Precisely. This box had been specially prepared for me. I am far too good for them to destroy, even all three, but they did manage to knock me cold for a period. My defensive spells were too much for them to unravel in the short time remaining, so I was carried up here and put inside. It is a bizarre and humiliating experience, and a humbling one. It must have taken them months to construct this cell, but it is tight. Within the inner box not a single spell can be cast, not a single thin strand of magic can penetrate in either direction. I am totally and completely powerless within it. The locks arc elaborate and made of dwarf-forged steel, taking three keys that must be moved together and in certain ways to unlock them.
Joe had to chuckle. Crazy. Here I am in a magic box, and there you are in a nonmagic one. Each of us is helpless where we are, but might do something if our positions were reversed.
You know the picking of complex locks?
No, but nothing mechanical is foolproof, particularly in this world. That's why thieves still do a good business. They're just the local equivalent of truck mechanics.
What mechanics?
Oh, never mind. I— What the hell is that?
From the floor above them came terrible screeches and squawks and a great deal of thumping around. The noise lasted for some minutes while they waited to see what might be coming next. Finally things seemed to quiet down once more, and they heard someone slip down the stairs and land on their floor. Who or what it might be they couldn't see, but the upstairs commotion had started the predictable outcry in all the cells, and so it was impossible to do anything but continue to wait.
A few minutes passed. Then finally someone approached the door of Joe's cell and looked inside. Joe? Is that you?
The big man was thunderstruck. Macore? Is that really you or is this some witch's trick?
Oh, it's really me. I was just holding down the fort, so to speak, when I saw Tiana come out on that broom, captive of one of those harpies. I figured I better get in here before it was too late.
But—how?
Let's just say I have a lot of fine feathered friends. Hmmm... Where's Marge?
Next cell—no, the other way.
Macore went over, looked in, then returned. Fast asleep. Well, we'll wake her up when we have to. Hmph! Spellbound doors. This will be a tough one. Even if I work on the hinges, the damned thing might stay in place.
Wait a minute! In the cell next to me is Count Boquillas. He's in a nonmagic cell, and that means locks. And here we were, just wishing for a good thief!
Macore walked over and examined the outer door. That you in there. Count?
Yes, it is me, the cultured voice of Boquillas responded. Can you do anything?
Let me study the situation for a minute. The outer door's pretty standard. I'll get my small pick and jeweler's hammer out and do some probing. For a while there were only small picking and hammering noises, with all comments and questions shrugged off by the thief as distracting. Finally they heard a decisive, hard metallic tap and then the sound of creaking hinges.
You did it! Boquillas breathed, not really believing it. But—can you take the inner locks?
Again Macore set to his work, at one point actually closing the outer door so he could get rid of the annoying other noises from the prison area. He began attaching a series of small magnets around various points in the door, then maneuvering them with his ear to the inner cell door. Finally he seemed satisfied, and out again came the pick and tiny hammer. There were three hard taps, then two more, then one more. All right—push on the door now, Count.
Boquillas did, and the door swung open. Macore found himself facing a wan, elderly, and very scrawny-looking man with long, matted, white hair and beard and hard lines in his face. He didn't look much like the picture Ruddygore had shown them, except for the eyes, which were the same energetic, almost electric brown eyes of the portrait.
I can't believe you actually picked the locks so easily, Boquillas said wonderingly. If you only knew how long I studied them...
Oh, it's a talent, just as you have talents, the little thief responded modestly. However, a thorough knowledge of all kinds of lock mechanisms, years of on-and-off practicing on them, and the right tools help. Come on—let's free the other two.
Boquillas nodded and made his way out to the hall. At this point, he stretched and seemed to gain in both strength and stature as Macore watched him. Before the thief's startled eyes, the frame filled out and both face and form appeared to grow younger. Finally all that was left of the old man he had freed was the hair and beard; the rest was unquestionably the Count Boquillas of the portrait, his face full of determined self-confidence. He walked to Joe's cell, looked at the door, chuckled, then began a series of tracing motions with his left index finger. The door creaked and then opened a trifle. Joe went over to it, pushed it, and entered the hall. You don't know how glad. I am to meet you, Count, he said sincerely.
Boquillas nodded, then walked down to the next cell. Humph! The old girl's getting sloppy. Same damned simple spell. Again the finger traced and again the door unlocked itself.
Marge was still fast asleep, but it was a shock to see her. Without those grand wings, she looked very frail and childlike.
Boquillas stepped inside. A defrocked Kauri. Amazing.
Can you restore her? Joe asked hopefully.
Certainly, but it will take time. This is a far more complex spell; if I don't get it right, she'll wind up worse than she is now. Best I simply add something, which is easy, and take care of the restoration later. Again a few finger gestures. This will give her a jolt of energy to get going and also rearrange her time sense and eyes to daylight. For the moment, I think we'd best just get the hell out of here. I assume Ruddygore is coming?
Yeah, Macore told him, but it won't be quick. These communicators don't have much of a range, so the message is going north by eagle.
Then I don't think we dare wait for him. I couldn't protect both of you people, even though I have no worries about myself any more. I think, also, that I want to go to some place that is mine and get myself back in shape before going on with this. Thief, can you handle Ruddygore's amenities?
Sure. No problem. But where will you go? And how?
Up. Up and over, the same way you came in.
But eagles can't carry you!
No, not eagles. Me. As much as I would like to stick around for the showdown for personal reasons, these two need me to get clear not only of the tower but of Witchwood. We'll go to my retreat on Wolf Island. When Ruddygore is finished here, send one of your eagles to tell us the news, and we can plan from there. Agreed?
Macore nodded. Sounds fair to me. Oh—Marge is waking up.
She turned and groaned, then opened her eyes and looked around, puzzled. Joe? Macore? Am I dreaming?
Quickly things were explained to her. With Joe carefully holding the door open wide so that she would not contact iron, she walked out and glanced around. Now what?
To the top! Boquillas said, and they started upstairs.
The rookeries and aviary inside the top level looked like the remnants of a war zone. There were dead birds, feathers, and blood all over the place. The boys were a little messy, Macore told them.
A ladder and trapdoor brought them to the top of the tower and outside into the midday sun. Marge was startled. It's been a long time since I could look normally at a day like this.
Macore turned and looked upward, then made a series of motions with his arms. I just told them everything was fine.
Boquillas nodded. Good. Let's waste no more time. Stand back against the far wall, all of you.
They did as instructed and watched as the sorcerer went to the very edge of the tower's top, then got up on the narrow ledge. He seemed in intense concentration; then he stretched out his arms, and they all gasped as he apparently plunged off the cornice.
But Boquillas did not fall. Instead, rising back up to the top was an enormous bird, the largest and perhaps the ugliest any of th
em had ever seen. It had to weigh close to a ton, and it seemed impossible that such a thing could fly. It landed back on the roof, completely blotting out the sky and giving them little room to move. Get on my back, Boquillas' voice came from the giant, misshapen beak. I will carry you all to safety. Be quick. A giant roc is bound to cause a great deal of attention below.
They needed no urging, but it was scary getting up on that broad back. They finally did, though. Now just hold on and do not panic, Boquillas told them. Grab one another around the waist and dig in hard with your feet—quickly!
They followed his instructions and then felt a tremendous jolt and bounce. They were airborne.
Boquillas settled down and hovered unnaturally at treetop level. Hop off now, thief. You should be able to make your way down from here.
Macore let loose and looked nervously at the top limbs. Yeah, if I don't break my fool neck. Well, here goes. He slid off and managed to grab onto a branch that held, finally pulling himself in. The roc then flew away, gaining altitude and speed as it went. Soon they were high in the warm air and rapidly heading southwest.
Over to the right, there is Morikay. Boquillas told his passengers. You can see the great castle directly in the center of town, rising on top of the mesa. They looked and saw a large city spread out along the banks of a river at the junction of the main river branch with what had to be the Zhafqua. The land was quite level; but in the center of the densely populated area, a single reddish hill with a flat top stuck out, and atop it was Castle Morikay.
It looks like Disneyland, Joe commented. He seemed suddenly struck by other, darker thoughts. Tiana's in that thing somewhere.
Marge gave him a squeeze. We'll get her out. Don't worry about that. First things first.
He nodded, but was mostly silent for the rest of the journey.
He had no idea of the speed they were making, but it was in the best tradition of jet airplanes, despite the heavy breeze and lack of comforts. In only a couple of hours the flat land gave way to what appeared to be a seacoast. This was Lake Ktahr, and soon they could see two large islands. The roc
banked toward the southernmost of these, a heavily forested wilderness. Near the southern end, though, on a bluff, they could see Boquillas' retreat—a castlelike structure that was not large as castles went but looked very much the part. Boquillas descended toward it, landing just outside the low castle walls.
Joe and Marge slid off quickly, then stood back as the giant bird reared up, stretched out its massive wings, and seemed to dissolve and shrink into human form once more. Soon only the Count himself stood there, looking much as he had looked back at the Dark Tower. He smiled and nodded, then came over to them. For a moment he examined them with a critical eye, then noted Marge's golden necklace and Joe's lone earring. I assume that these hold the communicators the thief spoke about.
Joe nodded. So we're told.
Boquillas reached out and took the necklace in two fingers, then pulled. It was still intact, impossibly so, as if it had come right through Marge's neck, but it was off. With a quick motion, he reached up and pulled on Joe's earring as well. It, too, came off. Hey! What? Joe managed, but Boquillas silenced him with a nonmagical gesture, holding up his hand.
A thousand pardons for this, but, you see, although I trust you just fine, I can not really trust Ruddygore. These will be put in a safe place and returned to you, I promise, when you're ready to leave the retreat. I simply can not afford to have you even inadvertently invite him in without my permission and restrictions. You do understand, I hope.
They didn't really like it, but they had little choice, and it did seem reasonable. Both, though, remembered that Ruddygore had not really trusted Boquillas, even though the two were on good terms with each other. No top sorcerer ever could fully trust another of at least equal and possibly superior powers.
Boquillas turned, said, Follow me now, and walked up to a small gate which opened inward as he approached. There had been no hue and cry at their arrival—in fact, the place looked deserted—but Boquillas wasn't in need of a lot of servants. He had a large place in the City-State of Marahbar for that, after all. This was his place and his alone.
They entered the courtyard, which looked somewhat overgrown and unused, and headed for the small castle's main door. Marge glanced down at the soft earth and gasped, which caused the other two to stop and turn in puzzlement. What's the matter? Joe asked her.
Look at the prints I'm making in this wet ground! I'm practically sinking in it!
That is Esmerada's spell, or part of it, the sorcerer explained to her. Kauri normal construction is far less dense than that of humans or even most other fairies. The spell is actually a transmuter, altering the atomic structure so that you are made up of much heavier stuff. Don't let it trouble you. I will examine it in more detail tonight and see about unraveling it. Esmerada is quite good, though, at that son of thing. We may have to wait until Ruddygore does her in before the spell is loosened enough to be worked on. Still and all, it's temporary. Come in and let's get cleaned up and have a decent meal.
They entered. As Boquillas went along the dark castle halls, torches burst spontaneously into light, and even fireplaces began to roar. Marge recalled Ruddygore's comment that Boquillas had a penchant for cheap magic and theatrics. She wondered who was expected to cook this meal and how fresh the food would be. That startled her, too—thoughts of a meal. She was starting to get hungry for real food, she realized, although she hadn't needed to eat since plunging into that molten pit back in Mohr Jerahl.
Boquillas led them to a combination dining hall and study, the walls of which were lined with copies of the Books of Rules and other volumes. He stopped by one wall briefly, then took them up a flight of stone stairs to a second floor area.
There were only two rooms and a large alcove upstairs. The Count led them to the far room and opened the door. It was a spacious bedroom, with thick carpeting on the floor and carpets of various designs hung on the walls as well. A window looked out on the lake, providing a nice view, once the thick shutters were opened.
Things are a trifle dusty, the Count said apologetically, but I'm afraid it's been a while since anyone was here. The small door over there leads to an operable shower and toilet,
which you share with my own room. I have begun the fire under the cistern above, so there should be hot water. Soap, shampoo, and all the amenities are there as well, and I will allow you some time to clean yourselves up. A bit of conjuring has permitted me to take a look at you and shape some appropriate clothing, which you'll find in the chest over there. When you're washed, dressed, and relaxed, join me downstairs in the main hall, and we will eat and talk.
With that the Count left them alone. Marge looked up at Joe. What do you make of all this?
He shrugged. I don't know, but it's a damn sight better than a cell in that witch's tower. I do know, though, that I'm in bad need of a cleanup, a good meal, and a nice, long sleep.
I'll go for that, she agreed.
The shower, which used a rooftop container that apparently caught rain and held it, was ingenious and practical. There was even hot and cold running water, from two separate tanks, although it took a lot of experimentation to get the balance right. The soap was the heavy lard soap so common to Husaquahr, but there was also a liquid soap that made a good shampoo, and both Joe and Marge used it.
The climate here was tropical but damp, and the stone of the castle made things a bit chillier than they normally would have been.
The clothing Boquillas had conjured up for them had to conform to the Rules on such things, of course, so Joe found a clean breechclout and a pair of well-made sandals for himself. Marge, who had not been able to wear clothing since getting her wings, now could once again and found that Boquillas had interesting tastes. He had provided a loose slit skirt of some satiny yellow material that hung on her hips and a halter top of the same material, as well as a pair of matching, open topped, high-heeled shoes that gave her a c
ouple of inches in height but also quite a wiggle to her walk, due not only to the shoes themselves but also to the excess weight they had to bear.
When Marge had finished dressing, she paraded in front of Joe and asked, Well? How do I look?
Beautiful. I'm turned on already.
She laughed. At least I come up to your thick neck now.
She looked at him playfully. Sir, may I have your arm?
Delighted, he responded, and they went out and down to the main hall.
As far as they knew, there were only the three of them in the castle or on the whole island, yet the table was set with fancy tableware and covered tureens and dishes. Boquillas, sitting in a high-backed chair trimmed with gold, rose and greeted them with a smile, closing a book he'd been consulting. It looked very much like one of the volumes of Rules, but since neither could read the language, they couldn't tell which volume it might be.
You look wonderful, he told them. Please be seated.
You look pretty good yourself, Joe replied, and it was true. Gone were the last vestiges of the scrawny, bearded prisoner of the Dark Tower. Boquillas wore the fine clothes of a civilized gentleman, reminding Marge, at least, of some Spanish don, complete with ruffled shirt. His beard had darkened to black with only a fleck or two of gray here and there, and his hair, now washed, trimmed, and combed, matched that coloration. On each hand he wore several large golden rings in which were set precious stones.
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