by Heide Goody
It was for this reason that, as they waited in the temple’s great audience chamber for General Handzame to officially send them on their mission into the trap-filled tomb below, Cope did not question some last minute changes. The major one was the addition of the tooth-mage Newport Pagnell and the artist Bez to their team. Pagnell was an understandable addition: a replacement for Abington. Entering the room whilst studying a scroll, he looked the very epitome of a scholarly wizard (apart from the drying blood and stuff on his face, and manacles around his wrists). The artist’s presence was less explicable. Cope could not imagine he would be of much use, except as a pack animal for the bundles of wizardy books he was currently being saddled with.
General Handzame stood at a long stone table before the audience chamber balcony. Framed in the open night sky, lit by the copper glow of the open braziers in the room, Handzame should have looked like a dark conqueror, mighty and inscrutable. She’d even adopted a pose (one foot slightly forward, one hand on hip, the other held out to seize the future) which Cope was sure she’d seen on an imperial statue in Sathea. But Handzame didn’t look like a Sathean emperor or a dark conqueror. Instead – Cope noted without judgement – she looked like a very ordinary woman who had, much to her own surprise, found herself to be dressed up like an Amanni warlord and in possession of a small but not insignificant city state.
“Are we all here, Merken?” Handzame demanded.
“We are, ma’am,” said Merken, tying and patting a leather strap on Bez’s pack.
Handzame nodded, adjusted her power stance, put a hand down to lean on the table, missed, looked down to see where the table was, put her hand on it properly, and spoke.
“It is written that over a thousand year ago,” she declared portentously, “Hierophant Foesen, the high priest of Buqit, was visited by the goddess in person. She came down from the abode of the gods in the form the giant eagle Tudu and spoke with him. Her words to him formed much of the List of Things to Be Done which her followers attempt to complete to this day. At Buqit’s command, Foesen led the faithful deeper into the plains and founded this city and this temple, to separate Buqit from the pantheon of the gods and to raise her above them. To assist Foesen in his great work, Buqit left him one of the great treasures of this world: the Quill of Truth.”
“A magic feather,” said Bez.
“Correct.”
Pagnell laughed bitterly. “I’m sure a ton of gold and an army to command would have been just as handy.”
“If you have a quill pen which writes any truth you want to know,” said Lorrika, “you could just find all the buried treasure in the world, or find the words to turn any army to your cause. Least, that’s what Abington said.”
“Hardly the Amanni way,” said Pagnell. “Is this an invasion or a burglary?”
“It can be both, boy,” growled Merken.
Pagnell nodded. “It’s just that the good people of Ludens are cowering in their homes waiting for you to come round and pluck out their hearts and scoop out their brains.”
“This particular invasion isn’t about hearts and minds,” said Handzame.
“They’d probably be relieved if you just told them. Cut down on a lot of anxiety.”
“I think we’re happier having them cowering in their homes, Sparkles,” said Merken. “Keeps them out of the way.”
General Handzame held a small book in her hand. It was old, cracked, and liberally spotted with brown splodges which could conceivably have been gravy but were much more likely not. “My great and noble ancestor, Handzame of the Tall Crags – who was undeservedly given the epithet Handzame the Unlucky – had the honour of descending further into Foesen’s tomb than any outsider. His diary chronicles every painful and bloody footstep, every victory and even his ultimate failure. Tonight, we will finish his great work and take the Quill of Truth for ourselves!”
“Indeed, we shall,” said Merken. “Perhaps if we might proceed downstairs now, ma’am. Time is against us.”
“Absolutely. Come!”
Handzame swept out of the room – in the manner of one who had practised sweeping at length but still hadn’t quite got the knack – with her honour guard and the band of tomb-raiders behind her.
Cope found herself following the artist and the wizard down the stairs.
Pagnell made a thoughtful, digesting noise. “Thing is,” he whispered to Bez, “if that’s the diary of Handzame the Unlucky, and he was writing in it while at the deepest level any human had got to in the tomb, how the heck did it make its way back to the surface?”
Bez gave him a disbelieving glare. “Seriously? That’s the most burning question on your mind? Not, Will we ever again see the light of day?”
“I’m sure we’ll all make it through the tomb,” said Pagnell. “A decent proportion of us, anyway.”
“With you as our guide? Forgive me if I don’t find that comforting.”
Pagnell patted him on the shoulder. “I was selected for this mission, Bez. My skills have been recognised. I’m the best wizard in town.”
“You’re the only wizard in town,” said Cope.
“And therefore the best,” said Pagnell confidently. “Come now, best foot forward.”
4
Ten yards after passing the riddle door and the first threshold, the tunnel floor vanished beneath their feet.
One moment there was solid stone beneath Cope’s boots, the next a sensation of the floor swinging away and a gaping nothing. In the half second before the lamps went out, Cope’s flailing mind caught sight of sheer stone walls, then she hit water, feet first and plunged under the surface into cold and dark.
There were plenty of people in the world who thought overcoming the dangers of deep water by learning to swim was as mad as overcoming the dangers of lightning strikes by standing on hilltops during thunderstorms. Cope was not only a strong woman but had been fortunate enough to be raised by people who thought swimming was a valuable skill rather than a challenge to the gods to do their best to drown you. Cope Threemen could swim.
She was also an experienced warrior who could march, run and climb in plate as easily as she could without. To the inexperienced individual, plate armour was blinding, wearying and made one clumsy and slow. Not Cope. Metal plate armour was a second skin to her and Cope Threemen knew everything there was to know about swimming in plate armour. And what she knew was this:
You can’t do it. You’d be an idiot to try.
She sank but she did not panic. She unbuckled her chest and back plate – left side: torso and shoulder; right side: torso and shoulder – and pushed them out and away. As her lungs started to ache, she pushed off her gauntlets and unbuckled her vambrances. Cope was now underwater wearing half-plate and a chainmail vest. Cope Threemen knew everything there was to know about swimming in half-plate and chain. And what she knew was this:
You still can’t do it. You’d still be an idiot to try.
She tore the ties off her chainmail and dragged it over her head. She was still too heavy. Her lungs burned. A malicious imp in her brain told her to breathe, even though she obviously could not. Water filled her nose and the back of her throat, flooding it with the taste of rust and decay. She floundered in the dark. She found herself becoming, not afraid, but angry. The prospect of dying should, she felt, always make one angry. It was one of the few times anger was useful. However, she was mostly angry because she would no longer be able to complete the spiritual quest High Shepherdess Gwell had given her. Cope liked order and completeness; life was not a thing to be left half done.
Her foot grazed against something. She put her foot down again. It touched upon a sloping surface: slippery, oddly knobby and unstable like a mound of rocks, but a sloping surface nonetheless. Climbing, stumbling, slipping and climbing with her feet and swimming with ever more desperate arm strokes, she ascended, inch by inch. Her arms screamed. Her heart twisted in her chest. She had to grit her teeth to stop herself taking involuntary breaths of water. The surface
she was climbing became narrower and less solid the higher she climbed, but climb it she did.
When she felt her hand break the surface, she leapt. She came up, caught half a breath of air and sank again. She powered up the strange surface, almost demolishing it and broke the surface a second time.
“Oh, gods! Monster!” yelled a voice.
Cope lunged at the wall. Between balancing precariously on the material beneath her and plastering her body against the wet stone, managed to stay above the surface. She coughed, spat and heaved a rib-rattling intake of breath.
“Don’t eat me, I’m too young to die!” yelled the voice again. It was Bez. The artist.
“Cope?” said another voice in the darkness. Merken.
“I’m here,” she coughed.
“We thought you drowned,” said Lorrika, splashing around.
“Don’t be hasty. Plenty of time yet for us all to drown,” said Pagnell from a short distance away.
The sounds of doggy paddles and related splashings echoed off close walls. Even with no light, Cope could picture the dimensions of the pit.
“How far did we fall?” she wondered.
“Far enough,” said Pagnell.
“Smooth walls,” said Lorrika. “Too wet and flat to climb.”
“How far down does it go, Cope?” asked Merken, his breathing and paddling laboured.
“I don’t know, sir,” she said. “I’m standing on something. Not sure what…”
She felt at the slope beneath her feet. It was a mound of loose items, many of them jagged and stick-like, several smooth and round, as large a person’s head—
“I think I’m standing on a pile of bones.”
“People bones?” said Lorrika.
“I think so.”
“How did they get here?” said Bez, a tremble of fear or cold in his voice.
“Think it through,” said Pagnell. “We can wait.”
After a moment, Bez wailed bitterly. “I don’t want to die and become bones!”
“An admirable, if unrealistic goal,” commented Pagnell.
“So,” said Merken firmly as he swam about, “our situation is damnably clear. We need to think of a way out of here.”
“We need to see to get out, sir,” said Cope.
“Yes. Pipsqueak: can you light the lamp?”
“Everything’s wet,” Lorrika pointed out.
“I can make light,” said Pagnell. “But you’ll need to take off these manacles.”
There was a pause. Somewhere in the darkness, Merken was likely pulling a range of expressions and mentally weighing up the pros and cons of freeing the wizard to cast his magic spells.
“What if he just magics himself out of here?” said Cope.
“Cope,” said Pagnell reproachfully, “I assure you if I could do such a thing, I would. Sadly, I can’t.”
There was the click of a key in a lock.
“However, I can now do this.”
There was light. A small cup of light. In its cold glow, Pagnell’s wet and bedraggled face was visible.
“Excellent,” said Merken. The light immediately flickered and almost vanished. “What happened there?” The light flashed on and off as he spoke.
“Pagnell’s Oral Illuminator,” said the wizard. “One of five original spells officially attributed to me. Ideal for inspecting teeth in poor lighting.” He splashed. “Lorrika.”
There was a second light.
“Hey, look,” said Lorrika, her own light twinkling.
“Unfortunately, the nature of the spell is such that it has to be cast orally.”
“What?” said Bez.
“Like this.” There was a third light.
“Ngy ’outh is a yight,” said Lorrika, wide-mouthed, sounding quite pleased with this turn of events.
Pagnell paddled over to Cope. She shuddered as the tooth mage’s fingers touched the edge of her jaw but, spread-eagled against the wall to maintain her position, there was little she could do. She felt a faint buzzing and a bluish light shone from her open mouth.
“I must say you have a fine set of gnashers there, Miss Threemen,” said Pagnell.
“Weren’t you supposed to know about the damned pitfalls of this place before we blundered into them?” muttered Merken.
“Yes,” agreed Pagnell, ruefully. “This is the Surprising Pit, I imagine.”
“You think?”
“The notes are very clear that it would be located immediately after one of the five major doors of the tomb, and it would come as a surprise to the unwary.”
“Which it did.”
“Yet, logically, it shouldn’t. You see, if we didn’t encounter it after any of the first four doors then we’d know it was after the fifth. Of course then, it wouldn’t come as a surprise, would it?”
“You are babbling like an idiot, wizard,” said Bez.
“Not at all. Armed with that knowledge, if we didn’t find it after the first three doors then we’d know it was behind the fourth because it couldn’t be behind the fifth. And yet it would once again, not be a surprise. So, it couldn’t be behind the fourth. Reason dictates the same would apply to the third and the second and indeed the first gate. Abington was convinced that, logically, this pit didn’t exist.”
“We’re in the pit,” said Cope, reasonably.
“Yes,” said Pagnell. “And I’m jolly surprised, I’ll have you know.”
Lorrika had made a circuit of the pit. It was square, fifteen feet to a side and at least twice as deep. “Too smooth. I can’t climb it.”
“Some thief you are,” said Cope.
“I’m an urban climber, not a thief.”
“I am put in mind,” said Merken, “of an ancient story about a donkey which fell into a well.”
“Is this relevant?” asked Bez.
“Does the donkey get out at the end of the story?” said Pagnell.
“It does,” said Merken.
“Then proceed.”
Merken paddled as he collected his thoughts. “I recall the farmer had no means of rescuing his donkey but the donkey was alive at the bottom of the well and braying for all it was worth.”
“We should shout for help?” said Lorrika.
“Help from whom?” asked Pagnell.
Merken ignored them. “The farmer decided it would be far kinder to kill the donkey than let it starve to death—”
“You said the donkey got out,” said Pagnell.
“—And so he began to fill in the well with dirt, shovel by shovel.”
“Burying it alive?” said Bez.
“Practical,” said Cope, stretching out her fingers to each side, trying to improve her hold on the hold-free wall, feeling the water run out of her sleeves.
“The soil landed on the donkey but it shook it off and, as the farmer filled the well in further, the donkey stood on the mounting pile of soil. The farmer filled, the donkey climbed. Eventually the donkey was at the lip of the well and able to get out.”
“Do you knew this farmer?” asked Cope.
“No, Cope. It’s … it’s a fable, a story with a moral.”
“Not true?”
“Not factually true but philosophically…”
There was a moment of quiet, contemplative splashing.
“I think I speak for us all,” said Pagnell, “when I say, what kind of bloody moral is a story like that going to have? When your friend and master tries to kill you it sometimes works out for the best? It’s okay to die of thirst because you’ve filled in your well as long as you get your donkey back?”
“I think it says something deep and true about perseverance,” said Merken, hurt. “The donkey turned the situation around and didn’t give up.”
“I mean, it would take a day or more to fill in the well. That’s two days of your farmer trying to murder a donkey.”
“It’s not a real story,” said Cope, irritated the wizard hadn’t been listening. “It’s not a real donkey. It’s not a real donkey, is it?”
“No. It’s a metaphor,” said Merken.
“Someone once told me a story about a mouse which fell in some milk,” murmured Lorrika.
“It’s still a donkey-murdering metaphor,” said Pagnell.
“It’s damned ancient wisdom,” sniffed Merken.
“Which means it’s not just useless but old and useless!”
“None of this is helping us get out,” Bez pointed out.
Without shifting her weight, Cope felt the skull she was standing on move away a little and she dropped an inch or two into the water.
“I think the mouse swam round and round and its tail did something to the milk,” said Lorrika.
“Contaminate it?” suggested Merken.
“Hamed’s Hammer of Loosening,” said Pagnell.
“The what now?”
“I could put some cracks or holes in the wall.” The wizard paddled about to face Lorrika. “Could you climb it then?”
Lorrika considered the wall with new appreciation.
“You’re not going to bring the whole thing down on us, are you?” said Merken.
“Oh, I doubt that very much,” said Pagnell cheerfully.
“I’m remembering that thing with the tower in Aumeria.”
“I’m fairly sure that won’t happen here. Fairly sure.”
Before anyone could raise further objections, Pagnell had raised his hands, uttered some nonsense words, and the world shook. The wall pounded and wobbled against Cope’s body. In the light leaking through her gritted teeth, she saw the water shaken into choppy waves. The pile of long dead pit victims trembled and collapsed beneath her feet. She dropped below the surface.
She had a split second to prepare before going under. Time enough for a gasped breath and a mental resolve to kick and swim for her life. Cope kicked and scrabbled and, as the tremor around her calmed, her fingers found a handhold which had not been there earlier: a narrow fissure in the wall. Large enough to take four fingertips and allow her to pull herself above the surface. She coughed and spat to clear the water from her throat.
The lights of four mouths picked out the scene in flashes. The water level had dropped; the green-brown tidemark on the wall was a foot above the surface. Chunks of smooth stone had come loose here and there. Down one wall, a great crack had formed: a handspan wide. Lorrika was already testing it out, preparing to climb. In the centre of the pool, Merken was doing an ungainly backstroke and supporting Pagnell. The wizard’s eyes were half closed. There was a bloody red mark on his forehead.
