"Spare me," Argyll said, "please! I know we didn't see eye to eye, but everything I did was to uphold the Covenant, and for the benefit of Scotland."
"First VanLengen, then Hamilton, now you. All of you sniveling for mercy. I always knew you would, had fate chosen to send you to the gallows." Montrose drove his fist into the other man's solar plexus, then, when he doubled over, slammed the blade of his hand against his neck.
Argyll fell heavily to the plank floor. Snarling, Montrose kicked him repeatedly. The traitor curled into a ball and wrapped his arms around his head in a pathetic attempt to shield himself. The spectators on the ground laughed and cheered.
Suddenly the Hierarch remembered the last time he'd beaten a helpless prisoner. That time, back in America, it had been Louise. Louise, who was counting on him to reappear and guide her out of the Gallery.
For a moment his savage exhilaration collapsed into shame and confusion. What was wrong with him? What was actually transpiring here? He had the sudden, disquieting suspicion that the jaws of a trap were closing on him. That if he didn't find a way to break free—which seemed to require regaining control of his emotions— the magic might never let him go of its own volition. Consumed by vengeance, no longer cognizant that he was mired in unreality, he'd torment and exterminate his old enemies over and over again.
Argyll shifted his bloody hands to peek up at his nemesis. When Montrose saw the wretch's eye, his fists clenched in hatred.
Surely it wouldn't hurt to drive one more man up the ladder and turn him off. Surely not when it was Argyll! Then afterwards, if Montrose still didn't return to the Gallery, he'd look for a way out when the scenario began anew.
"No!" he cried, wrenching himself around. It helped, but only a little. Even with his back turned, he still felt Argyll's presence drawing him like a magnet, beckoning him to continue his revenge.
"You're not real," Montrose groaned. "All of this is over. Over and done for three hundred and fifty years. I shouldn't care about it anymore!" He ran at the edge of the scaffold and threw himself over the railing.
Gaping, wide-eyed faces hurtled up at him. In his near delirium, he'd forgotten that people were standing directly beneath the platform. He crashed down on their heads, tumbling them to the cobblestones.
Sprawled on top of them, he took stock of a new collection of pains. He felt the stab of a broken finger, the throb of a wrenched back, but nothing that signaled a mortal wound. He'd wanted to slam headfirst into the ground, dashing out his brains or snapping his spine, but the onlookers had cushioned his fall.
Well, he'd just have to find another way to die. His sword—no, that was gone for the moment. He scrambled to his feet, then, screaming the filthiest obscenities known to the land and era of his birth, began punching and kicking the people around him, doing his best to strike a lethal blow. One of their deaths might end the scenario, too, and if not, he needed to provoke them to retaliate in kind.
For a second, the throng seemed to freeze, as if the enchantment that had spawned them, caught off guard by his eccentric, behavior, required time to reprogram them.
Then, with a roar, they started fighting back.
At first, as fists flew and open hands snatched at him, he struggled frantically to defend himself. He wanted to be slain, not subdued. Then, from the corner of his eye, he glimpsed a gleaming blade. Pivoting, throwing his arms high to expose his entire torso, he lunged toward the hulking, curly-haired fellow who held it.
The dagger plunged into his chest, glanced off a rib, and punctured his right lung. He dropped, yanking the weapon from its owner's grasp in the process. For a moment the press was too tight to allow him to fall all the way down, but then people lurched backward, making room for him to slip onto the cobbles.
His breath wheezing in his throat, blood bubbling out around the knife, he waited for a tide of darkness to sweep him away. It didn't come, nor did the people goggling down at him seem inclined to finish him off. He spat at them, cursed them, feebly kicked and clawed at their legs, until at last they began to stamp on him in return.
He felt his bones breaking, his flesh tearing and pulping, his inner organs bursting. A coldness welled up inside him, creating a space between him and his agony, and the sunlight dimmed. He clenched his jaw, concerned that otherwise a reflexive spasm of terror would make him whimper.
Everything went black for an instant, and then he was standing in the crimson mist again, his sword in his hand and the highwayman's garments on his back. His body uninjured but still beset by the memory of pain, he stumbled and nearly fell.
Louise grabbed him by the arm, steadying him. "Are you all right?" she asked.
"Yes." He put his hand over hers and squeezed it.
"It seemed like you were gone for at least an hour."
"The Gallery kept putting me through alternate versions of the same scenario. I had to experiment to find a way to break free."
"Do you have any idea why?"
"I'm afraid not. Perhaps we bollixed the works by coming in together. Or perhaps, now that Charon is gone, the wonders he crafted are breaking down."
"He pretty much 'crafted' your whole Empire, didn't he? Maybe we're risking our necks to preserve a system that's destined to crumble no matter what."
It was a grim notion, and over the course of the last few days, they'd seen plenty of evidence to support it. But for some reason, it neither daunted nor angered him. Despite all the problems and perils confronting him, for the moment at least, he felt strangely confident and blithe. He grinned at his companion. "What a thoroughly demoralizing idea. I thought you were supposed to be the high-hearted optimist, and I, the dour cynic."
"Oh, is that how it's supposed to work? My apologies." Her tone became more serious. "I truly am sorry. The last thing either of us needs is discouragement. It's just that waiting for you to reappear grated on my nerves. Periodically, I imagined I heard our pursuers. Off in the distance, but inside the hall."
"It's possible you did," he said. Drawing on his Harbinger talents, he oriented himself. "So we'd better get moving." He led her onward.
After several paces, a machine-gun nest, protected by mounds of sandbags, appeared in the scarlet mist. The wraiths scrambled for cover behind the pillars, but they were an instant too slow. Sweeping in an arc, stuttering atop its tripod, the belt-fed weapon riddled them with bullets. They fell and died. And then, resurrected, they peered ahead, making sure their slayer had disappeared, rose, and continued on their way.
A pair of identical Vikings with horned helmets and long yellow braids charged out of nowhere brandishing axes. Louise shot one of them through the heart. Dropping into a crouch and thus allowing the other twin's weapon to whiz harmlessly over his head, Montrose thrust his point into his assailant's throat and up inside his skull.
The corpses vanished, and the fugitives pressed on. "Is it much farther?" Louise asked.
In point of fact, it wasn't, but Montrose didn't get a chance to tell her so. Abruptly, leather creaked, and despite the stench of the billowing mist, which currently reeked of blood, he caught the scent of oiled metal. Pivoting, he saw three riflemen emerging from the murk. Each had had his mouth sculpted into a fixed, exaggerated grin as a token of his allegiance to the Smiling Lord.
Spying the fugitives, they shouldered their weapons, then vanished. Evidently the Gallery had whisked them away into one of its more elaborate fantasies. Montrose and Louise strode on.
The Scot heard other hunters prowling on either side. He struggled against the growing suspicion that he and his companion weren't going to escape after all. And then, all at once, the world wasn't red anymore. He was standing at the end of the Gallery, looking out between two of the outermost columns at another building, this one carved all around with scenes from the Trojan War. Immediately across the way, Ajax was hurling his stone at Hector. Which meant that Montrose had navigated his way directly to the entrance to the secret passage.
Grinning, he started to rush out int
o the open, and only then noticed the half dozen Legionnaires standing several yards away on the path that ran between the two structures, waiting for him to emerge. Frantically, he grabbed Louise's arm and jerked her behind one of the pillars.
"Are we in the right spot?" she whispered.
"Yes."
"Then don't worry. I'll divert the guards' attention." She stared at her crossbow until it drifted upward out of her hand. Suspended just below the ceiling, where no one looking in from outside could see it, the weapon floated along until it passed beyond the sentries. Then it flew into the open, dashed itself at the ground, and bounced banging and clattering down the path.
The guards all lurched around in the direction of the racket. Two of them snapped off shots at it. The fugitives darted out of hiding, and Montrose pressed down on Ajax's missile.
For an instant, the carved boulder didn't move, and he had the sickening feeling that someone had seen fit to render the catch inoperable. Then the rounded shape sank into the surrounding stonework, and the tableau swung silently inward. He and Louise scrambled into the darkness beyond, then hastily closed the door.
FORTY
Like the Artificers' maze, the secret passage was dimly lit by a few phosphorescent green stones set into the walls. Montrose and Louise rushed along it until they were sure the soldiers hadn't followed them inside. Finally the Scot raised his hand, signaling a halt. "We seem to be in the clear," he said. "Let's relax for a moment."
"That suits me," she said, the edge of her mask catching the sickly viridian glow. "Thank the Bright Powers our pursuers didn't know about the secret door."
"I was reasonably certain they wouldn't. You can't tell many people about a hidden path, not even your own retainers, lest its existence become known to all. In my glory days, I had the Smiling Lord's confidence as much as anyone, but I'm sure I only know a few of the clandestine ways in the Seat, and some of those—including this one, now that I think about it—I discovered on my own. Unfortunately, I don't know a secret route which will take us all the way to my.. .master"—to his momentary annoyance, he found himself stumbling over the word—"or one of his inner circle of advisors. At some point, we'll have to move back into the open."
"Now that we've penetrated the outer ring of defenses, could we simply surrender to some officer or other, and ask to see the Smiling Lord?"
Montrose shook his head. "We're condemned felons. We killed loyal Hierarchs during our escape from the pit. What's more, everyone here is on edge, waiting for the beginning of the war. I'm still afraid the guards might slay us on sight. Better to reveal ourselves only to someone we actually want to talk to."
"And hope he'll listen."
"I'm banking on the fact that the Smiling Lord and his lieutenants have known me for decades and in some cases centuries. They'll be amazed I didn't have the good sense to flee Stygia when I had the chance, instead of thrusting my head back into the lion's jaws. Especially if I'm not bent on spying, sabotage, or assassination, and when I intrude on them begging for a hearing, it should become obvious that such is not the case. They ought to be curious enough at least to listen before sending us to the block, and after that, it will all come down to my eloquence." Which hadn't saved him at his trial, but having chosen his course, he saw no point in dwelling on that now.
"That sounds reasonable," she said, "particularly since you always had a silver tongue." She tossed her slouch hat away, discarded her quiver, shook out her tousled honey-blond hair, and shrugged off her trench coat. He found his eyes drawn to her slender form, now clad only in the sleeveless white shirt, shiny blue sash, baggy khaki shorts, and sandals she'd donned in the dungeon beneath the Soulforges. "With luck, the soldiers will assume that we couldn't possibly have slipped into the palace itself. Still, the whole citadel will likely be on the alert for a lady bundled up in gray and a redheaded gentleman in black Cavalier finery. Therefore we should change our appearances." She reached for her visor.
"Leave that. It's not particularly distinctive by itself, and even if it were, no one but a Thrall would walk the corridors of the Seat unmasked. But otherwise, changing our looks is a good idea." He stripped down to his breeches and high boots. "Hm. Even though people walk around in all sorts of outlandish outfits, we're underdressed for Court, and thus too conspicuous. Still, we're better off than we were before. We'll just have to filch other attire at the first opportunity."
She gave him a mischievous smile. "You still look way too much like the Montrose everyone in this castle knows. But I can fix that. Take off your mask and go down on your knees."
When he obeyed, she drew her knife and began deftly shearing his long hair off close to his scalp. To his own amusement, he felt a reflexive pang of dismay, even though he knew his cherished lovelocks would reappear soon enough. Every wraith body possessed one innate shape, to which it would always revert unless fixed in another by a Masquer's Arcanos.
In any case, there was something pleasant about the cool, light touch of her fingers on his skin. He nearly regretted it when she stepped back and peered at him critically. "That will have to do," she said. "I don't trust myself to cut off the mustache without amputating your upper lip along with it."
"I appreciate your restraint," he said, rising and replacing his mask. He considered his rapier for a moment, then hung the baldric over his shoulder once more. He and Louise could alter their appearances still further by abandoning their weapons, but he couldn't quite bring himself to press on into danger unarmed. "Shall we finish up this little errand?"
"Why not?" she said.
The tunnels had a musty smell and a general air of disuse, as if no one had entered them in years. Still, Montrose and Louise traversed them warily, senses probing the darkness for signs that someone else was present. As far as the Scot could tell, they were alone.
At odd moments he continued to experience the buoyancy, almost a giddiness, of spirit that had been bubbling up inside him ever since his escape from the illusory Edinburgh. Trying to account for it, he noticed that his Shadow seemed shrunken, almost quiescent. It made him feel as if he'd carried a heavy burden a long way and finally been permitted to set it down.
"Are you aware," Louise murmured, "that you're beaming like an idiot?"
"Perhaps I'm on the brink of achieving Transcendence," he replied. "Wouldn't you be irked if the condition truly existed, and a Hierarch scoundrel like me got there ahead of you? No, seriously, I simply feel exhilarated. I suppose it's a natural reaction to having overcome so many obstacles, even when we know there are more to come."
"I wasn't really complaining," she said. "Even a somewhat simpleminded smile is more pleasant than that closed, haughty Anacreon face you tend to put on whenever you aren't actually scowling and glaring at me."
They walked on quietly until they turned a corner and started up the steep, narrow staircase that would take them into the palace. Then he said, "You shouldn't have renounced your painting. Honthorst told me you were the most gifted student he'd ever taught."
Louise looked at him as if she didn't quite know how to take his remark. "I told you why I did it."
"Yes. But in the end, you did struggle to break the vampire's hold on you. And it was no disgrace to fail. You were merely one of the Quick, and he, a creature with supernatural powers. Suppose you saw fit to use your Spook abilities to injure some unfortunate mortal. How much of a chance would he have against you?"
She sighed. "Naturally I've told myself that countless times. So have my friends and superiors in the Sisterhood. But sometimes you know a thing in your head and still don't feel it in your heart." She paused, then asked, "Do you still write any poetry at all?"
"No, but unlike the empty canvases you might have filled, my virgin sheets of parchment represent no great loss to anyone."
"I don't know about that," she said. "At the very least, your verses gave pleasure to you and those who loved you. Why, then, did you give them up?"
He shrugged. "You remember my customary
subject matter. Honor. Duty. Stainless knights embarked on glorious quests. When I attained a wiser perspective, I lost my muse. 'Look out for yourself first, last, and always, because that's what all the other lads are doing' may be the only sensible principle on which to base one's existence, but I could never figure out how to make the sentiment sound sublime in rhyme and meter."
"Perhaps that's because, deep down, you never truly believed it."
He expected her remark to evoke the usual twinge of irritation, but it didn't. Instead he felt a murkier emotion, something that might almost have been sorrow. Halting, he turned to look her in the eyes. "My lady, as you may have discerned, I don't seem to hate you anymore. Somehow I've put what happened in The Hague behind me. But that still doesn't mean I've miraculously reverted to the Montrose who wooed you then, or that I ever could. My current mode of existence has served me well. By committing what you would no doubt deem crimes and atrocities, I've won myself as desirable an existence as any ghost attains in this bleak, cold demimonde of ours. You mustn't expect anything different of me, or you'll be cruelly disappointed."
"Very well," she replied. "But notice, I didn't ask you to change, not this time. You're arguing with yourself."
He snorted. "You're being disingenuous. The call to virtue was clearly implied. And now we'd best be quiet for a bit. We're approaching our entry into the great keep."
The stairs led to a gray door with a peephole in the center. Peering through the fish-eye lens, Montrose saw a long, narrow chamber, almost a corridor, that someone had seen fit to turn into a portrait gallery. Electric illumination gleamed on oils of Omar Bradley, the Duke of Wellington, Saladin, and Hannibal.
As far as he could tell from his vantage point, no one was on the other side of the door. He pulled a lever and the panel cracked silently open. He and Louise scrambled through, then pushed it shut. From this side, it was a picture of a scowling Ulysses Grant. Montrose had always thought that the artist had made the Union commander look hung-over.
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