One Quest, Hold the Dragons Page 5

  Whiteness skittered across rock. More often than not, my snowshoes grated on stone instead of snow, for the wind scoured the mountainside free of snow as quickly as snow fell.

  And it was falling now; somehow in my singlemindedness I had failed to note when the clouds turned gray and began to disgorge their load of snow. I could see no farther than a half dozen cubits ahead, flakes whipped across my vision in a blur of white.

  Where was the greep? It left no tracks, not on this bare rock; and in the snow, I saw it no—

  A snort. A glimpse of brown. I drew back an arrow and loosed it-to see the arrow snatched away by the fierce wind.

  Onward, onward At times, I cast forward in despair, feeling that I must have lost the trail; but always, I managed to find some spoor, some trace. And I lunged—Into space.

  My stomach lurched, both physically with my sudden fall, and spiritually with my sudden realization that I had been outfoxed by a beast. Do you understand? Man is differentiated from the animal only by his intellect; and this dumb creature had out-thought me. It had led me to a cliff, knowing I could see only inches ahead, and maneuvered me off ...

  I fell for a brief eternity, certain I was falling to my death ...

  There was an impact. It came to me that I was allve; more than alive, uninjured. There was whiteness all about me, a tunnel upward to dim gray sky; I had landed in a drift, and the snow had been thick enough to break the fall.

  I trashed about in deep snow, making no progress; it caved in about me. At last I calmed, thought things . through, and removed my snowshoes. I reached up, and slammed one into the snow above me, pulling myself upward, then slamming the next one in. In this fashion, I climbed, until I found myself, almost hot with exertion, lying atop the drift.

  The wind was slight, here, in the lee of the cliff. Dimly, dimly, far above me, I espied a blur of brown. I peered, through drifting snow; it thinned enough that for an instant I saw a brown-furred head, a hint of antler—

  It was the greep. It peered downward, trying to discern whether or not I had met my doom.

  In an instant, I was on my feet, an arrow nocked and drawn to my ear. I could see the greep only as a blur of brown; but—

  I loosed the shaft, and instantly drew another, hoping I would be permitted another shot before the creature fled—

  The brown was gone. I had lost—

  Something smashed into the drift, scant cubits from where I stood.

  It was the greep. I scampered over the snow, and peered down into the crater it had smashed in the drift.

  It stared back at me, fear and hatred, hot anger in its gaze. The shaft of my arrow protruded through the jaw, outone cheek: a flesh wound. But that had been enough to startle the beast, cantilevered out over the cliff, peering downward at me. And it had fallen out, as I had . . .

  Perhaps, given time, the greep could have clawed its way out of the drift; but I proposed to give it none. My first shaft struck it in the eye; it roared its pain and hatred, flailing desperately at the snow that caved in about it. A second time I shot, and hit its throat, lifeblood squirting crimson on white snow. And the third—but it was dying.

  And as that great beast, its antlered head thrashing in pain through whiteness, as it breathed its last, I knew I had found my destiny. So would I defeat all who stood before me; so would I triumph against all adversity.

  In that instant, I accounted myself a man.

  And I thanked the greep, truly I did; I thanked it for showing me the vital struggle, the fierceness that underlies all creation.

  Down the mountainside, I knew, was the village of Bainbridge, though I could not see it in the drifting snow; a few hours' trek, by snowshoe. I cut the greep's head from its body—I could carry no more—and I made my way to the village. There, they met me with celebration: It was accounted a great deed, to take so impressive a stag of the greep, at sixteen, in such a storm.

  The greep's body froze in the snow; and, frozen, remained fresh until, some days thereafter, we sent out a party to recover its flesh.

  And it roasted there, in yonder fireplace, upon that very spit.

  I do not think I have ever tasted meat so fine.

  During the telling, the salad had been taken away, broiled eggplant and peppers with herbs had been served, and the diners had been presented with a clear broth, to cleanse the palate before the main course. There had been a new wine with each new dish. It was clear by the time that Broderick ended his tale, however, that the piece de resistance was in the offing. A parade of servants had appeared with a variety of platters. There were cardooris in a butter sauce, celeriac and bitter herbs, game hens perfumed with cinnamon, parsleyed potatoes, and fresh peas with mint. There was a deep, rich brown gravy, fresh bread of several kinds, and herb butter to slather on it. But all this was by way of side dish. The servants had wheeled in a cart bearing a load of wilted greens, had trundled it over to the fireplace, and had carefully removed the whole roast greep from the spit. Three strong men had been needed for that task. Now the butler stood over the carcass, whetting an enormous carving knife.

  "And so," Broderick ended at last, "I bid you, sup; eat deeply of the richness of the greep, and imbibe as you do his wisdom. We may only hope that some portion of the greep's nobility, his courage, and his fierce desire for existence will infuse us with his flesh."

  "Good story," said Kraki approvingly, pounding his fist on the table hard enough to make the glassware jump. Bertram, on the other hand, looked as if he were going off his head with ennui.

  One of the footmen approached Sidney deferentially and asked her what portion of the greep she desired. "I'm not familiar with cuts of greep," she said, realizing there was no polite way to avoid eating it entirely. "Perhaps you can make a recommendation." He suggested a filet of the tenderloin, and she assented. Another servant appeared with the desired cut, while .the first went to obtain requirements from the other guests. Kraki requested ribs, by which, it became clear, he meant the beast's entire rib cage.

  "Wine, miss?" inquired the sommelier, holding a bottle out to Sidney. She had never seen its like. It was green. The label proclaimed it a "vin chartreuse d'appellation Royaume Dzorzique. " This struck Sidney as unlikely, since the kingdom of Dzorz hadn't existed in almost two hundred years. Uncertainly, she said, "Please," and watched as the green liquid flowed three-quarters of the way up a fluted glass.

  "And you, sir?" the steward asked Vincianus, showing him the bottle.

  The oldster left off gumming his greep steak and peered at it for a long moment. "Pretty young for a vin chartreushe, ishn't it?" he said dubiously.

  "Sir? Perhaps a tad, sir. But the 5530s mature a little young; a century and three-quarters seems about right."

  "A chartreuse?" said Jasper delightedly. "My, my, Broderick, you do set a good table."

  "Out of my usual range, to be sure," said Timaeus, obviously impressed.

  Broderick beamed.

  "We've always kept a good cellar," said Bertram, a little proudly. "The Barons of Biddleburg have been high-class lushes for four hundred years—"

  "Nnnnn! Nnnnn!" said Baron Barthold. The old man was shaking his head violently. By the sommelier stood another servant, bearing a wine glass and a twist of paper on a platter.

  "Now, Pater," said Bertram concernedly. "You really must have your philter. Doctor's orders, you know."

  "Nnnn!" said Barthold.

  "Come, brother," said Broderick. "If anything can make your medication palatable, surely it is the Dzorzian. Drink up, now!"

  Barthold made a choking noise, and shook his head again.

  "If you're good," wheedled Broderick, "there's puff pastry and ice cream for dessert."

  "Nnnn," said Barthold more mildly. With unhappy eyes, he watched the sommelier pour a glass of wine, untwist one end of the paper, and empty a powder into the glass. White crystals dissolved quickly in the liquid.

  "Awfully sorry, Pater," said Bertram apologetically, "but it's for the best, you know. In y
our condition . . ." He took the wine glass and held it to the old man's lips. Barthold closed his eyes and, misery writ on his face, choked down the wine.

  "I do apologize," said Broderick. "Happens every night, I'm afraid. He can be a trial."

  "Nnnn," muttered Barthold censoriously, eyes still closed.

  As a servant carried away the empty bottle of chartreuse and the twist of paper, Sidney dropped her dessert fork, reached down to pick it up, and quite deliberately tripped the man. The wine bottle smashed on the cold stone flags of the castle floor, the silver tray hit with a noise like a gong, and the man landed awkwardly on one arm.

  "Oh!" Sidney said, springing up. "How clumsy of me. I'm so sorry. Please, let me help you."

  "Quite all right, ma'am," said the servant. "My fault, I'm sure."

  "Aye," said the butler freezingly. "If woon canna' watch where woon poots woon's feet, woon sharr find woonserf stoking the stove an' eating wi' the oopstairs maids. Fetch a broom at oonce and clear this mess awa'."

  "Yes, Mr. Bates," said the servant. "Sorry, Mr. Bates. At once, Mr. Bates." And he scurried away.

  Sidney reseated herself, the twist of paper tucked into her garter.

  III

  The room was a study, of sorts. That is, it had the usual accoutrements of a study: numerous bookshelves, ornate armchairs, a globe, a crystal ball, tables and writing supplies. But the dust on the books was thick, indicating they were rarely consulted; and every available surface was covered with maps and papers. Broderick might be an efficient administrator, but he was not a neat one.

  A fire burned in the hearth and an oil lamp gave a little light, but the corners of the room lay in shadow. Captain Blentz sat sleepily in a chair, while Broderick prowled restlessly.

  "What?" said Blentz in blank incomprehension. "Why?"

  "Why do you need to know?" demanded Broderick irritably. "Just do it."

  "But Sir Broderick—"

  "Bah! I don't know why I bother with you, Blentz. Still haven't found that Beatrice bint, have you, me boy? Bertie's on to it, you know; if you don't off the bitch, and soon, I'll likely wind up killing my own nephew to avoid a stink. Damned awkward, too; too much unrest in the barony as it is, the idiot is a useful figurehead."

  "We'll catch her," said Blentz heavily. "These things take time."

  "Time is what we don't have, man! Well, look here. This job is surefire. I don't see how you can miss. Fail me this time, and you'll find yourself out the gate with nothing but your sword and your trousers. With your record, I don't fancy your chances of finding another position."

  "Yes, but look here; I mean, one thing to kill a peasant or two, but—"

  "It's very simple," said Broderick. "They are carrying an object of great value. I want it. They have agreed to accept an escort to the barony's border; you are to provide it. Halfway between the castle and Bainbridge town, to minimize the chances of anyone either here or in the village learning the truth, you will turn on them and butcher them all. You will have the element of surprise; if you can't kill them before they know what's what, you are a buffoon indeed. Bury them a good distance off the road. Inside their wagon, probably in a hidden compartment, you will find a large statue. Burn the wagon and its contents. Return the statue surreptitiously to me."

  "Sir, I don't know that the men will do it. After all—"

  "Damnation, Blentz! There's a pound argentum in it for each of them."

  "Ah," said Blentz. "And for me?"

  "Greedy, greedy, Blentz," said Broderick in a warning tone. "Your position here is less than secure, you know." "It's murder we're talking about," said Blentz doggedly. "I won't—"

  "You won't what, Blentz? Cat got your conscience? A moral void at your soul that only the sparkle of gold will assuage? Very well; ten pounds for you, if you succeed."

  "Fine," said Blentz resentfully, rising from his chair. "If that's all, I'm to bed."

  "Go along, then," said Broderick, waving a hand. "I just hope you remember all this when sober."

  "Not likely to forget," grunted Blentz, and wandered unsteadily out.

  When Blentz's footsteps had died away, Broderick sighed, then went to examine the crystal ball. He gave it a sharp rap with a knuckle and spoke a Word. The crystal began to emit a faint yellow glow.

  "Yes?" said a bass voice in a bored tone.

  "Private message," said Broderick. "Ex: Sir Broderick de Biddleburg, Biddleburg Castle, Barony of Biddleburg. Ad: Gerlad, Graf von Grentz, Drachehaus, the Enclave, Free City of Hamsterburg. Re: Yours of the fourteenth. Begin. I may be able to obtain object in question. Please define quote considerable sum end quote. Other parties interested. Respond soonest. Thirty."

  "Very good," said the voice. "How will you be paying?"

  "I have an account with the Royal Bank of Dwarfheim," said Broderick. "You should have the records."

  After a moment, the voice spoke again. "Very well, sir. Will that be all?"

  "Yes," said Broderick, turning away as the crystal went dark.

  Through slitted eyes, the cat atop the bookshelf watched the crystal's light die. Broderick pinched the oil lamp's wick into darkness, then shuffled out of the room himself, leaving it lit only by the dying embers of the fire.

  The cat rose to its paws and arched its back in a stretch. As it did, there was a noise from one of the study's two windows. The cat caught the hint of a shape outside the glass, a moment of movement-and then the shape was gone.

  The study was two stories up. Could the exchange between Broderick and Blentz have had a second observer? wondered Sidney. And if so, who might that observer have been?

  She jumped to the floor, and fastidiously licked away the dust of the shelves. When her toilet was complete, she slunk back through the hallways toward her room.

  Without the castle, the morning was brilliant, a jolly sun casting light across a lucid sky, birds twittering happily, gentle zephyrs wafting the pines. Jasper's bedroom was somewhat gloomier: Its windows were small and deeply set in thick walls, designed for defense rather than illumination. And the thick walls of the tower kept the air uncomfortably cold, colder than the world outside—a blessing on hot summer days, no doubt, but a bit of a trial, Jasper thought, at the moment. He had the windows open to admit a little warmth.

  Still, he pottered cheerfully about, preparing his toilet. The green light moved over the floor, floating alongside a straight razor. "Tum-tiddle-um-tum-tie," hummed Jasper. Tum-tiddle-tiddle-tiddle-um-tum-tum." A strap of leather

  hung from a washstand; the free end of the strap rose in the air until the strap was tight and parallel to the floor. The razor began to strop itself.

  After a while, the razor floated over to plunk itself down on the stand. "Hey nonny-nonny, tiddle-um-tumday," sang Jasper. A brush dipped itself in water and began to swish about in a mug, developing a lather. The brush rose and swished itself through the air, depositing a vague hemisphere of lather on invisible space. If one had looked carefully, one might have been able to discern the shape of a chin.

  A cat jumped through one of the open windows, landing in the deep window well.

  The razor rose from the washstand and began to scrape at the lather that hung in midair. Jasper hummed still, butit was now the hum of a man with a closed mouth: "Mmm-hmmm-hmmm-mmmm-mmm-hmm."

  Sidney transformed. "Jasper," she said. "I—"

  The razor gave a sudden jerk. "Yow!" shouted Jasper. Flecks of blood appeared amid the lather and began to drip onto the floor. "By Dion, Sidney, you startled me. I do hope I have some sticking plaster." The floating lather moved over to Jasper's trunk, from which bits and oddments began to fly.

  "I'm sorry, Jasper," said Sidney, not sounding particularly apologetic. "I have some information to impart."

  "Hmm? Yes, good, here it is." A jar of sticking plaster unscrewed, and a dollop of the substance moved out to smear itself across empty space. "Say on, then."

  Sidney sighed. "The walls have ears," she said.

  "Do they?" sai
d Jasper in a surprised tone. The lather turned to face each of the walls in turn. "I don't believe so, Sidney," he said dubiously. "In another room, perhaps?"

  "Are you being purposefully dense?" demanded Sidney. "Look here. There are servants everywhere in this damned castle. I don't want to run the risk of being overheard. You're a mentalist, aren't you? Read my mind."

  "Ah! Do you mind if I finish shaving?"

  "No,-no, just.hurry up."

  Jasper completed his toilet. When he was finished, the green point of light flitted over to hang before Sidney's forehead. "Now, then," said Jasper. "Hmm. Good heavens! Can't say I think much of Sir Broderick's notion of hospitality, hmm? More goes on in this castle than meets the eye."