“I guess so, but why the complicated story?” Jacky asked nervously, already wishing she hadn’t promised to help him in this perilous undertaking.
“To get him down here alone,” snapped Tay, “without his guards. He wouldn’t want them to hear the Words of Power, or even be aware that he was making deals with Doctor Romany’s enemies.”
“And what will we do when he comes down here? Just kill him?” Though glad to be out of the pit, Jacky was feeling tense and distinctly ill. “Do you have a gun?”
“No, but a gun’s no good against him anyway. One of the spells Doctor Romany gave him is a bullet-deflecting charm. I’ve seen a pistol fired straight into the middle of his chest but the ball never touched him, just broke a window off to the side. And I’ve twice seen hard-thrust daggers simply jerk to a stop inches away from him, and shatter, as if he’d been wearing a suit of thick clear glass. The only time I’ve ever seen him cut was a couple of years ago when he went to Hampstead Heath to explain city ways to the gypsies—for at the time they thought the gypsies might be useful in organized burglary—and a gypsy that didn’t fancy the idea said Horrabin was the Beng, they tell me that means devil, and this gypsy leaped up, yanked a tent spike out of the ground and slammed it into the clown’s thigh. And it wasn’t deflected and it didn’t stop inches away from him—it tore right through, and the clown was bleeding like a ripped wineskin and almost fell off his stilts, and if the gypsy’d been able to get a second swing he’d have put Horrabin right out of the picture.”
Jacky nodded dubiously. “So what was so special about the stake?”
“The dirt on it, man!” said Tay with impatience. “Before Doctor Romany made Horrabin a magician, the clown didn’t have to walk around all day on stilts. But when you cast your lot with magic you … forfeit, you forfeit your connection with the earth—the dirt, the soil. Touching the earth is terribly painful for these magical boys, which is why Romany wears those spring-shoes and Horrabin walks on stilts. Their magic can’t work on dirt, and so this muddy stake punched through his charms as if they were cobwebs.” The dwarf pulled a knife out from under his shapeless coat and handed it to Jacky. “There’s plenty of mud between these paving blocks—rub a lot of it on the blade and then go crouch in the shadows. When he bends over to peek into the pit I’ll knock him down, and then you run up and just hack away. The underground dock is through that arch there, and we can escape down the river. Got all that?”
“Why don’t we just escape? Right now?” said Jacky with a weak smile. “I mean, why bother taking the risk of actually trying to kill him?”
Tay frowned angrily. “Well, for one thing because you promised—but I’ll give you some better reasons. It’s a good twenty minutes to the Thames by the underground channel, and if I’m not back upstairs pretty quick he’ll send men down to see what’s going on, and when he learned we were gone he’d send men running south to climb down into the sewers ahead of us and intercept us—but if we kill him, especially if he leaves orders not to be interrupted, and if we hide the body—why nobody’ll miss him for hours.”
Jacky nodded unhappily and, crouching down, fingered up a lump of mud and smeared it on both sides of the blade.
“Good. You go stand over there.” With great reluctance Jacky picked her way over the uneven pavement to a point twenty yards from the dwarf. “No, I can still see you. Farther! Yes, and a bit farther still. That should do it.”
Jacky was trembling and darting fearful glances at the impenetrable shadows all around her, and she cried out when the dwarf turned toward the arch. “Wait!” she almost shrieked. “Aren’t you going to leave the torch here?”
The dwarf shook his head. “It’d look suspicious. I’m sorry—but it’ll only be for a few minutes, and you’ve got that dagger.”
He walked away through the arch. Paralyzed with fear, Jacky could hear his footsteps receding away down the hall beyond as she watched the shape of the arch, the only spot of light, slowly darken. A few seconds after the chamber had reverted to full dark, Jacky heard a harsh whisper from nearby: “While she’s alone.” And there was a sound like long, stiff-starched skirts sweeping across the floor toward her.
Stilling a scream, Jacky ran in the direction in which it seemed to her that the dock archway had stood. After ten pounding paces she rebounded from a brick wall—and though she had struck it first with her knee and shoulder, her head had been the next to collide with it, and she wound up sitting half-stunned on the floor. She shook her head, trying to clear it and stop her ears from ringing. She knew she’d misjudged the direction of the dock arch—but was it left or right of here? Had she done a half turn or a full one when she bounced off the wall? Was the wall a yard or two in front of her, or behind, or to one side?
Suddenly something poked at her eye, and with a sob Jacky lunged upward with the dagger, and felt the point tear through balloon-like resiliencies that popped and bathed her hand and arm in cold fluid; then there was shrill, whispered screaming and the dank air shook with a buzzing like the vibrating wing-cases of some giant insect, and Jacky was on her feet and running again, stumbling over the unevennesses of the floor but never quite falling, sobbing hopelessly and sweeping the dagger back and forth through the darkness in front of her. Abruptly the floor shelved away under her feet, slanted down, and though she managed to maintain her balance for a few tilting, tiptoe steps, finally she tripped, tumbled and came up onto her skinned hands and knees, winded but still clutching the dagger. All right, come on then, she thought despairingly. At least I know you can be hurt. I suppose I’ve run right out of that chamber, and down into some tunnel where there never has been and never will be the faintest ray of light, but I’ll hack away at you monsters until you kill me.
Cautious rustlings sounded from nearby, A whispering voice muttered something, of which Jacky caught only the words, “Killed her… “
Another voice said softly, “It still has its eyes—I can feel the wind of them blinking.”
“Take its eyes,” whined a voice like an old woman’s, “but my children need its blood.”
Jacky was suddenly aware that she could smell river water, and faintly she heard water slapping against stone. It seemed to be at her back, and she turned around—and was surprised to find that she could see.
No, not see exactly, for seeing needs light; in the darkness her eyes were aware of a patch of deeper darkness, a blackness that shone with the absence and negation of light, and she knew that if the object approaching on the river should ever appear above ground, even the brightest sunlight would be swallowed up and obscured by its black rays. As it drew slowly closer she could see that it was a boat.
Another piece of the positive darkness arose behind it, defining the opposite bank; it seemed to be the shape of a vast serpent, and Jacky could hear a metallic rasping echo along the watercourse as it slowly uncoiled itself.