Act Three, Part One

Artie was sure he'd passed the same suit of armor three times now. "Place is like a labyrinth," he muttered to himself. "I shoulda asked directions. Or tied a string to a doorknob somewhere to find my way back." He turned a corner.

"Ah, Mr Gordon!" Capt Andreshko was just coming along the next corridor, heading his way. He smiled and glanced at the corner, his smile quickly fading. "Is… is not Mr West with you?"

"No, I was searching for the king's office to speak with Jim. He's not there?"

"He left some time ago," the young officer replied. "But I am confused! I heard your voice just now, and thought you must be talking to your friend."

"No, I was talking to myself. Don't you ever talk to yourself?"

From the stare Dreshko gave him in reply, Artie could easily guess the answer.

"Well, never mind all that. When did you last see Jim, and where was he going?"

Dreshko consulted his pocket watch. "It must have been, oh, at least a quarter hour ago when Mr West left the king's office. Where he was going, he did not say."

Artie gave it a moment's thought, the tip of his tongue peeking out at the corner of his mouth. "You say you saw him leaving the king's office? Would you happen to know what the two of them had been talking about?"

Dreshko's eyes popped wide. "Mr Gordon! Of course I would never eavesdrop on His Majesty's conversations!"

"No? Well, give it some time, kiddo, just give it some time."

"Are you…" The young fellow's voice dropped conspiratorially. "Are you saying that you would eavesdrop on conversations when you are assigned to guard the door?"

"Dreshko my boy, sometimes the only way to learn what you need to learn to keep your boss safe is to make sure you know as much as he knows, and then some. C'mon. Lead me to the king's office; I need to find out what he told Jim."

…

At the bottom of the stairs Jim found a small dank room, its walls built of large, gray, rough-hewn stones. The numerous torches in their sconces on the walls gave forth only a sickly yellow light. Standing off to one side was a table upon which lay a great number of closed cloth bags. There was another heavy wooden door like the one at the top of the stairs in the wall opposite the stairwell. This door had a small barred window at the average height for a guard to peek through it, and was, of course, locked.

Jim had his lock pick in hand about to remedy that when he heard a clatter from the door above, followed by voices and the sounds of many footfalls. A throng of people were coming down the stairs — likely one of those tour groups! With a quick glance around the room, Jim dove for the only bit of cover in sight. He disappeared into the darkness beneath the table just as the first of the newcomers entered the room.

…

"Mr West?" The king shrugged. "I do not know where he has gone. He was quite rude to me during our conversation."

Artie's eyes flicked to the king's face. It wasn't Jim's habit to be rude for no reason; if he had been pressing the king's buttons, it was obviously to see what sort of reaction he would get.

Artie chose a different tack. "Well, that's my boy, all right. You know, there's a reason why so many people take such an instant liking to him that they want to beat him to a pulp. I find it hard to believe though, Your Majesty, that he would be rude to you. What happened? Did he, oh, sample your family vineyards' finest claret and spit it out, saying it tasted like vinegar?"

Andreshko's face went pale, but the king merely chuckled. "Oh, nothing so extreme as all that, Mr Gordon. I showed him the letter I had found on my desk, the letter by which the kidnappers directed me to quash all spreading of rumors about Mireshche's disappearance."

Artie's eyebrows soared. "There was a letter? May I see it?"

"I would give it to you, but Mr West took it with him when he left."

"What did it say? When did you find it? How did it come to be here?"

The king poured himself another glass of wine, offered one to Mr Gordon, then returned to his desk and spun out the same story for this American as he had told to the other — yes, including the possibility of ordering them to stop the investigation, and the consequences if they did not.

…

The noise increased in the small anteroom to the dungeons below the Old Palace. Jim peeked out from his hiding place under the table to see a group of perhaps a couple dozen people, mostly native Pterovnians by the look of them, led by a fellow with an air of great self-importance who wore a plumed hat upon his head and plenty of gold braids looping from the epaulets of his tunic. The splendidly-attired guard, carrying a lit lantern in hand, called out orders to the others, prodding them into a rough line. He then crossed the room to the table and set his lantern upon it before barking out another order. One by one, the Pterovnians shuffled forward, then returned to their places in the line. Jim could hear a clinking sound — coins? — and another sound that was hard to identify, but what was actually happening above his head, he was at a loss to understand.

This was a time, he thought, when he really needed Artie here to translate.

"Oh, I say!" came a voice suddenly, blessedly in English. In fact, very, very English. "What are we doing then? What are those bags upon the table? Two krufkozí a bag, you say? What are we buying, souvenirs? Bit pricey, I'll be bound. Why, they cost twice as much as the price of admission!"

Jim's brows knitted. That couldn't be Artie, could it? What would his partner be doing here? Jim thought about sneaking a peek to see who the fellow was, but considering that the man was practically standing on top of him, Jim knew that at the moment, all he would get would be a prime view of a pair of shoes.

"I must say, though," the British voice went on, "thriving little business you've got here. What are you trafficking in: souls?"

The guard, in a voice so unctuous it was practically dripping, responded with, "I must beg your pardon, friend Ingleshko. I did not realize there would be present anyone who does not understand Pterovnian. Here, take up a bag and examine the merchandise I am selling."

There came a rustling sound, then, "A rock. You are selling rocks. Rocks of… yes, of the same material as the walls. Then you are selling souvenirs!"

"Oh, even better than that, my friend! I am selling entertainment!" said the guard. "There in the dungeons which you have paid your krufko to view, my friend, are ensconced the most dreadful specimens of human vermin Pterovnia has to offer — included the most hated man of all, the Traitor. We guards, we merely provide to the people the means by which they may do what they long to do."

"Rocks."

"Precisely."

"To lob at the prisoners?"

"But of course! You are very clever, my friend — for an Ingleshko."

"Ah? And you are exceptionally genteel — for a guardsman."

The guard's voice snapped with rancor. "Buy or do not buy!" he growled. "The tour is about to begin."

"Buy rocks to throw at caged men?" said the Brit. "Don't be ridiculous! I'll take two bags." The requisite coins clinked onto the table above Jim's head.

The transaction at last complete, the British fellow resumed his place in line, happily burbling to himself about his new acquisitions. Now the guard left the table as well and crossed to the heavy wooden door to unlock it with a large iron key. He threw open the door, herded his charges through, and locked the door again behind them all.

Barely a minute later the door opened once more to admit a slim figure in blue. Then it closed again, leaving the dank little anteroom empty.

…

Artie left his interview with the king feeling both thoughtful and annoyed. Thoughtful as he pondered how that letter had come to be on the king's desk; annoyed as he replayed the king's nonchalant attitude towards stopping the investigation. "What reason would you have to continue anyway?" Stepanko had said at the last. "In three days I pay the ransom, and the kidnappers will then keep their part of the bargain, will they not? Besides," and here he had tossed off a bit of his wine, "in three days you and Mr West may well have left Pterovnia already to return to your homeland. Many things may happen in the course of three days."

"Yes, and one of those things might well be that the kidnappers will decide they no longer need to keep Mireje alive!" Artie had growled in reply, only to have the king shake his head and wag a finger at him.

"No, no," said Stepanko. "Of one thing I am absolute certain, and that is that they will never ever lay a hand of violence upon Mireshche. She is of too much…" He considered. "…too much importance to them. No harm will come to her. Of this I am convinced."

"He knows something," Artie muttered to himself as he stalked through the halls of the palace, glancing into one room after another, searching for his partner. "Stepanko knows a lot more than he's saying. I sure would like to get my hands on that second letter and see what I can read between the lines of it! But Jim's got the letter and — consarn it! Where is Jim?"

…

A shadow clad in blue flitted through the dungeons, following after the tour group — if indeed "tour group" was the proper term for them. To describe that bunch as a circus would have been to unfairly disparage every circus that had ever been — although, truth to tell, there were plenty of folks down in that subterranean Utopia who would qualify as clowns, and more of them outside the bars than in. It would perhaps be more accurate to characterize it as a trip through an insane asylum, especially with the stipulation that those in the halls were more crazed than those in the cells.

After unlocking the door and letting all the tourists in, the guard had herded them down one corridor and up the next, pausing each time he reached a cell to intone a few phrases in Pterovnian. He would then begin to say something in English as well for the benefit of the British sightseer, presumably announcing the prisoner's name and crime, but neither of the Anglophones in his audience could ever be quite sure, for neither one ever got to hear the entire translation. As soon as the Pterovnian part was complete, the tourists would howl with indignation, dig into their two-krufkozí bags of rocks, and start pelting the unfortunate prisoner inside the cell with the stones. Some of the prisoners yelped and tried to fend off the barrage, some ran to the far wall in hopes of avoiding the attack, others into the corners of the cell nearest the door, only to find that the more persistent rock-throwers would press up against the bars and stick their arms inside the cell to lob their projectiles.

Some of the prisoners, perhaps taking inspiration from their brazen attackers, actually ran towards the cell doors and thrust their arms out through the iron bars, snarling and raging in an apparent effort to frighten their tormentors away.

And then there were some who simply sat where they were and took it, paying the rock-throwers no more attention than they might a few beetles running over their feet. No doubt these were the old-timers here, those who had long since tried all the other reactions before settling on the tactic of pretending the tourists and their rocks didn't even exist.

Onwards through the dungeons the guard led his little flock, never noticing the stealthy figure that was shadowing them. On the guard and his group went, and if the prisoners caught sight of the man slipping along at the tail end after the rest, they showed not the least bit of interest in the one man who threw no rocks.

Or… nearly none of the prisoners paid Jim any heed. The first exception to this rule was the man who waited till the guard and his gaggle moved on, then pounced upon a large rock with which one of the tourists had pelted him. As Jim passed by that cell, he saw to his surprise that this prisoner was pressing that rock to his lips — yes, not only that, but he stuck the suspiciously smooth rock into his mouth and took a bite.

Hmm! So one of the rock-throwers had smuggling in a piece of food and tossed it to this man! Interesting.

The prisoner must have felt eyes on him, for he whipped around suddenly, hiding the hunk of food — whether it was bread or meat, Jim couldn't tell — behind his back. He stared at Jim for a long moment, then ventured a watery smile, followed by a wink and the press of a finger against his lips.

Jim replied with a smile and a wink of his own, then moved on.

And now the tourists had reached the culmination of their journey, the cell which held the final and most notorious of the denizens of these dungeons. Jim barely heard the guard pronounce the name of Koloshko before his voice was drowned out by howls and jeers, along with thuds and crashes from the impacts of stones against the walls and floors.

Not to mention, against human flesh.

Jim slipped up on the final corner and made a clandestine survey of the group. The stone-throwing was certainly in full swing. The Brit, Jim noted, had just emptied out his first bag of rocks and tossed it aside before opening the other. Jim scrutinized him carefully, taking in the man's close-cropped blond hair and upward-curving waxed moustaches, his lack of height and even more so of girth. No, Jim decided, even if Artie were to throw himself so deeply into character as to cast stones at caged prisoners, and even though he'd often demonstrated the ability to somehow make himself seem a foot or so shorter than his real height, Jim knew for sure that Artie would never be able to disguise himself as such a skinny man as the Brit here before him. A thicker-set man, yes; he'd done that many times. But to make himself look that scrawny? No, Artie could never pull that off, not without going on a strict diet for many weeks beforehand.

So this wasn't Artie after all. That was a pity, since it wasn't impossible that Jim might find himself in need of his partner's back-up. No doubt this British fellow was part of his nation's delegation to the royal wedding, frittering away his hours like so many others, waiting to hear if the wedding was on or not.

The guard clapped his hands and called out something in Pterovnian, then added, "This ends the tour. We will now go back the way we came."

Jim jumped back from the corner and glanced over his shoulder at the long corridor behind him. He'd never make it around the far corner and out of sight before the first pair of eyes could spot him! Quickly he looked around, searching for somewhere, anywhere, to conceal himself before he could be caught here where he didn't belong.

Ah! Of course, that would do. That would be perfect.

…

Artie sighed. Well, he hadn't really expected to find Jim in their rooms, and his expectation had proved to be correct. He exited the suite, and stood for a moment thumping a finger against his nose, thinking. Since Jim wasn't here, then where else could he possibly…?

"Ah, you are back!" came a voice.

Artie glanced up to see the beaming figure of Dr Rodin.

"Pardonnez-moi," Artie replied, eying the little Frenchman quizzically, "but 'back'?"

"Mais oui! From your excursion to the National Museum, bien sûr."

Excursion? What was the fellow talking about? Even more puzzled, Artie asked, "What, ah, what gave you the idea that I had gone to the museum, m'sieur le docteur?"

Rodin gave a Gallic shrug. "Pardonnez-moi. Then you did not accompany M'sieur West on his passage to the Old Palace?"

Old Palace! Artie just barely restrained himself from snapping his fingers. "So Jim went to the Old Palace!"

"Indeed, it was perhaps, euh, an hour or so back that I encountered M'sieur West in the main hall. He was striding toward the front door when he inquired of me whether I knew if the museum would be open. I presumed — incorrectly, obviously! — that you were to accompany him there. My mistake!"

"Merci beaucoup, m'sieur le docteur. I must have missed him. I shall make my own passage to the museum then. Au revoir." Artie made a respectful nod towards the Frenchman. Then, with a smile on his face at having at last gotten his lead on his partner's whereabouts, Artie ducked back into the suite to get his hat — and, he decided, a few surprises as well, just in case.

…

The guard and his gaggle of tourists rounded the corner and marched off down the corridor for the exit. By the flickering light of the torches along the walls and the lantern in the guard's hand, nobody even noticed what was in the shadows above their heads.

Soon the heavy door was opened, then locked again after everyone was out. Only then did a spread-eagled blue shadow swing down out of the rafters to land lightly in the corridor. With a glance about, Jim West hurried off around the nearer corner.

This was a much older-looking man, the prisoner in the final cell. Three years of captivity had not been kind to him. He sported a waist-long beard now that was liberally streaked with gray. He was sitting on his bunk idly plaiting small braids into the end of his beard, his eyes locked upon that self-imposed task.

"Capt Koloshko!" came a furtive voice from the door.

If Koloshko heard, he gave no sign of it. His hands never paused in the endless rhythm of folding the left-hand strand over the middle, followed by the right-hand strand, again and again and again…

"Koloshko!"

Still no response. Obviously the Traitor was firmly in the ignore-them-till-they-go-away camp.

"Koloshko, I know you can hear me," said Jim tenaciously. "I find it hard to believe that a man like you, a man who loves his king as you do, would have any part in this plot against him!"

That woke the prisoner up. Slowly, a frown gradually creasing his forehead, Koloshko turned to look at the cell door.

And now he stared, stunned. "M… Mister West?"

Jim nodded. "Yes, James West. You remember me."

Koloshko's face split into a grin. "Indeed, how could I ever forget you? You rescued me after the baroness betrayed me, and it was because you vouched for me, I have no doubt, that I am here today and alive, having escaped the fate that befell my, ah, former associates."

Jim clutched the bars of the cell door, and leaned forward, his blue eyes gleaming. "And yet you repay King Stepanko's mercy by conspiring against him once again."

"I… What?" Confusion furrowed his brow once more, but only for a moment. "Ah!" he said, and glanced up at the tiny barred window set high in his cell wall, admitting barely any of the noontime sun. "Then it has happened."

It was as much as an admission of guilt, and it infuriated Jim. "Yes, it's happened! Your little game has thrown the whole palace into a panic, and nobody knows what's become of her. Who helped you, and where have they taken her?"

Koloshko tipped his head, frowning. "Her… her… I…" Abruptly his face changed, his eyes becoming hooded. He lifted his head obstinately. "I can tell you nothing."

Jim shook the bars. "Don't tempt me to come in there and throttle the truth out of you, Koloshko! Up until this moment I liked you and thought you were a decent man. But no man of decency pulls a stunt like this. Where is she?"

Koloshko regarded Jim for a long moment, then turned back to his weaving.

"Koloshko!"

The Traitor shook his head. "I can tell you nothing. But… the king. He sent you to me?"

"He doesn't know I'm here."

"Then it is not he who suspects my… collusion."

"I didn't suspect you either, until just now."

"No?" The prisoner turned and regarded Jim in puzzlement. "Then why are you here?"

"I needed a lead. I hoped you could help me."

The prisoner's shoulders lifted, then fell. "What lead would I have for you, stuck as I am here within the garizchezí?" He shook his head. "No, my old friend, I have nothing for you. I can tell you nothing."

Jim stared at Koloshko, glared at him, striving to quell the anger rising within him. "So you'll just sit there, braiding your beard and doing nothing, while your confederates spirit off that girl, taking her who-knows-where to do who-knows-what to her."

Again Koloshko's eyes flicked to the window, but he said nothing.

Jim let out an angry snort. "I just hope you can live with yourself!" he growled and stalked away, leaving the prisoner sitting on his bunk. At last, unseen by the departed Mr West, Koloshko left off his braiding to drop his face into his hand.

Jim, still angry, reached the heavy door and swiftly picked the lock. He then bounded up the wide stone stairway and was about to pick the lock of the door at the top as well when he paused and cocked an ear towards the door. Hmm.

Nearly soundlessly he finished picking the lock, then lifted a foot and kicked the great wooden door open so hard it bounced off the wall beyond it. There was a groan as the man who had been hiding on that side of the door sagged into unconsciousness.

The other half-dozen men lurking in the room of vases and tapestries charged towards West. Jim held his ground and waited for the first one to reach the doorway, then grabbed him and pitched him down the stairs. He landed with a crash, yet made a valiant effort to rise up again before crumpling into a heap on the anteroom floor.

A second man charged for the door, his arms spread wide to engulf West. Jim ducked under his arms and let him sail on by. That man fell all the way down the stairs without hitting a one of them only to smash into the table in the anteroom. It instantly collapsed under him, sending the remaining bags of rocks raining down onto his head.

Three down already, and two of them literally.

Two more attackers rushed the door now and strove mightily to seize their quarry, grappling with Jim, trying to yank him out into the room of vases. Jim clipped one of them with a karate chop to the neck, dropping him to the floor. At that moment the other took advantage to seize Jim in a bear hug round the waist, succeeding at last in hauling him out of the doorway. Jim and his opponent landed hard in the middle of the floor, and the remaining pair of thugs piled on as well, pinning Jim down.

Or so they thought. Suddenly Jim surged up from under them like a geyser erupting, sending all three flying in different directions. One crashed right into the largest vase on display, smashing it into a million pieces. The second went windmilling backwards into one of the walls, knocking loose an enormous tapestry. It tumbled down, engulfing him.

Only the third thug managed to avoid getting knocked out of the fight. With a snarl he charged at the irritating American.

Jim caught the man by the collar and fell backwards, carrying his attacker with him. A moment later Jim's foot drove into his opponent's middle, kicking the wind out of him and sending him winging over Jim's head to crash head first into a vase that had only moments before been promoted to largest in the room, and was now demoted like the previous largest vase to the status of a million smithereens.

The man who had destroyed it pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, trying to get up, and then utterly failing.

Jim, breathing hard, looked around, dusted off his hands and his clothes, and started to leave. He was met at the door, however, by yet another pair of thugs. These two took in the unconscious forms of their companions, then one of the new fellows turned to the other and growled out something in Pterovnian. With a nod the other snatched forth a cruel-looking dagger from his boot and lunged at Jim. Jim dodged and aimed a kick at the man's hand to deprive him of the knife.

"No!" came a voice from the next room. "No, no! Njede! No weapons! Your boss does not wish him harmed!" The voice was familiar, and Jim spared a glance toward the doorway, then backed up so as to keep an eye on his two attackers as well as on the latest newcomer all at the same time.

The man who now entered the room was, of all people, the Brit, and looking at the Englishman now, Jim wondered that he had ever imagined there was any resemblance between this cold-eyed man and Artemus Gordon.

The Brit smiled. "You will come with us quietly, I trust, Mr West," he said. "Bullet holes in that fine suit of yours would a great pity. But not so great a pity as to prevent me from shooting, let me be clear." And at this point the Brit leveled his own gun at Jim, adding, "Shall we go?"

Jim didn't waste time considering. If allowing himself to be captured would bring him one step closer to finding Mireje's kidnappers, then that was what he would do. With the last two goons flanking him and the Brit with the gun behind, Jim West was escorted from the Old Palace by way of the sally port around back.