The Doomsday Vault by Steven Harper Page B

over his face and hard hands grabbed him from behind. The bag had a sweet, chemical smell. Gavin struggled and tried to shout, but the hands held him firmly, and the fumes made him dizzy. Soft cloth filled his mouth, muffling his voice.
    â€œSorry, my boy,” said Peterson. “We’ll try to make this painless.”
    The man’s words swooped and swirled and faded. Gavin felt a pinprick on his upper arm just before he lost consciousness entirely.
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    Time stretched and bunched. Voices rushed at him and slid away. Hands prodded him, then forced him upright. Tones and chords burst into his ear, and a voice demanded that he give each one a name: C, B-flat, D-sharp augmented. The voice ordered him to sing, and he sang, the notes falling from his lips in an uncontrolled torrent. He sang songs and changed keys in midmelody as the voice ordered. It never occurred to him to disobey. In fact, he was only vaguely aware of his surroundings. He seemed to be sitting on a soft chair, and he had a vague impression of stone walls. Twice, he caught a flash of wine red velvet. The mysterious lady? Then he fell asleep.
    Gavin awoke with a dry mouth and a vague headache. He sat up with a groan and put a hand to his forehead for a moment, then looked around. The stone room was round and small, but brightly illuminated by the light from two electric lamps fastened to the curving walls. A carpet covered the floor. The bed he was lying on felt springy and comfortable, and the blankets were thick. A single narrow window looked out on a darkening sky. Gavin decided he must be in a tower. But why? Slowly he got to his feet. A nightstand near the bed bore a pitcher of water and a glass. Gavin poured and drank, too thirsty to care if the water was drugged. When he bent his arm, he noticed the bandage on his left bicep, and he remembered the needle pricking him in the park. He checked underneath and found a tiny red wound, nothing more.
    â€œHello?” Gavin called. “I’m awake! Is anyone here?”
    No response. Nervously, he searched the room more closely. The heavy door was locked, no surprise. The lights could be turned off by means of a switch near the door. Interesting. He knew a little about electricity, but only a little. Why give something so expensive to a prisoner? Against one wall stood a radiator, which heated the room and drove the dampness away, another odd luxury. He turned his back to it and let the heat soak in.
    Hanging off the foot of the bed was a set of clothes—blue work shirt, black trousers, socks, boots. His airman’s jacket was gone, as were the coins he had saved. Gavin looked at the filthy rags he’d been wearing since the pirates took the Juniper and stripped them off. With a cloth he found near the pitcher, he gave himself a sponge bath. Being clean made him feel amazingly better. The new clothes fit perfectly. A part of him felt he should rebel, refuse gifts from people who had kidnapped him, drugged him, and held him prisoner. But the more practical part of him said it was stupid to wear rags when perfectly good clothes were sitting right there. The window swung outward over a dizzying drop to a cobblestoned courtyard several stories below. Beyond that lay a high wall with gargoyles on it, then green fields scattered with trees. The sun wasn’t visible, but the gathering dusk told Gavin it was near night. He looked down at the smooth tower walls. No ledges or gutters to climb down on. What the hell was he doing here? He tried to remember more about the park. The men—Peterson and White—must have been a distraction for someone sneaking up behind him. But why would someone go through all that trouble for a street musician?
    A pang went through him. His fiddle! What had happened to his fiddle? A moment later he found its case under the bed. Inside was the instrument, undamaged, along with a fresh supply of rosin for his bow, and the little silver nightingale. Gavin