"It was transitions," Harris said, his voice slurred and dull. "Moving in and out. That's how I figured it out."
Doc sat on the other side of the lounge's table. "You're not making any sense."
"I know." Harris laughed. The sound was high-pitched and strained. He cut it off. "You couldn't make Gaby's magic go."
"Magic is a discredited term—"
"Oh, just pipe down. But obviously she had a lot of it. Your devices told you so." He chanted the last words to the tune of the old Sunday School song—"Jesus loves me, this I know . . . "
Doc scowled. "Yes."
"You see, the thing was, Gaby knew the fair world before she got here. It didn't freak her out the way it did me. But Gabrielle didn't even know herself. Tried to ask me about her once. You remember."
Gaby, wearing a robe over her nightshirt, was huddled in one of the chairs, her legs drawn up. She still looked upset.
"There's no mystic twin. Gaby and Gabrielle are the same person. When she sleeps, her mind goes running off into talk-box land. Transitions, in and out of sleep, get it? It's like the people who get radio waves on their braces and fillings. Except she's a lot better."
"She must be, if her mind can walk between worlds. She called to me even when she was living on the grim world."
Gaby stirred. "Don't talk about me as though I'm not here."
"I'm sorry, Gabriela." Doc looked apologetic. "It does make sense. I could never coax your ability out . . . because it only works when your mind wanders among the dreams. The conjurer's circle might actually have inhibited you."
"Then what good is it to me? Especially if I can't remember who the hell I am when I'm asleep?"
"There are techniques that might help. We'll explore them after I've slept." Doc fixed Harris with a stern look. "I'm having Alastair come from the cockpit to give you something. You need sleep worse than I."
"No need." Harris closed his eyes. There was nothing behind them but darkness. "Funny thing is, I think I can sleep now." He stood and looked at Gaby. "Are you going to be okay?"
"I don't know. Maybe it's irrational, but I feel like that long-lost sister just died."
"I'm sorry. I hope she didn't." He turned away.
He made it back to his bunk and crawled in. For the first time since he boarded the Frog Prince, he luxuriated and stretched as he settled in.
He savored the memory of holding her one more time, the way she'd unconsciously nestled against him when he picked her up. Then he slid away into a dark, comfortable place and was gone.
"I want you to listen for the voices," Doc said.
Gaby, eyes closed, sat facing the talk-box. Her expression did not change.
"Are you listening?"
"Yes." Her voice was subdued.
"What do you hear?"
"Talking. So much. I can't make out the words."
"Look around. What do you see?"
Gaby turned her head one way and then the other but did not open her eyes. "My room."
"What's in it?"
"My table. My bed. The walls. It's lonely."
"Go sit down by the table and pick up your horse. We'll give you someone to talk to."
"All right."
Doc picked up the leather helmet from the table and strapped it on. He pulled the mask portion over his face and snapped it in place. He knew the dangling tubes gave him the appearance of the offspring of an elephant and a human, something he'd heard of but never seen. He briefly wondered what sort of devisements would make such a conception possible, and whether either party enjoyed it.
His improvised gear also hung out of the nose of the mask. He turned on the talk-box, then moved around back and attached two wires from his nose gear to leads on the machine.
Harris, rubbing the stubble on his chin, appeared in the doorway to the aft sleeping cabin. He looked very grimworldish in his new jeans and old jeans jacket, and he seemed more rested. His eyes got big as he spotted Doc in this peculiar gear. Doc held up a finger to shush him and waved him to sit in one of the chairs positioned to the side. Harris complied, looking confused.
Doc flipped the switch at his neck. Now, with his mouth muffled, Gaby should not be able to hear his voice, while his words would go out over unused talk-box wireless frequencies. "Gabrielle," he said. "Gabrielle, this is Doc. If you can hear me, please look at me. Please open up the eye beyond the mirror."
He heard the high-pitched whine of the talk-box turning itself on. He pulled off the mask and moved around to the front.
The screen showed Gabrielle sitting, looking more like a lost little girl than he'd ever seen her. She glanced between Gaby and him. "Grace, Doc."
"Grace. Gabrielle, you know why I've called you."
"Maybe. Because of her."
"She's another part of you, Gabrielle. I want you to meet her. Talk to her."
"I'm scared of her."
"Don't be. Please stay."
He turned to Gaby. She wasn't in the deep, eye-moving sleep; that was encouraging. But she was tense, perspiring. "Gaby, in a moment I'm going to ask you to open your eyes. You'll be able to hear voices other than mine. You must not become alarmed. You're safe, surrounded by friends. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"Please open your eyes."
Gaby did so and stared straight at her doppleganger.
The talk-box screen faded and twisted, the horizontal and vertical controls both lost, but straightened out again. Gabrielle remained there. She looked ready to bolt.
"Gaby, can you see her?"
"Yes." There was strain in her voice.
"Greet her. You know her name."
"Hi, Gabrielle."
Gabrielle's voice was a whisper, almost inaudible over the engine roar. "Grace."
Gaby was still perspiring; she looked tired, tense.
"Gabrielle, I want you to think about your horse. Hold it to you, think about how it feels."
The woman on the screen was already holding the pitiful plush toy as though it were a life preserver; she clutched it tighter and rocked in her seat.
Gaby's hands came up as though she were holding something to her. Her pose was a mirror of Gabrielle's.
"Gaby, can you feel it?"
"Yes. It's velvet. It smells like cinnamon. Angus Powrie says they've grabbed Caster Roundcap."
"What?"
The talk-box screen went to static. Gaby jolted. She looked down at her empty arms. Her face twisted and she bowed her head. Doc realized she was trying not to cry.
He knelt before her. "Gabriela, I'm sorry. You're awake now, aren't you?"
Harris, looking tentative, moved behind her sofa and went to work massaging her shoulders.
"I'm awake. I'm fine. It's so stupid," she said. She wouldn't look up at him; her hair hung before her eyes. "It's not real. The horse. The room. But it's like remembering something I used to love, something I've forgotten about for years and years . . . "
"Why did you say that about Angus Powrie?"
She finally looked up at him. Her expression was an odd mix of hurt and defiance. "I heard it. I felt the doll. I could see you through this mirror. I heard this babble of voices, like the cocktail party from hell, and I got this headache. It's still with me." She rubbed her temple. "And then in the middle of it was this voice, this smooth, nasty voice. It said something like, `Angus Powrie has reported in. He's acquired Caster Roundcap. We'll call to you if we have anything more . . . ' And then I lost it."
"Because I shouted." He took her hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. "I'm sorry. We did well. Next time I'll try to keep myself under control. For now, you ought to get some rest."
"No, thanks. Noriko is going to give me my first piloting lesson." She reached up and patted one of Harris' hands. "Thanks, Harris. I think I'm all right." She stood, not looking at either one of them, and went forward.
Doc asked, "Does she ever follow anyone's advice?"
"Sure. When it happens to match what she plans to do anyway." Harris' gesture took in the talk-box set. "Was that good?"
"I think so. But it seemed to be a tremendous strain on her. I don't like that."
"Where do I know the name Caster Roundcap?"
"I called to him about you."
"Oh, yeah. The expert on the grim world."
"And now it seems I've dragged him into danger." He sighed. "Obviously the Valks have reached Cretanis already. But we land in less than a bell. Maybe we can get to Caster before anything worse happens to him."
"Can you call ahead and tell the police, the guard, to be on the lookout?"
Doc shook his head. "I could, but then they would be on the lookout for me, as well. I have a longstanding disagreement with Maeve the Tenth that makes it impractical for me to announce my arrival."
"Great. I'm helping a guy that everybody in the world either works for or wants to kill."
Doc nodded. "That about sums it up."
The Frog Prince, Noriko and Doc once more at the controls, made a sweet, smooth landing at the Suliston airstrip. The strip had its lights on, but those beacons winked to darkness almost as soon as the plane taxied to a halt inside the designated hangar.
Over his shoulder, Doc called, "Do you have the papers?"
Jean-Pierre's voice floated faintly back up to him. "Right here." Doc heard the man clinking coins through his hands. He smiled.
As he and Noriko went through their shutdown checklist, he felt a sudden stir of cold air as exterior hatches were opened. Moments later, he saw Jean-Pierre walk into view before the plane and approach the arriving officials. Jean-Pierre moved among them, talking comfortably, gesturing proudly at the plane, dropping coins into hands with slippery ease.
In just a few beats he was back, sauntering into the cockpit. "They're our very good friends," he said, "and anxious not to annoy our employer with irrelevant questions or paperwork. As long as the coin holds out, of course."
"Of course," Doc said. "Who's our employer?"
"Why, that famous construction magnate, Joseph of Neckerdam." Jean-Pierre gestured like a man stating a fact of nature. "He's biggest, he's boss."
"Stands to reason. Now go out and arrange to have us refueled and served. Hire Joseph a lorry or a car. And ask about any Valkyries landing."
"Perfection is never enough for you, Doc."
The road was a one-lane blacktop situated between towering ranks of trees—the biggest, most gnarled oaks Harris had ever seen. They leaned across the road and stretched limbs down as though waiting to swat unwary motorists off the road. There were no streetlights, no reflective signs on dangerous turns, no stripes down the middle to indicate lanes. In the car they'd hired—a huge convertible roadster, the personal property of one of the airfield owners—Jean-Pierre roared ahead with a singular indifference to the fate of the vehicle or its passengers.
Harris clutched his jacket tight around him; it was inadequate in the cold air whipping across them. "First thing we get back," he shouted, "I invent the seatbelt."
"Seat restraints aren't new," Doc shouted back. "They're just not necessary." He had Duncan Blackletter's tracer in his hand; its screen cast a green glow on his features. He frowned at it.
"Ask Jean-Pierre to drive smack into one of those big trees, then try to tell me that again."
Doc waved his objections away. "Shut off your screen device, would you? You too, Gaby. They're interfering with this."
"Sure."
Doc raised his voice even louder so Jean-Pierre, Noriko and Alastair, in the front seat, and Joseph in the rumble seat could also hear him. "Adennum is a village. I don't think we need worry too much with it. Near it is an ancient site of worship, the Adennum Complex. It has a great hill, circle stones, standing stones, radiating lines and paths; it covers a lot of ground. It's sacred to the goddess Sull, Lady of the Dark World, Bringer of Death and Knowledge, and it's very old."
Gaby tried futilely to keep the wind from whipping her hair into a nightmarish tangle. "You think Duncan Blackletter will be at the complex."
"Yes. The village is just a village. The complex is a place of power."
"What does he want there?"
"We'll find out. We'll look at the site. If he hasn't arrived yet, we'll set up for him. A couple of us will go on to Beldon, the capital, and see whether we can find out anything about Caster Roundcap or the Valkyries.
"But if they're here now . . . we move against them." He looked back at the tracer. "I get a signal. There are men of the grim world within a few destads."
The village of Adennum was still at this hour of the night. Harris saw only glimpses of the houses as they roared along the village's winding streets, but he marveled at the strange architecture. The homes looked like small, round hills built of irregular stone. No two were alike in size or contours, but all doors opened to the east. Soft light emerged through the second-story shuttered windows. Harris thought that someone had erected tall, thin white columns all over the village, but realized he was looking at enormous beeches lining the roadways. Then the car was past the town and into the forest again.
After another mile, the trees fell away to the left and the travelers could look out over a large plain. Harris could see the silhouettes of standing stones, lone sentinels set up at intervals in a straight line. He saw small circles of stones laid into the earth.
Doc kept his attention on the tracer. "Not here," he said. "But getting closer."
The field of stones went on for hundreds of yards, then the trees encroached again and hid them from sight.
A few minutes more, then Alastair shouted, "Someone is conjuring nearby. I can see trails of overflow power."
"The great hill, probably. It's the correct direction." Doc leaned forward to tap Jean-Pierre's shoulder. He pointed to a turnoff marked by a standing stone. "Go past. The approach may be guarded."
Jean-Pierre passed the turnoff, but a few hundred feet further found a spot where he could pull off the road behind a screen of trees.
Doc said, "Noriko, you're vanguard."
She nodded. From the boot of the car she removed her scabbarded sword. She slung it over her shoulder by its cord, exchanged a quick look with Jean-Pierre, and loped off into the trees.
Doc gathered the rest and followed at a slower pace. Harris watched with interest as they fell without discussion into formation to pass through the trees: Doc was first and center, Alastair and Jean-Pierre yards out to either side. Joseph solemnly walked some distance back from Doc; Gaby and Harris trailed him. Gaby had her rifle slung by its strap. She kept her attention on the surrounding woods.
Jean-Pierre was first to notice a white scar cut into an oak branch off to his left. "Noriko's mark." He went to look at it, then waved the others over.
Harris took a quick look at the man slumped at the base of the tree. He was short, muscular, not bad looking. His gray suit was streaked with dirt and leaves. His face was familiar. "This is the guy who shot at me when I was driving," Harris said.
Jean-Pierre looked unhappy. "Blackletter probably has a lot of men here if he can spread them around guarding the approach."
Ahead they saw lights through the trees—stationary lights, very bright, very high—and became even more cautious, creeping along with teeth-grinding slowness. Soon enough the trees thinned and gave way to an open field. Jean-Pierre and the others crouched low and moved carefully forward from tree to tree.
Ahead of them was a treeless hill; it was a rounded cone, perfect and artificial. Wooden poles, more than a dozen, rose from the lower crest of the summit. At the top of each was a spotlight shining down on the hilltop.
There was a great deal of equipment set up on the summit. Harris saw dozens of wooden cabinets the width of a man and twice as tall. Each one was wired with flickering lights, green and red, that put him in mind of Christmas trees. More wooden cabinets were laid lengthwise across the tops of the upright ones. He could see silhouettes moving around in the center of the arrangement, but they were just silhouettes to him. There was a steady motor noise from the top of the hill.
The arrangement reminded Harris of something. It took him a moment to remember what.
Stonehenge. The cabinets were set up like a wooden Stonehenge, each one representing a monolithic stone. On this model, none of the stones was missing; even the massive lintel stones were represented.
Long yards of bare, hard ground separated the line of trees from the lower slope of the hill and the four lorries parked there.
Doc squatted and studied the situation. "Where's Noriko?"
Jean-Pierre nodded toward the trucks. "There first. Since there's been no noise, she'll either have eliminated the guards . . . or found that there are none. Now she'll be circling around to deal with as many perimeter guards as she may."
"That's the right idea. Very well. Priorities." Doc counted them off on his fingers. "One. Evaluate the situation. If it's just too much for us, retreat; we'll follow them. Two. Retrieve Caster Roundcap and any other prisoners. Three. Stop whatever they're doing. Four. Capture—or kill, if we must—Duncan, the Changeling, Angus Powrie. Any questions?"
There were none.
Doc looked them over. "Joseph, I hate to say it, but you move . . . "
"Like a dying steer in a glassworks," Joseph said.
"You've said it a little more pointedly than I would have. Get to the trucks. Take three of them out of commission and wait there." He turned to Gaby and regret crossed his face. "I must ask this. If worst comes to worst, will you kill to save me? Or Jean-Pierre, or any of us?"
Harris saw pain cross her face. She looked not at Doc but at him, Harris, for a long moment. "Yes."
"Go with Joseph. When trouble starts, the men in the woods will head back to the hill and the trucks. You have to support us and keep them off you. If you have to retreat, take the truck Joseph has spared."
She nodded.
"Alastair, Jean-Pierre, Harris and I will spread out around the hill and ascend. Gods grace us. Let's move out." He rose and immediately glided off clockwise around the hill.
For a moment, Harris felt a thrill of accomplishment. Doc had counted him in without asking. Maybe he had no more proving to do.
On the other hand, he'd just been included in something that would probably get him killed.