"What, you, too? I had nothing to do with it! I've got an idea this fellow Lod is the guilty party. Maybe you can tell me: exactly where are his headquarters?"
"Youse can level wit' me, bo. I got contacth; we'll work togedduh and thplit duh take."
"Forget it. Now about Lod's hideout—"
"I get it. Youse figger to thell her Highneth to duh Big Boy. What youse figger theyee'll bring?"
"Listen to me, you, you numbskull!" O'Leary shook a fist under the flattened nose. "I'm not involved in the kidnapping! I'm not selling her to anybody! And I'm not interested in any shady deals."
The Red Bull's thick finger prodded O'Leary's chest. "Oh, thtingy, huh? Well, lithen to me, bo—what'th duh idea of working my thection of town, anyway? You thtick to yer highwayth, and leave duh thity to me, thee? And I'm cutting mythelf in on duh thnatch caper, thee? And—"
"There ithn't any thnatch caper—oh, for heavy's sake stop lisping! You've got me doing it!"
"Huh? Look, bo . . ." the Red Bull's voice dropped abruptly to its accustomed bass. "Yuh split wit' me or I cave in yer mush—and den call copper fer duh reward an' a free pardon."
O'Leary slapped the prodding finger aside. "Tell me where Lod's hideout is, you dimwit, and stop babbling about—"
A large hand gathered in the front of O'Leary's new jacket, lifted him to his toes.
"Who yuh calling a dimwit, bo? I got as good a mind as duh next gazebo."
"I happen to be the next gazebo," O'Leary said in a voice somewhat choked by the pressure at his throat. "And I'm an idiot for standing here chinning with you while there's work to be done." He brought up a hand and chopped down in a side-of-the-palm blow at the base of the Red Bull's thick neck. The grasp on his shirt relaxed as O'Leary delivered a second hearty stroke across the big man's throat that sent him stumbling back. The Red Bull shook his head, roared, started for O'Leary with apelike arms outstretched, and met a kick in the pit of the stomach that doubled him over with a grunt in time to intercept a hard knee coming up to meet his already blunted features. He stumbled aside, one hand on his stomach and the other grasping his bleeding nose.
"Hey, dat's no fair!" he stated. "I never seen duh udder two guys!"
"Sorry. That was in Lesson Three, Unarmed Counterattack. Worked quite well. Now, tell me where I can find Lod. And hurry up—this is important!"
"Lod, huh?" The Red Bull looked disapprovingly at the blood on his hand and moved his head gingerly, testing his neck. "What kind of a split yuh got in mind?"
"No split! I just want to rescue her Highness!"
"How about forty-sixty, and I t'row in a couple o' reliable boys to side yer play wit' Lod?"
"Forget it! I'll ask somebody else." O'Leary straightened his jacket, rubbed the bruised side of his hand, gave the Red Bull a disgusted look and started off up the alley.
"Hey!" The Red Bull trotted to his side. "I got a idea! We split thoidy-seventy; what could be more gennulmanly dan dat?"
"You amaze me; I didn't know you knew that much arithmetic."
"I taken a night course in business math. How about it?"
"No! Get lost! I have things to do! I'm conspicuous enough without Gargantua padding along at my heels!"
"I'll settle for a lousy ten percent, on account of you got such a neat left hand, and duh knee work was nice, too."
"Go away! Depart! Dangle! Be missing! Get hence! Avaunt thee, varlet! No deal!" A small man probing hopefully in a sodden garbage bin gave O'Leary a look as the two passed.
"You're attracting attention!" O'Leary halted. "Listen, I give in. You're just too smart for me. Now here's the plan: Meet me an hour before moonrise at, uh—"
"How about duh One-Eyed Man on duh West Post Road?"
"Sure—just the place I had in mind. Wear a red carnation and pretend you don't know me until I sneeze nine times and then blow my nose on a purple bandanna. Got it?"
"Dat's duh way to talk, bo! Nuttin' I like better'n a slick plan, all worked out wit' snazzy details an' all. Uh . . . by duh way, where do I get duh carnation, at dis time o' year?"
O'Leary closed his eyes, concentrated briefly. "Just around the next turn," he said. "On top of the first garbage bin on the left."
The Red Bull nodded, eyeing Lafayette a trifle warily.
"Sometimes when youse ain't in such a hurry, pal, I want youse should clue me how yuh work some of dese angles."
"Sure," O'Leary said. "Hurry along now, before someone steals your flower." The Red Bull hustled away along the street; O'Leary turned into a side alley to put distance between himself and his volunteer partner. He'd like to know himself how he worked the angles, he reflected. He was beginning to take all this as seriously as though it were really happening. It was becoming increasingly difficult to remember which was the illusion, Artesia or Colby Corners.
In a small café consisting of a faded striped awning over a patch of cracked sidewalk, Lafayette sipped a thick mug of strong coffee. He had to have the location of the rebel HQ—but any question on the subject would immediately point the finger at him. As a matter of fact, the girl behind the charcoal stove where the water boiled was giving him sidelong glances right now. Maybe it was just sex appeal, but he couldn't afford to take the chance. He rose abruptly and moved on. His best bet was to keep moving and hope to overhear something.
It was a long day. O'Leary spent it wandering idly through open-air markets, browsing in tiny crack-in-the-wall bookshops, watching the skillful gnarled hands of silversmiths and goldsmiths and leather and wood workers as they plied their crafts in stalls no bigger than the average hot-dog stand back home in Colby Corners. He ate a modest lunch of salami and ale at an inn where low-sagging foot-square beams black with soot crossed above an uneven packed-earth floor. An hour before sunset he was near the East Gate, pretending to eye the display in a tattoo artist's window, while keeping an eye on a lounging sentry who gave him no more than a casual glance. It would be no trick at all to slip through, if he just knew where to go from there . . .
A large man standing a few yards away was looking at him carefully from the corner of a red-rimmed eye. O'Leary whistled a few bars of
Mairzey Doats
with suddenly dry lips. He eased around the corner into a dark alleylike passage. He stepped along briskly and when he looked back he saw only looming shadows. He went on, following twists and turns. The last of the light was rapidly fading from the sky.
The alley abruptly ended in a garbage-strewn court. He cast about, found another narrow way leading off into blackness, ducked into it and turned to see a dark figure, then another, step into dim view. He whirled silently and started off at a trot. He had gone twenty feet when he tripped over a tub of refuse and sent it clattering. At once, there was a rasp of feet breaking into a run. By instinct, O'Leary ducked, threw himself aside as a dark cloaked figure slammed past, tripped and fell with a clangor of steel and a choked-off curse. Lafayette crouched, squinting into the dark and saw the man rise to hands and knees, groping for a dropped weapon.
It was no time for niceties. He took a quick step and planted a solid kick in the side of the jaw. The man skidded to his face and lay still. O'Leary moved off up the alley, scanning the way for other members of the reception committee. There had been at least two of them—maybe more. This would be an excellent place to get away from—fast. But there was no point in running into the waiting arms of an assassin.
A shadow moved against deeper shadow ahead. One of the party, it seemed, had circled to cut him off. O'Leary stooped, picked up a hand-filling cobblestone and stood flat against the wall. The shadow came closer; he could hear hoarse breathing now. He waited; the man came on, staring into the shadows, not noticing O'Leary.
"Hold it right there," O'Leary hissed. "I've got a musket aimed at your left kidney. Put down your weapon and stand where you are."
The man stood like a wax figure illustrating Guilt Caught in the Act. He stooped slowly, put down something that glittered in the moonlight and took a hesitant step.
"That's close enough," O'Leary breathed. "How many of you are there?"
"Just me and Moe and, and Charlie, and Sam and Porkeye and Clarence—"
"Clarence?"
"Yeah; he's a new boy, just learning the trade."
"Where are they?"
"Spotted around front. Hey, how'd you get past 'em bud?"
"Easy. I went over them. How did you happen to be staked out here?"
"Well, after all, you had to try one of the gates if you planned to get clear of the city."
"How did you know I was still in the city?"
"Look here, fellow—you expect me to rat on my own chief? I'm not saying any more."
"All right, there's just one more thing I want from you: Where's Lod's headquarters located?"
"Lod? Out west someplace? How do I know?"
"You'd better know, or I'll be annoyed. When I get annoyed, my finger gets twitchy, very twitchy."
"What the heck, everybody knows where Lod hangs out, anyway. I guess if I don't tell you, somebody else will, so what's the percentage in me being a hero, know what I mean?"
"Last chance—the finger is getting nervous."
"Ride west—you'll hit the desert after a half a day's travel. Keep going; there'll be a line of mountains to your left. Follow the foothills till you come to the pass. That's all." O'Leary thought he heard a snicker.
"How far is Lod's stronghold from the pass?"
"Maybe five miles, maybe ten, due west. You can't miss it—if you get that far."
"Why shouldn't I get that far?"
"Let's face it, pal; we got you outnumbered five to one."
O'Leary took a quick step and slammed the five-pound stone in his hand against his informant's skull just above the ear. He folded silently and lay on his face, snoring gently. O'Leary stepped past him, moving off up the alley. He emerged five minutes later half a block from the East Gate. Ready to duck and run if necessary, he strolled past the guard just as the fellow yawned, showing cheap silver filling. Once past him, O'Leary let out a long breath and set out to circle the town. His feet were already getting sore; the new boots had a tendency to pinch. Too bad he hadn't taken the time to steal a horse. He had a long trek ahead; maybe three miles around the town walls, then ten to the desert, then another ten . . .
"Well, there was no help for it—and thinking about blisters didn't help. He settled down for the hike ahead, watching the moon rise above the castellated city wall.
There was a light ahead, glowing in the window of one of the buildings huddled against the wall near the West Gate. Lafayette made his way to it, clambered over a heap of rubbish and came around to the front that faced the twenty-foot wide dirt road that led off to the west. He was ready for a good meal and a bottle of stout ale before he tackled the long night's walk ahead. The shack with the light seemed to be an inn; a sign nailed to a post bore a horrendous portrait of a bush-bearded pirate with a patch over one eye. Not a prepossessing establishment, but it would have to do.
Lafayette pushed through the door and found himself in a surprisingly cozy interior. There were tables to the left, a bar straight ahead, a gaming area to the right where half a dozen grizzled gaffers were arguing querulously over a checkerboard. Oil lanterns on the bar lent a warm light to the scene. O'Leary rubbed his chilled hands together and took a seat. A vastly fat woman wobbled from a shadowy corner and plunked a heavy pewter mug down in front of him.
"What'll it be, love?" she demanded cheerfully. O'Leary ordered roast beef and baked potato and then sampled the beer. Not bad at all. He'd stumbled into a pretty fair eating place, it seemed.
"Hey, youse is late, bo," a familiar voice rasped in O'Leary's ear. He jerked around. A red face with flattened features looked at him reproachfully. "I been waiting around dis dump for an hour."
"Listen here, Red Bull," O'Leary said quickly. "I told you not to speak to me until I blew my nose six times and, uh, waved a red handkerchief."
"Naw, youse said you'd sneeze nine times and blew yer schnozz on a poiple hanky. An' look, I got my red carnation; kind uh wilted, but—"
"It's the coolest, Red. I can see our partnership is going to be a fruitful one. Now, I have further instructions for you. Just go along to the palace; most of the guard force is away, looking for the princess. You can sneak inside without much trouble, and gather in all kinds of loot before they get back."
"But duh city gates is locked."
"Climb over the wall."
"Yeah—dat's a nifty idear—but what about my horse? He ain't so good at climbing."
"Hmmm. Tell you what I'll do, Red. I'll take care of him for you."
"Say, dat's white of yuh, bub. He's hitched out back. Now, where'll we meet?"
"Well, just stick around the palace gardens; there's good cover there. We'll rendezvous under a white oleander at the second dawn."
"Duh scheme sounds slick, chum. By duh way, what'll youse be doing in duh meantime?"
"I'll be scouting some new jobs."
The Red Bull rose, gathered his cloak about his broad frame. "OK, I'll see youse in duh hoosegow." He turned and strode off. The waitress stared after as she clanked O'Leary's platter down before him.
"Hey, ain't that the well known cutpurse and footpad—"
"Shhh. He's a secret agent of his Majesty," O'Leary confided. The woman looked startled and withdrew. Half an hour later, well fed and with three large beers inside him, O'Leary mounted the Red Bull's horse—a solidly built bay with a new-looking saddle—and, keeping in mind all he'd read about the equestrian art, spurred out of the inn yard and off along the West Post Road.
By dawn, O'Leary had crossed the fertile miles of plain west of the capital, passing tiny villages and lonely farmhouses sleeping in the night. Far ahead, he could see a smoky-blue line of rocky peaks catching the first light of morning. The verdant green of tilled fields had given way to dry-looking pasture spotted with scrubby trees, under which a few lean cattle stood listlessly. He rode up a final slope, the dust of the road rising like stirred talcum powder now, leaned aside from the taking branches of thorn trees beside the trail, and looked out across an arid expanse of pale terra cotta colored clay. He halted, frowning.