The Truth

make me look like a fast woman!”
    “Ah, right,” said Rocky, getting there. “No. Def’nitly not.”
    “Really?”
    “Sure. No one could run much in a dress like dat.”
    Sacharissa gave up. “I suppose Mrs. Hotbed could let it out a bit,” she said, reflectively. It was tempting to stay, because some of the racks were quite full, but she felt like a trespasser here and part of her was certain that a woman with hundreds of dresses was more likely to miss one than a woman with a dozen or so. In any case, the empty darkness was getting on her nerves. It was full of other people’s ghosts. “Let’s get back.”
    When they were halfway across the hall, someone started to sing. The words were incoherent, and the tune was being modulated by alcohol, but it was singing of a sort and it was under their feet.
    Rocky shrugged when Sacharissa glanced at him.
    “Maybe all dem moths is having a ball?” he said.
    “There must be a caretaker, mustn’t there? Maybe we’d better just, you know, mention we’ve been here?” Sacharissa agonized. “It hardly seems polite, just taking things and running…”
    She headed for a green door tucked away beside the staircase, and pushed it open. The singing went louder for a moment, but stopped as soon as she said “Excuse me?” into the darkness.
    After a few moments’ silence a voice said: “Hello! How are you? I’m fine!”
    “It’s only, er, me? William said it was all right?” She presented the statement like a question, in the voice of someone who was apologizing to a burglar for discovering him.
    “Mr. Mothball Nose? Whoops!” said the voice in the shadows at the bottom of the stairs.
    “Er…are you all right?”
    “Can’t get…it’s a…hahaha…it’s all chains…hahaha…”
    “Are you…ill?”
    “No, I’m fine, not ill at all, jus’ had a few too many…”
    “Few too many what?” said Sacharissa, speaking from a sheltered upbringing.
    “…wazza…things you put drink in…barrels?”
    “You’re drunk? ”
    “Tha’s right! Tha’s the word! Drunk as a…thing…smelly thing…ahahaha…”
    There was a tinkle of glass.
    The lantern’s weak glow showed what looked like a wine cellar, but a man was slumped on a bench against one wall and a chain ran from his ankle to a ring set in the floor.
    “Are you…a prisoner? ” said Sacharissa.
    “Ahaha…”
    “How long have you been down here?” She crept down.
    “Years…”
    “Years?”
    “Got lots of years…” The man picked up a bottle and peered at it. “Now…Year of the Amending Camel…that was bloodigoodyear…and this one…Year of the Translated Rat…another bloodigoodyear…bloodigoodyears, the lot of them. Could do with a biscuit, though.”
    Sacharissa’s knowledge of vintages extended just as far as knowing that Château Maison was a very popular wine. But people didn’t have to be chained up to drink wine, even the stuff from Ephebe that stuck the glass to the table.
    She moved a little closer, and the light fell on the man’s face. It was locked in the grin of the seriously drunk, but it was very recognizable. She saw it every day, on coins.
    “Er…Rocky,” she said. “Er…can you come down here a minute?”
    The door burst open and the troll came down the steps at speed. Unfortunately, it was because he was rolling.
    Mr. Tulip appeared at the top of the stairs, massaging his fist.
    “It’s Mr. Sneezy!” said Charlie, raising a bottle. “The gang’s all here! Whoopee!”
    Rocky got up, weaving slightly. Mr. Tulip strolled down the steps, ripping out the doorpost as he passed. The troll raised his fists in the classic boxer’s pose, but Mr. Tulip didn’t bother with niceties of that kind and hit him hard with the length of ancient wood. Rocky went over like a tree.
    Only then did the huge man with the revolving eyes try to focus them on Sacharissa.
    “Who the —ing hell are you?”
    “Don’t you dare swear at me!” she said. “How dare you swear in the presence of a lady!”
    This seemed to nonplus him.
    “I don’t —ing swear!”
    “Here, I’ve seen you before, you’re that—I knew you weren’t a proper virgin!” said Sacharissa triumphantly.
    There was the click of a crossbow. Some tiny sounds carry well and have considerable stopping power.
    “There are some thoughts too dreadful to think,” said the skinny man looking at her from the top of the steps and down the length of a pistol bow. “What are you doing here,