Necroscope IV: Deadspeak

and yellow maw of a glaring, roaring beast, while overhead, smoke shot with dying sparks billowed blackly from a high chimney. Darcy and Manolis stood to one side watching the stoker at work, and Harry sat on a crate a little apart from them, his strange eyes staring and almost vacant. His mind, however, was anything but vacant, and the Necroscope's every instinct assured him that Seth Armstrong's spirit was here. Indeed, he could hear its moaning cries.

Armstrong, Harry said, but softly, you're out of it now. You've been released. Why all the sorrow?

The moaning and sobbing stopped at once, and in another moment: Harry Keogh? Armstrong's dead voice was full of astonishment and disbelief. You'd talk to me?

Oh, I've talked to a lot worse than you, Seth, Harry told him. And anyway, it's my guess you were just another victim, like so many others. I don't think you could help what you'd become.

I couldn't, oh I couldn't! the other answered, with obvious relief. For five and a half long years I was just a…a fly in his web. He was my master; I was in thrall to him; nothing I did was of my own free will.

I know, Harry told him, but they like to pretend it is. I suppose that even knowing it's a lie, still it's the one salve to their conscience: that you are theirs of your own free will.

Conscience? Armstrong's spirit was bitter. Don't make me laugh, Harry. Creatures such as Janos Ferenczy never suffered such common complaints!

You're glad to be free of him, then? So why the remorse? You're as one with the teeming dead now. Which, as so many of them have told me, isn't as bad as you might think.

Oh? said Armstrong. And do you honestly believe the dead will wish anything to do with me?

Harry thought about it a moment, then said: Two of them, at least, that I can think of. And probably more. What of your parents, Seth?

He sensed the other's nod. Dead some time ago, yes. But… do you think…?

I think that when you've got yourself together, it might be a good idea to try and reach them, said Harry. As for the Great Majority: who can say? Maybe they won't come down on you as hard as you think. Certainly I can put in a good word for you.

And you'd do that?

Why don't you ask the dead about me, said Harry, when the time comes? I think they'll tell you I'm not such a bad sort. But until then there's a favour you could do for me.

Armstrong's thoughts turned bitter again. Nothing for nothing, eh? Even here.

No, you've got it all wrong, Seth, said Harry. Turn me down, it will make no difference. I'll still ask them to go easy on you. You're dead and burned away, and as all the rest of them know, you can't be any more punished than that.

What is it you want to know?

Janos has gone now, Harry told him, out of Rhodes, probably out of the islands. And he took the woman — I suppose you'd say my woman — with him. I want to know where he is.

She's the bait in his trap, I suppose you know that?

Oh, yes, I know. But I'd go after him anyway.

Then go to Romania.

Harry groaned. It was the worst possible scenario. I've just been to Romania, he said. It won't be so easy a second time.

Nevertheless, that's where he is. His castle in the mountain heights over Halmagiu. He said you were his only living enemy and the greatest possible enemy, and that when he met you it must be there, on his terms and in his territory. He read it that way, and that's how he'll play it. But Harry… I hope you didn't love that girl.

Don't! Harry gritted his teeth, shook his head, rejected the unthinkable pictures Armstrong's words had conjured. Instinctive reactions to something he'd hoped would not be mentioned. Don't tell me about that.

Armstrong was silent, but the Necroscope could sense his sympathy and even his… remorse? And suddenly Harry knew. He'd suspected it might be so, but had tried to keep it out of his mind. Until now. It was you who took her for him, right?

Armstrong was sobbing again. It changes everything, doesn't it? he said. But it was a statement of fact, not a question. Yes, he got into her mind, and I took her to him.

Harry didn't rave, didn't curse, but simply stood up and walked away, with his head down.

Darcy and Manolis came after him, looked at him and at each other, and asked no questions. Behind them the incinerator's furnace hissed and roared, and a man sobbed rackingly, but only Harry Keogh could hear him.

And despite his promises, Harry didn't care…

Later, back at the hotel where Harry had arranged for a room of his own, he tried to contact Mobius. He reached out his Necroscope's awareness to a place he knew well indeed: the graveyard in Leipzig where August Ferdinand Mobius's mortal remains had lain buried for one hundred and twenty years, but from which his mathematician's and astronomer's immortal mind had gone out to explore the universe. And:

Sir? said Harry, showing his usual respect. August? It's me, Harry Keogh. I know it's been some time since I was in touch, but I'd hoped I could talk to you again.

He waited but there was no response, just an aching void. It was about what he'd expected: the man who had taught him how to venture into and use an otherwise entirely conjectural fifth dimension was out there even now, doing his own thing along the Mobius way. Harry couldn't tell how long he'd been away, or even hazard a guess as to when he was likely to be back, if he would be back.

But if Harry was ever to achieve a balance of power with Janos, Mobius was his one hope. And so he kept trying: for an hour, then two, until finally Darcy came knocking at his door. 'Any luck?' he said, when the Necroscope opened the door for him.

Harry shook his head. And perhaps surprisingly, in the circumstances: 'I'm hungry,' he said.

They all three ate out, at a taverna of Manolis's recommendation; and there, during the course of their meal, Harry outlined a possible course of action as he saw it:

'Manolis,' he said, 'I need to get into Hungary. Budapest initially, and from there to Halmagiu across the border. That's a distance of about one hundred and fifty miles. Once I'm in I can travel by road or rail; I'll be a 'tourist', of course. As for getting across the border into Romania, I'm not sure. I can work on that when I get there. How long will it take to fix me up with documentation?'

Manolis shrugged. 'You don't need any. Your English passport says you're an 'author'; it has a Greek entry stamp; quite obviously you are the genuine tourist, or perhaps the author doing his research. You can simply fly to Budapest via Athens. Tomorrow, if you wish it. No problem.'

'As simple as that?'

'Hungary is not Romania. The restrictions are less severe. In fact Romanians are fleeing to Hungary every day. When will you go?'

'Three or four days,' Harry answered. 'As soon as we're finished up here. But as I've said before, where Janos is concerned time is no longer of the essence. I believe he'll simply hole up in the Transylvanian mountains and wait for me. He knows I'll come eventually.'

Manolis looked at him, and looked away. Time not of the essence,' the Greek mumbled, shaking his head a little.

'All right,' said Harry at once, a harsh, unaccustomed edge to his voice, 'and I know what's bothering you. Look, I'll try to explain as simply as possible. And then for Christ's sake and mine both let's drop it!