The crooked corridor veered sharply to the left and plunged downward at a severe angle. They struggled to maintain their footing, slipping and stumbling until they were moving faster than they could help. Almost running, they plunged down and out onto the level floor of a fantastical chamber-a large domed grotto-so filled with ambient blue light that its every feature stood out in sharp focus.
They gasped, astonished at the spectacle.
Stalagmites, ranging from tiny to huge, rose from the floor, stretching toward stalactites of similar proportions, which hung from the high roof. Many of them had met and melded together to form massive asymmetrical pillars, giving the chamber the appearance of a gigantic organic cathedral.
Veins of glittering quartz were embedded in the walls, and serrated clumps of the crystal rose from the floor. On the far side of the chamber, a small fountain of clear water tinkled as it bubbled up from its underground source, spreading into a pool, roughly oval in shape and about twenty feet across at its widest point. Draining from it, a narrow stream had cut a channel through the stone floor to the centre of the cavern, where the kidney-shaped forty-foot-wide mouth of a sinkhole opened in the floor. The stream plunged into the darkness of this cavity, disappearing back into the depths of the Earth.
A number of tall wooden posts with roughly spherical masses stuck at their tops stood around the hole.
At the base of the walls, mushrooms-probably white but appearing pale blue in the light-stood clustered in groups; mushrooms of wildly exaggerated proportions, many of them more than twelve feet tall.
Trounce gasped: “Somebody pinch me!”
“Incredible!” Swinburne spluttered. “If an emissary of the fairy nation stepped forward and, on behalf of his monarch, welcomed us to his kingdom, I wouldn't be a bit surprised!”
They moved farther into the grotto and peered into the well. Trounce picked up a rock and dropped it in. They waited, expecting to hear a crack or splash echoing up from the darkness. Neither came.
“A bottomless pit,” the Scotland Yard man muttered.
The men stepped over to the pool. Burton knelt and lifted a handful of water to his lips.
“Wonderfully pure,” he said. “Thank heavens!”
They slaked their thirst.
“Boss,” Spencer said.
Burton looked at the philosopher and saw that he was pointing at the nearest of the upright poles. The king's agent examined it and let out a gasp of horror.
The lump at its top was a desiccated human head. Though wrinkled and shrunken, it was unmistakably that of a European.
There were seven poles and seven heads. Burton examined them all. He recognised one. It was Henry Morton Stanley.
“These others must be the five men who travelled with him,” he said. “Which leaves one extra.”
A harsh voice rang out: “Ja, mein Freund!It is the head of poor James Grant!”
They whirled around.
Count Zeppelin stepped into view from behind a thick stalagmite. He was a tall and portly man with a completely bald head and a big white walrus moustache. His hands were gripped tightly around the neck of a second individual. It was John Hanning Speke. The vicious-looking claws at the end of Zeppelin's fingers were pressing against, but not yet piercing, the skin of the Britisher's throat.
“Es ist sehr gut!”said the count enthusiastically. “We have reached the end of our journey at last!”
“You bastard!” Swinburne hissed. “You've the blood of Tom Bendyshe and Shyamji Bhatti on your hands!”
“I do not know those people,” Zeppelin answered. “And I do not care.”
Burton whispered to Spencer: “Herbert, if you can make your revolver work, now is the time. On my command, draw it and shoot him.”
“Rightio, Boss.”
“And what is the death of one man,” Zeppelin was saying, “or two, or even a hundred, when we-how do you say it, Herr Burton? — wenn wir mit der Welt spielen?”
“When we are gambling with the world. I would say the death of one man might make all the difference, Count Zeppelin. Hello, John. Your erstwhile ally seems to have you at a disadvantage.”
Bedraggled and skinny to the point of emaciation, with his beard grown almost to his waist, Speke's pale-blue right eye was wide with fear. The left was a glass lens-part of the brass clockwork apparatus that had been grafted to his head, replacing the left hemisphere of his brain. It was a prototype constructed by Charles Babbage, designed to process the electrical fields stored in two fragments of the Cambodian Eye of Naga. Those diamonds had been stolen before the scientist could properly experiment with them, so he'd passed the device over to a cabal of Technologists and Rakes, and they'd fitted it to Speke in order to gain control of him. Later, Babbage had constructed a much more sophisticated version of the device, and that now sat in Herbert Spencer's head, along with all seven of the Cambodian stones.
“Dick!” Speke gasped. “It wasn't me! It wasn't me! I didn't do any of it!”
“I know, John. You've been the greatest victim of them all.”
“Please! We have to get out of here! They'll come for us!”
Zeppelin grinned. “He believes there are monsters in this place.”
“I see only one,” Swinburne snarled, stepping forward with his fists raised.
“Remain where you are, kleiner Mann,” Zeppelin growled.
Burton said, “Let's not waste any more time. Now, Herbert.”
The clockwork philosopher drew his revolver, aimed it at Zeppelin's head, and did nothing.
Burton sighed. He turned to William Trounce and asked, in an exasperated tone, “Have you noticed how he winds down at the most inconvenient of times?”
“I have!” the Yard man grumbled.
Count Zeppelin laughed nastily. “Your clockwork toy has become a statue. Sehr gut!Now, let us get to business. I want your little assistant to go around the rock behind me. He will find there a pack, and in it some lengths of rope. Have him fetch them, if you please.”
“Up yours, you murdering git!” Swinburne spat.
“It would be more convenient for me to keep the lieutenant alive for a while longer, Herr Burton, but I am prepared to inject him with venom now, if necessary. It will cause him to transform in a most painful fashion. He is your enemy, ja?But he was once your friend. Are you prepared to watch him die?”
The count applied pressure to Speke's neck. The Englishman started to choke.
“Stop!” Burton barked. “Algy, fetch the ropes.”
“But, Richard-”
“Just do it, please.”
Swinburne hesitated, then stamped past Zeppelin and his captive, found the pack, retrieved the coils of rope, and returned to his former position.
“Don't-” Speke began, but was cut off and shaken hard.
“You will be quiet!” the count said. He looked at Trounce and demanded: “You there! Who are you?”
Trounce scowled. “I'm Detective Inspector William Trounce of Scotland Yard.”
“Ha-ha! A policeman in Africa! Most amusing! You will kneel down and the little man will bind your wrists.”
“I'll not kneel for you!”
“You are of no consequence to me, Detective Inspector. If you allow yourself to be tied, I give you my word that I will leave you here alive. Perhaps you will manage to free yourself and make your way out of this cavern, ja?But if you resist, I shall most certainly kill you like a dog.” Zeppelin transferred his attention to Burton. “Do not doubt that I can defeat all three of you, Herr Burton!” He took his right hand from Speke's neck, held it up, and flexed his fingers. His claws gleamed in the phosphorescent light. “It takes but one scratch!”
“William,” Burton said, quietly. “Do as he says, please.”
Trounce looked shocked. “We can overpower him!” he hissed.
“The risk is too great. As he says: one scratch. I would prefer to keep you alive while this affair plays itself out.”