Another Day, Another Dungeon Page 9

  "That'sh right, heh heh," Vic cackled. "How old do you think I am, anyway?"

  Thwaite contemplated this while Vic continued with his interminable story. Stantius III had ruled close to two millennia ago. No one was that old. Thwaite smiled woozily and took another slug of his Chateau d'Alfar '08. It was good wine, one of the finest white Linfalians on the market, a premier cru of the elvish appellation-not the usual beverage of your gutter-dwelling wino.

  The wine was all that was left of his fortune. He'd been rich, twenty-four hours ago. That was how long it had taken him to blow his share of the treasure. A fair portion had gone on the booze he, Vic, and half the neighborhood had downed over the night; but the bulk had gone to better cause. Many a poor family would wake up this morning with a coin or two that had none the night before. Many a starveling cat napped contentedly, the remnants of a fish head in its stomach. Two urchins now had apprenticeships with respectable artisans. And the temple had funds enough to sponsor at least four feasts.

  All, of course, in humble obedience to Thwaite's ecclesiastical instructions. He had precisely sixpence left.

  A boot shoved him in the ribs. "I might have known I'd find you here," said a voice. "Drunk in the gutter."

  Thwaite dimly made out a face. "Good morning, Sidney," he said. "Come on," she said. "We've got to get to Kraki's inn."

  "All right," said Thwaite. He rose, stumbled a few paces, and fell to his knees.

  "Going, Geoffrey?" said Vic.

  "I'm afraid so, Vic," mumbled Thwaite, trying to get on his feet again. "There wash shomething you shaid lasht night," said Vic, sitting up on one elbow. "Shomething about . . ."

  Sidney helped Thwaite up and steadied him on his feet. "What? "Shomething about . . ."

  They began to walk off, Thwaite quite unsteadily, Sidney half holding him up.

  "About a shtatue!" said Vic, triumphant at remembering.

  "What?" demanded Sidney, turning. "Father! You know you're not supposed to—"

  "A shtatue. What wash it you shaid?" said Vic.

  "I'm sorry, Sidney," said Thwaite, not particularly repentently. "I must have been—"

  "Drunk," she said. "That's not much of an excuse, Father, given that you're drunk almost all the time."

  "You have to tell me about the shtatue!" said Vic, clawing at Thwaite's robes from his position in the gutter.

  "Forget it," said Sidney, shoving him away with her boot. "It'sh important," Vic said.

  "What could be important to a bum in the gutter?" she said. She flipped him a ha'penny coin. "Shut up and forget about it." She frog-marched Thwaite away, giving him what for.

  "Shtatue," Vic muttered to himself, sitting on the slate curb. He shook his head, trying to clear it. My memory ishn't what it ushed to be, that'sh the problem, he thought. Why, I remember when . . . Remember when . . . Well, anyway, my memory ishn't what is ushed to be.

  There was a shtatue once, a shtatue. And I was . . . Wait! Vic looked up and blinked. There, in the center of the fountain, was a statue. No, that'sh not it, he thought. It was only Roderick II, the father of the current grand duke, caught in heroic bronze (as well as, it should be said, Roderick's charger, Valiant, a horse every bit as notable as the grand duke). The statue had been there for decades, gradually turning green and gaining a thick coat of bird droppings.

  A pigeon stood on the cobblestones in front of Vic. It turned its head aside and studied Vic out of one eye. Vic pulled a crust out of his pocket and extended it to the bird. The pigeon hesitated, then made a grab for it. "Unh uh," said Vic. "Shay pleashe."

  The pigeon studied him. Vic waggled his fingers and said a Word. "Shay pleashe," he repeated.

  "Please?" said the pigeon. Vic gave it the crust.

  "Thanks, mac," said the pigeon, pecking at the bread.

  Corcoran Evanish blinked. The maitre d' was a cyclops. Evanish hadn't expected a nonhuman, but the creature looked suitably impressive in formal attire. Corcoran felt quite out of place. The foyer was elaborately decorated, the walls covered with murals, the ceiling adorned with plaster friezes.

  The cyclops studied the man's drab velveteen cloak and worn shoon. "May I help you, sir," he said, his tone clearly intimating that the only help likely to be forthcoming was a foot to the seat of the pants to assist Evanish out the door.

  "Yes," said Evanish hesitantly. "I'm here to see Ross Montiel."

  The cyclops raised one eyebrow. This was only natural, as he had but one. "Yes, sir," he said dubiously. "Follow me, if you will, sir." He led the way into the restaurant beyond.

  It was of unusual construction, built of large sheets of glass held together with black-painted cast-iron frames. The impact was light, airy, perhaps dangerously insubstantial. The novel architecture was permitted by a recently discovered alchemical process for the manufacture of flawless sheets of glass.

  The morning sun shone brightly through the glass roof; from the floor rose plants, gaudy flowers, whole trees shading tables. Lizardmen bounded about the floor, clad in black coats, bearing platters of food and dirty dishes.

  "Hi, Corky," said Montiel in a high-pitched, piping voice as he looked up from his menu. He sprang to his feet—all three-foot six of him—and said, "Sit down, sit down." The elf smiled in the usual goofy elfin fashion; despite himself, Evanish smiled back.

  Montiel had always been a cipher to Evanish; his mannerisms were typically elven—sweet, merry, a little twee. Yet he had become one of the biggest crime lords in Urf Durfal, intimately involved in prostitution, smash-and-grab operations, fencing, and the numbers. Evanish found it difficult to reconcile the image of sweetness that the elvenkind seemed determined to maintain with Montiel's vicious reputation. How the creature himself managed to live with the conflict was beyond Evanish's comprehension.

  They sat. Corcoran studied the menu. "How are ya?" piped Montiel. "Fine, fine," said Corcoran, buried in the folder. "Customs duty isn't the most challenging job in the world."

  "Oh, but you're good at it," said Montiel enthusiastically, waving over a lizardman. "And how's the missus?"

  Corcoran peered over the menu in some surprise. "I'm not married," he said.

  "Oh, sorry," said Montiel vaguely. "Why don't you stop by Madame Laura's sometime? Tell them I sent you."

  Corcoran colored. "Er, I'll keep it in mind," he said. "Yeth, thir?" said the waiter.

  "I'll have the oat bran with assorted fruits," piped Montiel. "And some of your yummy herbal tea."

  "Yeth, thir," said the waiter, scribbling on a pad. "And you, thir?" "Ah, two eggs. Over easy. And a rasher of bacon, please," said Corcoran.

  "Tea?" asked the lizard.

  "Please." The lizard bounded away.

  Montiel peered at Evanish with wounded eyes. "Oh, Corky," he said sadly. "Your diet is going to be the death of you."

  "What?" said Corcoran with some embarrassment.

  Montiel shook his head. He stood on the table, and leaned over to poke Corcoran's stomach. "You need to get some fiber in there," he said. "You're eating nothing but fat. Fat fat fat."

  Corcoran rubbed his stomach. "I'm not fat," he said.

  "No, but you will be," said Montiel, retaking his seat. "Look at the typical middle-aged human. Overweight, gouty, ruddy jowls. Years of poor diet."

  "Well . . ." said Corcoran, but Montiel was not to be interrupted. "Animal flesh is poison!" he squeaked. "Do you know how they raise pigs in this country?"

  Corcoran had a fair idea, but preferred not to think about it.

  "There's a practice knows as `pigs following cows,' " piped the elf, "Cows aren't very efficient about turning feed into flesh. There's still a lot of nutritional value in their dung."

  Corcoran began to turn green. "Please," he said.

  "So they feed it to the pigs, which are much more efficient. Pigs can not only survive on the stuff, but thrive."

  Corcoran swallowed and rubbed his eyes. The food arrived. The bacon was still sizzling.

  Montiel stabbed in the direc
tion of the bacon with his spoon. "Bullshit," he squeaked. "That's what you're eating." He began to spoon up his oat bran.

  Corcoran pushed his bacon around with his fork. "I have some information that may be of value to you," he said.

  Montiel swallowed a mouthful of peaches and said, "Uh huh?"

  "A . . . highly magical object of considerable value was taken out of the caverns yesterday."

  "Oh, yeah?" said Montiel, his attention firmly on Corcoran. "How much value?"

  Corcoran cleared his throat and took a swallow of tea. "Immense value," he said. "I couldn't begin to estimate."

  "What do you want for the information?"

  Corcoran considered. "Five pounds argentum, " he said. "Does anyone else have this information?"

  "Other than the party which found the item? I don't believe so." "Okeydokey." They settled on four pounds ten.

  Kraki stumbled into the taproom. He went to the bar, leaned over, grabbed a glass, and filled it with porter. He drained the glass, filled it again, and sat heavily down at a table. He leaned back in the chair. It creaked under his weight.

  The innkeeper approached. He was walleyed. Both eyes seemed to do their best not to focus on Kraki. The man crouched a little and wiped his hands repeatedly on his apron. "Excuse me, honorable," he said in a quaver, ready to run if necessary.

  "Yah," said Kraki and took a gulp of the beer.

  "Please, sor," said the innkeeper miserably. "I hate to bring it up, really I do, but it's been weeks and weeks, and this inn were not too profitable, you know, my wife and I—"

  "Stop vhining," said Kraki, looking at the innkeeper for the first time. The man cringed. "Sorry, sorry, forget I said a thing," he said and began to scuttle away. He still bore bruises from the last time he'd mentioned Kraki's tab.

  Kraki nabbed the innkeeper by one arm. "Vhat is it?" Kraki said, shaking the man.

  "It . : ." said the innkeeper. Then, he drew a deep breath. "It were your bill, sor."

  Kraki hurled the innkeeper to the floor.

  "Bah!" he shouted in disgust. "This is vhat civilization is all about. Money money money!" He hurled a purse at the innkeeper. It hit the man in the head and raised a lump. "Here," he said. "Have your damn money."

  The innkeeper grabbed the purse and, blubbering, crawled for the kitchen. He noticed that the purse was rather heavy. He stopped, opened it, and peered within.

  It was filled with gold coins. He gaped. Slowly, he poured the contents on the floor and began to count.

  It was a bloody fortune. It would buy the tavern several times over. He gulped and looked at Kraki, who was getting more beer from the bar. The innkeeper swallowed and put the gold back in the purse.

  He went to Kraki and patted the barbarian on the back. "Thank you, sor," he said. "Thank you." He leaned closer and said, "You can stay as long as you bloody like." Then, he scuttled away.

  Kraki shrugged, watching the man go. He would never figure out why these people did what they did. He drained his glass.

  II

  The foreign minister and the ambassador from the County Palatine of Ishkabibble were gabbling about something, but Grand Duke Mortimer paid them no attention. He frowned at his plate and peeled the egg away with his silver fork. He peered at the mushroom thus revealed through the magnifying glass he kept on his watch fob. It was a simple mushroom omelet, prepared with the dreadfully plebeian Agaricus campestris—but the crown of the mushroom, he could see, had receded noticeably from the stem. He pursed his lips. How vulgar, he thought. This was a sign of age. The mushroom must have been picked several days previously. As such, it was perfectly suitable for use in a sauce or soup, but no longer quite delicate enough for direct consumption, as in an omelet. There was no excuse for this, Mortimer thought; before the chef sliced the mushroom, he must have been able to see the dark gills of the campestris, themselves a clear signal of age. I will have to have a chat with the chef de cuisine, he thought.

  He turned to the Baroness Veronee, who seemed uninterested in her own omelet. "I do wish you'd join me this morning," he said. The baroness was ravishing in a high-collared red velvet dress, which set off her pale skin most wonderfully, as did the black lace veil that covered but did not hide her aquiline features. "I have a most unusual Amanita, " he said. "Grown from spores imported from Far Moothlay. I had difficulty establishing it at first, but it seems to do very well on horse dung." To the joy of Urf Durfal's criminal class, the Grand Duke of Athelstan's only abiding interest was mycology, the study of mushrooms and other fungi. The dungeons beneath Castle Durf were now largely given over to his studies, packed full with dung, humus, and pale fungal growth. Whenever the grand duke needed room for a new variety, another dozen criminals were pardoned.

  "It does sound wonderful, Morty," said the baroness, resting one crimson-nailed hand on his arm and hiding a yawn with the other, "but I've been up all night at the most ennuyeux ball. I really must retire shortly."

  Sir Ethelred Ethelbert, the current foreign minister, sighed heavily and pinched the bridge of his nose. "If you please, my liege," he said, "the situation in Ishkabibble is most grave."

  "Sorry, sorry," said the grand duke, a little guilty that he hadn't been paying attention. "What exactly is the problem?" he said.

  The ambassador threw up his hands and began to eat his omelet, which had grown cold while he waited.

  Sir Ethelred smiled grimly and spoke through his teeth. "The Great Evil Empire," he said, enunciating carefully, "is on the move. After centuries of quiescence, it has once again invaded human lands."

  "Yes, yes," said Mortimer, taking off his glasses and polishing them with his handkerchief, "but what has that got to do with us?"

  "The County Ishkabibble is fighting valiantly against a combined force of orcs and trolls," said Sir Ethelred. "The capital city of Ish is under siege."

  "We will fall," said the ambassador through his omelet. "And soon." "Unless," said Sir Ethelred, "help is forthcoming from other human realms."

  "You frighten me," said Baroness Veronee, placing her right hand above her left breast. The grand duke watched both hand and breast avidly. "Surely we are in no danger here."

  The foreign minister shook his greasy locks. "No immediate danger, I assure you, my lady. Nonetheless, should the forces of darkness go unchecked . . ."

  "What have our military men to say?" said Mortimer.

  Major Yohn looked up, a stricken expression on his face. He commanded the Fifth Frontier Warders, recently returned from the suppression of the Meep banditti. He was thoroughly enjoying his time at court: he'd spent close to two years in the field, sleeping in mud and picking fleas out of his hair, and Urf Durfal was heaven by comparison. There was superb food, wine, women . . . his only real problem was keeping his battle-hardened men from getting out of hand. Carousing was one thing, but they'd nearly destroyed a tavern three days ago.

  Yohn was no courtier. He was a potter's son. He'd joined the army because he'd been taken in by all that guff about visiting exotic places and rising rapidly through the ranks. The idea of talking directly to the grand duke filled him with dismay.

  He was thankful, therefore, when General Carruthers spoke up. Carruthers commanded the Ducal Guard. The Guard was permanently stationed at Castle Durf; the only action it had seen any time in the last three decades was against the citizens of the city, who rioted from time to time, usually around Carnival.

  "Hah!" said Carruthers, and snorted through his mustache. "Orcs and scum. Send us to Ish, my liege! We'll put the blighters down in no time." Yohn rolled his eyes. The force besieging Ish was the largest army anyone had seen in centuries. The average age of the Ducal Guard was thirty-five. Most of them had a hard time squeezing into their breastplates. Membership in the Guard was a sinecure for successful bourgeoisie and petty nobles. Faced with anything but unarmed rabble, they'd probably turn tail and flee.

  "Good, good," said Mortimer. "What about the others?"

  Sir Ethelred closed his eyes brie
fly. "What others, Your Grace?" "Hamsterburg, Alcala, Stralhelm-you know."

  "Ishkabibble is appealing for aid to all of the human lands, Your Grace. And to the elves and white orcs as well."

  The ambassador sighed heavily but did not speak.

  "War." The Baroness shuddered and took a sip of red wine.

  Mortimer watched her red lips part and licked his own. He shook his head. "Let the closer lands bear the burden," he said.

  "Your Grace," said Sir Ethelred, somewhat distressed. "I must advise—"

  "No," said Mortimer petulantly. "Enough of this. If there's a grand alliance or something . . . But for now . . ."

  Yohn mulled this over and took a sip of the grand duke's superb Alcalan red. Mortimer kept a good cellar. Gods knew, Yohn had no desire to see action again any time soon. But any idiot could see that Sir Ethelred was right. Yohn toyed with the idea of resigning his commission and heading for Ish himself.

  A page boy charged into the room. Two guards intercepted him. He ran headlong into the breastplate of one. "Sorry," he gasped, rubbing his head. "Message for the minister." The guards let him through, and he went to Sir Ethelred. Ethelred took a piece of paper from the boy, put on pincenez, and peered at the message.

  "Most extraordinary," muttered Sir Ethelred. "What is it?" said the grand duke testily.

  Sir Ethelred peered at him over the glasses. "My liege, the Sceptre of Stantius is glowing."

  "What?" asked Baroness Veronee in a low voice.

  Sir Ethelred looked at her. "Just came over the news crystal," he said.

  He cleared his voice and read. " `Oyez, oyez, oyez. Chief Herald, Free City Hamsterburg. Let it be known throughout the human lands that the Sceptre of Stantius, symbol of the True King of Mankind, glows once again, foretelling the imminent accession of a new king. More to follow. Thirty.' "

  "Thirty?" asked Mortimer. "What's that?"

  "It means, `the end,"' explained a minor counsellor.

  "If they mean `the end,"' complained Mortimer, "why don't they just say . . . My dear! But we've just finished breakfast."

  "I am sorry, Morty," said Baroness Veronee, rising to leave, "but I must go.