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  Theo turned to Musket. "I thought you'd gone for Dr. Absalom."

  "In the press of circumstances, names are unimportant. They only confuse matters." The count waved a hand, dismissing the question. "My coachman tells me you had some difficulties, and the name 'Absalom' came up, shall we say, in the conversation?"

  Theo began his account while Las Bambas nodded encouragement, stopping him occasionally and asking him to repeat certain details.

  "The officer, you say, took one of the pages? And kept it?"

  Theo nodded. "He called Dr. Absalom a fraud and wanted a closer look at him. After that, when he took out a pistol, I think I killed him. I swear it was an accident."

  "Heaven help us, then, if you ever do anything on purpose," said Las Bombas. "Now, the two soldiers, did they hear him?"

  "They must have. They were standing right there."

  "And no doubt will report it to someone, even if their superior is, ah, no longer among us?"

  "If they remember," said Theo, "after everything else that happened."

  "Inconvenient things are always remembered," said Las Bombas. "We must assume the worst. Wisdom dictates that Dr. Absalom will suddenly be called out of town. As for you, young man, allow me to inquire: What are you going to do to save your neck?"

  Theo had been turning over the same question. "I'll have to set things right. I'll go to the police, to the Dorning constabulary."

  "The law?" Las Bombas stared at him. "Last place in the world to set things right!"

  "What else can I do? My master could be in jail. They had no cause to break into the shop. We did nothing wrong. I meant the officer no harm."

  "My dear boy, who's to believe that?"

  "It's the truth. They'll have to believe it."

  "It is constabulary nature to disbelieve." Count Las Bombas sighed and puffed out his cheeks. "I commend your sense of duty, but have no intention of sharing it. Musket and I shall be leaving directly."

  The dwarf, in fact, had been cramming garments into a flexible traveling case. Las Bombas urged him to greater speed, then waved a hand at Theo.

  "Farewell. Though I have gravest doubts, I wish a satisfactory resolution to your difficulties." Leaving the count and his coachman busily packing, Theo made his way across the inn yard. He drew the bolt on the gate and slipped out into the street. What had been so clear a choice in the shed now filled him with uneasiness. The count, he feared, might well be right, and a bad affair turn worse. His decision had been the only honorable one. Instead of strengthening him, however, it burdened him. He gritted his teeth and set off for the constabulary..

  Before going any distance, he sighted one of the Doming constables holding a lantern at the end of an alley. Theo called out and went toward him. The constable, after one glimpse, began running in the opposite direction. Having been chased through the streets a good part of the night, the puzzled Theo had to stretch his legs to chase the fleeing officer.

  He caught up with him at last. It was Constable Pohn, whom he had known as long as he could remember. Pohn immediately darkened his lantern. Usually good-natured, he rounded angrily on Theo.

  "What are you doing here? We've orders to search the town for you."

  "Well, you've found me. I was on my way to the station house. Where's Anton? And the officer? Did I-is he alive?"

  "He's got a broken head, but he'll mend."

  "Thank heaven. What about Anton?"

  "There's been a bad piece of business." Pohn took Theo's arm. "Dorning's no place for you."

  "I've got to settle things. It was my fault. I don't want Anton blamed."

  "He's dead," cried Pohn. "Shot down in the street. They're after you now." Theo stared, numb. Splinters of ice caught in his throat, choking and tearing him at the same time. Pohn shook him furiously.

  "Listen to me! There's an order to arrest you. That was a Royal Inspector you brained. So it's a Crown case, not some local mischief. We can't help you. You can't help Anton.

  "You're to be locked up on sight," Pohn hurried on. "But who's to say I saw you? We're going to search the woods west of the river. A wanted criminal-that's where he'd hide, wouldn't he? He'd never take to the open roads. The King's Highway? Last place he'd go. No need wasting our time in that direction. Eh? Eh? Do you understand me?"

  Pohn snapped his jaws shut, spun on his heel, and hustled away down the alley, shining his lantern into doorways and comers as if seeking the fugitive in good earnest.

  Theo stood bewildered, grasping at fragments of what Pohn had told him. There was no reason, no justice in any of it. With a surge of anger, ignoring the constable's urging, he wanted to stay and face his accuser. Anton had committed no crime, nor had Theo. To leave his only home, his books, his work-yet he knew, with bitterness, it had all suddenly become wreckage.

  Painfully, unwilling, he turned and forced his legs to carry him eastward from the town. The sky was lightening. Shreds of mist floated over the market gardens fringing the outskirts of Dorning. A rooster crowed in a farmyard. He pressed on at a faster pace, cutting across newly plowed fields, dimly reckoning he would sooner or later strike the highway. Only now did the full weight of his grief bear down on him. Along with it was something more, lodged in the back of his mind like a cinder in the eye that could not be wept away.

  He could not bring himself to think about it; he could not bring himself to turn away from it. He was unable, finally, to stand it any longer. He admitted what he had hidden from himself and wished to forget.

  The frame had not slipped or twisted. It was not an accident. Never in his life had he raised a hand in anger. But in that moment, more than anything else in the world, he had wanted to kill the man.

  Until then, he had believed in his own good nature. He pleaded that he was a kindly, honorable human being. But the bloodied face rose up in front of him. His stomach heaved. He doubled over, retching. He sat on the ground a while, head pressed against his knees. He swore every way he knew: Never again would he do such a deed.

  He climbed at last to his feet. The road lay a short distance beyond the field. He set off for it. He did not look back. He did not dare.

  4

  By midmorning, the sun had burned away the fog from the valley land east of Dorning. Theo calculated he had trudged only a few miles, but he was already weary. He had, thus far, come upon no travelers in either direction, for which he was grateful. Being obliged to give an account of himself was the last thing in the world he wanted. He had already done violence to a man. He did not wish to compound this by doing violence to the truth. He had never told a lie; it occurred to him that sooner or later he would have to lie outrageously. The best he could do was put off the moment as long as possible.

  He had begun thinking it might be wiser to stay off the road altogether when he saw a dappled gray mare trotting toward him. Harness leathers trailing, the horse whinnied and tossed her head, but made no objection when he caught the reins and pulled her up. The animal clearly had an owner, but Theo's fatigue outweighed that consideration.

  "Hold still, old girl. Whoever you belong to-I'm sorry. I'm a wanted fugitive," he bitterly added. "I might as well be a horse thief, too."

  He climbed awkwardly astride. Knowing as much of horsemanship as he did of behaving like a criminal, he nevertheless managed to turn the animal eastward, glad for one piece of good fortune.

  His good fortune blistered him before he had ridden a mile. His legs strained. He was footsore where he had no feet. At last, he climbed down and walked. The horse ambled behind him, fondly blowing down the back of his neck, nudging him when his pace slackened.

  Before he could decide how to free himself of this animal who was driving him instead of the other way around, he saw, past a bend in the road, a coach pulled onto the grassy shoulder. The doors hung open, some baggage had been spread on the ground, the shafts were empty. On top of the vehicle perched the dwarf, a stubby clay pipe between his teeth. Count Las Bombas, sweating in his shirt-sleeves, sat glumly on
a boulder.

  Sighting Theo, the dwarf sprang down like an acrobat. "I told you she'd come back one way or another. If you'd let her be, instead of chasing her like an idiot, she wouldn't have run off in the first place."

  Las Bombas heaved himself up, nodding at Theo. "I see we have you to thank for finding this ungrateful creature. And so, you changed your mind about reporting yourself to the authorities? Very sensible."

  "I would have," Theo began. He faltered, as if saying the words could somehow make it more final than it was. "But-they killed my master."

  "I'm sorry, my boy. A hard knock. Where does that leave you?"

  "With a warrant out for me. The police as much as ordered me to run away. The Royal Inspector's alive, though."

  "And no doubt in better case than we are. Thanks to the roads in your part of the country, a wheel came loose. Then Musket carelessly allowed my steed Friska! Friska! None of that!"

  This was shouted at the horse, nipping at Las Bornbas from the rear. The count withdrew to a safe distance while Musket brought the animal to the shafts.

  "A civilian beast," the count explained. "Nothing like my charger when I served in the Salamanca Lancers."

  Theo had noticed a heap of objects beside the coach and gave a questioning look at what appeared to be a collection of arms and legs.

  "Ah, those," said Las Bombas. "Remarkably natural, you must agree. Excellently done." He picked up one of the arms and showed it to Theo. It was hollow, made of painted cloth stretched over a light, flexible wooden frame. "These are often useful in my profession. Sometimes, indeed, essential."

  "But your pamphlet said you were a doctor."

  "As occasion demands. I have, my boy, spent my life in constant study. Initiate in the Delphic Mysteries, in the Grand Arcana, adviser to His Exalted Serenity, the prince of Trebizonia. I have been instructed by the Great Copta himself in summoning spirits of the dead-with, naturally, a reasonable amount of help from the living."

  "You mean," said Theo, "you're no doctor at all."

  "Don't take such a narrow view," replied the count. "I assure you, I have lightened more suffering with tubs of magnetized water than most esteemed surgeons have done with lancets and leeches. Those who, for some inscrutable reason, stubbornly refuse to benefit-if I didn't cure them at least I didn't harm them, which cannot be said for a number of your learned blood letters."

  The count reached into his pocket. "It is apparent to me that you suffer from a headache at this very instant. Am I correct?"

  Theo's head, in fact, had been throbbing all morning. He admitted this to Las Bombas, who nodded arid replied, "I knew it without asking."

  He opened his hand, revealing a black pebble the size of an egg. "This, my boy, is worth more than its weight in gold. A priceless fragment from the fabled Mountain of the Moon in Kazanastan. I need only touch it to your brow-thus. Your headache will vanish."

  A whistle from Musket interrupted the count. He turned and squinted down the road where the dwarf was pointing. Theo stiffened. A troop of Royal Cavalry was bearing toward them.

  "Make a run for it," ordered Las Bombas. "No-that will rouse their suspicions. We'll have to brazen it out."

  He rummaged in a pile of clothing and tossed some garments to Theo. "Get behind the coach. Put these on. If there's any question, say you're a Trebizonian."

  "I can't speak Trebizonian."

  "Neither can they. Very well, you'll be a mute Trebizonian. Get on with it. Not a word out of you. Do as I say."

  Theo ducked around the coach and pulled on the costume: a long, striped robe which, by its smell, had not been laundered for years, and a tall, cylindrical headpiece with a tassel.

  The troop halted. The captain turned his mount, casting a wary eye on the vehicle. Las Bombas, who had disappeared inside, now climbed out to face the officer. The count was resplendent in a general's gold braided uniform, its breast glittering with medals.

  "What seems to be the difficulty?" blustered the count as the officer sprang down and brought his hand to a rigid salute.

  "Beg to report: none, sir." The captain had gone as crimson as the count's uniform. "Forgive me, sir, for disturbing you. My men are going into garrison and I was ordered to keep an eye open along the way. A fugitive from justice, claiming to be a printer's apprentice."

  "What? What?" shouted Las Bombas. "What nonsense are you mumbling? Speak up, sir! Look me in the eye when you address me!"

  "A fugitive, sir," blurted the troop captain, "wanted for high crimes."

  "Why didn't you say so in the first place?" Las Bornbas glared at him. "Well, you don't see anyone like that here, do you? I am General Sambalo, on a special mission from the court."

  "Beg to report, sir: I saw an individual near your coach."

  "My servant?" The count beckoned to Theo. "This fellow? Trebizonian, as you see. Hardly an apprentice of any sort, eh? Can't speak. Only grunts. I spared his life on my last campaign. He's been devoted to me ever since." The officer stared at Theo. Las Bombas went on.

  "A faithful creature-as far as you can trust any of these savages. Strong as a bull, though you wouldn't think it, looking at him. Poor devil, he's quite mad. Calm and peaceful in the ordinary way of things. What sets him wild is officers with horses. Even I can't control him then."

  Taking the count's hint, Theo growled and bared his teeth in what he hoped would pass for a ferocious grimace. Terrified, at the same time he felt himself an utter fool.

  "You should have seen what he did to my last aide." Las Bombas gravely shook his head. "Those Trebizonians go straight for the throat, you know."

  The troop captain stood at attention, but it was all the man could do to stay there. Las Bombas held the officer with a stern eye, in no hurry to let him escape.

  "Have you any money?" The captain blinked. "Sir?"

  "If you do, I suggest giving it to him immediately. It may exercise a calming effect. They understand the offering of money as a gesture of friendship."

  The officer pulled out a handful of silver coins and one gold piece from his tunic and flung them at Theo. Las Bambas nodded approval.

  "That should hold him. Not long, for such a small amount. Carry on with your duties. I assume the responsibility of watching for the runaway. Dismissed!"

  The captain threw a ragged salute, scrambled onto his mount, and plunged back to his men, bawling for them to follow at the gallop.

  Las Bambas watched until the troop was well out of sight. He gave Theo a smile of satisfaction. "You made a splendid Trebizonian. For a moment, I thought you were actually going to bite him."

  "You got us a gold piece into the bargain," added Musket. "That's pure profit."

  "Yes, you pulled it off, my boy," said Las Bambas. "But you had a close call. I confess I sweated a little myself. You might be wise to stay with us for a time. For your own safety. Though it also occurs to me I could use a bright young assistant. The possibilities are unlimited. As to wages, we must leave that question temporarily open."

  "No, thank you. It's good of you, but," Theo hesitated. Until now, he had never imagined himself away from Doming. The possibility had never existed. With Anton dead and himself homeless, his best course was to stay on the move. The prospect, in fact, excited him, all the more strongly because it was new.

  "I doubt if you'll have a better offer," said the count. "Why, you'll launch yourself on an entirely new profession."

  The count's profession, Theo knew, was sheer fakery. Las Bambas was a fraud and, worse, proud of it. Nevertheless, against all reason, against all he had read and Anton had taught him, he could not help liking the rogue.

  "All right," he said finally. "I'll go with you."

  "Excellent!" cried the count. "Pack up and we'll be on our way. Musket will explain your duties."

  As soon as the artificial arms and legs and the rest of the baggage had been stowed, Las Bombas rolled himself into the coach. Theo clambered to join Musket on the box. The dwarf clicked his tongue, slapped Friska
with the reins, and set off at a speed that took Theo's breath away. With his stubby legs jutting straight in front of him, hat jammed low on his brow and his eyes gleaming, Musket looked every bit a demon coachman. Theo hung on for dear life. The coach swayed and jolted, wind whistled in his ears. What his destination might be, he had no inkling; but they were going there very rapidly. He scarcely noticed his headache had vanished.

  5

  Cabbarus, chief minister of the realm, bent over his desk scanning a sheaf of documents. Cabbarus had the virtue of diligence with an immense capacity for drudgery, and he had been at his work since dawn. From the day of his elevation from superintendent of the Royal Household, he had shown himself willing and eager to accept duties the other ministers found boring. Cabbarus, as a result, had his fingers in everything from the purchase of lobsters to the signature of death warrants. His eyes were everywhere: eyes the color of slate, unblinking; with a glance that made all on whom it rested feel, in comparison with him, less noble, less high-minded, and that their linen needed changing.

  The papers presently under this glance dealt with the latest steps taken against irresponsible pamphleteers and the printers who served them. Cabbarus had not yet received reports from such outlying towns as Belvitsa and Dorning. He expected them shortly. Meantime, he was not displeased.

  "The subjects of His Majesty," he was saying, "require the firmest guidance. The people yearn for it, without even realizing what it is they yearn for. These scribblers cause nothing but unrest. Their deaths, beyond question, will serve a higher purpose than their lives: the good of the kingdom. I bear them no personal animosity, but I would fail in my duty if I did otherwise. They will, at least, be spared the needless humiliation of a public trial."

  The chief minister's confidential secretary, Councilor Pankratz, made polite growls of approval, no more detailed answer being called for. Pankratz was a head shorter than his master, with enormous calves nearly bursting the stockings of his black court costume. Cabbarus wore no wig to cover the iron gray hair trimmed close to his skull; therefore, his secretary dared not wear one. The courtiers had nicknamed Pankratz The Minister's Mastiff. Among themselves, they joked that while Cabbarus was preaching at his listeners, Pankratz was biting their legs.