Twenty-Two

Matthew was ready and waiting, dressed in his charcoal-gray suit with thin stripes in a lighter gray hue. The suit was a bit tighter than it had been before being immersed in salt water, but Matthew still wore it well. When the knock came at the door this bright and sunny hour, Matthew was quick to open it for he knew who was behind the fist.

“Good morning,” said Sirki, with a slight nod of his turbanned head. Today the East Indian giant wore his white robes, spotless as new snow. A glimpse of diamond-studded front teeth sparkled. “You are well, I presume?”

“Very well,” said Matthew, attempting lightness but finding it a heavy effort. “And you?” As well as can be expected, Matthew thought, for someone who delights in severing heads from their bodies.

“I am instructed,” the giant replied, “to pay you.” He offered a brown leather pouch tied with a cord. “Three hundred pounds in gold coins, I am told. A very sizeable sum, and one you may keep whatever your decision may be regarding the professor’s problem.”

“Hm,” Matthew answered. He took the pouch; it was richly heavy. He noted the red wax seal that secured the cord, and the octopus symbol of the professor’s ambition embossed upon it. He moved the pouch back and forth next to his right ear to hear the coins clink together. “I have questions for you before I decide,” he said firmly. “Will you answer them?”

“I will do my best.”

Matthew decided not to tell Sirki about his dream last night, in the midst of his troubled sleep. In the dream, which was fogged at the edges with phantasmagoria, the gasping head of Jonathan Gentry had rolled along the bloody table and fallen into his lap, and there the twisted mouth had rasped three words that Matthew now repeated to Sirki.

“Finances. Weapons. Spain.” Matthew had gotten out of his bed and walked back and forth upon the balcony in the cool hour before dawn until his perception of the matter had cleared. “Those are the realms of the three men involved. I am assuming, then, that the Royal Navy intercepted a cargo of weapons meant to be handed over to the Spanish, in return for a large sum of finances to the professor?”

“Your assumption may be correct,” said the giant, with an expressionless face and voice that likewise revealed nothing. “I think,” he added, “I might enter your room instead of having this discussion in the hallway.” When Sirki came into the room, Matthew backed cautiously away from him, reasoning that the evil sawtoothed knife was somewhere near at hand. Sirki closed the door and planted himself like an Indian ironwood tree. “Now,” he said, “I will entertain more of your assumptions.”

“Thank you.” A small bow completed the charade of manners. “I’m thinking, then, that Professor Fell is supplying some kind of new weapon to the Spanish? And he plans to sell the same weapon to Britain as soon as Spain puts it into full production? And there are other countries he plans to see this weapon to?”

“Possibly correct,” said Sirki.

“But someone informed the authorities, and the first shipment was waylaid on the high seas? What’s the weapon, Sirki?”

“I am not allowed,” came the reply.

“All right, then.” Matthew nodded calmly; he’d been prepared for this. “The professor believes one man of three is the traitor. Is it possible there could be two traitors among the three, working together?”

“A point well taken. The professor has already considered this possibility and wished you to reach it at your own opportunity.”

“So the evidence Professor Fell is looking for may be some signal or message exchanged between the two, if indeed there are two?”

“That may be so.”

Matthew placed the pouch of gold coins upon the writing desk. He was loathe to turn his back upon Sirki, even though he trusted that today he might keep his head. Through the louvered doors that led to the balcony he could hear the shrill cries of gulls and the hammerbeat of the waves below the castle’s cliff. It was going to be a warm day, a world away from New York. He devoutly wished he were walking on snowclad streets, his hand in Berry’s to guide her away from trouble.

“Professor Fell,” Matthew said after some consideration, “puts me in the position of being a traitor myself. A traitor to my country,” he said, with a quick glance at the giant. “As I understand this, the professor is selling weaponry to England’s enemies, with the expectation that England will also have to buy the devices to keep their armories current. The so-called traitor … or traitors, perhaps … are actually working, whether they intend to or not, for the good of England. Therefore to expose them, I also become a traitor to my country. Is that not so?” Now Matthew directed a cold stare at Sirki, awaiting a response.

Sirki didn’t answer for a time. Then he said, with a shrug of his shoulders, “Money is money. Sometimes it buys patriots, and sometimes it buys traitors. Do not mislead yourself, Matthew. Both breeds of men walk the halls of Parliament. They sit in luxury and sip their wine while underneath their English wigs the worms of greed eat into their brains. But let us not use the word greed. Let us say … opportunity. That is the grease of all the great wheels that turn this world, Matthew. And I shall tell you that here you face the greatest opportunity of your life, if you take it with both hands.”

“My hands should not be so covered with English blood,” Matthew countered.

“But someone’s hands shall be,” said Sirki, in his silky way. “The professor is offering you many … incentives, I understand. He also wishes to see how you react under pressure.”

“I float,” Matthew said.

“He hopes that is so. He wishes you to float to a good conclusion here. One that benefits himself and yourself. You have no idea what he can do for you, if he perceives you are worthy.”

“Worthy to him, and unworthy to myself?”

Sirki smiled thinly, and almost sadly. “Oh, Matthew. What you don’t know of this world might fill the professor’s library ten times over.”

“Does he write all the books himself? And sign his name as ‘God’?”

Sirki for a time stared at the chessboard floor without speaking. When his voice came, it was no longer silky but edged with sawteeth like his blade. “Shall I tell the professor you are accepting or rejecting the problem to be solved?”

Now came time for Matthew’s move. He saw no way to get his knight to safety; it was going to be a hard sacrifice, but one that might yet win the game for him if he had further stomach for the playing.

“Accepting,” Matthew said.

“Very good. He will be pleased to know.” Sirki put his hand on the door’s knob, engulfing it with his grip. Matthew thought the giant could pull the door from its hinges with that one hand, if he pleased. Sirki opened the door, however, with a gentle touch. “I trust you will enjoy this day to its fullest,” he said.

The meaning of that was get to work, Matthew thought.

“Speaking of the professor’s library,” Sirki said, pausing on the threshold. “It’s on the third floor. You might be interested in visiting it, since it holds volumes you might find intriguing, and especially since I saw Edgar Smythe going up the stairs.”

“Your direction is appreciated,” said Matthew.

Sirki closed the door, and their discussion for the moment was finished.

Matthew reasoned that there was no time to lose. He had no idea how he was going to approach Edgar Smythe, the scowling weapons expert, but he decided to let that take care of itself. He left his room, locked the door, went to the main staircase and climbed it to the upper floor.

A pair of polished doors made from pale oakwood opened onto a room that nearly made Matthew’s knees buckle. It was filled with shelves of books almost from the smoothly-planked floor to the vaulted ceiling. Above his head, as per the banquet room, were painted clouds and watchful cherubs. The smell of the room was, to Matthew, the delicious and fragrantly yeasty aroma of volumes of ideas, considerations and commentary. There would be enough in here to keep his candle lit for years. He actually felt his heartbeat quickening, in the presence of so much treasure. Three hundred pounds be damned; this abundance of knowledge was the gold he truly sought. He saw across the room louvered doors that must lead to a balcony, and on either side of the doors heavy wine-red drapes with yellow tie cords were drawn across windows overlooking the sea. The library held several black leather chairs and a sofa, a table bearing bottles of what appeared to be wine and spirits for the further delight of the bibliophile, and an expansive white writing desk with a green blotter. Sitting at the desk, evidently copying something down from a slim volume onto yellow parchment with a quill pen, was Edgar Smythe, his gray-bearded and heavily-lined face absorbed in his task. He was once more wearing his ebony-black suit and white shirt—perhaps he owned a half-dozen of the exact same suit, Matthew mused—and between Smythe’s teeth was a clay pipe that showed a thin curl of smoke the color of the sea’s waves at first light.

Matthew approached the man, stopped and cleared his throat. Smythe kept right on copying something from tome to parchment. From time to time the quill went into an ink bottle, and then returned to its industrious work.

“Are you wanting something, Mr. Spade?” Smythe asked suddenly around his pipe, without interruption of his labor. The voice was as harsh as yesterday’s murder.

“Not particularly.” Matthew stepped nearer. “I wanted to have a look at the library.”

“Look all you please,” Smythe instructed. Whatever he was copying, there was no attempt to hide the effort. “But … refrain from peering over my shoulder, would you?”

“Certainly, sir.” Having said this, however, Matthew made no move to back away. “I was wondering, though, about something I hoped you might help me with.”

“I can’t help you with anything.”

“That might not be exactly true.” Matthew took one more step closer, which put him nearly at Smythe’s elbow. In for a penny, in for a pound, Matthew thought. He said, “I was hoping you might explain to me about the Cymbeline.”

The quill ceased its scratching. Matthew noted that the parchment was almost full of small but neat lines of writing, and that there were several other blank pages ready for use in the same way. Smythe’s face turned and the somber gray eyes fixed on Matthew with some force. “Pardon me?”

“Cymbeline,” Matthew repeated. “I’d like to hear about it.”

Smythe sat stock-still for what seemed a full minute. Presently he slid his quill onto its rest and removed the pipe from its clenched-teeth grip. “Cymbeline,” he said quietly, “is a play.” He held up the volume, and stamped there upon its dark brown binding were the gold letters The Tragedie Of Cymbeline, Five Acts By William Shakespeare. “Shall I read you a scrap of what I’ve written here?” He went on without waiting. “Fear no more the heat o’ the sun, Nor the furious winter rages; Thou thy worldly task has done, Home art gone and ta’en thy wages; Golden lads and girls all must, as chimney-sweepers, come to dust.” Smythe looked up from his parchment. “Would you care for more?”

“A recitation upon death? No, thank you.”

“Not just any recitation, Mr. Spade, but a grand affirmation of death. I am a great admirer of Shakespeare’s plays, sir. I am a great admirer of his mind and his voice, which unfortunately I only hear in my imagination.” He placed the volume down upon the desk again and drew a pull from his pipe. “This is how I’ve been keeping myself sane on this bloody island, sir. I have been dutifully copying passages from Shakespeare’s plays, of which the professor thankfully has a full set. Waiting for you to arrive has been a strain on all of us. Therefore … this little diversion of mine, which serves to heighten my appreciation of the master’s work. Do you have any complaint you’d care to commit to the air?”

“None.” Matthew was desperately trying to mask his confusion. Of course Cymbeline was a play, about the trials and tribulations of a British king—Cymbeline—possibly based on legends of the real-life British king Cunobelinus. But what this had to do with the professor’s problem, or the matter of the new weapon, Matthew had no clue. He decided he had better quit cutting bait and start to fish. “I’m presuming that’s the code name for the new device the professor has created?”

“Device? What are you talking about?”

“The new weapon,” Matthew said. “Which he is intent upon selling to Spain, and which was seized at sea by the British Navy.” He decided to add, “Due to Gentry’s influence.”

The pipe’s bowl spiralled its fumes. “Young man,” said the gravel-bottomed voice, “you are wandering into dangerous territory. You know that our businesses should be kept separate, by his order. I don’t wish to know anything about your use of whores to spear state secrets, and your desire to know about the Cymbeline is ill-met.”

Matthew shrugged but held his ground. “I’m curious by nature. And my curiosity has been sharpened after that pretty scene last night. I’m just wishing to know why it’s called Cymbeline.”

“Really? And who told you that Cymbeline is a weapon?”

“Sirki did,” Matthew said. “In response to my questions.”

“He also told you the first shipment to Spain was captured at sea?”

“He did.” Matthew thought that Nathan Spade was a very accomplished liar.

“What’s his game, then?” Smythe frowned; he had once been a handsome man in his youth, but now he was just harsh and ugly.

“Did he tell me untruths?”

“No,” Smythe said. “But he’s violating the professor’s decree. Why is that?”

“You might ask him yourself,” Matthew suggested, ever the gentleman.

Edgar Smythe smoked his pipe in contemplation of that remark, and when he was wreathed by the blue fumes he seemed to diminish in size and let any idea of confronting the East Indian killer slip away like the very essence of tobacco now floating toward the louvered doors. “You are incorrect,” he finally said, in a doomsday voice.

“How so?”

“Incorrect … in your statement that Professor Fell created Cymbeline. He did not. It was my idea. My creation. My unremitting labor of mind and resources. And I am very good at what I do, Mr. Spade. So that is your first error, which I am glad to adjust.” He blew a small spout of smoke in Matthew’s direction. “Your second error,” he went on, “is that Cymbeline is a device. Oh, did you believe it was some kind of multiple-barrelled cannon dreamt up by an eccentric inventor?”

“Not exactly.” Though the idea had crossed Matthew’s mind. He had experience with multiple-barrelled guns and eccentric inventors.

“Cymbeline,” said the weapons expert, “is the foundation upon which future devices shall be constructed. Whoever possesses it has a distinct advantage on any battlefield, and thus its immense worth to many countries.”

“I see that, but if many countries have it … wouldn’t that mean Cymbeline has become obsolete?”

“The nature of the beast,” Symthe granted, with a snort of smoke through the pinched nostrils. “There will always be something beyond Cymbeline, and something beyond that, until the end of time.”

Matthew brought up a thin smile. “It seems to me, sir, that your business ultimately hastens the end of time.”

“That will happen after I am long gone.” Smythe tapped a finger against the bowl of his pipe, whose flame had deceased. “Therefore it is not my concern. But I will inform you that it is the professor’s business, not mine. I am the hand, he is the brain.”

A simple way to seek escape from blame, Matthew thought. He wondered if indeed Edgar Smythe’s brain had not begun to believe treachery against England was not worth money in the hand. “The Cymbeline,” Matthew persisted bullheadedly, as was his wont. “Whatever it is … why is it called that?”

Smythe began to turn through the pages of Cymbeline. “Professor Fell titled it. After a line from the play. Just a moment, I’ll find it. Ah … here it is. Actually a stage direction: Jupiter descends in thunder and lightning, sitting upon an eagle; he throws a thunderbolt.” Smythe looked up from the page with an expression that could only be bemusement, though on that sour face it was hard to tell. “The professor enjoys his drama.”

“Yes,” Matthew agreed. “Undoubtedly.”

Smythe stood up. He gathered his sheets of parchment, took the volume and slid it back into its place on one of the shelves. “I will say good morning to you, then. And I hope your day is pleasant. I have a report to give to the professor this afternoon. When are you giving yours?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“You’re an odd sort,” Smythe said, his head tilted slightly to one side as if seeing Nathan Spade in a different light. “Are you sure you belong here?”

“I must. I’m here, aren’t I?”

“So you are.” Smythe started for the doors.

“Let me ask you one more question,” Matthew persisted, and Smythe paused. “Who is Brazio Valeriani?”

“Someone the professor seeks. That’s all I know.”

“Is he connected to the Cymbeline?”

Smythe frowned; it was, in truth, a horrible sight. “I have heard things,” he said, quietly. “And no, Valeriani is not connected to the Cymbeline. It’s another matter altogether. But I have heard …” He hesitated, staring at the floor. “Unsettling things,” he continued, as with an effort. The face lifted and the gray eyes were darkly-hollowed. “This is not something you should be concerned with, young man. If what I have heard is true … if any part of it is true … you will wish you never heard that name.”

“Why does the professor seek him?”

“No.” Smythe shook his head. “You will get none of it from me, nor from anyone else here. That is as far as I go. Good day.”

“Good day,” Matthew answered, for Edgar Smythe the weapons expert was already going through the doors and gone.

Matthew was left alone in the library. Hundreds of books—large and small, thick and thin—were there before him on the shelves. Ordinarily this would have been a dream come true for him, but some element of evil lay coiled in this room and therefore it was an oppressive place, an atmosphere of dark brooding. But the books called to him nevertheless, and in another moment he was walking past the shelves looking at the titles stamped upon leather. He reached out a hand to accept Nicolaus Copernicus’ De Revolutionibus Orbium Coelestium, but his hand then moved to touch the red spine of Homer’s Odyssey. Next to it beckoned three thick volumes of English sea voyages and navigational studies, and next to that one …

Odd, Matthew thought.

He took the book from its place. It was a battered brown leather edition titled The Lesser Key Of Solomon. Matthew recalled seeing an edition of this book before, in the ruins of Simon Chapel’s library just before his involvement with Tyranthus Slaughter. In a way, this book had caused him quite a lot of misery, for that copy he’d found in Chapel’s library had been hollowed out and literally held a key to unlock a book—The History of Locks As Regards The Craft of Ancient Egypt and Rome—that had concealed a bagful of Professor Fell’s money. Which had put him nearly on the road to ruin, regarding his future fate and the health of Hudson Greathouse. But now … finding a second copy of this book, here in the professor’s own library …

Odd.

This book appeared to be only a book, not a depository. Matthew opened it and began to turn through the yellowed pages, and at once he realized that the God Professor Fell was playing to be might have another side altogether.

The Lesser Key Of Solomon was a book describing the demons of Hell.

In Latin script and prints of woodcut drawings, the descriptions of these dark dwellers were quite vivid. The demonic entities appeared as such things as animalish creatures with blade-like claws, spidery denizens of nightmare worlds and shadowy combinations of man, beast and insect. They were given titles, as befitted the nobility of the netherworld.

Matthew came upon a page depicting the stork-like Earl Malthus. The text reported this monstrosity as an expert in building towers filled with ammunition and weapons, and who was noted for speaking in a disturbingly rough voice.

He turned the pages. There was Prince Sitri and Marquis Phenex, Duke Vepar and King Belial. There was Count Renove, Prince Vassago, King Zagan and Duke Sallos. More pages were turned, and more demons revealed in all their ghastly inhuman but human-like shades: King Baal, Duke Barbatos, Prince Seere, Marquis Andras, Count Murmur, Duke Ashtaroth, President Caim, Duke Dantalion, Marquis Shax and on and on. It took a steady hand and a steely nerve to view these woodcut impressions and read this text of otherworldly horrors. Each demon had a specialty … king of liars, activator of corpses, deliverer of madness, creator of storms, destroyer of cities and the dignity of men, power over the spirits of the dead, the sowing of the bitter seeds of jealousy and discord, the transformation of men into wolves and crows and creatures of the night, the power to burn anything on earth to utter ash.

And, as he turned the pages, Matthew realized with a start of further horror that not only did this book depict the demons of Hell, but it also contained spells and rituals to call them from their caverns at the end of time to do the bidding of men.

This room suddenly seemed much too small and too terribly dark. Matthew wished to put the book away, to get it out of his hands lest it blister the flesh, and yet …

… and yet …

It had caught him. He, who had seen through the artifice of an evil man in positioning an innocent woman as a witch in a town called Fount Royal. He, who had no belief in witches and demons and things that went bump in the night. He, who viewed facts as facts and superstitions as the coinage of a past century. He, who would champion himself for that woman named Rachel Howarth but would not give a cup of warm piss to the idea of demons riding the currents of the whirlwinds. He, who did not believe in such fantasy.

But … perhaps the owner of this book did?

And he believed so strongly that he had shared another copy with his associate Simon Chapel, who had—perhaps in his own revulsion or sense of irony—turned it into a key-box?

Matthew had to get out of this room. He needed light and air. He took the Lesser Key with him, through the louvered doors onto the balcony. Sunlight and warm air hit him in the face. He smelled the salt of the sea and saw the bright glittering shine of morning light upon the waves below. The balcony had a white stone railing and balustrade. At both corners, just beyond the railing, were ledges upon which was situated a white stone seahorse standing up nearly as large as a real stallion, a remarkable job of sculpture. Matthew held the book at his side and drew in long draughts of the sea air to clear his head. He wasn’t sure what he had stumbled upon, but he felt quite sure he had stumbled upon something.

And then he saw her, down below, sitting cross-legged upon her rock.

Fancy, they called her. Her body nude and brown and glistening, her long hair black as a raven’s wing, her face turned toward the far horizon where the waves broke upon an unknown shore. To them, Fancy. To him … possibly Pretty Girl Who Sits Alone. And to him, another one to champion. To save. To free, if he could. It was in his nature to do so, and calling himself Nathan Spade in this vile gathering of greedy men and women did not change that. Could not change that. Would not change that.

“Mornin’,” came the voice behind him.

And a second voice, following: “… boyo.”

Matthew turned quickly toward the two brothers, as they came onto the balcony from shadow into sunlight that seemed suddenly blighted in its wet and sultry heat.

“Spadey himself,” said Mack, with a cold grin on a face that appeared red-eyed and bloated, the same as his twin’s. Both men were carrying bottles they’d picked up from the drink table in the library, and Matthew judged them to have been downing the liquor since the breaking of dawn a couple of hours ago. That, or they’d been drunk all night and had emerged to replenish their supply. Both men wore the breeches of their red suits, and both had spilled upon their wrinkled gray shirts copious amounts of liquid danger. Their sleeves were rolled up to display the thick forearms of tavern brawlers, ready to strike.

“… all by himself,” Jack added. He stood in the doorway as Mack got up nearly chin to chin with Matthew. Yes, the breath could have knocked over one of the stone seahorses, and Matthew steeled himself not to retreat from its sour flames.

“Where’s your knife-thrower now?” Mack asked.

“Ain’t here,” said Jack.

“’Tis a pity,” said Mack.

“Solid shame,” Jack lamented.

“Oh the agony of it, to be young and handsome, and so mannered and smart to boot … and yet be forgot about, up here alone.”

“Way up here,” Jack said, and now he drank from his uncorked bottle and came upon the balcony with his eyes narrowed into slits. “All alone.”

Matthew’s heart was beating hard. The sweat pulsed at his temples. By the greatest effort he kept fear out of his face, even as the Thackers positioned themselves on either side of him, shoulders pressed against his body and pinioning him in. “I was just on my way to breakfast,” he said. “If you’ll pardon me?”

“Mack,” said Jack, and another drink went down his pipe, “I don’t think Spadey likes us.”

“Don’t like us worth a shitty shillin’,” said Mack, who also swigged from his own bottle. “And him such a worldly gentleman. Makes me feel like he thinks he’s better than most.”

“Better’n us, you’re sayin’,” Jack prodded.

“Yeah, that’s what I’m sayin’.”

“Said correctly, brother.”

“So sad to say.”

“Sad,” said Jack.

“Awful most,” said Mack, with his grin still in place and his green eyes showing a dull glare.

“Oh, mercy me.” Jack had taken note of the figure on the rock. “Looky what Spadey’s been lookin’ at.”

Mack saw, and nodded gravely. “Looky, looky. But don’t touch the nooky.”

“Think he’d like to touch it,” said Jack.

“Think he’d like to roll in it,” said Mack.

“Agreed, brother,” they said, almost as one.

“Gentlemen,” said Matthew, and perhaps now was the time to get out while he could, for he sensed violence about to rear its ugly head, “I admire your taste in women. I would ask where you found such a lovely specimen.”

“Specimen,” said Jack, with a snort that blew bits of snot from his nostrils. “Makes our Fancy sound like a fuckin’ worm, don’t he?”

“Like a bug, crawled from under a rock,” Mack observed.

“No disrespect meant.” Matthew realized it was a lost cause; these bully boys were wanting to thrash him, come what may, and Matthew’s plan was to get their minds on Fancy and then—ignominiously or not—bolt from the balcony as soon as he could. “I was wondering where I might find a woman of that breed?”

“You can buy ’em, boyo, on the pussy market.” Jack leaned in, leering, his breath smelling of whiskey sharpened by snakeheads. “I thought that was your fuckin’ business.”

“’Cept we didn’t buy Fancy,” Mack confided, and now he put an arm around Matthew’s shoulders in a way that made Matthew’s spine crawl. “We come across her owned by a gentleman gambler in Dublin. He’d won her at the faro table last year …”

“Year before that,” Jack corrected.

“Whenever.” Mack’s grip tightened on Matthew’s shoulders. “We decided we’d have her. You listenin’ here? It’s a good story. Wanted to teach him he couldn’t play faro in that tavern without our permission or a piece of the pie, and him riggin’ the box against those other poor punters. We left him crawlin’, didn’t we?”

“Crawlin’ and pukin’ blood,” said Jack.

“Man with no knees left,” said Mack, “has got to crawl.”

“Sure as fuck can’t walk,” Jack added, and then he pressed the mouth of his bottle against Matthew’s lips. “Have a drink with me, Spadey.”

Matthew averted his face. He caught a movement, and saw that this little drama was being observed by Fancy, who had stood up upon her rock to watch.

“No, thank you,” Matthew said. And he saw the Indian girl turn her back and dive from her perch into the sea, where the waves closed over her brown body and rippled white in her descent.

“You didn’t hear me, boyo.” Jack’s voice was very quiet. “I said I want you to have a drink with me.”

“And then with me.” Mack’s bottle also pressed against Matthew’s mouth. “Wet your whistle while ya can.”

“No,” Matthew repeated, for his boundary had been reached. “Thank you.” He started to move away from them, even as they pressed in harder on either side. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to—”

Mack suddenly whipped The Lesser Key Of Solomon from Matthew’s hand. He used it to smack Matthew hard on the nose, which caused a fierce and staggering pain and made Matthew’s eyes blur with tears. In the next instant, before Matthew could right himself, Jack gripped the back of his neck and headbutted him on the forehead, sending jagged spears of light and flaming stars through Matthew’s brain. His arms and legs at once became heavy dead limbs, without feeling or purpose.

“Hold him up,” he heard one of them say, as if an echo in a long cavernous corridor.

“Little fucker don’t weigh nothin’.”

“Got me an idea. Don’t let him drop.”

“Want me to knee him in the balls?”

“No. Let’s send him swimmin’. But first … drag him over here. Lemme get them curtain cords.”

“What’re ya thinkin’, brother?”

“I’m thinkin’ Spadey got hisself drunk, climbed up on that thing, it fell, and … over the side he went.”

“You mean to kill him?”

“I mean to wash our hands of his shitty little self, that’s what I mean. And damned to the depths for him, where he’ll never be found. Come on, drag him over.”

In the fog of his dazed brain and throbbing brainpan, Matthew realized this was not good for his future. In fact, it was horribly bad. He felt himself being dragged. His eyes were blinded by sunlight and black shadows that shifted in and out of his befouled vision. He tried to get his feet under himself, tried to get a hand up to protest this rough treatment.

“He’s comin’ round.”

“Smack him again.”

Another headbutt slammed into Matthew’s forehead. Bright balls of light exploded behind his eyes. He felt his legs dance of their own volition for a few seconds. He thought Gilliam Vincent might commend him. Wasn’t he at a dance at Sally Almond’s tavern? Didn’t he hear fiddle music—though terribly off-key—and the banging of a drum close to his ear?

The echoing voices returned.

“… up on that thing with him. Tie his hands behind him.”

“Ain’t somebody gonna miss the cords?”

“Not my concern, brother. Maybe they’ll think he made himself some reins for his horse, and got tangled up in ’em.”

Horse? Matthew thought, in his deep dark cave. What horse?

He felt pain at his shoulders. His arms had been pulled back. Tying his hands?

“Now get the other cord tied around him and the horse. Come on, hurry it!”

Horse? Matthew thought once more. It seemed very important that he figure this out, but his brain was not working too well. He felt himself being wrapped around with a rope of some kind. Lemme get them curtain cords, he remembered hearing.

“They’ll know it was us.”

“No, brother, they won’t. Leave your bottle on the ledge. Help me push this bastard over. You ready?”

“Always ready.”

“Push.”

Matthew felt himself falling. He tried to blink his light-smeared vision clear. He had a scream locked behind his lips, but his mouth would not open.

Horse, he thought.

As in … seahorse.

He hit the water on his side. The chill of the sea shocked some of the sense back into him. He had time to gasp a lungful of air before he went under.

I float, Matthew recalled saying to Sirki.

But he realized at once that no man tied to several hundred pounds of stone seahorse was going to float, and so with the desperate air locked in his lungs and his hands bound behind him he rode his horse beneath the waves and down and down into the blue silence below.