‘What do you mean?’ asked Le Groutt.
‘Well, there was that demon, and now this room full of guards who’ve been torn to bits. It doesn’t feel right. You all know to trust my instincts, and I’m saying …’ she shook her head, ‘the sooner we find the Head of the Thieves Guild and get out of here, the better.’
‘So where do you think she is?’ Lurma asked. ‘Plaintly?’
‘Plaintly’s right here,’ said Le Groutt. ‘I’m looking at her, in fact.’
‘Lurma meant our Mistress,’ explained Plaintly, ‘and I’m thinking in the cells down the hall, through that door there.’
‘Which one?’ Lurma asked.
‘There’s only one,’ Plaintly said.
‘What? I saw – oh, look at that! Only one door! The other one’s vanished! I told you there were traps in here!’
‘What kind of trap is a disappearing door?’ Symon demanded.
‘The kind that makes you go through the other one, of course. You’d better let me check it out first.’
‘Symon,’ said Mortari, ‘let me borrow your knife.’
‘What? Now?’
‘Just for a moment, I promise.’
Symon handed over his knife. Mortari took it and popped the massive bulbous swelling projecting out from his temple. A stream of pink goo gushed out. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘That’s better.’ He handed the knife back, and then smiled his thanks at Symon.
A slimy puddle was fast forming on the floor at Mortari’s feet.
Lurma stared down at it. ‘You’re going to clean that up, aren’t you, Mortari?’
‘Of course I am! On our way back, though. Anyone got a handkerchief we can throw over it in the meantime? Don’t want any cat drowning in it or anything.’
‘You’re still leaking everywhere!’ said Lurma. ‘It’s disgusting!’
‘Everybody’s squirted but me,’ said Barunko, his lower lip trembling.
Plaintly moved close to The Muscle. ‘It’s all right, Barunko. You’ll get your turn.’
‘Really?’
‘I promise,’ said Plaintly, who then turned back to Lurma and gestured her towards the door.
Nodding, Lurma edged closer. She approached the door from one side, and then darted across to come at it from the other side. She reached the wall beside it and fumbled at the gore-spattered stones for a moment, before her fingers brushed the edge of the door and then she grasped it and pushed it open. Glanced through and then back. ‘A corridor,’ she whispered. ‘Cell doors on both sides, all broken open.’
‘And the other end?’ Plaintly asked.
Lurma looked again. ‘Two more doors.’
‘Two?’
She looked back. ‘One.’
‘Just one? Are you sure?’
‘Hold it, uhm, yes, the other one’s vanished, just like the one in this room!’
‘Is that one door busted open too?’ Plaintly asked.
‘Let’s see,’ said Lurma, looking yet again. ‘No. But it’s hanging from just one hinge.’
Symon grunted. ‘Sounds busted to me.’
‘That’s because you can’t see what I see,’ Lurma snapped. ‘I can see the latches. There’s two of them and both look to be in perfect working condition. I’d have to pick them both if the door wasn’t hanging from just one bent hinge. So don’t go telling me my business, Symondenalian!’
‘Sorry, Lurma,’ said Symon. ‘I’m just nervous, and why wouldn’t I be, since I’m the only one armed, meaning you’re all relying on me to cut through whatever comes at us. And that’s my business, Lurma, so shut up about it!’
‘All our talents are meshing perfectly,’ said Plaintly. ‘Okay, Lurma. Great work. Let’s go check those open cells.’
‘Cells? Who arrested me? I ain’t going – oh, don’t arrest me!’ Barunko burst into tears.
Ophal glanced at the king’s manservant, who wandered off to one side to pour himself a massive tankard of wine. He quickly downed three mouthfuls. Stood blinking, linking his lips, only to suddenly totter, reaching out to lean against the wall. Then he smiled, as if at some private joke.
King Bauchelain sat on his throne. ‘Ambassador,’ he said by way of greeting, ‘are you well? Very good. So here we are again, another late-night meeting. Fortunately, it is my nature to prowl the span of night, although in this instance, and in the wake of conjurations, bindings and whatnot, I do admit to being somewhat weary. Given that, do be quick about it, will you?’
Tyrants, Ophal decided, loved to listen to themselves talk. ‘Prrlll, gweetings, Thire.’ He drew out his Imperial missive and began reading, ‘To King Bauchelain and to the thitizens of Fair Farwog on the Wiver, after the untheasing prowocationth upon our peathful trade, carawanth and carawantherai, after the egwegiouth pwoclamation of Holy War upon the Wealm of Nightmawia, after the thucthethion of inthults and unwemitting therieth of hateful inthitationth, herrrwenow let it be known that a thtate of war exithth between Nightmawia and Farwog—’
‘How delightful,’ interjected the king. ‘We were wondering when you’d get around to it. I should inform you that Grand General Pin Dollop has assembled an elite force of formidable legions and is even now preparing to march to your mountain realm, there to slaughter and burn your civilization to ash.’
‘Yeth,’ Ophal nodded. ‘However, prrllmit me to inforrrm you that our thpieth are well aware of your pwepawationth, and that Nightmawia, in antithipathion of thith impending hsssp thvlah conflict, hath not only athembled the Thoutherrrn Imperial Army, but ith awready on the march. Fllapp prrlll thlup!’
‘Ah, well then, we shan’t have to march as far then, to wipe out your measly horde of scaly lizards.’
Ophal frowned. ‘Thcaly Withards?’
‘Or is the epithet “Fiend” a more palatable descriptive?’
‘Ahh, prrrl. Not “Fiend”, Thire. “Firrrwend.”’
Bauchelain frowned. ‘Excuse me?’
‘Firrwend, the name of the people of Nightmawia.’
From the wall, the manservant seemed to choke on his wine, hacking out a cough as his face reddened.
After a moment, Bauchelain waved a hand. ‘Fiend or Firrwend. Unhuman either way.’
Ophal shook his head. ‘Thadly, Thire, no.’ He gestured somewhat embarrassedly at himself. ‘Unfortunate thkin aiwlllment, awath, thuffithientwy abhorrwent to my fellow thitithenth that I wath thent to the motht wemote wethidence pothible. Thaddled with but one therwant, and but one Impewial Methenger.’
The manservant’s coughing worsened and a glance over showed the old man sagging helplessly against the wall.
Ophal shrugged at the king. ‘Mithchanth of birrrth, poor Ophal, cweft of pawate, dithjointed of jaw, thenthitive to wight and dryneth, thuth wequirrring thick humidity, dank and darrrk, forrr comforrrt.’ The Ambassador shrugged again. ‘Motht twagic that I thould love petth in my company, ath I mutht thettle forrr toadth, snakth, worrrmth and the wike. Of dethent company, ahh, prrrl, poor Ophal mutht make peath with thowitude.’
King Bauchelain had leaned back and was now stroking his fine beard. ‘I see,’ he murmured. ‘Now then.’ He sat forward. ‘This Imperial Army of yours …’
‘Twenty-four wegionth, eighty thouthand heawy infantwy, twellwe thouthand cavalllwy, twellwe thiege engineth, eighteen twebuchetth, two wegionth Imperialll Thapperth, the Royalll Cadwe of High Mageth and Withardth of the Ninth Orrrderrr. Thith forrrce, conthituting the Thoutherrrn Awmy of Nightmawia, ith ewen now cwothing yourrr borrrder and thould be at yourrr wallth in two dayth. Prrrl, flp!’
‘I take it, then,’ said King Bauchelain, ‘that reopening peaceful negotiations are out of the question.’
‘Alath, too wate, Thire. Motht unfortunate, yeth?’
Bauchelain then raised a long, thin finger. ‘A question, sir, if only to satisfy my personal curiosity. Your realm’s name, Nightmaria …’
‘Yeth, welll, what betterrr name to keep unwanted foreignerrrth out of ourrr terrrwitowy?’
‘So, in
truth, you’ve been milking that dread reputation, and, one might conclude, in no hurry to disavow the appellation of “Fiend” either?’
Ophal shrugged for a third time. ‘Wegretth arrre cheap.’
‘Hmm, I see,’ said King Bauchelain. ‘Mister Reese?’
The manservant started slapping his own face. ‘Aye, Master, get the carriage ready. I’m on it.’
Tiny Chanter stepped around a corner and grunted as a man nearly as big as he was stumbled into him. An instant later, with an echoing bellow, the man swung his fist. The crack of that fist impacting Tiny’s prodigious jaw was a complicated mélange of breaking bone, popping teeth, splitting lip and spraying blood. Eyes rolling up to examine his own brain, Tiny collapsed.
Still bellowing, the stranger now ploughed down the steps, fists flying. Shartorial’s nose broke with a crunching sound. Steck Marynd bulled forward, attempting to grapple, only to meet a knee under his jaw that lifted him from his feet. In falling backward, he landed on Apto Canavalian, thus sparing the critic any of the stranger’s attention, as he leapt over the jumble of four tumbling, intertwined bodies, and hammered into both Midge and Flea. Biting, punching, kneeing, gouging, the three men fell in a heap, rolling down the stairs.
Shrieking, Brash Phluster leapt high. While this sent him above and thus clear of the tumbling bodies, it also slammed the top of his head into the ceiling. The impact closed his teeth about his tongue with a loud snap, cutting that tongue clean in half.
In the meantime, the wrestling mob reached Tulgord Vise, who had been staring slack-jawed. The impact took him across the shins, breaking both legs. Howling, he collapsed onto the others, although his interest in fighting was likely minimal at the moment.
Even as Apto pushed aside Steck Marynd’s unconscious body and clambered upright, a knife hissed past, less than a hand’s breadth from his face. It caught Brash Phluster on the way back down from the ceiling, sinking deep into his right shoulder. His scream was a throaty gurgle that erupted in a red cloud.
An instant later, strangers were rushing down the stairs, led by a cross-eyed woman who kept caroming off the walls to either side. They stepped on everyone in their mad rush down and past the escaped prisoners. Blinking, confused, Apto stared after them.
He saw the still-bellowing attacker now rise over the battered forms of Midge, Flea and Tulgord Vise, and then, with a blubbering bawl, set off after his friends.
Gasping, Apto sank down to sit on the steps.
Shartorial Infelance sat up opposite him, holding her mashed nose.
‘That looks painful,’ said Apto. ‘Had I a handkerchief, Milady …’
She shook her head, gingerly, and then said, ‘Most kind, sir.’
‘Were they … guards?’
‘I think not. But some were, uh, known to me. Thieves.’
‘Thieves? Down here? Whatever for?’
‘The King, he arrested Dam Loudly Heer, the Head of the Thieves’ Guild. I suspect they have come to affect her rescue.’
‘Right, but, uh, there’s nobody down there. In the crypts, I mean.’
She nodded, but said nothing more.
Steck Marynd groaned where he was lying sprawled on the steps. Farther down, Brash Phluster had found his tongue and was cradling it in his lap as he wept. Someone had pulled the knife from his shoulder, but as there was no-one down there still conscious, Apto assumed that whoever had thrown the knife had retrieved it in passing.
Apto gestured, ‘Look down there, Milady. At least one mercy in all this.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘That poet will never sing again.’
She frowned above her blood-smeared hand. ‘You are most cruel, sir.’
‘Me? Have you heard him sing?’
A voice quavered down from the stairs above. ‘Is Tiny dead? Tiny feels dead. Are these Tiny’s teeth? These look like Tiny’s teeth.’
‘Good thing you took point, Tiny,’ called up Apto. ‘Otherwise, who knows what might’ve happened!’
‘Tiny hates critics.’
They stumbled into a room, collapsed exhausted to the floor. Barunko had ceased his blubbering, and now sat wiping his eyes and nose, his hands glistening in the faint torchlight.
Slowly regaining her breath, Plaintly set her back against a stone wall. ‘Great work, Barunko,’ she finally managed.
‘They scared me,’ said Barunko, knuckling his eyes. ‘Came out of nowhere, right in front and there I was, right in front, too. It was like, the two of us, face to face, and his face was so … so ugly! I had to punch it, I couldn’t help it!’
Lurma suddenly bumped against Plaintly. ‘Shh!’ she hissed. ‘We’re not alone!’
‘What?’ Plaintly looked up, and her eyes narrowed on the tall fat man in the brocaded robes who stood near a floor-to-ceiling cabinet on the other side of the chamber. The man was frowning as he studied the Party of Five.
Symon The Knife hissed, ‘Mortari, give me my knife, damn you!’
‘I got it,’ said Mortari, crawling over. ‘I took it out of that man’s shoulder! Did you see me do that? Oh, throw it again!’
‘Damn you, Symon,’ said Lurma, ‘if only you had two knives, you could take them both down!’
‘There’s only the one,’ said Le Groutt.
‘What? Is there? Oh! Where did the other one go?’
‘It’s the fucking Grand Bishop,’ said Le Groutt.
Symon readied his knife and then threw it. The weapon struck the wall near the ceiling. It fell to the floor in two pieces.
‘Shit!’ cursed Symon.
‘Here, try this,’ said Le Groutt, pushing the coil of rope into The Knife’s hands. ‘Tie him up or something!’
The Grand Bishop then spoke, his voice thin and querulous. ‘Who are you? What do you want?’
Plaintly climbed to her feet. ‘We’re the Party of Five, that’s who we are!’
‘But there’s six of you.’
‘What?’ Plaintly looked at the others and then said, ‘No, there’s five, can’t you count?’
‘That’s right,’ said Le Groutt. ‘Five. The priest’s fucking illiterate.’
‘No,’ said Lurma, ‘there’s ten of us. I always thought it a strange title—’
‘You’re in my Chamber of Collections,’ said the Grand Bishop. ‘I didn’t invite you.’
‘Never mind that shit,’ said Plaintly. ‘We’re here for the Head of the Thieves’ Guild, and we’re not leaving without her!’
The round-faced man’s brow wrinkled slightly, and then with a shrug he turned and opened the cabinet and collected a severed head from one of the shelves crowded with dozens of other severed heads. Gripping it by the hair he held it out. ‘Here, then.’
Plaintly gaped. ‘But that’s – that’s – that’s—’
‘The head of the Thieves’ Guild,’ said the Grand Bishop. ‘Wasn’t that the one you wanted?’
‘Hey!’ cried Le Groutt, ‘where’s the rest of her?’
Squinting, Barunko added, ‘She’s shorter than I remember her. I think. I don’t really remember her at all. Is that her? She’s short!’
The Bishop frowned. ‘Do you want it or don’t you? Oh, and did you happen to meet a demon prince? We lost him down here. Him and the Indifferent God, and now we’re running out of time.’ He set the head down on a table and then brushed his pudgy white hands. ‘I have to go.’
Plaintly licked dry lips and then looked about, quickly, before saying, ‘Le Groutt, collect that head, will you? We’re getting out of here.’
The Grand Bishop then departed through a secret door in the wall behind him.
Lurma leapt to her feet. ‘Come on,’ she said, ‘let’s take the other one!’ And she sprinted forward until she slammed into a wall, where she slumped to the floor, unconscious.
Frowning, Plaintly said, ‘Barunko, pick up Lurma. We can’t be waiting around down here any longer, not with a demon prince wandering around!’
Barunko rose to his feet. ‘Pick up Lur
ma. Where?’
‘Mortari, guide him over, will you?’
Grumbling, Mortari walked up to Barunko, who grasped him suddenly and flung him into a wall. ‘Did he reach the hook?’
‘No,’ said Plaintly, ‘that was earlier, Barunko. Now we just need you to carry Lurma and Mortari.’
‘Why, what’s wrong with them? Are they dead?’
‘Unconscious,’ explained Plaintly. ‘Le Groutt here will take you to them.’
‘Okay,’ said Barunko. ‘Carry them out. Got it. Le Groutt? Who’s got my wrist? Let go!’
‘No!’ cried Plaintly, ‘don’t—’
But it was too late, as Barunko punched Le Groutt, sending the man to the floor in a heap.
‘Okay,’ said Plaintly. ‘Barunko, you just stand there, and Symon will drag them over to you, all right?’
‘All right. Got it. Drag who?’
‘Lurma and Mortari and, uh, Le Groutt. Think you can carry all three of them?’
‘Carry? Not sure,’ said Barunko. ‘I mean, if Barunko was here, why, I bet he could!’
‘You’re Barunko, Barunko,’ said Plaintly.
‘Okay, good, hey there’s bodies all around me!’
‘That’s Symon pushing them closer,’ said Plaintly, ‘so now all you have to do is pick them up one by one.’
Symon turned to Plaintly. ‘Le Groutt can’t carry the head anymore, Plaintly. Who should take it now?’
‘Well,’ said Plaintly, ‘since you lost your knife, why don’t you?’
‘Damn,’ said Symon, ‘I should never have broken that knife.’
‘That’s how it goes on a mission like this one,’ said Plaintly. ‘Nothing seems to go as planned and then, all of a sudden, it’s mission accomplished! Now all we have to do is evade the demon prince and the Indifferent God, and all those other demons and those headless things.’
‘I’ve got three bodies here,’ said Barunko. ‘What do you want me to do with them?’
‘Just carry them,’ said Plaintly. ‘Symon, you got her head?’
‘I got it, and since her hair’s real long, I could swing her like a weapon, maybe even spin round and round and throw her. You know, this could be better than any knife! Symondenalian The Head Niksos!’
The Second Collected Tales of Bauchelain & Korbal Broach: Three Short Novels of the Malazan Empire Page 36
