“Yonder.” Agatha pointed.
Right next to a merlon and its crenel, a trapdoor was set flush with the roof. Rod stepped over to it—carefully—and frowned down, scanning the rough planks. “I don’t see a doorknob.”
“Why would there be one?” Agatha said beside him. “Who would come up here, other than the ancient cockerel himself? And when he doth, I doubt not he doth ope’ this panel from below.”
“And just leaves it open? What does he do about rain?”
Agatha shook her head. “I misdoubt me an he would come up during foul weather.”
“True,” Rod said judiciously. “He probably only comes up to stargaze—so why bother, when there aren’t any stars?”
He drew his dagger and dropped to one knee. “Gotta be careful about this—it’s good steel, but it could break.” He jabbed the tip into the wood and heaved up. The trap rose an inch; he kicked his toe against it to hold it, pulled the dagger out, and dropped it, then caught the wood with his fingertips and heaved again—with a whine of pain; the maneuver certainly didn’t do his manicure any good. But he hauled it up enough to get his boot-toe under, then caught it with his fingers properly and swung it open. “Whew! So much for basic breaking-and-entering!”
“Well done!” Agatha said, mildly surprised.
“Not exactly what I’d call a major effort.” Rod dusted off his hands.
“Nor needful,” the old witch reminded him. “Either thy wife or myself could ha’ made it rise of its own.”
“Oh.” Rod began to realize that, with very little persuasion, he could learn to hate this old biddy. In an attempt to be tactful, he changed the subject. “Y’know, in a culture where so many people can fly, you’d think he’d’ve thought to use a lock.”
At his side, Gwen shook her head. “Few of the witchfolk would even dare to come here, my lord. Such is his reputation.”
That definitely was not the kind of line to inspire confidence in a hopeful burglar. Rod took a deep breath, stiffened his muscles to contain a certain fluttering in the pit of his stomach, and started down the stairs. “Yes. Well—I suppose we really should have knocked…” But his head was already below the level of the roof.
The stairs turned sharply and became very dark. Rod halted; Agatha bumped into his back. “Mmmmf! Wilt thou not give warning when thou’rt about to halt thy progress, Lord Warlock?”
“I’ll try to remember next time. Darling, would you mind? It’s a little dark down here.‘’
“Aye, my lord.” A ball of luminescence glowed to life on Gwen’s palm. She brushed past him—definitely too quickly for his liking—and took up the lead, her will-o’-the-wisp lighting the stairway.
At the bottom, dark fabric barred their way—curtains overlapping to close out drafts. They pushed through and found themselves in a circular chamber lit by two arrow-slits. Gwen extinguished her fox fire, which darkened the chamber; outside, the sky was overcast, and only gray light alleviated the gloom. But it was enough to show them the circular worktable that ran all the way around the circumference of the room, and the tall shelf-cases that lined the walls behind the tables. The shelves were crammed with jars and boxes exuding a mixture of scents ranging from spicy to sour; and the tables were crowded with alembics, crucibles, mortars with pestles, and beakers.
Agatha wrinkled her nose in distaste. “Alchemy!”
Rod nodded in slow approval. “Looks as though the old geezer has a little more intellectual integrity than I gave him credit for.”
“Thou canst not mean thou dost condone the Black Arts!” Agatha cried.
“No, and neither does Galen, apparently. He’s not satisfied with knowing that something works—he wants to know why, too.”
“Is’t not enough to say that devils do it?”
Rod’s mouth tightened in disgust. “That’s avoiding the question, not answering it.”
Glass tinkled behind him. He spun about.
A jar floated above an alembic, pouring a thin stream of greenish liquid into it. As Rod watched, the cover sank back onto the jar and tightened in a half-turn as the jar righted itself, then drifted back up onto a shelf.
“Harold!” Agatha warned. “Let be; these stuffs are not thine.”
“Uh, let’s not be too hasty.” Rod watched a box float off another shelf. Its top lifted, and a stream of silvery powder sifted into the alembic. “Let the kid experiment. The urge to learn should never be stifled.”
“ ‘Tis thou who shouldst be stifled!” Agatha glowered at Rod. “No doubt Harold’s meddling doth serve some plan of thine.”
“Could be, could be.” Rod watched an alcohol lamp glow to life under the alembic. “Knocking probably wouldn’t have done much good anyway, really. Galen strikes me as the type to be so absorbed in his research that…”
“My lord.” Gwen hooked fingers around his forearm. “I mislike the fashion in which that brew doth bubble.”
“Nothing to be worried about, I’m sure.” But Ron glanced nervously at some test tubes on another table, which had begun to dance, pouring another greenish liquid back and forth from one to another. They finally settled down, but…
“That vial, too, doth bubble,” Agatha growled. “Ho, son of mine! What dost thou?”
Behind them, glass clinked again. They whirled about to see a retort sliding its nose into a glass coil. Flame ignited under the retort, and water began to drip from a hole in a bucket suspended over the bench, spattering on the glass coil.
“My lord,” Gwen said nervously, “that brew doth bubble most marvelously now. Art thou certain that Harold doth know his own deeds?”
Rod was sure Harold knew what he was doing, all right. In fact, he was even sure that Harold was a lot more sophisticated, and a lot more devious, than Rod had given him credit for. And suspense was an integral part of the maneuver, pushing it close to the line…
But not this close! He leaped toward the alembic. Gasses being produced in the presence of open flame bothered him.
“What dost thou?”
The words boomed through the chamber, and Galen towered in the doorway, blue robe, white beard, and red face. He took in the situation at a glance, then darted to the alembic to dampen the fire, dashed to seize the test tube and throw it into a tub of water, then leaped to douse the lamp under the retort.
“Thou dost move most spryly,” Agatha crooned, “for a dotard.”
The wizard turned to glare at her, leaning against the table, trembling. His voice shook with anger. “Vile crone! Art so envious of my labors that thou must needs seek to destroy my Tower?”
“Assuredly, ‘twas naught so desperate as that,” Gwen protested.
Galen turned a red glower on her. “Nay, she hath not so much knowledge as that—though her mischief could have laid this room waste, and the years of glassblowing and investigating that it doth contain!” His eyes narrowed as they returned to Agatha. “I do see that ne’er should I ha’ given thee succor—for now thou’lt spare me not one moment’s peace!”
Agatha started a retort of her own, but Rod got in ahead of her. “Uh, well—not really.”
The wizard’s glare swiveled toward him. “Thou dost know little of this haggard beldam, Lord Warlock, an thou dost think she could endure to leave one in peace.”
Agatha took a breath, but Rod was faster again. “Well, y’ see—it wasn’t really her idea to come back here.”
“Indeed?” The question fumed sarcasm. “ ‘Twas thy good wife’s, I doubt me not.”
“Wrong again,” Rod said brightly. “It was mine. And Agatha had nothing to do with tinkering with your lab.”
Galen was silent for a pace. Then his eyes narrowed. “I’ truth, I should ha’ seen that she doth lack even so much knowledge as to play so learned a vandal. Was it thou didst seek explosion, Lord Warlock? Why, then?”