One Quest, Hold the Dragons
Cups and Sorcery
Book II
Greg Costikyan
The reluctant heroes of Another Day, Another Dungeon are at it again!
Content
Cast of Characters
Hold the Dragons
Part 1 Omnia Vincit Amor
I
II
Greep Roti
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
Part II Another Week, Another Wilderness
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
Part III Intrigue in old Hamsterburg
I
II
III
IV
V
The Saga Of Kraki Elm-Slayer
VI
VII
VIII
The Albertine Address
IX
Syrup Of Greep
Cast of Characters
OUR HEROES
Timaeus d'Asperge, Magister Igniti
Sidney Stollitt, of the firm of Stollitt & Pratchitt
Nick Pratchitt, likewise
Kraki Kronarsson, descendant of Gostorn Gaptoothéd, Mighty Pie-Eater
Jasper de Mobray, Magister Mentis
Vincianus Polymage, absent more often than not
Frer Mortise, adept of Deeset
BIDDLEBOURGEOIS
Barthold, Baron Biddleburg
Bertnam, his heir, Magister Aeris
Broderick, regent, Barthold's younger brother
Captain Slentz, of the castle guard
Beatrice of the Band, rebel and love interest
Mr. Bates, the butler
Mistress Mabel, of the International Amalgamated Sisterhood of Witches & Allied Trades
Master Woodsley, a yeoman
Marek and Gaston, soldiers
Master Gorham, a stonewright and rebel sympathizer
HAMSTERIANS
Lotte, an innkeeper
Pablo von Kremnitz, Leftenant, Mayoral Foot Guard
Hamish Siebert, Lord Mayor of the Most Serene Republic of Hamsterburg
Guismundo Stantz, "The Spider," Minister of Internal Serenity
Renée Wolfe, his best agent, Magistra Umbrae
Gerlad, Graf von Grentz, patriarch of the gens von Grentz and a leader of the Accommodationists
Julio von Krautz, patriarch of the gens von Krautz and ineffectual conservative
Fenstermann, the reluctant torturer
Mauro and Kevork, guisardieres
Stauer, master of the Pension Scholari
Agent G, of the Ministry of Internal Serenity, seventh in a strictly limited series
Chad, a troll
Millicent, Egbert and Rutherford, house guests of the Graf von Grentz
Magistra Rottwald and Serjeant Kunz, lackeys of von Grentz
ALSO
Beliel, an elf
Hold the Dragons
Timaeus d'Asperge stood unsteadily before his parlor window, snifter of brandy cradled in one hand and meerschaum in the other. Out there, a cold, late-winter rain gave a glossy patina to the cobblestones and stoops. Wind pattered rain against the window, hard enough to rattle the panes. He shivered, though the coals were heaped high in the grate and the room was warm enough to be uncomfortable to anyone who wasn't a fire mage. He became suddenly aware that he was weaving on his feet, late hours and too much brandy catching up with him—and that the parlor windows extended to within a cubit of the floor. If he were to lose his footing and pitch forward, he'd find himself cracking his skull open on the slate flags of the sidewalk below. He began to contemplate retiring to his bed, another dull day completed.
And they were dull days, he had to admit. He had his master's, he had enough wealth to live comfortably the rest of his days, he had his clubs and his companions—but it didn't seem enough. He almost missed the adventurer's life, the moments of blind terror and adversity; but the purpose of adventure was wealth, after all, and he had that now, in sufficiency. Perhaps his father was right, he reflected; he needed a wife, children, a life. Or perhaps he should return to the university, and pursue a doctorate; heaven knew what he would do with another degree, but the pursuit of one would give him at least the illusion of purpose.
Sighing, he set down his drink—tossing it off would only render him more inebriate, something he really didn't need—and put one hand on the window frame, to brace himself as he took a last look out into the cold, wet dark before going to bed. There was something reassuring about the fury of the weather; something that said that the world of nature continued oblivious to the works of man, that human strife was immaterial; something that said—
"Boodabooodaboodabooda!"
A horrible white apparition sucked up against the glass of the window, face smeared against the pane, body sprawled askew. A creature of the night, an undead, a vile shapechanger—Timaeus leapt back in alarm, pipe flying. He shouted the Words of a spell—
"Heh heh," chuckled the apparition through the window. "Gotcha."
It was, Timaeus realized disgustedly, some decrepit wino, some filthy beggar who had crept up the stoop and flung himself against the adjoining parlor window. Timaeus stormed into the hall and flung open the door, to give the bum a piece of his mind—
Rain crashed into cobbles. Water plastered the old man's white hair to his skull; he smirked toothlessly at Timaeus. "Gotcha, Timmy," he said.
"Vic," said Timaeus resignedly. "What the devil are you doing out on a night like this?"
"Need to talk with you, Timmy," said Vic.
"Don't call me Timmy, by Dion," said Timaeus. "No one's called me Timmy in fifteen years. Come in, come in; you must be chilled unto death."
"Nope," said Vincianus, coming in. "Reshishtance to cold. Eashy enough shpell."
Timaeus held open the door as Vic entered, and got a whiff of the old man. "I say, Vic," he said, "when did you last bathe?"
Vic came in, levered himself arthritically onto the settee, and snatched Timaeus's snifter, the contents of which he gulped greedily down. "Let'sh shee," he said. "The Third Interregnum, wash it? No, I dishtinctly recall a bath during the War of the Liliesh. Or, wait; didn't I shower in—"
"Never mind," said Timaeus, yanking on the bellpull. "More brandy?"
"Never turn that down," said Vic.
By the time Vic was on his third snifter, Reginald appeared at the door to the hall, yawning and tying the belt to his robe. "Yes, sir?" he inquired.
"Sorry to wake you, Reginald," said Timaeus apologetically, "but we have an unexpected guest. Could you draw Vincianus a bath?"
Reginald gave Vic a glare of undisguised loathing. "Certainly, sir," he said distantly. "This way, if you will."
By the time Reginald returned, with a well-scrubbed and faintly rebellious Vic, Timaeus was snoring soundly on the settee.
"By crumb!" roared Kraki. "You have the temerity to ask Kraki, son of Kronar, for a raise? You effete civilized putz, I spit on you!"
"See here, mate," said the clerk defensively, "I'm your best salesman, I am. How many blades have I sold in the last fiscal quarter?"
"Folk buy swords from Kraki because Kraki have best swords," shouted the barbarian. "Not because puling pantyvaist inveigle them! Out of my shop!"
"You can't fire me, you lout!" shouted the clerk. "I quit! And much luck to you, I don't think!"
"Bah!" shouted Kraki. "Get out! Before I smite you, hip and thigh!"
Kraki glared through the plate glass into the morning sun. The clerk marched down the street, out past the gilt letters that rea
d "Fast Kraki's Flashing Swords" and "Barbarian Blades Are Better!" The swine was his best salesman, no doubt about it, but to ask for a raise! Was this the way of honor? Was this the way of courage? He want a raise, he should demand it like a man, not wheedle like a puling babe! Scum-sucking civilized turds, they were all alike.
The door tinkled as a customer entered. Some fop; in a faggotty hat and hose. As he examined the blades in their brackets against the walls, the stacked daggers and knives, he took snuff from the back of his hand. Kraki curled a lip.
"I say, my good man," said the customer. "Would you have something in an épée."
"Épée, you catamite?" snarled Kraki. "I do not sell such filth. Ve have honest, manly veapons here. Here, look at this claymore. Sixteen pounds of hard-slung steel, fit to smash the pate of the fiercest foe, honed to a razor edge."
"Err, yes," said the fop, "but I am rather in the market for a duelist's weapon. I'm afraid this is just a tad too heavy—"
"Too heavy?" said Kraki. "Too heavy for the likes of you, belike. A hatpin, you vant; or perhaps a letter opener. Here." He handed the fop a cheese knife. "This should do you. I vill not sell good steel to the likes of you. Get out of my store."
"Well!" said the dandy. "I never!" And he left.
Kraki glowered out into the morning sun. It had seemed like a good idea. Who knew weapons better than he? Would they not flock to buy their blades from Kraki, son of Kronar? Barbarian chic would see to that. But it hadn't worked. You had to write little numbers in books and do something mystical with them; they never came out right. And the damned government wouldn't let you slay the accountants for the lying cheats they were; by crumb, the Financial Accounting Standards Board would see some changes, if he were king!
What would they think of him, back home? They would laugh at him, that's what. Win a fortune by force of arms, and sink it all into some stinking shop. Ach, what an idiot he was. He should build a pile with the skulls of his creditors, that's what he should do, and ride off to slay dragons.
"And on the night of October the seventeenth, on or about the eleventh hour of the clock," droned the prosecutor, "did you or did you not forcibly enter the premises of one Johnson Merriweather the Third?"
"I did not," said Nick Pratchitt.
The prosecutor raised an eyebrow. "And yet," he said, "we have heard the testimony of Officer Sams of the Town Guard, that he found you in the guest bedroom closet in Mr. Merriweather's mansion after being summoned to the house by Mr. Merriweather. Are you calling Officer Sams a liar?"
"No," said Nick. "But I didn't enter the house forcibly. I was invited."
"I see," said the prosecutor, with heavy sarcasm. "You were invited into the house as an honored guest, which is why, when Mr. Merriweather went to investigate a noise that disturbed his repose, you found it necessary to secrete yourself in a closet."
"Nonetheless," Nick insisted, "I was invited."
"And who," said the prosecutor, "invited you? A little birdie?"
"Samantha," said Nick.
The prosecutor's jaw dropped. There were titters from the gallery. "Mrs.—Mrs. Merriweather?" he said.
"Uh huh," said Nick.
The prosecutor shot a look of black hatred at Mr. Merriweather, who had evidently failed to alert him to the possibility that Nick's testimony might follow these lines. "I see" he said in annoyance. "And why did Mrs. Merriweather invite you inside at so late an hour?"
Nick gave him a wicked grin. "I prefer not to say," he said.
The prosecutor snorted. "Even if your chances of avoiding conviction depend on your testimony?"
Nick glanced at the jury, and adopted an expression of false nobility. "There are some things," he said, "that a gentleman does not discuss."
There were more titters from the gallery. Merriweather le mari looked mortified.
The prosecutor whirled on the judge. "Your Honor," he said in a long-suffering tone, "I ask for a short recess." The judge, a shrunken little man in black robes several sizes too large for him, roused himself from an apparent reverie, and quavered, "Wherefore?"
"There are matters," said the prosecutor, "I must discuss with the complainant."
"Granted," said the judge. "We shall reconvene in an hour."
One of the women on the jury, a plump but not unattractive matron of at least forty, gave Nick a hard stare. He winked at her, and smiled as she blushed from the neckline up.
From far away came the sound of the monsoon. Somewhat closer, a cough sounded; a panther in the jungle, that was it. A panther coughed, amid the dense foliage of the—"Excuse me, sir," said the panther. "Your bath is drawn and ready."
Timaeus opened sleep-gummed eyes. Dwarves beat out magic blades inside his skull. Reginald stood there, looking crow-like in black clothes.
"Dammit," croaked Timaeus, "what time is it?"
"Nearly eleven," said Reginald.
Timaeus closed his eyes. "Wake me at two, then, if you will."
"Ahem," said Reginald with determination. "Excuse me, sir."
Timaeus opened one aching eye. "What is it?" he moaned.
"Your guest, sir," said Reginald.
"What guest?" said Timaeus.
"Vincianus Polymage, I believe he is called," said Reginald.
Timaeus recalled something dimly. "Yes," he said. "Let him sleep, too."
"He has been up," said Reginald, "since six."
"All right," said Timaeus, sighing. "Keep him entertained then, please." He closed his eyes.
"Ahem," said Reginald.
"What the devil is it?" snapped Timaeus, opening his eyes again and instantly regretting having done so.
"Mr. Polymage has ensconced himself in the kitchen," said Reginald, "where he has located all Cook's pans, and is in the process of preparing cornmeal flapjacks."
"Yes, good for him," said Timaeus testily. "If he wants to make himself pancakes, by all means let -w"
"He has been cooking pancakes since six this morning," said Reginald. "We've been out four times for additional cornmeal."
Timaeus gazed wordlessly on his valet.
"He keeps on talking about `the Legion,' and muttering something about `An army travels on its stomach.' `The boys will be hungry,' he says. I estimate we currently have fifteen linear cubits of stacked flapjacks."
Timaeus groaned and sat up. After a moment, the urge to retch faded. "All right, all right," he moaned. "I'll try to talk sense into him. In the meantime, have the girl take the pancakes down to Father Thwaite's mission. No doubt they can find some use for them."
"Very good, sir."
"Really, Priscilla," said Laura, long nails slicing fivefold paths through the air in a gesture eloquent of disdain, "this notion of yours is quite impossible."
"Look, Mom," said Sidney. "Figures don't lie. Roomnights are down fifteen percent compared to last year's figures, the girls are idle four hours out of every ten, our gross receipts are down by a third—"
"I'm aware of the numbers," said Laura. "But—"
"Aware of the numbers?" protested Sidney. "The hell you are! You never look at the damned numbers! That's why you wound up in hock to the mob the first time round. You—"
"Priscilla, you are such a child, sometimes," said Laura. "When one has been in the business as long as I, one develops an instinct for these things. I'm aware that business is slow. With the war on, business is slow everywhere; just one of those things, you know. We must carry on—"
"It doesn't matter why business is down," said Sidney in a dangerous tone. "What matters is, what are we going to do about it? How can it hurt to advertise, to—"
"To have pimps standing on every street corner, saying `Psst! Wanna have a good time?' " said Laura contemptuously. "Madame Laura's is not some disease-ridden neighborhood cathouse, my dear. We run a first-class bordello, and I won't stoop—"
"Ma!" said Sidney. "It's not like that! We're talking about well-dressed gentlemen standing outside the betterclubs, handing out discreet pasteboard cards. Cards,
by the way, printed with an original etching by de Lauvient— "
"Avant-garde dauber," sneered Laura.
"A first-rate artist," said Sidney with determination. "And the legend merely says, `Madame Laura's,' with the address. Of course it's important to retain our reputation for discretion and exclusivity; of course we wouldn't want to do anything downmarket, anything . . ."
"Déclassé," supplied Laura.
"Anything déclassé," said Sidney. "But we do need to drum up some business, and—"
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