One Quest, Hold the Dragons
Page 33
The eyes of the soldiers were frightened: determined, but scared. Their shields overlapped, they leaned into their shields, shoulder first, pressing back against the mob that sought to overwhelm them. In this they were at least partially aided by the people at the mob's fringe, people who, however much their emotions had been captivated by the unity of the mob, the passions of the hour, knew that they, unlike those farther back, were in close proximity to killing weapons. If this tentative peace, this uneasy equilibrium of forces, broke down, if the mob surged forward or one of the soldiers lost his head and struck out with a spear or sword, those at the fore would suffer. They would be the ones to die. And so they drew back, as much as they were able, against the force of the folk behind them.
Von Kremnitz pushed the man ahead of him to the side, and came face to face with a soldier. Her eyes widened as she took him in, saw the weapons at his belt, the look of determination on his face; she panicked, brought down her pike ...
Von Kremnitz's heart went to his throat; she might well kill him, his own mobility hampered by the crowd, his light blade of dubious utility against a wall of shields. But more than that, this one gesture might precipitate chaos: If a soldier were to kill a protestor, that would inflame the passions of the mob, might lead to full-fledged riot. He had no desire to kill her-she, like he, a servant of the city—but more, he had no desire to see the Lodge looted, burned, chaos spreading across fair Hamsterburg. He—
A gloved hand fell on the soldier's shoulder. "Steady, Giselle," barked a serjeant's voice. "Remember your orders."
Shamefaced, she raised her pike once more, brought it back to its accustomed slant, resting on the top of her square shield. And the serjeant pulled her out of the line, motioning another soldier forward to take her place before any of the mob could press through the momentary gap.
"Serjeant!" shouted von Kremnitz, before the man could walk away. "Serjeant! I must speak with you!"
The man turned, looked warily at von Kremnitz. His eyes widened as he took in the man and his diverse companions—and narrowed as he saw the pin at von Kremnitz's cloak, the pin that bore the hamster statant regardant of Hamsterburg.
"I bear the Lord Mayor's safe passage," shouted von Kremnitz. "I demand entry!"
"He's dead," shouted the serjeant. "Or haven't you heard?"
"Nonetheless!" von Kremnitz insisted. "I have vital information!"
The serjeant looked uncertain, but turned to face the Lodge. He whistled, then held four fingers in the air and gave a wave. In moments, four soldiers appeared, apparently summoned from the Serenissima's scant reserve. They formed a semicircle, slightly back from the line, around the serjeant; the serjeant pushed between two members of the shield wall and motioned von Kremnitz through.
"Stantz! Murderer!" roared the crowd. One man, unkempt, unbathed, beard to his chest, threw himself toward the momentary opening, but a soldier merely bashed his head with the side of a shield. Timaeus started forward, then realized that the serjeant had permitted entry only to von Kremnitz.
The leftenant stood beyond the wall, surrounded by soldiers, arguing with the serjeant. He displayed his document, with its impressive seal: the laissez-passe that Siebert had given him. He pointed toward the others, but the serjeant merely shook his head.
The serjeant pointed to von Kremnitz, as if to say, "You"—and held up one finger, as if to say, "You alone."
Timaeus could hear not a word of what passed between them.
Over the line, a point of green light flitted. Unnoticed, it circled over the serjeant's head.
Von Kremnitz reddened, enraged; he grabbed the serjeant's breastplate with both hands, screaming into the man's face.
The serjeant's face went slack, as if personality had gone out of it; he nodded, a mechanical nod. He spoke briefly to von Kremnitz, who let go, looking rather confused.
The serjeant spoke again, to the soldiers around them; the four looked a little bewildered, but when the serjeant repeated his order, they shrugged, turned away, returned to their position near the Lodge.
The serjeant pushed his way through the shield line and beckoned Timaeus and the others forward.
Behind them came a cry—"Traitors! Spies for the Spider!"—and the mob pressed forward against the line. Quickly the party darted through the narrow opening in the shield wall, the shields coming together behind them with a clash. Soldiers grunted as the mob smashed into them.
Von Kremnitz, the serjeant, Timaeus, and the others trotted away, toward the Lodge's vast oaken doors. Timaeus gave a worried glance behind; the shield line bowed inward, the pressure of the mob forcing the defenders back—inward, inward ... In moments, he feared, it would give way ...
More soldiers came from the Lodge at a run, hurling themselves into the line, pressing back against the mob, a few thin reinforcements; but that seemed to be enough, for the nonce. The line stabilized; the mob withdrew.
The serjeant seemed curiously oblivious to these events for a man with ostensible responsibility for this section of the line. About his head, Jasper continued to fly.
"What did you tell him?" Timaeus asked von Kremnitz, puffing to keep up.
"I don't know," said von Kremnitz. "He wasn't going to let you through—then suddenly changed his mind. I don't think it was anything I said."
"Ah," said Timaeus, casting a glance up at Jasper.
VII
The Lodge's interior: A-frame beams overhead, darkened with age; frightened bureaucrats hustling to and fro on apparently urgent business. The room was cold, lit by flickering torches that an educated eye could see were magical-no smoke rising from the flames to choke the air, the brands themselves unconsumed by the fire they bore. At the back of the large chamber was a desk, manned by several clerks; from the chamber four corridors led off down rows of offices.
The serjeant led them to the desk. One of the clerks conversed with a bureaucrat, while another accepted a package from a harried messenger; a third was unoccupied. "What is it, serjeant?" he asked.
"These people have the Lord Mayor's laissez-passe," the serjeant said, in a mechanical drone. "They seek an audience with Magistra Wolfe."
The clerk's eyebrows gave a leap. "I shall try to locate her," he said, and turned to a bank of speaking tubes.
They waited, impatiently and rather nervously, while the clerk hollered first into one tube, then another, putting his ear to each tube to hear its reply. At last, he turned back to them, and said, "Have you an appointment?"
"No," said von Kremnitz, "but the matter is urgent."
The clerk sighed. "May I see this laissez passe?"
Von Kremnitz laid a parchment document on the desk; it was hastily scribbled in poor penmanship, but bore the Mayor's seal, in red wax, at its bottom.
"It appears legitimate," shouted the clerk into the tube. He listed for the reply, then turned to von Kremnitz. "What is the matter about?" he asked.
Von Kremnitz looked at the others. Timaeus shrugged. Sidney said, "Tell him."
"The statue of Stantius," said von Kremnitz.
The clerk looked mystified, but repeated this to the tube. As he listened to the response, his face went blank. "Yes, ma'am," he said, turned back to the desk, and rang a bell.
In a moment, a young man in a gray tunic appeared. "Jorge," the clerk ordered. "Take these people to Room Six, in the Griffon section."
"Yes, sir," said the boy. "This way, gentles."
They followed him toward one of the corridors. Behind them, the serjeant turned on his heel and marched back toward the main front door. Jasper flew with him briefly, then swerved and met up with the others.
They hustled down the corridor, Jorge setting a swift pace. The walls rose to intercept wooden beams at odd angles, as if the corridor were a late addition, the area through which they passed originally a large chamber, later subdivided. Torches lined the walls at lengthy intervals, providing dim illumination—-enough to make one's way, but not much more. Even here, the roar of the crowd could be
faintly heard, that one beat and three. Men and women scurried past, some carrying files or papers.
"Dammit," Sidney said in a low voice, "we're doing it again!"
"What do you mean?" asked von Kremnitz.
"You got us in," she said, "as you promised. But we've got no plan, no—"
"Ahem," said Timaeus. "Our guide can hardly fail to overhear us. And a busy corridor is not the best place—"
"Never fear for Jorge," said Jasper. "I have him in a light trance; he'll not remember anything he shouldn't. And if we're discreet, I think the people we pass won't take alarm."
"Good," said Timaeus. "Sidney's right. What are we to do?"
"Find statue," said Kraki. "Take it. Kill anyvone who gets in vay. Leave."
"It has the virtue of simplicity," said Timaeus. "However, I'm not entirely clear on how the first step is to be accomplished."
They came to a large open archway of decorative stone, the capstone carved in the shape of a griffon; through it was a large,chamber, with rows of tables, seats, and a lectern at one end. Along the left side of the room were several doors, one numbered "6" in brass. Jorge led the way toward it.
"Wolfe will know where it is," said Nick.
"We hope," said Sidney.
"Can we bushwhack her? Take her hostage?" said Nick.
"Sounds risky," said Timaeus.
"Life is risky," said Kraki.
"She's a mage," Jasper pointed out. They skirted a table. "Umbrae, isn't it, leftenant?"
"Yes," said von Kremnitz.
They came to Room Six's door; Jorge lifted a hand to turn the knob—
"Wait!" said Sidney. "We still don't have—"
"Magistra Wolfe isn't in there," Jasper said. "She's to meet us here."
"How do you know?"
"Jorge knows," said Jasper.
"All right," said Sidney. "Let him open it, then." Room Six had the aspect of a sitting room; there were couches, armchairs, tables. At one end stood a chalkboard, and on the table were piled papers, inkwells, quills, blotters, and knives for trimming nibs. Clearly, it was often used for conferences of one kind or another. Peculiarly, it had no windows, but was lit instead by a globe of glowing white light at the ceiling's center.
"Thank you, Jorge," said Jasper. "You may go now."
"As you wish," said the young man. He closed the door behind him.
"Taking Magistra Wolfe hostage may be risky," Jasper said, "yet here, in the Spider's very web, we are at considerable risk regardless. We do have an advantage; no doubt the Ministry is distracted by the chaos outside. And the building may be stormed at any moment; if it is, we may be able to escape with relative ease, assuming we do not find ourselves a target of the mob's fury."
"Wouldn't it be easier to explain ourselves to Wolfe?" said Timaeus. "Surely—"
"Stantz obviously wants the statue," Sidney said, "or Wolfe wouldn't have stolen it. You think maybe he'll give it back if we just ask pretty please?"
"Guismundo Stantz is not to be trusted," said von Kremnitz.
"Yes, all right," said Timaeus. "Wolfe comes in, we grab her, force her to tell us where the statue is—Sir Jasper, can't you just read the information from her mind?"
"I very much doubt it," said Jasper. "She wore an amulet against scrying in the carriage, remember?"
"Bah," said Kraki. "I grab her. Vith sword at throat, shetalk hokay! Or, gish!" He made a motion indicative of decapitation.
"Yes, thank you, Kraki, very graphic," said Timaeus. "More likely, you grab her, put your sword to her throat, she turns into a shadow—"
"Need spell to do that," said Kraki. "She start spell, and gish!"
"Shadow mages are taught to subvocalize," said Timaeus. "Otherwise, they couldn't use magic, in shadow form; shadows don't have voices. You'd never know she was working on a spell."
"Bah," said Kraki. "Then I kill her right avay. Gish!"
"It is fairly difficult to obtain information from a corpse," said Timaeus testily.
"Unless you're a necromancer," Nick pointed out.
"True enough," said Timaeus. "I don't suppose you have unexpected talents along such lines, eh, Pratchitt?"
"No," said Nick.
"Then do shut up," said Timaeus. "We've got perhaps as much as thirty seconds before Wolfe arrives, and no time for idiotic—"
"Ahem," interrupted Jasper. "I could detect subvocalization, I believe, even if Magistra Wolfe were to wear an amulet."
"Eh?" said Timaeus. "Hmm. So Kraki takes her hostage, we tell her we'll kill her if she starts a spell. By Dion, this might actually work."
"Might have," said a woman's voice—a voice that seemed to come from the brass ventilation grille at the room's rear. "All right, Jocko; shut them down."
Instantly the room went dark.
There was a crash as Kraki threw himself against the door—to no avail. "Door locked," he reported.
Sidney cursed. "Of course they'd monitor the room," she said. "Of course—"
There was a hissing noise.
There was a sudden sense of vertigo, as if the world itself had lurched, as of swift motion toward a far destination ...
Unconsciousness.
Now this, thought Sidney with peculiar satisfaction, was a proper dungeon.
She was manacled at wrist and ankle, spread-eagled against the rough stone wall. It was quite uncomfortable; the heavy metal manacles bore her full weight, pressing into her flesh.
There was darkness, broken only by a furnace's red glow. Before the furnace stood a man: a torturer, in the traditional garb-naked to the waist, black pantaloons, domino mask. He moved slowly, placing irons in the fire, shuffling them about. He withdrew one, and examined its tip; it was curved, an S-shape, glowing white-hot in the darkness of the dungeon.
There was quiet, broken only by the slow drip of water, the roar of the coals, the sounds of rats scuttering across the stone—Sidney could see their eyes, out there, reflecting the furnace's fire. She wondered at the noiselessness of the place; could the roar of the crowd possibly have ended? Or were they simply so far below the sunlit world that even the howling of the mob could not be heard?
The air was dank, chill. Perhaps there was the slightest tang of blood, of burnt human flesh.
The torturer moved aside; and, the light of the furnace no longer blocked by his form, Sidney made out more of the chamber. There was a table covered with implements, gleaming instruments of unmistakable purpose. There were several other tables, of peculiar design—manacles at the corners, blood runnels down the sides. Beneath the tabletops were gears and wheels and latches. Sidney surmised they permitted the torturer to alter the position of his subject, to allow an optimal approach—devices not entirely different in function from a barber's chair.
Sidney looked to either side; her companions were likewise chained to the wall. She, apparently, had been the first to regain consciousness, but Timaeus was now beginning to stir.
About his upper arm, Sidney saw, twined a peculiar black bracelet; it looked like a snake, of cast iron, with runes inscribed on its surface. And then, with an intake of breath, she realized it was alive; it moved, constricted, tightened against Timaeus's arm.
Timaeus groaned and opened his eyes. He looked about.
"Timaeus," Sidney whispered. "Can you burn through the manacles?"
Timaeus looked at her, then at the snake-thing. He gave an unpleasant start, as of someone discovering a roach in his tea. He swallowed, and said, "No." Sidney realized he meant that the snake-thing prevented him.
"What is it?" she asked.
Timaeus hesitated. "A sort of demon," he whispered. "It lives by draining mana, magic power. As long as it's on me—" He shrugged, as well as he was able to, spreadeagled against the wall.
Kraki, chained at Sidney's left, opened his eyes. He looked briefly around, then began to pull at the manacles with all his might, trying to free himself through sheer brute effort. Sidney watched for a while; he did not seem to be making progress.
"Good day, sir," Timaeus said to the man. "We find ourselves in similar circumstances; I hight Timaeus d'Asperge, of Urf Durfal. May I inquire—"