“What’s the message?” Milka called out from inside. “Tell her nothing important,” hissed Leaf anxiously. “Nothing important,” called out Feorin. “It’s just that sleeper!”

Leaf groaned.

“Was that part of the cough?” asked Feorin.

“No,” said Leaf. As she expected, Milka came out the door. She was also wearing a leather apron and was hold­ing a glue pot.

“What is it, then?” she asked.

“What?” asked Leaf dully. Her plan had fallen apart.

“The message,” said Milka impatiently. “So you are a Piper’s child after all? I always said we needed some here to run messages.”

“Uh, yes,” said Leaf, her brain suddenly re-engaging. “That’s what I’m here for. You two are supposed to take me to a telephone so I can call ... um ... a sorcerer in the House to order in some special items for you Denizens. This coughstone is a sample ... only I might have used it ah ... ah ... ah-woof ... up.”

“Good!” said Feorin. Milka didn’t answer, instead reaching over to take the stone.

Leaf held her breath as the Denizen examined it and popped it in her mouth. It lodged in her throat for a few seconds and her breath caught, a hideous whistle emerging from her mouth. Then it was gone, into her stomach.

“A whistle and a cough,” said Feorin admiringly. A sec­ond later he pouted, adding, “But it should have been mine. I could have taken you to the telephone as easily as Milka.”

“I’m senior, so I get any bonuses,” said Milka. “Right. Let’s go.”

She stalked off down the corridor, closely followed by Leaf. Leaf figured that she only had a short space of time before Milka figured out she’d been tricked.

Milka went up to the noon door and knocked. When no answer came, she opened the door and ushered Leaf in.

“Noon’s office,” she said. “He must be up with Lady Friday. He’s got a phone on his desk.”

Leaf looked around the room. It was furnished much as a modern manager’s office in a hospital might be. There was no sign of a telephone.

“Where’s the phone?” asked Leaf.

“Oh, it will be in the desk drawer, I expect,” said Milka.

“Right,” said Leaf. She dumped the pillowcases by the door, quickly crossed the room, sat down, and opened the top drawer. Her hands shook as she saw a red box, exactly like the one that Arthur had kept in his room. She swiftly took it out, opened it, and picked up the old-fashioned two-piece telephone. The earpiece crackled as she held it to her ear.

“Yes?” said a distant voice.

“I want to make a call, please,” Leaf replied.

“Why else would you be talking into a telephone?” said the voice.

“Yes, I suppose,” said Leaf nervously. Milka and Feorin were waiting for her, and though they had stayed near the door, she knew they were listening. “I need to talk to Dr. Scamandros, please.”

She lowered her voice and swiftly added, “He’s prob­ably in the Lower House. Or maybe the Great Maze.”

“The Lower House? They’re cut off, by order of Superior Saturday. Can’t connect you there, nor anywhere below the Middle House.”

“But it’s very important,” pleaded Leaf. “Please!”

“Who is this calling—” the voice started, but before it could continue, it was cut off and a new voice came in, much stronger.

“Get off, you imposter! Operator here.”

“Operator? Who was that, then? Uh, never mind.” Leaf’s precious time was evaporating. “Please, I need to speak to Dr. Scamandros urgently. He’s in ... ah—”

“Friend of Arthur’s, are you?” asked the operator.

“Yes!” said Leaf without thinking. “Or ... no ... depending on why you’re asking.”

“Putting you through. Might not last, though. Saturday’s minions are all through the lines.”

There was a loud click, a buzz that to Leaf’s dispirited ears sounded like disconnection, then a distant voice echoed in the earpiece.

“Hello! Hello?”

“Dr. Scamandros! It’s Leaf. I’m at Lady Friday’s moun­tain retreat out in the Secondary Realms. Maybe near the Magellanic Clouds or something. I need—”

“Leaf! Keep talking so I can make a note of your exact location. Where is my locating pencil?”

Scamandros kept muttering. Leaf looked at Milka and Feorin. Milka was tilting her head, listening more intently.

“I’m meant to arrange for the shipment of fixed coughs and ailments to the Denizens here,” said Leaf quickly. “Lady Friday’s here, of course, and about fifty other Denizens.”

“Keep talking! Does Friday have her Key?”

“I think so,” said Leaf. Milka was walking over to her now. “A mirror? Now about those coughs, they prob­ably need two each—”

“This telephone connection is forbidden,” said the first voice that had come onto the line. “Action is being taken.”

The telephone shook in Leaf’s hands and began to emit wisps of steam. She dropped it on the desk but kept talking, putting her face as close to the fallen mouthpiece as she dared.

“Scamandros! It’s the gray mold planet, I think! There’s some connection from a laundry on Earth—”

The phone bubbled and hissed and melted into a blob of unsightly muck that smelled like burnt hair.

“Hmm,” said Milka. “So it was all a trick.”

“Yes,” said Leaf defiantly.

“We’d better get out of here, then,” said Milka. She grabbed Leaf and turned to the door. “Feorin, pick up those pillowcases. Back to our room, quick!”

“Why?” asked Feorin. “It’s not our fault .... Noon won’t blame ... oh ...”

Milka was already out the door, Leaf under her arm. Feorin picked up the pillowcases and followed, forgetting to shut the door after him. Thirty seconds later, all three of them were in Milka and Feorin’s room, a much smaller, shabbier, and eccentric chamber dominated by two work­tables covered in books, papers, and bookbinding tools. In one corner sat a five-foot-tall book press that had been partially taken apart, a spanner still lying on the floor next to it.

“Thanks,” Leaf said as Milka set her down on the floor. “But why—”

“Shut up!” instructed Milka. “You’ve got us in enough trouble already. Let me think.”

“Will Noon really blame us?” asked Feorin.

“Blame us!” shrieked Milka. “You’re already on pro­bation! He’ll send us down to circle zero! Do you fancy fighting all the plants that get in down there?”

“What will we do?” asked Feorin anxiously.

“Hide,” said Milka. “If Noon doesn’t see us, he can’t ask us anything.”

“How long for?”

“Forever!”

“Forever?”

“For a few days anyway. Noon will forget once he gets a new phone. As for you—”

Milka advanced on Leaf angrily. The girl retreated before her, almost falling over the pile of pillowcases that Feorin had dropped on the floor.

“Can’t I come hide with you?” Leaf asked.

“No!” Milka raised her fist but then let it fall without striking Leaf. “Definitely not. Get out! And don’t tell any­one what you’ve done, or that we helped you!”

“Okay.” Leaf picked up the pillowcases and backed out, Feorin obligingly holding the door open. “Thanks!”

“‘Thanks’!” growled Milka. “You’re more trouble than Feorin!”

The door slammed behind Leaf, leaving her alone in the corridor. But she no longer felt alone. Dr. Scamandros knew her situation, even if he didn’t know her exact loca­tion. That meant Arthur would soon know, and her friend would organize a rescue as soon as possible.

All she had to do now was find Aunt Mango and then—taking a leaf, so to speak, from Milka’s book—hide with her until the rescuing forces arrived.

Leaf smiled and walked away—straight into a very tall, impeccably dressed Denizen with straw-blond hair and a very shiny monocle over one of his piercing blue eyes. Though he had not been wearing the monocle previ­ously, Leaf instantly recognized him as being one of the two Denizens who had preceded Lady Friday’s march through the hospital.

“Ah,” said the Denizen, who could only be Friday’s Noon. “The unauthorized use of my telephone is explained. Miss Leaf, is it not?”

Leaf nodded.

“You are fortunate that milady has ordered you to be kept in reasonable working order, as being of potential fur­ther use,” drawled Noon. “That being the case, if you tell me who you called, I shall not punish you too heavily.”

“I ... I couldn’t get through,” said Leaf. “One of Saturday’s Denizens had replaced the operator.”

“Plausible,” said Noon. “A most competent lie, if it is not the truth. Now, how shall we keep you out of trouble until you are required, hmmm?”

Leaf didn’t answer. She raised her chin a half-inch and tried to look Noon in the eye, but the reflection from the monocle was too bright and she had to lid her eyes half-shut.

“One of your mortal poets said it well,” said Noon. “He put milady on to the notion in the first place. ‘To sleep, perchance to dream.’ I think it is time you slept, Miss Leaf.”

Leaf responded by throwing the pillowcases at Friday’s Noon and running away. But she had gone no more than a dozen paces when she felt a fierce buffet of air and was knocked to the ground, Noon standing over her with his yellow wings at full extension across the corridor.

Leaf began to crawl away. Friday’s Noon did not try to stop her. He took a small silver cone from his pocket and raised it to his lips, to use as a megaphone.

“Sleep, Miss Leaf.” Noon’s voice had transformed itself into Lady Friday’s, stronger than it had ever sounded before. Leaf was tired, so tired from everything she had been through; she had done everything she could ....

Leaf stopped crawling and lay still. Friday’s Noon replaced the silver cone within his coat and spoke to unseen Denizens behind him.

“Take her to the bed turner. Tell him she is to be care­fully tended. Milady may have need of her, in time to come.”
Chapter Sixteen

There were nine Artful Loungers who swooped with darkened wings upon the raft, each bearing a curved sword of blue steel in his or her right hand and a long crys­tal stiletto in the left. The stilettos could only be used once, as they contained a core of Nothing that would kill even a Denizen. Dangerous weapons, they lasted only a few hours from their manufacture, for the Nothing would soon eat its way out of its sorcerous confinement in the crystal.

The leading Lounger never even made it to the deck, Ugham’s powerfully thrown spear arresting his flight with a vengeance. But the other eight landed in formation and advanced upon Cool of the Morning, Arthur, Suzy, Fred, and Ugham. Of Pirkin and the other Paper Pushers there was no sign, though all had been on deck only moments before, with Pirkin close to Arthur.

“Leave at once!” commanded Arthur, raising the Key. But he did not call upon its power, and the Artful Loungers did not respond. They smiled their vacant smiles and kept coming, their glossy patent leather shoes and checked trou­sers all in step, their pastel-blue peasant smocks all unbuttoned in exactly the same careful, careless way, their berets all at the same angle.

“Ready,” muttered Ugham. As he spoke, the Loungers rushed forward and everything became a mad blur of movement, of trying to hit Loungers while not being hit, particularly by the Nothing-core stilettos. Arthur almost felt as if his body was reacting without his conscious direc­tion, so swiftly did everything happen, muscles acting purely from training, reflex, and fear.

Then it was over, as quickly as it had begun. Arthur stood amid four dead Loungers, surprise still on their faces that they had been so easily slain by mere sword-wounds, not knowing they had been hit by the Fourth Key. The other four were backing away, and they kept on retreating until they were far enough away to turn and fling them­selves up into the night.

Arthur looked down at himself and saw he was not harmed, not even marked by a scratch. He quickly turned to check the others. They were several feet behind him and he realized that he must have charged forward as the Loungers attacked.

“Anyone hurt?” he asked as he walked back to them. Though there was no spoken agreement, everyone then moved back several paces farther still, to put more space between themselves and the dead Artful Loungers. Arthur kept his back to them. He did not want to see his handi­work. “Those knives looked bad.”

“Poison blades,” said Ugham. “But I have taken no scathe. You bore the brunt of it, Lord Arthur.”

“I never even got close to one,” said Fred.

“Me neither,” said Suzy with a shudder. “And that’s the way I like it.”

“Cool of the Evening?” asked Arthur. The Winged Servant of the Night was still standing on one leg. “No new wounds?”

She signed a message to Fred.

“She says not,” he translated. “Uh, she wants to know who you are, Arthur. I guess smelling right isn’t every­thing.”

“I am Arthur, the Rightful Heir to the Architect.”

“Master of the Lower House, Lord of the Far Reaches,” added Suzy.

“Duke of the Border Sea and Commander-in-Chief of the Army of the Architect,” added Fred.