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“Don’t fondle the merchandise,” growled the dwarf.
“You are going to start it up,” said Yackle.
“I don’t take orders,” he replied.
“Do what the lady says,” growled Brrr.
“I’m not giving you an order, Mr. Boss,” Yackle told the dwarf. “It’s a prophecy. You’re going to start it up for me before you leave here. If you’re anxious to be on your way, and who isn’t, I might add, you’ll get it up to speed pretty damn zippy.”
“You may as well,” said Ilianora to the dwarf. “She might be right.”
“You’re the one don’t believe in prophecies. What’s got a hold of you, Missy Malarkey?” said the dwarf, but affectionately enough. He petted Ilianora’s hand a little.
“Come on, Mr. Boss,” said one of the boys, “armies on the way and all that. We’re getting wanderlust.”
“Oh, is that what you call it, boy genius? Well, the gear’s unstuck, so we’ll push off then.”
“Wind it up,” says Yackle. “I know more than you do, today at least, and it knows more than I do.”
The dwarf made a rude gesture he knew blind Yackle couldn’t see.
Brrr swelled his chest. “Mr. Boss, I didn’t throw out my shoulder and crash down the door so we could linger here exchanging pleasantries. I want to get out before the armies arrive, too. Now, I notice there is a well in the corner of the courtyard that is far too large for me to hide in but would accommodate you nicely, if you’re scared of soldiers.” Then he did something he’d never done before and, sweet Ozma, hoped he’d never have to do again. He opened his mouth a
nd picked up the dwarf by the largest, densest part of his body—his considerably broad shoulders—and he began to carry him, as a mama cat would her kitten, across the courtyard.
“Oh, all right,” growled the dwarf. “Everyone’s going nasty on me.”
“We’re on edge,” said Ilianora. As if to authenticate the worry, the boom of cannon was heard in the distance.
A moment later the cannon sounded again, four, five times in sequence, and a hail of roof tiles rained into the courtyard. “Sister Hammer is going to be none too happy,” said Yackle, ducking her head. “But have the maunts all fled?”
“Fled, and left us locked up like that? The nerve,” said the Lion.
The dwarf climbed a small rack of stairs to the base of the Clock and disappeared inside a low painted door. Above the bartizans of the mauntery, above the Clock, new clouds of gunpowder smoke smudged a darker aspect across the celestial map of Oz. Brrr could smell the stink of saltpeter.
“Oh, for the eyes I once had,” said Yackle. “You’ll have to tell me what’s happening, Sir Brrr.”
“I don’t read omens,” he said, “en’t that your job?”
They fell silent. The dwarf could be heard moving about, setting pendulums free from their catches, winding trip-gears, muttering to himself. Stumbling. “Ow. Damn it.” Then he reappeared, breathing a little heavily and brushing some sawdust off his elbows. “Well, that’s that; she’s cooking. Let’s see what the old gal comes up with this time. I hope it en’t a nice little tragic-comedy about the beheading of several boys and the skewering of a Lion by any advancing army or such.”
“You don’t know?” said Brrr. “You didn’t set it up?”
“Of course I don’t know,” he snapped. “I’m the servant here. When did you ever know a dwarf to be in charge?”
They watched. Slowly the interior clockwork built up its reserves of power. Sounds of ticking and switching emanated from the depths of the cabinetry. There was a moaning, almost as of an orchestra tuning up, adjusting the parameters of its harmonies so as to accord.
Then the dragon began to lift its head. Notch by notch: in the costive silence you could hear the mechanism at work. Underneath the sequined scales a cleverness of hinges and loops was corralling the spine tighter, so the head of the dragon lifted, and the eyes began to burn red; the nostrils of the dragon dilated with a pornographic labial movement, issuing some hiccups of pale purple smoke.
“The dragon is smoking, too,” said Brrr to Yackle.
“I can smell that much,” she replied.
• 2 •
B RRR THOUGHT the dragon seemed uncertain what revelation to publish, if any. In a balcony to one side, made from half a porcelain teacup, a small puppet with a red mane emerged and mewed.
“Is that supposed to be me?” said the Lion. As if disappointed in its reception, the puppet disappeared.
