The side passage was as black as the inside of a dog, sloping down rather steeply, and he had to keep one hand on the wall for support as well as direction. But fifty or a hundred yards on it turned suddenly and he found himself at the head of a flight of low steps, looking down into a wide cavern. There was a torch in the wall near him; it showed a shapeless mound of something occupying the whole center of the cave, covered over with a cloth. Right at the head of the stairs was a small iron bar set across the passage about two feet up. The latter puzzled him till he remembered that the kobolds were the only people of Fairyland who could touch iron. The bar would be good as a locked door to anyone but himself, but he stepped over it and down the stairs.
The cloth was loose. He lifted one edge and gave a whistle, for there they were rapiers, sabers, claymores, panzerstechers, yataghans, cutlasses, and dozens of other kinds of swords whose names he did not even know, each kind in its own bundle and thousands of them altogether. This was what the kobolds were trying to hide from him all right, but what could he—
“So.”
Th
e tone was even, but nasty. Barber, a cold perspiration of sudden sobriety making a little spot between his shoulder blades, turned and looked into the eyes of Krey. The pleasant smile was gone; in the second or two that they stood gazing at each other, the kobold fumbled a little silver whistle out of his tunic and blew. Instantly there were shouts and the sound of running feet; another door at the back of the room, which Barber had not noticed, was filled with dwarfish figures.
For a moment the idea of seizing up one of the blades and slashing out among them leaped through Barber’s head—but where would he go among those complex tunnels? Krey seemed to follow his thoughts.
“I advise you not to attempt resistance,” he said coldly. Barber noticed that among the crowding kobolds at the back door a disciplined battalion with spears in their hands were pushing forward. The heads of the spears were leaf-shaped and looked extremely sharp. He dropped his hands at his side in a gesture of surrender.
“It is too bad,” Krey went on, “that you must spoil a fine evening by abusing the hospitality of the Caverns. Now you must bear the consequences . . . Take him to the trial room!”
One of the spearmen jabbed Barber in the leg. He jumped and yelped. “Damn it! I didn’t ask for your hospitality and I don’t think very much of it. I’m here as an ambassador and I claim diplomatic immunity.”
“Diplomatic immunity confers no license to break the criminal laws.” Krey turned his back; the guards closed round Barber, and with lowered spear points, shepherded him toward the back door of the room. There was a passage with torches; it branched, and Barber was urged down the fork to the right, along a ramp and through an arch.
He was in a long and high cavern from whose walls and ceiling projected elaborate carved wood dingle berries in the most atrocious taste. At the far end a kobold with a long nose and prick ears was seated before a table on a low dais, writing feverishly and surrounded by a perfect mountain of papers. The way to his seat was lined by a double row of kobold guards with swords in their hands, standing rigidly and staling at each other. Barber was urged down the alley between them to the foot of the dais, and one of the spearmen let the butt of his weapon drop to the floor with a thump.
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