Street of the Turtle, and ran straight on toward the Cradle of Lud. And as they neared it,
ancient bodies began to twist and dance in the strengthening wind on either side of them.
22
AFTER THEY HAD RUN for God knew how long (all Jake knew for sure was that the
drums had stopped again), Gasher once more yanked him to a stop. This time Jake
managed to keep his feet. He had gotten his second wind. Gasher, who would never see
eleven again, had not.
“Hoo! My old pump’s doing nip-ups, sweetie.”
“Too bad,” Jake said unfeelingly, then stumbled backward as Gasher’s gnarled hand
connected with the side of his face.
“Yar, you’d cry a bitter tear if I dropped dead right here, woontcher? Too likely! But no
such luck, my fine young squint—old Gasher’s seen em come and seen em go, and I wasn’t
born to drop dead at the feet of any little sweetcheeks berry like you.”
Jake listened to these incoherencies impassively. He meant to see Gasher dead before the
day was over. Gasher might take Jake with him, but Jake no longer cared about that. He
dabbed blood from his freshly split lip and looked at it thoughtfully, wondering at how
quickly the desire to do murder could invade and conquer the human heart.
Gasher observed Jake looking at his bloody fingers and grinned. “Sap’s runnin, ennet? Nor
will it be the last your old pal Gasher beats out of your young tree, unless you look sharp;
unless you look wery sharp indeed.” He pointed down at the cobbled surface of the narrow
alley they were currently negotiating. There was a rusty manhole cover there, and Jake
realized he had seen the words stamped into the steel not long ago: LaMERK FOUNDRY,
they said.
“There’s a grip on the side,” Gasher said. “Yer see? Get your hands into that and pull away.
Step lively, now, and maybe ye’ll still have all your teeth when ye meet up with
Tick-Tock.”
Jake grasped the steel cover and pulled. He pulled hard, but not quite as hard as he could
have done. The maze of streets and alleys through which Gasher had run him was bad, but
at least he could see. He couldn’t imagine what it might be like in the underworld below the
city, where the blackness would preclude even dreams of escape, and he didn’t intend to
find out unless he absolutely had to.
Gasher quickly made it clear to him that he did.
“It’s too heavy for—” Jake began, and then the pirate seized him by the throat and yanked him upward until they were face to face. The long run through the alleys had brought a thin,
sweaty flush to his cheeks and turned the sores eating into his flesh an ugly yellow-purple
color. Those which were open exuded thick infected matter and threads of blood in steady
pulses. Jake caught just a whiff of Gasher’s thick stench before his wind was cut off by the
hand which had encircled his throat.
“Listen, you stupid cull, and listen well, for this is your last warning. You yank that
fucking streethead off right now or I’ll reach into your mouth and rip the living tongue right
out of it. And feel free to bite all you want while I do it, for what I have runs in the blood
and you’ll see the first blossoms on yer own face before the week’s out—if yer lives that
long. Now, do you see?”
Jake nodded frantically. Gasher’s face was disappearing into deepen- ing folds of gray, and his voice seemed to be coming from a great distance.
“All right.” Gasher shoved him backward. Jake fell in a heap beside the manhole cover, gagging and retching. He finally managed to draw in a deep, whooping breath that burned
like liquid fire. He spat out a blood-flecked wad of stuff and almost threw up at the sight of
it.
“Now yank back that cover, my heart’s delight, and let’s have no more natter about it.
Jake crawled over to it, slid his hands into the grip, and this time pulled with all his might.
For one terrible moment he thought he was still not going to be able to budge it. Then he
imagined Gasher’s fingers reaching into his mouth and seizing his tongue, and found a little
extra. There was a dull, spreading agony in his lower back as something gave there, but the
circular lid slipped slowly aside, grinding on the cobbles and exposing a grinning crescent
of darkness.
“Good, cully, good!” Gasher cried cheerfully. “What a little mule y’are! Keep
pulling—don’t give up now!”
When the crescent had become a half-moon and the pain in Jake’s lower back was a
white-hot fire, Gasher booted him in the ass, knocking him asprawl.
“Wery good!” Gasher said, peering in. “Now, cully, go smartly down the ladder on the side.
Mind you don’t lose your grip and tumble all the way to the bottom, for those rungs are
fearsome slick and greezy. There’s twenty or so, as I remember. And when you get to the
bottom, stand stock-still and wait for me. You might feel like runnin from yer old pal, but
do you think that would be a good idea?”
“No,” Jake said. “I suppose not.”
“Wery intelligent, old son!” Gasher’s lips spread in his hideous smile, once more revealing his few surviving teeth. “It’s dark down there, and there are a thousand tunnels going every which-a-way. Yer old pal Gasher knows em like the back of his hand, so he does, but you’d
be lost in no time. Then there’s the rats—wery big and wery hungry they are. So you just
wait.”
“I will.”
Gasher regarded him narrowly. “You speak just like a little triggie, you do, but you’re no
Pube—I’ll set my watch and warrant to that. Where are you from, squint?”
Jake said nothing.
“Bumbler got your tongue, do he? Well, that’s all right; Tick-Tock’ll get it all out of you, so
he will. He’s got a way about him, Ticky does; just naturally wants to make people conwerse. Once he gets em goin, they sometimes talks so fast and screams so loud
someone has to hit em over the head to slow em down. Bumblers ain’t allowed to hold no
one’s tongue around the Tick-Tock Man, not even fine young triggers like you. Now get the
fuck down that ladder. Hup!”
He lashed out with his foot. This time Jake managed to tuck in and dodge the blow. He
looked into the half-open manhole, saw the ladder, and started down. He was still
chest-high to the alley when a tremendous stonelike crash hammered the air. It came from
a mile or more away, but Jake knew what it was without having to be told. A cry of pure
misery burst from his lips.
A grim smile tugged at the corners of Gasher’s mouth. “Your hard-case friend trailed ye a
little better than ye thought he would, didn’t he?
Not better than I thought, though, cully, for I got a look at his eyes— wery pert and
cunning they were. I thought he’d come arter his juicy little night-nudge a right smart, if he
was to come at all, and so he did. He spied the tripwires, but the fountain’s got him, so that’s all right. Get on, sweetcheeks.”
He aimed a kick at Jake’s protruding head. Jake ducked it, but one foot slipped on the
ladder bolted to the side of the sewer shaft and he only saved himself from falling by
clutching Gasher’s scab-raddled ankle. He looked up, pleading, and saw no softening on
that dying, infected face.
“Please,” he said, and heard the word trying to break into a sob. He kept seeing Roland lying crushed beneath the huge fountain. What had Gasher said? If anyone wanted him,
they would have to pick him up with a blotter.
“Beg if you want, dear heart. Just don’t expect no good to come of it, for mercy stops on
this side of the bridge, so it does. Now go down, or I’ll kick your bleedin brains right
outcher bleedin ears.”
So Jake went down, and by the time he reached the standing water at the bottom, the urge
to cry had passed. He waited, shoulders slumped and head down, for Gasher to descend and
lead him to his fate.
23
ROLAND HAD COME CLOSE to tripping the crossed wires which held back the
avalanche of junk, but the dangling fountain was absurd—a trap which might have been set
by a stupid child. Cort had taught them to constantly check all visual quadrants as they
moved in enemy territory, and that included above as well as behind and below.
“Stop,” he told Oy, raising his voice to be heard over the drums.
“Op!” Oy agreed, then looked ahead and immediately added, “Ake!”
“Yes.” The gunslinger took another look up at the suspended marble fountain, then