Golem in the Gears Page 22

  Then the elves escorted the party to the Elf Elm. This was an enormous tree, its crown of foliage seeming small because it was so far away.

  They halted a moderate distance away. “You who claim elven descent,” Mallet said. “Carry that rock.”

  Startled, Rapunzel obeyed. She remained elven-size, so the indicated rock was larger than Grundy could have handled, but it was no easy thing for her to carry. She staggered forward with it toward the tree. Then, oddly, the burden seemed to grow lighter, and she carried it with less distress. As the others paced her, she relaxed, finally setting the rock on her shoulder so as to free one hand. “It’s not as heavy as I thought,” she confessed.

  “Enough,” Mallet said. “Your claim is verified.”

  “But you haven’t examined your records!” she protested.

  “Know, crossbreed, that the strength of elves varies inversely with our distance from the Elm,” he explained. “Your strength be not as great here as ours, but the effect be manifest. You are of elven descent, whatever your other lineage.”

  She set down the rock. “I was not told of this!” She seemed pleased.

  Grundy scowled inwardly. Naturally the Sea Hag had not educated her about this aspect of the elven culture; it might have made her eager to experience it. It also augured unfortunately well for her acceptance here and her possible decision to remain.

  More elves descended from the high foliage, on thin lines, seeming to have no trouble holding on. The first to land on the ground was a handsome male elf whose beard was not yet full. “What have we here?” this one demanded.

  “We have a girl of elven descent, Prince Gimlet,” Mallet said. “With her entourage of golem and dragon.”

  Prince Gimlet oriented on Rapunzel. “And a fair creature she is, indeed, may I say!” he exclaimed, taking her hand and kissing it. She blushed, flattered.

  Grundy kept his expression fixed on neutral.

  Prince Gimlet’s gaze passed over Grundy and Stanley. “Feed her companions, while I show our visitor our Tree,” he said, making an offhand gesture.

  “Oh, but I don’t want to be separated from—” Rapunzel began.

  “Obviously a dragon can not ascend a tree,” the Prince told her. “He will be here when you return.” And he put his arm about her slender waist and hauled her up, climbing the line with feet and a single hand. It was an amazing feat, even allowing for the elven strength near the tree.

  “But—” Grundy cried, and Stanley steamed. But the other elves closed in about them, their expressions turning grim, their hands going to their tools, and Grundy realized that this was not the best occasion to make an issue. After all, he wanted Rapunzel to experience the elven culture, didn’t he?

  “Here be food,” Mallet said, indicating the carcass of some kind of beast near the base of the tree.

  Stanley went over, sniffed, and started chewing on it. But Grundy, following, saw some dead ants by the carcass. “What’s this?” he asked in grass-talk.

  “Poisoned meat,” the grass replied. “They use it to get rid of pests.”

  “Stanley!” Grundy cried. “Don’t—”

  But it was too late. The dragon stiffened, his eyes assuming a glazed look; then he sank to the ground.

  Grundy turned on the elves. “You—this is not—”

  “Prince’s orders,” Mallet said. “Strange ones, I admit; we never poisoned a tame creature before. But he’s the Prince.”

  Grundy started to run. But an elf reached down and caught him, and hefted him up overhead with one hideously powerful arm. He was helpless.

  He was carried around the tree. The elf bent to touch the ground, and found a ring set there; he hauled on it, and a turf-covered slab came up. Beneath was a ramp going down. The elf dropped Grundy in and let the heavy slab fall back into place.

  Grundy tumbled on down through the darkness, fetching up against a packed-earth wall. He was bruised and disoriented, but not hurt. He realized that he had abruptly been made a prisoner.

  For a while he simply sat in the dank dark, sorting things out. Something was calamitously wrong—but exactly what was it? He had had little contact with elves, but he was absolutely sure they did not deal treacherously with visitors. They were resolute in opposition and loyal in support and always made their orientation clear at the outset. To challenge a visiting party, then accept it, then betray it—this was simply not the elven way. Yet it had happened. Grundy knew that he would be able to do nothing positive until he understood why. Certainly he could not pound on the exit panel and demand to be released; they would not release him without reason, and might simply dispatch him as they had the dragon to shut him up.

  The dragon! They had poisoned Stanley! That was the most appalling thing of all! Without Stanley, his Quest was dead—not to mention the horror of losing a loyal friend.

  He calmed himself. Stanley was not just another dragon, he was the Gap Dragon, just about the toughest breed there was, accustomed to eating anything. He was young and vigorous now. If any creature could survive poison, Stanley could. He hadn’t eaten very much of the carcass before being affected. Probably he was merely stunned and would throw off the effect after a while. After all, in the past, as an adult, he had consumed zombies and cherry bombs and, once, a basilisk. If he had survived those, surely he could survive a little poison!

  Perhaps he could check on that. Grundy ran his hands across the clammy earth until he found a worm hole. Then he put his mouth to the hole and murmured in worm-talk: “Hey, you worm! Where are you?”

  Startled, the worm replied. “Who calls me from below?”

  “It is I, Grundy Golem, friend to all insignificant creatures. I need your help.”

  “For a friend to insignificant creatures, I will help.”

  Grundy smiled in the dark. He had rather thought that would be the case. There was magic of a special nature in language. “There is a dragon above. Can you tell me whether he is alive or dead?”

  “By the time I got there, he would surely be dead,” the worm pointed out. “But I know a tunnelbug who is very fast; he can check this for you.”

  “That would be much appreciated, noble Worm.”

  In a moment the tunnelbug had gone to the surface and returned. “The dragon is ill, but not dead.”

  Grundy sagged in relief. “Will you carry a message to him? I must give it in dragon-talk, so he will understand, but you might carry it.”

  “I will try,” the tunnelbug said bravely.

  “Thank you so much, noble Tunnelbug! Here is the message, to be whispered in his ear.” And Grundy then said carefully in dragon-talk: {DRAGON PLAY POSSUM TILL FULLY RECOVERED—GRUNDY} He repeated it several times until the tunnelbug had it straight, for dragon-talk was difficult for a bug.

  In due course the bug departed. Now Grundy tried for something more ambitious. “Is there a squiggle in the region?” he called in squiggle-tongue.

  He was in luck. A squiggle answered. It showed up in the cell with an explosion of dirt. “Eh, what? What?” it asked, perplexed.

  “Oh honored Vole,” Grundy said, remembering what he had learned in the vole-tunnels. “I am trapped here and need an escape. Will you make me a passage out, that exits well away from the tree, so the elves will not see me?”

  The squiggle-vole was flattered. No one had considered it important enough for such a request, before. “Certainly, Golem. But wouldn’t you rather explore the tree itself?”

  “I would—but the elves would treat me badly. They have taken my friend up in the foliage, and I fear for her safety.”

  “The reason I asked,” the squiggle continued, “is that it is a very short distance to the tree, and there is a shaft inside it that only we voles remember. If you would like to go there—”

  What phenomenal luck! “Yes, honored Vole! That would be perfect! Except—is there a way out of it at the top? I can not help my friend if I can not get out of the trunk.”

  “There are crevices you could squeeze throu
gh,” the creature agreed. “We use them to peer out at the elves, they unknowing, for we are very curious creatures.”

  “Most curious,” Grundy agreed warmly. “I would be deeply grateful for such aid.”

  “Glad to help,” the squiggle said, still flattered. It proceeded to dig in the fashion only its kind could, in moments making a short tunnel to the root of the tree. Sure enough, there was a cavity in the wood that Grundy found with his hands, for there was no light here. To make it even better, there were the handholds of an old ladder leading up, evidently intended for elves. The elf ancestors must have crafted this as a secret exit, then forgotten it.

  He thanked the squiggle, then started to climb. Because the elves were twice his height, the rungs were more widely spaced than was convenient for him, but he was able to manage. He climbed through the darkness with fair dispatch, counting rungs as he went, so as to be able to judge the height. He figured that four hundred rungs should put him at the level of the foliage.

  It turned out that that was a considerable climb. Each single rung was an effort, and soon he was tiring. At fifty rungs he paused, panting. One eighth of the way up? How could he ever make it!

  The answer was, he had to make it. He knew that a tribe that would betray a welcome, poison a friendly dragon, and throw a Golem in a dank cell could not have anything very wonderful in mind for a young woman. Rapunzel was, in effect, confined in another tower. He would have to get her out.

  He mounted another fifty rungs, and paused again. One quarter of the way up—and three-quarters of his strength had been expended, by the feel of it. But what was there to do, except continue?

  He hauled himself on up. The 134th rung gave way when he drew on it, dropping his body while his heart remained at the prior level. His hands caught the next one down, so that he only dropped a third of his body-length, but it was an ugly sensation. He hung there, his fright overriding his fatigue. What a jolt!

  Then he resumed the climb, somewhat more carefully. He tested each new rung before trusting his full weight to it. Naturally the rungs got old and weak with age, and their anchorages rotted away. He should have expected that. But it didn’t make him feel better.

  By the time he reached the 200th rung, the lift provided by his fright from the near-fall had faded, and his arms and legs were more tired than ever. Halfway—and now it would be almost as bad to descend as to ascend. He was stuck—rather, fully committed. But he still hardly believed he could make it the rest of the way up.

  He ground on, one rung at a time, each one a worse torment than the one before. His hands were blistering from the friction, and his feet were hurting from the narrow support. Then the blisters burst, and each new grip was painful. He had to hold on more tightly, because of the slipperyness caused by his own leaking hands, but his strength was ebbing so that this was horrendously difficult.

  Two hundred and twenty-five rungs—or was it two hundred and thirty-five? He was no longer certain of the count. Did it matter? The top was where it was, regardless of the count.

  His left hand lost its grip, and his right was too fatigued to make a sudden grasp. But his feet slipped through the ladder, and brought him painfully short. He had not fallen—but that was accident as much as luck.

  Wouldn’t it be easier simply to let go? He would be down very quickly, his problems over.

  Then he remembered Stanley Steamer, waiting below—for what? If Grundy did not return to him, would the dragon make it home to Ivy on his own?

  Grundy resumed his climb, heedless of the agony of his hands. But now that agony was fading, for they were growing numb. He had to test his grip on each rung, not just to verify the soundness of the rung, but to be sure his grip would hold.

  Up, up, eternally. He was no longer counting; that required too much energy. He just went.

  Somewhere around 300 he stalled. His numbed muscles simply would no longer respond. His last vestige of strength was spent. All he could do now was hang there, until he dropped off.

  But his mind had not been deadened as far as his body had. He thought of Rapunzel, at the dubious mercy of Prince Gimlet. Why had the Prince welcomed her, while treating her companions in such dastardly fashion?

  The question brought the answer: Rapunzel was a beautiful and innocent woman. The very kind an unscrupulous man could sweep off her feet and use. Surely the Prince cared nothing for her personally; it was her naïveté he was after. So he had, literally, swept her off her feet, and given orders to dispatch her companions. This was the way a powerful and cynical person was. Grundy simply had not expected it among the elves, whom he supposed were superior to the human society in this respect. Live and learn!

  The thought of what Prince Gimlet might even now be doing to Rapunzel spurred Grundy to renewed activity. His arms were numb, but he moved them, hooking clawed hands over the rungs and hoisting himself up and up. He had to be getting close! He was already farther than he had thought possible, at fifty rungs.

  Above him a crevice of light showed. It was really very faint, but he had been in darkness so long that his eyes made the illumination seem strong. The squiggle had spoken truly!

  Grundy no longer really felt his arms and legs; they seemed to have disconnected from his body. But his body continued to rise, until he was at the crevice. He peered through.

  It was the elven kitchen. It had a stove and counters, and an elf cook was working. The crevice was behind the stove, perhaps caused by the drying effect of the heat. The stove appeared to be made of wood, which made Grundy marvel; what would such a stove burn, and how would it remain intact? It evidently worked satisfactorily. The walls of the chamber were leafy, and the workers were careful to step on the solid branches below, rather than on the twigs or leaves, lest they fall through. There was a lot more in an Elf Elm than outsiders knew!

  He moved on up, feeling somewhat restored now that the desolate climb had rewarded him with this access. He didn’t want the kitchen, he wanted the Prince’s chambers. What he would do once he found them he didn’t know, but that was not his immediate problem.

  Farther up, on the other side, he found another crevice. This one overlooked the nursery, for there were elven babies sleeping in leafy cradles. Gusts of wind rocked those cradles, which were on smaller branches that bent with the light force of it. It seemed to be a convenient arrangement.

  At a higher level was the sewing room. Elven maidens were working at a table, sewing garments and chatting merrily. Grundy paused to listen.

  “… and the dragon was tame,” one was saying. “They rode on it. But Prince Gimlet ordered it put away.”

  “That’s strange,” another said. “We never harmed a friendly creature before.”

  “Have you noticed?” the first said. “The Prince has been acting strangely this past day. You know how he always puts his hands on us, pretending it’s an accident?”

  “That’s because he’s not supposed to fool with common girls,” the third said. “But until he finds a suitable royal bride from another Elm—”

  The second rubbed her rear. “Some day I’m going to ‘accidentally’ drop a plate of glop on his foot!”

  “That’s what I’m saying,” the first said. “Late last night when I replaced the candles in his chamber, I thought sure he’d try to grab me the way he usually does, but he just sort of stared at me, seeming confused. I asked him if he was all right, but he just told me gruffly to get on about my business. He sounded strange. I thought maybe he had some royal indisposition, but I was just glad to get out of there without a struggle. Now, after this dragon business, I wonder.”

  “He grabs, but he’s nice,” the third said. “I never heard of him harming a friendly creature, before.”

  Then an elven matron entered the chamber, and the three shut up and concentrated on their sewing. Grundy moved on up, though he was sure no one suspected his presence.

  So the Prince was acting strangely. But his action with Rapunzel was not strange. Obviously he had found a bet
ter woman to pinch. Grundy burned at the notion and kept climbing.

  The shaft narrowed and finally debouched at what had once been a broken branch. A door cunningly crafted to resemble healed-over wood opened onto a network of branches clothed with leaves.

  Grundy stood there, looking about, trying to decide what to do next. He remained almost dead tired and hadn’t located the Princely chambers. Had all this been for nothing?

  Then he heard voices below. He was above a chamber. He squatted down, then lay flat, parting the leaves with his hands, carefully. The voices became clearer—and now he recognized them. Rapunzel and Prince Gimlet!

  He managed to arrange the leaves so that he could see them, without being seen. He hated to imagine it, but if Rapunzel liked the Prince’s attentions, then she was not being forced, and it would be Grundy’s duty to let her be. He could descend quietly, rejoin Stanley, and return to Castle Roogna to complete his Quest. The fact that his love would be lost would have no bearing on the matter. It wouldn’t count at all—to anyone but him. But he had to be fair.

  He hoped she hated the Prince.

  As it happened, nothing much was happening. They were evidently completing a meal, a fairly sumptuous repast. Rapunzel, for all her dainty figure, had a good appetite. The smell of the food reminded Grundy that he had not eaten today. How he would like to have some of those leftover scraps!

  “My dear, I like you,” the Prince said, wiping his mouth with a fancy napkin. “I think I’ll marry you.”

  “But I don’t love you!” Rapunzel protested, amazed.

  “What does love have to do with it? I am in need of a proper consort, who can not be from this Tree, and I believe you will do.”

  “But I love another!”

  His gaze narrowed. “Oh? Who?”

  “Grundy Golem,” she confessed.

  “But he is not of elven stock. You must marry within your culture.”

  “Why?” she asked, with that delightful innocence she had.