The Tower of Endless Worlds (20 page)

He returned to the dining room and saw Ally standing before the living room door, her head titled to the side. Her eyes were fixed on nothing. “What is it?”

Ally looked at him. “Someone’s here.”

He handed her the apples, hurried to the front door, and peeked outside. 

A red van pulled into the driveway. An odd resignation settled on Simon. He found himself thinking of the ancient Greeks and their three Fates. Was this his fate? 

Simon pushed aside the thought and opened the front door.

Conmager strode up the front walk. He wore a well-tailored dark suit and a long overcoat. In his left hand he carried a long staff of dark wood, each end capped with polished black metal. Its metal-shod butt clicked against the pavement with every step.

Simon crossed his arms. “I’ve been expecting you.”

Conmager nodded. He looked healthier, but his face remained gaunt and haunted. “I know. They came through the door in your woods, did they not?”

“They did,” said Simon.

Conmager’s lip twitched in a half-smile. “I am not surprised. I thought they would. It is fate, I think, or the will of a higher power.” Simon shivered. “I was fated to meet you, and they were fated to come through the door in your woods.”

“That’s hardly reassuring,” said Simon.

“Not to you, perhaps. But it sustains me, with so much against us.” Conmager’s eyes flashed. “I must see them at once.”

Simon nodded. “Fine. But you seem worried.”

Conmager’s staff clicked against the wooden steps. “Things have not gone as I have hoped, Simon Wester. We are all in very great danger.”

Chapter 17 - The Warlock Returns

Anno Domini 2003

Wycliffe hit the button on his intercom. “Yes?”

“Sir.” Markham’s voice came over the speaker. “Dr. Krastiny is here to see you.”

Wycliffe smiled. “Send him in.”

“Yes, sir.”

Wycliffe shut down his computer and flipped the switch under his desk that unlocked his door. A few moments later someone knocked. “Come in.”

Dr. Krastiny shuffled inside, clad in a hideous lime-green suit. He settled in Wycliffe’s guest chair, the leather cushions creaking. “Ah, Senator. A good evening to you.” He blinked his heavy-lidded eyes. “Is something amusing?”

Wycliffe waved a hand. “That suit.”

Krastiny frowned. “Whatever is the matter with this suit? I found it at a very reasonable price. I purchased it at a charity store, one run by nuns. Very polite ladies, fine conversation.”

Wycliffe laughed. “Kurkov pays you millions of dollars, and you still do your shopping at secondhand stores.”

The little bald man waved a skinny finger. “Now, now. Prudence is a necessary aspect of character. I have prosperity now, yes, but I have also known hard times. No doubt I will know them again at some point. So it is wise to prepare, to save my wealth against those days, rather than frittering away my money on silken finery.”

Wycliffe made a show of straightening his tie. “I happen to enjoy my silken finery, as you put it.”

“No doubt,” said Krastiny. “You are much wealthier than I. But even you are somewhat moderate in your tastes. Fine clothes, fine food, fine wine, and fine literature. These are the mark of a learned and cultured man. But still, you exercise moderation. No loose women, no extravagances, save when it serves your purpose, and no drugs.” A bit of irritation entered his eyes. “Unlike friend Kurkov.”

Wycliffe sighed. “I hear he’s developed a bit of a cocaine habit.”

“He has,” said Krastiny. “He spent entirely too much time in the army. Too much austerity. It did not prepare him well for his future fortune. What did Aristotle say?”

“Live the moderate life,” said Wycliffe. 

“Precisely right. Moderation.” Krastiny shrugged. “Vasily will learn to moderate his tastes. Or I shall have to take over when he burns himself out. One or the other.”

“Where is Kurkov, anyway?” said Wycliffe. “It’s past nine. I need everyone here by quarter to midnight.”

“Out wining and dining, I believe,” said Krastiny. “He met some sleek young university debutante. No doubt he wishes to impress her with tales of his harrowing experiences in the anti-Communist underground.”

Wycliffe snorted. “Utter bullshit. He was in the army right up until Gorbachev pulled out of Eastern Europe, as I recall.”

Krastiny grinned a gap-toothed smile. “Of course. But the sleek young debutante does not know this, does she?”

They both laughed.

Wycliffe rapped his knuckles on the desk. “You did send someone to make sure he doesn’t kill anyone?”

Krastiny nodded. “Of course. Schzeran and Bronsky, my two best men.”

“I don’t believe I’ve met them,” said Wycliffe. 

“You haven’t,” said Krastiny. “This is their first visit to America. They were my protégés, back in my KGB days.”

Wycliffe laughed.

Krastiny raised a wispy eyebrow. “What is so amusing?”

“You are, my friend,” said Wycliffe. “You look like some benign old university professor.”

Krastiny grinned. A razor-keen light flashed in his eyes. “And what could be farther from the truth, no?”

Wycliffe shook his head. “Do you know the reward for your capture has gone up to five million dollars?”

Krastiny folded his hands. “I hope you are not tempted to collect.”

Wycliffe spread his hands. “Not me! I’m not that foolish. I plan on living much longer. It was merely an observation on the wide difference between your appearance and your reality.”

Krastiny chuckled. The keen edge of his gaze faded, and once again he looked like an amiable little bald man in a bad suit. “Then there is another reason I purchased this suit, beside thrift. Misdirection, eh? Sometimes misdirection is more dangerous than a gun, no?”

Wycliffe thought of Eddie Carson, Jason Fulbright, and the senatorial campaign. “Indeed.”

“Speaking of guns.” Krastiny leaned forward. “So is true then, what I have heard? Your…other partner…is coming here himself?”

Wycliffe nodded. “He is. It’s the first time he’s visited Earth in the better part of nine years.” Wycliffe frowned, thinking back. “In fact, this is the first time he’s returned since he departed with the first shipment of guns you sold us.”

“A fateful cargo, that,” said Krastiny. Wycliffe raised his eyebrows. “It has proven to be the foundation of both your fortune and Kurkov’s.”

“And Marugon’s,” said Wycliffe. “He sends…messengers…through the Tower, every now again. Sometimes they come with the caravans, other times they travel on their own. His conquests have gone well. He subdued four of the seven nations, these High Kingdoms, that cast him out. The other three are stronger, but he expects to finish them off in another five years.”

Krastiny snorted. “I hope your partner is not unduly optimistic. I remember our war with Afghanistan in the eighties. The military high command daily claimed victory was within grasp.” He chuckled. “And they continued believing that right up to the end.”

“True,” said Wycliffe. “But my partner is not Soviet military command.”

“No,” said Krastiny, reaching into his hideous jacket. “He is not.” He pulled out something small and shiny. It was one of the gold coins Marugon provided for purchasing guns, weapons, and other supplies for his army. Wycliffe had the coins melted and sold on the commodities exchange, and then used the cash to purchase weapons from Kurkov’s syndicate. There was always leftover money, and it had made Wycliffe a multi-millionaire several times over.

“A souvenir?” said Wycliffe.

“Something of the sort,” said Krastiny. “When you first approached Kurkov with your bizarre story of the Tower and this Marugon fellow, I was skeptical. But Kurkov didn’t care. Money is money, and the coins you sent were real gold. But I remained curious. So I investigated the coins myself.”

“What did you find?” said Wycliffe. 

“I could not decipher the language written on the coins,” said Krastiny. “This was not surprising, because the alphabet is utterly unlike any on Earth. Kurkov did not care. He was getting richer than any man in Russia. But I continued to wonder, especially as the years corroborated your story. We continued to deliver the guns, and you continued to buy them.”

Wycliffe smiled. “Many of your questions will be answered tonight when Marugon comes. In fact, Kurkov’s organization is the reason he’s coming.”

Krastiny blinked. “Oh?”

“He wants to meet his suppliers,” said Wycliffe. 

“Wise of him,” said Krastiny. He slipped the coin back into his pocket. “Tell me, Senator. You have new security personnel since my last visit. Did Marugon provide them?”

Wycliffe shifted. “Yes. How did you know?”

“I speak fifteen languages,” said Krastiny, “and have a passing familiarity with twenty more.”

“Impressive,” said Wycliffe. “I can only manage five, myself, and two of those are dead tongues.”

Krastiny shrugged. “It is a necessity in my line of work.” He grinned, his eyes glinting. “Or my former line of work. Suffice it to say I have heard many languages spoken. Yet I have never heard an accent similar to the one possessed by your slouching thugs.”

“Impressive perception,” said Wycliffe, wondering if the little doctor had garnered too much information. 

“I do not like these slouching men,” said Krastiny. “I have dealt with many professional killers in my time, and have talked with many heartless and ruthless men. Yet your slouching men make them seem like mewling children. You have heard the jokes they make, no? Or the way they ogle and mutter every time a beautiful woman comes within sight? They are very dangerous, I think, and they are hiding something.”

Wycliffe grunted. “You don’t the half of it.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Wycliffe spread his hands. “I happen to agree with you, Dr. Krastiny. I do not like the slouching men. They are unimaginably dangerous, even to someone like you. They combine the worst elements of sadists, serial killers, and psychopathic rapists. And that’s describing them in a very generous light. Yet they are a necessary evil, like so many things in life. And they will not disobey me.”

Krastiny chuckled, his face skeptical. “Yes, this ‘black magic’ Marugon supposedly taught you. I find that by far the hardest part of your story to believe, especially since you refuse to perform a demonstration for us.”

Wycliffe shrugged. “It’s a part of the discipline. One must use it only when necessary, and never spuriously. If you are ever around me when I need to use it, then you shall see remarkable things, Dr. Krastiny.” He thought of Eddie Carson again and smiled. “Especially if I need to silence a troublesome reporter.”

Krastiny laughed. “I can never understand this country’s press. In the USSR, we got a free press, and the country went to…what is the idiom…to hell in a hand basket a few years later. How your country keeps from teetering into chaos, I shall never understand.”

“It almost has, more than once,” said Wycliffe. “Perhaps that is its strength. Chaos and order in equal measure. Perhaps Aristotle’s maxim about the balanced life applies to government as well.”

Krastiny snorted. “That is a misapplication and you know it. Aristotle’s views on government were…” His eyes widened.

Wycliffe frowned. “What?”

Krastiny leapt to his feet, a gun materializing in his hand. He said something in Russian, his eyes wide.

Wycliffe laughed. “Doctor. Lower your weapon. It means no harm.”

Krastiny did not look mollified. “What the hell is it?”

Wycliffe smiled. “Marugon’s messenger.”

A deformed little creature stood in the corner. It looked like a twisted monkey with leathery black skin. It had a dog’s snout, glowing red eyes, huge floppy ears, and a pair of bat’s wings. It took to the air with a few lazy flaps of its wings, circled the office, and perched on Wycliffe’s computer monitor. 

Wycliffe glared. “You had best not relieve yourself on my computer this time.”

The creature hissed, a forked tongue licking at the air. “Gloaming comes with a message for Lord Wycliffe of Chicago, from Lord Marugon of the Wastes.” Its voice growled and bubbled. “Lord Marugon of the Wastes comes soon. He says that Lord Wycliffe should make ready for him.”

“Thank you,” said Wycliffe. “We are already prepared for Lord Marugon and await his arrival.”

The creature hissed. “Some flesh for Gloaming?”

Wycliffe rolled his eyes and reached for the mini-fridge behind his desk. He pulled out a raw hamburger patty in a plastic baggie and dropped it on his desk. 

“Very well.”

Gloaming cackled in delight, shredded the bag, and began devouring the beef. “Is cold.”

Wycliffe glared. “It’s better than nothing. If you want it hot, go cook it out on one of the truck engines in the yard.” 

“Burned flesh no good.” Gloaming scooped up the bag in its claws and took to the air. It slid open the heat register and began to slip inside.

“Wait,” said Wycliffe. “Don’t eat it in the ducts. Go outside. I don’t want to smell rotting meat like last time.” Gloaming pouted. “And if you want fresh meat, go hunt the rats in the yard. They’ve gotten bad lately.”

Gloaming grinned and disappeared into the vent. Wycliffe heard the vile little creature singing to itself in its growling, burbling voice.

Krastiny looked shaken. “What manner of devil was that?”

“An imp of the Wastes, a native of Marugon’s world,” said Wycliffe. “Miserable little creatures. Yet they are quite useful if you can terrify them into submission. Marugon has a whole pack of the little fiends.”

Krastiny shook his head. “Your story seems more feasible by the minute, Senator.”

Wycliffe reached into the mini-fridge and removed a bottle of brandy. “Care for a drink? You look rather shaken.” He put two glasses on the desk and hoped Krastiny came to his senses. 

He did not want to have to use the Voice on the man. 

Krastiny picked up one of the glasses. “By all means.”

Wycliffe smiled and poured. 

###

Some time later, Wycliffe sat in his darkened office and contemplated the half-empty glass of brandy in his hand. He shook his head and set it aside. He did not want to cloud his mind before meeting with Marugon. The man shouldn’t make him nervous. They were allies, after all. But Marugon still troubled Wycliffe on some subconscious level, like a mouse confronted by a cat.

Wycliffe rolled his eyes. “I’m no mouse.”

The intercom buzzed. Wycliffe hit the button. “Yes?”

“Senator, it’s Krastiny,” came a gravelly voice. “Kurkov has returned.”

Wycliffe glared at the clock. “About time. It’s 11:35. Is he sober?”

“Mostly. And in a good mood. Apparently he bedded his prize with remarkable alacrity.”

“How splendid. Have him met me at warehouse 13A as soon as possible.”

“Understood, Senator.” The intercom clicked off. Wycliffe walked around the desk and stared into the mirror on his door. He looked as close to good as he ever did. Perhaps after he finished with Marugon, he would use the Voice on another woman. He could use the Voice to make them do whatever he wanted, and then make them forget after he had finished. A remarkably easy way to avoid a sex scandal.

He grinned. “The austere life, indeed, Dr. Krastiny. Everything in moderation.” 

Wycliffe stepped into the hall and locked the door behind him, running his tongue against his teeth. Perhaps that Katrina Coldridge who ran the office computer systems would make a good candidate for the Voice. She wore miniskirts that displayed her remarkable legs to good effect. 

And she often worked late hours alone.

Wycliffe cleared his mind. He did not need any lustful notions clouding his thoughts, not with Marugon coming.

He strode into the courtyard. The night watchman, one of the bearded thugs, stood guard, face concealed behind a bushy beard and a pair of mirrored sunglasses. He stepped aside at Wycliffe’s approach. Wycliffe quickened his pace, keeping his expression calm. He should not fear the slouching men. As a wielder of the black magic, they did as he commanded. Yet they still made him feel mild unease, much as Marugon did.