Roger Zelazny - Donnerjack

“Interesting. Are they doing it up as big as in Central Park?”

“Bigger, if anything. Some of the ziggurats looked as if they could support a fair amount of weight. I’d guess that the outlying ones are going to double as landing pads.”

“They do plan well, don’t they? If they draw crowds like last time— and they probably will—there won’t be keeping anything at ground-level clear.”

“Aoud Aral, I’d guess,” Drum said. “He has been rising in importance since the riot. Doesn’t show any real theological ambition—just what’s pro forma —but he has a gift for handling a crowd.”

They talked for a while longer about what Drum had seen, about the rumors that the celebration would be open only to those who had purchased tickets, but that the tickets would be vended worldwide. Bidding was still going on between the major entertainment networks for the simulcasting rights. Whether or not the Church of Elish restored its reputation through this second celebration, it was quite clear that they were going to be minting money.

Antipasto was a memory and they were well into their entrees when Drum changed the subject.

“Before I forget, I have a bit more information for you on the case you gave me.”

Link set down her fork. “Yes?”

“I made a side-trip to Eilean a’Tempull Dubh. There’s a small fishing village there with residents as close-mouthed as any stereotype would have you believe. I got them talking, though.”

“How?”

“There’s a castle that dominates the island—a hulking, black stone creation with battlements, gargoyles, towers… the whole nine yards. It’s listed on the maps as Castle Donnerjack. Photos of the island taken more than about twenty years ago don’t show it, just a few picturesque rubble heaps.

“I went into a local tavern and started going on about the obvious antiquity of the structure, acting angry when someone challenged my authority. Finally, I offered drinks to anyone who could prove to me that the castle wasn’t the ancient structure I claimed.”

Link giggled. “I bet that got them talking.”

“Aye, that it did, laddy,” Drum said in an affected accent. “The tavern keeper pulled out his photo album and as the whisky started flowing soon each was rivaling the other to show me how stupid I was.”

Drum took a contented sip of his wine and a bite of his eggplant. Watching him, Link was reminded of her own forgotten meal.

“The information I gathered was sketchy, but enough to prove our early guestimates,” Drum continued. “It seems that John D’Arcy Donnerjack had some ancestral claims to the land on which the castle now stands and confirmed them with a large outlay of eft. The local belief was that he had the castle built as a present for his bride, a dark-haired, soulful woman who was never seen by the villagers except as a figure on the castle battlements or strolling on a lonely strand near the shore.”

“Was he keeping her prisoner?”

“I asked something similar as tactfully as I could, given that the locals are quite attached to the ‘laird’—an odd thing in itself, given that they apparently saw him rarely.”

“Maybe that’s why they were attached to him,” Link said dryly. “It’s easier to admire an idealized laird in a castle than a flesh and blood aristocrat.”

“I don’t doubt that you have something there,” Drum agreed. “The general opinion of the locals was that Lady Donnerjack was recovering from some illness when she arrived. Later, she became pregnant and, being delicate, chose to stay near to home.”

“Pregnant?” Link’s eyes shone as the trail to the elusive Jay MacDougal became more solid.

“Yes, there’s no doubt about that bit at least. A few of the locals were employed at the castle until the robot and AP staff was running smoothly. And almost everyone over fifteen years old had tales about the wonderful events of a spring day some years ago when bagpipe music played from the hills and an unofficial holiday with food and drinks for all was declared in celebration of the birth of the laird’s son.”

“So he exists!”

“Or did,” Drum cautioned. “A few months after that holiday, things changed at the castle. Only two of the human staff members—Angus and the Duncan—were kept on and their work was restricted to groundskeeping and external maintenance. No one saw either the lady or the laird—and no one can ever recall seeing the child.”

“How creepy!”

“I spoke with Angus and the Duncan. They both knew Dack—he’s their paymaster and the person who tells them what needs to be done. They seem to think he’s an affable sort, open to reasonable suggestions, given to presenting gifts and raises at appropriate times. 1 had the general impression that they both think that John D’Arcy Donnerjack uses the robot as a means of speaking to them. I don’t believe that either of them have ever spoken to the laird in person.”

“Anything else?”

“Just a host of fairy stories—mostly about the castle being haunted. The more the whisky flowed the more people had a tale to tell. Almost everyone claimed to have seen the gargoyles move or heard a woman wailing. The usual nonsense.”

Link wiped up sauce with a torn hunk of bread, letting Drum finish the last few bites of his meal.

“I don’t suppose that knocking at the castle door would do any good, would it?”

“Probably not. I’ll see what else I can find out. Now that I have some nonconjectural evidence—however shaky—that John D’Arcy Donnerjack had a son, perhaps I can get someone at the Donnerjack Institute to pass on a message.”

“Explain that we don’t mean him any harm—we only want to thank him for helping us during the riot.”

“Of course.”

Drum pushed his plate to one side and brought up the intable dessert menu.

“A dinner like that deserves dessert.”

“I didn’t think I had any space left, but those pastries certainly look wonderful.”

“Shall I order a plate of the miniatures and a pot of espresso?”

Link grinned. “Just make certain that there are enough cannoli.”

“Sounds very good.” Drum toasted Link with the remnants of his wine. “Here’s to mysteries solved!”

“In both Virtu and Verite,” Link responded.

Their goblets chimed as they touched the rims together.

Spewing tracks before it, the Brass Babboon surged from the orchard wherein strange attractors grew upon gnarled trees that knew too much of possibility and grumbled portents in the harvesters’ ears.

“Where to, Jay?” the Brass Babboon inquired.

“To Deep Fields!” Jay answered, trying to make his voice bold and certain.

While Tranto and Dubhe had gathered the strange attractors, plucking them with fingers and trunk that had elongated and distorted as they neared the fruit (returning to normal as soon as the fruit was touched), he had studied the control panel for his father’s train. He felt now that he could operate the screens, the slicing scissors, the various launchers with a degree of confidence.

“Any thoughts about the route we should take?” the Brass Babboon asked. “Or do you expect an invitation?”

This last was said so sarcastically that Jay forbore from saying that he believed he had something in the way of a standing invitation. He didn’t think that anything could intimidate the terrible train, but if anything could so, knowing that Death awaited its passenger might be it.

“How did my father get in?”

“He seemed to feel that either the beginning or the end of time would serve equally well as a route. We went in at the beginning of time.” Maniacal laughter punctuated the reflection.

“I wonder if the same route would serve us?”