Somewhere in the infinity of unreality a dice-box rattled: "Three sixes."
It rattled again: "Three sixes!"
And again: "Three sixes!"
"Well, I'll be damned!" exclaimed the demon.
"You already are," observed the angel.
"Just a figure of speech!" retorted the demon testily. He shook the dice-box again with malignant violence: "Three sixes!"
"This could go on for some time," sighed the angel. "Three sixes," he added
wearily.
"You're right," agreed the demon, shaking the box with a flourish and then
letting the dice drop out slowly one by one: "A very - six - long - six -
time - six!"
"It's a good job Heaven prepares you for long periods of excruciating boredom
- three sixes."
"Isn't this the point where one of us says, 'How did it all begin?' "asked
the demon. "Three sixes!"
"Why? Three sixes."
"Well, then we can have a wobbly fade into past reality to replay events
from the beginning - three sixes."
"But we know how it all began (three sixes): with the death of King
what's-his-name."
There was a wobbly fade into past reality.
CHAPTER 1
"The king is dead!"
"No, he's not!"
"Yes, he is!"
"No he's not!"
The doctor and the magician glared at each other across the richly canopied
bed on which lay the body of their unfortunate monarch.
"He's dead, I tell you!" snarled the doctor, his plump face turning a dangerous
shade of puce.
"Prove it!" challenged Mirdalph the magician. The expression on his lean,
hawklike features suggested that no proof the doctor could offer would be
sufficient.
The rest of the court, crammed into the royal bedchamber to witness the last
moments of King Hackard Erraflynn III, were frozen in horrified silence.
"His heart's stopped beating!" announced Doctor Gudgeon triumphantly.
"Pooh!" snorted Mirdalph dismissively.
"He's stopped breathing! Look - a feather under his nose doesn't move."
"Pooh! Pooh!" snorted Mirdalph, and blew the feather away.
"Well, what more do you want?"
"What about his spirit?"
"Spirit?" Doctor Gudgeon's several chins quivered in disbelief.
"Yes. His spirit. It's still there - in the body!"
"Metaphysical hogwash!" snarled the doctor. "The king is dead - he died of
a surfeit - and that's what I shall put on the death certificate!"
"Suit yourself," said the magician, "but I tell you he's not finished yet!"
***
"Mummy, how can you die of sore feet?"
Margaret, Duchess of Yeoveld, sighed and glanced irritably down at her younger
son, Clarence, who was trotting breathlessly beside her away from the royal
bedchamber.
"Not sore feet - a surfeit!" she snapped. She was a tall, forbidding woman
in her early thirties, with a pale skin, raven black hair and penetrating,
violet eyes that no-one could look into for very long without feeling decidedly
uncomfortable.
"What's a surfeit?" persisted Clarence.
"It's what happens when you have too much wine - and things!" said the duchess,
and increased her pace along the corridor so that Clarence fell behind to
join his older brother, Erryl. Both the boys had the curly, red hair and
blue eyes which characterised members of the Erraflynn family.
"What's things?" said Clarence.
Erryl just grinned and winked at Clarence. He was thirteen years old, but
looked more like fifteen.
"Mummy!"
"What?"
"Will daddy die of a surfeit?"
"I expect so," said the duchess venomously.
Daddy was Toppard Erraflynn, Duke of Yeoveld, and brother to the late King
Hackard Erraflynn III.
Clarence glanced at his brother. "Will Erryl die of a surfeit?"
Margaret ignored him.
"Will I die of a surfeit?"
"Stop asking silly questions!"
Clarence was enjoying the new word too much to heed the tone of his mother's
voice.
"Surfeit! Sore feet! Surfeit! Sore feet!" he chanted.
The duchess stopped and turned in a swirl of purple velvet to slap the child
across the face: "Shut up, you irritating little brat!"
Clarence howled, but when his mother raised her hand to strike him again
he quickly subsided into silent grizzling.
As they resumed their journey a young serving wench stepped hastily aside
and curtseyed. Erryl turned an ingenuous smile on her as they passed, then
whispered to his brother, "She's got big booboos!"
Clarence stopped grizzling.
"Mummy, what's booboos?"
***
"The king is dead," said Sir Crispin Urswick sadly. "Long live the king."
"Poor little lamb," sighed Nanny Comfrey.
They were gazing down at King Deramo IV, a fifteen-month-old baby who was
gurgling happily in his cot, sublimely unaware of the responsibilities which
had passed to him with the death of his royal father.
"I suppose his Uncle Toppard will be Lord Protector?" mused Nanny.
Sir Crispin nodded. He was a stockily-built soldier with close-cropped, brown
hair and a bristling moustache. As Royal Master of Arms he was only really
happy in the armoury or the exercise yard, but recently he had found himself
paying more than occasional visits to the royal nursery; there to be indulged
with tea and fairy cakes by a pinkly beaming Nanny Comfrey.
"You haven't seen King Hackard's ghost, have you?" asked a sonorous voice
behind them. They turned to see Mirdalph entering the chamber. The magician
was an imposing figure with his hawklike face, long, white beard and flowing,
green robes covered with gold symbols and circles.
"Well?" he said impatiently as Sir Crispin and Nanny stood open-mouthed.
"Er... no... I... um... don't think so... what?" Sir Crispin looked enquiringly
at Nanny who shook her head.
"Hmmm!" The magician's eyes drifted thoughtfully towards the window where
the setting sun was still visible above the horizon.
"Were you... um... expecting him - it... what?" asked Sir Crispin at the
end of a long silence.
"Who?"
"Er... King Hackard's... Ghost?"
"Possibly."
"But he's dead!... Isn't he?" ventured Nanny.
"So they say," murmured the magician darkly. "That's why I'm expecting his
ghost."
Nanny Comfrey picked up the baby King Deramo and held him protectively to
her amply-rounded bosom. "Any ghost that comes in here has got me to reckon
with!" she proclaimed. And no-one doubted who would get the better of such
an encounter.
***
Clarence had been sent to bed with stinging ears and no supper. His mother
was now pacing furiously up and down the Duke of Yeoveld's private chamber,
while Erryl was curled up on a window seat watching the sun go down and dreaming
of the serving wench with the big booboos.
"Where can he have got to this time?" exclaimed the duchess, no longer able
to contain her fury.
"Father, you mean?" Said Erryl, startled out of his not-so-innocent daydream.
"Of course!" snapped his mother. "The King dies, and where is the Lord Protector?
Out getting drunk in some filthy tavern!"
"Shall I go and look for him?" volunteered Erryl, his apparently innocent
blue eyes lighting up at the thought of getting out into the city at dusk.
"Certainly not! The streets of Middenburg are no place for a royal prince
- especially at night!"
"But father goes there often!"
Margaret ignored him. "Go and fetch Gilbert. Tell him to come and light the
candles. Then he can go and look for your father."
Erryl had learnt never to argue with his mother when she was in this mood,
so he slipped off the window seat and went in search of Gilbert Rampion,
his father's squire.
The Duke of Yeoveld's rooms were at the top of the west wing of the castle.
Erryl knew that he would probably find Gilbert somewhere in the region of
the kitchens, which were at the bottom of the east wing.
He started running along the corridor - he never walked anywhere if he could
run - and soon caught up with a thin, black-haired young man who was moving
silently in the same direction.
"Hi, Edmund," said Erryl cheerily, falling in beside the young man.
Edmund turned a thin, pale face and hypnotic, violet eyes towards Erryl,
smiled a thin, humourless smile, and said in a thin, whispery voice, "Good
evening, cousin."
Edmund was the son of the Duchess of Yeoveld's sister. He was eighteen years
old and had recently been knighted: Sir Edmund Gargrave was his full title.
"How are the dungeons?" asked Erryl conversationally.
"Fine," replied Edmund. When he was knighted he had been appointed Dungeonmaster.
This was generally regarded as a purely nominal position, but Edmund seemed
to be taking it more seriously than most of his predecessors.
"Found any skeletons?" asked Erryl.
"A few."
"Great! You'll have to show them to me sometime. I'm going this way. See
you!" Erryl zoomed off down a narrow staircase at the side of the corridor.
Edmund paused for a second to stare after his cousin, his violet eyes hooded
and impassive. Then he resumed his own silent way towards the dungeons.
Erryl leapt down the last few steps outside the kitchen shouting, "Gilbert!"
at the top of his voice, and skidded to an abrupt halt.
Pressed against a pillar by the kitchen door was the serving wench with the
big booboos. Pressed against the serving wench was Gilbert Rampion.
"Oh! - er - sorry!" Said Erryl in embarrassment.
"No problem," said Gilbert, unmoved by the interruption to his activities.
"It's just that mother wants you - um - now. She wants you to light the candles
and then - er - go and look for father."
"No problem," repeated Gilbert. He was a handsome, well-built, blond youth
of sixteen, with sparkling, grey eyes and a ready smile. Captain of the Squire
School and soon to be knighted, he was worshipped by all the young men in
the castle, and especially by Erryl.
He extricated his hands from the serving wench's clothing, straightened his
tunic, turned to Erryl, smiled and said, "Keep her warm till I get back."
Then he bounded up the stairs and disappeared into the gathering gloom of
the castle.
Erryl swallowed hard, looked at the dishevelled wench and smiled his ingenuous
smile. The wench arranged herself more comfortably against the pillar and
smiled back.
***
The orange glow from the setting sun burnished the armour and weapons ranged
round the castle armoury and cast a warm glow over the two figures sitting
on a high-backed bench by the table which occupied the centre of the room.
Sir Crisin Urswick was sharing a cask of ale with Mirdalph, although the
Master of Arms had drunk most of the cask's contents without any help from
the magician.
He lowered his tankard after quaffing another large draught and said for
the third time, "Was a good King - old Hackard!"
There was a long pause.
"He was certainly very successful in battle," conceded Mirdalph.
"The best!" exclaimed Sir Crispin, and quaffed again.
Mirdalph knew better than to contradict the Master of Arms over matters
concerning the royal family. Sir Crispin was fiercely loyal and, although
very clear-sighted about most things, he was totally blind to any faults
the Erraflynns might possess.
There was another long pause, then Sir Crispin squinted towards the shadowy
passage beyond the open door.
"Who's there? Come on! Show yourself!"
A thin, pale young man with black hair materialised silently from the shadows
and came to stand by the table. It was Sir Edmund Gargrave, the
recently-appointed Dungeonmaster.
"Oh! It's you. Sit down. Have a quaff of ale - what?
"I was on my way to the dungeons to check ..."
"Never mind that now!" boomed Sir Crispin. "Drink to the passing of old Hackard."
"Assuming he really has passed," muttered the magician to himself.
"Was a good king - old Hackard! Here, get this down you. Warm that thin blood
of yours - what?"
Edmund reluctantly accepted the proffered tankard and sat down as far as
possible from the fading sunlight, his eyes hooded under half-closed lids.
"Good old Hackard! Could unseam a fellow in full armour from the nave to
the chops with one blow!"
Edmund and Mirdalph resigned themselves to a long evening of reminiscences
about their late lamented monarch.
***
"Let's go somewhere a bit more private," suggested the serving wench.
Erryl nodded enthusiastically and his smile broadened into a face-splitting
grin.
***
When Gilbert had finished lighting the candles for the Duchess of Yeoveld
he set out in search of Duke Toppard.
The sun was just sinking below the horizon as he crossed the drawbridge into
the open square before the castle. Everywhere was bathed in the sunset's
rosy afterglow, which gave a romantic but superficial charm to the timbered
houses and shops crowded in a chaotic jumble round the towering fortress.
Gilbert had been sent to find his master on a number of occasions in the
past, so he had a pretty good idea where the duke would be. He turned right
and followed the outer wall of the castle until he came to the river which
flowed past its south face.
To say the the River Knapwell flowed was, perhaps, something of an exaggeration.
It tended at this point in its progress to crawl rather sluggishly, bearing
all the rubbish, filth, sewage and general detritus of the city. Across it
stretched the Middenburgh Bridge, supported by many solid, stone arches.
Shops and houses crowded crazily along both sides of its length, many leaning
out at impossible angles over the turbid waters of the river.
Gilbert hurried across the bridge to the south side of the city which was
known as the Spittalls. This was the most disreputable area of Middenburgh:
crowded with taverns and pawn-shops and brothels and other buildings of doubtful
reputation housing unknown and unspeakable horrors - or delights, depending
on your point of view, or how much you were prepared to pay.
Gilbert was unworried by the Spittalls' reputation. He was convinced that
his expertise with sword and dagger (for both of which he had gained an A+
and distinction at Squire School) would protect him from danger.
Suddenly a small, grubby figure cannoned into him and sent him sprawling.
"Sorry, your lordship," said a skinny, rat-faced boy with a mop of ragged,
rat-brown hair.
"No problem," said Gilbert, winded but otherwise unhurt. Knowing the ways
of the Spittalls he reached inside his tunic to check that his purse was
still there.
It was not.
The rat-faced child was already scuttling away through the gathering crowd.
"Stop, thief!" yelled Gilbert, and hurtled after the boy.
Hoots and jeers arose from many of the onlookers, who were as filthy and
ragged as the thief; but some joined the chase - more in hopes of the
entertainment it might provide than with any wish to help Gilbert.
The thief had darted down a steep and narrow alley which led to the river.
Gilbert followed, his longer legs and much-admired fitness giving him a distinct
advantage over the puny child. The boy reached the narrow wharf by the river
and made to turn under the bridge. Gilbert flung himself forwards and grasped
the ragged tunic.
The diminutive thief struggled furiously for a few seconds, then went limp
in Gilbert's grasp. The crowd which had followed them gathered in an expectant
semi-circle round the pair, who were standing close to the edge of the river.
Gilbert turned the boy to face him, and said, "Come on, now, give it back."
"Give what back?" asked the child, his rodent eyes darting round in search
of escape.
"My purse."
"Oh! It's your purse, is it?"
The boy started to reach inside his ragged tunic, and Gilbert relaxed his
grip.
That was a mistake.
The boy's knee suddenly came up with excruciating force betwen Gilbert's
legs. The crowd roared with laughter as the young squire collapsed groaning,
and the thief turned to make good his escape. But he was too near the edge
of the wharf. With a startled cry the child tumbled into the black waters
of the Knapwell and disappeared.
The crowd surged to the edge of the river, but could see nothing beyond the
usual flotsam and jetsam.
"We'll not see him again," opined a fat and reeking fishwife to her neighbour.
"True," agreed the other, an equally fat and ragged woman with no teeth.
"The currentsh'll have him. We'll not shee him again."
The crowd drifted away about its own affairs, completely ignoring the still
agonised Gilbert.
It was some time before the pain subsided enough for the squire to struggle
to his feet. There was no sign of life in the river, so he resigned himself
to the loss of his purse and continued rather stiffly through the deepening
twilight on his errand to find Duke Toppard.
***
"Are you sure you've never done this before?"asked the serving wench.
Erryl shook his head and continued to grin.
***
"Was a good king - old Hackard."
Mirdalph's eyes were closed and he appeared to be asleep, but Edmund was
still nodding politely at Sir Crispin's reminiscences.
"Remember when he smote the sledded Polacks on the ice?"
Edmund was about to nod again, but then he looked puzzled and shook his head.
"Bit before your time, I suppose - what?"
"What's a sledded Polack?"
"It's a sort of aboni-nible wossit!"
"It's a species of large, hairy, white ape," said Mirdalph, his eyes still
firmly closed. "It lives in the Ice Regions and travels on sledges. It's
really quite advanced - for an ape."
"Thassa fella!" exclaimed Sir Crispin. He opened his mouth, took a deep breath
as if to impart something of enormous consequence, then snapped his mouth
shut again. His eyes glazed over and he toppled slowly forwards onto the
table, coming to rest with a dull thud.
"We'd better put him to bed," sighed Mirdalph.
***
The rat-faced boy who had stolen Gilbert's purse was a good swimmer. As soon
as he hit the murky river he turned like a fish and struck out underwater.
He swam as far away from the wharf as he could before coming up for air.
Although the Knapwell seemed slow and sluggish on the surface, there were
fast and treacherous currents which had dragged many unfortunate victims
to their deaths. The boy had only time for a few quick gulps of air before
he found himself in the grip of one of these currents.
He was in the middle of the river, and was being sucked inexorably towards
the towering walls of the castle on the further bank. He tried to strike
out against the current, but without success - it seemed that he would be
smashed to a pulp against the grim stonework.
At the very last moment, while he was still threshing helplessly against
the force of the water, he was dragged under the surface and through a tunnel
into the bowels of the castle. He was bounced helplessly along the rough
walls like a piece of flotsam, and when he tried to reach the surface for
air he found only the roof of the tunnel.
His lungs were nearly bursting when he was finally spewed up to the surface
of a huge, circular pool in a dark and echoing chamber. He grabbed at the
slime-covered edge to prevent himself being sucked under again, for the water
flowed on through the depths of the castle to emerge from another tunnel
further down the river.
The boy painfully heaved his battered body out of the water to lie gasping
on the dank floor. Decay and death were heavy in the cold air which he sucked
into his aching lungs, but he hardly noticed as he drifted into unconsciousness.
***
"The Pied Newt" was the most disreputable tavern in the most disreputable
district of the Spittalls. Gilbert Rampion could hear it and smell it from
the end of the narrow, dark alley where it was the building furthest from
the main street.
Gilbert approached it with more than usual caution. He had early learned
of its reputation for attracting the blackest blackguards, cut-throats,
highwaymen, pirates and assassins that Middenburg could muster, but he had
always relied on his training at Squire School to keep him safe. After the
episode with the rat-faced purse-thief he was not so sure. The rules here
- if there were any - were different from those he had been taught.
He reached the battered, wooden door in the peeling, windowless wall which
was the unenticing front of the tavern. A grimy lantern illuminated the
crudely-painted sign of "The Pied Newt". The noise from within was deafening.
Gilbert pushed open the creaking door and there was complete silence. Every
head in the murky, smoke-filled room turned towards him. This ritual was
observed every time the door of "The Pied Newt" opened after a certain hour.
As soon as the occupants saw that the newcomer presented no threat, they
looked away to their own affairs and the deafening din was instantly resumed.
Gilbert battled his way throught the seething mass of stinking bodies to
the bar. Alf, the barman, was a huge, bristly individual with a face that
looked as if it had been run over by a whole army of sledded Polacks. At
the moment he had two fingers up the nostrils of a customer who had foolishly
argued about his change. He caught a glimpse of Gilbert and jerked his head
towards a distant corner before contnuing with his discussion about the
mathematical probability of the customer getting out of the tavern with his
face intact.
Duke Toppard Erraflynn of Yeoveld was propped in the corner between two
overweight ladies of doubtful youth and even more doubtful reputation. They
sported too much makeup, too many bedraggled feathers, and had tassels dangling
from the more prominent parts of their bulging bodies.
The duke himself was a large, bear-like man with the blue eyes and the red,
curly hair and beard of the Erraflynns. He had a stentorian voice which he
was exercising at the moment by lustily singing:
"Oh, you can't put a tassel on a thin tart's tits
If she hasn't got a pound of dumplings!"
When he saw his squire his face split into a dazzling grin and he bellowed,
"Gilbert! Come and join us!" The duke was never one to observe the distinctions
usually enforced by social convention.
Gilbert politely ignored the invitation and said, "Sir, the duchess has sent
..."
Both the overweight ladies screamed with raucous laughter and made
none-too-polite comments about the duke's relationship with his wife.
"Sir, it's your brother, the King ..."
"Old Hackard? What's the matter with him?"
"Sir, he's dead."
"Dead?"
"Yes, sir. The king is dead."
The news instantly spread throughout the tavern: "The king is dead!" - "The
king?" - "Dead!" And was out into the streets before Toppard had finally
grasped the significance of what he had just been told. When he did, he
immediately lapsed into maudlin sentimentality along the lines of, "Was a
good king - old Hackard!"
Gilbert patiently guided him out of the tavern and through the streets to
the castle.
***
The Duke's eldest son, Erryl, was still grinning when he crawled exhausted
into the bed which he shared with his brother.
Clarence half woke up and moaned, "Where've you been?"
"Getting sonme rumply-bumply," grinned Erryl.
"What's rumply-bump ...?" But Clarence was asleep again before he could finish
the question.
***
King Hackard Erraflynn III was dead. Everyone said so, and everyone believed
so. Everyone, that is, except Mirdalph. The magician seemed to materialise
in the shadows by the closed doors of the otherwise empty hall in which the
king's body had been laid out on a black-draped bier.
The king was dressed in full armour, as befitted his warlike nature, and
his huge sword was clasped to his breastplate by mailed hands. Four candles
at the four corners of the bier cast an eerie, flickering light on the armoured
corpse.
The magician moved slowly to stand in the pool of light by the bier. He looked
for a long time in silence at the dead monarch's pale face.
"Well?" he said at last, as if addressing an errant child, "are you going
to keep me waiting here all night?"
There was no response.
"What do you want?"
Still no response.
"Come on: I know you're still in there - somewhere!"
A pale green, phosphorescent glow began to suffuse the features of the dead
king, and his dead eyes suddenly snapped wide open.
Mirdalph sighed: "Let's stop wasting time on cheap theatricals, shall we?"
There was a slow, painful, metallic creaking sound. The corpse's mailed hand
reached up to grasp the front of Mirdalph's gown and pull him closer to the
glowing face.
"Mark me!" intoned the phosphorescent lips, with a voice that echoed from
somewhere far away.
"Oh, do get on with it!" snapped Mirdalph irritably.
"My hour is almost come when I to sulphurous and tormenting flames must render
up myself!"
"I'm not surprised - after the life you've led!"
"List, list, oh list!"
"I am listening! And you don't have to hang on to me like grim - " Mirdalph
paused for a second, then shrugged and finished, " - death!"
"If ever thou didst my son Deramo love - "
Mirdalph stopped trying to prize his gown free from the mailed fist and listened
more attentively.
" - prevent his foul and most unnatural murder!"
Mirdalph looked sharply at the dead, staring eyes. "Are you quite sure about
this?" he asked.
The corpse let out a deep, agonised groan which echoed round the dark chamber.
"Murder most foul, strange and unnatural!"
"All right," said Mirdalph, "you don't have to overdo it! You sound like
something out of a third-rate melodrama. Why can't you talk normally?"
The dead king just groaned horribly.
Mirdalph sighed and said. "All right, if you must do it the hard way: when
is this murder supposed to take place?"
"When next the moon is full!"
"That's - let me see - three nights from now. And what, exactly, do you expect
me to do about it?"
"The prince from out the castle you must steal!"
"That's very easy for you to say, but how do you expect me to - ?"
"Swear!" boomed the voice, and the mailed hand pulled Mirdalph closer to
the glowing, green face.
"Oh, very well - I swear!"
"Swear by my sword!"
"Really! Aren't you taking things a bit - ?"
"Upon my sword!" The other mailed hand creaked laboriously up to grasp Mirdalph's
wrist and pull his hand down onto the hilt of the sword.
"That hurts!" complained the magician.
"Swear!"
"Oh, if you insist! I swear - by your sword, for all the difference that
will make - that I will take Prince Deramo into hiding before the next full
moon rises, now will you please let go of me before you break my wrist!"
"You have sworn it!" boomed the voice of the dead king. "Adieu, adieu, adieu!"
The voice was fading: "Remember meeeeee!"
"I'm hardly likely to forget this in a hurry, am I?" said Mirdalph, still
held uncomfortably in the corpse's grasp.
The mailed hands released the magician, the green glow faded from the face
and the dead eyes snapped shut. As they did so a terrifying groan reverberated
down through the castle and beyond to the very depths of Hell.
***
The rat-faced boy came back to consciousness with a start. What was that
terrible groaning sound - like a soul in torment? He blinked at the flames
which were dancing in front of his eyes and thought that he had drowned and
was in hell.
The groan faded away, but the flames remained. The boy blinked again and
realised that he was looking at a flaming torch. It was held by an enormous
hand with fingers like giant, grey-white sausages. The hand was attached
to an equally oversized and unbelievably muscular arm which held the torch
above a heaving, grey mountain of a body. For a moment the boy thought the
body had no head, until he realised that the neck projected forwards from
a gnarled, rounded hump, so that the head was below the level of the shoulders.
The giant face that peered curiously at him was the ugliest thing the boy
had ever seen. The monster had no hair at all. One watery, pink eye peered
out from folds of grey-white flesh, while the other eye seemed to have slipped
halfway down the cheek like the eye in a melting waxwork. Thick, drooling
lips surrounded a cavern of black, broken teeth, and strange, gurgling sounds
issued from somewhere in the creature's throat.
The boy stared in frozen terror at the gurgling creature, convinced that he
was facing a demon in Hell.
"What's going on here?" Asked a thin but penetrating whisper from the top
of a flight of stone steps. A second torch had appeared, carried by a thin,
dark-haired young man with hypnotic, violet eyes. Sir Edmund Gargrave quickly
descended the stairs and came to stand by the now obsequiously gurgling monster.
Edmund regarded the boy critically for a moment, then said in his thin, whispery
voice, "Where did you come from?"
"I ... I ... Oh, please, your lordship - don't let him do anything to me!"
The boy scrambled to his knees before the young dungeonmaster.
Edmund glanced at the monster and said sharply. "Bogbean, go and stand at
the foot of the stairs!"
Bogbean gurgled and nodded and limped away with a painfully lopsided gait.
"Now, who are you?" demanded Edmund, turning back to the boy. "You're all
wet!"
"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. I'm Richard Ratlett, sir."
"I see. Ratlett. Quite appropriate from the look of you. Well, Ratlett, and
how did you get in here?"
Ratlett looked towards the pool of swirling, black water in the centre of
the chamber. He was still alive, after all.
"Interesting," commented Edmund. "Many have left the castle throught the
Deathpool, but you must be the first to enter that way. Congratulations!"
He smiled his thin smile. "The question is: what are we going to do with
you now you are here?"
His gaze wandered vaguely round the various manacles, braziers, racks, spiked
wheels, vices and other vicious instruments of torture which were darkly
visible in the flickering torchlight.
Ratlett kept very quiet, sensing that the wrong word at this point could
have very unpleasant consequences for him.
The dungeonmaster's eyes returned to the bedraggled urchin. "You wouldn't
like a job, would you? We happen to have a vacancy at the moment - for a
junior jailer and apprentice torturer."
The boy knew how he was expected to respond: "Oh, yes, your lordship! Thank
you, your lordship! I'd love to, your lordship!"
"Good." Edmund beckoned the monster who obediently shambled back to him.
"Bogbean, this is your new apprentice. His name is Ratlett, try not to lose
him - or damage him."
Ratlett gulped.
Edmund smiled: "Oh, don't worry. Bogbean is the gentlest of souls - except
when doing his duty." He glanced again at the instruments of torture. "He's
very good at that!" His smile faded. "If you don't like the work, you can
always leave." His eyes flickered towards the Deathpool.
"No, sir, your lordship!" Exclaimed Ratlett with the utmost conviction. "I'd
love to do it, sir! Really I would, your lordship!"
"Good," whispered Edmund. "Then that's all settled. Bogbean will show you
what to do and where to go, won't you, Bogbean?"
The monster gurgled and nodded enthusiastically.
"Excuse me asking, your lordship," said Ratlett, "but why doesn't he say
anything?"
"He can't."
"Why not?"
"He hasn't got a tongue."
The boy swallowed uncomfortably.
"It was ripped out. Before my time. Some bit of idle gossip he started."
The dungeonmaster's hooded eyes stared fixedly at Ratlett. "I'm sure you
will keep your tongue ... " he paused significantly, " ... silent."
"Oh, yes, your lordship!" Exclaimed Ratlett. "Silent as the grave, sir!"
"That's what I had in mind," whispered Edmund. And moved quickly away up
the stone steps.
***
Margaret, Duchess of Yeoveld, had been furious with her husband when she sent
Gilbert to look for him; her fury was redoubled when she saw the state of
maudlin drunkenness in which the squire brought him back.
"Mother was right!" She screamed. "You're nothing but a drunken lout!" Whatever
did I see in you? Why ever did I marry you?" And so no and on and on.
The duke stood cringing like a great, tousled bear, while Gilbert slipped
quietly away to his bed in the squires' dormitory.
When Margaret had finished her tirade she stormed away into the bedchamber,
slammed the door and bolted it, leaving Toppard to sleep as best he could
in a chair by the fireplace.
Inside the bedchamber Margaret's fury evaporated. She hurried over to the
fireplace and pressed the nose of a carved, stone demon in the surround.
A stone block slid aside to reveal a cavity in the wall. Margaret reached
inside and pulled out an ancient book with strange symbols on its decaying,
leather cover.
She went to the bed, got in and carefully arranged the lighted candle by
her side. She propped the book against her raised knees and flicked through
the pages of arcane script and sinister pictures until she reached the page
she wanted. Then she read, very slowly, mouthing the words to herself as
if learning them by heart.
The book's title was "Ye Summonyng of Ye Demons".
