King Pinch n-1

by David Cook

  Thieves and fools were never far apart, though, so now was as good a time as any to learn his way through the underground maze. This time, though, he was forewarned and had every intention of being forearmed.

  By the time he opened the door, he carried an oil lamp and a piece of charcoal in one hand and his sword in the other. His pockets were stuffed with candles, and a glowing coal was carefully hung in a little pot from his side. The ember heated the clay until it threatened to scorch his hip, but Pinch was not going to be without some way of rekindling his light.

  The dust still lay in a thick gloom on the floor and, although Pinch was no tracker, he could see footprints other than his own in the churn. "Manferic," he muttered, interpreting the marks as best he could. This was a confirmation of his suspicions-and also a guide out. He'd follow the trail back until it certainly led to some escape to the surface. He'd just have to hope Manferic didn't have a direct path to the necropolis.

  The plan stood him well at the bottom of the stairs. His own trail, which he could recognize by comparing to his prints now, went left, the other went right. He followed the latter.

  The underground was a honeycomb of more passages than he imagined. The trail passed first one branch, then another, and finally so many that he gave up count. At any point of doubt, he marked the wall with a streak of chalk, showing that "I came this way or took this turn." He didn't intend to come back by the tunnels, since he cared not who saw him coming into the palace, but prudence was a virtue, and he with so few virtues needed all the ones he could garner.

  He'd traveled so for twenty minutes without a guess where he was under the palace-if he was under the palace at all-when the plan went awry. The trail did something it wasn't supposed to do-it split. There were two sets of tracks where he'd been following only one. One was a thin trail in the dust, and it threatened to melt into uniform gray around the next double-backed corner. The other trail was solid and profound, clearing a route of constant traffic.

  He tried to interpret the thick marks in the powder. The lesser trail was probably no more than the scuttles of rats; if he followed it, he'd end up in the palace kitchens.

  The larger trail was more a puzzle. It smeared across the ground the way a wench mopped a table, in ragged swipes that blotted out what had come before. Here and there were traces of a boot or a shoe, showing some human progress. Tattered drapes of old cobwebs confirmed the passage. What slope-footed thing had shambled through the hall?

  Pinch chose the latter route. Of course it was the worse choice. It was like a verser's play in a game of sant, where the obvious card was always the wrong card. Looking at it, though, there really wasn't any other choice. He was a thief and a confidence man, not some wild woodsman. The signs he could read were the marks of greed, gullibility, and the law. If he lost the trail-and the one looked damned slight-he'd be forced to come back here anyway.

  It was with a profoundly greater sense of caution, though, that Pinch advanced. If there was something ahead, he was in no hurry to meet it unprepared.

  The dry dust of the broken webs tickled his nose. The air was a dark sweetness of rotted spider strands and forgotten time. No breeze except for the unknown strangers rustled through the stygian corridor. There were no clicking insects in the darkness and none of the sinister squeaks of rats that he was accustomed to as a prowler. He'd crept down secret ways before, but the silence of this one was unsettling.

  Remembering the pits and falls of his previous visit, the rogue felt the floor carefully with each step, reassuring himself that the stone was solid beneath his feet. At the same time, he strained his ears, wondering if he'd hear the same inexplicable lamentations he'd heard before.

  He went a long way in this fashion, creeping and listening, and perhaps the strain of the effort dulled his keenness. He almost missed a sound that, had he been more alert, would have saved him from harm.

  As it was, it was only just too late. He heard a snorting grunt and before he could assess it, anticipate its source, and shift the knowledge to his favor, it was too late.

  A form, thick and furred, sprang from an as yet unexamined niche just at the edge of Pinch's probings. The creature stood like a man, half again as tall as the smallish rogue. It lunged forward in a burst of fury, its fur gleaming dirty white in the flickering light. Pinch jabbed at it with his long dirk, but the thing smashed his hand against the wall with a casual backhand blow. The biting stone shredded the skin over his knuckles and ground at the tendons until Pinch, unwilled, screamed at the fire that jabbed through his fingers.

  With its prey's only guard dispensed, the man-thing lunged forward. Its head, a bearlike face twisted into a brutal snarl, was squashed between its shoulders to make a rounded lump above oversized shoulders. Before Pinch could dodge, the thing flung its limbs around him, pinioning one arm to his side. Rip went the back of his fine doublet as thick claws cut through it like paper. The nails pierced his back, burning between the muscled knots of his shoulder blades. The creature drove them in hard, pressing him close into its greasy chest. It smelled of sheep fat, grubs, night soil, and salt, and he could taste the same crushed up against his lips.

  The skewed perceptions, the over-pure sensation of it, vainly tried to fill his mind and drive down the sear of pain as it worked its claws deeper into his flesh.

  He distinctly heard the ragged course of his breath, the helpless scrape of his feet against the flagstones, and the creak of his ribs. He tried to twist himself free, but this was a futile play at resistance. The beast had struck too quickly and was too strong for him to resist.

  Still, in the writhing, he managed to get a little leverage with his dagger hand. He couldn't jab the blade in, the way it should be, but was able to make a clumsy slash along its side. There was little hope of seriously wounding the creature. All the rogue wanted was a deep gash, one that would hit nerves and spill blood, distract the thing and give him a measure of satisfied revenge.

  The knife cut as if through thick leather, and Pinch was rewarded with a furious squeal. Seizing the chance, he kicked out and twisted to break himself free. The hope was a cheat, like trying to win against a cole who's cut the dice to his advantage.

  The squeal transformed into a snarl and, in one effortless sweep, the beast raked its claws out of Pinch's back to sink into his shoulders. Heaving up, the creature cleared the thief's feet from the floor and slammed him against the stone wall so hard his head cracked on the rock.

  The world, a gloom already, darkened to a single tunnel. Somehow Pinch kept his dagger, though he could do little more than wave it around in weak blindness.

  The creature slammed him against the wall again, its yellow fangs bared in brutal joy. And again. A fourth, a fifth, and more times until Pinch lost all count. With each crash a little more of the volition drained from his muscles until he flopped like a helpless doll in the monster's grasp. The world was all blackness, save for the tiniest point of the real world-the candle he'd dropped, still guttering on the ground.

  The bashing stopped. Pinch could barely loll his head up. The rogue still hovered over the ground in the beast's bloody grasp.

  "Whot your naim?" The basso words rumbled through the hall.

  I'm hallucinating, the thief was certain. He forced his pain-dazzled eyes to focus. The creature was watching him, its flattened head cocked owl-like as it waited.

  "Name!" the beast bellowed in badly slurred trade tongue. It rattled him a little more just for emphasis.

  Pinch understood.

  "P-Janol," he croaked. He almost used the name of his old, Elturel life, but a spark held him back. He was in Ankhapur, and here he was Janol. Gods knew who or what this beast might report to.

  "Ja-nol?" the creature snarled, trying to wrap its fangs around the shape of the word.

  Pinch nodded.

  All of a sudden he dropped to the floor, the creature's cushing grasp released. It was so unexpected that Pinch, normally of catlike footing, tumbled into an angular pile of c
lothes, blood, and pain.

  "You-Janol?" it asked a third time, with less ferocity than before. It could have been almost apologetic in its tone, if it reasoned at all like normal beings. The rogue doubted that, given its behavior so far.

  "I'm Janol… royal ward of Ankhapur." Between each word was a wince and the struggling determination to get back to his feet. "Kill me… and the royal guard will… scour this place with fire and sword." It took a lot of effort for Pinch to stand and say all that, although it wasn't hard to give the lie a little conviction.

  The beast stood and said nothing, its face puckered up in concentration. This finally gave Pinch a chance to study it clearly. It was bowlegged, broad, and reminded Pinch of Iron-Biter in that, except for the fact that where he could look down on the dwarf, this thing was a full head taller than him. He'd seen such beasts before, though during the brute's battering that recognition was not uppermost in his mind. There was cold solace in knowing just what was killing you.

  Now that it wasn't trying to smash his skull against the wall, there was some chance and gain in that recognition. Naming the thing, though, added more to the mystery than solving the problem.

  It was a quaggoth, an albino beast of the far underground realms. They were virtually unknown on the surface. The only reason Pinch knew of them was his youth here in Ankhapur. Manferic had raised a few, like slavish dogs, as his special lackeys. They were hunters and jailers, one of old Manferic's "special" punishments.

  "You not Janol. Janol boy." Amazement that the thing knew him once was increased by urgency as the thing reached down to continue its beating.

  "I've grown," he blurted hastily.

  He tried to duck beneath the sweeping arms, but the monster was quicker than its speech. With the thief in its grip, the quaggoth slowly and deliberately squeezed. The wind crushed out of him in a last series of choking words. "I… am… Janol," he gasped in vain.

  The beast snarled and crushed harder. Pinch heard a crack from within his chest and the sharp burn of a broken rib, but there was no air left in him to scream. The dim tunnel of light was quickly becoming even more dim.

  "Ikrit-stop!"

  The pressure ceased. The pain did not.

  "Is he Janol?" It was a woman's voice, quavering and weak but unmistakably female.

  "He say, lady."

  "And you?"

  "Me, lady, say he not Janol."

  "Put him down."

  Pinch tumbled to the floor. This time he made no move to get to his feet. He gasped for air like a landed fish, and each heave brought a new lance of pain that drove out all the wind he had regained.

  "You want look, lady?" From his hands and knees, Pinch looked up to see the beast addressing something or someone in the darkness.

  "… Yes." There was a pained hesitancy in the framing of her simple answer.

  The beast stooped to seize Pinch and present him like a prisoner before the dock. The rogue tried to crawl away, but all he did was trigger a paroxysm of choking that ended with a mouthful of coughed-up blood.

  "No-wait." Her words shook, as though they were a dam to her fears and uncertainties. "You say he's not Janol?"

  "No, lady. Not Janol."

  There was a drawing of breath from the darkness, a drawing of resolve. "Let me see him."

  The quaggoth bowed slightly to the darkness and stepped aside. Pinch, suspecting that his life might hang on this display, wiped the blood from his chin and lips and struggled to stand upright. He peered into the gloom of the tunnel, but even with his thief-trained eyes, he could not make out the slightest shadow of his examiner.

  At last a sigh, pained and disappointed, floated from the darkness. "It's too long. Who can tell?… Let him go, Ikrit. Take him out."

  "Who are-" Pinch's question was forestalled by a spasm from his chest, the broken bone protesting even the rise and fall of words. There were so many questions inside him, all strangled by the lancing pain inside.

  "Who am I?" The echo was a confused musing of his words. "I'm… one who loved unwisely."

  Riddles! Every answer led to more riddles. If he hadn't felt so lousy, Pinch would have cursed the voice in the darkness. He forced himself to frame one last question.

  "What am I-" he paused to force back the pain, "- Janol, to you?" The effort left him collapsed against the wall.

  Footsteps crept closer from the darkness. The quaggoth took a protective step to intercede between Pinch and its charge. There was covert tenderness in its move, uncharacteristic for its race. "Janol is-" Suddenly the whispers halted in a gagging retch, like a drunken man. When it stopped, the woman tried again. "Janol is… hope," she said weakly, although it was certain those were not the words she wished to use.

  Pinch gave up. He hadn't the strength to ask any more questions, and the lady, be she human, sprite, or spook, was not going to answer him straightly. The pain exhausted him so that all there was left was to let himself sink into aching stillness.

  "Ikrit, take him out."

  "He attack lady," the quaggoth argued as its duty.

  The weakness faded from the woman's voice as if filled with kind strength, the will of a mother imposed on her child. "Take him out-gently."

  "Yes, lady," the big white creature rumbled obediently, even though it was clearly not happy with the command.

  Pinch moaned as it picked him up. The lances were so constant now that their pain became almost bearable. The cracked bone had settled, not in the best place, but was at least no longer trying to reshape his muscle tissue. The quaggoth strode in great jolting strides, and with every lurch the rogue thought for sure he would pass out. They moved quickly through the total darkness, the quaggoth easily picking the way with eyes adapted to the dark. Even if he still had his full wits about him, the rogue could not have studied the way.

  At last the beast stopped and lowered the rogue, weak and sweating, to the ground. "Go there," it growled. In the pitch blackness, Pinch had no hint of where "there" was. Perhaps sensing this, a great clawed hand shoved him roughly forward, and he would have fallen if his body had not collided with a stone wall. "There-the bright world. Your world." No more was said as the thump and clack of clawed feet signaled the beast's departure.

  Not ready to die in the darkness, Pinch forced himself to reason. The beast claimed this was the way out, therefore there had to be a door. With his trained touch, the rogue probed the stone searching for a knob, handle, crack, or catch. Patience rewarded him, and with only slight pressure, which was fortunate, he pushed a section of the wall aside.

  It was the very last of twilight outside, the embered glow of the sun as it pulled the last of its arc below the horizon. The lamplighters were out, wizard-apprentices who practiced their cantrips activating the street lamps. Faint as it was, the wilting dusk blinded Pinch after his sojourn in darkness. Everything was orange-red and it hurt his eyes.

  Blinking, he stumbled into the street, unable to clearly see where he'd emerged. It was good fortune that traffic was light at this hour and he was not trampled by some rag-picker's nag that chafed to be home in its stable. As the glare finally faded, the buildings resolved themselves into shapes and places. Here was a tavern, there a gated wall, and farther along it a cramped tower.

  It was from these clues that Pinch realized he was standing outside the necropolis. The necropolis meant priests and priests meant healing. A plan already forming in his mind, Pinch stumbled toward the barred gate.

  When the priests saw a bloody and bruised wretch staggering toward them, they reacted just as Pinch expected. Most held back, but a few, guided by the decency of their faith, hurried forward to aid this miserable soul. As hoped, among them was Lissa, and toward her Pinch steered his faltering steps.

  As she caught up to him, Pinch collapsed dramatically in her arms. It wasn't that hard, considering his state. Real wounds added far more realism than what he could have done by pig's liver, horse blood, and a few spells.

  "Lissa, help me," he murmured. "Take me t
o the temple of the Red Priests."

  "I will take you to the Morninglord," she insisted, intent on repaying him with the works of her own faith.

  "No," he insisted, "only the Red Priests. It is their charge to minister to the royal clan. Take me to another and you insult their god."

  Lissa didn't like it; it was against her inclinations, but she could not argue against custom. She called for a cart and horse, and Pinch knew she would take him.

  Soon, as he lay on the straw and watched the rooftops go by, Pinch smiled a soft smile to himself, one that showed the satisfaction that broke through his pain. He'd be healed in the halls of the Red Priests, and he'd case those same halls for the job he intended to pull. Sometimes his plans realized themselves in the oddest of ways.

  13

  Scouting

  Healing hurt more than the whip that laid the wound, or so it seemed to Pinch as he lay on the cold marble platform that was the Red Temple's "miracle seat." The priests greeted his arrival with more duty than charity and proceeded to exact their fare from his body. There was no kindness as they reset his rib and pressed their spells into him to knit it together. Into his cuts they rubbed burning salves that boiled away any infection, then dried the ragged gashes and pulled the torn skin back together, all in a process designed to extract every fillip of pain they could from him.

  As if the pain were not enough, the priests simply weren't content to let him suffer in silence. They chanted, intoned, and sermonized as they went about their task. Each laying on of hands was accompanied by exhortations to surrender himself to the workings of their god, to acknowledge the majesty of their temple over all others, and to disavow his allegiances to other gods. The Red Priests were not of the belief that all gods had their place or that man was naturally polytheistic. For them, the Red Lord was supreme and there was no need to consider the balances of others. It was little wonder why the princes preferred self-reliance to the aid of the temple.