Another Day, Another Dungeon Page 8

  "Hah?" "Er . . . in layman's terms, eh? Ah, we make the boulders and the statue like two sides of a pulley, all right? Then, we release the boulders." "They fall."

  "That's right. And the statue rises."

  "If you say so. Sounds like silliness to me."

  "Don't worry, it'll work," Timaeus said. He turned to call down the shaft: "Fore!" he shouted.

  A voice echoed back up. "What?"

  Timaeus began to chant in a language Kraki didn't know. Timaeus waved his arms, chalked runes on the ground, and moved in a kind of dance. The smoke from his pipe formed patterns about his head.

  "Now!" he shouted. Kraki yanked on the tabletop. With a roar, the boulders hurtled down the shaft.

  "What is keeping those bozos?" said Sidney.

  Suddenly, the statue leapt upwards, as if yanked by a string.

  The spell may have been elegant, but its effects were not. The statue flew up the shaft, bounding off obstructions, clanging off walls, and spinning violently. The racket was tremendous.

  "Good thing it's made of athenor," muttered Garni. "Anything else would be mashed shapeless."

  The noise of its passage died away. Then, there was another noise, like the roar of the sea.

  "What's that?" asked Nick. It got louder.

  "I don't know," said Garni.

  A rock nearly hit Thwaite. He dived for cover as it bounced down the corridor.

  "Run!" yelled Sidney. They all ran for the cavern. A veritable avalanche thundered about them.

  The statue narrowly missed Kraki as it flew up the shaft, spun past him, bounced off the ceiling, and ricocheted violently down the corridor. It clanged to a stop. The barbarian swore.

  Timaeus smiled around his pipe and went to examine the statue. It was unharmed. Although the statue's expression had not changed, Timaeus got the distinct impression it was glaring at him. "Sorry, old bean," he muttered. He rather hoped they had no further adventures. His powers were just about exhausted once again.

  Sidney panted as she pulled herself up the rope to the top of the shaft. "You could have killed us!" she yelled.

  "I called a warning down the shaft," Timaeus said huffily. " 'Fore?"' said Sidney. "You call that a warning?"

  "Er . . . well, it did seem appropriate. Besides, I told you what I was going to do before Kraki and I climbed the shaft."

  "You babbled something about rocks and kinetic energy! You didn't say you were going to start a landslide!"

  "Sidney," Nick said, joining them, "cut it out, okay?" "We could have been—"

  "Look, it worked, all right? And nobody was hurt. You asked him to do the impossible, and he did it."

  Sidney sighed. "Okay," she said. "I'm sorry. But, dammit, explain what you're going to do next time, all right?"

  Timaeus puffed on his pipe with mild embarrassment.

  Crouching in hiding, Garfok elbowed Drizhnakh in the ribs. "Did ya see dat?" he asked wonderingly.

  "Yeah," said Drizhnakh. "Dat statue's gotta be worth a friggin' fortune."

  "Yeah. Too bad we isn't strong enough to ambush dem again."

  "Uh huh," said Drizhnakh thoughtfully. "But I knows someone dat might be innerested. . . ."

  "Pay Lenny now?" said Lenny.

  "You're lucky we don't kill you, you little jerk," Garni said. "Get lost." "Three pennieth an hour! You thaid tho!"

  "If you're still here by the time I count ten, you're a dead lizard."

  It was an exhausted troupe of adventurers that staggered into Gateway, pulling the massive statue of a man by its shoulders. The low stone buildings and dingy shops looked a lot like paradise. Or at least one of paradise's lesser suburbs.

  "Hello, gents," said an orcish shopkeeper. "Had a good haul, huh?" "What's it to you?" said Garni.

  The shopkeeper wiped his hands on his apron. "Nuffing much," he said, "'cept dat I gots da finest duty-free merchandise in dis whole burg." "My good fellow," said Timaeus. "We are, as you see, overladen with recent acquisitions. Why should we wish to burden ourselves further?" "Well, buddy, dere's a simple answer to dat. Ya see, da grand duke takes ten percent of anything you take trough customs."

  "Ten percent? Gadzooks!"

  Sidney nodded. "That's right," she said. "Standard tariff for treasure." "An'," the orc continued, "each individual can take up to a gallon of booze, two ounces of pipeweed, and tree quid of miscellaneous goods into da grand duchy duty free."

  "I see," said Father Thwaite, eyeing the orc's floor-to-ceiling racks of bottled goods. Remembering his oath, he turned to Nick. "Perhaps you would be so good as to purchase me a bottle, lad," he said.

  While the others loaded up on duty-free goodies, Timaeus conferred with Nick. "How are they going to take ten percent of the statue?" he worried. "It's worth the rest of our treasure several times over."

  Nick smiled. "Leave it to me," he said. "It'll be a snap. I wonder if they've got a hardware store around here?" He wandered down the street. Timaeus stared after him, then shrugged and went to look at the pipeweed. The variety was astonishing. "Quite a little racket," he mused, looking the store over.

  Somewhere, Nick had found two mules and a cart, which certainly made hauling the statue easier. He sat in the cart, twitching the reins. Father Thwaite, already well lubricated, lay in the back on top of the tarp that covered the statue. Kraki sat with him. The three passed an open bottle of brandy back and forth; it was already a good third empty.

  Timaeus puffed on his pipe and fretted. "I do wish Nick weren't drinking," he told Sidney.

  "Why?" she said, somewhat surprised.

  "I haven't the slightest idea how we're going to get the statue through customs. Nick says he has a plan—but if he's drunk . . ."

  "Don't worry," Sidney said, smiling slightly. "He'll manage." "Why do you suppose he painted it brown?"

  "It was kind of obvious unpainted, wasn't it?"

  "I tell you I got no papers, pig!" Kraki roared, shaking the official by his tunic.

  "Kraki," said Nick, "you really ought to learn how to deal with bureaucrats. This is getting us nowhere."

  "Hokay," said Kraki disgustedly, dropping the customs official and turning on his heel. "You talk to him."

  "Sir," Nick said, "what is the procedure used when an individual from an ungoverned area enters the realm?"

  The bureaucrat rubbed the back of his neck and swung his head back and forth, checking to make sure nothing was broken. "He's issued papers of transit, unless there's reason to believe he's an undesirable, in which case he's turned away at the border."

  "So shouldn't you issue him letters of transit?"

  The bureaucrat sighed. "It's highly irregular," he said. "Anyone who goes into the Caverns of Cytorax is supposed to have papers already." Nick flipped a large gold coin in the air and caught it. The bureaucrat's eyes followed the sovereign hungrily; it was as much as he was paid in a week.

  "I'll bet you're saying it'd be illegal for you to issue Kraki papers." "Well, no, actually I do have that authority. . . ."

  "Huh," said Nick, flipping the coin again. "I guess it's not my lucky day. You win that bet." He flipped the coin to the bureaucrat, who neatly caught and pocketed it, looking around to make sure no one else was watching.

  Customs was a long, low room with a half-dozen tables. They brought the cart and their equipment up to one table and began dumping the treasure onto it. A customs official stood by; his eyes bugged as he saw the quantity of gold they unloaded. Other officials were busy checking travellers at other tables; Gateway had apparently been doing a brisk business in duty-free items this morning.

  The official made a quick division of the treasure, expertly appraising some of the jeweled weapons and chalices and taking a rough ten percent for the crown. Then, he pointed to the cart.

  "What's in there?" he asked. The tarp covered the statue.

  "A, ah, religious reliquary," said Timaeus nervously. "Of little intrinsic worth. Artistic value only."

  "Let me see," said the official, twit
ching back the tarp. The brownpainted statue did not look particularly impressive. He took out a pocketknife and scraped a small area free of paint.

  His jaw dropped. "Guh," he said expressively.

  Smoothly, Nick took one of his arms. "Keep your cool, my friend," he said. "What's your name?"

  "Corcoran Evanish," the official said. "Why?"

  "Well, Mr. Evanish," said Nick, "you've just become a rich man." "What?" said the official.

  "That statue, as you must realize, is worth considerably more than the rest of our treasure put together."

  "I wouldn't doubt it," Evanish said fervently.

  "I believe you'd normally confiscate the item, auction it to the highest bidder, and forward ninety percent of the auction price to us."

  "Yes," said the bureaucrat. "That would be the indicated procedure." "But you know how things are. The highest bidder would be some crony of the grand duke's. We'd be lucky to realize a few percent of the statue's actual value."

  Evanish harrumphed. "That's no concern of mine," he said, "and I certainly have no doubts about the integrity—"

  Nick interrupted him. "So," he said, "you see, we have a mutuality of interest."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "We desire to get this statue through customs in order to realize the full value of our discovery. You can help us do so. We are prepared to be extremely generous in token of our gratitude for your assistance."

  "Are you proposing a bribe?"

  "No, no, certainly not. Nothing of the kind. Think of it as a gratuity, an expediter's fee, a little . . . lagniappe."

  Evanish licked his lips and looked cautiously around the room. The brown-painted statue had attracted no particular attention. "Ah—there is my job to consider," he said.

  "Ah, but a man of sufficient means need hardly labor at this dreary occupation. May I offer you-a full pound of gold? In archaic coin, no doubt of even greater value to antiquarians."

  Evanish pursed his lips. "Not here," he murmured. "We're searched at the end of the shift. I will require one hundred pounds argentum, to be deposited in the Royal Bank of Dwarfheim. I will supply you with an account number."

  Nick choked. "One hundred . . ."

  "Ninety. And don't think about backing out. I have your names, and I'll turn you in if the money isn't deposited within three days."

  Nick did a rapid calculation. "Seventy-five quid," he said. "Eighty."

  "Done." This time, all six rode in the mule cart. The brandy flowed like water. The cart was more than a little cramped. The two mules were clearly unhappy, but no one much cared.

  Nick was reading Kraki's papers. "Hey, Kraki," he said. "Says here you're a dwarf."

  "VHAT?" said the eighteen-stone, six-foot eight-inch barbarian.

  Garni chuckled. "Sure," he said. "You entered the grand duchy from the Caverns of Cytorax, which, by international law, are dwarven. You must be a dwarf."

  Kraki shook his head. "I vill never understand civilization," he said. "Who's got the brandy?"

  Part II

  Another Day

  I

  The sky was azure overhead. The fields were tan with stubble. Birds wheeled, gleaning discarded bits from the recently completed harvest. It was quiet, or nearly so. There was bird song,- the susurrus of the wind; the clink of harness; the low, muttered conversation of ten thousand men. It was a good day to die.

  There's no such thing as a good day to die. Why do all these heroic cretins sound the same?

  There was something on the hill, a point of darkness. Then, there were a thousand. Suddenly, I was alert; it was the advance guard of the enemy army. I could see the standard now, a crimson rag and a green, grimacing, tusked orcish face.

  Great. In fifteen minutes, it's going to be like a meat grinder here. Why don't we run like the dickens?

  Drums sounded and a hundred voices bawled orders. And there was another standard, and another, and another-

  The crest line was dark with the enemy.

  Gah. I bet if we work fast, we can find a horse and . . . "My liege, " said a voice from my right. "You must not go. "

  "Aye, I must. The Royal Horseguard is our only reserve. Should their charge falter, our cause is lost. I must lead them."

  No, no, bad idea. Bad idea. Listen . . .

  The general said, "My lord, if we lose this battle, something may yet be salvaged. The wizards of the White Council hold out yet. But you are the land; your health is our health. We cannot afford your loss . . ."

  Good advice. Listen to this guy.

  "None may call me coward, " I said. "Where my soldiers go, so go I. " Oh shit.

  He sighed and held a horn out to me. "If you must go, at least fortify yourself beforehand."

  "What is that?" I asked. "Strong spirits, " he said.

  Good idea. If we're going to get ourselves killed, at least . . . "No, " I told him. "I will need all my wits about me. "

  Who is this jackass?

  "Then I will send for tea, " he said.

  The smell of my mother's kitchen as she baked. I sat on a stool and drank the tea, waiting for the cookies to be done. . . .

  No! No! I called my batman to me, and called for my horse . . .

  She pulled out the baking sheet, and there they lay, bubbling a little yet in the heat, roughly circular blobs of dough—they smelled wonderful. Dion take it! Listen to me, you fool . . .

  I bit into one. It burned my tongue a little, but the taste of the raisins and

  Men dying . . . Cinnamon . . .

  Nick sat up. The blanket was on the floor. Someone was pounding on the door. Something about cookies . . .

  "I say!" said the door. "Is anyone about?"

  "Just a goddamn minute," shouted Nick. He pulled on his pants and stumbled over to open the door to his flat.

  The man in the hallway was slight of build. He wore a waistcoat, hose, and a ruffled shirt; his pale blond hair was drawn back in a ponytail. He raised a monocle to his right eye and studied Nick's bare chest and sleepfogged face without approval. "How do you do," he said. "I am Wentworth Secundus Jorgesen, Magister Alchimiae."

  "Already got one," said Nick, and tried to shut the door.

  Wentworth stuck one elegantly shod foot in the jamb. "Ahem," he said. "Perhaps I should explain my presence."

  "Perhaps you should get lost," said Nick.

  "I conducted a simple magical scan of the city this morning," Wentworth said, leaning on the door. "I do it frequently, to recalibrate my equipment. I use the powerful magical loci of the city to orient things, you see."

  Nick stopped pushing. Garni wandered up, wearing nothing but underwear. His beard was mashed flat against his face on one side, and his hair was a mess.

  "What did you find?" asked Nick.

  "An extremely strong magical field is emanating from your flat," said Wentworth.

  Nick and Garni exchanged glances. They both began to push on the door.

  "Damn it!" shouted Wentworth, as his foot was squeezed against the jamb. "I just want to know what's—OW!"

  "Go away," said Garni.

  There was silence for a moment.

  "Look," said Wentworth. "Let my foot out. Please?"

  "Okay," said Nick. He let up the pressure. Wentworth snatched his foot away. Nick slammed the door shut and put his back to it. Garni worked the lock.

  "I'm willing to pay for the information," said the door plaintively. "Sorry," said Garni. "Go away."

  "You're a mess," said Nick. "What?" said the door.

  "Not you," said Nick. "The dwarf. Get lost."

  Nick and Garni waited. After a while they heard footsteps. Garni went to the window and looked out, squinting in the bright morning light. "What do you see?" asked Nick.

  "He's leaving," said Garni. "But he looks kind of . . ." "What?"

  "Determined." "Hell."

  "It occurs to me, young Pratchitt, that we have a problem. If our friend can detect the statue—"

  "So can every other third-rate wizzo i
n the city of Urf Durfal." Nick went to the thundermug and pissed into it.

  "Right you are," said the dwarf. "What are we going to do about it?" "Beats me," said Nick, buttoning his fly. "We'd better tell the others, though."

  Garni crouched in the middle of the room and pried up a floorboard. Beneath the floorboards of their basement flat were timbers, supported at the edge of the building by the foundation; and below them, about three feet of crawl space. Lying on the dirt was the brown-painted statue. It still looked like it was waiting for something unpleasant to happen.

  Garni let the board fall back. "Still there," he grunted. "I think one of us should stay while the other goes to the inn. To make sure nobody nabs it while we're gone."

  Nick went to the basin, poured out a little water stored in a jug, and splashed his face. He began to develop lather from a bar of soap with a brush. "Good idea," he said. "I'll go."

  "You just want breakfast," Garni grumbled, moving back to make his bed.

  Nick stropped the straight razor. "Yup," he said cheerfully.

  It felt nice in the gutter. Thwaite had no desire to move. The sun was warm on his skin. His mind hung somewhere about three cubits up and a bit to the right of his head. The world whirled about in a familiar manner.

  "We'd been on campaign for monthsh," said Vic. He lay in the gutter, too, a few feet from Father Thwaite. Vic was old, toothless, white haired, his face and hands weatherbeaten and worn. "Sho when we found that the villa's pantry wash shtocked with pickled quailsh eggs, crottled greepsh, and caviar, we were pretty excited, as you might imagine."

  Thwaite had trouble believing that Vic had ever been a soldier. The oldster had lived on the streets of Urf Durfal for as long as Thwaite had known him. He had, as far as anyone knew, always been white haired, shrunken, and more than a little senile.

  "When was this, Vic?" Thwaite asked.

  Vic raised his head a little and seemed to regret the motion. The two of them had imbibed a truly impressive quantity of alcohol in the last twenty-four hours. "During the reign of Shtantiush," he said. "Haven't you been lishtening?"

  "Yes, yes, Vic. Stantius the Third?"