by David Cook
The others strained, hearing nothing.
“Ikri …”
There was a voice, faint and distant.
“Ikrit …”
From somewhere in the depths of the tunnels, a woman was calling.
“Ikrit!”
Pinch looked at the blasted white mass that choked the passage ahead. The quaggoth had been going somewhere, but not to Manferic. There was only one other choice. “The woman …”
“What? What woman, Pinch?” Sprite demanded.
“Lady Tulan, my mother,” was the answer.
“By the Morninglord,” Lissa gasped, “your mother’s down here? I thought you were an orphan.”
“It’s a long tale to tell now.” Pinch dismissed it with a wave of his rotted hand. His dead eyes suddenly glowed with cold light, a small spark of the willpower he’d inherited from his father. “We’ve got to find her. I know what revenge Manferic deserves.”
“He’s gone maundering. Wit’s left him,’ Maeve whispered to Therin.
“Comes from being dead.” The Gur tensed his muscular frame, just sensing the need if Pinch got violent.
“I’m not mad,” their corpse-bodied leader growled, surprising them with the insight of his senses. “Just help me get back my proper body and I’ll nip what Manferic and Vargo prize most. The first thing is to find my mother.”
“Think she’ll take a ghoul as a son?” The halfling, who had raised the question, didn’t figure the query needed an answer. He was just reminding his captain of the realities of the situation.
“Gods’ pizzle,” he swore, “she can’t see me like this! She’ll think I’m Manferic.” Pinch flapped the rags that hung on his body, waving his frustration.
“Leave her and we’ll be out of here,” Therin suggested.
“Mask curse you!” the regulator swore with a clear vehemence that was undimmed by his lipless elocution. “She’s my mother.”
“Yesterday she could’ve been a common stew for all you cared then!” Therin snapped back.
“Therin, he’s got a plan,” Sprite interceded, laying a hand on the bigger’s arm. The small face looked up with ridiculously large eyes: Sprite’s playing his looks for the sympathy of the crowd. “If we don’t help him, then there ain’t none of us like to get out of Ankhapur alive. It’s you who should go find this Lady Whatever.”
“Me?”
“You’ve a way with ladies. Besides, you think she’d heed me, only a halfling?”
“I’ll go, too,” Lissa volunteered, trying to do the noble thing.
“No—Maeve, go with Therin,” Pinch ordered, treating the suggestion a done deal. “I’ll need you, priestess, if we’re going to be facing a lich.”
“And what if I should say no?” Therin asked.
“Relish the rest of your life down here, do you?” Sprite added. When Therin frowned, the halfling added, “Then get going.”
“How’m I supposed to find my way out?”
“She’ll know the way,” Pinch growled, flashing his yellow teeth through a cold smile of hunger. “Just be at the Rite of Choosing.
“He’s right, Therin. Let’s go.” Maeve gathered up a lantern and waited for the Gur to come.
The regulator immediately dispensed with them and turned to Sprite-Heels and Lissa. “I’ll need you two with me. Sprite, can you pace us out to someplace other than my rooms?”
The halfling nodded. “Couldn’t get this lot back into your kip, so I had to find another way in. That’s what kept us from …” Sprite let it trail off as he wasn’t sure it was good business to raise his failures up right now, especially since Pinch hadn’t fared too well.
“Then stop prattling and go. Late off the start’s almost cost the race already.”
There was a disconcerting way to Pinch’s saying it that gave life to the blue-gray pallor of his skin. He was a cold thing with a hunger that was only going to be satiated with cold revenge.
Coronation Day
Sprite moved with uncanny confidence through the twisting passages, rejecting branches Pinch thought looked more likely. The rogue had no choice but to trust his lieutenant. The others stayed ahead of him, unwilling to look on his terrible visage any more than they had to.
At length they reached a dead-end. “Here,” Sprite held the light to the polished stone. An iron ring was set in the wall. More to the point, with his newly sensitive sight the transmigrated rogue easily traced the outline of the jamb, where the cracks let the least glimmer of light in. Even Sprite, with his talent for finding things, probably couldn’t see the outlines.
“Beyond’s a side courtyard not far from your apartment—”
“The rite’ll be held in the main feast hall.”
Pinch seized the iron ring and pulled as hard as he thought was right, forgetting his body’s strength in the process. The door flew open with nary a sound. Whoever had engineered this entry was a master, for the heavy, veined marble slid with ease. Pinch practically tumbled backward from the lack of resistance.
The courtyard beyond was lit by the palest of moonlight that barely reached over the high buildings enclosing the artificial forest within. Verdant shrubs filled squat pots, and fine-leaved trees waved gently to the rhythm of the splashing fountain in the far wall. Moon-flowers spread their ivory petals to absorb the night. Caged birds hung from the beam ends all around, and a few nightingales woke to sing their arrival. As the door gaped wider than was needed to spy, Sprite and Pinch both scrambled into the shadows, acting on years of larcenous instinct. Had an observer been in the small garden, he would have assumed that Lissa alone had managed the great door. Fortunately, there were no observers.
When there was no alarm, the two rogues moved quickly through the potted jungle, getting the lay of the land. Of the three other doors, one in each wall, two led to nothing, just rooms shuttered up for the night. The third was a gate of wrought iron that opened on the avenue linking the Great Hall to the world beyond the palace gates. The pair took care not to be noticed, for there was a steady stream of revelers all bound in the direction of the feast.
Pinch was just checking the oil on the gate hinges before opening it when Sprite touched his arm. The halfling had a cloth from his sleeve to cover his face. “Wisely good, but how you going to get around, Pinch? You ain’t your inconspicuous self.”
Lissa, who’d kept herself silent and distant to this point, added, “You’ve got the stench of death to you, too.”
Pinch’s smile was an awkward grimace. “Sprite, boy, do you know what day it is in Ankhapur?”
“Some sort of festival, Pinch.”
“It’s the Festival of Wealth, my halfling friend. For one day, the fine citizens of Ankhapur celebrate the gods of money with food, drink, and masked balls.”
“So?”
Pinch looked to Lissa, mindful of her disapproval as he spoke his true mind. “We’re thieves, boy—scoundrels. Out there the streets are filled with folks in costumery—gowns, cloaks, and … masks.”
“Who just need a little persuading to help us out.” A sly smile enriched the halfling’s face. “ ’Struth, Pinch. I’m sure some kindly generous souls truly want to help us.”
“Ankhapur is noted for its generosity.” The dead-bodied rogue nodded, flaking little hunks of his neck as he did. “All it takes is a little proper explaining.”
“So how are we planning to get them in here? Nobody trusts a halfling—”
“And I’d scare them off.”
The pair turned to look at Lissa.
“No. No—you’re not suggesting I go out there and—”
“Our need is great,” Pinch croaked.
“It’s only once,” Sprite added.
“It’s a sin in the eyes of the Morninglord!” she resisted, shaking her head.
“Maybe he’s not looking. Gods can get awfully busy, you know.” The halfling at her side couldn’t help being flip, and for it she gave him a wicked glare.
“I suppose Ankhapur will manage.” Pi
nch tried for a sigh of resignation, but without breath it sounded more like a quack. “And I’ll get used to living in the tombs, where I won’t have to walk the streets and listen to the screams of the women and run from the swords of men. The tombs are quiet. I’ll have lots of time to … sit.”
Sprite sniffed.
“Enough!” Lissa threw up her hands. “I’ll do it. I just want you to know, you’re vile and evil and I hate you both!”
The two rogues, one dead, the other short and shiftless, smiled and did their best to look angelic.
“That’s not very fair,” Sprite sniffed, his tears turning to wounded honor before they’d even welled up in his eyes. “We’re only this way because there’s no other—”
“You are a person to rely on,” Pinch extolled. It was best to shut the halfling up before he changed her mind for her. With a hand on her arm he steered her toward the gate. “Be quick—three people, our size, with masks.” Before she could have regrets, he gently pushed her into the street.
Fifteen minutes later, three revelers, two men and a woman, one short, two tall, hurried toward the Great Hall. The woman wore a delicate domino mask and a gown that didn’t fit quite well, too tight at the bodice and too long in the leg. The tall man was resplendent as a great black raven with a golden-beaked mask and a coif of feathers that flowed down into a lustrous black cloak that served well to hide the grimy clothes underneath. The little man waddled along, trying to keep up with the others, his effort constantly hindered by the papier mâché head that was as big as him. His tabard jingled with every step as the bell-stitched hem dragged on the ground. The shiny, grinning jester’s face lolled drunkenly, threatening to decapitate itself at any moment.
“Wonderful choice,” the short one groused. The nasal voice had a dead echo like the inside of a barrel. “It’s not like you could have found a worse disguise—”
“Sprite, stow that,” snapped the raven in truly dead tones. “Be thankful to Lissa she found anything.”
“Oh, I should be thankful that I’m going to die dressed like this.” The halfling struggled to avoid tripping over his jingling hem, casting an envious eye at the ease with which the priestess handled her oversized gown. “You know, Pinch, I’m not so sure this fighting a lich thing is such a good idea. I mean, you could just stay like that. You’d get used to it after a while and it’s got some positive advantages. Think about the insurance we could run. There wouldn’t be no sensible merchant who’d withhold a payment from anyone who looked like you. We could run ourselves a nice system, me and Therin fronting it and you taking the collection—”
“Sprite—stay your rattling trap!”
So much was the vehemence in that voice that the halfling squeaked quiet.
“We do this to save Ankhapur,” Lissa announced to no one except perhaps herself. She spoke with the virtuous certainty that comes upon the sinner determined to redeem herself. “There will be no turning back or backsliding now. Understand, little one?”
From inside the bloated plaster head came a sour grumble that lapsed into silence, but the halfling kept pace with the others.
The entrance to the Great Hall was thick with the royal guard, loyal soldiers standing in rows like overdressed mannequins. Pinch’s teeth ground like millstones as they fell into the line of guests passing through the doors. A guard captain briefly scanned each reveler as he or she passed. With his keen scent for the law, Pinch spotted others who were doing a miserable job of being inconspicuous: several servants who lingered in the foyer with too little to do, and a robed “guest” who lounged in the hall. Probably hired warriors and a mage, and probably loyal to Vargo, just in case he needed to force his ascension. Pinch had not forgotten Iron-Biter’s suggestion to take the crown by force if necessary.
Still, the lot looked distinctly uncomfortable, no doubt because their commander, Iron-Biter, hadn’t shown. That pleased Pinch, thinking of the consternation that must be going through Vargo’s ranks because their lord’s right-hand man had failed to appear.
The captain, seeing only another group of celebrants, waved them by with hardly a glance. Their ill-fitting outfits were beyond notice in the garish crowd that surrounded them. There were mock medusas, gold-festooned dwarves, even a hulking lizard man clutching a goblet in its taloned hand. Pinch judged that, from the interest the lizard showed in the ladies, many of whom had dressed to reveal and not disguise, that this guest was an enterprising wizard with a polymorph spell and not a true emissary of that reptilian race.
Once past the guards, the three slipped easily through the packed crowd. Everyone was here and everyone was gay. The rogue figured he could make a year’s profit from the jewelry that dripped from the arms, necks, ankles, and ears of those around him. With so much temptation at hand, Pinch kept a wary eye on his small friend, although the halfling’s oversized plaster head seemed an effective restraint.
When they finally squeezed into the Great Hall, past the ballrooms where the dancers turned to stately pavanes, past the tables creaking with roasts and pastries, and past the choke in the hallway, every head was craned for a view of the four princes on their thrones. Raised up on a broad dais, the four looked through their masks upon the crowd with the unconcealed habits of their natures radiating in their very poses. Vargo, foremost of the lot, awaited the ceremony with keen expectation, confident that he would be supreme no matter what the outcome. Throdus and Marac sat in their places with distinct unease, well cautioned of their brother’s plans and perfectly aware of their own weakness to oppose him. Bors always loved the festival. The bright colors, music, and food appealed to his childish spirit. He laughed and giggled in his seat, but the importance of the occasion was lost on him.
It wasn’t hard to spot their quarry. Cleedis—or rather, not-Cleedis—stood behind Bors, playing the part of the faithful retainer. Manferic, inside Pinch’s shell and cloaked as the old chamberlain, did a masterful job of masquerading as his former servant. The princes wore masks, but the thing posing as Cleedis disdained any. Against the parti-colors of the festival, he was a somber specter of the occasion.
Pinch tipped his beak to Lissa and hissed, “Close enough?” indicating the spell she needed to use.
She shook her head and pointed to one of the pillars about two-thirds toward the front. “There!” she shouted back.
The black raven nodded his understanding and waved a cloaked wing for his small assistant to follow. Plunging straight forward toward the center of the dais was impossible. The throng was too thick and there was no room to operate, although Pinch wasn’t quite sure what they were going to do anyway. He knew Lissa would cast her spell, but after that everything was a spin on the wheel of fate, the cruel dictum of Lady Tymora.
As they shouldered their way to the thinner flanks of the crowd, a bell pealed over the roar of the throng, its resonance magically amplified to seize the attention of the onlookers. The roar faded to a babble as a column of Red Priests entered from the back of the hall, forcing the host apart before them. The acolytes at the head held forth the banners of their sect, followed by the bearers of incense and the cantors. After these was the object of all attention, a lone priest bearing the Cup and Knife, closely followed by the Hierarch Juricale, his thick beard oiled and curled. Temple warriors flanked him on all sides, not that there was much threat to his eminence. They were a display of his might to anyone who needed to know.
Seeing the false artifacts, Pinch rapped the halfling’s encasement and asked, “Do you have them?” The oversized head bobbed affirmatively while the little hands pointed to the bag at his waist.
The holy entourage moved with stately ease through the hall; Pinch and company did not. By the time they reached the pillar Lissa had indicated, the procession had reached the dais. The hierarch held the relics aloft and invoked the blessing of the gods. Immediately, Vargo rose to announce his claim.
“I am Vargo, son of Manferic III, grandson …”
“Close enough?” Pinch asked the pr
iestess again.
She nodded and as best as possible reached beneath her skirts to produce a tightly rolled scroll. “When Maeve told me of Manferic, I brought some help. It’s a scroll to dispel his magic.” She tapped the paper meaningfully.
“And if that doesn’t work?’
“I’ve another one memorized, just in case. Should I try it now?”
Pinch shook his head, almost hitting the onlookers in front of him with the great beak. “Not yet. Wait for a distraction.”
Within moments, Pinch almost gave the word to go. Juricale presented the relics to Throdus, but the prince refused to rise. A wave of amazement soared through the crowd.
“Pinch, what’s happening?” Sprite demanded, unable to see the thrones.
“Throdus has declined the test,” the rogue answered with keen interest. Apparently Vargo’s threats were working.
“Can he do that? What if he were the chosen one?”
“I don’t know. It’s his right, but no one’s ever done it.”
Bewildered, Juricale continued on to Marac. He, too, remained firmly in his seat. By now the audience hummed with speculation.
“Vargo’s spread his threats well,” the regulator said in admiration.
Juricale was visibly relieved when Bors stood to make his claim. The power of his temple resided in the ceremony, so any precedent that ignored it threatened his job. Pinch was amazed that Bors managed to recite the words of lineage, although it could have been done with a little magical aid from Manferic himself.
Now there were two candidates. Expectations mounted as the Hierarch returned to Vargo. Pinch held his hand lightly over Lissa’s arm, ready to give the signal. If anything was to happen it must happen soon.
Vargo seized the knife, proclaimed the words, and boldly pricked his thumb. Carefully the underpriests came forward and caught the ruby drops in the golden cup. Another carefully poured a measure of wine. Swirling the two, the Hierarch returned the cup to Vargo’s hand.
“Drink now, so that all may see if you are Ankhapur’s true lord.” The priest’s voice boomed over the silent crowd.