Another Day, Another Dungeon Read online

  Sidney's sword scraped his chin. It drew blood. The goon froze. "Move slowly," she said.

  Moving glacially, he took a folded piece of parchment from his pocket. "Out of the way, mortal," hissed a voice from behind the goon. Sidney peered around Fred. A brown-robed figure with a deep cowl stood there.

  Fred scanned his eyes as far to the right as they could possibly go without turning his head.

  "Begone, fiend!" shouted Thwaite, springing from behind the bed. He made the sign of the god and his hands began to glow with white light. "Oh, do save your energy," whispered the lich wearily. "I'm only the postman today." Two skeletal fingers extended past Fred, holding an envelope.

  Fred saw the bones. He gulped loudly. Sidney's sword bobbed with his Adam's apple.

  "Fine," snarled Sidney, stepping back but keeping her sword aloft. "Just leave your ransom notes on the floor. They are ransom notes, aren't they?" The lich merely let its envelope go. It drifted lazily into the room and toward the floor. Fred dropped his note and stepped back. He whirled, stared at the cowled figure, and fled, whimpering to himself. The lich stood in the doorway, impassive.

  "That it?" said Sidney.

  "I'm to take a response," whispered the lich. "Tell them," said Thwaite, "the answer is no."

  "Don't you think we ought to read these first?" said Sidney. "No," said Thwaite. "I will not traffic with undead."

  "Is that your response?" whispered the lich. "For now," said Sidney. "Get out of here."

  Wordlessly, the lich glided away. Sidney went to pick up the letters. "I'm going to check on the statue," Father Thwaite said, and began to pry up the floorboards.

  Fred's letter was a folded piece of parchment. Sidney unfolded it and began to read.

  Priss: Golly, Priss. It's real tough having to do this kind of stuff: I mean, I remember when you used to be smaller than me. You were so cute. You thought I was pretty neat, too. I still remember that time you nearly pulled my ear off . . .

  Anyway, it's funny how things work out. But, look, we need to make a deal. I got something you want, and you got something I'd really like to have. So hey! Why don't we trade? One dork for one statue. The dork's slightly used, but I guess he has kind of a sentimental value for you guys. And you know I think blood is really icky, but, golly, we might have to whack off a few bits to close the deal. Know what I mean?

  Listen, drop me a line by sundown. Or, well, you know. If you want to talk, just wave from the window and someone'll come. Sorry about this. No hard feelings, huh, sugar?

  There wasn't any signature. "Montiel," Sidney said. "Ross Montiel's got Garni." She didn't know whether to be relieved or upset. God knew, the dippy elf was capable of anything. But at least he was a known quantity.

  That skeleton guy, now, that was another thing. Its letter was much like the one it had delivered before. The letter was written, apparently in blood, on expensive paper; the envelope was perfumed. Sidney opened it.

  To Master Timaeus d'Asperge:

  My dear Timaeus, I write you again, but this time in trepidation rather than admiration. I wish for you the greatest of worldly successes; yet I fear that your stubborn resistance may instead bring you low. Please heed my warnings, dear boy! You do not know what forces you deny.

  Rejecting my monetary offer was unwise. I have been reluctantly compelled to take stronger steps to acquire the statue. Specifically, I have taken two of your companions captive-a thief known as Nicholas and a large and terrifyingly well-endowed barbarian.

  Dear child, please be advised of the seriousness of this matter! The principal I represent will acquire the object in question; preferably in peaceful wise, but, if necessary, over the prostrate bodies of you and your companions. To speak of such things is distasteful, but the facts must be faced; please accept my assurances that all concerned would far prefer a less sanguinary resolution.

  Should this offer, too, be spurned, the next step in our negotiation is clear. As much as it would distress me to do so, I would be compelled by your refusal to treat your friends harshly. Please be assured that there will be no tasteless brutality; I am quite skilled in these matters, and should I be called upon to exercise my skills, your comrades will endure memorable and exquisite agonies.

  You have until day's end to accept.

  I remain, sir, your loving and devoted friend,

  And again, there was no signature; only a drop of blood at lower right. "Where the hell is Timaeus?" she muttered. "Just my luck, someone snatches him too." She turned to survey the room. "Father?" she said. No one was there.

  The floorboards hiding the statue had been pried from the floor and laid aside. Quickly, Sidney went to the hole in the floor and peered inside. The statue was gone.

  Thwaite was gone.

  Where there had once been only dirt and timbers, a tunnel led off into the earth.

  "Father?" she called forlornly down the tunnel.

  "I don't like the look of their visitors," said Wentworth. He held onto the gutter. Every once in a while, the breeze threatened to blow him out over the street. He had to clutch the gutter to remain hidden on the roof.

  "Odd group," agreed Jasper. "That thug returned to the house below us, you know."

  "Did he?" said Wentworth. "Hmm. I wonder who's down there."

  A large drop of rain hit Morglop on the head. The cyclops looked up. "Damn," he said. "Should have oiled sword."

  "What should we do?" asked Jasper.

  "Wait," said Wentworth. "We've seen no immediate threat to the statue."

  "Going to get wet," complained Morglop, looking upward.

  XI

  It was a gray noon in the city of Urf Durfal, capital of the realm of Athelstan. Atop the great volcanic pipe called Miller's Seat perched the many towers of Castle Durf. Within, His Grace the Grand Duke Mortimer was sitting down to lunch: a magnificent specimen of Lycoperdon giganteum, stuffed with bitoks de pore in a delicate paprika cream sauce. The grand duke eyed the stuffed puffball mushroom with anticipation.

  In the courtyard of the castle, Major Yohn drilled the Fifth Frontier. He drilled them daily—but not, any longer, at dawn. The last time he'd roused his men that early, two thirds had been staggeringly drunk.

  General Carruthers, watching from the battlements, made snide comments about the low-born soldiers below.

  Across the city, workmen downed their tools and called for buckets of ale to chase their bread and cheese. Housewives took a break from scrubbing kitchen floorboards or boiling the wash or plucking chickens or darning clothes, and heated up a bit of tea. The shops on Jambon Street continued a brisk trade, tradesmen sneaking a sausage or an apple from under the counter.

  Barges passed up and down the river. Farmers who had brought produce to market this morning eyed their stock, hoping they'd be rid of it by nightfall. Wizards, by and large a late-rising group, yawned, stretched, and called for their servants. Cats prowled the alleys looking for mice, and urchins lifted purses. Remarkably, no one was actually murdering anyone else at the stroke of noon, although three burglaries and an assault were in progress.

  Thunder sounded. It began to rain.

  In the markets, vendors put up awnings to protect their wares. Shoppers scuttled for cover. The town watch decided this was a good time to forget about patrolling and visit the pub. Thieves cursed and headed for doorways. Cats crouched miserably in whatever shelter they could find.

  The grand duke took a bite of his repast. His look of delight turned instantly to pain. The chef had not taken kindly to criticism of this morning's omelet and, in revenge, had over-peppered the bitoks.

  In an alley off Cobblers Lane, the lich examined its robe. The soaking cloth draped itself revealingly over the lich's naked bones. It didn't mind the wet, but worried about the uselessness of its disguise.

  In number twelve, a woman wearing black peered into a subterranean tunnel, wishing these things happened to someone else.

  And down in the catacombs, two men lay bound in darkness, oblivious
of the weather.

  Kraki was chanting sagas to himself. He'd gotten to a long genealogical section—some hero was reciting his lineage for the edification of a foe: ". . . Sired he Gostorn, gap-toothed one;

  Gostorn the mighty eater of mince, Apples ate also apricots too, Mighty pie eater eater of pies . . ."

  It passed the time, Nick supposed. He spent his own time trying to work his way out of his bonds. The knots were not particularly well tied. It was hard, Nick thought, to tie good knots when your fingers were half rotted away.

  The stone slab grated aside. Dim torchlight glinted into the crypt. Even this faint glow was enough to make Nick squint.

  "Oi," said an orcish voice. "Either of you bums play Spatzle?" "Vhat?" said Kraki.

  "Spatzle?" said Nick, grinning. "I think I've heard of it. Isn't that the one you play with a stripped deck?"

  "You hasn't never played?"

  "Sorry," said Nick. "I'm not much of a card player. But I wouldn't mind learning."

  "Bah," muttered Kraki. "Such games are for children and vomen." "He says he's willin' to learn," said Garfok over his shoulder. "Come on, guys," said Spug. "Let me owe ya."

  "No chanst," said Drizhnakh. "You is broke. You is lost all yer dough." "Oi!" said Garfok to Nick. "Gotny money?"

  Nick thought quickly. He had about ten shillings on him. "Kraki!" he whispered. "How much money have you got?"

  "Don't know," said the barbarian. "Most of treasure."

  "You're carrying most of your share?" asked Nick incredulously. "Yah. I leave in inn, it get stolen."

  He was probably right, Nick reflected. "Yes," he called up to the orcs. "I've got a few pounds."

  "I says we let 'im in," said Garfok.

  "Not much point in playin' wiv ourselves," said Drizhnakh. Cheating Spug was profitable; with him out of the game, it was more than a little pointless.

  "Not da big guy, though," said Spug. "He's mean." "Right," nodded Drizhnakh. "Don't wanna let him loose."

  "Jake by me," said Garfok, then turned to call down to Nick. "You is in."

  After a momentary scuffle, the orcs extended a short ladder into the crypt. Garfok climbed down to collect Nick. Kraki struggled wildly with his bonds. He cursed. "If I can yust get loose," he muttered.

  "Never mind that," whispered Nick urgently. "Give me your purse!" He rolled over so he was back-to-back with Kraki.

  The barbarian pressed his purse into Nick's bound hands. "Vhat you going to do?" he said.

  Nick grinned in the darkness. "We'll see."

  Garfok grabbed Nick, flung him over one shoulder, and started back up the ladder. As he reached the top, Drizhnakh took Nick, stood him up, and cut the ropes tying his hands.

  "What about my legs?" said Nick.

  "You isn't going anywheres," said Drizhnakh.

  "Here," said Garfok. "Siddown." He pointed at a spot by a wooden crate the orcs were using as a card table.

  Nick sat down. He smiled at the orcs. "Okay," he said. "Why don't you tell me how this game is played?"

  "Right," said Drizhnakh, sitting down and picking up the deck. "Dere is four suits-fangs, ears, axes, and greeps." He dealt four cards in illustration.

  "Greeps?" "Greeps." "What are greeps?"

  "Don't get him started!" warned Garfok.

  Mrs. Coopersmith strode determinedly down Cobblers Lane, flanked by six tough-looking men. One carried a sock full of sand. Another carried a rough-cut stick of lumber.

  Wentworth peered at the men from the roof of number eleven, hanging on to the chimney by one hand and screwing his monocle into an eye with the other. "I say," he said. "What do you suppose they're after?" Morglop only grunted.

  "I sense . . . ," began Jasper. "I sense . . . a discontented sausage merchant with a surplus of product. Damnation, Jorgesen, why did you have to give that afreet all our silver? I'm half starved. And half drowned."

  "Never mind that," snapped Wentworth. "What is that woman doing with those thugs?"

  Mrs. Coopersmith barged through the doorless doorway. Several meanlooking men barged in after her. "This is it," she said. "I want them out today."

  Sidney backed toward one wall and drew a sword. The man with the stick of lumber faced her. "Let's 'ave none of that, missy," he said. "Let's make this a peaceful eviction, eh?" Two of the other goons flanked him. The rest of the men started grabbing objects, carrying them down the hall, and dumping them in the street.

  "Stop it!" yelled Sidney. "You bitch. We got rights!"

  "You don't got no right to tear the place up!" the landlady shouted back. "You're out! If you don't like it, you can bitch to the grand bloody duke!"

  "Good lord," said a familiar voice from the hole in the floorboards. "What's going on here, Sidney?"

  She glanced toward it, then did a double take. "Father!" she said. "Where the hell have you been?"

  Thwaite clambered out of the hole. "The statue's gone," he said. "I can see that. Where were you?"

  "Eh? I scouted down the tunnel a bit . . ." "Find anything?"

  "No. It goes on for quite a distance."

  Satisfied that Sidney wasn't going to turn violent, the goons continued carrying objects from the room and dumping them in the street. One of them grabbed a bundle of Garni's miscellaneous stuff-eleven-foot pole, several steel cylinders, a heavy book. "Hey!" yelled Sidney. "Put that back!" She grabbed the book and wrestled with the goon.

  "My son," said Thwaite to another thug. "Do you feel comfortable with what you're doing? Do you feel justified in the eyes of the gods in tossing a fellow mortal into the street?"

  "Sorry, padre," said the thug, bowing his head in respect. "There's ther sacred rights of property ter consider. And besides, I gots ter earn a living."

  Bedding, bits of straw, and an amazing variety of possessions began flying into the street.

  Morglop was instantly alert. "They after statue!" he shouted. He leapt over the edge of the roof, fell three stories, and absorbed the impact with a crouch.

  "Have you noticed," said Wentworth conversationally, "that brainlessness seems to be a uniform characteristic of swordsmen?" He picked up a piece of slate to give himself some weight, dragged himself to the edge of the building, and drifted toward the street, pulled by the slate. As soon as he had a direct line of sight, he hurled a flask through the basement window of number twelve. The force of the throw pushed him back into the parlor window of number eleven as he drifted past. Montiel, who was peering through the window, drew back as the floating wizard's body pressed against the glass.

  The flask exploded in the basement flat. Flames splashed about the apartment. Several of Mrs. Coopersmith's crew hit the floor. None was more than slightly injured. A fire began to grow in one corner of the room.

  "Now look what you've done!" Mrs. Coopersmith screamed at Sidney. She beat at the fire with a blanket.

  Morglop lumbered down the hall. The goon with the stick of wood blocked his way. "What the bloody hell do you—" shouted the goon. Morglop bellowed, "Surrender or die!" He swept his sword back.

  The goon dropped the stick and ran.

  A point of green light flew through the broken window and into the apartment. A green ray shot from Jasper and struck a goon. The thug's eyes rolled up in his head. He tumbled to the floor.

  Morglop strode through the doorway, waving his sword. The goon with the sock of sand stood by the wall and tried to kibosh the cyclops. Morglop stepped aside; the sock whistled past; Morglop sliced the goon through the pancreas.

  "Jasper!" Sidney said, recognizing the green glow and jumping to the conclusion that the dealer in antiquities was attempting to steal the statue himself. "Bastard!" She backed toward Thwaite and the hole. "Let's get out of here, Father," she said.

  "I concur," said the cleric. They dived into the hole.

  "Hey, boss," said George. "A buncha wizzos is attacking the apartment."

  "Oh, phooey," said Montiel. "I can see that, George. Micah," he said to his elven subordinate. "Get back to headquarters
as fast as you can and get reinforcements."

  Micah took off out the back door and ran, zigzagging past the outhouses.

  Ross turned back to his goons. "Okay, guys!" he said. "Time to earn your pay." George, Fred, and Billy ran out the front door and down the stoop, swords in hand. "You too, pal," said Montiel to the water mage. He shoved the odiferous fellow outside and locked the door after him.

  The water mage stood uncertainly in the rain, then followed the goons unhappily. Montiel watched from the parlor window.

  Morglop killed two of Mrs. Coopersmith's men. The rest fell to their knees. "We surrender!" yelled one.

  "I got a wife an' three kids," yelled another.

  The landlady picked up Garni's umbrella and used it to beat the cyclops about the head and shoulders. "Now, miss," said the cyclops, fending blows off with his sword and forearm.

  "Ruffian!" she shrieked. "Brigand! Murderer! I'll have the watch on you! Get out of my building!"

  She chased him around the apartment. The thugs, still on their knees, watched bemused.

  Wentworth pulled himself in through the door and, hanging in midair, screwed his monocle into an eye. "Gadzooks," he muttered. A fire burned merrily in one corner. Trash and bits of plaster were all over the place. There was a large hole in the floor.

  Jasper zipped up to the alchemist. "They were apparently evicting Pratchitt," he said. "Don't seem to know anything about the statue." "Fine," spat Wentworth. "Dandy. I hate swordsmen, truly I do." George, Bill, and Fred charged into the room. George stabbed Wentworth in passing. He yanked his sword back to remove it from the floating alchemist.

  Wentworth stayed on the sword. Weightless, he wafted back and forth as George shook the sword, trying to get Wentworth off. His eyes glazing, Wentworth grabbed the blade and pushed himself off the point.

  Astounded, George studied his sword for several moments before returning to the fray.

  Morglop engaged Bill and Fred. Either one he could probably have killed instantly, but together they were reasonably well matched against him. Swords rang and sparks flew.

  Since no one was paying them any attention, Mrs. Coopersmith's eviction crew took the opportunity to escape out the broken window.