“Maybe, but I think there might be something to it. He was trying to figure out how the brain itself, that lumpy blob of protoplasm, can create this magic thing called ‘thought.’ ”
“Aye, I mind me an he mentioned some such nonsense,” Agatha grated. “What of it?”
“Oh, nothing, really.” Rod stood up, hooking his thumbs in his belt. “I was just thinking, maybe we oughta go pay him another visit.”
The dark tower loomed before them, then suddenly tilted alarmingly to the side. Rod swallowed hard and held on for dear life; it was the first time he’d ever ridden pillion on a broomstick. “Uh, dear—would you try to swoop a little less sharply? I’m, uh, still trying to get used to this…”
“Oh! Certes, my lord!” Gwen looked back over her shoulder, instantly contrite. “Be sure, I did not wish to afright thee.”
“Well, I wouldn’t exactly say I was frightened…”
“Wouldst thou not?” Gwen looked back at him again, wide-eyed in surprise.
“Watch where you’re going!” Rod yelped.
Gwen turned her eyes back to the front as her broomstick drifted sideways to avoid a treetop. “Milord,” she chided, “I knew it was there.”
“I’m glad somebody did,” Rod sighed. “I’m beginning to think I should’ve gone horseback after all—even though it would’ve been slower.”
“Courage, now.” Gwen’s voice oozed sympathy. “We must circle this Dark Tower.”
Rod took a deep breath and squeezed the shaft.
The broomstick began to swing around the tower, following Agatha’s swoop ahead of them. Rod’s stomach lurched once before he forgot it, staring in amazement at the Tower. They were sixty feet up, but it soared above them, a hundred feet high and thirty wide, the top corrugated in battlements. Altogether, it was an awesome mass of funereal basalt. Here and there, arrow-slits pierced the stones—windows three feet high, but only one foot wide.
“I wouldn’t like to see his candle bill,” Rod grunted. “How do you get in?”
The whole bottom half of the Dark Tower reared unbroken and impregnable, pierced by not so much as a single loophole.
“There has to be a door.”
“Wherefore?” Gwen countered. “Thou dost forget that warlocks do fly.”
“Oh.” Red frowned. “Yeah, I did kinda forget that, didn’t I? Still, I don’t see how he gets in; those loopholes are mighty skinny.”
“Yonder.” Gwen nodded toward the top of the Tower, and her broomstick reared up.
Rod gasped and clung for dear life. “He would have to have a heliport!”
Agatha circled down over the battlements and brought her broomstick to a stop in the center of the roof. She hopped off nimbly; Gwen followed suit. Rod disentangled himself from the broom straws and planted his feet wide apart on the roof, grabbing the nearest merlon to steady himself while he waited for the floor to stop tilting.
“Surely, ‘twas not so horrible as that.” Gwen tried to hide a smile of amusement.
“I’ll get used to it,” Rod growled. Privately, he planned not to have the chance to. “Now.” He took a deep breath, screwed up his courage, and stepped forward. The stones seemed to tilt only slightly, so he squared his shoulders, took a deep breath, and took another step. “Okay. Where’s the door?”
“Yonder.” Agatha pointed.
Right next to a merlon and its crenel, a trapdoor was set flush with the roof. Rod stepped over to it—carefully—and frowned down, scanning the rough planks. “I don’t see a doorknob.”
“Why would there be one?” Agatha said beside him. “Who would come up here, other than the ancient cockerel himself? And when he doth, I doubt not he doth ope’ this panel from below.”
“And just leaves it open? What does he do about rain?”
Agatha shook her head. “I misdoubt me an he would come up during foul weather.”
“True,” Rod said judiciously. “He probably only comes up to stargaze—so why bother, when there aren’t any stars?”
He drew his dagger and dropped to one knee. “Gotta be careful about this—it’s good steel, but it could break.” He jabbed the tip into the wood and heaved up. The trap rose an inch; he kicked his toe against it to hold it, pulled the dagger out, and dropped it, then caught the wood with his fingertips and heaved again—with a whine of pain; the maneuver certainly didn’t do his manicure any good. But he hauled it up enough to get his boot-toe under, then caught it with his fingers properly and swung it open. “Whew! So much for basic breaking-and-entering!”
“Well done!” Agatha said, mildly surprised.
“Not exactly what I’d call a major effort.” Rod dusted off his hands.
“Nor needful,” the old witch reminded him. “Either thy wife or myself could ha’ made it rise of its own.”
“Oh.” Rod began to realize that, with very little persuasion, he could learn to hate this old biddy. In an attempt to be tactful, he changed the subject. “Y’know, in a culture where so many people can fly, you’d think he’d’ve thought to use a lock.”
At his side, Gwen shook her head. “Few of the witchfolk would even dare to come here, my lord. Such is his reputation.”
That definitely was not the kind of line to inspire confidence in a hopeful burglar. Rod took a deep breath, stiffened his muscles to contain a certain fluttering in the pit of his stomach, and started down the stairs. “Yes. Well—I suppose we really should have knocked…” But his head was already below the level of the roof.
The stairs turned sharply and became very dark. Rod halted; Agatha bumped into his back. “Mmmmf! Wilt thou not give warning when thou’rt about to halt thy progress, Lord Warlock?”
“I’ll try to remember next time. Darling, would you mind? It’s a little dark down here.‘’
“Aye, my lord.” A ball of luminescence glowed to life on Gwen’s palm. She brushed past him—definitely too quickly for his liking—and took up the lead, her will-o’-the-wisp lighting the stairway.
At the bottom, dark fabric barred their way—curtains overlapping to close out drafts. They pushed through and found themselves in a circular chamber lit by two arrow-slits. Gwen extinguished her fox fire, which darkened the chamber; outside, the sky was overcast, and only gray light alleviated the gloom. But it was enough to show them the circular worktable that ran all the way around the circumference of the room, and the tall shelf-cases that lined the walls behind the tables. The shelves were crammed with jars and boxes exuding a mixture of scents ranging from spicy to sour; and the tables were crowded with alembics, crucibles, mortars with pestles, and beakers.
Agatha wrinkled her nose in distaste. “Alchemy!”
Rod nodded in slow approval. “Looks as though the old geezer has a little more intellectual integrity than I gave him credit for.”
“Thou canst not mean thou dost condone the Black Arts!” Agatha cried.
“No, and neither does Galen, apparently. He’s not satisfied with knowing that something works—he wants to know why, too.”
“Is’t not enough to say that devils do it?”
Rod’s mouth tightened in disgust. “That’s avoiding the question, not answering it.”
Glass tinkled behind him. He spun about.
A jar floated above an alembic, pouring a thin stream of greenish liquid into it. As Rod watched, the cover sank back onto the jar and tightened in a half-turn as the jar righted itself, then drifted back up onto a shelf.
“Harold!” Agatha warned. “Let be; these stuffs are not thine.”
“Uh, let’s not be too hasty.” Rod watched a box float off another shelf. Its top lifted, and a stream of silvery powder sifted into the alembic. “Let the kid experiment. The urge to learn should never be stifled.”
“ ‘Tis thou who shouldst be stifled!” Agatha glowered at Rod. “No doubt Harold’s meddling doth serve some plan of thine.”
“Could be, could be.” Rod watched an alcohol lamp glow to life under the alembic. “Knocking probably wouldn’t have done much good anyway, really. Galen strikes me as the type to be so absorbed in his research that…”