Another Day, Another Dungeon Page 18

  At the end of the hall, a door smashed open. Madame Laura strode forth. "What is the meaning of this!" she shouted.

  Madame Laura was a stout woman whose age, beneath copious makeup, was difficult to discern. Her nails were close to six inches long, each painted a slightly different shade of red. Her dress had more frills and ruffles than you can shake a stick at. She eyed Sidney's mud-smeared form severely and reached back through the door for a loaded crossbow.

  "'Lo, Mom," said Sidney:

  Thwaite stared from Madame Laura to Sidney and back, agape.

  They sat in comfortable armchairs in Madame Laura's office. Laura sat behind the desk and wafted a lady's fan. The windows were open a crack, to let in the air but not the rain; but the room was still rather warm.

  Thwaite and Sidney wore robes. Servants had taken their clothes away to be cleaned. The silk evening gown Thwaite wore, decorated with needlepoint dragons and fish, was worth a small fortune—and heavily perfumed.

  "My dear," Laura remonstrated, "I do wish you'd chosen a less dramatic entrance. The Baron of Montrance was beside himself. And Magister Prescott, fearing discovery, apparently transformed into a bird and flew the coop-without, I might add, paying for services rendered." "Sorry," said Sidney shortly. "I . . . I need your help."

  Laura sighed and eyed the ceiling medallion. "Of course you do, my dear," she said. "We could start with a manicure. And your hairstyle is too, too outré. Now, I have in mind the most eligible young man—" "Mother! Stop it."

  Laura looked her daughter over and sighed. "Of course," she said gently. "Of course you need my help. I don't hear from you for two and a half years, except when Ross complains that you refuse to use him to fence your goods. Really, Prissy, you do go out of your way to alienate people who'd be happy to help. . . ."

  Sidney stood up abruptly. "This was a mistake," she said. "Where's my sword?"

  "Priscilla," said Laura. "Sit down. I've got your clothes and you're not going anywhere until I find out what's wrong."

  Sidney sat down and glared at her mother. "What is it, dear?" said Laura.

  Sidney sighed. "Ross has kidnapped a friend of mine," she said. "I'm going to rescue him. I need to know where he's being kept."

  Laura pushed herself back from the desk. "Darling!" she said, appalled. "Ross owns half this place, dear, you know that—I . . ."

  "The elf says he'll start chopping pieces off by nightfall."

  Laura shook her head repeatedly. "What in the world have you done to drive him to such extremes?" she asked.

  Sidney looked out the window. "It's a long story," she said. "Basically, he wants a statue we took out of the caverns. Everyone and his brother wants it, too."

  "I'll call Ross in," said Laura with decision. "We'll talk this out. I'm sure—"

  "Mom! You don't understand. I don't have the statue."

  "Oh, my," Laura said. "Oh, my. That does put a different complexion on things. Who does?"

  "How the hell should I know?" Sidney snarled.

  "Don't get all high and mighty with me, young lady!" shouted Laura, waving her fingernails. "You disappear for close to three years, show up asking for help, and you're just as impossible as—"

  "Oh, come on."

  Laura gave an irritated sigh, opened the desk drawer, took out a flask, and downed a slug of something. Thwaite eyed the flask and licked his lips. Laura noticed. "Oh, my good sir," she said. "I am most dreadfully sorry. I have been shirking my hostly duties." She rang a bell. "Can I get you something? And you, Priscilla."

  "I wish you'd stop calling me that." "It's your name, isn't it?"

  "My friends call me Sid," Sidney said defensively.

  Laura shuddered delicately. A boy of about eight flung the door open and charged in. "Hi, Laura!" he said.

  "Monty, we need something from the bar. What would you like, Father?"

  "Er . . . your house whiskey will do fine," he said.

  Madame Laura hid a smile. "Nonsense," she said. "Monty, fetch a snifter for Father Thwaite, and tell Frederico to give us four fingers of that single malt the baron brought last week, he'll know the one. Scilla?" "Tea," Sidney said.

  "And a pot of tea," Laura said with distaste.

  "Okay, Laur'," said the boy. "Can I keep a frog in my room? Mom says—"

  "What your mother says goes," said Laura. "But tell Cook to give you a mason jar, and you may keep it in the wine cellar, if you promise to feed it every day."

  "Gee! Thanks, Laura." The boy disappeared. The door slammed shut behind him.

  "Now, then," said Laura. She waited expectantly.

  Sidney knew what was next. She gritted her teeth and resigned herself to the inevitable. "I'm sorry, Mother," she said, as gracefully as she could. "Look, I know it's probably half my fault, but every time I see you . . ."

  Laura waved a crimson-nailed hand carelessly. "Never mind, my dear, never mind. Ross will have my derriere in a sling if he learns I've helped you pry your friend loose, you know."

  "I'm not planning on telling him." "You did barge in here in a rather—"

  "Look, I doubt anyone down there recognized me."

  "In your state? Quite possibly." Laura sighed. "All right then. You are my daughter, and it is my devoir to aid you. Can you supply particulars?" "Thanks," said Sidney. "Okay. The guy is a dwarf. Garni ben Grimi. He was taken from a flat in Five Corners. Number twelve, Cobblers Lane. At about eight o'clock this morning, some goons nabbed him. They searched the flat for the statue, which was there, actually-but were too stupid to find it, even though they smashed the place up pretty badly."

  "I have spoken to Ross about his tendency to employ the less than capable."

  "Yeah. Anyway, that's about it." "No other leads?"

  "Not right now."

  "This is not much to go on. However, I will provide you with a list of those of Ross's safe houses I know about: Obviously, he may have ones I don't know about. However . . . hmm." Laura leaned back, and tapped one ruby fingernail against her chin. "I recall that he has a shop on the Calabriot Bridge. A goldsmith's, used as a front and also to launder funds. He has several rooms in the back. Knowing Ross's sense of humor, I would venture to guess that he's got the dwarf there."

  "What? Why?"

  "Makes disposal easy. Just drop the creature off . . . dwarves are heavier than water, you know. And it's a good way to torture the poor lamb, too. Just hold him over the river . . ."

  "I get the picture. Do you have the address?"

  "Yes, of course. I will ask you to memorize the list before you depart, as I do not want it widely circulated."

  "Thanks, Mom," said Sidney. "There is one other thing." "What?"

  "Why do you never write or come to call? We've had our differences, but, really, Priscilla, two whole years . . ."

  "Okay, okay."

  "It's not that I ask much from you. You've gone your own way, and although I shudder to think of the life you must lead—"

  "Mom!" "Still, it doesn't seem like a great imposition to ask you to stop by occasionally—more than once a decade would be nice—"

  "All right, already! Mother, you're driving me nuts."

  The door smashed open. Monty staggered in, carrying a tray. "Here we are," said Laura.

  They rode Madame Laura's carriage through the streets with the blinds tightly drawn.

  "Priscilla?" said Thwaite.

  "Don't you start in," said Sidney. "I was just wondering . . ."

  "That's my real . . . I mean, that's the name she lumbered me with." "Ah," said Thwaite. "May I inquire . . . ?"

  "What is it?" Sidney said irritably, holding the blind aside and peering into the rain.

  "Does your mother also bear the taint?" "What? Oh, you mean, is she therianthropic?" "Yes," said Thwaite.

  "Yes," said Sidney. "It's inheritable."

  "As are most diseases of the blood," said Thwaite. "I do wish you'd consent to let me—"

  "No," said Sidney.

  For a moment, there was only
the clop of the horses' hooves and the patter of raindrops. Then, Thwaite chuckled. "I assume her alternate form is the same as yours," he said.

  "Yes," said Sidney, puzzled. "Appropriate," said Thwaite. "What do you mean?"

  "That she should run a cathouse," said Thwaite. "We're pinned down," said Wentworth.

  Morglop stood up, brought his crossbow to his shoulder, aimed through the basement window, and fired. The bolt went through the stomach of one of Montiel's men. Morglop ducked back down. A dart of flame shot through the window and splashed against the far wall. Plaster fell from the ceiling at the impact.

  While Morglop cranked the crossbow to ready another shot, Jasper looked out the window himself, trusting to his partial invisibility for protection. Through pouring rain, he saw demonic forms flitting overhead; occasionally, they'd make a foray to the street below or drop rocks on unwary combatants.

  "Where did all these blasted fools come from?" muttered Wentworth. He was drooping noticeably toward the floor as his potion of weightlessness wore off.

  "Oh dear," said Jasper.

  "What?" said Morglop, risking a peek himself. Down the street, a massed formation of zombies, perhaps forty in all, marched toward the: flat. They were still half a block away.

  "Zombies," said Wentworth. "Demons. Thugs. Where did they all come from?"

  "I would guess," Jasper said, "that they're after the statue."

  "Haven't seen action like this since Ishkabibble Front," said Morglop. He snapped another bolt through the window. A demon flew past with the arrow in its forelimb, chittering in rage.

  "You'd think even those idiots in Castle Durf would notice something was up," said Jasper. "If this gets any worse, the whole parish will be in ruins."

  "I believe that it's time to initiate a strategic withdrawal," said Wentworth.

  "You mean, run?" said Morglop. "Er, well, yes."

  "Good idea," said Morglop.

  "What do you propose?" asked Jasper. There was an orange flash through the window. When they looked out, a tentacular demon was eating zombies and screeching merrily.

  "That tunnel," said Wentworth. "The statue must have been taken down the tunnel. With luck, it's a safe way out."

  "Tunnel?" said Morglop uneasily.

  "Don't tell me you're claustrophobic, too," said Jasper.

  "No, of course not," said Morglop defensively. "I like midwinter holidays."

  Wentworth eyed the cyclops suspiciously.

  XIII

  Feeling exposed and wet, Sidney crouched on the rooftop. The rain-laden breeze blew past her. The bridge hung out over the river; there was no shelter up here to cut the wind.

  To the left and below her was the street that ran the length of the bridge. She crouched atop one of the buildings that lined it. Even in the rain, there was some traffic-a nobleman's carriage travelling to the suburbs on the far side of the River Jones, a scurrying jeweller returning to work, jacket held overhead to provide some meager shelter.

  She peered into the street and tried to read the sign over the shop immediately below her. Montiel's front was Samuel Berber, Goldsmithy. She wasn't having much luck; letters frequently looked distorted through a cat's eyes, and she was reading the sign from an odd angle. She thought she had the right building.

  She padded up the sloping roof to the peak and down the other side, to look at the river. Below her was a window, and another below it. Both were shut. She could leap to the sill of the upper window-but she doubted she could leap back, at least as long as the window was shut. The sill was quite narrow.

  While she contemplated it, a head stuck out from the window below, the one on the bottom floor. It peered down at the river. The head looked as if it might be dwarven.

  "Meow?" said Sidney.

  Garni looked up. "Sidney?" he said in a low voice. "Is that you?" "Mrowr!" Sidney transformed and clutched at the roofing tiles. In human form, she suddenly realized just how far down it was to the river. And she had no faith in her clumsy body's ability to retain its purchase on the rain-slick tiles.

  "Garni?" she called softly.

  "Yes!" said the dwarf, craning for a glimpse of her. "Are you okay?" asked Sidney.

  "All things considered," said Garni. "I'm still in one piece, at any event. I've been hoping a boat would go under the bridge below my window, so I could jump."

  "Forget that," said Sidney. "That's suicide."

  "I wasn't thrilled by the idea," said Garni. "Can you bring a rope?" Sidney considered. As a cat, she couldn't carry much-but if she got Thwaite to tie a rope to her, perhaps she could manage. "I'll try," she said. "Back in a while."

  Thwaite glanced up and down River Road. The cobbled street curved along the River Jones, one side lined with expensive houses, the other with the rocky wall that had been built to contain the river. At intervals, small piers extended into the water; this was not a dock area, but people came here to fish, and the wealthy inhabitants of the houses along the road kept pleasure boats. No one was watching.

  To Thwaite's left, the Calabriot Bridge extended out over the river. Thwaite hiked up his robe and, cradling Sidney and the rope in one arm, climbed up onto the railing that ran along the river. He teetered atop the railing, then stood upright and stabilized himself by leaning against the side of the first building on the bridge.

  He couldn't quite reach the building's rain gutter.

  Sidney stood on his hands and stared at the roof. A loop of the rope was around her neck; the rest, tied in a coil. She was to drag it along the rooftops behind her. But she didn't trust her ability to leap from Father Thwaite's hands to the rain gutter, not with the rope to load her down.

  Thwaite almost toppled from the railing, then leaned against the building again. He pulled Sidney back down to his chest. "Too far?" he said. "Mrow, " she said, looked at him, and pawed at the loop around her neck. She grabbed the rope with a claw and shook her head, trying to drag it off.

  Thwaite got the idea and removed the loop. "Mowr!" Sidney said urgently.

  He tucked the rope between his legs and lifted her up again. She leapt lightly to the roof.

  She peered back down at him. He took the rope and tossed it up to the roof with her. "Rowr, " she said, thanking him.

  Gingerly, Thwaite stepped back into the street. An urchin was watching him with wide eyes.

  "And who might you be, my child?" said Father Thwaite.

  The grimy girl eyed him suspiciously, then ran off down the street. The cleric sighed and went back to the shelter of a doorway.

  Sidney nuzzled the loop and tried to get it over her head. Not having hands had its drawbacks. If she transformed, she could easily manipulate the rope; but the loop was too small to fit around a human neck.

  She hooked a claw into the rope and dragged the loop onto her head. Then, she couldn't get her claw out of the fibers. Her paw dragged the loop to the side. It fell back onto the roof. She gave a small meow of frustration.

  She tried again. This time, she got it. The loop slipped down around her neck.

  She trotted off, pulling the rope. It was heavy sailor's cable; Thwaite had gotten it at a pier a few blocks downriver. It was a good half-inch thick and twelve cubits long; it must weight close to a stone, probably more than she herself did in cat form.

  It was hard work, dragging the rope.

  She was two-thirds of the way down the bridge to Garni's building when something odd happened. Suddenly, the rope didn't seem so heavy. She stopped and turned around.

  The coil had come undone. The main part of the rope was three cubits behind her, in a loose clump; she was unravelling it as she moved. Thwaite had purposefully tied the coil with a loose knot. The idea had been that she could undo it with teeth and claws when she got to Garni. But this way, she'd be forced to drag the rope in a long line. It might get hung up on some obstruction along the way.

  She decided to transform and retie the coil. Then, she realized that she couldn't get the loop off her head. It had tightened under the str
ain. This was bad news. But it left her no alternative. She started forward again. The coil gradually unwound as she pulled the rope along.

  She wished it weren't quite so wet. She walked forward ten feet, twenty . . .

  Suddenly, Sidney was yanked off her paws. She tumbled down the rainslick roofing tiles, toward the edge of the roof and the river below. It was a long fall to the water, down there . . . and she couldn't swim. And she was weighted down by rope

  Her claws skittered over the tiles. The rope around her neck was pulling her down, down . . . she felt her speed gathering-

  A claw hooked under a tile. The claw was almost yanked out of her paw -but it held. She came to a halt.

  She lay on the tile in sodden fur for a long moment, panting. She peered down the slope.

  The rope ran directly down the slope from her, over the edge of the building. She puzzled over that; before she had been yanked off her paws, the rope had run behind her, along the roof. Gradually, she realized what had happened. The rope behind her had slipped down the slope of the roof. The loose end had plunged over the edge, pulling the rest of the rope with it. The rope had continued to slide—until it yanked her off her paws. If she hadn't caught that tile, the rope would have pulled her into the river.

  How was she going to get the rope to Garni now?

  She scrabbled her way back up the sloping roof. Then, leaning away from the edge, she paced carefully forward.

  For a while, the rope followed smoothly, running along the edge of the building. Then it got hung up on the edge of a tile. She moved forward, and the rope began to pull up over the obstruction and onto the roof-until something suddenly gave. The section of rope she'd dragged onto the roof plummeted back over the edge, and she was nearly yanked off her paws again.

  At least she was prepared this time-and she wasn't yanked as hard. She kept her footing.

  Sidney hoped no one in the building below would look out his window and see the rope dangling. He might be tempted to lean out and pull on it. . . .

  She came to Garni's building at last.

  Now what? She had planned to transform and, in human form, tie the rope around a nearby chimney. But with the loop over her head, there was no way to transform without killing herself—and it was now too tight to be removed.