One Quest, Hold the Dragons

by Greg Costikyan

  It took some doing to study him; it was pitch black here-no windows, no illumination other than a thin, meager glow through the bottom of the locked and bolted door. She was probably one of the few folk alive who could see in such dimness.

  "Guismundo," she said.

  Stantz was instantly alert. He thrashed with the blanket, rolled off the bed to smash into the floor with a wet smack, and scrabbled desperately with something.

  "Sir," she said, "I've come to—"

  Stantz had something in his hand. There was a burp of blue light, and something spun across space between Stantz and Wolfe, striking her in the stomach. She was propelled by the impact into the paneled wall. A hand went automatically to her stomach, and felt something warm, wet, and sticky: blood.

  Flashes of blue light were blasting across the room in a flurry, smashing into the walls and furniture. By the light they emitted, Wolfe saw that Stantz was on one elbow, sitting up, a wand of some kind in his hand. He was also quite naked-something that hadn't been evident when Stantz had been below the blanket but that was now quite obvious and, to Wolfe's eyes, more than a little revolting. She didn't think she'd ever seen anyone with quite so many rolls of fat.

  "Stop that, you idiot!" Wolfe shouted. "It's me!"

  Stantz stopped firing the wand. "Ren?" he said, then was silent for a moment. "Dammit, I thought I was well protected. How did you get through the wards?"

  The room was protected by magic, as well as guards and physical traps. It had taken more than a little work to get within, but Wolfe had been happy to expend the effort, in the service of her own reputation for infallibility. "I have my methods," she said in an irritated tone. "You did tell me to report at any hour of the day or night."

  There were loud clicks and bangs; someone was working on the door's locks. "What's that?" demanded Wolfe.

  Stantz had got to his hands and knees and was pulling

  on the bed, trying to stand erect. "The guards," he said, grunting. "I triggered the alarm—"

  "Call them off," said Wolfe.

  "Can't," said Stantz, finally standing up. "They're to assume I'm being held hostage if—"

  The door smashed open. Men darted into the room, fanning out; in instants, three swords were at Wolfe's throat, crossbows bristling with bolts behind the swordsmen.

  "Kill him?" grunted one of the guards. Wolfe was slightly annoyed at that, but only slightly; she was aware she cut arather androgynous figure, and certainly her loose-fitting gray clothes did nothing to emphasize her femininity.

  "No," said Stantz, rather embarrassedly, wrapping a blanket around his midriff. "Get us some tea. And a healer for Wolfe."

  Fenstermann pushed up the manhole cover and peered down the moonlit alley. He didn't see anyone, so he climbed back down the ladder. "Give me the ten shillings," he told the boy.

  "B-b-but ... What am I—"

  "Look, kid," said Fenstermann, "I have to show Wolfe some money to prove I sold you to the Szanbuists. She'll think ten shillings is poetic justice. Give me the money, and I'll let you go."

  The boy looked hopeful for the first time in hours. He'd been terrible company, pissing and moaning away in his cell. Only by telling himself that anger was a mortal sin had Fenstermann avoided screaming at the lad.

  "You will?" said the boy.

  "Sure," said Fenstermann. "I suggest you leave Hamsterburg at once. If Wolfe finds you alive, you won't stay that way long. If people find out you killed von Krautz, your life isn't worth a shaven ha'penny. And if Siggy Whatsisname finds out you ratted on him ..."

  The boy's chin began to quiver again. "But where can I go?"

  "Not my problem," said Fenstermann gently, unlocking the manacles. "Just be glad I'm letting you go."

  The boy handed him a small purse and scrambled up the ladder.

  "Hey," Fenstermann called after him, "slide the cover back over the hole . . ."

  Running footfalls sounded, getting fainter with distance. For a moment, Fenstermann stood staring up at the manhole and the starry sky beyond; then he climbed the ladder himself, grabbed the manhole cover and dragged it into place, scowling all the while at the ingratitude of the world.

  Stantz was barefoot and bare-chested, if you could call the folds of flesh sloping from shoulders to midriff a chest. While the cleric finished his spell and taped the gauze over Wolfe's wound, Stantz poured a noxious brown syrup into a glass, covered it with water, stirred, then spoke a brief cantrip. The water started to foam. Stantz took a sip.

  "What's that?" asked Wolfe, as the cleric packed up his asperger and candle. Oil lamps provided a dim illumination, and a guard stood watch by the door, ostensibly to take a message if one was necessary, but in reality, Wolfe knew, to keep an eye on her.

  "Greep spritzer," said Stantz, sitting on the bed. It creaked under the weight. "Want one?"

  "I'll pass," said Wolfe.

  "Good stuff," said Stantz. "So what have you got?"

  "Sigismundo Hoffmann paid a boy on the Maiorkest kitchen staff to poison the Lord Mayor's glass."

  "Are you sure?" asked Stantz, looking surprised. Wolfe couldn't remember seeing Stantz look surprised before.

  "Yes," she said with an edge in her voice. "I'm sure."

  "Sorry, Ren," said Star'-., putting his drink down and

  rearranging his blanket. "Hoffmann works for Gerlad von Grentz. Von Grentz is a cautious man. He wouldn't try to kill Siebert unless he thought he was going to come out on top in the struggle to follow ... But why would he ... ?"

  Stantz lifted a fold of flesh to scratch beneath it while he thought. Wolfe stood gingerly up-there was a twinge, but not a bad one; the cleric had done his work well—and went to the sideboard to pour herself a brandy. It was good stuff; Stantz did not stint himself.

  "Are we sure Hoffmann was working for von Grentz?" asked Stantz. "Someone might have turned him, or he might moonlight, if someone paid him enough."

  "You'd know better than I," said Wolfe.

  "Of course," said Stantz. "I'll check the file in the morning."

  "You want me to bring Hoffmann in?"

  "No, no," said Stantz, shaking his head. Wolfe was interested to see how much of Stantz's body jiggled with the motion. "No need to tip our hand; besides, von Grentz wouldn't have told Hoffmann anything. `Get someone on the kitchen -staff to put some of this in the Lord Mayor's glass,' with a big sum for doing the job. Hoffmann would know it was poison, but not why von Grentz wanted Siebert dead, or much of anything else."

  Wolfe nodded. "What do you want me to do?"

  Stantz was staring at a framed portrait on the wall: a scowling woman in dress that was several decades out of style. Wolfe guessed it might be his mother. "Von Grentz knows something we don't," he said. "His faction is strong, but not strong enough to force through its own candidate for the mayoralty."

  "The gens von Grentz?" asked Wolfe.

  "Eh? No, no. The Graf von Grentz is an Accommodationist."

  Wolfe nodded.

  "Von Grentz must think he has something that would clinch his election as Lord Mayor, if Siebert were out of the way," said Stantz, standing, lurching to his feet. "We need to know what it is."

  Wolfe sighed. She didn't care, particularly, whether von Grentz was the next mayor or not. Stantz probably didn't, either; he just couldn't stand the notion that someone was keeping him in ignorance.

  "You'll have to get into the Drachehaus," Stantz said.

  Wolfe had heard the name, but couldn't place it. "Which is?"

  "The von Grentz city residence," said Stantz.

  "Wonderful," said Wolfe. "I'll bet their security is tighter than a constipate's anus."

  Stantz snorted. "Then you, Madame Wolfe, must prove an effective laxative."

  Wolfe blinked. "I prefer to think of myself in other terms," she said.

  "No doubt," said Stantz. "And now, if you don't mind, I do intend to get a few hours' sleep."

  "Fine," said Wolfe. Stantz was between her and a lamp, his shadow lon
g on the floor before her. She stepped forward and—

  Stantz blinked; one moment she was there, the next not.

  He nodded and went to close and bolt the door.

  How had she gotten in? he wondered as he lowered himself onto the bed. He kept the room pitch dark to eliminate even the faintest shadow. That was obviously not enough.

  It was sometimes worrisome, having so effective a leftenant.

  Someone knocked on the door.

  "Dammit," Stantz called into the darkness, "I'm not to be disturbed."

  "I'm sorry, sir," came a worried voice from outside; Bleichroder, his personal secretary. "It's the elvish ambassador, and she says it's urgent "

  Stantz groaned, sat up, and reached for the blanket. It didn't look like he'd get any more sleep tonight.

  He'd need to get dressed for this one; one could hardly meet the authorized representative of a great power with a blanket draped about one's midriff. "Get my valet," he said, and prepared to lurch to his feet, no easy task for a man of his bulk.

  The elvish ambassador? What the devil does she want? Stantz wondered.

  V

  It took them two days to travel from the faerie ring to the blasted remnants of the trees where the elves had made their stand. They were a haggard, unkempt crew when at last they arrived.

  Charred tree trunks poked morosely up from the blackened earth. Before them ran a line of hastily dug graves. Timaeus wandered among them, sniffing at the air, while the others stood before the graves.

  "I have no intention of digging him up, Jasper," said Sidney. "If you say he's in that grave, I'll take your word for it."

  "Look," said Nick. "You said yourself that your spell registered some change in Broderick. Death is change, isn't it?"

  Jasper said, "Yes, but how can we be sure—"

  "Have you ever seen a body that's been in the grave for a week?" asked Nick.

  "Well, no. Have you?" said Jasper.

  "Uh, no," said Nick. "I don't want to, either. The point is, what makes you think you'll be able to identify him if you do dig him up? Ever bought a steak, and kept it around for a week?"

  "Well—" said Jasper.

  "I did see him wounded," Frer Mortise pointed out. "The wound might have been severe enough for him to die."

  "And it would be awfully convenient, for this von Grentz guy, Broderick dying," Nick said. "I think we've got evidence enough."

  "If you want those bodies dug up," said Sidney irritably, "do it yourself."

  "I say, look here," said Jasper. "Wouldn't it be best to be sure?"

  "Me, I'm sure," said Nick. "I'm also tired and thirsty. We're maybe half a mile from that hamlet we saw earlier. I bet there's an inn there-and I bet every peasant for miles around knows what happened here, and whether Broddy bought it or not. I bet some of them are eating lunch at that inn right now, and I bet they'd be happy to spill their guts for a round of drinks."

  "I wouldn't mind seeing Lotte again," said Frer Mortise.

  "Good," said Sidney. "Let's go." She turned and led the way toward the town.

  "Yes, but -I say," said Jasper. "Look here, we ... Oh, dash it all." He flitted after the others.

  They walked through the hamlet, down the dirt road—it was little more than a cow path, really. Nothing moved in the afternoon heat, save for far-off peasants, toiling desultorily in their distant fields.

  They stepped gratefully into the inn's cool dimness.

  Lotte stood behind the bar, hammering a tap into a keg. She looked up as they entered, pausing with hammer aloft; an expression of unease passed across her face.

  "Hoy there, madam," said Timaeus, pulling out a chair at the first table by the door. "Ales all around, if you will."

  Sidney took the trouble to survey the customers before sitting; it went against the grain to sit in the middle of the room, as Timaeus had so unthinkingly done. Better to have a solid wall behind your back. The inn's clientele did nothing to reassure her; rather than the expected mixture of peasants and local lushes, there were only two parties. One was a man sitting alone against one wall, by his mien and bearing a well-to-do mercenary or adventurer, an epee at his belt, clad in frock coat and frilled shirt. The other consisted of a dozen men and women, occupying two booths at the opposite end of the room. Near them, a cluster of pole-arms leaned against the wall; several wore sabers at belt. They were unarmored, but the utilitarian appearance of their garb and a certain coarseness of manner led Sidney to classify them instantly as soldiers.

  Sidney was glad they wore no armor; that meant they were probably not expecting trouble. She amended that judgment; by the number of empty bottles on their two tables, they were certainly not expecting trouble. Lotte, finishing the tap's insertion with a few bangs of her hammer, began to fill glasses with ale.

  "Travelers, quotha," said one of the soldiers, the words slightly slurred.

  "So they be," said another. "Mauro, did I not charge you to watch the road?"

  "Aye, sir," said the third, "but I was to be relieved on the second hour, which is long past time."

  "Who was Mauro's relief?"

  There was silence for a moment.

  "You ordered none," said a voice with a hiccup.

  "Well," said the one who had questioned Mauro. A hat with a plume sat before him, and Sidney took him for their captain. "No harm done, as they have had the good sense to break their journey at this excellent establishment." The captain got to his feet, stepped over his soldiers' legs with mumbled apologies on both sides, and lurched from the booth toward the table Timaeus had taken.

  "Well met, sir," said Timaeus mildly.

  "That remains to be seen," said the captain, the words coming with slight difficulty; Sidney judged he, like his subordinates, had been drinking for hours. "May I ask where you are going and what business you have in these pas?"

  Timaeus's pipe, between his teeth, rose to a slightly defiant angle before he removed it the better to speak. "Why," he said, "we go where our noses take us, and our business is no man's but our own."

  The captain grew red; there was a stir from the booths as soldiers began to realize they might have to rouse themselves soon. "You're going to get us killed," Sidney warned.

  "I am not accustomed to being accosted in such rude fashion by drunken riffraff," said Timaeus.

  Lotte darted in with a platter and plunked down their ales with dispatch. As she set down Mortise's, she whispered in his ear, "They're bad ones; best leave yarely."

  "Bless you," Mortise said loudly, "and thanks for your hospitality." He looked at that moment less like a peaceful cleric than a warrior with the battlelight in his eye.

  "Are you aware that you are in the territory of the Serene Hamsterian Republic?" demanded the captain, one hand on the pommel of his sword.

  "Are we?" said Timaeus. "Oh, good."

  "You may expect, therefore," said the captain, "to be required by the authorities of the Republic to state your business and to display your papers."

  "Pish," said Timaeus, taking a slug of his ale. "You do not wear the badge of Hamsterburg."

  And it was true; the clasp at the captain's shoulder bore a dragon segreant, gules over argent. Hamsterburg's arms,famed across the human lands, were the hamster statant regardant.

  "True," said the captain. "We are of the Graf von Grentz's Guisardieres; this village of Weintroockle lies within the von Grentz demesne." He took a look over his shoulder at the booths, where his company had managed to form into a loose and slightly drunken semblance of military order, took a deep breath, and said, "Wherefore, I order you to produce your papers instantly."

  "Oh, very well," said Timaeus mildly, reaching for his pouch. "Madam, another round if you will." While the innkeeper collected the steins, crouching as if expecting open warfare to begin at any moment, he pawed through the pouch's contents until he found his Durfalian passeport. The others found and proffered their own documents.

  The captain gravely fumbled through their papers while Lot
te brought refilled steins. He studied one document carefully, frowning at it, looking over the top of the sheaf of papers at Kraki. Kraki stared back, nose in a stein, one hairy leg on the table.

  "Kraki Kronarsson?" the captain said.

  "Is me," said the barbarian.

  "These papers say you are of the dwarven race," said the captain.

  "Is right," said Kraki, nodding, then gave an enormous belch.