Another Day, Another Dungeon Page 15

  A woman waited for them. She wore a flared, black dress—an expensive one, Nick judged—and a veil that obscured her features. The orcs that stood next to her wore rusty armor and had large, ugly tusks. Given a choice, Nick thought, he'd rather look at the woman.

  They stood together next to an unlighted pit. Nick had a feeling he was going into the pit. He hoped there wasn't anything nasty down there. Snakes, say.

  "Hello, gorgeous," said Nick. "Hell of a way to pick up men."

  The orcs chortled and elbowed each other. "Oi, Garfok," said one. "It's da big guy."

  "You," said Kraki weakly. "I should have killed you in caverns." Nick glanced at Kraki. "Friends of yours?" he asked.

  "Hah? Ve have met, yes. These are orcs who turned you to stone." "What happened to you?" the Baroness Veronee asked the skull. "Don't ask," it whispered.

  "Take it to the house," she ordered one of the zombies, meaning the lich. "And its bones, too. I'll fix you up later."

  "As you wish," the lich whispered despondently. Some of the zombies departed.

  "What am I going to do with you fellows?" she asked Nick and Kraki. "Several possibilities spring to mind," said Nick.

  The veil hid her smile. "You'd enjoy it less than you think," she said in a throaty voice.

  "We can have din-din," suggested Drizhnakh.

  She glanced at the orcs. "Oh, no," she said. "They're far more valuable as hostages."

  "We doesn't have to kill them," said Garfok. "We can just whack off a coupla arms. Da big one looks like he's got a lotta meat on him."

  The stench of the zombies was strong in Nick's nostrils. "How can you guys think of food with all this rotting flesh around?" he said.

  "Don't bother me," said Drizhnakh. "How 'bout you, Spug?"

  "I likes it," said Spug. "Makes me think of my mum's home cookin'." Even the baroness looked faintly disturbed at that. "Throw them in the crypt," she said briskly.

  Nick groaned inwardly. He'd been right. The orcs swung him up-then he plummeted down . . . and smashed into damp stone. Experimentally, he struggled with his bonds. Nothing seemed to be broken. Kraki landed with a thud nearby.

  "Kraki," Nick gasped. "You okay?"

  "No," said the barbarian. "Am very depressed."

  By the dim light of the torches they saw a veiled face peer into the hole. "By the way," said the woman, "in the unlikely event that you should escape, please tell your companions that I shall not rest until the statue is restored to its rightful owner."

  "Who's that?" gasped Nick, still starved of air.

  She gave a low chuckle. "Well may you ask," she said. "In the meantime, please rest assured that you will again see the light of day-at least, if your friends act reasonably."

  "I vill kill you," said Kraki.

  "That would be difficult," she said. "You won't die of thirst or starvation. You'll find plenty of sewage and a more than adequate supply of live prey." Somewhere, a rat squeaked. "See?" she said. "Ta, now."

  Rats, thought Nick with relief. It's only rats.

  The orcs gave a disturbing, rattling laugh as they pulled the massive stone slab over the opening. It grated as it shut out the last vestiges of torchlight.

  Nick and Kraki lay in darkness.

  "Why do I get talked into these things?" said Nick. "Instead of spending the afternoon in bed, I'm lying in a sewer with orcs standing guard."

  "Don't vorry," said Kraki. "Soon, a maiden escaping from an evil prince to whom her father has promised her in marriage vill flee through the sewers and stumble upon us. Smitten vith my charms, she vill free us both."

  "What?" said Nick.

  "Or else," Kraki said, "a vizard, seeking to hire me to kill another vizard who has been his enemy for a thousand years, vill summon us to his vizard's tower by magic and free us from these bonds."

  "I see," said Nick, struggling with the rope around his wrists. "What makes you so confident?" A rat scampered over his body.

  "Is inevitable," said Kraki philosophically. "Happens in all the best sagas. First, you get thrown in pit. Then, you become king. Or something. You take the bad vith the good. Don't vorry, Nickie. I am hero. Heroes don't die in sewers."

  "Thanks, Kraki," Nick said. "I feel much better now."

  Timaeus strode purposefully across the Common, puffing on his pipe. It was a pleasure to be back in familiar surroundings, amid the Imperial architecture and carefully tended greenery of the university. It hadn't been long since he'd left, but somehow the place already seemed a little foreign.

  Halfway across the green, he noticed that the sky ahead was filled not only with gathering clouds, but with a pillar of smoke. He frowned and redoubled his pace toward Scalency Hall, where the Department of Fire had its offices.

  The pillar of smoke was rising from a window on the side of the building. Doctor Renfrew, in the blue-tinted ermine and preshrunk silks of the Department of Water, stood outside, amid a crowd of gawking undergrads. He was directing three water elementals, dousing the surrounding grounds and nearby buildings to prevent sparks from carrying the fire. Scalency Hall itself, built wholly of granite without supporting timbers, was virtually indestructible, at least to fire—a necessary condition, given the number of literally hot-tempered academic disputes that arose among the faculty whose offices it contained.

  "Good afternoon, sir," Timaeus addressed Renfrew. "What is happening?"

  Renfrew eyed, then ignored Timaeus. He shouted Words of power at his elementals; clearly, keeping the playful undines about their tasks was occupying his full attention.

  "Old Calidos has combusted at last," said an undergraduate gleefully. "No test of the convolutions today!"

  "Good heavens," said Timaeus, and broke into a run through the line of spray about the hall.

  "Wait!" yelled the undergraduate. "Come back. You could be killed—"

  Timaeus muttered Words of power as he ran, puffing between syllables. He was damnably out of shape. He could be killed; but it was not likely. Fire was his element, after all.

  The door to the hall—a slab of slate on brass hinges, wood being far too ephemeral for the tastes of fire mages—was noticeably hot to his touch. As he entered the foyer, Timaeus could feel his heat-resistance spell kick in; the air in the foyer felt almost cool. As he sprinted up the steps, he could feel the heat beginning to rise again.

  Timaeus paused at the door to Magister Ardentine's office. The adjunct professor of thermal philosophy was busy stuffing books and papers into a heavy leather bag.

  "How is he?" Timaeus panted.

  Ardentine looked up nearsightedly. "Terminal burnout," he said. "Shame, really."

  "We knew it was coming," said Timaeus.

  "Certainly," said Ardentine irritably. "What's the temperature?" Timaeus peered at the thermometer at the back of Ardentine's office. The professor was too nearsighted to see it. "Halfway between water and paper," he said. It was marked off with the boiling, melting, or burning temperatures of various materials.

  "Bother," said Ardentine, redoubling his efforts to save his books before the temperature in the office rose too high. "I'm going to lose some of these. Lend a hand, won't you . . . ?"

  But Timaeus was gone.

  Calidos's office was like a blacksmith's forge. The air shimmered, the metal chair in which the elderly mage sat glowed red. Calidos himself was a dancing flame, human form still discernible. He looked white, shrunken, even older than Timaeus remembered.

  "Doctor Calidos," Timaeus sputtered. "You mustn't . . ." "Ah, d'Asperge," said Calidos in some surprise.

  "Sir," said Timaeus in distress, "you must be aware that—"

  "I'm in terminal burnout, yes indeed," said Calidos almost happily. "And it does these old bones good to feel warm at last."

  Timaeus gulped unhappily. This was the fate of all too many a fire mage. Repeated manipulation of the element increased one's own similarity to fire. When Timaeus had taken courses with Calidos, the old man had left scorch marks on exam papers. He'd heated
his own chambers nearly to the boiling point of water, but even so complained about the cold. Undergrads, lacking strong heat-resistance spells, dreaded meetings with Calidos; few were willing to accept him as their don. Timaeus had done so, partly from bravado and partly from a genuine desire to learn as much of his discipline as he might; Calidos's mind might no longer be as sharp as it had been in his youth, but he was still highly respected, widely acknowledged as one of the giants of his field.

  "Why is no one here to control this?" demanded Timaeus.

  "This is the fourth time this semester," Calidos said. "The signs have been gathering for weeks. My time has simply come, my boy. I choose to go as gracefully as I may. Come, 'tis not so bad; I go to immortality, of a sort."

  "As a salamander," grunted Timaeus, "not in the Lady's bosom—" "Pshaw," said Calidos. "Infantile religious maunderings. Far better to rise to the sphere of flame, to burn incandescently for all time—"

  "But without a mind," said Timaeus sadly. "Elementals have no— "And do the gods promise immortality in the same mind? The philosophers believe in a duality of mind and body, while the religions add spirit, creating a trinity of self. The spirit may survive death, but the body clearly does not. Spirit and body are separable; hence, one may conclude, spirit and mind are separable also."

  The heat was rising further, and Calidos's voice was becoming fainter. It was hard to make out his form now, he was glowing so brightly. "Doctor," said Timaeus. "Do not go. I need—"

  "You're a fine mage," said Calidos faintly. "You do not need my aid. A bit hasty and hot-tempered, perhaps, but this is characteristic of our discipline, those aspects being similar to fire. I—"

  "Doctor Calidos!" shouted Timaeus. "I am not speaking generally, but in specifics. Please hang on; I need help researching—"

  "Farewell, lad," whispered Calidos, now so bright that Timaeus was forced to avert his eyes. "Good of you to come and say good-bye to an old man."

  And suddenly, the glow began to fade, like fireworks in a dark sky, quickly diminishing from white to red to orange, a collapsing ball of flame. "My true name," came a faint whisper, "is . . ."

  But it will not be repeated here, lest it be misused by the unscrupulous. Timaeus was astonished. Knowledge of Calidos's name would allow him to summon the elemental Calidos had become from its place in the Sphere of Flame. And the elemental formed from the spirit of a master mage would be powerful indeed.

  He would have to use this power sparingly. So powerful a salamander would be difficult to control; it would be foolish to risk its wrath.

  The sphere was gone now. The chair had melted down to slag, and the granite walls still emitted a somber glow. Timaeus realized he was expending power to maintain his heat-resistance spell; no point in that now. He withdrew from the room and sadly descended the stairs.

  No time for mourning, he chided himself. What to do now? "I done good, huh, Ross? Huh?" said Fred the goon.

  Fred stood six foot six and weighed more than twenty stone. He filled a substantial portion of the tiny maid's bedroom. Unfortunately, Fred wasn't alone in the room. There were three other goons, all of approximately equal stature. There were also two elves—Montiel and a subordinate-and a rather weedy human water mage. Judging by the wizard's odor, his enthusiasm for the substance he manipulated magically seemed not to encompass actually immersing himself in it, at least, not on any regular basis.

  The seven of them stood cheek by jowl. They'd had problems getting the door closed. The day was hot, and the room was stifling. The water mage's bathing habits did nothing to improve the atmosphere.

  "Gee, Fred," chirped Montiel. "I just don't know what to say." "That good, huh, boss?" Fred beamed.

  Montiel scrambled over one of the goons and made his way to the room's single window. He peered out. Below was a courtyard, bordered by the block's other buildings. Montiel shook his head sadly. "It's my fault, Fred," he piped.

  A look of uncertainty passed across Fred's face. "Huh?" he said.

  "I should have known better than to trust an important job like this to a complete imbecile!" Montiel shrieked. The elf hopped up and down on the tiny bed.

  "But, boss," said Fred unhappily. "You said I should rent a room." "A room, not a closet! And I told you I wanted a room across the street!"

  "Well, gosh, boss. We're in number eleven, right across the street from Sidney Stollitt . . . just like you said!"

  The elf threw up his hands. "Explain it to him, Billy," he said to one of the other goons.

  Billy threw a hand across Fred's shoulder. "Duh, look, here, Freddie," he said. "The window don't look out on the street. It looks out the back. How we gonna keep an eye on the building across the street if we can't see it? Huh?"

  Fred's face scrunched up, as if he were about to cry. "Gosh, I'm sorry, guys," he said. "I'm awful sorry."

  "And it's in somebody's house, too," said Montiel. "How're we gonna keep it a secret if the people in the house see us come and go all the time?"

  Fred buried his head on Billy's shoulder in shame.

  There was a knock on the door. Billy and the third goon drew swords, nearly decapitating each other. Ross pointed at Fred.

  "Yeah?" said Fred hesitantly.

  "Uh . . . will your friends be staying to dinner?" said a timorous female voice. "I mean, my husband doesn't even know we have a boarder, and—"

  "Hell with this," piped Ross. "Billy, take 'er."

  Billy opened the door. As soon as he turned the knob, he staggered into the hallway, propelled by the pressure of the others in the room. He tripped over a blond woman, smashed through the railing which ran the length of the hall, and fell down the stairs.

  The woman shrank back and put both hands to her mouth. Montiel sighed. "Your turn, Georgie," he said.

  The third goon walked out the door, casually tossed the woman to the floor, and stood over her, his sword at her throat.

  Montiel smiled and walked out the door himself. "Oh, Georgie," he said in a sorrowful chirp, "you know how I hate brutality." The goon grinned and stared directly into the woman's frightened eyes.

  "Hiya!" said Ross Montiel. "My name is Ross. What's yours?" "El . . . Elma," whispered the woman, eyes wide.

  "Elma! That's a nice name," said the elf. He motioned to George, who sheathed his sword. "Gosh, I just know we're going to be friends." Montiel held out a tiny elfin hand.

  She swallowed and looked at George uncertainly. "C'mon," said Montiel. "Shake!"

  She grabbed his hand and gave it a tentative shake. She sat up and shuffled on her bottom until her back was against the hallway wall. She stared at Montiel.

  "That's better," said Montiel. "I'm glad we're going to be pals, 'cause we're going to be staying over. Just for a little while."

  "How . . . how long?"

  "Is that any question to ask friends who've come to stay? C'mon, Elma, you'll make me think you're unfriendly. If you're unfriendly, I'll have to give you to George to play with."

  The goon stared at Elma and licked his lips.

  "So let's keep this on an elevated plane, okay? Do what you're told and, who knows, you might even live. How 'bout that?" Montiel said brightly. "Please," she whimpered. "Please, Mr. Elf. We're simply folk, we don't mean anybody any harm—"

  "Oh, Ross, Ross, Elma, call me Ross," said Montiel. "Mr. Elf sounds so, I don't know, formal. Now, don't worry about a thing. We promise to treat your house just like it was our own. Right, boys?"

  "Right, boss," said a chorus.

  "And we absolutely promise not to steal anything we can't physically carry. Georgie, toss her in the cellar."

  "Do I get to play with her first?"

  "No, no," said Ross. "Only if she's a bad girl." The goon pouted.

  "Now, Fred," said Ross, putting a tiny hand on the huge man's shoulder. He had to go onto tiptoes to reach. "I'm going to give you a second chance. I need a note delivered . . ."

  The lich glided through the catacombs. It waggled its neckbones; they felt reason
ably secure. The baroness seemed to have done a good job sticking it back together again.

  Once, it told itself, I was the terror of the Cordonian Plain. Strong men blanched at my name. The skulls of children decorated my parapet.

  It mulled over the past for a moment. And now, it thought scathingly, I'm to be the baroness's messenger boy. Again.

  Any urchin in the city would be more than happy to deliver her missives in exchange for a copper or two. But no. It had to be it.

  It sighed.

  Bitch, it thought. It wondered whether this headache was permanent. Just what I need, it thought, a migraine for the next millennium.

  X

  Sidney stared out the window. Her shoulder wound was smarting. It looked like it might rain.

  Thwaite sat by the hearth, munching on a sausage he'd bought from a vendor down the street.

  "Do you ever get the feeling that we don't know what's going on?" said Sidney.

  "Mmphm?" said Thwaite through a mouthful of meat.

  "It's been too long," she said. "Nick and Kraki should have reported back by now."

  "Mmrphl. "

  Sidney watched as a goon left the house across the street, and grew alert as he came directly to their own building. She drew her sword and walked quickly but quietly across the room to the door. She stood next to the door, flat against the wall.

  Thwaite watched her, became alarmed, and dived behind what was left of Nick's bed, the remnants of his sausage flying.

  The goon appeared in the broken doorway. His lips moved. ("Ross said to knock.") He tried to knock on the door, but it wasn't there. He looked puzzled.

  Sidney sprang into the doorway and put her sword to the man's Adam's apple.

  "Who are you?" she hissed.

  His eyes were saucers. Ross hadn't said anything about girls with swords. "I . . . I'm Fred," he said. "Pleased to meetcha." He held out a hand, which Sidney made no move to take.

  Thwaite peered up from behind the bed. He eyed his sausage, now on the floor, rather sadly.

  "What do you want?" said Sidney.

  "I got a message for you," said the goon. "From R-from somebody." He reached into his pocket.