Mazerynth

by Jeffery Russell

  “It’s a Dungeoneer market,” Leery said with a note of wonder in her voice.

  Nibbly nodded. “The adventurer version of one, at least. Still looks a fun place to blow some pocket change, though. Even Gong likes buying a shiny new way to kill things now and again to show it off to the lads.”

  They passed the sword shop first. It was a bit of a disappointment but impressive all the same. There were only four swords on offer. But what swords they were! A short blade, a long one, a curved one and a massive one that looked like it would take two hands and possibly an oxbear team to assist with swinging it. They were all done in the same style; a jewel studded gold hilt stylized to look like a bird with spread wings. Blades that gleamed silver, a line of gnostiglyphs etched down the center that glowed with a soft blue light. Nibbly whistled. “Now those are a sight, eh?” He called out to the shopkeeper, an apple-shaped man in red and gold robes. “What are ye looking to get for those?”

  “Twenty maze coins for the small one, forty for each of the ones in the middle and sixty for the large one. Flat rate, no haggling.”

  Nibbly’s face had frozen at the mention of ‘maze coins’ but then shattered at the words ‘no haggling’. He leaned one elbow on the counter which was awkward due to it being at shoulder height for him.

  “What are these ‘maze coins’ you mentioned?”

  “You get one for each successful trip through The Mazerynth,” he said. His voice dropped to a low and rapid patter. “Non-transferable, not exchangeable for other goods or services, void where prohibited.”

  Nibbly’s eyebrows rose enough to make his turban tilt. “One? Each time? So you’d have to go through that thing twenty times just for that dagger there?”

  The merchant’s smile was slow and practiced. “We have more modest rewards available at some of our other stalls. These weapons require dedication and perseverance. A warrior carrying one of these, well, you know they earned it.”

  “Sold many, have you?”

  “The Mazerynth didn’t open for testing until a few months ago and the Maze Coins were only introduced a fortnight past. Participants are limited to two visits per day. I don’t expect my first sale until later this week.”

  “What can a fella get for a single of those maze coins?”

  “We have some novelty keychains available. There are some quite amusing hats that you can get for as few as five.”

  “Interesting. Well, good luck to ya,” Nibbly said, pushing off of the counter. They followed him deeper into the market. They stopped at an armor stall. There were multiple types of armor, again all stylized in a similar manner, each piece sold separately.

  “Full set of armor and a weapon looks like it will set you back around a hundred and fifty of them coins,” Leery said. “And you’d have to go into that dungeon twice a day for near three months to earn it.”

  Ruby nodded and pointed. They’d reach the placard at the end of the line. It bore a list of rules and regulations but the most important was at the top, painted twice the size of all the others. ‘ENTRY FEE.’ Beneath the rules was a display case with a rather fearsome looking guard next to it. Inside was a glittering array of necklaces, rings and crowns. The sign on the case read ‘Amazing Treasure Recovered From The MAZERYNTH! What Will YOU Find?’

  “Something tells me they manage to cover their costs,” Ruby said. Leery nodded but Nibbly wasn’t paying attention. He’d become transfixed by another of the nearby merchant stalls. There were a dozen adventurers in line, waiting to make purchases. The entire inventory of the stall was a rack behind the counter filled with small bottles of bright red liquid.

  “Are those…?” Nibbly’s voice trailed off, his eyes wide. “Are those actual health potions?”

  “Well, that can’t be right,” Leery said. “Health potions ain’t a thing anymore. Heartroot has been extinct for decades. The Mondolanian army ate the last of ‘em when they invaded Lemalia.”

  They watched as a man clad in leathers and chainmail with a large bow slung on his back bought a dozen of the vials and began distributing them into every pocket and pouch that he had.

  “Something is very wrong here,” Nibbly said.

  ***

  The temples and monuments of the city were dark against the last ribbons of sunset when they arrived in camp. The dwarves had taken over the staging yard behind the wharf warehouses and had posted guards and circled the wagons to make camp as if they were deep in the wild. The wagons kept the noise and bustle of Karsin out, leaving a small pocket of dwarfdom. Ruby claimed her preferred spot on a small bench near the fire and began sorting through memories of the day to decide what was worth recording in her journal. It was her preferred spot because it was close enough to Thud’s preferred spot that she got to overhear anything that was said to him while being far enough to avoid the cigar smoke. Thud had a fold-out bench on the side of his wagon and was sitting, mug of ale in one hand, cigar in the other.

  Nibbly sat on a stool next to him, ticking items off on his fingers as he reported. “Limit of six people to a group, can only take in what you can carry so no supply wagons. Estimated to take an hour to complete and they manage to send a new group in once every five minutes or so.”

  Thud’s mouth was hanging open. “And then they got carnival ticket prizes for it?”

  “More or less,” Nibbly said. “Looked like decent enough blades but I know gilt and paste when I see it. This isn’t a dungeon designed to protect anything or to keep something locked up or hidden away. This is a dungeon constructed with the sole purpose of draining money out of the pockets of anyone that goes near it. The adventurers come out loaded with looted gear but it gets sold for pennies and then they turn around and spend that on tanning, smithing and cooking classes. Their best case scenario is a zero-sum game.”

  “House has the odds and the bets are at a fixed rate,” Thud muttered. “Gotta hand it to ‘em. We ran stalls like this at the circus but no one ever tried going large scale with it.”

  “One gold eagle gets you ten non-transferable entry tokens.”

  “Let me guess,” Thud said. “It costs three tokens to get in.”

  “Six! They’re flagrant, Thud. Flagrant!”

  Thud frowned. “How’s that work, then? How do they not have groups tripping over each other in there? Is it just a bunch of traps and practice dummies pretending to be a dungeon?”

  Nibbly extended a rolled scroll. “Got a map.”

  “Of the dungeon?”

  He nodded. “Adventurers have been tromping through it for months to test everything before the grand opening. Still chargin’em to do it, naturally, which is a pretty clever way to get your quality assurance staff to pay you rather than the other way ‘round. Mapped out with monsters and traps all noted, including strategies for defeating them.”

  “How does that work?” Thud asked. He jabbed his finger at a spot on the map. “Adventurers kill off these goblins here and then, what, another group comes along five minutes later and there’s more goblins? Where are they getting all of these goblins?” He poked another spot. “They got a mummy in there too, naturally. Are they just replacing it each time?”

  Nibbly shrugged. “Haven’t worked that out but having a map seems like it will make things easier.”

  Thud nodded and stroked his beard. “True, though I’m seeing less and less reason to go in apart from figuring that bit out.” He puffed on his cigar a bit. “Mungo!”

  “Yes?” came the immediate answer. Mungo had taken to lurking close to Thud as well, ready to seize on any opportunity to earn back some of the trust he’d lost.

  “You’re the one financin’ this venture. It’s seeming clear that if there’s a djinn lamp anywhere in the city then the Mazerynth is the last place anyone would put it. There are a few hundred adventurers an hour crawling through that place.”

  “Frothnozzle is behind it and that’s what makes it of interest,” Mungo said. “Regardless of trappings. If he made this dungeon solely to generate m
oney then I need to figure out what he’s intending to do with that money. So, yes. I still think we should investigate the Mazerynth.”

  “Fair enough,” said Thud. “Guess we’re getting in line tomorrow. Groups of six and no wagons, eh? I’ll get Gong and Keezix to start sorting that out. Not enough numbers and gear for our standard supply-line tactic.”

  Ruby was pleased with herself for getting his meaning, mostly due to her having seen Thud’s preferred way of approaching a dungeon. The dwarves favored a room by room approach, neutralizing all hazards in the room then setting up barricades and making it their own. They didn’t so much explore dungeons as take them over and pack up the furniture while working to evict the squatters.

  “One more thing,” Nibbly said. “I saved the best for last.” He handed Thud one of the red bottles.

  “Is this…?”

  “Sure looks like it, doesn’t it?”

  “You ain’t tried it yet?”

  “Stones, no. If it ain’t what it looks like then I don’t want to be drinking whatever it actually is. And if it IS what it looks like then I’m not sure I want to waste it.”

  Thud popped the cork on the bottle and sniffed it. “Smells right. That ain’t a smell you forget easy. Give it to Giblets and tell Gammi to give him a hand. Them two are the closest we got to alchemists.”

  “You’re going to trust Giblets with that?” Ruby asked. “And the cook?” Giblets did seem to know his science, she had to admit, but he was in possession of about as much sanity as a rabid munkweasel. And Gammi would be the one to try and make that munkweasel into a pasta dish.

  “Aye,” Thud said. “Alchemy’s what boiled his brains in the first place. That or some daring mixology. Not sure to this day if he was trying to create a potion or a cocktail but he’s been giggling at his toes ever since. And regardless of what you think about his cooking there’s no one like Gammi to taste or sniff something and suss out what went into it.” Thud arched an eyebrow at the gnome. “In the meantime I believe we’ve got a grand opening party to get to.”

  Chapter Six

  Durham’s stomach was twisting with anxiety at the prospect of the party. Conversations were not something he was good at. Once opinions on the weather and the food were established he ran out of topics and ended up lurking in corners with a plate of crackers and sausages. But now night had fallen to the sound of temple bells and it was time.

  The street leading to the grand-opening celebration was lined with hanging lanterns creating a path of gold for attendees to follow. It was not to be a small event. The stream of people following the route was steady, some in pairs, some in trios. Mostly local, by their look. The women wore brilliantly white robes, crisp and creased, wide sashes of colored silk around their waists and jewels glittering in their hair. The men wore colorful linen suits and turbans, golden rings and bracelets, mustaches and beards stiff and gleaming. Mixed in between the groups were servants bearing teak and brass palanquins to mark the extra wealthy, or at least those willing to pay to appear that way. Guards lined the sides of the road, separating the party-goers from the gawkers. The wealth of Kohmen-Te was on parade and the uninvited were out to see the show.

  There were a few adventurers mixed in with the party-goers, ones that had the look of success about them. Their shining armor, sumptuous robes and capes made them stand out. Curiously, many of them were wearing identical sets of blue shoes. Durham wondered if the shoes were one of the more affordable pieces of Mazerynth souvenir gear.

  He stepped out into the flow of traffic, Mungo and Thud following just behind him. Durham wore an ornate black robe salvaged from a previous dungeon job. Mungo was wearing a borrowed turban from Nibbly. Thud had swapped out his top hat and long-tailed coat for a derby and a vest.

  “So,” Durham said. “What’s the situation with the blue shoes?”

  “If I were to hazard a guess,” Thud said, “It has to do with them getting an invitation. Traditional with events like these to give adventurers a bit of a runaround before letting ‘em in. Gets ‘em invested in the idea that it’s an event of importance and that they should behave themselves. They usually have to run a few errands for a noble or two and as a reward they get an invitation and a gift. My guess is that one noble handled the whole affair and he was giving out blue festival shoes. Maybe had ‘em clean things up a bit, repair a bench or two, kill some rats, that sort o’ thing. Festival shoes ain’t something you normally pack in your kit so here they all are with their blue shoes. The noble probably got ‘em from a local cobbler for free so they can get them out and visible. Everyone standing along this street watching is thinking to themselves, ‘Wow, them blue shoes are popular with heroic adventurers. If I want to feel like a heroic adventurer I should buy some!’”

  Durham poked Thud’s shoulder. “Stop ranting, we’re almost there.”

  “Aye.” The dwarf puffed at his mustaches and strode to get a pace or two in front of them. The street ended at the wharf just ahead, a guard separating the two and checking invitations before allowing anyone past him. Moored in the dock beyond was…well, calling it a ship didn’t quite seem to cover the scope of the thing. Two great barge hulls side by side with what looked to be an entire palace built atop them. Four stories of ornate architecture and greenery, bright with lights and laughter and music. They were at the stern-end, the stream of people before them following the wharf around the ship’s starboard side to a wide gangplank midway. There was a port-side pier as well where jars of wine were being loaded.

  Thud stepped up to the guard and presented the pair of invitations.

  The guard looked down at them but made no move to take them.

  “I see two invitations,” he said.

  “Aye.” Thud gestured behind him. “One for the King of Tanahael and one for Tanahael’s greatest merchant-prince.”

  “There’s three of you.”

  “You don’t think a king travels on his own, do ye? I’m the dwarfservant. We’re like a manservant but we cost more and tell better jokes. Now if you’ll point me to the servant’s entrance on that thing I’ll happily be out of the way of me betters.”

  “Far stern gangplank, portside,” the guard said pointing at a location a vast distance away. “Behave yourself.” He directed a smile and a bow at the king and the merchant-prince, gesturing them in. “Straight ahead, your majesty. Your servant will be well cared for.”

  Durham gave the slightest of nods with his head, enough to be a visible acknowledgment but not enough to convey any sign of respect beyond that. The nod of a superior. Durham had been on the receiving end of the nod enough times that mimicking it was effortless. It served its purpose. The guard’s attention immediately shifted to the next group in line. Thud was already striding off toward the pier, whistling, rings of cigar smoke lingering in his wake.

  Durham began along the wharf toward the entry ramp at a pace he felt suitably regal. It doubled its benefit by being a speed Mungo could keep up with. The gnome spy strode alongside, hands clasped behind his back and chin jutting out. Mungo’s idea of how a merchant-prince would walk. Durham had limited experience with merchant-princes but it seemed accurate enough.

  “Our goal here,” Mungo said, “is to determine why my intelligence contact brought tickets for it.”

  “And got assassinated,” Durham added, feeling that was important.

  “They might even be connected.”

  “So we’re just looking around for anything…spyish?” Durham asked, not sure if that was the word he wanted. Espionagey?

  “I anticipate Frothnozzle will be in attendance at the opening of his masterpiece. Additionally, an enormous amount of money was involved in constructing that dungeon. We want to find out why. My expectation is that the source of that funding will be here as well.”

  “There was an enormous amount of money spent in constructing this party-barge as well,” Durham said. “Money doesn’t seem a thing in short supply for the Knearaoh.”

  “A privilege of
being the deity of luxury one suspects.”

  “You are not sounding like a merchant-prince. Give it some practice.”

  “Ah,” Mungo said in a deep voice. “Excellent idea.”

  “No,” Durham said. “Regular voice. You’re still a gnome.”

  “Fine. We’ll split up once we’re onboard. Meet in one hour by the entrance.”

  The gangplank was wide and led up to a starboard deck that glittered with colored sprays of light from hanging strings of crystal beads. The onboard palace rose gracefully above a portico with pillars painted with bright animals. They passed through to a central plaza-deck that spanned the spot where the two ship hulls met. An ornately painted statue of Knearaoh Khomen stood over the aft end of the plaza, rabbit-head overlooking the room. Scores of laughing and talking guests circled a large ornamental pool in the center, lily-pad lanterns scattering the water amid floating pink blossoms. Musicians played from each corner and servants danced through with trays of food and drinks. Mungo strode off into the crowd, turban bobbing its way into a world of knees. Durham turned and started walking the other way. He wasn’t at all sure what he was supposed to be doing. What would a spy do? Find someone suspicious to follow? Lurk behind a curtain and watch the room? He defaulted to seeking the nearest refreshment table. He didn’t have to go far to find one. The entire perimeter of the plaza was lined with food.

  He wandered past the table bearing a roast crocodile stuffed with fruit then lingered to gawk at a table laden with flamingo drumsticks, bent at the knee and floating in broth. They were arrayed in a circle, giving the arrangement the look of a gangly spider with webbed feet.

  He settled on the third table, a more approachable array of olives and cheeses with smoked and spiced meats. Eavesdropping was easy enough and seemed a good place to start. This table attracted a steadier stream of visitors than the table with the flamingo spider. Durham took up position near a plate of meatballs and pickled lotus root. It was flanked with pots of mustard and a suspicious looking cheese-log. Two men stood nearby, delicately picking over a plate of tiny sausages impaled on sticks. One was tall with a purple robe and matching turban, the other shorter and rounder in a tunic that shimmered white. Durham strained to overhear their conversation while occupying his hands with taking a sample of the cheese-log.