"Oh, many years, local time," Incarnadine said, sipping the same dark, sweet wine Trent was drinking. "In fact, I wormed my way into Mykosian culture chiefly for the purpose of saving Troas, my favorite city here."
"Tell me again why you used me as a cat's-paw. My head's a little thick tonight."
"I couldn't very well be in two places at once," Incarnadine answered. "I needed someone convincingly good as a strategist, yet someone whose mind I knew well and could second-guess. I couldn't let you in on my plans because Anthaemion surely would have sensed your duplicity. He's as cagey as they come, and a bit of a telepath."
Trent nodded. "Okay, I buy that. I had enough trouble with him. Despite my best efforts, he seemed to sense that I disliked him and that I was half-hoping that the whole operation would fail. How did you know I'd try the Trojan horse bit?"
"I didn't, but I was prepared for one sort of commando operation or another, and knew you'd be trying to take the watchtower at the north gate. The horse-transformation thing was a brilliant stroke, Trent. Masterly bit of deception. I think they would have chopped up the wooden version for firewood, it's so scarce around here."
"Right. But it's strange how the horse motif persists."
"I've followed the Troy thread in over a dozen worlds so far. It's the central legend in dozens more. Something basic is at the core of it, but I don't know what, yet. One of the things I'm studying. But all the versions I've encountered are the same in essentials."
Trent looked out the window, west, toward the sea. The city was still dark, but daybreak was not far off. "Anthaemion's out there, somewhere, waiting for my signal fire."
Incatnadine nodded. "And when rosy-figured dawn breaks without his having seen anything, he's off for home, never to return. And Troas is saved."
"And a legend is lost. You're right, this mythos is central to most Earthlike cultures. What cultural havoc are you wreaking here?"
Incarnadine chuckled and pushed a scroll across the table. "Scan that."
Trent unscrolled what looked like the beginning of a long poem written on sheepskin.
"'Sing, Muse, of the wrath of Aeakides… "' Trent gave his brother a sardonic look. "What, you joined the Blind Poets' Guild?"
Incarnadine laughed. "No, but this culture will have its heritage. As is true in most worlds, later generations will never be sure of the historicity of any of this. But they will have the poem. As for Troy-or Troas-the bay will silt up, the citadel will lose its strategic value, and it will eventually be abandoned."
Done eating, Trent sat back and drank off the rest of his wine.
"Nevertheless, my dear brother, I am mightily pissed off at you."
Incarnadine shrugged. "I can well understand."
"Why didn't you let me get word to Sheila, for gods' sake? I can't believe your insensitivity. You know how she-"
"There is no need to."
"What? What the hell are you talking about?"
"The time difference between the castle and this world is variable. I couldn't tell exactly how long you'd be gone, castle time. I knew it would be short, but I didn't figure on how short. The slippage factor shot up to five digits and has remained so the whole time we were here."
"Five digits? You mean we've been here over two years, and only-"
Incarnadine nodded, grinning. "Only a few hours have passed back at the castle."
Trent was struck dumb.
Incarnadine chuckled again. "So when you get back it'll be late evening of the day you left. Remember that when you see Sheila."
Trent laughed in spite of himself. "You rotten, no good…"
"Sorry. But she'll never know, unless you choose to tell her."
"Are you kidding? I wouldn't… Hold it, hold it. You're forgetting we have to get back to Mykos to go through the portal."
"It was originally here. I moved it back."
"Oh."
"So everything's fine."
"Whoa, just a another minute now. This doesn't let you off the hook, my friend. You duped me."
Incarnadine nodded. "That I did. Rather well, too."
"Artfully. I'm going to get back at you."
"I'm rather sure you will. Have some wine." Incarnadine reached for the pitcher.
"Thanks."
"By the way, something's been happening at the castle while we've been gone. I'm getting vague vibrations, but I'm sure it's some sort of strange magic."
Trent didn't answer immediately. Then he said, "It will be long in coming, and when it comes it will be sudden, unexpected, and frightful."
"All good revenge schemes should work that way," Incarnadine said, pouring. "Say when."
CRYPT
"Are you sleeping?"
"Hm? Just have my eyes closed."
"This floor should be hard and cold but it's not cold at all. It's not exactly soft, but it's not exactly uncomfortable either. What do you think?"
"Hm?'
"Do most men always sleep after?"
"Ah, the perennial question of male post-coital somnolence."
"Huh?"
"We should get up. By the way, notice anything?"
"Yes. Everything's quiet. No crowds, no nothing."
"Yeah. Did you notice when, in the middle of everything, it got awfully strange? I mean, intensely strange?"
"Yeah, I saw weird feet. Big pink bunny-rabbit feet."
"Yeah, and chartreuse elephant feet, and like that."
"Right."
"And then, very suddenly, everything got wispy and faded out."
"Right. I noticed. I was rather preoccupied at the time, of course."
"Of course. Me, too. Let's get out from under the table." They crawled out and dressed hurriedly.
The huge underground crypt was empty except for a few curious pink clouds scudding near the ceiling. They seemed to emanate from the crypt next door, and toward this destination they began to walk.
"Are we near the source, do you think?" Linda asked.
"I'd venture to say that we are," Gene said. "But the source seems to have dried up."
"Thank God. Is it over?"
"The weirdness? Don't know. Hope so."
They passed through a tall arch that followed a corbeled passageway which made several L's. After the last one, a short walk brought them out into another huge crypt, but this one was strange. It looked like the interior of an ancient ruin. Its marble walls were cracked and pitted; decorative friezes lay in shards along the floor. They passed dry fountains and stands of dead potted palms. Debris littered the floor.
The place was deserted except for three people up on a platform at the far end of the hall, toward which Gene and Linda moved.
Pink and purple clouds drifted amongst the tops of high columns. Here and there a Day-Glo butterfly flitted and fluttered.
"Hello?" Gene called as he began mounting the stairs to the platform.
"Hello," came the reply.
Gene and Linda reached the top of the stairs and looked around curiously. The place was an ungodly mess. "Hello, there. I'm Thorsby. This is Fetchen."
Gene asked, "Is he all right?"
"Uhhh," Fetchen answered.
"He'll pull through," Thorsby said. "Thought I'd lost him, but he's doing fine."
"Good," Gene said. "Let me ask you a question."
"Fire away, sir."
"What the hell has been going on here?"
"Ah! Yes, of course, you would want to know that. Well, that's going to take some explaining. If you'd just give me a minute to collect my thoughts. Been in a bit of a dust-up, don't you know. Almost didn't pull through myself. We've had no end of trouble, no end of trouble."
"They had one hell of a good time," said the large bald man who sat at the far end of the dais.
"Who's that?" Gene asked of Thorsby.