Another Day, Another Dungeon Page 13

  The cowled lich glided down Cobblers Lane. It was annoyed. It was terribly annoyed. This idiot idea of wandering about the city had been the damnable baroness's notion. "The entire population will flee in terror," it had told her. "Skeletons just don't walk the streets of this city, not in broad daylight."

  "You'll wear a robe," she had said, "with a cowl."

  "Oh, fine," the lich had whispered. "A robe with a cowl. Dandy. And suppose some religious nut wants to confess to me, eh?"

  "You'll handle it," she had said impatiently.

  "I'll handle it," it had said. "No doubt I shall. I don't see you volunteering to gad about in the daytime."

  "I've had a bad night," she had said, "and I don't want any back talk." "I'll stick out like a sore thumb."

  "You'll do as you're damned well told."

  It gave a soundless sigh and hesitated in front of an alley opening. It looked up the street to make sure it wasn't observed.

  But it was observed. A peasant in an oxcart was gawping at it. The oxcart was filled with dead fish and was moving slowly down the street. Damnation, thought the lich. It put its back to the nearest building and tried to act nonchalant. It didn't feel in the least nonchalant. No one goes around in full robes on a hot summer day, it thought to itself bitterly. Not even the devoutest of monks. Damn the bitch.

  The oxcart moved down the street, slowly, slowly. The damned peasant's head swivelled, his eyes tracking the lich as his oxcart moved, his mouth agape. It's a wonder flies don't crawl down the damned man's throat, the lich thought.

  Finally, the peasant turned the corner. With relief, the lich glided into the shadows of the alley. From here, hidden by shadows, it had a good view of the door to number twelve. It waited to see what the humans would do.

  Really, it told itself, I wish they had accepted the offer. It's going to be so much more work this way.

  It sighed again. The baroness was a harsh mistress, it told itself. She made her servants work their fingers to the bone.

  Literally. It chuckled dryly.

  VI

  Kraki had a broom. He was sweeping energetically. Plaster dust flew about the room.

  "Cut it out," said Nick.

  "Ve clean up, yes?" said Kraki.

  "Why bother?" said Nick. "I have a suspicion I'm going to be moving soon, no matter what we do." Kraki shrugged and dropped the broom. Timaeus lit his pipe. The explosion knocked more plaster loose from the walls. After the flames died down, he said, "And now what shall we do?" "You said you wanted to sell," said Sidney.

  "On reflection," said Timaeus, "I deem that inadvisable. We can expect a ransom note for Garni to show up sooner or later. I suspect it will demand the statue. Would you rather have the money or the dwarf?"

  "Now you mention it—" said Nick.

  Father Thwaite stared at him. "Garni ben Grimi is your friend," he said pointedly.

  "All right, all right," said Nick. "But look . . . tracking people down is something Sid and I do all the time. We ought to be able to find Garni and spring him."

  "Oh yeah?" said Sidney. "We don't have much in the way of clues." "I want to start with Jorgesen," said Nick.

  "Who?" "Wentworth something Jorgesen, the alchemist who showed up at the apartment this morning," said Nick. "It's the only name we've got to work with. If he isn't involved—and I bet he is, somehow—then maybe he'll help us. And it looks like we'll need help, if demons and stuff keep on showing up and trying to grab the statue."

  "A reasonable supposition," said Timaeus. "I, for one, want to find out more about this statue."

  "What do you mean?" asked Sidney.

  "My dear, are you aware of the magical properties of athenor?" "Huh? I know they make rings and stuff out of it."

  "Athenor is one of the few metals that can hold mana, the essence of magic. Consequently, it is used in the creation of magic rings, amphorae for the imprisonment of djinn, magical arms and armor, pentacles for demonologists . . . the list is endless. A ton of the stuff is an inconceivable quality. There must be some record of the statue's creation, some hint of its purpose. At the university, I can—"

  "Okay, sure," said Sidney impatiently. "But here we sit on top of the damn thing, and you want to run off and do research? I say we get Garni back, sell the statue, and—"

  "Jasper said it himself," said Timaeus, puffing deeply. "If we can supply a provenance and some idea of the object's intended function, we can command a considerably greater price."

  "Look," said Sidney, "we're going to have to send people off looking for Garni, right? And some are going to have to stay here to protect the statue. Judging by the fact that Garni's been snatched and we've been attacked by demons, all in the space of a couple of hours, whoever stays here is going to have plenty of things to worry about. I don't like the idea of splitting our strength further. And you're our only wizard . . ."

  "Thwaite can stay," said Timaeus with irritation. "He handled the demons quite well, I thought."

  "Thank you," said Father Thwaite in surprise.

  Timaeus waved a hand in acknowledgment. "And who other than I could do the research? Shall we sent Kraki?"

  "Yah, I go," said Kraki.

  "He'd probably burn down the library," muttered Sidney. "I don't like it, but—go. Get back here as quickly as you can."

  "You going to come with me?" asked Nick.

  "N-no," said Sidney, "I don't think so. You've got about the same skills and contacts as I—why don't you take Kraki for muscle?"

  "Good," said Kraki, flexing his pectorals. "Ve kill people until they tell us vhere dwarf is, yah?"

  "Something like that," said Nick with a grimace. "Come on." The lich was doing its best not to think.

  It was bored. Mortally bored. Bored beyond human comprehension. Bored as only the millennia-dead can be bored.

  It must be hot, it thought, then suppressed the thought. Empty the mind, that was the trick. Empty the mind, let time pass without notice. Bored.

  It thought the day was hot. But it had no way of knowing for sure. The sun was bright. The sidewalk shimmered. But the lich had no body to feel warm or cold.

  Bored. A fly landed on its robes. A flicker of interest passed through the lich, then died. The fly walked into the cowl and around on the lich's skull. The lich felt no disgust, no squeamishness. It had no stomach with which to feel disquiet.

  Noon was approaching. The lich felt no hunger. Bored.

  An attractive woman walked by. The lich felt no attraction. Bored.

  Nick and Kraki left the building across the street. At last, thought the lich. It waited until they turned the corner. Then, it began to follow. The cowled robe glided down the street. Small children gaped. The religious bowed their heads in respect. Some of the more magically sensitive felt a chill and made a gesture of warding.

  I do stick out like a sore thumb, thought the lich in mortification. Damn damn damn the bitch.

  It worried that Nick and Kraki would spot it. It hung back. It could feel the life force burbling through their bodies, the fragile taste of life in the distance. It allowed itself, briefly, to feel a desire to crush that life, to drain it to fuel its own half-living existence-then followed, followed its life sense, followed with no need to keep its prey in line of sight.

  It glided on.

  Garni was getting hot. The room was stifling.

  He studied the room's only window. It was pretty small. On the other hand, he was pretty small, too. He just might be able to squeeze through it. He leapt up, grabbed with both hands, and pulled himself onto the sill. He peered through the window.

  There was a river down there. It passed underneath the building . . . Aha! He must be on the Calabriot Bridge. It was one of four over the River Jones, six if you counted the two bridges to Nob Island. Of the four, it was the only one with buildings along both edges. There were shops all up and down the bridge, mostly goldsmiths and jewellers.

  The door opened suddenly. One of the goons stood there-Fred, the elf had ca
lled him. "Hey!" said Fred. "Get away from there!" He ran into the room and pulled Garni away from the window.

  "I'm not going to jump," Garni said. Fred put him down heavily. "Sure you ain't," said Fred. "I ain't gonna let ya. Chow time." He went back to the door and fetched a bowl of stew.

  It looked unappetizing, but Garni ate anyway. Gods only knew when he would get another meal. Fred, Garni reflected, was obviously not too bright. Dwarves are heavier than water. Jumping from the window would have been suicide.

  "Dja year about the scepter?" said Fred, watching the dwarf eat. "The what?" said Garni.

  "The scepter thing. In Hamsterburg. They say it's glowing or something."

  "So?" said Garni.

  "Means there's gonna be a new king. Or something."

  Garni stared at the goon suspiciously. "So what's that to me?" he said. Fred colored. "I dunno," he said defensively. "Just tryna make conversation. Sheez."

  "Okay, okay," said Garni. "I'm done."

  Fred took the bowl and left the room, muttering to himself. He locked the door behind him.

  Garni went back to the window and stared down at the river. A new king. Garni scowled into his beard. His grandfather had been the dwarven king. But upon his death, the gods had chosen another, not of Garni's line. That's the way it happened, the mantle of kingship descended on someone's shoulders, someone chosen by the gods. It could be anyone.

  But Garni's family had been forced to leave Dwarfheim. There was nothing personal in the deportation order; it was just good political practice. You didn't want to leave potential malcontents lying around.

  A barge passed under the bridge. Garni wondered if he could leap into the barge—but it was to his right, not directly beneath the window. Too bad.

  The elves had a king, too. So did the cyclopes. So did all the free peoples, except for the humans. Garni had always wondered about that. They'd had one, long ago. And if the goon was to be trusted, they'd have one again soon.

  Garni wondered what that might mean.

  The sign overhead said YARROW'S ALCHEMICAL EMPORIUM—MORE POTIONS FOR THE PENCE! Nick pushed the door open. A bell tinkled. "Be with you in a minute, Nick," said Mike Yarrow. He turned to an old woman with a head scarf. "These leeches will suck those bad humors right out, Mrs. Anver," he said. "Just put the little bastards right on the boil and let them leech away."

  "Oh, thankee, Master Yarrow," she said bobbing her head. "Thankee kindly." Clutching her package tightly, she hobbled out the door.

  Kraki wandered the shop and stared at shelves full of vials, bottles, alembics, paper packages, and tubes. He picked up a small bottle and stared into it. A gnarled homunculus hung in a brownish liquid. Kraki wondered what it was but was unable to read the label. He shook the bottle, but the homunculus remained motionless.

  "Sold any elixirs of youth lately, Mike?" asked Nick Pratchitt. Yarrow laughed. "Nothing like that," he said. "Business is pretty slow." "Too bad," said Nick. Mike Yarrow was a self-taught alchemist; he had

  neither the money nor the connections to gain a place at the university, nor the brilliance to win a scholarship. Without a degree, his clientele was restricted to the poor and the miserly. Business was always pretty slow. "I'm trying to find an alchemist," Nick said.

  Yarrow raised an eyebrow. "You've come to the right place." "No, a different alchemist."

  Kraki leaned on the counter. It creaked dangerously. "Ve looking for this guy, Ventvorth something."

  "Wentworth Jorgesen. Master alchemist," said Nick.

  "Oh, sure," said Yarrow. "He's got a shop on Fen Street. Good reputation, pretty swank clientele. Comes from County Meep originally. I'm told he used to be an adventurer."

  "Do you know where he lives?" asked Nick.

  "Afraid not," said Yarrow. "He probably has a villa someplace." Nick gave a whistle. "He's rich, huh??"

  "I guess so," shrugged Yarrow. "He's one of the better-known wizards in the city."

  "Well, I guess the shop is a place to start. You have the address?" "Sure, got it right here." Yarrow pulled out an address book.

  The bell on the door tinkled again.

  "Yes, sir?" said Mike Yarrow. "How can I help you?"

  The lich picked up a straight razor from the counter. It leaned over and opened Yarrow's throat.

  The alchemist fell back against a shelf. Bottles crashed to the floor. His hands scrabbled. Blood pumped out onto the counter.

  The lich spoke a Word. It tapped Yarrow's ebbing life force and used it to fuel the spell. A shame, really, the lich thought. It bore the man no animus. And killing innocents was a messy business. Dangerous. The authorities tended to get upset. Unfortunately, it knew no spell to compel the living to tell the truth. The dead, now—that was a different matter.

  It spoke another Word. The corpse behind the counter rustled. "Do you hear me?" whispered the lich.

  A sepulchral voice responded. "Yes."

  "What did your last customer want?" whispered the lich. "Leeches," said the corpse tonelessly.

  What? "What did they want leeches for?" "For her husband's boils," said the corpse.

  The lich gave a silent sigh. Truth spells have their drawbacks, it thought. "You were visited a few minutes ago by two men," it whispered. "Were you not?"

  "Yes." "What were their names?"

  "Nick Pratchitt and—I don't know the other." Good. "They wanted leeches?"

  "No." "What did they want?"

  "The address of an alchemist." "Were you not an alchemist?" "Yes."

  The lich was beginning to get irritated. "Whose address did they want?" "Wentworth Jorgesen."

  "And the address?" "Seventy-six Fen Street." Excellent.

  With the last of Mike Yarrow's life force, the lich shaped another spell and reported to its mistress.

  VII

  Wentworth Secundus Jorgesen locked the door to his shop and put up a `Closed' sign.

  "Ready?" asked Jasper.

  "Righto," said Wentworth. He opened a door and led Jasper and the cyclops up a flight of stairs.

  "Really," said Jasper, shedding a dim green light on the wallpaper, "I'm looking forward to this. I haven't done anything adventurous in, oh, ages." They came to the roof. Most of it was sloping orange tile, but there was a small landing area. "Taxi!" shouted Wentworth.

  "We not walk?" asked Morglop, a little uneasily.

  Off in the distance, a black spot moved among the clouds. There was no response to Wentworth's shout.

  "Why waste the time? Hoy!" yelled Wentworth. "I say! Taxi!" He waved his arms wildly. The black spot moved on, oblivious. "Damn," muttered the alchemist.

  There was another moving spot, this one a little larger and lower, barely clearing the minaret of a nearby temple. Morglop sighed, then put two fingers in his mouth and gave a loud whistle.

  The flying carpet swooped down and landed on the roof.

  "Hah-doh," said the driver. It was a small, monkeylike being with wings. It wore a turban. "Where be going, sahib?"

  The Boars got onto the carpet and sat down. Morglop looked distinctly unhappy.

  "Cobblers Lane, between Jameson and Thwart. Chop-chop." "Two shillingi," said the creature, holding out a paw.

  "One shilling sixpence," said Wentworth briskly.

  The creature bowed its head meekly. "Honest afreet mek honest bargain," it whined. "Small one at home ver' hungry. Two shillingi."

  "What cheek," said Wentworth. "You creatures don't have children, and Cobblers Lane is a zone six destination. The fare is one shilling sixpence, and you'll be paid when we get there. Cobblers Lane, and yarely now, or I'll have you up before the licensing board."

  The creature chattered in rage as the carpet swooped away. Morglop closed his eye.

  The lich stood in the basement of Wentworth's Fen Street shop. It was dark, gloomy, the only illumination a thin line of brilliant sunshine, shining through a crack in the metal doors that lay flat in the sidewalk above. A stair led to those doors; they were opened only during the
morning, when deliveries were made to Wentworth's shop.

  About the lich lay bundles and bales, shelves stocked with bottles and packages. And with it stood twenty-four zombies, in varying states of decay. One was Mike Yarrow's corpse. No point in wasting a perfectly good deader, the lich thought to itself.

  It was irritated. It was beginning to develop a headache. Why are humans always so unreasonable? it thought. £20,000 was a substantial sum of money. And the baroness was not a woman to cross lightly.

  It sighed a soundless sigh. It's going to be so much more work this way, it thought. For a moment, it longed to be in its grave. For just a decade or two. A little rest, that's what it needed. A little rest.

  Aha, it thought. It sensed Nick and Kraki's life force approaching. They were drawing nearer.

  It gestured. The zombies readied their weapons.

  "Damn," said Nick. The door to the shop was locked and the sign said `Closed'.

  "Look," said Kraki, pointing up as a shadow passed over them. It was a flying carpet. There were a number of figures on it. Nick recognized Wentworth by his monocle and long, blond hair.

  "Hey!" he shouted. "Wentworth! Hey!" There was no response. "Now vhat?" said Kraki.

  "Taxi!" shouted Nick.

  A carpet swept to the street and came to a halt a dozen cubits away. Nick and Kraki ran for it. "Follow that carpet!" yelled Nick to the afreet. He and Kraki tumbled to the weave as the carpet yanked into the sky.

  "Ah, now, sahib," said the afreet. "This be costing you."

  "Ten shillings if we catch them," Nick promised the creature. "Two if we fail."

  "Ver' good, sahib, ver' good! We catch for sure," said the afreet delightedly, bobbing its turban.

  The carpet sailed through the azure sky, bright sun warm on their necks, a stiff breeze blowing past. Slowly, they closed on the carpet ahead. "Ahoy!" shouted Nick. "Ahoy the carpet!" He waved.

  The lich swept the steel door back and sprang to the sidewalk. Its prey swooped into the sky on a flying carpet.

  The zombies halted, still in the cellar dimness.

  For a long, long moment, the lich stared skyward. Finally, it got a grip on itself. Frustration, it thought savagely; after five thousand years, you'd think you'd learn to deal with frustration.