"I'll tell you this much," Lafayette snapped. "It's the most dangerous object in the country! I don't know why you wanted it; maybe you thought you could pawn it; but—"
"Mr. O'Leary—I took nothing from your person, while you were asleep or any other time!"
"Don't stall, Lom! I want it back!"
"You may search me if you wish; you're considerably larger and stronger than I. I can't stop you."
"What good would that do? You could have hidden it."
"Indeed! And why, if I had robbed you, would I have returned to preserve you from what, it appeared, would have been a peculiarly unpleasant fate?"
"Maybe you needed me to show you how to operate it."
"I see. Without letting on I had it, I suppose."
"Well, blast it," O'Leary snarled. "If you didn't take it, where is it?"
"Possibly," Lom said thoughtfully, "it dropped from your pocket when you fell . . ."
There was a momentary silence, while Lafayette stared across the fire at the small, indignant figure, who returned the look defiantly.
"All right," O'Leary sighed. "I can't prove you took it. I guess I ought to apologize. And to thank you for getting me out of that cage."
"Perhaps," Lom said, "if you told me a bit more about the missing item?"
"Forget it, Lom. The less anybody knows about it, the better."
"This Mark III; was it your property? Or were you keeping it for someone else?"
"Don't pry, Lom! Tell me: in your explorations, did you come across a cave with, ah, with anything, oh, like a sort of box in it?"
"Since you won't answer my questions, O'Leary, why should I answer yours?"
"Because I need to get to the bottom of this, that's why! There's a plot afoot, Lom! Bigger than anything you could imagine! And I'm mixed up in it! And I want out!"
"Oh? In that case, why not tell me all you know—"
"Never mind." O'Leary got painfully to his feet. "I've got to get going, Lom. Time's a-wasting. I have to make contact with—" He broke off. "With some friends of mine," he finished.
"Suppose I go with you," Lom suggested, jumping up.
"Out of the question," Lafayette said. "I don't mean to be rude, but I can't afford to be slowed down. Beside which it might be dangerous."
"I don't mind. And I'll do my best to keep to the pace."
"Look, Lom, you're far better off right here. You have your hut, and you can live on leaves and berries and Bavarian ham, in peace and quiet—"
"I still have hopes," Lom cut in, "of clearing my name. Possibly these friends you mentioned could help me."
"King Shosto and his boys will be combing the woods for me. If they catch you in my company they'll probably allocate five hundred of those hooks to you."
"I doubt it, lad. I know the trails through these hills quite well. In fact, without me to guide you, I doubt if you'll ever reach the city."
"Well—come on then. I can't stop you. But don't expect me to wait for you." He turned away.
"Wait!" Lom said sharply. "Not that way, Mr. O'Leary." He stepped forward and parted the bushes to reveal a narrow path leading down the rocky slope. "Shall we go?"
2
Twice in the hour before sunrise, O'Leary and Lom were forced to take refuge in deep shrubbery while a party of Wayfarers thrashed their way through the underbrush close at hand. From their conversation it was apparent that there would be plenty of hooks to go around when the owner of the footprints near the broached cage was apprehended along with the escaped prisoner.
"Tsk. Such an uncharitable attitude," Lom commented as they emerged from their last concealment.
"Just wait until I get my hands on this Zorro character," Lafayette said. "He's the one at the bottom of this—"
"I thought
you
were Zorro?" Lom said sharply.
"Not really. I just look like him. I mean—well, never mind. It's too complicated."
He turned to see Lom staring hard at his thumb, which he was solemnly waggling.
"Playing with your fingers?" O'Leary snapped.
"Ah—not at all, my boy," Lom said, thrusting both hands into his pockets. "Tell me—what will you do when we reach the city?"
"I'll have to play it by ear. Once inside the palace, if I can just get a word with Adoranne . . ."
"Frankly, my boy—you look a trifle disreputable. Your garments are somewhat the worse for wear, and it appears you haven't shaved of late, and that gold earring in your left ear is hardly calculated to inspire confidence."
"I'll think of something. I'll have to."
As the sun cleared the treetops, they emerged from the woods onto a stretch of sloping pastureland dotted with peaceful cows, which gazed placidly at them as they tramped down to the road. A passing steam-powered wain gave them a lift to the city limits. As they walked through the cobbled street, redolent of early-morning odors of roasting coffee and fresh-baked bread, a few early risers gave them curious looks. They paused at a sidewalk stall within sight of the palace towers, rosy-tinted in the early light, for a quick breakfast of eggs, bacon, toast and jam, which seemed to Lafayette to drop into an empty cavern the size of a municipal car-barn.
"It's amazing what a little food will do," he commented, as he finished off his second cup of coffee. "Suddenly, everything seems simpler. I'll go to the palace gates, explain that I have important information, and request an audience. Then, after I've told Adoranne a few things that could only be known to me—I'll explain who I am. After that it will be routine. By this time tomorrow, everything will be straightened out."
"I take it you know this Princess Adoranne personally?"
"Certainly. We're old friends. In fact, I was engaged to her once; but I realized in the nick of time that it was really Daphne I was in love with—"
"You—engaged to a princess?" Lom was looking highly skeptical.
"Sure—why not?"
Lom's mouth tightened. "Mr. O'Leary—this is hardly the time for leg-pulling. After all, if we've joined forces—"
"Who says we've joined forces? I let you come along for the ride, that's all, Lom. I still have no reason to trust you. In fact, I think this is where our paths should part. You go your way and I'll go mine."
"You promised to introduce me to your, ah, influential friends," Lom said quickly.
"Oh, no, I didn't." O'Leary shook his head. "That was
your
idea."
"See here, O'Leary—or Zorro—or whatever your name might be," Lom said testily. "I can be of help to you; suppose you have difficulty in gaining entrance to the palace—"
"Don't worry about that; I'll manage."
"Then you intend to—to repay my efforts on your behalf by abandoning me here?"
"Why put it like that? I'll tell you what, Lom: if everything goes well, I'll look you up afterward, and see what I can do for you, all right?"
"I want to do something—something positive, to demonstrate my usefulness. Now, if I go with you to the palace—"
"Out of the question. I might be able to talk myself inside, but you . . . well, candidly, Lom, you don't look particularly impressive, you know, in those tattered clothes and needing a haircut."
"Surely there's
something
I can do?"
"Well—all right, if you insist. Go find the Red Bull. Bring him to the palace. No, on second thought, make it the Axe and Dragon. If I flunk out at the palace, I'll meet you there. And if I make it—I'll send for you. OK?"
"Well . . . I'll do my best. The Red Bull, you say?"
"Sure. Ask around. Any pickpocket in town can help you. Now I've got to be off." Lafayette rose, paid for their breakfast with the lone silver dollar he had found in Zorro's pocket, and set off at a purposeful stride toward the palace.
3
The brass-helmeted guard, resplendent in baggy blue knee pants and a yellow-and-blue striped coat, gave O'Leary a lazy up-and-down look.
"Get hence, Jack, before I run you in for loitering," he suggested curtly.
"I'm here on business," Lafayette said. "I have important news for Princess Adoranne."
"Oh yeah?" The man shifted his harquebus casually. "What about?"
"Classified," O'Leary said. "Look here, we're wasting time. Just pass my request along to the sergeant of the guard."
"Oh, a wise one, eh?" the sentry growled. "Beat it, Greaser, while you still got the chanst."
"Like that, huh?" Lafayette said. He cupped his hands to his mouth:
"Sergeant of the Guard, post number one—on the double!"
"Why, you—"
"Ah-ah—don't do anything rash," O'Leary cautioned as the enraged man raised his bell-mouthed gun. "Witnesses, remember?"
"All right, what's this all about?" a short, plump noncom with a handlebar mustache swaggered into view. He halted, looked Lafayette up and down. His face turned an alarming shade of purple.
"Shorty!" Lafayette cried. "Am I glad to see you!"
"Grab that bum!" the sergeant roared. "That's the lousy punk that clobbered three o' my boys here Monday a week!"
4
It was difficult, Lafayette conceded, to keep his voice cool, calm, and reasonable with three large men clamping his arms in pretzel-like positions behind his back, while dragging him across the cobbled courtyard. Still, it was no time to give way to intemperate language.
"If you'd just—
ow!
—listen to what I have to say—
ouch!
—I'm sure you'll agree that what I have to report—
unh!
—is worth listening to."
"Yeah? Give him another quarter turn, LaVerne!"
"Shorty—at least give me a hearing—"
"That's Sergeant to you, crum-bum!" the five-foot-three harquebusier bellowed. "You can tell it to the judge—next month, when he gets back from his vacation!"
"I can't wait a month! It's an emergency!"
"If he says anything else, LaVerne—stick a bandanna in his mouth. The one you use to mop off the back o' your neck on hot afternoons!"
They passed the stables and the harness room, turned into the serviceway that ran beside the royal pigpen. The guards recoiled as the imprisoned boar emitted a loud snort and threw his quarter-ton bulk against the fence.
"What's got into George?" LaVerne inquired. "He ain't been hisself for a couple weeks now."
"Maybe he knows we got a barbecue planned for next month," someone suggested.
"Nothing ain't been normal lately," LaVerne mourned. "Not since—"
"Belay that!" Shorty yelled. "You slobs are at attention!"
Lafayette's escort hustled him up three steps into a small squad-room lit even at this hour by a forty-watt bulb dangling from a kinked cord. An unshaven man in shirt sleeves sat with a boot propped on a battered desk, picking his teeth with a short dagger. He raised a sardonic eyebrow and reached for a form.
"Book this mug on suspicious, Sarge," Shorty said.
"Suspicion o' what?"
"Suit yourself. Forgery, maybe. Or Peeping Tom. Or watering wine. Just hold him while I work up a file on him that'll keep him on ice until they pension me off."
"This has gone far enough," Lafayette spoke up. "While you flatfoots jabber, the kingdom may be lost. I have to see Princess Adoranne, right now!"
The desk sergeant listened with his mouth slightly open. He looked Lafayette up and down, then turned an unfriendly eye on the mustachioed noncom who had arrested him.
"What's the idea bringing a loony in here?" he demanded. "You know all them nut cases go directly to the filbert factory—"
"Call Princess Adoranne," Lafayette said in a voice which cracked slightly in spite of his efforts. "Just request her Highness to come down for a moment, all right?" He tried a friendly smile, which caused the desk sergeant to edge backward.
"Hold him, boys," he muttered. "He's getting ready to go violent." He dinged a bell on the desk; a door opened and an uncombed head of shaggy pale hair appeared, surmounting the thick-lipped, puffy-eyed face of a deputy.
"Oglethorpe, slap a set of irons on this pigeon," he said. "Throw him in dungeon number twelve, at the back. We don't want him yelling and getting everybody upset—"
"Irons?" Lafayette yelled. "I'll have the lot of you pounding beats on the graveyard shift!" He jerked free, eluded a grab, made a dive for the door, hooked a foot over an outthrust ankle and witnessed the finest display of pyrotechnics since the previous Third of October: Artesian Independence Day.
Hard hands were clamped on his arms, hauling him upright. He tried to move his legs, then let them drag. He was aware of descending stairs, of tottering along a dark, evil-smelling corridor, of a heavy iron gate being lifted. A shove sent him stumbling into a low-ceiling room that stank of burning kerosene from the flambeaux mounted in brackets along the wall.
"I'm S'Laf'yet 'Leary," he mumbled, shaking his head to clear it. "I demand a lawyer. I demand to see Adoranne. I demand to send a message to my wife, Countess Daphne—" He broke off as his arms were twisted up behind him and held in a double come-along grip.
"Looks like the booze has rotted his wits out," the blond turnkey said, exhaling a whiskey breath into O'Leary's ear.
"Stick him in number twelve, Percy. All the way in the back."
"Sure, Oglethorpe—but, geeze, I ain't swept twelve out in a while, an'—"
"Never mind coddling the slob. He's one o' them Peeping Irvings."
"Yeah? Geez, Oglethorpe, is he the one they spotted last month, climbing the ivy fer a glimpse o' Princess Adoranne taking a shower?"
"Never mind that, Percy! Lock him up, and get back to yer comic book!"
Percy, Lafayette noted vaguely, was even larger and less intellectual-looking than Oglethorpe. He allowed himself to be prodded along to the end of the dark passage, stood leaning dizzily against the wall as the jailer selected an oversized key from the ring at his belt.
"Say, pal . . . uh . . . how was it?" the lout inquired in confidential tones as he removed the handcuffs. "I mean . . . does her Highness look as neat in the nood as a guy would figger?"
"Neater," Lafayette said blurrily, rubbing his head. "That is . . . it's none of your business. But listen—this is all an error, you understand? A case of mistaken identity. I have to get a message to Countess Daphne or the Princess, and—"