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Another Day, Another Dungeon

Page 25

by Greg Costikyan


  The old man was clearly no danger. However, Veronee thought, he might do to power another spell. She stalked over to him. "How would you like tuppence?" she said soothingly. There was a pigeon in the rafters of the inn, she noted.

  "Tuppenshe?" Vic said. "Sure," he said, holding out his palm.

  The baroness gave him a ha'penny. "I need you in my carriage," she said. "You'll get the rest there."

  Vic didn't move. "Forget it," he said. She turned. "What?"

  "I shaid, forget it," he said. "You won't get . . . won't get . . ."What was it so important that she not get?

  Veronee stared at him. Her eyes narrowed. She pointed at the old man and spoke a single Word. It resounded across the square like the crack of thunder.

  A beam of brilliant black light shot toward Vic. Rain sizzled in its wake. Vic raised a hand. The beam struck his palm. It dissipated into the rain in a spray of a thousand colors.

  Vic smiled. "Shtill got it," he congratulated himself. Veronee gasped and backed toward her carriage. "What was that all about?" the pigeon asked Vic.

  The Boars had begun to drift away. The fight was evidently over, and it was getting on toward dinner time. "Hope you find it, Jazz," said the woman with the eye patch. Jasper winced at the familiarity. Since he was largely invisible, she didn't notice. She looked down the stoop of Veronee's house and into the rain. "Oh, well," she said, and ran down the stoop and up the street.

  "Maybe the baroness had the statue when she left," suggested the Boar in the byrnie. He didn't look inclined to leave, so Jasper shut the door. "I don't think so," said Timaeus wearily. "She left in a coach. A statue as heavy as ours would have weighed it down. I would have noticed that." "She never had it at all," said Wentworth with finality. "We jumped to the conclusion that she had it on rather inadequate evidence."

  Jasper cleared his throat guiltily but said nothing. "Vhat about dinner?" said Kraki.

  "Wait," said Sidney. "Okay, if she never had it, someone else does. We don't know who."

  "Very helpful," snapped Wentworth.

  "We know they took it down the tunnel," said Father Thwaite. "Correct," said Wentworth. "To the vacant lot. Where it disappeared into thin air."

  "Could be," said Sidney. "Could magic do that?" Morglop chuckled. "Take a look at Jasper," he said.

  They all did. The point of green light shifted back and forth with mild embarrassment. "Yes, well," said Jasper. He had, he supposed, disappeared into thin air. About twenty years previously. In a manner of speaking.

  "We've been all over that lot," said Sidney, "looking for evidence. But we didn't find anything."

  "What about the dragon's tooth?" said Garni.

  Wentworth stared at the dwarf for a long moment. "Ah," he said at last. "Not a bad idea."

  A carriage careened through the streets of Urf Durfal, a carriage pulled by demon horses. Their necks were flayed open, their flanks streaked with blood; they hauled the carriage with unearthly speed. A glow of sinister light streamed forth from around the carriage doors.

  Inside, bone gripped flesh.

  The carriage hit a pothole. The lich and Veronee were thrown across the compartment. They fetched up against the door, then tumbled to the floor. The lich dug its thumb bones into Veronee's neck. She gasped out a Word.

  The undead horses hurtled onward through the streets.

  Veronee brought up her hands and wrenched the lich's fingers away. It stabbed for her eyes and missed.

  If the lich survived, it would bring the story of her failure to Arst-Kara-Morn.

  Hence, she had no alternative but to destroy it.

  Ergo, to preserve its own existence, it must destroy her.

  They thundered out the Eastern Gate and down the Alcalan Pike. The pike was, if anything, less well paved than the city streets. Veronee was flung against the luggage rack, then to the back of the seat. Gasping for breath, she spoke another Word.

  The lich scrambled toward her across the carpet.

  The carriage hurtled into the night. Within, two creatures, neither now human, battled on.

  It was drizzling steadily. The breeze stirred rain-laden weeds. The earth of the vacant lot was soggy beneath their boots. They were down to a dozen: Timaeus's friends, the three Fullbrights, and three other Boars.

  A frightened face peered at them from the shantytown. The vagabonds, beggars, and dispossessed peasants who camped out here did not expect visitors, not this late, not in the rain. Visitors meant hoodlums out to bash in a few heads and steal the shanty dwellers' meagre possessions.

  Sidney's light cotton clothing was soaked through. She glanced at

  Timaeus; he looked, if it were possible, even more uncomfortable and bedraggled than she.

  "Now what?" asked Nick.

  They stood in a loose circle around the remains of the collapsed tunnel. Mud-laden water drizzled down into the opening; soon, it would disappear entirely.

  Wentworth removed the dragon's tooth from its ivory box. "Avagrrine!" he said.

  The tooth rose from his palm. It hung in midair. It swivelled uncertainly, as if searching. . . .

  It steadied. It pointed away from the tunnel. Garni held his lantern higher to get a better look. The tooth was brown.

  "Earth magic," pronounced Wentworth. "Makes sense," Timaeus grunted.

  "Undoubtedly," said Wentworth. He spoke another Word. The tooth moved forward. The party followed.

  They came to a mound of dirt. Earlier in the day, it had been roughly human in shape. Now, it was nothing more than a vague pile.

  The dragon's tooth turned sky blue. "Air magic," said Wentworth. The tooth pointed upward at an angle and began to climb into the rainy sky. "Jasper!" said Wentworth. "Follow it, will you, old boy?"

  "Of course, of course," said the point of green light. It flitted after the tooth.

  "We must be dealing with two wizards," Wentworth explained. "An earth mage and an air mage. Once they got it out of the tunnels, the air mage took over and summoned an air elemental to carry the statue."

  The party followed on the ground below Jasper, craning to watch him. The tooth was no longer visible, but Jasper shone brightly enough to be seen.

  "I say," Jasper called back. "It's flashing blue and silver!"

  "An illusionist, too?" said Wentworth. This was getting out of hand. "To cloak it in invisibility," suggested Timaeus, "so that no one would gawp at a huge statue sailing overhead."

  "I suppose," said Wentworth.

  They came to the edge of the lot and stepped into the street. Jasper sailed over a building. Everyone ran, splashing through puddles, to get around the building before Jasper disappeared across the next street. "Red!" called Jasper.

  "Fire magic?" said Timaeus.

  "Yes," said Wentworth uncertainly. They scurried on another hundred feet.

  "Purple!" shouted Jasper. "What?" said Wentworth.

  "Purple," Jasper repeated. "Violet, lilac, mauve. Are you deaf?" "What's purple?" Garni asked.

  "Deuced if I know," muttered Wentworth. They followed Jasper, craning.

  "Orange!" said Jasper. He skirted a small temple. They followed. "Yellow!" said Jasper.

  "Alchemy?" said Wentworth in a puzzled tone. He was getting a glazed look in his eyes.

  "Gold!" said Jasper. He went over another building. This time, they had to run around the block. He was already disappearing over the next block, and they had to run around it, too.

  "Pink!" Jasper called faintly.

  "We are dealing," gasped Wentworth, "with a magical conspiracy of mammoth proportions. There must be dozens of wizards-dozens!"

  They dashed into Roderick Square and halted. Timaeus held his sides and panted. He wasn't used to this much exertion.

  The tooth was slanting downward now. It headed directly toward the statue. It flared silver again, then sailed on past Mad Roddy (and Valiant, of course), across the square, to the Inn of the Villein Impaled.

  It came to rest a foot off the ground, pointing directly toward
the recumbent form of . . .

  Vic peeled open an eye. It was dry under the eaves. Just right for a nap. He was surrounded by a motley group of wizards, fighting men, and thieves. "Shpare a copper for an old man?" he wheezed, sitting up. "Oh, evening, Geoffrey."

  The tooth flickered from one color to another. As Wentworth watched, agape, the colors flickered faster and faster, until there was nothing left but a white blur.

  Vic focused on the dragon's tooth. "Ah," he said, and rubbed an eye. "Damn thing must be defective," said Wentworth. He grabbed the tooth, held it by his ear, and shook it experimentally.

  Vic chortled. He stood up and held out a hand. "Give it to me," he said. "Old man," Wentworth said, "we don't have—"

  "Give it to him," Timaeus said faintly.

  Wentworth dropped the tooth into Vic's palm. Vic pointed it to Wentworth. It flared yellow. "Alchemy," Vic said. He pointed the tooth at Timaeus. It turned red. "Fire," Vic said. He pointed the tooth at the pigeon, who stood under the eaves, watching the proceedings beadily. The tooth flared green. "Nature magic," Vic said.

  "What do you mean?" said the pigeon. They looked at it, startled.

  Vic walked across the square, holding the tooth. The others trailed him. He splashed through the puddle around the statue, and touched the tooth to Valiant. The tooth turned silver. Vic turned back to Wentworth. "Illusion," Vic said. He spoke a Word.

  Stantius stood in the rain. He was still painted brown. Rain rolled down the paint.

  "Shee?" Vic said, handing the tooth back to Wentworth. "It worksh." Wentworth choked. "You are a mage?" he asked the old man.

  Vic cackled. "You bet your ash, shonny," he said. Wentworth looked pained.

  "Why did you steal the statue?" Sidney demanded.

  "But . . ." Wentworth said, "there had to have been a dozen magicians. . . ."

  "Or," Timaeus said, "one polymage."

  "That's absurd," Jasper said. "There hasn't been a full-fledged polymage for centur—"

  They were all silent for a long moment. Vic was the focus of all eyes. The only noise was the patter of rain.

  Vic shifted uneasily from one foot to another. "Sure I'm a mage," he said. "Bet your ash." He cackled.

  Jasper flitted about the statue in an erratic way. "Extraordinary," he said.

  "What's that?" said Sidney.

  "A spirit is bound into this object," he said. "What?" said Father Thwaite. "A human spirit?"

  "Perhaps," said Jasper. "The spirit of a sapient, surely. I've only encountered this once before-I had a sword, once, with a spirit and mind of its own. Unusual form of magic."

  "What is it thinking?" said Timaeus.

  "Sorry?" said Jasper. "Oh, nothing as far as I can tell. That is, a mind, if present, is not active. Spirit and mind are separable, you know."

  "Yes," said Timaeus, "I know."

  "Ve find statue," Kraki pointed out. "Now, ve have dinner, hokay? Old man tell us story over food."

  Vic's eyes acquired a glazed look. He mumbled and began to wander off. "Vic!" said Father Thwaite urgently. "Vic!" He took the old man's arm. Vic looked up. His eyes cleared. "Oh, Geoffrey," he said. "Evening." "Vic," said Thwaite. "You have to do something about the statue." "Shtatue? Shtatue? That'sh right. Now . . . ?"

  Thwaite pointed at the statue. "You have to hide it again," he said. Vic peered at the statue. A look of comprehension passed across his face. He spoke a Word.

  Stantius became Roderick (and Valiant) once more. "Food now?" said Kraki.

  Vic looked at the barbarian. "Sure," he said. "My treat."

  "Sure, Vic," said Father Thwaite soothingly. "Your treat." He began to steer the old man gently toward the inn.

  "No," said Vic. "We'll go to my club."

  Timaeus raised a skeptical eyebrow. Vic's shirt was multiply patched and threadbare. His pants had holes at the knees. He wore leggings made of rags. "Your club?" Timaeus said.

  "Sure," said Vic. "The Cloud."

  Timaeus almost swallowed his pipe. The Cloud Club was the most prestigious gentlemen's society in all of Athelstan. Its members looked down on members of the Millennium, Timaeus's own club, as Millennials looked down on peasants. "The Cloud," he said severely, "does not admit urinestained vagabonds."

  Vic cackled. He spoke a Word. He spoke several. There was a stiff breeze. It scattered rain.

  There was a questioning noise on the wind. Vic spoke again.

  The air elemental bore them aloft, into the sky. There was nothing between them and a fall, no carpet, no magical steed.

  Morglop moaned and closed his eye tight.

  Sidney grinned manically as they plunged through the night sky. "Don't look so happy," Timaeus told her, whizzing past. "Consider whose magic keeps us up."

  She lost her grin.

  "I only hope," muttered Father Thwaite, "that he doesn't forget where he's taking us before we get there."

  The pigeon fluttered desperately to keep up.

  Sir Ethelred Ethelbert sat forlornly on the coverlet of the four-poster bed. He brushed his hand over a tassel. Part of the coverlet was sticky with coagulated blood. Sir Ethelred looked away from it.

  They'd taken Mortimer away. Sadly, Sir Ethelred looked toward the French doors that led to the balcony. The doors banged, swinging in the wet breeze.

  Since Mortimer had never had children, the heir presumptive was Baron Harald of Meep, Mortimer's nephew. Sir Ethelred sighed. Harald was nineteen and a complete fool. His main pursuit was hunting, both deer and the local peasant girls. Sir Ethelred gloomily considered the prospect of being foreign minister to such a lout.

  At least, he supposed, it should be possible to get Harald to go to Ishkabibble's aid. It would probably be more difficult to prevent the loon from going to war with everyone else.

  Sir Ethelred looked at the pitiful pile of clothing by the bed. Damn Veronee. He hoped his men found her, but feared they would not. She was a wily one.

  Gods knew, Mortimer had been a trial at times. Still, whatever his drawbacks as a monarch, he had been a superb mycologist, among the best in the world. He had been passionate about his subject. And he had been sensible enough to leave the governance of the realm in reasonably capable hands:

  Most of the time, anyway.

  Well. Time to get moving. Someone had to see that the Fifth Frontier got fed. And to initiate funeral proceedings. And see that the barons and the populace were informed. And put out an announcement on the news crystal. And send a messenger with a fast horse to Baron Harald. . . .

  Sir Ethelred got to his feet. Where the devil was Jameson when a man needed him?

  "Egad," said Sir Ethelred, peering out toward the terrace. What was the heroic statue of Roderick doing out there?

  He went to the French doors and studied the bronze in amazement. "I sit here in Castle Durf with the best espionage bureau in the human lands," he muttered to himself, "and I still haven't the foggiest notion what goes on."

  Part III

  Another Quest

  I

  Soaked and chilled, they fluttered to the landing of the Cloud Club. The club was a cloud. It was not built on a cloud, it was built into a cloud. The cloud was tethered by thick rope cables to one of the bridges over the River Jones. The walls of the club were fleecy; parts white, parts gray, parts rosy with magically captured sunset light. The architecture was fanciful and airy.

  The Grand Hall of the club was built into the lowest layer of the cloud; its floor and one entire wall were constructed of solid air, permitting the diners a glorious view of the city of Urf Durfal and Athelstan's rolling hills —at least, when it wasn't raining cats and dogs.

  Access to the aerial club was, necessarily, by air. Some members could fly to it of their own volition. Others hired flying carpets. The club itself maintained a ferry service, a flying carriage pulled by swans. The concierge was therefore not surprised when thirteen persons of assorted races tumbled to the soft, white cloud deck which served as a landing strip.

  The group
moved toward the reception desk.

  They were uniformly soaked. Several were wounded. The only reason the concierge didn't order them tossed over the edge was that—well, they had flown here under their own power. Obviously, there must be more to this group than met the eye.

  Vic trudged up to the desk. Behind it, the concierge stood resplendent in a brilliant crimson uniform with golden tassels. Behind him was a pegboard. Small metal circles hung from the pegs. Inside each circle, the name of a club member was engraved. "How may I help you, sir?" the concierge said.

  "I'm a member," Vic said. "Theshe're my gueshtsh."

  The man leaned over the desk and peered at Vic's garb. "Ah," he said skeptically. "And your name, sir?"

  "Vincianus Polymage," Vic said.

  The concierge turned to the pegboard and scanned it. How was he going to get rid of this lunatic? The fellow's friends looked frightfully well armed. The board of directors would have his neck if he disturbed the club's members in the process of evicting this clown. He cleared his throat. "I'm afraid there's no Vinc—by Dion," he said. He reached up. From the left-most, highest peg on the board hung a rusty metal circle. He tugged at it. It was rusted to the peg, which itself was nearly rusted through; the peg broke off. The doorman brought the circle close to his eyes. He swallowed. Vincianus Polymage was indeed a member. Moreover, according to the code on the rusty circle, his dues were paid up. In fact, they were paid in advance-for the next ten thousand years.

  "Yes, sir," said the concierge faintly. "Everything appears to be in order, sir. Will you and your companions be dining tonight?"

  "Hi," said the waiter. "My name is Jeremy, and I'll be your waiter for this evening."

  The ancient geezer stared at him malevolently. "You tell your true name to everyone who asksh, shonny?" he said. "You do that around here, you'll get turned to a frog fashter'n you can shay `ribbit.' They shtill got frogsh' legsh on the menu?"

  The waiter was somewhat at a loss. "Ah . . . no, sir, but I can ask the chef . . ." He noticed with a start that a pigeon was standing on the linen tablecloth.

 

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