"This group better stay away from alcohol," Deena said as they walked along the corridor. "You guys and booze don't mix."
"Demon rum," Gene mused.
"Yeah, that ol' demon'll getcha every time."
They passed through an intersecting corridor. No one saw the odd gnomish creature as it crossed behind them, broom in hand.
"Actually, I rarely drink," Gene said. "Just on social occasions."
"I like bein' social."
"A social drinker. Actually, I'm a socialist drinker."
Deena shot him a curious look. "What the hell's a socialist drinker?"
"One who believes in the collective ownership of the means of distillation."
"Damn, there he goes again. Talkin' crazy."
Dalton said, "Quite a novel political concept you have there, Gene."
"Yeah, but I don't advocate the violent overthrow of the existing distillation system. That's what separates a gradualist like me from-"
Gene stopped in his tracks at the sight of the approaching apparition: a broom-bearing gnome in bib overalls. Everyone halted with him.
They all stood watching as the creature passed. It moved with a curious bobbing gait, head swaying, its misshapen eyes averted.
When it turned a corner and was gone, Deena said, "What the hell was that?"
Dalton rubbed his sharp chin. "You know, I've seen all manner of strange critters in this place. But there's something about that one, something odd."
"Yeah," Barnaby Walsh said. "What do you think it was?"
"A homunculus," Gene replied. "Horrible little malformed thing. Reminds me of a film producer I once knew."
"Dwarf, gnome," Dalton offered.
"Hobbit?" Gene ventured. "No, its feet weren't hairy."
"No, you're right. `Homunculus' is le mot juste."
"What's the problem?" Thaxton wanted to know. "As you said yourself, Dalton, old boy, not a day goes by when we don't see some abomination in the castle. Frightful beasties at every turn."
"But that thing is passing strange," Dalton insisted.
"Wouldn't have given it a second thought if you hadn't-" Yet another homunculus, pink and bald and dressed in blue bib overalls, turned the corner ahead and came toward them.
Dalton said, "You were saying?"
"Bloody hell."
As before, the creature shambled by without giving them so much as a passing glance.
"Weird shit goin' on here," Deena muttered. "I'm goin' to bed. Good night, y'all." She hurried down the corridor.
"Wait, we'll walk you," Gene called after her.
"My room's right down the hall," Deena told him as she paused at the next intersection to peer around the corner. She checked both directions before heading left.
The rest of the group turned right toward the Queen's Dining Hall.
"Well, it's probably nothing," Thaxton said. "A few stray creatures fallen in from one balmy universe or another. God knows there are enough of them in this place. Balmy universes, that is."
"Nothing to it, huh?" Dalton asked as yet another homunculus crossed their path.
Thaxton stopped and put his fists to his hips. "Something is going on."
"Why brooms, do you think?" Gene wondered.
"Brooms," Dalton pondered. "Haven't a clue."
"Could they be a new type of servant?" Melanie asked.
"Now there's a rational explanation," Dalton said. "Maybe the Chamberlain knows something."
"Let's go up to Edwin's quarters and ask him," Gene suggested.
"We should ask Tyrene," Thaxton said. "If the Captain of the Guard doesn't know about this, he should be informed."
Dalton began, "I do believe-" but was interrupted by a shout.
"What's the matter?" Gene called to Deena as she came running up the corridor.
"They're in my room!" she cried out. "Little guys!"
"In your-?"
They all rushed to Deena's quarters. The door was wide open.said, half
"They're in there… cleanin'!" Deena wailed. "They're sweepin' up my goddamn room!"
"Maybe they're supposed to?" Dalton suggesting, half-disbelieving.
"I sure as hell don't want 'em to! Ain't I got any say in it?"
They all peeked around the doorjamb. Sure enough, inside were four of the curious creatures, furiously but efficiently tidying up the bedroom, brooms whisking, rags snapping. The faint scent of lemon oil arose from the place.
"Damnedest thing," Thaxton said.
MYKOS
The gate to the city was an imposing structure topped by two stone lions confronting each other. The gate itself consisted of immense bronze doors that opened onto the main avenue of the citadel. The walls of Mykos were made of great blocks of stone, fitted one to another with extreme precision. From afar the buildings and temples of the city looked modern. No columns crowned with acanthus, no friezes. No statuary save for the lions. This was not a classical age. The city within the gates was the stronghold of a warlord.
The gatekeeper was a spear-carrying soldier wearing a helmet made of segments of ivory-probably boar's tuskssewn together and stitched to a leather lining. He wore bronze greaves and a leather breastplate over his red tunic. "Halt and state your name and your business."
"I am Trent, brother of Inkarnases the magician. Here is his signet to prove it. I am here at the behest of His Majesty the king."
The guard took one look at the ring. "You are expected, Honorable. Please enter. If it please you, an escort will be provided to the royal palace."
"It pleases me. I thank you kindly."
Trent was waved through the gate. Inside, he was met by two more spear-carriers who bade him follow them. This he did, and found himself touring the citadel by foot.
He was still amazed at how clean and functional the architecture looked. He had half-expected porticos and Corinthian façades. But this was not Greece, nor was it an analogue to the Greece of Pericles. If this world corresponded with any earthly period, it evoked a dim past that was mostly legend. However prehistoric, though, the architecture was not primitive by any means. It was functional and graceful at the same time. Its lines were sharply geometrical, unadorned, yet comfortably human, quite unlike the rigid, uncompromising Bauhaus style of another universe and another time.
This curious style diverged from the modern in another way: the buildings were painted in very bright, sometimes gaudy colors.
A gradually rising earthen ramp gave him a sweeping view. On the city's western fringe lay a circular wall that enclosed what looked like a cemetery with huge stones marking grave sites. To the east stood an enclave of simple buildings that probably housed artisans and their workshops. Beyond them lay a section of more elaborate structures that might have been the digs of royal functionaries or perhaps the clergy.
The ramp led up to the foot of a broad stone stairway, which mounted to the summit of the eminence that commanded the plains below, and to the acropolis, whereon stood the palace and the various temples.
Trent lagged behind his escort, and they slowed their pace to accommodate him. Ancient history had never held any special attraction for him, but this milieu was greatly interesting.
One of the soldiers glanced back at him curiously; and he increased his pace. He'd be here a while; time enough later to rubberneck.
The entrance to the palace complex was a narrow gate set in a high wall enclosing a courtyard.
The palace itself was imposing, painted in bright colors that looked at once barbaric and decadent. The massive tapered columns flanking the entrance were iridescent red, banded in yellow and blue.
He followed his escort through the columns and into a spacious entry hall, where he was announced to the palace guards. These detached two of their number to lead him through high corridors and into the palace proper.
They passed through a smaller courtyard, then threaded two more huge pillars, entering another corridor, at the end of which was a vestibule that gave access to a great hall. This high chamber was done in a color scheme even more garish than that of the exterior.