arm he beckoned Jacoby to come aboard.
The fat man stepped down into the launch, made his way amidships and chose one of a number of wooden boards slung gunwale to gunwale. There were seats for perhaps two dozen souls. The boatman cast off and moved to the stern, taking his station at the tiller.
The journey downstream was uneventful. The boatman said nothing, and neither did Jacoby. Propelled by unseen forces, the boat parted the water gently with its blunt prow, leaving a wake of undulating ripples. The black waters of the river flowed quietly, inexorably. An occasional prismatic oil slick drifted by, faintly aglow in the passing light. The rest was darkness and quiet.
It could have been hours, it could have been days, or only a few minutes. Jacoby’s sense of time had been left in the mortal world above. Eventually the boatman steered for the far shore and put in, docking at another stone wharf.
Jacoby disembarked, walked to the end of the pier and looked about. “What, no Cerberus at the gate? No Virgil to guide my way?”
The ebony boatman raised a thick arm and pointed to a flight of steps rising from the riverbank. He spoke in a voice as deep and as slow as the black waters he plied: “Go forth from this place. Go up into the light of day. Do not return.”
“I shan’t, you needn’t worry.”
Jacoby climbed the steps, which eventually led into a passage that cut through the rock, bearing ever upward.
Hall Of The Brain — And Elsewhere
“Ready, Linda?”
Perched on Snowclaw’s mighty shoulders, Linda tucked her feet more tightly under his arms. “Yep,” she said. “Climb on, guys.”
Gene jumped up and locked his legs around the arctic beast’s middle, couldn’t hold on, and fell off.
“Let’s make this simple,” Snowclaw said, grabbing him and lifting him up with one arm. He gathered in Osmirik with the other and hoisted the scribe up.
The four now looked like an odd circus act.
“Jesus, Snowy,” Gene said. “You sure you can hold us?”
“This ain’t gonna take but a second.”
“You got a fix on the Brain room?”
“Yup. I been there, so I know where it is, so to speak.”
“Okay.”
“Ready?” Snowclaw asked.
Gene said, “We all know what to do, right?”
Nods all around, except for Snowclaw, who couldn’t.
“Okay, gang,” Snowclaw said, “here goes.”
And suddenly they were there.
Gene jumped off Snowy, drew his sword and sized up the situation. It was just as Snowclaw had described it. There was one soldier and five servants. No, only four. Then Gene saw the young boy lying down in front of the kneeling Melydia. White, blood-daubed bandages were wrapped around both his wrists. Melydia was undoing one of them.
The soldier spun around. “Your Ladyship!”
Melydia turned her head. She did not seem in the least surprised.
“Okay, Super-Bitch,” Gene said, stepping down the last stone terrace onto the circular floor. “The game’s over. Stop what you’re doing.”
Sword drawn, the soldier stood his ground. His eyes were fixed fearfully on Snowclaw, who was rushing toward the cage. Nearby the battle-ax lay where Snowy had dropped it.
“Let me handle him, Snowy,” Gene called.
The servants, all of them unarmed, had jumped to their feet and were warily retreating in Melydia’s direction. Then, suddenly, all halted to stare in wonder at the swords and shields that had materialized in their hands.
“On second thought, Snowy old buddy, old pal …”
“I got ‘em, Gene,” Snowy said as he rushed by with broadax raised.
“Fight!” Melydia shouted. “Protect your mistress!” The servants glanced nervously at her, then advanced.
Gene found that his left arm was looped through the handles of a heavy shield. “Thanks, Linda,” he said over his shoulder.
The soldier charged him.
The fight was quick. Osmirik, armed by Linda, took on one servant while Snowclaw battled three. Osmirik’s opponent held his own against the scribe, but the three were no match for Snowclaw. He made quick work of them, then came to Osmirik’s aide and dispatched the remaining servant. By that time Gene’s expert swordsmanship had backed his adversary almost to the base of the black rock. The soldier desperately fought off Gene’s blows, his eyes fearful and wondering. He knew it was only a matter of time.
Gene slashed crosswise, putting another dent in his opponent’s shield, then feinted a thrust under the shield, which the soldier lowered a bit too much, laying himself open to Gene’s quick thrust to the shoulder of his sword arm. The point penetrated, and the soldier yelled and dropped his sword. Gene hacked at the shield, knocking it away, and his next blow laid open the soldier’s throat. Gene stepped back and watched him fall.
Gene took a slow, deep breath. He had never killed a man before.
Melydia seemed unconcerned by all this. She was still busy tracing designs in the air, muttering, making other strange movements. The boy lay dead at her feet. The brazier into which she’d poured the last of his blood still smoked.
Gene ran toward her. “Stop what you’re doing!”
She did not even look at him. Her hand went out, made a movement.
“Gene!”
Gene turned at Linda’s yell. She was pointing behind him. Gene whirled and saw the soldier getting up and retrieving his sword and shield.
“What?”
Snowclaw growled. The servants were also rising from the dead, zombies now, whey-faced and gaunt- eyed.
Melydia made another hand movement.
Gene swiveled his gaze back and forth. He couldn’t believe it. Now there were eight servants and three soldiers.
The next phase of the fight was complex, and grew increasingly strange. Gene held his own against three opponents, but at some point he looked around and saw that there were other people in the room. Not exactly other people — duplicates of himself. And duplicates of Snowclaw, fighting other doppelgangers of the soldier and Melydia’s servants. There were even duplicates of Osmirik.
He fought on. Presently he grew aware that the room had become increasingly bright. The light seemed to be coming from the jewel, but he couldn’t afford to look up.
He stumbled over a body and fell, then rolled and jumped to his feet again. He looked down. It was himself, one of his magical twins, with a bloodied shirt front and an oozing slash across the forehead. Other fallen duplicates of himself lay about. But that wasn’t the worst of it. New combatants had appeared, and these weren’t human. A yellow-skinned, green-eyed, scaly being attacked him with mace and chain. Gene blocked, slashed, blocked, and thrust, making short work of it, but another variant of the same creature, this one green of scale and yellow of eye, took up the fight. He dispatched it, then whirled to find two horned goatlike creatures advancing on him, one with an ax, the other with a halberd.
Linda continued her slow advance toward Melydia. It was like walking through a swamp, like mud sucking at
