by John Barnes
It was widely believed—and whispered as an open secret— that she and Amatus were lovers.
Of those present, it was known only to Amatus and Golias that she was not the daughter of that southern Count, but sole survivor of the royal line of the neighboring monarchy of Overhill, smuggled away as an infant by a faithful nurse when her family was massacred by Waldo the Usurper.
It was also known only to herself, Wassant, and Amatus (and perhaps to others who were perceptive enough) that despite her temper and language she was actually rather a prude. Amatus forgave her this on account of her crimson hair, and her poetry, and because when he had attempted to have his way with her, she had told him that he was a very rude young man and that he ought to learn to behave himself. Since no one had bothered to tell him that in some time, he was charmed by the novelty.
The song Golias was singing, thumping the triple bass string hard and plucking at the three doubled treble strings as if he were trying to tear his palanquin in half, was a roistering old thing called "Penna Pike," though no one knew anymore where or who Penna Pike was, despite many who had gone in quest for it down quaint and curious roads. The song was called Penna Pike because its chorus ran:
Penna Pike, Penna Pike, Penna Pike Pike Pike
Penna Pike, Penna Pike, Penna-Penna Pike
Penna Pike, Penna Pike, Penna Pike Pike Pike
Pen — na Pike! — Penna Pike Pike Pike!
The ballad itself told of a mortal woman stolen away by goblins and carried into the dark tunnels under the city, whose lover had come to claim her and had woefully returned to the surface, all too aware that a bigger soul than his would be needed to rescue her and to love her afterwards, and having realized his smallness of soul had taken up the trade of highway robber in order to die a nasty death upon the gallows and thus not have to face his own pettiness, only to discover that his skills far exceeded his integrity, and thus spent many years as a progressively more depraved brigand before he finally was burned in the place of a witch—or continued his career. The song ended less than clearly.
As Golias finished, "Cal" stretched a dirty boot up onto the table, picked something unpleasant off it with the point of "his" pongee, and said, "It does seem a pity that the poor girl ends up stuck down among the goblins. After all it was against her will."
"It's a law of magic," Pell said, smoothing her bodice to remind everyone present of which woman was currently supposed to be a woman.
Slitgizzard belched and grinned. "Laws are made to be broken."
"Magical laws are a different matter," Wassant said, waving to the owner for another plate of simile and protons, that dish at which Hektarians most excel. "Only poets and storytellers can break them, and then it must be done at the right moment. Her lover and the girl herself could not break them because they were inside the story."
"But we aren't," Calliope persisted, now too interested to remember to keep her voice deep and gruff.
"Near enough," Golias said. " 'Penna Pike' is a very old song—parts of it suggest a language that has long since passed from human knowledge—and knowing it to be so old, we must believe it to be peculiarly true, so true that if ever any part of it was not true, that part has since become so. That being the case, its laws of magic would be unusually strong. It would take a bold gang of adventurers to go down the dark tunnels to Goblin Country, still more so to carry her off in the teeth of the various ensorcellments . . . no, it's quite explicable why she has remained down there all these years."
"Well, then," Calliope said, "when do we start?"
Golias looked up and scratched his head. "You mean, start down the tunnels under the city? To rescue her? I sup-pose as soon as you like. It wouldn't take long if it worked, and preparation before going won't matter if it fails. Traditionally we ought to go at night when they are strongest."
"Wait a moment," Wassant said, not in the least pleased. "That's not at all what I'd have had in mind from you, Golias. Isn't it traditionally the job of the wise one in the party to give the dark warning?"
"I'm quite sure it is," Sir John Slitgizzard said, his face deeply troubled. "No reflection on your abilities, sir, but I have been on a few of these things, and when it comes to messing about with dark tunnels and vile things under the earth, we need a good hand for white magic with us, and one of the duties of that person is to tell us that we're getting into more than we're bargaining for."
Golias sighed, so deep a sigh that the candles nearly went out in front of him, and everyone there felt an icy hand pass up his or her back. "Know, then, since you are so determined, that such will be our course. We will pass for what will seem eons through dark caverns swarming with bats and corpse-worms, in gunge composed of things it is not good to think about, our sole lights the lanterns we carry and the dim glow of corpseworms. At last at the border of Goblin Country—always assuming they don't know we're coming and ambush us in the tunnels—there will be some fell monster, set there to keep watch, who will ask an unfathomable riddle; and should it be fathomed, we must then march boldly to the Goblin King, demand and obtain the girl, and finally, despite treachery (and with goblins you can always count on treachery!), carry the maiden forth without getting any of the steps wrong. And all of this will earn us a footnote in a moderately popular ballad, whereas if we don't, sooner or later some hero in need of a feat of prowess will come along and do it anyway. So the whole thing is pointless and extraordinarily dangerous. But did you not know that before?"
Pell Grant's arms extended farther around Sir John Slitgizzard, as if to protect him from going, and he seemed to lean back into her bosom, but whether from fear or because it was pleasant, who could say? The man's expression never changed.
Through all of this Amatus had sat silently, watching little pellets of cold sleet bounce in the street out where the light from the taboret spilled onto the cobbles, and sensing that whatever might be beginning, something was going to end tonight. The warm reds and ambers of the open hearth where the protons baked, the flickering of the fat candles, the soft hiss of the sleet outside and the rumbling of the big sleeping dog beneath his bench all seemed terribly precious to him, as if they would never be the same again, and part of him seemed to clutch madly at the last-departed notes from Golias's palanquin. The fragrance of the place—a compound of oak and tallow smoke, spilled Gravamen, steam from the piecemeal being boiled into simile, fierce margravine sauce, wet boots, and wet dogs—seemed to have an element he could not name, soon to be gone forever.
He took another swallow of Gravamen and noted that it gave him no more courage than he had had before, and finally said, "It seems we have an adventure to undertake. I have misgivings, I freely admit, and I would not have anyone come along who does not want to be there with all his heart . . . or hers," he added hastily (because Calliope, having again forgotten that she was supposed to be "Cal," was glaring at him), "so if we may delay by one bare hour, we can agree that any who are not here at the end of that hour need not come along, and that we will take no notice of comings and goings until that time."
One of Golias's low, dark brows shot far up onto his forehead at that point. No one ever really knew what Golias thought, for he generally seemed to be on all sides of all questions all the time, but the alchemist smiled a small, tight smile of utter satisfaction and grim purpose. "An eminently sensible plan. Let us then have our hour to sing, to eat, and to consider . . . and then we will go, assuming any of us are here."
The hour that followed seemed to fly by, and it must be said that Golias had never played the palanquin so well before, nor had so many of the old songs thundered forth so lustily.
Pell Grant went first, her fingers reluctantly slipping away from Sir John's broad shoulders, his hand clasping her little one before she went out the door of the Gray Weasel and down Byway to some other place.
Only a little later, Duke Wassant stood, bowed, smiled sadly, and said, "Sirs—I could avail myself of the sop to honor you've thrown out, but I do not spare
myself my awareness of what I am doing. I am at your service whenever it is a matter of importance to the Kingdom, and in any point touching my real interests or yours. But it occurs to me that I have been along on many scrapes before this, and I detect in myself the first early traces of growing old, fat, and fond of comfort. I shall perhaps be sad in the morning that I decided to admit this, and a little wistful not to have been along when and if you return full of stories, but the fact is that a warm bed, and knowing that I shall rise from it to eat a good breakfast and have a day to use as I wish tomorrow, outweighs the thrill I feel. So I am away, and you may think it cowardice if you wish, but I trust you as my friends to understand it is merely a matter of not feeling a need for unnecessary danger."
"It is understood absolutely," Amatus said, rising and extending his hand. His own voice was unexpectedly deep and solid and from the corner of his eye he saw that eyebrow shoot up on Golias's face again, perhaps even accompanied by a trace of a nod.
Something in his manner must have touched Duke Wassant, as well, for instead of taking the hand and shaking it as might have been expected, with a low flourish he bowed and kissed the extended fingers. When he stood again, there was something of a salute in his manner, and under his cloak the Prince bowed, acknowledging it.
The room was distinctly colder, the fire glowed sad red rather than lively orange, and the spilled Gravamen smelled more sour after the Duke flung his long scarlet cloak about his shoulders, pulled the broad brim of his plumed hat low over his face, and strode out into the sleet. He was gone up Wend toward the Carpenter's Square in an instant.
"Time remains in the hour," Slitgizzard said, "and I prefer we keep all of it—but I will remain."
"And I," Calliope said.
Prince Amatus sat back down, carefully making sure that his cloak concealed the absence of his left side as much as anything could. What had come over him in that moment with the Duke? It had felt right and good, but now that it was gone, he felt tired and young.
"We will stay out the hour," he said softly. "And I would like to hear any song as long as it is of love and spring, and not spilled blood and night, and most especially as long as it is not 'Penna Pike.'"
Golias bent to his palanquin and plucked away at "The Codwalloper's Daughter," but though his voice was deep and true and the poetry as beautiful as the subject was bawdy, some of the color was gone from the Gray Weasel, and the sleet outside spattered harder in a nasty cold tattoo that mocked but never matched the tempo of the alchemist's strumming.
All the same, the Prince did not call for it to stop, but looked around as if drinking up all the sight and sound and smell he could while the last of the sand in the hourglass ran out, and even felt in his throat the words that would cry out for a few more minutes, or one more song, or one more glass . . . he fought them down, because he knew they would come in a boy's breaking voice, but it was a fight, and he knew, too, that he only won it because the boy inside him wanted to be fought down.
Just as the last strains of "The Codwalloper's Daughter" were bouncing around in the rafters, and Calliope pulled her boots off the table, and Sir John wetted his lips to speak, there was an all but unbearable moment when Amatus wanted more than ever to say, "One more dance of the shadows on the wall, one more merry tune, one more hoisted glass—"
And at that moment three figures, disguised, entered the taboret, and were recognized instantly, for even in long cloaks and many garments and veils, there was no mistaking the tall, thin woman whose skin was covered with scales and pale blue, or the huge, lumpy misshapenness of the man, and given that much, who else could the dark-haired, soft-faced youth in page's clothing beside him be but Psyche? The other three Companions had come, punctual at the time, and though Amatus could still feel the longing for this to be any other night, he knew now that it was time to go, and the dull ache of anticipated nostalgia no longer had any power over him. He rose silently, drawing his cloak tighter about him, and Sir John, Calliope, and Golias did as well, and then the seven of them were out in the icy, damp, windy streets, headed down toward the faint fishy foulness of the river.
If any saw them pass, it was only by peeking through the slats of shutters, and no one would have had even one slat open if it could be helped, on such a night. They passed out of the Hektarian Quarter and on down Wend past the sweeping arches and pinnacles of the houses of the Vulgarians and among the little stupors where on pleasant summer days they had often stopped for tea. Following torches held aloft by Golias, Sir John, and the Twisted Man, at last they came to the place in the riverside walls where the city sewers poured into the Long River below them.
"It so happens," Golias said, "that I brought a rope along, although when I brought it I did not know what for."
The Twisted Man went first, handing his torch to Calliope and climbing down into the near-complete darkness, and Amatus was never sure afterward whether he had seen the Captain of the Guard descend, or whether he had merely caught moments when the twisting, bucking rope passed through blots of dim torchlight.
It would have been natural for someone else to go next, but before anyone had a chance Amatus had drawn on the heavy glove he carried with him for such occasions and was sliding down the line to the bottom. He had seen how the rope swayed under the Twisted Man, but nothing had prepared him for the wild way it whipped in and out of the darkness, sometimes swinging into the great sewer-mouth, and sometimes far out over the river, or for the heart-stopping slips every time his grip loosened. As he neared the bottom, the line began to steady, and with an almost-gentle bump his foot touched the slimy pavement.
"You might have steadied the line," he said to the Twisted Man.
"You did not need it. Those who follow will, so give me your hand here." Their three hands took up slack in the line.
"You're quite the bodyguard," Amatus said, not liking the whining tone he noticed in his own voice, and regretting it instantly.
"I'm not. I'm a mysterious Companion." The Twisted Man's voice rasped like a file screaming against a grindstone. "That's what the tale calls for. And if I were anything else, I would be the Captain of the Guard, and I would be carrying you home to your father and administering a sound spanking. Fortunately I have no taste for administrative duties and your father has a keen understanding of what goes into the making of princes."
"Enough chatter. The others are coming down. Slitgizzard will come last, so that he can help others onto the line," said Mortis's voice behind them.
Amatus knew better than to ask the Royal Witch how she had gotten there; possibly she had flown or just walked through some little fold in the world. So he nodded acknowledgment and braced his foot.
The first one down was Calliope, scrambling down and yanking the rope in all directions. Amatus helped catch her at the bottom, his open hand pressing upward to stop her, then letting her slide down into his arm, and enjoyed it a great deal. Psyche came quickly and lightly, barely moving the rope; Golias clambered after, more clumsily because he was stout. Finally Sir John Slitgizzard made his quick, neat descent, and they were ready for their journey into the dark wet spaces under the city.
5
Rational Beast and Rationalizing Royalty
For a long time there was no need to speak, and so they only followed the torch that Golias held aloft, and glanced at each other now and then. Mortis was calm as ever, and now that they were belowground had thrown back the hood of her cloak so that her white hair and blue skin shone in the near darkness. Golias, John Slitgizzard, and the Twisted Man all seemed to be waiting calmly for something, and Amatus decided it must be because they were more experienced adventurers than he. He tried to act like them but all he could manage was a moment or so of it between his heart lurching at shadows and walking along as if he were trailing behind his father at some boring Court function.
Behind him, Calliope and Psyche walked; he didn't look back because he was afraid that either they would be cowering, and seeing them his own nerve would b
reak, or that they would look more brave and unconcerned than he felt.
They had walked for a long time before they saw any signs of goblins. Since Boniface had given him the army, Cedric had been systematic and efficient about goblin control, and nowadays it was only a rare one who came to the surface, usually on a dare, and usually doing only slight harm, writing something scurrilous on a wall or dumping the milk sitting by someone's door. As they neared Goblin Country, they could see byproducts of goblin control; skeletons of goblins and pieces of armor and escrees appeared around every bend. The skulls were the worst of it, for the torchlight flickered in the eyeholes so that for a moment a light would seem to dance in the skull's eyes, as if it were about to speak.
They were hideous, with jaws as prognathous as a bulldog's, and bony ridges around the snoutlike noses. The skull seemed to slope straight back from the heavy brow ridges, and the bony crest down its middle was spiked and bumpy.
And those eye sockets—strange how your gaze kept returning to them—were round and deep as wells.
Amatus kept walking, deciding that if his courage was going to desert him, he would just have to go on without it.
Finally they came to a crumbling, rotten wood bridge across a deep crack in the tunnel floor. Before it there stood a wooden gate, and at the gate was a small, hairy goblin, unusually ugly, and with a glint of malice in his eyes that must have made even the other goblins nervous.
"Your business?"
Amatus remembered from Golias's lessons that you had to tell the truth in Goblin Country. So he said, "We are here to rescue a maid held here for many centuries."
"Oh, her. Sure, have a shot. Haven't had anybody except the occasional ambitious commoner in ages. Not even many of them. There are just seven of you?"
