She completed the spell. A zombie elf lurched to its feet and back down the corridor to join the rest of her forces.
"Where is the statue?" the baroness demanded.
"It's a madhouse out there," whispered the lich. "I count at least six contending forces."
"Damn those orcs," muttered Veronee. "They said they were selling me an exclusive."
"And," whispered the lich sarcastically, "an ore's word is his bond." "Spare me," snarled Veronee. "When will you have it?"
"Hard to say," the lich whispered. "We're half a block from number twelve. It shan't be long."
A fireball exploded in the rubble.
As the flames dissipated, the form of a paunchy, red-haired young man in a maroon greatcoat appeared. He held an elaborately carved meerschaum pipe and stared about the rubble that had once been number 12, Cobblers Lane.
"Good heavens," said Timaeus. A sudden whistle increased in volume and intensity. He threw himself flat on the ground and rolled behind a cast-iron bedstead.
A flash of green exploded in the street. Cobblestones, thrown from the roadbed, flew in all directions, shattering windows. In its place, the explosion left a thorntree, standing two stories high. Its branches moved restlessly, searching for prey.
The thump and thunder of other spells could be heard. So could shouting voices and the screams of the dying.
On his hands and knees, Timaeus scrambled about what was left of the flat. He'd teleported because his trip to the university had taken far longer than he had expected; too long.
He hoped Sidney wouldn't be too upset. "Sidney?" he called. "Nick? Father Thwaite?"
Awestruck, the elves held their fire. A hundred men thundered past on horseback. A hundred men in mail. A hundred men with lance and sword. Horseshoes struck sparks from the cobblestones. At the van floated the flag of Athelstan.
They certainly looked impressive. Then they met the zombies.
The big advantage a man on horse has over a foe on foot is mass. When a cavalryman charges you with lance extended, a ton is hurtling at you at twenty miles an hour. All of that kinetic energy is concentrated at the point of the lance. That lance can penetrate any mail.
A horseman's advantage is also his Achilles' heel. Picture cavalry charging pikes. The pikes are longer than the lances. Guess whose point penetrates whose mail?
A massed pike formation can defeat a cavalry charge every time if-and this is an important if—the formation holds. For a cavalry charge is a fearsome sight. Many a pikeman has turned and fled when faced with the reality of a ton of flesh and steel hurtling down his throat.
Unfortunately for the Ducal Guard, zombies have no imagination. Being dead already, they have no fear of death.
General Carruthers was supremely confident of the Ducal Guard's ability to sweep all opposition before it. He kept his confidence right up to the instant that he ran his mount into the zombies' pikes. The horse screamed, fell on its back (flinging Carruthers ten feet into the curb), and broke its leg. It continued to scream as the rest of the hundred piled into it, horses falling, men dying on pikes or trampled underfoot.
The irresistible force met the immovable object. The immovable object won.
Zombies with swords and axes moved out to dispatch the wounded. Soon, there'd be a whole bunch of new zombies. Necromancers have something of an unfair advantage that way.
Limping in clanking armor, scared out of his wits, General Carruthers fled down the street.
There wasn't anybody here, Timaeus realized.
In the distance, there was the clash of arms, the sounds of screams, and a tremendous clatter. More spells rocked the air. I've got to get out of here, Timaeus thought. Cobblers Lane was an unhealthy place to be.
He hoped that the rubble did not contain the bodies of his companions. If it did, he'd never find them.
Where would they have gone?
No way to know. But Kraki's inn sounded like a good bet. Timaeus began to prepare another fireball teleport.
A second fireball flashed in the ruins across the street. Montiel opened the door a crack. Incredibly, there didn't seem to be anyone in the street right now. He darted out and into the rubble of number twelve.
It didn't take him long to find the tunnel below the floorboards. He ventured down it a short length but couldn't go any farther. A few cubits in, it had collapsed.
He stood in the tunnel for a long moment. Spells boomed and crashed in the distance. "I've been taken," muttered the elf. Obviously, the statue was gone.
Corky Evanish had said no one else knew about the thing. Corky Evanish had been lying through his teeth. Corky Evanish had some questions to answer, Ross decided. If the customs official answered them with alacrity, Ross might even let him live. For an hour. Or two. The elf smiled to himself in anticipation.
Ross clambered up the side of the hole and pulled himself onto the rubble. "Uh oh," he said. A bunch of guys in rags were waiting for him. "Hi fellas!" said the elf. "You've just become a bunch of rich . . . dead guys." They were dead, all right. Some of them were weeks dead. They gave off quite a pong.
"It is awfully hard," Ross reflected, "to bribe zombies."
Ross was getting a little frightened, but he hid it well. The zombies hustled him into the sewers. Ross used the sewers to dispose of corpses. He was beginning to suspect that he might wind up a corpse himself.
"Who are you?" said the veiled woman to Montiel in a melodious but somehow threatening voice.
"Hiya doll," said the elf, trying to get a glimpse of her legs. "Montiel, Ross Montiel. But you can call me sugar."
She gave a low chuckle. "The dead have no epithets," she said. She motioned to the lich. Montiel died quickly.
"My apologies," she told the corpse. She spoke the spell that would allow her to interrogate the spirit of Ross Montiel. "Where is the statue?" she asked.
"Beats the hell out of me," said the sepulchral but somehow still shrill elven voice.
Veronee grimaced. Her zombies had already sifted through the ruins. The elf had been her last hope for information. She was tired and testy. She'd been up all day for nothing.
"I await your orders," the lich whispered.
The gods only knew where the damn thing was, Veronee thought. Someone had nabbed it, that much was clear. Judging by the mess up top, half the city was trying to find it.
"Back to the house," she told the lich. "What about the zombies?" it whispered.
"Let them fight on," she said. The zombies were of no account. It was easier to let them be cut to pieces than to try to find some place to keep them until needed.
It was time, reflected the baroness, to give Morty a visit. The grand duke might be a fool, but Sir Ethelred, the foreign minister, ran a fairly effective intelligence network. The statue might be anywhere in the city; if anyone could find it, Sir Ethelred could. All Morty had to do was give the orders. He'd be happy to give her the statue as a present, Veronee thought; more than happy, if she were to give him the reward he desired. The thought was distasteful-but, Veronee thought, exitus acta probat, after all.
As long, she thought, as she managed to keep the truth of the matter from Sir Ethelred.
"Catastrophe," blubbered General Carruthers. "Foul sorcery and knavish tricks."
"What exactly—" said Sir Ethelred, peering over his pince-nez. "Demons!" shouted the general. "Necromancy! Undead! The whole parish in chaos! Mobilize the army! Send out word across the realm! The grand duke must flee to his—"
"Thank you," said Sir Ethelred testily. "You may go."
Carruthers looked from the foreign minister to Major Yohn and back again. The general knew when he was being snubbed.
He gritted his teeth. He hadn't exactly returned in triumph. Blushing it shame, he strode from the library.
Major Yohn turned to Sir Ethelred, his leather chair creaking. "It's hard to believe that a simple magic object found by some adventurers could cause this much chaos," he said.
Sir Ethelred shrugged.
"Per rumor," he said, "it's an object of fantastic value, as well as of magical power. Something that seems almost calculated to arouse greed among our less virtuous citizens."
"What would you have me do?" Yohn said.
"The most important thing," said Sir Ethelred, "is simply to restore order. It's a rather formidable undertaking, to be sure, but—"
"I believe it is feasible," said Yohn matter-of-factly. "Good," said Sir Ethelred. "I shall leave it in your hands." "A pity Carruthers was—"
"Carruthers is a fool," said Sir Ethelred shortly. He curled a greasy lock around one forefinger.
"The grand duke seems to trust—"
"You leave Mortimer to me," said Sir Ethelred. "How long do you expect you'll take?"
Major Yohn stood. "I shall report when I have a better notion," he said. "Farewell."
"And godspeed," said Sir Ethelred, rising and shaking the young soldier's hand.
Timaeus stood at the bar of the Inn of the Villein Impaled. "What's your pleasure?" said the wench.
He eyed her plump bodice, then thought better of it. "Ah—pint of bitter," he said. "In a clean glass, mind." He didn't think much of the inn's standards of hygiene. "And would you have any pipeweed?"
"Aye, sir," said the wench, and went to fetch him his drink and smoke. He was beginning to get worried. His friends weren't here. He'd been up to Kraki's room, but there was no sign of recent occupancy. Timaeus frowned, shrugged, then settled in at a table by the window. He'd just have to wait for someone to show up.
He peered through the window into Roderick Square. Old Mad Roddy still posed atop his charger. Timaeus drank a silent toast to Valiant, Roderick's horse, who, per legend, had considerably more brains than his rider.
A wizened derelict came to the table. "Buy a drink for an old man?" he wheezed.
Timaeus was about to give him the brush-off when he noticed a pigeon on the man's shoulder. "Where'd you get the bird?" he asked.
"Heh," said Vic craftily. "Buy me a drink, and I'll tell you the tale." So Timaeus did, and Vic began to spin him some yarn about a shipwreck and a cursed bird. Timaeus fed the pigeon pretzels and had some more beer.
XV
The sign on Wentworth's door said "Closed." Sidney glanced through the window. There didn't seem to be anyone inside the shop.
The only other pedestrian in the street, a fop with a rapier, ran through the rain in a futile attempt to protect his silk blouse. Though no eyes were on her, Sidney didn't pause as she passed Wentworth's storefront. She merely strolled past the shop and around the corner.
Garni and Father Thwaite were waiting for her, huddled against the side of the building.
"It's closed," Sidney reported. "I didn't see anyone inside."
Father Thwaite was unhappy with this development. "Are you certain it's necessary to break in?" he said. "It seems rather rude-not to mention illegal."
"Look, Father," said Sidney. "Last thing we knew, Nick and Kraki were headed here. Then they disappear, and some guy who's been on a strict diet for five or six centuries shows up with a ransom note. Maybe Jorgesen has nothing to do with it. But I wouldn't bet on it. Rude or not, I'm busting in."
Thwaite sighed.
"What if Jorgesen shows up while we're ransacking the place?" asked Garni.
They stood in silence for a moment. "We'll worry about that when it happens," Sidney said. "I just wish we were better armed." She had only her sword; the others had no weapons at all.
Through the gray light and pouring wet, they walked back to Fen Street. Garni and Thwaite stood in front of the door and argued about nothing in particular while Sidney worked on the lock. A lone carriage came down the street, its horse morose in the rain, its driver buried deep in his cloak.
Garni and Thwaite moved to shield Sidney from the driver's eyes as she worked.
The lock came open. They hustled inside. Sidney locked and closed the door behind them.
Father Thwaite took a sniff and immediately began to chant a prayer. He threw his arms wide; silver light appeared, encircling Garni and Sidney as well as Thwaite.
Instantly, Sidney drew her sword.
"What is it, Father?" Garni demanded, reaching for a battle-axe that wasn't there.
Thwaite shook his head and continued to chant.
Sidney circled warily, looking for danger. "Gods," she said. "What a smell."
"What is it?" said Garni.
Sidney rounded the counter. "Rotten meat," she said. "That's what it is."
Garni peered over her shoulder. The floor of the shop was covered with dismembered bodies in an advanced state of decay. "Gah," he said. "They've been here a long time."
Thwaite stopped chanting. The silver light dissipated. "Sorry," he said. "I smelled zombies, so I . . ."
"No need to apologize, Father," said Sidney. "You didn't know they were dead."
"Zombies are dead," said Thwaite. "You mean . . . dysfunctional, I suppose."
"Whatever," said Sidney irritably. She blinked; she recognized one of the corpses. "Mike Yarrow!" she said. "Hell." She stood over the body for a moment. "He looks fairly fresh."
There was the sound of a key in the lock.
Sidney dived behind the counter. Garni rolled under a worktable. Father Thwaite darted up the stairs to the roof.
". . . nice cup of tea . . . my word, what a pong," said Wentworth as he entered the shop.
Morglop sniffed. "Undead!" he grated. He hurled Wentworth to the floor, whipped out his sword, vaulted to stand atop the counter, and peered about alertly. Then, he noticed the mess on the floor and relaxed.
Wentworth picked himself off the shop floor. He was irritated. "My dear cyclops," he said. "It is not considered courteous to play skittles with the person of your host. . . ." He caught sight of the dismembered bodies. "Oh dear," he said. "And the cleaning woman doesn't come till Tuesday."
Garni lay against a wall. A severed hand in an advanced state of decay rested less than a foot from his nostrils. Garni's nose twitched. He hoped the newcomers would leave soon. Either that or find him. He could feel bile rising in his throat.
Jasper flitted into the shop. The point of green light circled the room. "Wentworth, old chum," he said, "I know your potions contain somewhat exotic ingredients, but really. Eye of newt and toe of frog is all very well, but rotting human flesh . . . Hullo. What's that?"
"What's what?" said Wentworth, gloomily searching through his pockets for his handkerchief. The smell was really quite revolting.
"I sense . . ." said Jasper. "Ah, Miss Stollitt. What a pleasure to meet you again. Do introduce us to your two companions."
With some relief, Garni rolled out from under the worktable. Shuddering, he pushed the dismembered hand away with his boot. Sidney and Thwaite reluctantly joined him.
Wentworth stared at the trio, handkerchief to nose, in undisguised astonishment. "Jasper," he said, "will you please tell me what in creation is going on?"
The smell of zombie wasn't nearly so bad in the back room, at least with the door firmly closed. Sidney, Thwaite, and Garni sat on stools at a scarred and battered old oaken table.
Morglop leaned over Sidney. His single eye was golden, huge in his face; a scar slashed his right cheek from top to bottom. In one ear, he wore a feathered earring. His mail was polished but well-worn, a few broken links visible. His triceps bulged. He wore a sword, a pommelled dagger, and throwing stars. He looked dangerous. "Crumpet?" he growled, scowling and holding out a plate.
"We'll never talk," said Sidney defiantly. She clenched her fists and sat bolt upright on the plain wooden stool.
Jasper's green point of light hung over another stool. "But my dear," he said, "all I ask is that you explain—"
"You can kill a free woman," said Sidney fiercely, "but you cannot break her." Her jaw was set.
Wentworth, who had been bustling in the background, appeared with a steaming pot and a platter bearing teacups. "Tea?" he said brightly.
"Do your worst," snarled Garni
. He folded his arms across his chest and jutted his beard. Thwaite, pale, nodded agreement.
"The last we saw your friend Pratchitt," said Jasper, "he and a rather muscular fellow were pursuing us by carpet over the skies of this city-for no discernible reason, as far as we could tell."
Sidney made a rude noise. "I don't know what you've done with Nick and Kraki, and I don't know what you're going to do with us. But remember this, villain—"
"Really," said Jasper. "This is all quite unnecessary."
Since no one had responded to Wentworth's offer, the alchemist poured cups for Jasper, Morglop, and himself. Jasper's teacup rose from the table and tilted back in midair. There was a slurping sound. The tea level dropped noticeably. Wentworth turned to Garni. "One sugar or two?" he asked.
"I will not break bread with my enemies," Garni growled.
"It isn't bread," Wentworth pointed out. "It's tea. And I rather hope you don't break the china."
"What makes you think we enemies?" asked Morglop, popping a whole crumpet into his mouth. His mail jangled as he sat at the table and pulled over the jam.
Sidney snorted. "First, you offer to buy our statue. When we don't immediately agree, you kidnap two of our group, threaten to kill them unless we give you the statue—and, when that fails, assault Nick's flat and try to snatch the statue by main force. This doesn't count as friendly behavior where I come from."
"You don't have the statue?" asked Jasper urgently.
Sidney glared at him. "Bring on your tortures," she said. "We'll never tell."
"Well," said Wentworth wearily. "Really. You break into my shop, spread dead people all over my floor, smash up my merchandise, and refuse my tea. Breaking and entering is one thing, but deliberate rudeness is quite—"
"What?" said Garni.
"I mean to say," said Wentworth, "after all. It's only a bloody spot of tea. I'm drinking out of the same pot, am I not? There should be no cause to suspect poison."
"No, no," said Garni. "What was that about dead people?"
"And damned odoriferous they are, too," said Wentworth. "I haven't the foggiest idea how I'm to get rid of them. I can't just set them out with the trash; people will look askance."
Another Day, Another Dungeon Page 20
