She was crumpled uncomfortably on the floor of a vehicle that moved among mountains, their edges obscuring then revealing the dismal light, like moons behind mist.
The place smelled of dust. As the vehicle trundled along, it created a little cloud of dust that went with them, enveloping them. The vehicle made a sudden turn, and her head banged against something hard. She whimpered.
“It’s all right,” said someone. “We won’t hurt you.”
She hadn’t thought they would, until then. The reassurance had the opposite effect from the one intended. She was sure they would hurt her, or that one of them would. The one who had spoken. There was something viscous in that voice, a gelatinous insincerity. And the other one? If the first did something evil to her, would the other concur? Or watch, interested? Passive? She trembled.
“No,” said a younger voice. “We really won’t hurt you. You don’t need to shiver all over like that. The only reason we tied you up was so you wouldn’t make any noise.”
A rough hand patted her, as one might pat a dog. This touch did what the voice had not, reassured her. It wasn’t the touch of a … well, that kind of touch. She turned her head a little, letting one eye see higher up. Shadows against that far gray light. A massive carved throne, high in the sky against the light. A curlicued bedstead? A rocking horse? A great swag of bunting from one precipice to another. A man up there, poised to leap. No, it had to be a statue of a man, holding a bow, a man with wings holding a bow, dark against the high gray light.
None of it made any sense. She relaxed, letting it happen. The water sound grew louder,plunket . . . plunket . . . plunket . . . and the wheels began to swish through a shallow pool, a wide, wide pool that reflected light from above, ripples fleeing from their wheels. Obviously, they were underground. In a cavern. Just as those men had said, the ones who’d been looking for her.
Far above her, to one side, a balloon hung limply from the ceiling, its basket dangling, slightly tipped. She had seen a balloon like that at a provincial festival, filled with hot air, round as an apple against the blue. People had paid to go up in it, to see the world from on high. It had to be pulled down by a capstan, but it always floated up again, when the bellows were applied to its little fire basket full of coals. She had much wanted to go up, but her father had said no. Such activities were for commoners, those easily amused by novelty.
The light grew slightly brighter the farther they went. They passed a precipice of doors stacked one on another, some upright, most recumbent, doors paneled, painted, carved, doors of gilt and metal, reaching from the level of her eyes into the far, dim upness of the place. They entered a chasm between escarpments of carpets, rolled, flat, folded, draped down the sides, lengthy runners twisted into rough garlands hung in catenary curves up the sides of the carpet cliffs. Then, abruptly, they left the rug chasm and came into an open space.
The rough hand returned to take her gag away. “There now. Is that better?”
“Who?” she murmured. “Who?”
“Bottoms,” he said cheerfully, as he untied her. “Jeorfy Bottoms. My friend here is Zebulon. Zebulon Coffin. Not a cheerful name, is it? Bottoms now, that’s cheerful. Always get a laugh out of Bottoms.”
He busied himself with much tinkling and rattling. Light happened, a lantern, and in its orange glow she saw she was on a flat platform with a seat at one side and a control lever at one end. From the open side, two men in gray coveralls regarded her intently, the younger one with amusement and interest, the pudgy, older one with an avid stare that made her apprehensive.
She gulped. “I’m Imogene Sentith,” she said.
“Oh, right,” said the younger one, with a demonic grin. “And I’m the Lord Paramount of Haven.”
“And I am his Prime Minister,” said the other, with a sneer. “We heard you, you know. Talking out there. You’re not his daughter. You’re just pretending, and we want to know why.”