Another Day, Another Dungeon Page 10

  While they argued, Sir Ethelred and the Ishkabibblian ambassador conferred. Yohn eavesdropped. "What does this mean?" asked the ambassador.

  "Gods only know," muttered Ethelred, rereading the message. "There hasn't been a king in two thousand years. Since Stantius the Third. Deuce of a time for this."

  "No," said the Ishkabibblian ambassador with dawning hope. "The timing may be excellent."

  Thwaite's head and forearms were splayed on the rudely hewn wood table. He was snoring.

  Nick had one arm around the serving wench, a grin on his ferretlike face. "Got any hotcakes?" he asked.

  She giggled and bobbed her head. Sidney rolled her eyes.

  The innkeeper wiped his hands on his apron. "And you, honorable?" he asked Timaeus.

  "I say," said Timaeus. "Didn't I note a kettle of greeps on the fire?" "Yes, sor," said the innkeeper. "Freshly crottled."

  "Excellent. Three fried eggs and a side of greeps, if you will." "Yuck," said Nick.

  "Some kind of fish, aren't they?" said Sidney.

  "Oh, no, ma'am," said the innkeeper. "That's not true. When I were a lad . . ."

  GREEP STEW

  "When I were a lad, I lived in the mountains of Far Moothlay. Me ma had died in childbirth, and we lived—me da, and me seven brothers-in a little croft down by the river. I were the eldest, and so I bore the brunt of things. It were I me da made go and fetch the water on the coldest days, and it were I he made keep t'others in line. Wintertime was cruel, most cruel.

  The wind whipped off the mountaintops and fair froze our croft through and through, the moss in the chinks between the building stones not enow to hold back the draft. Me da spent half the day cutting logs to keep the fire burning, and were it not for the wee greepies we ne'er would have made it through to spring.

  "For lying in our rude straw bed, the greepies crowded round, their poor white-haired bodies chill in the cold. And between the eight of us and the many, many greeps, we stayed warm through the bitter night.

  "And when the last of the yams were gone and the pottage running low, we'd take a little one round the back, and butcher it. It were not my favorite task, but it were needed, and so I took care to strike straight and firm to spare the greepie from pain.

  "And then, it were haggis time. Aye, well I remember the cold winter nights and the haggis o' greep a-roasting on the flame. Oh, we ate the flesh as well, aye we did, but we were not rich folk, and did not discard the entrails. I know it be not high cuisine, but the liver and lights we chopped and mixed wi' the last of our oats, and boiled it to a pudding. And we stuffed it with the rude seasonings, plants that grew about our croft, into the stomach of the poor little creature, and let it turn over our wood fire.

  "And then at last the spring would come, and the little stream by our croft would run strong. Then would I go up in the mountains with all our greeps, up to the gray stone peaks and the brilliant meadows. The heather would come a-blooming, and the ewe greeps would drop their greeplets. Aye, gladsome was it to watch the young greepies, a-bounding with the joy of spring through the flowers of the moor.

  "And though I have made my home in the city nigh these twenty years, and though me da lie long in his shallow grave, still I remember the wee white greeps frolicking in the cool mountain air; and still I remember the peppery taste of haggis o' greep, that king among all puddings."

  "I'll skip it," said Sidney. The innkeeper turned to Kraki.

  Kraki's eyes were glazed, and he was harrying one massive black tooth with an equally black and massive thumbnail. He took his hand out of his mouth and said, "I have fried liver."

  Timaeus began to tamp his pipe. "Now," he said, "to business. I asked around at my club—"

  "Wait a minute," said Sidney. "I thought we agreed not to mention the statue."

  Timaeus paused, pipe in the air. "I merely inquired as to the name of a discreet dealer in antiquities and rare objets, " he said. "Besides which, the members of the Millennium are gentlemen all. I have no fear of indiscretion."

  "Yeah, yeah," said Sidney. "Fine. Unfortunately, our comatose friend hasn't been so good." Thwaite gave a snore.

  "What's he been up to?" asked Nick.

  "The usual," said Sidney. "He got drunk last night, gave away his treasure, and—well, I don't know what he said, but I found him in the gutter with some geezer called Vic, who wanted to know more about a statue."

  "Typical Father Thwaite," said Nick. "Hey, sugar, is that all you're bringing me? Ham and eggs? No perfumed notes? A lock of your hair?" The serving wench giggled so hard that the myriad dishes she'd managed to pile onto her arms, hands, and chest threatened to fall.

  "You owrtn'ta make me laugh, sir," she said, piling dishes on the table. Timaeus, bored with this byplay, brought his forefinger to his pipe.

  "I only do it to see your glorious smile," said Nick.

  There was a thunderous explosion. A flash lit the room. The wench shrieked and dived under a nearby table. Kraki's liver went flying across the room.

  Timaeus puffed happily. Sidney sighed.

  "Is . . . is it all right, gentles?" came a tremulous voice from beneath the table.

  "Yes, yes," said Timaeus testily. Nick clearly wanted to say something but was having trouble containing his laughter.

  The wench crawled out from under the table. Woebegone, she fetched Kraki's liver and dusted the sawdust off. "I'm awfully sorry, sir," she said, and plopped it before him, then fled toward the kitchen.

  "I say," yelled Timaeus after her, aghast. "You can't expect him to eat—"

  Kraki picked the liver up in his hands and gave it a hefty bite. "Ha?" he said through a mouthful.

  "Never mind, never mind," said Timaeus. He puffed for a moment while everyone else ate. "Who is this Vic fellow, anyway?" he asked Nick. "Hmm? Oh, don't worry about him. He's an old guy, lives on the street around Five Corners parish. Been there for years. Mumbles a lot, tells stories to the kids. Senile as hell. Everyone'll just figure he's telling another of his stories."

  "It's not Vic I'm worried about," said Sidney. "It's—if he told Vic, who knows who else he told?"

  "Well," said Nick, "if you want something to worry about, worry about this: an alchemist showed up at our apartment this morning. Got us out of bed. He said he'd detected strong magic coming from our place and wanted to know what was up. I got rid of him, but Garni stayed to hold down the fort."

  Timaeus dabbed at his beard with a napkin. "I expected the magical community to start noticing eventually," he said. "However, I had hoped it wouldn't be quite so soon. This reinforces my belief that we must find a buyer as soon as we can. Which brings me back to Jasper." He harrumphed, and picked up a forkful of greeps.

  There was a silence for a moment, save for the clinking of cutlery. "Who?" said Nick.

  "Eh? Jasper, Jasper de something something. Dealer in antiquities and rare objets. He has a shop on Jambon Street, so I'm told," said Timaeus. "We don't exactly have papers proving we own the statue," said Sidney. "You sure this guy'll deal with us?"

  "We can but try. I was assured as to the gentleman's discretion." "I'd feel happier talking to a fence."

  "We've been over this ground, madam. The item is so precious that a dealer in stolen goods would be hard-pressed to obtain even a fraction of its true value." Timaeus pushed aside his plate, which was polished, and took up his pipe again. "Relax," he said.

  "All right," said Sidney. "But I'm coming with you. And everyone else had better go visit Garni. We don't want someone nabbing the statue while we're out."

  "Don't vorry," said Kraki. "Anybody take, I kill." He burped loudly. The coach of Baroness Veronee pulled directly into the coach house adjoining the main part of her mansion, obviating the need to exit into the painfully bright daylight. The mansion was modest as baronial residences go, a small sandstone town house, decorated in the dark style that had been popular during the reign of the current grand duke's father. Veronee's official residence was off in Barony Filbert, a decaying old
pile of stones that had been in the family for centuries. She hadn't been back to Filbert in years; she much preferred the social whirl of life in the capital. Moreover, there was little scope for espionage in the dank hills and gloomy orchards of her barony.

  Rupert, the butler, met her in the parlor. The drapes were, as always, tightly drawn. "An exhausting night," she said. "Is my bed prepared?" "Yes, my lady," said the butler. "However, we have . . . visitors." He spoke as if their presence pained him.

  "Visitors?" "Yes, my lady. Orcish visitors." "Where are they, Rupert?"

  "In the pantry, my lady. I thought it best to restrict them to the servants' quarters." He led the way.

  Baroness Veronee surveyed the wreckage with dismay. Orcs in my pantry, she thought. They were worse than roaches, ants, mice, and raccoons combined.

  There was flour and sugar all over the floor. Unable to read any of the labels, the orcs had opened everything in the pantry to make sure they weren't passing up some rare delicacy. One was chewing on a huge smoked ham he'd cut loose from the rack overhead, his tusks ripping away massive chunks, which he masticated messily. Another was peering into an empty bottle of cooking wine, apparently hoping to find a last drop or two within. The third had a jar of honey between his legs. His right hand was stuck in the jar.

  "Good morning," said the baroness.

  They jumped. "Oi, miss!" said one. "Nice grub ya got here!" "Where's Cook?" said the baroness to Rupert.

  "I don't know, my lady." "Better go console her."

  "My lady," he said hesitantly, "do you think it advisable that I leave you alone with these . . ."

  She gave a low, throaty chuckle.

  "Yes, yes, of course," said Rupert and left hurriedly.

  "Now, then, my green-skinned friends," said the baroness. "Why are you here?"

  They looked at each other. "Well, miss, word is dat you is innerested in things dat goes on in da caverns."

  "Important events, yes."

  "Well . . . do ya mind if we siddown?"

  She inclined her head and led them into the kitchen. The one with the jar of honey was still trying to get his hand out. She stayed on her feet. "Thanks, ma'am. An . . . dere's also da li'ul matter of payment." "Indeed? And will you pay me for the mess you've made of my pantry?" The orc with the jar of honey tried to hide it behind his chair.

  The first orc was not abashed. "We isn't gonna tell ya nuffing if we don't get paid."

  "How do I know that what you've got to tell me is worth money?" The orc's face fell. He conferred briefly with the others.

  "Awright. It's about a statue." "Yes?"

  "A statue made out of dat red metal." "Copper?"

  "No, no, dat magic stuff."

  She raised an eyebrow. "Athenor?" "Yup. Solid, an' dat's a fact." "Two pounds," she said.

  "Ten quid," said Garfok.

  There were seven cellars beneath the town house of Veronee. There had been two when she bought it—a wine cellar and one for roots. Only the baroness and her servants knew about the others, for the simple reason that the earth mage who had built them was dead. The baroness had seen to that.

  The house above was for show. She held dinner parties there; from time to time, she put up a guest. But she never slept there. Her workrooms, her living quarters, and her livestock were kept below.

  She stripped off her veil and her red velvet dress and donned a simple cotton shift. By the light of a single candle, she surveyed her study. Wood and metal held back the sandy walls. The bookcases stood a good foot from the soil, lest they be destroyed by contact with wet earth and insects. One whole wall was given to her menagerie: small animals in cages. There were cats, dogs, rats, pigeons; she paid small boys to trap them for her. The cost was negligible.

  In the country, she used farm animals, but in the city, she made do with available resources. From time to time, she needed greater power; then, she had one of her servants buy a horse and lead it here through the tunnels that connected her domain with the outer world.

  For the most powerful spells, only sapient beings would do. It was usually possible to lure a derelict with promises of food and money.

  Her masters would want to know about the Sceptre of Stantius immediately. And there was also the peculiar matter of this athenor statue to report.

  She went to a cage. The droopy-eared dog within sprang to its feet upon her approach.. Its tail began to wag. The wagging rose to a frenzy. The dog gave tiny leaps as she opened the lock. She picked it up and removed it from the cage. "Nice doggie woggie," she said.

  As she carried it to the table, it licked her face and tried to get down. "Arfy warfums," she said.

  She put it on the table and rolled it onto its back. It yipped playfully and tried to get to its feet, but she held it in place. She spoke a Word, and another.

  She spoke softly, but her Words resounded in the chamber.

  The dog looked at her with trusting brown eyes as she raised the knife.

  She struck. And she raised the pumping neck to her mouth. Blood spurted over her face and her shift. She swallowed hungrily.

  The life force gave her power. She shaped it with her spell. And when the Right Honorable the Baroness Veronee, Magistra Necromantiae, spoke again, her words were heard far across the world, on the plain of Arst-Kara-Morn.

  Corcoran Evanish stood in the street outside an imposing structure whose pillars were demons carved in stone. His meeting had gone well. Evanish was now another five pounds richer; and a powerful demonologist now knew about the statue.

  Corcoran Evanish studied his list. He crossed the demonologist's name off. There were twenty-three names to go. He pursed his lips, put the list away, and strode off down the street.

  III

  The plate-glass window was lettered in gold leaf: JASPER DE MOBRAY, KGF, it said, and below that, "DEALER IN ANTIQUITIES * RARE OBJETS * DIVERS ENCHANTMENTS. " To the bottom right was a carefully painted sigil—a boar's head and the motto `Adiuvo Te. "

  "What's KGF?" asked Sidney.

  "Knight of the Golden Fleece," said Timaeus. "One of Athelstan's more modest honors." His tone was mildly disapproving.

  "Where does the name come from?" she said.

  Timaeus cleared his throat. "The primary qualification is the contribution of large quantities of gold to the ducal fiscus."

  "In other words," Sidney said, "the grand duke fleeces you of your gold . . ."

  Timaeus grinned around his pipe. "And then he knights you," he said. "Precisely."

  Sidney chuckled, and they entered. One expected shops on Jambon Street to be orderly and elegant; commercial rents in the district were far from low. Nonetheless, the place was a positive jumble, more reminiscent of a junk-yard than an art gallery.

  An entire wall was given over to shelves bearing potions and dusty alembics. Stuffed creatures of various sorts hung from the ceiling: there were alligators, giant crayfish, several boars, a basilisk's head, and the eight-legged body of a truly gigantic spider. In one corner were piled at least a hundred swords, several of which glowed. A sign above them said, UNTESTED MAGICAL SWORDS—£lO EACH, £100 THE DOZEN. One wall bore the stuffed head of a unicorn. There was a locked glass case filled with rings and assorted jewelry. There were carved ivory statues. There were carefully painted metal figurines. Considerable floor space was given over to furniture: bookstands, armoires, secretaries, and cases. Another whole section contained weaponry of every conceivable type: knives, swords, axes, mauls, morningstars, war hammers, pole arms with blades of a plenitude of shapes and styles, and more exotic weapons Timaeus failed to recognize. There were innumerable religious relics—statues, icons, aspergers, prayer mats, and sacrificial stones. And the books—the books could fill a library.

  It was to the bookshelves that Timaeus went. He studied spines and pulled down a volume, one bound in some black, shiny substance he could not identify. It caught his eye because it bore no title.

  He opened it at random. A mist rose from the page and began to form
into a purplish tentacle, complete with suckers. Timaeus stared at the volume, unaware.

  The book closed with a snap. "No, no, sir, you don't want that one," said a voice. "I should say not, heh." The voice emanated from a point of green light that hung right above Timaeus's shoulder. "Very dangerous volume," said the light, "full of unusual and heterodox concepts." The light zipped over to another volume, which came down from the shelves, apparently on its own, and thrust itself into Timaeus's hands. "Now here's something better suited to the man of adventure, which I perceive you to be."

  "Thank you," said Timaeus, somewhat bemused. He studied the cover, which proclaimed the contents Shrood's Bestiary, Being an Universal and Compleat Cyclopoedia of the Fauna, Monsters, and Mythological Creatures of the Known World, Both Factual and Legendary, Newly Revised in Light of Recent Discoveries.

  "And you, miss," said the green light, zipping across the room to Sidney. "I perceive that you, too, are an adventurer. Perhaps you would be interested in one of our many magical swords? We are having an especial offering this week, ten pounds for untested weapons. All are guaranteed to be magical, but we have not tested further; you may be purchasing a weapon of truly legendary power or, conversely, one with a simple bladesharpening enchantment. I'll thank you to return the brooch in your frontleft trousers pocket to the display on table three."

  Blushing, Sidney did so.

  The light paused in midair and rose slowly toward the ceiling. "But I sense . . . I sense that these goods do not meet with your approval. I sense . . . I sense marital discord in the flat above. Damnation." There was a thump from overhead and the muted sound of shouting voices.

  The light abruptly dropped about two feet. "Let's try that again," it said. "Hmmph. Perhaps you're in the market for somewhat more sophisticated goods." It zipped across the room.

  "Sir Jasper," said Sidney.

  "No, no, don't tell me," the light said. "Adventurers both, eh? How about seven-league boots? Almost new, only used by an amateur giant killer on alternate Tuesdays. No?" It zipped to another table. "How about this;" it said, and a bundle of yarrow sticks rose aloft. "Damsel-in-distress locator. Very useful for the questing knight. No?" The sticks tumbled back to the table.