Philip José Farmer's The Dungeon 06] - The Final Battle (15 page)

"But you approve of the Chaffri?"

"I know little of them, but what little I know indicates that they are no better than the Ren. No better."

Neville held up one hand. "The Ren are not the masters of the Dungeon, Clive! Do not be deceived into thinking that." He emitted a sardonic laugh, the greatest show of emotion on his part since his reunion with his younger twin. "The Ren are but one of the competing powers in the Dungeon. And the Chaffri are another."

Clive made no further comment. There was little new to him in his brother's words. Much of this he had long known—but to hear it from his own brother's mouth brought it home to him more chillingly than even the reality of his own all-too-vivid recollections.

After a while, Neville spoke again. "As for your paramour, what was her name—'Nrrc'kth—do not lose hope. You tell me that she died in the Dungeon, but what if we were to intervene at a moment
prior
to her death? What if a force should enter the event-line between levels of the Dungeon and move her to a point of safety elsewhere in the Dungeon—or out of it?"

"Can that be done? Neville, can it?"

"But, brother, I thought you were pledged to a Miss Leigh ton."

"Miss Leighton, I have been led to believe, left London in 1868, shortly after my departure for Zanzibar and Africa in search of you. By now she is well established in the city of Boston in the United States. From the things Miss Leigh—Annie—has told me, Annabella has no desire to have anything to do with me."

"But think, little brother—if you could return to a moment before she left London—?"

"I have thought of that, Neville. It is a tempting prospect, an intriguing prospect, but I am finally reluctant to tamper with Annabella's life. To save 'Nrrc'kth—well, to save an innocent woman from her undeserved death, that is a prospect I would wish to pursue. But the case with Miss Annabella Leighton is a different one. Not only would such interference amount to tampering with her own life, it would also interdict the establishment of a whole line of descent, leading from her to Annie Leigh. No." He shook his head. "No, Neville. It tempts me, but I will resist."

Neville rose and carried the now-guttering candle to the far side of the room. He reached to a gas jet affixed high upon the wall, turned the cock to permit the flow of illuminating gas, and raised the candle to set the gas alight.

"Are you ready, then, to proceed, Clive?"

The room was now lighted by the gas jet, and as he waited for Clive's response, he moved about the room lighting additional fixtures.

"Proceed to what, Neville?"

"To meet the Ren."

"You mean, to return to the Dungeon? Will Annie accompany me? Is she, too, part of this strange conspiracy of yours?"

Neville's face darkened and the corners of his mouth twitched downward, pulling the tips of his mustache so as to add to the power of his angry frown. "I need not tell you that I find your language and your implications offensive, little brother!"

Clive found himself growing equally angry in response to Neville's conduct. He rose to his feet and leaned toward his brother. "I have conducted myself with propriety throughout this affair, Neville! I set out in hopes of rescuing you—"

"Or of finding me dead," the older man interrupted, "so as to assure yourself of succession to the family title and estates upon our father's death!"

Reddening at the aptness of the accusation, Clive resumed. "I suffered shipwreck and suffered a near-fatal dose of spider's venom. I struggled through jungle and swamp, endured tropic heat, and risked attack by lion, crocodile, or snake. All of this occurred before I even entered the Dungeon! While you, Neville, have been in this—this collusive plot—from the outset! To apply the term
conspirator
to you is not merely accurate, brother, it is positively charitable!"

Neville turned his back. The only sound in the room was the soft
shushing
of the gas jets. When Neville turned back to face Clive, it was as if he had aged another five years in the minute or less that his back had been turned.

"There is some truth in what you say, Clive. I have been involved with the Ren… all my adult life, and even since childhood. This was to have been a secret shared only by Father and me. Such has been the case, generation after generation, for as long as there have been Folliots in Tewkesbury. Truth be known, Clive, the record of our affiliation with the Ren extends into the distant past, to the creation of the first Baron Tewkesbury by Richard the Third in 1483."

Neville was pacing now, and Clive found himself following his brother's progress back and forth, back and forth, as an Egyptian cobra follows the piping music of a snake-charmer. "The leaf on our crest, the very word
Folliot
itself, proclaims our alliance and our allegiance to the Plantagenets. Since Richard's death in 1485 the throne of England has been occupied by usurpers. When the Ren triumph in the Dungeon they shall install a Plantagenet on the throne of England! The throne shall be restored to its rightful heir! Clive, that heir shall be a Folliot!"

"Treason!" Clive could contain himself no longer. "You speak high treason, sir! You, who aspire to the title of baron, who have taken Her Majesty's shilling and served in her Grenadier Guards, who have commanded her troops in battle and seen them die in defense of crown and country—you have been a traitor to Queen Victoria all along!"

"Not a traitor, sir! A patriot!"

Clive spun on his heel and headed for the door.

"It's locked, little brother."

"Then I shall break it down or else wrest the key from your possession. I will not remain a minute longer in the presence of such foul perfidy."

"There will be no need for that, Clive. It is true that you have been put through your paces in this affair, all against your will and largely without your knowledge of what you were in."

"Yes—and so you propose what, Neville? I tell you, I desire no part of your treasonous scheme, and if justice have its way, I shall live to see you strangled with a silken cord."

"I have no such expectation, Clive. But you may be right. You may be right. The more we learn of things, even of the past and of the future, the less we are able to call the turn of Fate. But I shall unlock the door and permit you to exit if you will agree to travel with me to the home of the Ren, and confer with them there. Once you have done so, you will be free to choose your course. I will not attempt to force your choice, Clive."

Clive stood silently, studying the strange installation behind his brother, waiting for Neville to continue.

"Will you give me your pledge, Clive? Will you return to Tewkesbury Manor and travel with me to the home of the Ren?"

"There is business I must first transact in London. I but arrived there last night and was leaving du Maurier's home when I was shanghaied by your agents, Neville. There is more I must do in the metropolis."

"You have not given your pledge to return to Tewkesbury Manor, Clive, but I will accept your statement as a tacit pledge. Co, then." He reached past his brother and unlocked the door. "Transact your business, Clive Folliot, and Godspeed to you, and I pray I shall see you again."

Clive stood in the doorway one moment longer, fixing his brother with a glare. "Well may you pray, brother. But first consider well what you pray for."

 

He found Annabelle in the kitchen, visiting Mrs. Jenkins. Annie had admitted to Clive her former visits to Tewkesbury Manor, and it was clear that on such earlier occasions she had made the acquaintance of the faithful cook and housekeeper, and they had become instant, fast friends. Thus, the egalitarian customs of Annie's home, the American city of San Francisco in the year 1999.

Seeing Mrs. Jenkins stirred profound feelings in Clive. His mother had died at the time of his own birth. He and Neville had been raised by their father with the assistance of a series of nursemaids, governesses, and tutors, one more stern and unyielding than the next. Baron Tewkesbury had reserved his own affection for his firstborn, Neville. Even though the brothers were separated by mere minutes in time of birth, their father had lavished his affection upon the elder of the two, blaming the second-born for the death of his mother and treating him with cold hostility from the day of his birth.

Mrs. Jenkins had been the closest thing that Clive had ever known to a mother, his dearest companion and strongest ally. Her kitchen was always his place of refuge in times of trouble. She always had a hug available for him, and a sweetmeat. Her apron had absorbed uncounted tears and her hands had soothed away uncounted hurts.

Today she held Clive at arm's length. "How wonderful, Mr. Clive. My little Clive, my little friend. You do look so young, compared to Mr. Neville. Of course, I know that he's the elder." She chuckled at her own witticism. "Miss Annie is a wonderful young lady, Mr. Clive. Do you plan to… ?" she winked and tipped her head suggestively.

"I fear not, Mrs. Jenkins. I am as fond of Annie as it is possible to be, but there are reasons—reasons I cannot explain." He turned to face Annie. "I must return to London. There is much that you must explain to me, Annie."

"I know. I'll do my best."

"Are you involved with—"

"Please," she said, cutting him off. "These are things that are best discussed tête-à-tête. You understand that, surely." She rolled her eyes almost imperceptibly toward Mrs. Jenkins.

"Of course, I quite understand," Clive said. "Do you wish to accompany me on my journey to London?"

"Will you return to Tewkesbury?"

"Very soon."

"Then I shall await you here, Clive."

 

Jenkins arranged a trap to take Clive to the station at Tewkesbury Village, and from there he rode unimpeded to London. It was a journey that contrasted with his wild progress from London to Tewkesbury with Annabelle Leigh. This time there was no Chaffri attack, and Clive's fellow passengers were a typical assortment of country folk headed for London to transact business of their own.

When Clive reached the great metropolis he headed at once for the offices of the
Illustrated Recorder and Dispatch
. When last Clive Folliot had visited those offices, they were located in a dingy series of cubbyholes. Overaged scriveners, failed would-have-been literary lions, slicksters, and hacks had held court in a dilapidated building that smelled of ancient meals of uncertain origin and of musty clothing and men, the two equally in need of a proper scrubbing and refurbishment.

Now a tall, modern building stood in place of the old
Recorder and Dispatch
, while a modern sign prominently affixed to the front of the establishment proclaimed it still to be the home of that formerly disreputable daily.

Clive had changed from his somewhat tattered uniform to an outfit of civilian garb that he found still awaiting him in his room at Tewkesbury Manor. He smiled to find his card case still handy, and he left the manor with a full purse and a supply of calling cards. The clothing, so long unworn, was a good fit still. But it was a quarter-century out of date, and he found himself encountering stares of curiosity both aboard the railroad coach that carried him from Gloustershire and in the streets of London.

He entered the offices of the
Recorder and Dispatch
and was greeted by an efficient-mannered young lady seated at a walnut table near the building's portal.

She inquired as to whether she might be of assistance to him. Clive took note that her hair appeared to be long and glossy, of a most appealing chestnut shade, although she wore it done up atop her head where it would not interfere with the efficient performance of her work. Her figure, too, appealed to Clive's eye, perhaps the more so because of the demure outfit with which she attempted' unsuccessfully to conceal it.

"I am seeking the editor of this paper, Mr. Carstairs, young lady. Is he in?"

"Have you an appointment, sir?"

"No."

"May I inquire your business, then, with Mr. Carstairs? He is very busy, and if you are a tradesman there are other persons here with whom you might transact your business."

"I am a correspondent of this paper, young lady, and Mr. Carstairs is my editor." He took a calling card from his pocket and handed it the young woman.

After peering at the card, she raised her eyes once more to Clive, then dropped them once again. "Major Folliot, Fifth Imperial Horse Guards," she read.

"Perhaps you are familiar with my work—with my dispatches and illustrative sketches."

"No, sir, I fear such is not the case."

"But they have but recently run in this very—But no, I beg pardon." Clive chided himself silently. Of course the young person had not seen his pieces in the
Recorder and Dispatch
. They had appeared before her very birth! "Never mind. If I may see Mr. Carstairs."

"Very well, sir." She signaled a young boy to show Clive to Carstairs' office, first turning over Clive's card to him. Clive followed the lad down a corridor, up a stairway, and into a palatial suite of offices that would have contained the entire staff and much of the production facility of the
Recorder and Dispatch
of an earlier era.

Clive's guide rapped clean-scrubbed knuckles against well-polished mahogany, received an answering summons, and disappeared though the portal. Clive heard a brief, muffled conversation through the door, then it opened and the youngster reappeared. The lad nodded to Clive and held the door for him as he entered the editor's inner sanctum.

A very young man—he could hardly have been five and twenty years of age—looked up from a desk cluttered with sheets of paper. He was well, even wealthily, dressed. His hair was thick, and curled about his head. He squinted at Clive as if weak of vision, fumbled amid his papers for a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles, then frowned and rose tentatively to his feet.

"
Mister"
—he lifted Clive's card in one hand and held it close to his eyes to study it—"or is it
Major
Folliot?"