One Quest, Hold the Dragons

by Greg Costikyan

  Mistrustful glances were exchanged across the table. Several sniffed their tumblers.

  To Siebert's mind, the serving of the Alban stood as a salutary reminder that the cabinet's business was not individual ambition but the Serene Republic's health. There were all too few such reminders.

  No one drank, just yet.

  Stantz came finally to his chair and managed, somehow, to squeeze his bulk between the arms. He put his canes together, leaned them against the table, and took his tumbler. All eyes were on him as he tossed the whisky back.

  One could almost hear a sigh pass around the table. Other ministers reached out for their own glasses and sipped or gulped the whisky, whatever was their normal practice.

  Stantz had the best spies in Hamsterburg. If he thought the malt was unpoisoned, the odds were that he was right.

  The Lord Mayor reached for his own glass and saw that Julio von Krautz had taken it-the two glasses had been close to each other on the table. Siebert gave von Krautz a stare, and reached over to take the minister's glass.

  The Lord Mayor took a sip or two of the whisky intended for von Krautz. "Now then," he began roughly. "I have here a proposal to open bidding on public contracts."

  A ripple of astonishment went around the table.

  "The proposal applies to all public works, but will affect most immediately the collection of trash. Hauliers and private citizens may bid on the contract to collect refuse from individual parishes of the city; bids will be open to public review, and—"

  "My lord!" shouted von Krautz, leaping to his feet. "This, this is insane!"

  "How so?" demanded Siebert coolly, leaning back in his chair.

  "For centuries, the guiding gens of each parish has controlled the collection of trash in its own demesne; the ancient firms that perform the work have intimate ties to—"

  "Precisely," said Siebert. "It has become a sinecure, a source of patronage for the gentes, to the detriment of public hygiene and at great public expense. By casting collection open to public—"

  "Again you attack the very roots of the state!" shouted von Krautz. "Will you not cease, before you destroy all the traditions of our city, reduce us to servility before—before—" He was red-faced now, apparently too enraged to speak further.

  "I am gratified to know," said Siebert dryly, "that the very roots of the state lie in garbage. My lord—my lord, are you all right?"

  Von Krautz was pressing his midriff, as if he had gas pains. Or a painful ulcer, perhaps. "It is nothing," he said hoarsely, stiffening his spine. "One by one, you deprive the gentes of our privileges; one by one, you attack our ancient traditions; one by one you—hunnnh."

  Von Krautz stood now with both hands flat on the table, staring downward at a pad of paper, a quill, an inkpot, all on polished wood.

  He made a curious sound.

  He vomited -blood. Not a little splashed into Siebert's lap.

  Julio von Krautz collapsed onto the table.

  Siebert looked at the glass in his hand: He held von Krautz's tumbler. He looked at the glass, now stained with blood, that stood just by von Krautz's left temple: That glass had been meant for him.

  Siebert's eyes went instantly to those of Guismundo Stantz. Stantz's piggish eyes were staring back.

  There were shocked faces, hooded eyes all about the table.

  Someone had meant to kill him, Siebert knew. Someone had meant to kill him. Who?

  Eleven conspiracies, by this morning's count. And yet—

  "This meeting is at an end," Siebert announced, his voice a little shaken. "We shall take up this matter another time. Minister Stantz, I shall expect an immediate investigation."

  "Of course, my lord," said Stantz, levering himself painfully to his feet.

  They had all drunk from the Alban, every one of them. Yet only von Krautz had died, one man out of all of them. How was that possible? Who could have managed it?

  Siebert's eyes followed Stantz, those canes moving slowly forward, those heavy limbs behind.

  Who else but Stantz, the Spider, assassin?

  IV

  Guismundo Stantz wheezed painfully, collapsed in the chair behind his great, semicircular desk. Sweat rolled off him in rivulets, lungs labored in desperation. It was long moments before he regained control.

  He had rushed back from the Maiorkest, back here to the Albertine Lodge, the headquarters of Internal Serenity. He had ordered his coachman to whip the horses on, bracing himself against the inevitable jostling, and had practically trotted through the halls. Now he was paying the price. He wiped his face with a lace-trimmed handkerchief until it was sodden.

  He loathed those meetings in the Maiorkest; given the option, he'd never leave this room. Here, in his office, he had everything.

  He had light. There were no windows, to be sure; windows admitted light, but also, on occasion, spies and assassins. Instead, light shone from a shaft above his desk, delivered to the enclosed room from the building's roof bya complex series of mirrors and lenses. A contraption hung from the ceiling; from a lens at one end, intense light shone out, illuminating the papers on Stantz's desksunlight, directed by levers and pulleys wherever Stantz needed illumination.

  He had information. He had speaking tubes to reach subordinates, a newscrystal to keep up to date, scrying globes for magical contact; here he was the Spider indeed, sitting amid his web, spies and sources extending off across the lands of Hamsterburg and beyond. He was alert to every twinge of the web, every jerk that meant a development in the politics of the Republic or the relationship of the powers, alert and ready to scurry, to the advantage of the city.

  And he had food and drink. An enormous wheel of Stralitzer sat on the end table, along with a cheese knife and an array of crackers; by it stood an ewer of water and a bottle of syrup of greep—Stantz was partial to greep sodas. And if he desired anything more, the ministry boasted an excellent kitchen, staffed every hour of the day or night, its chef accessible by one of the hinged brass speaking tubes that hung above Stantz's desk.

  Lord mayors and grand dukes came and went, but the state went on. And Stantz was a loyal servant of the state. His goal was simple: the aggrandizement of his native city, for which he felt a fierce emotion, one of the few emotions remaining to him. For Hamsterburg, he was prepared to do any deed. Assassination included, to be sure.

  Not, however, this time. Siebert was a fool; but war was coming, and Siebert was taking the necessary steps to prepare for war. Stantz had no desire to see him dead, especially since there would be internecine struggle over the succession, struggle that might well break out into civil war.

  In fact, Stantz considered, the method of von Krautz's assassination was carefully calculated to cast suspicion on-on Guismundo Stantz. The pouring of the Alban was part of Hamsterian legend; the whole cabinet dies, or none. To engineer the death of a single member was audacious, clever; and Stantz had a reputation for audacity and cleverness. No doubt the whole cabinet believed he had killed von Krautz, had meant to kill Siebert.

  As, no doubt, did Siebert. It would be difficult to repair relations, Stantz reflected.

  Who might want Stantz discredited, almost more than he wanted Siebert dead?

  "Anyone who seeks absolute power," Stantz whispered to himself. Absolute power would necessitate the removal of Stantz; the Lord Mayor might be the power of the state de jure, but Stantz had long since become the most powerful man of the urbs de facto.

  Stantz sat for a long time, eyes moving to the newscrystal, the sound currently low, where the image of a tiny demon sat, reading stories in a bored monotone.

  Stantz had not killed von Krautz.

  It didn't bother him that von Krautz had died; assassination was a commonplace in the politics of Hamsterburg.

  What bothered Stantz was this: He didn't know who had killed von Krautz.

  That was a shocking failure. He should have known. It was his business to know. In the building above him, Records had files on every nobleman, every mer
chant, and every thief in the Republic. An army of paid informants blanketed Hamsterburg; he knew every faction, every gens, every cabal, knew their names and their ambitions. He knew what three dozen different groups were plotting, knew of eleven plots against Siebert's life—and knew that none was within weeks of fruition.

  Something was up. Stantz wanted to know what.

  Stantz needed to know. Knowledge was his existence. It was almost a physical need.

  He pulled down a speaking tube and bellowed, "Bleichroder! Get me Wolfe."

  And then he picked up the cheese knife and set to work on the Stralitzer.

  "What," said the shadow. It was more of a statement than a question.

  Stantz started, the flesh of his upper arm jiggling. He swallowed a mouthful of cheese.

  Wolfe occupied the armchair across the desk. Stantz hadn't seen her come in, nor the door open. He barely saw her now, her dark gray clothes blending into the shadows of the chair's depths.

  "I wish you wouldn't do that, Ren," he said mildly. Not for the first time, it occurred to him that she was the greatest hole in his security; suborned or alienated, she could kill him far more easily than anyone else. The thought bothered him, but he put it aside. She was loyal, she was well paid, she was indispensable.

  Wolfe merely shrugged.

  "Julio von Krautz has been killed," Stantz said. "Accidentally; the Lord Mayor was the target."

  "All over town," said Wolfe. "Word is, you did it."

  "Not I," said Stantz.

  "Didn't think so," said Wolfe. "I' d've known."

  Stantz nodded. "I need to know who did."

  Wolfe looked interested at that, leaning forward so that her scarred face was visible in the light from the ceiling. "You don't know?"

  "No," said Stantz, frowning. "That bothers me."

  "Me too," said Wolfe, leaning back. "Know how it was done?"

  "Yes," said Stantz. "Trivial."

  Wolfe leaned forward again; she was actually smiling this time. "Word is," she said, "whisky was poisoned, whole cabinet drank whisky, but only von Krautz died. Word is, impossible hit. Word is, assassin was a genius. Word is, must have been you."

  "Impossible hit my ass," said Stantz.

  "Large ass," observed Wolfe.

  "Thank you kindly," said Stantz, slightly annoyed. "There are at least three ways von Krautz could have been poisoned. The most likely is the simplest: There was a water- or alcohol-soluble poison in the bottom of his glass. Easy enough to accomplish, with a bribe or two to the Maiorkest kitchen staff. Only one glass was poisoned; only one man died."

  Wolfe nodded. "I'll work on it."

  "Do, Ren," said Stantz seriously. "When you find something, I want to hear-instantly. Any hour of the day or night."

  "Fine," said Wolfe faintly.

  Stantz blinked; the armchair was empty. He hadn't seen Wolfe go.

  "Wow," said the boy enthusiastically. "You have your wild sex orgies down here?" He bounded down the dank steps with enthusiasm. Maybe "boy" was a little unfair, thought Wolfe; he probably considered himself a man. Still, whatever his age, his apparent level of intellectual and emotional maturity made it absurd to think of him as an adult.

  "Sure," said Wolfe. "This way."

  The stairs ended in a large chamber, lit by flickering torches. Moss covered the stones of the walls; water trickled down the center of the room. Against one wall was an open furnace; around it were tables, fitted with manacles, chains, and blood runnels. More chains and manacles hung from the walls.

  "Gosh," said the boy, picking up a bullwhip and examining it. "This is, like, maybe a little too kinky for me. So where are the girls, huh?"

  Wolfe grabbed his wrist and locked a manacle about it. "Sorry," she said. "Aren't any."

  "Hey!" said the boy. "Let me out, okay? I mean, a joke is a joke, but—"

  "Fenstermann!" shouted Wolfe. "Where the hell are you?"

  "Coming, coming," said a tired bass voice from down the hall at the far end of the room. Footfalls sounded, and flickering torchlight moved up the corridor as Fenstermann neared the chamber.

  "Who's Fenstermann?" asked the boy.

  "The torturer," said Wolfe.

  "Oh, mama," said the boy. "Look, I was looking for some action, sure, but this kind of thing—"

  "It was a ruse, you moron," snapped Wolfe. "There are no girls, no wild sex, none of that crap. I could have coshed you and carried you here, but it was easier to feed you a line of guff."

  Fenstermann entered the chamber, bearing a torch. He was bare to the waist, wearing a domino mask and tight pants. His arms looked like the Platonic ideal of the notion of "mighty thews." He looked like he could rip the fangs out of a tyger's mouth with bare hands.

  "Oh, gods," he complained, "not another one, Wolfe."

  "Sorry, Fenstermann," said Wolfe. "This guy's on the Maiorkest kitchen staff. He may know something about the von Krautz assassination."

  "All right, all right," said Fenstermann morosely. He took some pincers, some large knives, and some odd contraptions with big spikes and serrated edges, and stuck them into the furnace. "Look, suppose we accept as a given that ends can justify means. The question arises: Which ends and what means? Torture—"

  "Shut up, Fenstermann," said Wolfe impatiently. "Just do the job."

  "Look, I'll talk, okay?" said the boy. "Peter piper picked a peck of pickled peppers. Once I met a lass, a bonny bonny lass-I'm talking, see? I'll say anything you want, only please don't —"

  Fenstermann turned toward him, holding a long piece of metal with something on the end that glowed red in the dimness of the dungeon. The boy moaned, staring at it like a terrified bird.

  "Fine. You set the table in the Octagon Chamber before the cabinet meeting?" asked Wolfe.

  "Yeah, that's right," said the boy.

  "Von Krautz's glass was poisoned. You do it?"

  "Me? Uh, no, no, I didn't—couldn't possibly—I mean—"

  "Brand 'im, Fenstermann."

  "Your karma, Wolfe," said Fenstermann, waving the branding iron, which was glowing now a duller red. "You really want to spend your next reincarnation as a dung beetle?"

  "Just do the job, dammit, Fenstermann," said Wolfe. "Everybody's a goddamn philosopher. I don't ask you to enjoy sticking red-hot needles into people's eyeballs, I just ask you to do it. Now stop whining, for gods' sake."

  Fenstermann shrugged. "Sorry," he said to the boy, and probed gingerly toward a leg with the iron.

  "Yeah, I poisoned the glass! I did it! I admit it! Okay? Stop it! Only I didn't know it was poison. And it was supposed to be for the Lord Mayor, not for Baron von Krautz."

  Wolfe raised an eyebrow. "Tell me about it," she suggested.

  "This guy, Siggy Hoffmann, he paid me to do it. Gave me a vial of this transparent crystal stuff, told me to put like a quarter teaspoon in the bottom of the mayor's glass. Said he'd kill me if I ever told." The boy's burst of speech ended on a depressed tone.

  "How much he pay you?" asked Wolfe.

  "Ten shillings," said the boy, subdued.

  "Ten shillings?" said Wolfe, astonished. "You agreed to assassinate the ruler of the most powerful state in the human lands for less than a quid?"

  "Hey, I didn't know it was poison. And anyway, it didn't kill him, it got von—"

  "Somebody tells you to put a mysterious substance in the Lord Mayor's drink, and it doesn't occur to you that maybe, just maybe, the stuff isn't going to be good for his health?"

  "Well, geez, it occurred to me, but, well, I needed the pelf, see, cause this girl—"

  "Spare me," said Wolfe.

  They were silent for a while. Fenstermann was smiling, pleased that he wouldn't have to torture the lad after all.

  "Well," said Wolfe at last, "we won't give Siggy Hoffmann the chance to kill you."

  "Oh, thank you, thank you," said the boy. "I'll do anything—"

  Wolfe turned to Fenstermann. "See what the Szanbu cultists'll pay for him," she said. "One of t
heir holy days is coming up soon; they'll need sacrificial victims."

  Fenstermann lost his smile. "Yes, ma'am," he said reluctantly.

  The boy began to wail.

  A whale lay sprawled on the enormous circular bed, its bulk covered only by a blanket. It blew, with a noise like a fireball's explosion. Stantz's snore could wake the dead, Wolfe thought, studying her sleeping employer.