Doctor Who_ Lungbarrow - Marc Platt [94]
'Satthralope couldn't kill Quences,' he said, struggling to free his clothing. 'No matter how much they've always loathed each other.' With a furious twist, he slid out of his sleeves, leaving the jacket still in the grip of the table's claw. He sat back on the floor exasperated. 'Don't forget she's already lied to the House about his death. And done it so convincingly, she believes it herself.'
'They're going to find out he's dead sooner or later.'
'Sooner,' said the Doctor glumly. 'She plans to wake him herself. I wonder who'll be more traumatized.'
Chris edged slowly towards the door. The furniture ignored him. 'I'm off to make a few enquiries. I just got an idea from something you were thinking.'
The Doctor slapped the side of his head. 'Which was?'
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Chris smiled and thought, 'Where there's a wil , there's a way. . . out.'
'Ah,' said the Doctor. He watched him go and then turned his attention to rescuing his jacket from the crouching table.
'It took my shopping,' said Dorothée. 'What the freak was it?'
They had watched the tall, wooden creature from behind the big cabinet. Leela had held Dorothée back, while she stroked a carved panel on the furniture. Like distracting a dog, thought Dorothée.
The tall thing had no head. Just a splintered neck, around which hung a mirror on a chain. It had discovered the bike and carried off the plastic M&S bags.
'It was a Drudge,' said Leela. 'One of the House's servants.'
'I hate staff with attitude,' said Dorothée. She found Leela's assumption of the role of leader a bit gal ing. 'We'd better get moving if we're going to find the Doctor.'
'Wait,' Leela said. She crouched and touched and sniffed at one of the white tree trunks set in the wall. 'This House of Lungbarrow is sickly. I can smell it.'
'No kidding. The place is actually alive?'
Leela started to undo her long robe. 'And if the House is sick, then the sickness passes to the furniture and the servants too. They are all part of the House.'
She discarded the robe completely. Underneath, she wore minimal, roughly stitched, leather garments. Her body was sinewy and taut, finely toned; not an elegant society lady at al or even a Gal ifreyan grisette. She slid her knife into an empty sheath on her belt.
Dead tribal, thought the Ace bit of Dorothée. She was impressed. She glanced at herself in a big ornate mirror.
The shadowy face that stared back looked a wreck. But it was her own face, moulded by her own battles and cares. Not cold. Not accusing or questioning. Both Ace and Dorothée.
She let Leela lead the way along the passage until they reached a neglected hall. At one end, something glimmered inside a dusty glass booth. A ghost in a scarlet uniform - half materialized.
'It's him,' said Leela, squinting through the glass. 'It must be Redred, Andred's missing Cousin.'
Dorothée poked about in the burnt-out console. 'This wouldn't take long to fix if the replacement units were around.
I've seen similar stuff in the TARDIS. Wonder why no one's done it before now.' She studied the ghost in the machine. 'How long's he been in there?'
Leela fingered the hilt of her knife. 'He has been missing for six hundred and seventy-three years,' she said solemnly.
***
Satthralope poked at the contents of the white bags. She tore open one of the wrappings and broke off some of the pliant brown substance with her fingers.
Had someone brought them food packages for Otherstide? Or was this some joke of the Doctor's? The stuff was chewy and richly flavoured with herbs - the sort of rough bread that wandering Shobogans bake in ember fires.
There were strange-coloured fruits in the bags and boxes that contained square paper envelopes of a herbal mixture that smelt vaguely like tea.
'Use them,' she told the headless Drudge. 'They'll suffice for supper. And find the intruders!'
There was a sudden knocking noise.
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An image of the Doctor, reflected up from the library, was banging its knuckle insolently on the inside of her mirror.
He was mouthing noiselessly at her, but his thoughts came through clearly.