by Ron Miller
“I don’t know why we couldn’t at least have taken some oars, just in case.”
“I guess we could’ve.”
“Why aren’t we moving anymore?”
The city, to their left as they faced downstream, should have been moving to the left as the current carried them. Nor was it actually motionless, as Bronwyn had thought at first; it was moving in the wrong direction.
“The river’s going backwards!” Thud whispers in surprise.
“That’s impossible,” hisses the princess.
“Well, look, then,” answers Thud, and when she looks, sure enough, they are unquestionably moving upstream.
This isn’t possible! The river comes from the mountains, it is headed to the sea; how can it be going the wrong way? The answer comes to her immediately, and she feels as stupid as she ever cared to, which generally is not at all, : the tide! Blavek is at the fall line of the river, at the northernmost limit of the tidewater country. The city is virtually at sea level and when the tide came up the estuary, it backed up the water of the river as far as Blavek.
Damn! How could she have known? She is no sailor. She desperately wants to blame Thud, it has to be someone’s fault, so why not his? This was entirely his idea, after all; the man is clearly feeble-minded; why had she ever gone along with him? It is utterly stupid on the face of it. Now look at what is happening: she is drifting directly toward Palace Island. Merciful Musrum, it is the very place from which she has been trying to escape! For all she knew, Payne and Ferenc are in one of the towers, gloating as they watch her inexorably drift toward them. She is certain they would be vastly amused, damn them.
Soon enough, the vertical stone embankment of Palace Island looms above them. It is a peculiar sensation, looking at a place as though it was a prison that for eighteen years had been a home, more or less. She can see the towers and turrets of the palace proper and the blocks of government buildings that surround it. They glow like hot bricks in the light of the boulevard’s gas lamps. She can see figures moving regularly along the parapet’s edge, not fifty feet over their heads: Guards on patrol. The little boat rounds the northeast corner of the island. Ahead of them yawns four vast, black mouths, the openings to the tunnels that allow the Slideen to pass beneath the causeway. Above the tunnel mouths are the bright lights lining the roadway, and the dimmer, golden lights in the windows of the official mansions, offices and palaces built over the river. She can see the busy shadows of people and vehicles. When will someone finally see
them and raise the alarm? She feel as obvious as a clown in church. They are now in a narrow channel, only a hundred yards wide; the cliff-like stone wall supporting Palace Island is now on their left, and the embankments of Blavek are on their right. They are almost within one of the cavernous tunnels; Bronwyn can see the parapet of the causeway only by craning her neck and looking straight up. When she does, she sees, to her horror, the pale blob of a face looking back down at her. It is topped by the distinctive plumed shako of one of Payne’s Guards. Just before the face is cut off by the edge of the tunnel as they pass within it, she hears a rasping sound and something plops wetly onto the floor of the boat alongside her foot. Then the darkness of the tunnel swallows them.
He spat at me! Bronwyn realizes with disgust. In reality, the man had merely used some drifting débris for target practice. The Guards are animals, as I’ve always thought; absolutely uncouth.
The tunnel is a half-cylinder arching over the refugees, the roof perhaps twenty feet above. Chalky chandeliers of lime and calcium hang from it, dissolved and redeposited by the constantly dripping water that drizzles from fissures, cracks and seams in the vault, a drizzle that has them drenched within minutes. It takes perhaps ten of those minutes for the boat to pass from one end of the tunnel to the other, though it seems hours to Bronwyn. Finally, they emerge from the western mouth with Palace Island now behind them. The boat stops drifting, rotating idly in a slow eddy. They are only a few yards from a weedy bank on the City side of the river. Thud climbed out of the boat, sinking nearly to his waist, and pulled it and Bronwyn to the shore. Bronwyn can have cried with fury and frustration. After all she has been through, she is back exactly from where she has started, her deadly enemies not five hundred yards away.
There is some good in everything, if one only troubles to look for it. Bronwyn is willing to try if only because the effort involved is no greater than that required for becoming hysterical. And she normally isn’t an hysterical sort of person, at least not when it would show. She has always disliked making a public spectacle of herself and feels that tears, wails, recriminations and self-pity usually draw the kind of attention normally reserved for people who have sidewalk fits. Besides, from a practical point of view, she believes the energy spent banging her head against a wall in frustration could be better used in finding a way out of their predicament, a task she fears will not be easy. Thud, however, is in a paroxysm of remorse. When he set the princess onto the bank, she shot him a look that pierced his heart as though she had driven an icicle through it. In his efforts to help the girl he had only succeeded in making her troubles worse. Would this happen every time he tried to be kind to someone? He can’t know: she is his first experiment in kindness. Worse, Bronwyn has been one of the rare people in his life who did not look at him with automatic repugnance, nor has she treated him like an idiot, as nearly everyone else does. Now look how she has been repaid! In fact, though Thud would never have known or even suspected this, Bronwyn had been treating him not like an idiot but like a servant, accepting his services with gratitude, but at the same time with the assumption that Thud could scarcely be doing otherwise. This is what people like Thud are for, from Bronwyn’s viewpoint. Still, the finer nuances of the princess’s attitude would not have made much difference to the big man even if he had perceived them; he realizes that he is not her equal on any count, except perhaps size and physical strength, categories in which he of course vastly surpassed her; to him, her treatment implies that he possesses an equality not with her but with that vast welter of human beings who occupy the social classes beneath that of the princess and that is good enough for him. He has never been anyone’s equal before and now due to the princess he is equal to millions! And now look at how he has shown his gratitude...
Meanwhile, Bronwyn is all too aware of how the ramparts of Palace Island are glowering at her; she is certain it would be only minutes before a Guard would see them. At the top of the bank is a road; across the road are buildings and beyond the buildings is the city and the sooner they are lost in it, the better she’ll feel. Nevertheless, while things aren’t going according to plan at all, they could be a lot worse. They are at least on the right side of the river. All they need to do is get across the city undiscovered and she could be on her way north. Unfortunately, there is still one more river to cross and they are nearly two miles from the bridge they had originally planned to use. The nearest one would now surely be heavily guarded. The Guards would be stopping everyone, suspicious or not. And there is no way in the world she would consider crossing the Moltus by boat; there had been quite enough of that. Well, she thought, then laughed silently; she has been about to say to herself, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. She starts up the bank, then looks back when she realizes that Thud hasn’t followed her. He is still sitting on the grass, watching her with his usual lack of expression.
“Come on!” she hisses. “We’ve got to hurry, we can rest once we’re in the city.”
He seems to be surprised, but gets to his feet and follows her; they quickly cross the road and are soon in the shadows of an alley between a pair of dark storefronts. Bronwyn mentally orients herself. They are now on the north bank of the Slideen, on the south side of the city, at the point where the peninsula is broadest ‘worse luck). There will be at least a mile and a quarter to travel before they can reach the Moltus bridge. In a straight line, that is: a direction not possible to travel in Blavek. The West Side is the oldest part of
the city and its narrow streets are a labyrinthine maze, meandering in all directions, like an ant nest, and each alley is seldom more than a few hundred yards long before it branches willy-nilly into two, three or even four new alleyways. The buildings are for the most part still made of wood, and their overhanging upper stories make gloomy tunnels of the passages even during the day. In all her life, Bronwyn has never been on foot within the labyrinths of Old Blavek. She looks into the gloomy maze with bewilderment.
“Thud,” she asks, “do you know your way around the city?”
“No.”
“Well, that’s no help. I suppose we ought to keep going north as best we can. Try to keep track of our turns.”
She starts up the alley, but it ends after a few score yards when it runs into a cross street. This doesn’t appear to cross exactly at a right angle. She chooses the turn that seems to go most directly into the City. Thud follows silently. Once again the street she is on ends in an intersection. The right branch, she thinks, looks as though it would take her back in the direction of the river, so she turns to the left. The narrow lane curves in a quarter circle before crossing another street. This time a right turn seems correct and she takes it without hesitation. Street after street they traverse, their footsteps clop-clopping in the quiet, in what Bronwyn thinks is a methodical, but is in fact a completely haphazard way. So far they have seen no one else: the district they are passing through is mercantile, but all of the businesses have been long since closed for the night and are dark. Gas street lighting had not yet been introduced into the shop districts, and only an occasional oil lamp on a corner relieves the gloom. This worries Bronwyn. Should the police see them they would surely be stopped. Bronwyn finds the lifeless, soundless dark frightening. Thud, who has lived his entire life within the confines of the Transmoltus, thinks it fascinating. He has never before feel so safe while virtually alone on a street at night. It is pleasant but disconcerting. He has never seen buildings so beautiful, nor windows with so many wonderful things in them, though he couldn’t tell what most of those things were, swimming behind glass panes like ghostly fish of gold and silver and porcelain.
Again the street they are on ends when it runs into another. There seems, as usual, to be equal choices between which way to go. Bronwyn heads to the left. This way makes a long curve between the overhanging buildings. The silence and solitude is complete and concrete; around them rise, black and dumb, imposing masses of architecture that glare at them each time stray lantern light glints from one of the thousand windows. At the end of the curve, the street makes a sharp turn and, to Bronwyn’s horror, reveals not a hundred yards away the broad causeway to Palace Island. It is brilliantly lit and alive with traffic. She quickly about-faces, bumping into Thud’s broad chest.
“Quick! Back around the corner!”
She leans against the grimy building and pounds her fists together.
“Damn, damn, damn! We’ve just gone around in a big circle! We’ve been wandering for an hour and we’re practically back where we started. How’re we going to get out of here? I don’t know my way; we can wander all night and still keep going around in circles. Damn!”
Thud is surprised; the princess has made practically the same mistake he did! He is almost giddy with the egalitarianism of it.
“Well, what now?” says Bronwyn, more to herself than her companion. “Let’s try going up this street. At least it heads away from the palace.”
“What are you two doing?” comes a strange voice.
Bronwyn jumps, turns and sees that it issued from a Guard who has approached unseen from the other arm of the intersection. The black-uniformed patrolman is crossing the broad street, lowering his rifle as he comes. His black cuirass shines dully, like a beetle’s carapace...or a cockroach’s, to be more truthfully specific. Bronwyn feels her huge companion stiffen and she lays a restraining hand on his arm.
“Don’t,” she whispers. “It’s dark. Maybe we can bluff it out.”
Thud grunts doubtfully.
The Guard stops a few paces away.
“What’re you two doing on the street?”
“We’re lost; officer,” answers Bronwyn. “We can’t find our hotel.”
“And which hotel would that be?” “
The, uh, Excelsior,” answers Bronwyn, thinking too quickly and giving the name of the only hotel she has ever heard of, unfortunately the most exclusive one in the city. The Guard looks skeptically at the pair facing him: an ugly giant, probably an imbecile by his looks, dressed in a brown suit that is a crazy quilt of mismatched patches and carrying a suspiciously rattling bundle over his shoulder; and a lanky, effeminate kid in ill-fitting hand-me-downs. The Excelsior Hotel, by the warts of Musrum! They must think me an idiot, which, unbeknownst to him, the princess of course does.
“I think you two’d better come along with me,” he says.
“Well, officer, thanks very much, but I don’t think that you have to go to all that trouble. If you’d just point us the right way?”
“The only way you’re going is to the district office.”
“What for?”
“Never you mind. Just do what I say, if you’d rather not be carried there.”
Considering Thud’s vast mass, that is a ridiculous threat, but the anomaly is at the moment overlooks by all three.
“We aren’t doing anything except walking, officer; why don’t you just let us go on our way?”
“Just keep quiet and do what I tell you,” answers the Guard, raising the muzzle of his rifle.
“Well, I don’t think so,” says Bronwyn.
Thud drops his bag with a clattering crash. When the Guard swivels his gun toward the big man, Bronwyn pounces on the black-sleeved arm like a terrier, biting into the wrist as hard as she can. The Guard growls in surprised pain and strikes at her head with his free hand. Bronwyn’s hat goes flying. The Guard goggles at the exposed face and then cries, “Holy Musrum, it’s ...”
His exclamation is cut short by Thud’s fist bursting his nose like a ripe tomato, giving him much more immediate things to think about. The gun falls to the street with a clatter, followed by the Guard, clutching his squashed and squirting nose with both hands.
“Run!” urges Bronwyn and the two bolt down the street. Behind them, the wounded Guard has gets to his knees while creating piercing shrieks with his whistle.
“We’ve had it now,” pants the princess. “The place’ll be swarming with Guards any minute. Musrum damn it, can’t anything go right?”
As she speaks, something like a hornet buzzes past her ear at the same moment a sharp crack sounds behind them.
“They’re shooting at us!” says Thud, unnecessarily.
Bronwyn makes a right-angle turn into a narrow gap separating two buildings. Peering back around the corner, she can see a confused mass at the far end of the street.
“There must be at least a dozen of them coming this way.”
“Which way do we go?”
“How am I supposed to know? We can’t go back out to the street, so let’s see where this takes us.”
The alleyway is barely wide enough for Thud’s broad body and his elbows brush the walls as they hurry through. Bronwyn is praying that the passage doesn’t end in a cul-de-sac. It does and it doesn’t: their way is blocked by a fence about midway in height between Thud’s head and Bronwyn’s. Behind them they can hear the noise of the soldiers as they discover the passageway. Bronwyn is panting, and a cramp in her left side threatens to fold her like a jackknife. She doesn’t think they can be seen from the street, but surely the Guards can hear her gasping breath.
“Come on, quick!” says Thud, making a stirrup of his hands. Bronwyn steps into it, balancing herself with a hand on Thud’s shoulder, and is effortlessly launched over the fence. She goes over with all the grace of a rag doll, landing, fortunately, in a mass of refuse excelsior. She clambers to her feet, covered completely with curly little shavings that made her resemble even more completely the
terrier she had recently impersonated.
“Thud?” she calls through the slats. “How’re you going to get over?”
A good question, since he would never be able to hoist his own enormous bulk over the barrier. She heard the banging and crashing of ashcans and boxes. She peers through the fence, but can see nothing but vague movement. The sounds of their pursuers are getting far too close. Bullets began to whistle overhead, the reports of the guns echoing thunderously in the tunnel-like alley. Two or three times there are little bursts of splintered wood as a bullet smacks into the opposite side of the fence.
“Thud?” she calls again, anxiously.
“Watch out!” comes the answer from over her head. Looking up she sees the big man hovering directly above her like a balloon. She nearly falls over backwards, scuttling out of his way as he drops to the ground with all the grace of a walrus completing a grand jeté. He picks the girl up and set her on her feet, already running.
“I made a stairs,” he puffs, “and climbed up them.”
“That is stupid! The Guards’ll just use them, too!”
“I don’t think so. Look.”
Bronwyn stops and turned. A glow is flickering through the gaps in the fence. Suddenly a pennant of orange flame licks up from its far side.
“That’ll give them pause, all right,” she observes with a kind of awe. “But you’ll set the whole city on fire!”
“I never thought of that,” says Thud, surprised and a little hurt. He feels stupid again.
“Well, who the hell cares?” the princess says, shrugging. “We’ve got ourselves to worry about. And you’re right, you have stopped them for now.”
The lurid light from the blazing barrier lit the backs of the two fugitives until they disappeared into a branching alleyway. They zigzagged at every opportunity. They have long since lost any sense of where they are within the city and only hope now to confuse pursuit as much as possible. They are at least certainly confusing themselves. Finally, the labyrinthine passages opens into a broader street which in turn leads into a small plaza. The weedy rectangle in the center is occupied by a circle of rustic wagons. The scrawny trees among them are festooned with garlands of paper lanterns. Bronwyn recognizes the set-up as belonging to gypsies. They, or ones just like them, have often been invited to perform on the lawns of the palace, or in the parks surrounding any one of the family’s several royal country houses. She has always loved their sweet, sad music and colorful costumes. There are eight or nine of the boxy caravans, their sides bright with gaudily imaginative designs and cabalistic figures. A little corral has been created with rope and stakes in one corner of the plaza and within it a dozen ponies stand sleepily. All but one or two of the lanterns are dark and no light shines from within any of the wagons. It is well past midnight and the music, games and fortune telling are long finished.
