Simon learned, and they’d only been married a few months. From the way they talked and joked about it, their honeymoon so far had been a complete rat race, marriage and the final victory in the complex legal struggle over the inheritance coming almost simultaneously, followed by taking possession of the castle and getting it refurbished. This weekend was in celebration of it all. Saul showed no more signs of recognizing Simon than Vivian had.
Now, in conversation, it came out that the Wallises were both former members of the artists’ colony that half a century ago had flourished in some cottages nearby on the bluff, and had incidentally provided some of the odd statuary now decorating the grotto.
“I look forward to seeing it,” said Simon, making no particular effort to put conviction into his voice.
“And we were really friends with the old man,” mused Wallis now, looking back in time as he spoke. “Even if we were just kids then, he took an interest. We were what you’d call hippies now, that’s what we were.”
“The old man?” asked Simon, as if he did not know.
Wallis nodded toward Saul. “This fella’s grandfather. That’s his portrait on the wall inside, in the huge room where the fireplace is. Augustus Littlewood. One of the great Chicago tycoons. He built this place. Bought the whole shootin’-match when he was on one of his excursions to France, and had it shipped. Believe it or not. Barges full of stones were coming up the river here, all the way from New Orleans up the Mississippi. It’s nice that the younger generation remembers us now. We were really surprised to be invited.” Wallis sounded as if he were determined to hang onto the pleasure of the invitation, even if he didn’t expect to enjoy the party much.
It was full evening; underwater lights had come on in the pool. Now Emily Wallis put in: “Here come the other people we met earlier.” The dislike in her voice was not well concealed.
Emerging from a door in a side wing of the castle were a grossly fat, swarthy man of early middle age, and a very thin young woman with discolored hair and huge breasts, who wore a European style bikini. The man wore a robe over vast swim trunks, and Simon thought he could see where his neck was bandaged, under a scarf. He moved slowly and tiredly. Engrossed in some private discussion, the pair settled in chairs on the far side of the pool. Saul began awkwardly to urge the people with him into a mass migration, wanting to get everyone introduced.
The fat man was introduced as Pierre Arnaud. His accent might not have been French, but Simon judged that it was not American. There was something familiar about him, as if Simon might have seen his picture somewhere. The post office suggested itself. Arnaud’s thin companion with the silicone implants was introduced only as Sylvia; she looked nervous, and remained almost silent. Simon hadn’t thought that a swimsuit substantially smaller than Vivian’s could be made to stay on without tacks, but here was proof.
No one was much interested in swimming, and conversation soon tended to lag. Simon was not surprised. He could rarely recall seeing at one party a collection of guests as apparently mismatched as these. The Wallises, despite protests of youthful hippiness, looked firmly elder middle class, whereas these others… maybe more guests were scheduled to show up, enough to form two convivial groups. Someone active in the entertainment field. So far Simon had seen no one he thought might qualify.
A spattering of rain came as an actually welcome interruption. At the same time Gregory appeared in the French doors again, in his almost-monk’s garb that somehow was not as ridiculous as it should have been, now that he’d got rid of the foolish sun hat somewhere. At Gregory’s announcement about cocktails, people wrapped in towels began to drift back into the house, where they helped themselves to freshly provided snacks and drinks.
Standing towel-wrapped between Saul and Hildy at the outer end of the great hall, Simon gestured with his glass toward the wall at the far end. “It’s an impressive portrait.” The dream and its several characters refused to fade completely. Besides, he realized, he was actually stalling, hoping to catch one more good look at Vivian before she changed out of her bikini.
Saul smiled vaguely. “Our grandfather, of course, as Willis was saying. The old gentlemen was largely responsible for the position in which I find myself today.” He looked round him with an odd, doubtful expression, as if he might still be reserving judgment on the desirability of all that he had inherited.
“Your dominion.” Two servant girls hurried by, one of them the antique-shop twin. She looked at Simon and quickly away again, and there was something private and frightened in the look. The dream throbbed in his mind.
“Oh yes,” said Saul. His eyes flicked as if with surprise. “And Vivian’s.”
Vivian and Gregory were nowhere to be seen. Simon caught just a glimpse of the retreating backs of Arnaud and thin Sylvia, heading off into the castle’s other wing.
Saul was gazing at the portrait again. “It’s been in storage for a long time, of course, along with a lot of other stuff that survived the fire. He died twenty years ago. What with other deaths in the family, and various complications, it’s taken the courts and lawyers that much time to straighten everything out. Unbelievable, isn’t it?” And Hildy at her husband’s side nodded solemnly.
“Yes,” agreed Simon slowly. He must have seen the portrait long before it showed up in his dream. He must have seen it, somehow, on one of his childhood visits here—when it had been in storage.
From his point of view, everything wasn’t straightened out even yet.
TEN
“My name is Talisman,” the wounded man repeated calmly. He stood on the trail in the thickening dusk, gazing steadily at Margie, ignoring the blood staining his shirt, and the other blood, some of which must have been his also, that was spattered over the leaves and branches round him. “What is your name?” he asked again. “Who are you?”
“Margie Hilbert.” There was something soothing in the man’s steadfast gaze, so soothing that Margie could almost begin to relax. As she spoke, she straightened up slowly out of her strained crouch. Her breathing and her pulse were easing back toward an approximation of their normal rates. In the surrounding darkness the ordinary noises of insects were returning, filling in the hush that had followed the mad clamor of the fight. “I’m here with the magician,” Margie added. Then she blinked, shook her head, and tried to become practical. “You’re badly hurt.”
If so, the dark-clothed man seemed quite successfully to be ignoring the fact. “Who do you say that you are with?” The question came with sharp emphasis on the first word.
“The magician.”
“The… you are with him?” The man’s voice held urgency and disbelief.
“Yes. Simon—Simon the Great. We’re supposed to be putting on a show here this evening. But then I saw…” It was hopeless, thought Margie. Where could she start?
“Ah. A show.” Her questioner relaxed somewhat. Now he moved closer, until he loomed tall at her side. His eyes were dark, yet she could see them very plainly in the gathering night. She felt unable to do more than wait, in mental and physical exhaustion, for whatever might happen next.
“Yes,” the tall man said at last. “I believe you. Stage magic.” His wound did not seem to be bothering him at all. In the darkness Margie couldn’t see whether it was still bleeding or not. “Stage magic,” he repeated. “And yet I sense great power near you, connected with you. It dwells in, flows from, one you have touched recently… this stage conjurer that you speak of. Is he up there now?” Talisman motioned with his unwounded arm toward the top of the bluff.
The thought of Simon still up there in the castle, in danger from God knew what, was enough to restore some of Margie’s energy. “Yes, at least he was there a few minutes ago. I don’t know what’s going on, but—” She paused for a deep breath. “You see, there’s a kind of a tunnel up there. A secret passage. And I was in it, looking around, and I found this old man trapped, tied up—”
“An old man? Very old?”
“I don’t know. Yes. He’s in a—well, it’s a dungeon. He was strapped down on this device. Then another man—” Margie paused, looking around her. “There was another man here, a black man. He chased me down here from the castle, along with the—the animal.”
“We shall perhaps hear from the black man and the animal again. Or from their associates. But meanwhile I think we have a few minutes to ourselves; let us use them wisely. It is important that I see this old man you speak of. Is he truly in a dungeon?” It seemed that Talisman would be only mildly surprised if it were so.
“He is. I saw him. But we have to go somewhere and get help.”
