The World Shuffler (22 page)

“He suckered you,” Lafayette panted. “I don’t know how he got you here ...but I doubt if he had any intention ... of sending you back to your United Colonies ...”

They emerged from the stairhead into a wide corridor, from both ends of which sounds of mob violence rose.

“Let’s see—I think it’s that way,” Lafayette pointed. As they sprang forward, there was a bellow from behind them. Crunch was rubbing his head and looking back down the stairway.

“Why, the lousy bums—” he roared, and dived back down the steps.

“Crunch!” Lafayette yelled, but the giant was gone. A moment later, a tremendous crash sounded from the stairwell, followed by sounds of hand-to-hand combat.

“Let’s get out of here,” Lorenzo proposed, and dashed for the grand staircase ahead. Lafayette followed. A guard in crimson popped into view above, brought up a blunderbuss to firing position—

“Don’t shoot that thing, you idiot!” Lorenzo yelled. “You’ll louse up the wallpaper!” While the confused sentry was still blinking, the two fugitives struck him amidships; as he went down, the piece discharged a load of birdshot into the floral-patterned ceiling.

“I
told
you not to spoil the wallpaper,” Lorenzo said as he bounced the man’s head on the floor and bounded on. They ascended another two flights, pelted along a carpeted passage happily deserted of guards, to the door Lafayette remembered from his last visit. The sounds of battle were faint here. They skidded to a halt, drew a few gulps of air.

“Now, let me do the talking, Lorenzo,” Lafayette panted. “Rodolpho and I are old drinking buddies—”

A door twenty feet along the hall flew open; flanked by four burly crimson-uniformed men, the short, imperious figure of Krupkin/Goruble strutted forth, turned to speak back over his shoulder: “That’s an order, not a suggestion, Rudy! Present yourself and your chief ministers in the Grand Ballroom in half an hour, prepared to rubber-stamp my mobilization, curfew, rationing, and martial-law proclamations, or find yourself dangling from your own castle walls!” The former usurper of Artesia twitched his ermine-edged robes into line and strode off along the passage, conveyed by his bodyguard.

“So much for Rodolpho’s help,” Lorenzo muttered. “Any other ideas?”

Lafayette frowned, nibbled his lip. “You know where this ballroom is?”

“Two flights up, on the south side.”

“It would be; that’s where the riot’s centered, to judge from the sounds of shattering glass.”

“So what?” Lorenzo inquired. “It sounds like a swell place to stay clear of. We can dodge around to Beverly’s apartment and grab her off while the big shots are playing politics.”

“I have reason to believe Daph—I mean Lady Andragorre will be in the ballroom, along with Swinehild. It’s all part of Goruble’s big plan. We have to stop him now, before things go any farther.”

“How? There’s just the two of us. What can we do against a whole palace full of armed men?”

“I don’t know—but we have to try! Come on! If we can’t get through one way, we’ll find another---and time’s a-wasting!”

Twenty-five of the allotted thirty minutes had passed. Lafayette and Lorenzo crouched on the palace roof, thirty feet above the high windows of the ballroom two floors below. Already the murmur of nervous conversation rose to them from the chamber where great events were about to occur.

“All right,” Lafayette said. “Who goes first, you or me?”

“We’ll both be killed,” Lorenzo said, peering over the parapet. “The cornice overhangs about three feet. It’s impossible—”

“All right, I’ll go first. If I ...” Lafayette paused to swallow. “If I fall, take up where I left off. Remember, Lady Andragorre—I mean Beverly’s counting on you.” He mounted the low wall rimming the roof, and carefully avoiding looking down, prepared to lower himself over the edge.

“Hold it!” Lorenzo said. “That metal edging looks sharp. It might cut the rope. We’ll have to pad it ...”

“Here, use my coat.” Lafayette stripped off the gaudy garment given to him by the employees of the Ajax works, folded it, tucked it under the rope they had purloined from a utility room under the eaves.

“And we really need some stout leather gauntlets,” Lorenzo pointed out. “And shin guards. And spiked shoes would help.”

“Sure—and it would be nice if we had large insurance policies,” Lafayette cut him off. “Since we don’t, we’d better get moving before our resolve stiffens up on us.” He gripped the rope, gritted his teeth, and slid down into windy darkness.

The wind clawed at his coatless back. His feet pawed for nonexistent purchase on the wall three feet away. The fibers of the heavy rope rasped at his palms like barbed wire. The lighted window below slid closer. His foot touched the wall with a noise which seemed loud enough to rouse the county. Ignoring the ache in his arms, the quivering in his stomach, the sense of bottomless depths yawning below, Lafayette inched down the last few feet, came to rest dangling against the four-foot section of blank wall between two windows. From inside came a restless susurrus of voices, the shuffle of feet.

“... can’t imagine what it’s about,” a male tenor was exclaiming. “Unless it’s my investiture as Squire of Honor to the Ducal Manicure coming through at last ...”

“Gracious knows it’s about time my appointment as Second Honorary Tonsorial Artist in Attendance on the Ducal Moustache was confirmed,” a fruity baritone averred. “But what a curious hour for the cermony ...”

“Since his Grace has no moustache, you may be waiting quite a while, Fauntley,” an acid voice suggested. “But—hark—they’re coming ...”

“Sst! Are you all right?” Lorenzo’s call hissed from above. Lafayette craned upward, could see nothing but the dark bulk of the overhanging cornice.

From inside sounded a flourish of trumpets. There was a spatter of polite handclapping, followed by a sonorous announcement in an incomprehensible nasal. Then Duke Rodolpho’s reedy voice spoke up faintly: “... gathered here ... this auspicious occasion ... pleasure and honor to present ... a few words ... careful attention ...”

More polite applause, then a sudden hush.

“I’ll not mince words,” Goruble’s voice rang out. “A state of dire emergency exists. Prompt measures are called for ...”As the voice droned on, the rope to which O’Leary clung began to shake. Seconds later, Lorenzo appeared, descending rapidly.

“Slow down!” Lafayette hissed, as a pair of sharp-cornered boots slammed against his shoulders, dug in with crushing weight on his clavicles.

“Hssst, Lafayette! Where are you?”

“You’re standing on me, you idiot!” Lafayette managed between teeth clenched in agony. “Get off!”

“Get off?” Lorenzo hissed back. “Onto what?”

“I don’t care what! Just do it—before I lose my grip and we both go down!”

There were huffings and puffings from above. One foot lifted from O’Leary’s pained flesh, then the other.

“All right—I’m clinging like a human fly to a crack you couldn’t hide a dime in,” Lorenzo whispered shakily. “Now what?”

“Shut up and listen!”

“... for this reason, I have decided to honor the lady in question by making her my bride,”

Goruble was announcing in unctuous tones. “You have been chosen to witness this felicitous event as an indication of my high esteem for your loyalty, to say nothing of your keen judgment, which tells you when to join in the spirit of the occasion.” He paused ominously. “Now, is there anyone present who knows of any reason why I should not be instantly joined in holy matrimony to the Lady Andragorre?”

“Why, the dirty, double-crossing rat!” Lafayette burst out.

“Why, you dirty, double-crossing rat!” an angry shout sounded from within—in the unmistakable tones of Duke Rodolpho. “This wasn’t part of our agreement, you slimy little upstart!”

“Seize the traitor!” Goruble bellowed.

“What’s happening?” Lorenzo whispered as bedlam broke out within.

“Krupkin plans to marry Lady Andragorre, the swindler! Rodolpho is objecting, and Krupkin’s objecting to his objecting!”

The babble from within had risen to a clamor reminiscent of a traffic jam. Goruble’s shouted orders mingled with screams, curses, Rodolpho’s bellows of outrage. There was a scrape and a crunch, and Lorenzo was jostling Lafayette on his fragile perch.

“Out of the way,” he yelled. “Just wait until I get my hands on that kidnapping, confidence-betraying, bride-stealing son of a rachitic fry cook!”

“Hey,” Lafayette yelled as his fellow eavesdropper thrust against him, nearly dislodging him from his grip. “Hold on!”

“I’ll hold on—onto his neck, the lousy little claim-jumper!” Lorenzo’s swinging boot contacted glass; it burst in with an explosive crash. An instant later the enraged Lorenzo had disappeared through the swirling drapes.

“The poor idiot!” Lafayette groaned. “He’ll be torn to bits—and without helping Daphne—I mean Beverly—I mean Cynthia—or Lady Andragorre at all!” He craned, caught a glimpse of the surging crowd, the red-uniformed men moving among the gowns and cravats, of Lorenzo, charging through—

At the last moment, Goruble turned—in time to receive a jolting roundhouse punch in the right eye. As the assaulted prince staggered back, large uniforms loomed, closed in on Lorenzo.

“That did it,” Lafayette muttered. “But at least he landed one good one ...” He leaned for another look.

“So,” Goruble was roaring, dabbing at his injured eye with a large lace-edged hanky, “it’s you, is it, Lorenzo? I have plans for you, lad! Gorog’s been fed once this evening, but he’ll savor another snack, no doubt! And before you die, you’ll have the pleasure of witnessing my union with the lady whom you’ve had the audacity to molest with your unwanted attentions!”

“M-M-Milady Andragorre,” the shaken voice of a palace footman announced in the sudden hush. The crowd parted. A dark-haired, dark-eyed vision of loveliness appeared, clad in bridal white, accompanied by a pair of angular females in bridesmaid’s costume which failed to conceal their police-matronly physiques.

“On with the ceremony,” Goruble shouted, all pretense of courtliness gone now. “Tonight, my nuptials; tomorrow, the conquest of the known universe!”

Lafayette clung to the wall, shivering violently as the icy wind whipped at his shirt. His hands were as numb as grappling hooks, though far less secure. His toes felt like frozen shrimp. Any moment now, his clutch would fail, and down he would go, into the depths below. He pressed his chin against the cold stone, listening to the droning voice of the ecclesiastic beyond the window, intoning the marriage ceremony.

“Why did it have to end like this?” he muttered. “Why did I have to get mixed up in it in the first place? Why didn’t Pratwick help me instead of torturing, me with that idiotic jingle—that meaningless rhyme that doesn’t rhyme? “... the favorite of millions from the Bronx to Miami The key to the riddle is ... what? What rhymes with ‘Miami’? ‘Mammy’? ‘Bon Ami’? ‘Clammy’? The favorite of millions from the Bronx to Miami—the key to the riddle is ... is ...”

There was a sudden outburst inside: “Beverly—tell him no! Even if he does promise to slit my throat if you don’t go through with it!” Lorenzo’s shout was cut off by a meaty smack followed by a thud.

“He’s merely stunned, my dear,” Goruble said unctuously. “Carry on, you!”

“D-do you ... Lady Andragorre ... take this ... this Prince ...”

“No,” Lafayette moaned. “This is too terrible. It couldn’t be happening! Total, utter failure—and I’ve always been such a lucky fellow—like finding the door in the cliff when I needed it, and the Mad Monk costume, and ... and ...” He froze, groping for a ghostly idea floating just beyond his grasp.

“Think,” he commanded himself. “Luck, I’ve been calling it. But that’s fantastic. You don’t have that kind of luck. That’s the kind of thing that happens when you manipulate the probability fabric. So—the conclusion is that you were manipulating the cosmic energies. It worked—those times. But other times it didn’t. But what was the difference? What did those occasions have in common that was lacking when I tried and failed?”

“Smelling salts,” Goruble was bellowing from inside. “The poor creature’s fainted, no doubt from the sheer thrill of her good fortune ...”

“Nothing,” Lafayette groaned. “I can’t think of a thing. All I can think of is poor Daphne, and Swinehild, a sweet kid even if she did smell like garlic ...”

Garlic ...

“Garlic’s always been associated with thaumaturgy and spells,” Lafayette babbled, grasping at straws. “And spells are just amateur efforts to manipulate the cosmic energies! Could it be garlic? Or maybe Swinehild herself—but Swinehild’ doesn’t rhyme with ‘Miami.’ Neither does ‘garlic.’ Anyway, she only smelled like garlic because she was always making sandwiches out of that kosher salami—

“Kosher
salami!”
Lafayette shouted. “That’s it! The favorite of millions from the Bronx to Miami—the key to the riddle is kosher salami!” He gulped, almost lost his grip, grabbed and held on.

“The salami was under me when I conjured up the knife—and we were eating it when I managed the costumes—and it was in my pocket on the cliff. So all I have to do is—”

O’Leary felt a cold hand clutch his heart.

“My pocket. It was in the pocket of my coat— and I left it up above, padding the rope!

“All right,” he answered. “So that means you have a climb ahead, that’s all.

“Climb up there? My hands are like ice, and I’m weak as a kitten, and freezing, and anyway—it will take too long—

“Get moving.

“I ... I’ll try.” With vast effort, O’Leary undamped a hand, groped for a grip higher up on the rope. He was dangling free of the wall now. His arms were like bread dough, he realized, his weight like a lead effigy.

“It’s no use ...

“Try!”

Somehow he pulled up another foot. Somehow he managed another six inches. He clung, resting, inches upward. The wind banged him against the wall. He looked up; something dark lay on the parapet, flapping in the wind.

“It’s too far,” he gasped. “And anyway—” As he watched with horrified fascination, the coat, having gradually worked free of the rope under which it had been pinned, flopped over, the brocaded tails dangling down the outer face of the parapet. The wind plucked at the garment, nudged it closer to the edge. It hung for a moment; a new gust stirred it—