“Our fault? How so?” asked Erasmus.
“It was just after the Guvnor gave me my staff,” Ulysses replied, “and I had come up with this brill idea of finding out if it could go any places we hadn’t visited. I didn’t know the staffs contained demons from Hell! I thought they came from Fairyland or some such.
“Anyway, I showed up at the family lodgings to see if I could get a couple of sibs to come along, just in case there was a spot of aggro … you know, trouble,” he added when he saw we were unable to follow his modern British slang. “But, I couldn’t get a word in edgewise. Erasmus and Miranda were going at it, bickering about who knows what, as they always did. Wouldn’t even give me the time of day. So, I went on my own, met Abaddon, and the rest is history.”
Mab stepped up beside me and whispered, “Didn’t you tell me it was Ulysses’s going off on his own that broke up the family business?”
Stunned, I nodded, whispering back, “I kept asking Father to stop him, but he would not. He must have known Ulysses’s reasons. But he didn’t breathe a word to me! The family came apart just after that. Gregor died, Theo left; soon there was no one.”
All this time, had I been blaming everyone else for the family desertion of Prospero, Inc., when all along, it had been largely my fault? Or at least half my fault. How tremendously humiliating! How right the angel had been when she said that my greatest vice was pride.
“Let me get this straight,” Mab said aloud, scribbling a note. “We’re down here because Mr. Prospero got captured. Mr. Prospero got captured trying to rescue Mr. Gregor and, indirectly, Mr. Theo. Mr. Gregor and Mr. Theo were in trouble because the Perp here, er … Mr. Ulysses…”
“The Perp?” Ulysses laughed. “That’s a fine how-do-you-do!”
Mab glared at him. “As I was saying: ’cause Mr. Ulysses swore an oath to the Angel of the Bottomless Pit. Mr. Ulysses swore the oath because he came down here by himself and got into trouble. He came by himself because Miss Miranda and Professor Prospero were bickering. And those two were bickering ’cause of those voodoo dolls we found back at Infernal Milan. Did I leave anything out?”
“No.” Erasmus looked as stunned as I. “I think that about covers it.”
Mab raised his voice so that the others could hear him. “Which brings us back to the question of the traitor—the joker who encouraged you and the Professor here to bicker. Let’s assume for the moment that Erasmus’s trick with the overheard voices in the city of Dis worked—no real reason to assume that. Those overhead voices were probably liars, but let’s just grant it for the moment. If the trick in Dis worked, the traitor is not a member of the family—whatever Abaddon might have said.”
“What about…”—Logistilla swallowed—“Father?”
Mab snorted. “If Mr. Prospero wanted to hand you all over to Hell, he would have just put out a silver platter and told you all to jump on. And you would have, too.”
“If Father were the traitor,” I said, “he would not have bothered teaching us to love good and eschew evil.”
“So, who is it?” asked Erasmus.
Mab scratched his eternal stubble. “At this point? Hard to say … but my guess is Seir or one of the other Three Shadowed Ones. They’ve been after you all since 1623. Even if they don’t have the thaumaturgic skills necessary to make those dolls, they must know plenty of demons who do. Thaumaturgy being a specialty of demons.”
“Why Erasmus and Miranda?” Logistilla walked with her head resting against Titus’s shoulder.
“No idea. Maybe they already disliked each other? Maybe that’s whose hair they happened to gain access to the day they snuck in the bathing pool. Could be anything.”
“Any other possibilities?” Cornelius tapped along beside Erasmus.
“Can’t think of anyone else who’s in a position to get down here. Beyond that, it could be anybody: including Erasmus, or even Caliban, here. Could be me. I could be working for the Man-in-the-Moon, out to get anyone who lives on a substance other than cheese. Or anyone who eats cheese.” He gave Mephisto a long look. Mephisto glanced innocently this way and that, whistling.
“Of course, you Prosperos have lived a long time, by mortal standards. You might have many enemies no one has thought to mention to me. Piss off any gods of the underworld? Rogue Archmages? Wayfarers? Elves? There are a lot of beings who could do something like this.… most of them wouldn’t do it down here, though. That kind of limits it to demons and their ilk.”
“Or dead people,” I added.
“Dead people?” Ulysses laughed. “How could they do anything? They’re … dead.”
“Malagigi caused the Reign of Terror in France after he died,” I replied. “Apparently, magical knowledge doesn’t go away once you’re dead. If you know something, you still know it. There’s nothing about being in Hell that keeps a person from casting spells.”
“Great,” grumbled Erasmus. “Now we have to make a list of everyone we know who is dead.”
“Everyone who didn’t like us, anyway,” Mephisto said.
Erasmus rolled his eyes. “It’s going to be a long list!”
“Hey! Speaking of Malagigi,” Mab interrupted suddenly. “We’re on the Paths of Pride. Isn’t that where Malagigi’s brother is supposed to be? Let’s look for him!”
Mephisto immediately pulled out the crystal ball and asked to see Eliaures, brother of Malagigi. He peered over the ball, scrunching up his face and turning this way and that, as he tried to figure out exactly where the spot it showed him was in relation to our current position.
“He’s back that way.” Mephisto pointed down the raised obsidian causeway, back the way we came. “Closer to the plains.”
“Too bad!” I exclaimed. “If we’d only remembered earlier, we might have been able to angle our path that way to meet him.”
Mab looked at me, appalled. “But, Ma’am! We can’t just leave him. We promised!”
“We said we’d try.”
“Ma’am, if we can rescue someone, it’s our duty to try! I’m not going to break my promise and sully my new soul.”
“Or his new shoes, either,” Ulysses murmured.
“Enough with the clothes!” demanded Logistilla. “All right. I’ll make you a set of your own when we get home. And some for Theo, too, assuming Daddy will give me more Styx water.”
“No good,” I said. “The King of the Djinn spilled it all.”
Logistilla pouted. “No chance you tapped on that bridge by the Styx, is there, Ulysses?”
“Indeed there is.” Ulysses leaned over precariously and tapped the mahogany staff against the obsidian pathway. “But you’ll have to go back and get it by yourself. If I get out of here alive, I ain’t never coming back!”
“Even if it means you have to mend your ways and begin leading a virtuous life?” asked Gregor.
“Even then,” Ulysses replied firmly, and he made, perhaps for the first time in his life, the sign of the cross. Gregor snorted, but he looked thoughtfully at our youngest brother.
Mab barged ahead before anyone else could speak. “Back to Malagigi’s brother. I gave my word. I’ve got to at least give the guy his brother’s message.”
“No, Mab!” I said sternly.
“Yes, Ma’am.” Mab crossed his arms.
“After we rescue Father, we can—” I began.
Mab cut me off, “No good, Ma’am. We both know it’ll never happen. We’ll be running from Lilith or something. If we’re going to reach him, we’ve got to do it now.”
“Mab! We can’t take the chance,” I cried. “What if we arrived even a minute too late to save Father’s life? We’d never forgive ourselves!”
Mab shook his head stubbornly. “Ma’am, even if you’re not going to go, I am. I’ll catch up somehow. Or you can come look for me later … if you feel like it.”
“Mab…” I whispered, torn. I did not want this to turn into another battle of wills such as what had happened aboard the Happy Gambit. And yet, I hated the thought
of leaving him, a lone Aerie One with a soul, trapped in Hell with nothing except a lead pipe.
“I’ll go with you, Detective,” offered Erasmus.
“For Heaven’s sake! Erasmus!” I cried. “You are just doing this to exasperate me!”
“Not at all. I also promised Malagigi. After seeing his robe, I want to keep my promise.” He smiled spitefully. “Not everything is about you, you know.”
Theo asked, “Mephisto, how much time has gone by—in Boston—since we set out to get Cornelius?”
Mephisto peered into the ball, looking several places. “Three hours.”
“What?” I cried in surprise. “Only three hours? Our whole trip to Dis, the snakes … everything?”
“Seemed like a lifetime,” murmured Logistilla.
Erasmus said, “So we still have thirty-four hours Boston time. Why don’t you wait here, Sister. We’ll go find him and come back.” He peered into the globe which Mephisto had set upon Eliaures again. “Shouldn’t take much more than an hour to get down there and back.”
“I’m going, too.” Theo unlimbered his staff and began fitting the two parts together.
“Why don’t we all go?” Mephisto tapped his staff. “I’m sure Peggie’s rested by now!”
* * *
THE winged steed danced about nervously, his hooves clacking against the hard roadway. His eyes were wide and showed white, but he did not buck as all eleven of us mounted. He trotted briefly and then broke into a canter that became a gallop. Then, he ran off the side of the pathway.
For a stomach-dropping second, he veered downward, and I could smell the noxious vapors from the pits below. Then, his wings opened, and he soared upward, carrying us aloft.
Guided by the crystal ball, we flew for fifteen minutes. Then, Logistilla shouted, pointing out her ex-husband below. She had been married—at different times in different centuries—to both Malagigi and his brother. Mephisto reined in Pegasus, and we dived.
Eliaures walked along the raised obsidian causeway bearing a huge boulder upon his back. The French sorcerer was delighted to see us, especially Logistilla, whom he had loved in life. From the winged horse, Mab and Erasmus yelled to him, telling him about Malagigi and the Brotherhood of Hope, and how he could summon their help by praying. After hearing our story, he tried to throw his boulder aside, but could not.
“Here, allow me!” Theo slid from the back of the horse and knelt on the obsidian. Aiming carefully, he fired his staff so that the hot white beam struck the top of the boulder. There was a terrible blast. The upper portion of the rock exploded into white light. The remaining section split down the middle and fell from the terrified Eliaures’s shoulders.
“Sacrebleu!” Eliaures cried in his charming French accent. Standing, he kissed Theo near both cheeks. Then, approaching the horse, he kissed Logistilla’s hand fervently, though his lips slipped through her fingers. Titus glared at him, but he did not notice. “I have suffered under the weight of my own pride for so long! What must I do to be saved?”
“Help others,” Gregor replied gravely.
“And we know just the guy for you to start with!” chimed Mephisto.
Using the crystal ball, Mephisto found a route for Eliaures to travel to Infernal Milan that did not take him through the nightmarish forest. Eager to begin his life of charity, by offering assistance to his ex-stepson, Galeazzo, Eliaures wished us Godspeed. Then, he set off, marching down the black obsidian road, whistling—rather inappropriately, considering the manner of his demise—the Marseillaise.
* * *
ULYSSES’S staff took us back to the highest place we had reached on the Paths of Pride, and the winged horse carried us onward toward the mountains. After about an hour, the obsidian causeway ended, and we flew over the rocky slopes of the Mountains of Misery themselves. Almost immediately, Pegasus began to tremble, his coat slick with sweat. Mephisto brought him down and sent the steed home, again summoning the Maenad and instructing her to care for him. This time, Queen Agave brought her cutting board. Holding it up before us, she scraped it with her fingers. Milk, honey, and wine flowed freely.
Eagerly, we used the wine to wash our canteens and wineskins clean, and then we filled them. After that, we took turns lapping fresh, creamy milk, scooping up the thick golden honey, and sipping ruby-dark wine from the board. In all my life, I could not recall ever having tasted anything so wonderful, except perhaps the Water that flowed from the Well at the World’s End. The milk was sweet and sustaining; the honey melted upon the tongue; and the wine lent us an inner warmth against the chilly air.
Eventually, Mephisto announced that the landscape was affecting the Maenad queen, who was shivering violently. He tapped his staff, and she vanished like a dream. Happily, we packed away our newly filled containers and set off again. It is unlikely that a more contented band had ever hiked into the Mountains of Misery.
CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
The Mountains of Misery
“Wish I had some shoes.” Ulysses sighed from his perch upon Caliban’s shoulders as we started up the first slope. “No offense to your shoulders, old chap, but I hardly think you’ll be able to carry me the whole way. Besides, my bum’s getting a bit sore. All in all, I’d rather be legging it.”
“Your wish is my command!” Mephisto tapped his staff, and I began to imagine his seven young hoodlum friends were among us. When they appeared, quaking with terror, Mephisto eyed their size and pointed at one, announcing cheerfully. “You. Give my brother your shoes.”
As the young man hurried to obey, Mephisto continued. “Go buy some better shoes for my brother here, ones that actually fit him, and something for that guy to wear under his robe.” He pointed at Ulysses and Gregor in turn, “Oh, and a bandana, and some food. Cheese would be good. I’ll call you back in a few hours.” Then, with a second tap, he sent them away again.
“That’s size nine on the shoe, and make sure they’re top drawer!” Ulysses called after the vanishing thugs.
“There you go again!” Logistilla cried. “We’re stuck in Hell, with Erasmus strangling Miranda—great show by the way, Brother! I do hope there will be a repeat—and all you can think about, Ulysses, is whether or not you’re a fashion plate! The sheer shallowness of your secret inner self appalls me!”
“In my defense, it was not while our brother was strangling our sister—basely done, Erasmus, roughing up a girl; really!—that I thought about my garments, but while we were walking through the exchange with all those well-dressed nobs,” Ulysses objected. “It was a natural thought.”
Logistilla looked at Ulysses and ran her fingers over her staff, as if contemplating what to change him into.
At the far side of our small band, Erasmus was helping Cornelius over the rocks. With a sudden lurch, I realized that, with all the excitement as we left Dis, we had forgotten to look for Cornelius’s enchanted robes. Now he was unprotected, dressed only in the formal suit and tie we found him in.
Walking cautiously along the rocky way, his staff tapping before him and Erasmus, Titus, or Theo helping him over the rougher bits, Cornelius inclined his head to address Erasmus. I was close enough that I could hear them, though I did not let on. “What is all this about you strangling Miranda? I assume the words were meant figuratively?”
“No.” Erasmus’s voice was muted. “I literally tried to strangle her.”
Cornelius was quiet for a time, digesting this: “I assume you had a good reason, Brother?”
“I thought I did at the time.”
“Are you all right?” Cornelius’s voice expressed concern.
“As well as can be expected.”
Neither of them, I noted, asked after me.
* * *
WE hiked the Mountains of Misery, which Mephisto reported were hewn from selfishness and oppression. The dead here kept to themselves. They scurried away if we drew too near.
The slopes were steep and bitterly cold; many of us developed painful blisters. At first
we walked jauntily, buoyed up by honey and wine, but the sheer misery of our situation, the cold, the blisters, the unending, difficult climb, soon took its toll upon our spirits.
Turning my thoughts away from the cold and the chafing of my shoes, I was able to keep my spirits up by thinking of delightful things. I contemplated my love of flying and how much I had enjoyed our recent rides on Pegasus. I thought about that feeling of satisfaction in a job well done that came each time Prospero, Inc., successfully negotiated a new Priority contract or met the conditions of a standing one. What a pleasure it was to do work that was truly useful, to know that my help made modern science and all the advances of mankind possible.
When that paled, I turned my thoughts to my flute and how much I loved playing it—under ordinary circumstances, when it called sylphs and Aerie Ones, rather than the Hellwinds. Even the knowledge that the Serpent of the Wind dwelled within could not dim my delight, particularly since I was not entirely sure if his presence there was a bad thing. I mean, if my Lady did not object, why should I? Perhaps, he was happier in my flute than he would have been had Father left him in the jar where King Solomon had imprisoned him. After all, he got to blow things about and occasionally call up storms.
I recalled the tempest I had played the morning that I summoned Astreus and discovered he was Seir of the Shadows. How the winds had raged, and the mountainside shook. Rain had fallen upon the island like spears of water, striking every leaf and blade. Great billowing thunderheads, dark as sin, had raced though the sky, only to be split by tridents of lightning. And the thunder! The whole earth had groaned at its force. What a storm it had been!
I was midstep over a low flat rock, my thoughts filled with the joys of storms, when the thought struck me. My heart froze in my chest, and my limbs went cold. I struggled for breath, the chilly air raking my lungs painfully.
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