Back Under The Stairs - Book 2 in The Bandworld Series (4 page)

In the main room where the soldier had taken
her, was the soldier's Head. He looked old and strange. He had
short gray hair and many wrinkles on his face. That was what made
him look so old. Finally, Platinia knew why he also looked so ...
strange. He had a sick arm that he could not move.

When all the slaveys in the castle were in
the room, the soldier's Head, spoke. He told the slaveys not to be
afraid. That all he wanted was Pfnaravin.

A painted priest was with the Army Head.
Though he did not look like the priests of Fulgur, she knew he was
a priest. Platinia could tell priests in the dark! She could smell
them! She hated priests!

The Army Head asked the question -- where was
Pfnaravin -- over and over. Did anyone know where Pfnaravin was? No
one knew.

Platinia knew. But she did not say. The Head
of the soldiers was a man. It was better to hide from men! All men
were dangerous!

The Army Head had gone to stand before
Zwicia. "What is your name?" the Head had asked. From down the
line, Platinia could not hear Zwicia's answer. If Zwicia gave an
answer. Sometimes Zwicia could not talk. Sometimes when she did,
her talk was strange. Platinia knew this was from staring at the
pictures that Zwicia's crystal made. This was called the
crystal-sickness. "I will ask you only once," the Head said in a
loud, unfriendly voice. "A hideous fate awaits you if I even think
you lie."

Hideous meant bad. Platinia could tell.

"Where is the Mage, Pfnaravin?"

Though Platinia was too far away to hear what
Zwicia said, by bending over just a little, Platinia could see that
Zwicia was waving her hands like she did when she had
crystal-sickness. When she was like that, either she did not talk
or, when she did, her talk did not make sense.

This had all happened just a little while
ago.

Now, Platinia saw a soldier behind Zwicia
pushing Zwicia forward. The Head had wanted that. Zwicia was pushed
to the center of the line and turned so that she faced the others.
Another soldier brought a wooden chair for Zwicia so that she could
sit.

There was something about what was happening
that Platinia did not like. Something that reminded her of when she
was the sacrifice of Tenebrae in Fulgur's temple.

Then she was sure! It was the priest! He had
a jar of burning pepper! He would hurt Zwicia with the pepper! Put
it on her body. In her eyes! Priests had done that to Platinia and
it hurt her very much. Hurt her very long!

Did this mean that all slaveys in the line
were to be tortured, one by one? Platinia, too!?

Platinia must do something! Something to stop
the priest before he came to hurt her!

Though it was dangerous to speak so that all
eyes looked at you, it was now more dangerous not to speak.

"I know where Pfnaravin is." Platinia said
that in her tiny voice. She was very much afraid!

"What?" It was the Head. He had stopped
looking down at Zwicia. He was now looking up and down the line of
slaveys. "Who said that? Step forward!" Platinia took a tiny step
so that he looked at her. "What could a child know of this matter?"
he said, in softer tones, smiling for the first time that Platinia
saw. He did not fool her with his smile. He would hurt her if he
knew she was an Etherial. He must never find that out!

"I am not a child," Platinia said in her
little voice. So little, that the room gave no ... echo ... when
she spoke.

The Army Head walked down the line, stopping
before her. "I see, now, that you are no child," he said, nodding
his head, smiling down his wrinkled smile. He was big; but smaller
than most men she knew. "Understand that I am Leet, Head of these
men from Malachite. If you know something, you had better tell me
now. Where has Pfnaravin gone?"

"To the other world."

"And how do you know that?"

"I was with him when he did that." She must
keep him from knowing that she had the power to help! The power of
an Etherial!

"He ... left ... from here?" The Head -- Leet
-- waved his arm (the one that he could move) at the room.

"From a tower up above." Platinia pointed as
best she could.

"And when is he coming back?"

"I ... don't ... know."

"Step back in line, then." The Head was
finished asking questions. Platinia could see it in his eyes. She
could see in his mind that he would give the order to have the
priest begin to torture Zwicia. .......... The Head did not want to
do that. ........... Platinia could read pity for Zwicia in the
Head's mind. Platinia could also see other things there. Shadowed
things. ......... The Head soldier did not like his sick arm.
......... He did not like the priest.

Could she strengthen these feelings in the
Head's mind? Could she make him feel more pity for Zwicia? Could
she make him hate the priest? And if she did those things, would he
find out she was an Etherial? That she could strengthen feelings in
his mind?

No! She could not take that chance!

"I can help you get him back," she said.
Talking, more than thinking.

By this time, the Army Head had turned his
back on her to go to Zwicia in her chair. He turned again. "What
did you say?"

"I can help you get him back."

"Pfnaravin?" Yes. Platinia had been right.
She could tell that all the Army Head wanted was Pfnaravin. He did
not want to torture Zwicia. Even more, he did not want the priest
to torture Zwicia.

Platinia nodded to the Head's question.

"And just how can you help to bring him
back?"

Platinia did not know. Maybe, with Zwicia's
help, with Zwicia's crystal-power, Platinia could add to the force
so that Pfnaravin must come back into the tower room. And maybe
not. For now, what mattered was that the Head believe she could
bring back Pfnaravin.

She must think. She must think. While she was
thinking, she said: "He is very dangerous. I have seen his
crystal-power."

"You have seen him use it? What did he do?"
The man wanted to know everything about the Mage.

"He killed very many men. White men. White
women. White children. It was in the war."

At that answer, the Army Head become ... a
ghost; he was so white. Almost as white as the people
John-Lyon-Pfnaravin had killed with golden crystal power. The Army
Head then nodded to himself. He nodded that he believed her.

"You will show me to this tower room. The one
where the Mage left for the other world." Platinia nodded.

"I need Zwicia and her crystal."

"Crystal?" The thought of a crystal
frightened the Army Head. Though Platinia could see that fear was
in his mind, she could not see fear upon his face. He was an Army
Head and kept his feelings hidden.

"Zwicia is a Weird." At hearing that, the
Head tried not to show his very great surprise. "Pfnaravin is very
dangerous," Platinia continued. "But less dangerous without his
crystal."

"Are you telling me that the Mage does not
have his crystal?" Now, she could read hope in the man's mind.
Good. Hope would make him do what Platinia wanted.

"He could not take it to the other
world."

"Where is his crystal, now?"

"I do not know." Platinia did not like to
lie. But sometimes, lying to a man was good.

"You're certain he's without his crystal?"
Platinia nodded. "When you bring him back, he will not have it?"
Platinia nodded. "One more thing. Does Pfnaravin, when coming from
the other world, always come to the same place?"

"The same place. The same room. The same
place in that room." Saying that, Platinia had an idea. "Build a
cage around that spot so when the Mage returns, he will be
trapped."

The Army Head suddenly smiled. The Army Head
smiled very much.

It was a good plan, Platinia thought.

For now, Platinia was tired. She was always
tired after she looked into the minds of others. All she wanted was
to find a cat and go to sleep.

"You and you ..." the Army Head said,
pointing first to Zwicia, then to Platinia, "... stay. The rest of
you, go back to your duties."

The others hurrying away, the Head spoke
again to Platinia. "It will take me a day or so to have the cage
built. Will that be all right?" Now that the others were rushing
out, the Head had lowered his loud voice.

"The Mage is strong. The cage must be of
strong, strong iron."

"Don't worry about that. You bring him back
within the cage and you don't have to worry about him getting
out."

Suddenly, Platinia felt glad. The Army Head
did not yet know she was an Etherial. Would never know!

Platinia was safe.

Zwicia was safe.

Without his crystal, John-Lyon-Pfnaravin
would be caged. And maybe killed!

If she could find a way to bring him
back.

Though the morning's forecast said a storm
front from the West was closing on Kansas City, it was a mild day
for the end of November, the air smelling more of the damp of
spring than of the dust of fall, John driving slowly to enjoy this
Indian Summer day.

He found his mind wandering, though. To be
honest, after being the Crystal-Mage of Stil-de-grain, his life as
junior member of a small Social Science Department was ... boring.
(That's how the young men of the Lost Generation must have felt
after World War I. Returning from the pulse pounding terror of the
front, numbers of them had never been able to fit into the dull
routine of civilian life.)

A stray thought about Professor Fredericks'
community service project at the nursing home had John remembering
Paul's theory that the Van Robin who'd just died at a retirement
complex was the same man who'd built John's house. On the night
John had told Paul about going to the "other world," Paul had even
suggested this Van Robin could be the "otherworldly" Mage,
Pfnaravin, trapped in this world after coming here from the "other
reality."

A speculation that could be checked out?

Maybe. If John had the time to call one old
folks home after the other until he found the place that had Van
Robin as a patient.

Two blocks further and a sudden left had John
plunging through the shrubbery that hid the entrance to his private
access road. Another mile through enfolding, stick-dry bushes, a
slam of brakes, and John was parked in his weed-choked, woodland
surrounded yard.

Prying himself out of the elderly sports car,
John climbed the shaky porch steps and keyed himself inside.

Hanging his jacket on a hook on the entrance
hall coat rack, John passed the stairs with hardly a look, veering
through his living room to get to the kitchen where he'd find
sandwich meat in the fridge.

Except ... he couldn't find the lunch meat
package. Another indication of his distracted mental state was his
tendency, lately, to misplace things.

Backtracking to the living room, John sat in
the carved, oak chair.

Staring at the phone on the shaky end table
by the sofa, John had an idea about how to start a possible Van
Robin search.

The idea was to dial up short, fat,
no-necked, diamond-ringed, cherry-cheeked, Cadillac-herding, "call
me Madge, honey" -- the real estate lady who'd unloaded this house
on him.

Not an easy woman to forget.

Try as he might!

Just thinking about that woman brought back
her sales pitch. First, "Just call me Madge, honey" had establish
the fact that John Lyon was from out of town, that he had no
relatives in Kansas City, and that he had, as yet, made no friends
North of the River.

After that came her predictable attempts to
sell him houses she knew he couldn't afford.

Followed by the tour of this property: an
old, limestone building in the middle of a couple of acres of
woods.

The house had a first floor entrance hall
that accessed a moderately sized living room to the left, small
bedroom (convertible to a den) on the right, and kitchen at the
back.

Opposite the front door, half-open stairs
squeaked to the second floor, the upper level "sporting" three,
ruined bedrooms plus an old-fashioned bath.

Not much. But all John could buy.

By the time John had signed the contract at
the realtor's office, talkative Madge had revealed everything about
the house except that it was haunted! (No sense spoiling the new
arrival's impression of Kansas City by being negative.)

Though it had taken some time, he'd traced
the house's "ghost" sounds to the wedge-shaped storage space
beneath the stairs; eventually discovered that those strange noises
originated in some other world.

The background to his Van Robin investigation
reviewed, John moved to the old green divan. Took the Yellow Pages
from the phone stand beside the sofa and looked up the real estate
company.

Finding the northern branch number.
Dialed.

"Realty," said a pleasantly eager voice after
a single ring.

"I'd like to speak to Madge, please."

"Certainly, sir, though I'm not sure she's in
the office at the moment. If not, I can reach her by pager. Could I
tell her in what regard ...?"

"She sold me a house. I'd like to talk to her
about that. My name's John Lyon."

"I'll see if she's in."

Expecting "waiting music," John was surprised
to hear muffled voices; one of them, Madge's "expansive" tones.

Listening more carefully, John thought
Madge's voice had become a trifle strident. That she had to be
argued to the phone.

The pick up. "Madge, here." And it was Madge
-- impersonating Frosty the Snow-person.

"This is John Lyon. Remember me?"

"Ah. No. Sorry. ... Been ill, you know. Just
in the office for a moment...."

"Surely you remember me. You sold me an old
house just last September. ........... Six feet tall? Light brown
hair, green eyes, dimples? .......... No distinguishing marks?"