Philip José Farmer's The Dungeon 06] - The Final Battle (19 page)

"That is as it may be," Sidi Bombay said. "We shall have to consider. But have you completed your list, Clive Folliot?"

Clive shook his head. "By no means, Sidi Bombay. There is Finnbogg—a dear, faithful creature and a staunch ally. He managed to return to his own world, did he not? There he would have been reunited with his own kind, but did he locate the littermates whom he so desperately sought? Has he made for himself a happy life, or does he yet bear the wounds of his suffering in the Dungeon? Ah, Sidi, I do miss Finnbogg. He was not the cleverest of fellows, to be sure, but there burned within his breast a flame of purity that we more sophisticated folk have long since lost." He paused before resuming. "And there is Tomàs—"

"Tomàs!" Horace Smythe practically exploded. "He showed no concern for us, Major, not even for you. And you told me that he was your blood relative, a Folliot!"

"Yes, Horace, that he is. Yet even the noblest house may, from time to time, spawn a rogue. Tomàs would be by no means the first such. And yet, Tomàs is not a thoroughgoing scoundrel. Good and evil war perpetually in the soul of every man. Why should a Folliot be an exception? And for well or for ill, it remains true that Tomàs is a Folliot."

"Even so, Major—even so! Why should we care for him, when he didn't care for us? Why, for all we know, he's just as likely to betray us again as he was when we first met him!"

"Everything you say is true, Horace. I cannot deny it. But still and all, he is of my blood—and he was our companion. I cannot see my way clear to simply abandoning Tomàs to whatever fate has befallen him. At least, not if there is anything we can do."

Sidi Bombay put in, "Is that the completion of your list, Clive Folliot?"

Clive stood with head bowed, as if he were studying the toes of his boots. He rubbed his chin between forefinger and thumb. "There is one other, my friends."

"Not the Lady 'Nrrc'kth, sah! I know how the Major felt, but the lady is dead, sah. We can't change that, sah."

"Not the Lady 'Nrrc'kth." Clive raised his eyes to his companions and lowered his hand to his side. "No, not she. I shall carry her image forever in my heart, my friends, but I know that I shall never see that beloved face, feel that precious touch again. Not in this world. Perhaps in another."

"Then who, sah?"

"Baron Samedi."

"That being of Hades?"

"We do not know that he is a being of Hades."

"But we saw him there!"

"As did he, us! Did you never hear of him during your sojourn to the city of New Orleans, Horace?"

"I—I'm not sure, sah. Should I have?"

"There is a cult there—at least we were lectured upon it, at Cambridge—called Hoodoo, or Voodoo, or Vodun. Imported to the Louisiana Territory with slaves from the island of Hayti. The cult is a combination of Christianity and animistic beliefs from the African region of Senegal. African gods and nature spirits, Christian figures, sacrifices and enchantments… it is a strange and wonderful religion."

"Yes, sah, I'm sure it is, sah. I'm sure that the Major's professors at Cambridge made it fascinating, sah. But what's it to do with me?"

"Baron Samedi is an important figure in the cult of Hoodoo. With his top hat and tails and his cigar—with his arrogant strutting and his cocky manner—he mocks death and all the powers of evil. He aided us in our escape from the nether regions—or from the level of the Dungeon that we took for them. I would be proud to have him at my side in the final confrontation with our enemies."

"And that's all, sah? There's no one else the Major wants?"

"Sergeant Smythe, do I detect a note of sarcasm in your tone?"

"Sarcasm, sah? In
my
tone? Sah, I'm just a straightforward farm lad wot's found a home in the army. Such things as sarcasm is beyond a simple soldier like me, Major."

"Very well, then. Let it go." Clive whirled toward the Indian. "Sidi Bombay, what do you think? You seem more than competent to operate these instruments. Is it possible to locate our former companions?"

"Perhaps, Clive Folliot."

"And to reach them? To communicate with them, to bring them here?"

"Perhaps, Clive Folliot. I will see what I can do. Perhaps you and Horace Smythe would care to leave me in solitude while I make the attempt."

Clive felt Horace's hand on his elbow. "Sidi can do it if anyone can, Major."

"But the space-train—"

"This would be another method altogether, Clive Folliot," Sidi Bombay said softly. He turned his back on the others and busied himself with the machinery.

"If Sidi wants ter be left alone, sah, I think we'd better leave him alone."

"What have you in mind, Horace?"

"I don't know, sah. P'raps a glass of ale. I know a pleasant pub not far from here."

 

The Continental dandy and the bogus Tsarist count left the building via a cobbled alley. A pack of cats pawing through an accumulation of trash snarled in defiance, then gave way before the waved walking sticks of the two men.

"Will we need a hansom, Sergeant?" Clive asked as they reached the sidewalk.

"Count Splitofsky, if you please, sir."

Clive grinned. "Beg your pardon, your excellency! And you may call me—" he thought for a moment, "Monsieur Terremonde."

"Is a short walk only, M'sieur. Come, let us go."

Horace Hamilton Smythe—Count Splitofsky—slipped his arm through his companion's elbow and urged him from the mouth of the alley, into the bustle of a late London afternoon. As they stepped into the passing throng, a well-dressed couple drew back, casting hostile glances at them and commenting behind raised hands to each other.

Splitofsky guided Terremonde through the gray streets. A fog had already risen from the Thames, and the air was dark and chill. The feeble sun was a mere disk of milky pallor against the gray-brown sky. Drays, diligences, broughams, and hansoms filled the thoroughfare, their wooden fittings creaking and their iron tires clattering on the cobblestones.

At a busy intersection a harried bobby wearing the smart new tunic and copper helmet of the Metropolitan Police waved gloved hands frantically, trying to sort the onrushing traffic into some semblance of order. As Splitofsky and Terremonde strode past him, the bobby saluted smartly. Splitofsky and Terremonde, with almost military precision, returned the gesture by raising their walking sticks to the brims of their silk hats.

With startling suddenness the neighborhood changed its character. What had been a bustling district of neat offices and smart shops gave way to a grimy quarter filled with dosshouses, storage sheds, sewing lofts, and low dives. It was into one of these last that the Count Splitofsky guided Monsieur Terremonde.

"Are you sure?" Terremonde inquired. But before Splitofsky could reply, the other exclaimed, "I know this place! Why, this is the saloon where I was approached by the two women—where the publican was—"

"Don't say it!" Splitofsky hissed.

Clive—Terremonde—held his tongue.

The heavy door swung closed behind the two men. Terremonde stood gazing about himself while Splitofsky moved past him, toward the long wooden counter behind which an aproned publican slouched, elbows on the mahogany surface, engaged in conversation with a woman. She was one whom Terremonde had never seen before, but she was of a type with which he had of late become painfully familiar.

Splitofsky rapped his walking stick against the wooden railing. "Service, if you please, sir!" He spoke with a marked accent.

Folliot/Terremonde peered through an atmosphere composed of tobacco fumes, exudations of distilled alcohol, attar of roses, musk, stale perspiration, and London fog. The publican had looked up and was engaged in dialogue with Smythe/Splitofsky.

Could Terremonde believe his eyes? He rubbed them with gray-gloved knuckles. Using his walking stick as a pry and a prod, he managed to make his way through the tightly packed patrons of the saloon.

"Horace!"

The exclamation had no sooner passed Terremonde's lips when he realized that he had committed a potentially dangerous faux pas. The identities and loyalties of the denizens of the den were unknown to him, but after his previous encounter with the two loose women, their ruffian associates, and the startling barkeep and "owner" of the establishment, he feared that the very mention of Count Splitofsky's true name might imperil the man.

But in the noise and bustle of the saloon, Terremonde's word went unheeded.

Splitofsky's hand darted between two heavy types and clutched Terremonde by the elbow, drawing him toward the bar. Terremonde darted a look into Splitofsky's face, then into the uncannily familiar face of the barkeep. "Who are you, man?" Terremonde hissed.

"Smith, sir."

"That's Smith with an
eye
and no
ee
," Count Splitofsky put in.

"That's right, milord." The barkeep tugged at his forelock. "Matthew McAteer Smith."

"And who is the proprietor of this establishment?"

"That would be Mr. Smithson, milord. Mr. Oliver Oscar Smithson."

"And the woman with whom you were just speaking?"

Smith peered past Terremonde. "The lady with the feather in her hair? That would be Miss Smithers, milord. Miss Dorothy Daphne Smithers. And she is a lovely lass, wouldn't you agree, milord, if I might venture an opinion."

Terremonde pressed his hand to his brow. His skin felt clammy and there was a ringing in his ears. As if from a distance he heard the bartender Smith speaking to Count Splitofsky. "His lordship looks a bit peaked. Maybe we should help him into the back room."

Splitofsky grunted assent.

Terremonde felt himself sliding, then a pair of strong hands catching him under the arms. He didn't quite pass out, but felt himself carried through the pressing crowd of the saloon's patrons. Gaslight roared and wove, smoke drifted through the miasmic atmosphere. He felt himself laid on a couch, smelled the leather upholstery, tried to focus his eyes on the wooden paneling overhead.

He found himself wondering what had become of his silk hat and his polished walking stick. Faces peered down at him. Voices buzzed and cloth rustled.

"You all right, sah?"

Clive pushed against the couch, struggling upright. Strong hands supported him. His head still spun, but he felt himself regaining strength. A glass was pressed to his lips. He swallowed a burning liquid, felt strength radiating from his belly even as the drink hit home. Brandy.

"I—I'm all right. I just—It was all too much for me." Clive raised a hand to his brow, and found that he was still wearing the gray gloves proper for an afternoon in the city. It must be evening now, and he still in daytime clothes!

"Horace?" He peered into the face nearest him. Was it that of the Count Splitofsky, or was it that of Horace Hamilton Smythe?

"Try to breath deeply, sah. You're looking better already, Major Folliot."

"I—I feel ashamed, Horace. To faint like a weak woman."

"It could happen to anyone, sah. As the Major says, sometimes it's all just too much. You'll be all right now, sah. Would the Major like another sip of restorative?"

Clive nodded, drank deeper, swallowed. "Thank you, Horace." His head was clear enough now to notice that his hat and stick had been brought along and placed on a nearby table. He looked from Horace Hamilton Smythe—yes, even in his identity of Count Splitofsky, there was no doubt in Clive's mind that the man was Horace Smythe—around at the others. The barkeep, the man who had been introduced as Matthew McAteer Smith. The woman, Dorothy Daphne Smithers. And the dignified individual looking on, surely that must be Oliver Oscar Smithson.

"You—you're all the same!" Clive heard his own voice exclaim.

"After a manner of speaking, sir, we are indeed." It was Smithson who spoke.

"But we have our differences, as well," said the woman Dorothy Daphne Smithers.

Clive looked at her more closely now. Her hair was long and lush, as black as jet and swept in graceful waves that set off her face to advantage. Her eyebrows were of the same shade, startling against a pale complexion made paler by the application of white powder. Her eyes were a deep and gorgeous blue, her features fine and graceful. Her figure, showcased as it was by the low-cut bodice and wasp-waist of her dark red gown, was lush.

Blinking with admiration, Clive smiled at her. "You do indeed, my dear. But still, Horace," this latter spoken to the Count Splitofsky, "who are these persons? What is this place? It was strange enough when I encountered Philo Goode in this very room—I think it was this very room. But I see only modified forms of your visage in every face I encounter. What is happening?"

"If I may answer, M'sieu Terremonde." The speaker was the impressive Oliver Oscar Smithson. He drew upon a black Cuban cheroot. His face was florid, set off by side whiskers that joined his graying mustache. His hair was thin, his belly not at all so. His brocaded weskit and finely tailored suiting marked him as a man of substance.

"Please," Clive replied.

"Welcome, Clive Folliot, to the Bathgate Chapter of the Universal Neighborhood Improvement Association. You have heard of us, I trust, sir."

"Heard of you?" Clive managed to climb to his feet. His knees were still wobbly but his dizziness was now past. He reached toward Dorothy Daphne Smithers. She handed him the brandy snifter. That was not what he wished to receive, but he took another sip of the liquor and set the snifter upon a low table. "Yes, I've heard of you, Mr. Smithson. Horace—Count Splitofsky—told me about the association. Horace and Sidi Bombay. That is not what I meant, sir. I mean, are you all relatives? Or are you simulacra, or those strange creatures that I am told are called
clones
?"

"Something like that," Smithson said.

"But not quite." That was Miss Smithers. Clive realized that her voice was as charming as her appearance. Cool, low, soft—yet with a suggestion of warmth, as if glowing embers had been banked against the time when they might be fanned back to passionate flame.