by Lorelei Bell
Pulling her gaze upward she found more catwalks. These were carpeted in red, meandering everywhere, arching one over the other, going three, four, and even five levels before she couldn't see any further. Stairs corkscrewed up and down from one level to another. What looked like ship wheels embraced one catwalk, another looked too narrow for a human to walk (thus the name “cat walk”). They wound around hydraulic behemoths, past a mosaic of wires and tubes and more gadgetry, and strange arrangements of great copper flues, which bent and twisted up into giant tanks large enough to use as hot tubs. Everywhere she looked she found more copper tubing, and gear work, and even more strange machinery covering one entire area that looked like some weird factory, all of it whooshed and whirred noisily—apparently working, doing something. Or perhaps nothing at all.
Turning in a new direction, she found huge straight pipes aligned in a row, with the longest in the middle, and each one stair-stepping down on either side—like a giant Pan flute—towering upward into the gloom. She realized that these had to belong to some sort of organ. Maybe. Eyes following the gigantic Pan pipes down to the floor below, she took in the largest organ she'd ever seen. She'd seen only a few on First World. They had them here, too. Those she'd seen were large, theater or cathedral types. This was more suited for a cathedral. A big cathedral. The horseshoe console alone boasted five rows of keyboards on all three sides. Above, all lit up, were rows upon rows of white, red and gold switches and buttons—she recalled they were named 'stops'. Looking at it from here, Zofia knew it would be impossible to play. Unless you were an octopus, of course.
Were it not for all the things for her eyes to take in, as well as the noise, Zofia nearly missed the two men in robes standing off to the side of the organ, gazing at it. Partially concealed by the deeper shadows, she could barely make out that they wore dark robes, but for sure, they both had clean-shaven heads, which gleamed in the low lighting from above.
Great flying lizards! There were two men with shaved heads running around here?
Heart caught between beats, Zofia sunk into a crouch, and moved away from the edge of the catwalk. They were saying something, but from where she stood, she couldn't make out the words over the noise of machinery. She was certain one of them was the wizard who had attacked her the other night. She really hadn't expected to come across this. Now what?
She wanted to listen in on what they were saying, just in case it had something to do with her. Her nerves were humming, but she had to find out who they were and why they were here—wherever here was.
Duck-walking, Zofia made it to a stairway, that lead down to the first set of catwalks, which was in the shadows, so she felt they wouldn't see her. Making it to the bottom without their notice, she crawled until she was almost directly above them. Now she was certain the taller man was the one who had stole into her room the other night. He was tall enough. She just knew it had to be him. When she thought about it, she became pissed about his invasion of her bedroom, trying to abduct her. If only she'd had the Stone of Irdisi that night—or now, for that matter—she'd give him a jolt of Power that he'd never forget. She wanted to know why he wanted her. She hoped she could learn who he was by listening in.
She still had no idea where she was, but that wasn't her immediate concern. She wanted to believe she was inside the hollowed out menhir below Saint Germain's castle. If so, these guys were trespassing. Saint Germain had mentioned how he and Jacques had determined that some of the things from his labs were missing. She also recalled that night Saint Germain had taken her out for dinner to Ravenwood Inn, and Doreen's candle shop had been hit by robbers. If one of the men was a wizard who could Evanish, how easily could he pilfer pretty much anything he wanted or needed? What if both these wizards could Evanish? They really needed to be stopped. But she wasn't the sorceress to do that. She needed to learn who they were, and if possible what they were up to.
She peered over the railing and now could see their faces. The short one had squinty eyes, and slightly pointed ears. In fact, she realized that he had one ear lobe missing. This could be significant. She would mention it in her next letter to Stephen. That would be a good way to identify the man. In the back of her mind, she remembered the widow that night she came in on the coach. She and Myron both thought the widow was a man dressed up to disguise himself. She wondered if this man wasn't him. He was short enough. Hands seemed large, as did the feet. What his business was leaving and coming back to Ravenwood, she didn't know. But it would fit. For some reason he didn't want to be recognized. One very good reason to believe he was up to no good.
Banking on her movements and any sounds she made to be swallowed up by the seismic noise of the rushing and hissing steam and faint syncopation throughout. (That, and they probably didn't expect that anyone would be above them, watching them.) Carefully, Zofia moved down the catwalk a little further, past some sort of gigantic clock which used cannonballs in a sort of perpetual motion device to keep time. Fortunately it wasn't in working order. If it were, the noise of two giant balls colliding would give one a headache. It seemed like a bit much, but it fit with the theme of really big well. On the other side of this, she caught more of the same hydraulic machinery, huge nits and bolts holding it all together. Gauges and dials were lit up beneath and around it. She didn't know how, or why, but now wondered if this wasn't how electricity was supplied throughout the castle. Most everything here was back-lit. High above them was the largest chandelier she'd ever seen. Actually, it looked to be made up of hundreds of small, or normal-sized chandeliers. Her eyes could barely keep from scanning her surroundings, but she had to pull them away from all the weird gadgetry and focus on the men, now.
Voices bounded off surfaces and filtered up to her ears.
“He should be here by now,” grumbled the taller of the two men. “I don't understand what could be taking him so long!” His deep voice resonating almost as vibrantly as one note might from the organ (and now she knew exactly what that noise had been when she'd heard it above: The organ). His violet robe shimmered as he shifted nervously at the cradle of the huge organ. He seemed to be looking up at something.
Zofia maneuvered herself so that she was directly above them. She could see that there was some sort of TV screen he was looking at, but from her vantage point, she couldn't see what was on the screen.
“Phineas, don't worry so,” the other said soothingly, his voice nearly swallowed up by all the noise around them. Hands tucked inside his roomy sleeves, he looked to the taller man, and then turned toward the screen. She couldn't understand what they could be viewing. And then she realized there were three different screens. Two were presently on.
“Saint German has been going to Switzerland quite a lot, as of late,” said the taller one. This was Phineas Gardner. Her attacker. Presumed missing since five years ago when Dorian had been turned into a vampire. She really wanted to do something, but knew she dare not, since he not only was a sorcerer, but a Knight.
“Yes,” observed the other. “He comes back mostly empty handed, save for some frivolous items, or things that are in cartons.” She detected the man had a lisp.
“Wine, and that harsh drink—”
“Coffee?” the other offered.
“Yes.” Phineas seemed to be grimacing.
“I see them!” the smaller man said, hand whipping out, finger pointing toward the monitor.
“About time!” Phineas rumbled. Both men turned away from the organ to a clear spot in the floor. Only now she noticed that the floor held the very same design as the floor in the atrium near her room. She had no idea of the significance of it all. She didn't know if it had anything to do with the Portal, but felt expectantly as though it did.
A sudden noise, a sonority like that which she thought might burst her ears, overrode the other gushing and rushing sounds of the room. It startled Zofia to such a degree she nearly jumped off the catwalk. Had there not been a railing, she might have just gone over the edge.
Her st
artled voice etched out a sound much like a sour note into the ensuing hush of the deeper note from the organ. Slapping a hand over her mouth, Zofia dove to the floor of the catwalk, flattening her whole body out and held her breath, not daring to look down at the men below. All they needed to do was look up, and they would spot her—the originator of that reckless and discordant sound. She remained sprawled on her stomach, trying to pretend she was a mouse, certain both men would see her if she moved a hair from where she was.
“Where are they?” The deep voice of Phineas reached her ears.
“Keeler should be back with the alchemist soon. They are gone from the Portal exit on the other side,” the other reported.
Zofia lifted her head very slowly and could see the two men watching that spot with the strange designs in it.
Suddenly, where no one had been standing, two men now stepped out of nowhere, as though they had just Evanished. One of the men was dressed exactly like the other two, down to the shaven globe of a head—another bald guy! The second man was older, with a beak of a nose over a mustache and long, gray hair arranged in a braid down his back and a floppy purple hat. His smile was broad, eyes filled with wonder, as he looked all about himself. He didn't look frightened at all, but merely amazed, as though he'd just been sawed in half, and rejoined. His clothes were easily modern-day First World, but somewhat shabby. His blue jeans were faded, even ragged, and he wore a red and black checkered shirt, and held a long, gnarled walking stick—or what looked to be a walking stick, for all she knew, it could be his staff, imbued with Powers. She didn't know who he was, but he held himself in a way that made her feel he was no mere Ugwump. She doubted, though, that he was a sorcerer—like the men who'd brought him here.
“Keeler!” boomed Phineas, moving forward. “What the blazes?”
Hearing the other man's name, Zofia finally realized who these other men were. All three bald guys were the Knights who had been with Dorian when he disappeared, five years ago. So, they were all still alive and well. That alone renewed Zofia's chills.
Keeler moved his hand toward the man with the stick. “Phineas, may I present to you, Giuseppe Balsamo—otherwise known as Count Alessandro Cagliostro, mystic, philanderer, alchemist, and Freemason.”
Pointing, Phineas sputtered, “He's Cagliostro?”
“Well, yes,” Keeler said, blinking at the taller man.
The stranger in blue jeans, who looked like he'd been pulled out of a commune from the 1960's, First World, gazed around himself and said something in what Zofia knew to be Italian, but couldn't understand it.
Keeler turned to him and in a mild tone spoke his language, answering whatever his question had been. He then pointed toward his two friends, introducing them, and seeming to go into quite a long explanation.
“Maghi?” Cagliostro asked after the drawn out introductions.
“Stregoni!” Keeler answered.
Cagliostro nodded, and in a somewhat strained voice repeated, “Stregoni, ahh, si, si.”
“What did you tell him?” Phineas asked.
“That we are wizards. Real wizards. That we can do magic. I explained that he is now on another planet, and we brought him here by magic.”
“You mean by a machine—”
“It doesn't matter,” interrupted Keeler. “He understands who we are, and what we want, and what we wish to do.”
“And?” Phineas squinted, hands to his sides, fingers curled in, but not quite making fists.
“And he wants to help us. He's intrigued by it. He claims he had almost done the same, himself, but failed because the officials of his time objected to his—eh—religion. They threw him into jail, and he escaped. He has quite a history of getting himself out of the tightest situations.”
“That and he has successfully been able to cheat death, much as Saint Germain.”
At the mention of Saint Germain's name Cagliostro's eyes became huge. “Truffatore del charlatan!” he spat, and then went into a long string of words, that even if Zofia could translate she probably didn't want to. And at the end of it all, he spat on the floor again. Filthy Cretan.
She remembered how Saint Germain had acted when Zofia had repeated Cagliostro's name that time, and now, how Cagliostro had just reacted to his name. The two men were sworn enemies. She wondered, however, if Saint Germain knew that Cagliostro had succeeded in cheating death as he had. Whatever these three rogue wizards were up to, and wanted him to do for them could not be very good.
“Did you get the other things that you went for?” Phineas asked Keeler.
“Yes,” Keeler said, handing him a leather portfolio.
Cagliostro asked Keeler another question, pointing at the portfolio while Phineas looked through the papers inside. Cagliostro seemed impressed, and there were more exchanges between the two in his language.
“Magnifico! Siete migliori ladri che persino sono.”
“What did he say?” Phineas wanted to know.
“He said we are better thieves that even he is.”
All three men laughed, and Cagliostro's rich chuckle joined theirs.
When the chuckles died, Phineas said, “We still need our offering. How is that coming along, Myron?”
At the name Zofia felt a sudden jolt of alarm ripple through her. She tried to peer into the deep, dark shadows where the others had turned toward.
“I'm working on it,” the velvet voice replied as the man in a long coat stepped out of the gloom, almost as though he had just materialized out of thin air. And perhaps he had.
“When will you be able to take her?” Phineas asked.
“I can take her whenever you want,” Myron bragged.
“Even though she's a sorceress?”
“Yes,” Myron said, his handsome features twisted into a sinister grin. “I've enlisted help.”
“Two on one? I like that,” Phineas said, voice laced with venom.
Zofia's heart felt as though it had just tripped and stumbled on something very sharp. They were now talking about her, she was sure of it. Who else could they be speaking of? And—really?—he could take her whenever he wanted? Fat chance!
“When do you need her?” Myron asked, examining his fingernails, as though none of this mattered much to him.
“I will let you know,” Phineas said, handing the portfolio to the other man who must be Garrison Trueblood.
“And you will pay me the rest of the money?”
“Of course, Myron. The rest of the thousand rothgars will be yours when you deliver Ms. Trickenbod to me, as planned,” Phineas said.
Zofia's heart did an odd thumping inside her chest, and a stabbing throb began in her right temple. Little white dots splashed across her eyes, and she thought she would faint right there, and so she lay down, taking deep, easy breaths. She laced her fingers through the cool ironwork of the catwalk—oddly here it was not carpeted as was the case elsewhere in this strange place.
“Is she pretty?” asked Garrison, a lecherous smile leaping to his lips.
“Very,” Myron said, a toothy grin on his face.
Cagliostro asked a question looking at Keeler.
Keeler smiled at him. “Ah, so you do understand English?”
“A little bit,” Cagliostro said in a heavy accent, bringing up his hand and making the universal sign with his fingers for small amount.
“The woman we are arranging for the offering to Apep.”
Cagliostro nodded.
“What does it matter?” Phineas complained angrily. “She is for Apep's amusement only.” His frown was supplanted by a nasty, sinister smile. “And I doubt she will last more than a minute with his great tool.”
Tool? Zofia grimaced. She searched her memory banks. She knew the word tool was an acronym for —Eew. These guys were not only rogues, but they were creepy as hell. A chill spiked through her. Before this she wasn't sure why they had tried—now twice that she knew of—to abduct her. She now knew they wanted her for some sort of ritual. But why her in particular? S
pite? Malice? She didn't know them from toad spawn, and how would they know her, except maybe through Dorian? And while she was at it, who was Apep, anyway? Swallowing against a dry throat, she wasn't sure that she really wanted to know, since his tool was apparently so infamously large. Probably a demon. She knew about demons, after all, and how horrifyingly large they were.
“Let's get our guest to his quarters before someone happens along,” Phineas suggested, looking around himself.
Zofia ducked just then, hoping her slight movement had not caught his attention.
“What about Saint Germain?” Keeler asked.
“What about him?”
“He and his helper, they are hiding things, now. We're unable to find the things we need just lying about, like we have in the past,” Keeler explained.
“And, he has the sorceress in his castle, now,” Keeler added. “Don't you find it a little strange that she resembles the woman in the painting?”
Phineas tried to look unruffled by this. “It matters not who she looks like.”