by John Ruch
But they’d hit it off when he recognized her collection of Duxian artifacts. She lectured him on their history and craftsmanship, while he educated her on the quality of their stonework and metal-forging. She had a faint Duxian accent and strong ties to an old royal family. He had even said a few polite words about her home, as honor dictated, though this place was more of a chilly black-marble tomb. Blue-stained glass in the windows, bars over that, and shutters over them. Bit of paranoia to match her theory of a Tetragate cleansing. Well, couldn’t fault her consistency.
Over the past few days, he’d seen Mieux and Rinka get along better as well. Virtually nothing in common besides gender. He looked at Rinka leaning back in her chair with leagues of leg stretching out before her, and Mieux perched in her seat with her slippers kicking merrily. Like a table set only with a carving knife and a baby spoon. They had been watchful and wary of each other, like cats meeting for the first time. The breakthrough had come when Mieux yelled, “My stars and garters!”—one of several non sequiturs to which she was prone.
“You said that before,” Rinka had replied. “That’s from Ladypug. You a fan?”
Ha! Turned out theater was a mania for the girl. Thought it was the law of the land to attend, poor thing. Law was always the farthest thing from Rinka’s mind, he apprehended, but she loved the theater as well, if its definition was restricted to vulgar comedy, realistic violence, and explicit sex.
Rinka immediately invited them both to go see something called Terrora: Heart of Gold, Spear of Iron. He declined on account of a bad back—and good taste. Mieux, however, looked at Rinka with all of the shimmering-eyed devotion a mountain cultist could muster, and delivered herself of a “yes” that could have sunk a whaler.
A jollity had filled the air as they dressed up for the occasion earlier today. Rinka had clad herself in a dress that seemed too lazy for the job and fully prepared to let nudity have its way. Mieux donned some impossible hat, and Rinka loaned her an elegant silver chain and matching bracelet. Upon their return, they had presented the various merits of Terrora, with Rinka declaring the primary one to be the physical proportions of its leading lady.
“It was totally great that she had both a heart of gold and a spear of iron!” Mieux had opined. “If she only had one of them, it would be a disaster!”
Then it was another pleasant teatime at Rinka’s house, where the ladies and Ashton had decided to ensconce themselves temporarily due to her concerns of persecution and its fortress-like qualities. Alfie had not decamped from the temple, thinking it fortress enough for a few days, nor was he as seriously worried; after all, the Tetragate would have had little trouble finding him at the University had some plot driven them to do so. But there was reason enough to visit in the amusing conversation. And this tea really was good stuff.
“It is even yummier if you make it cold and put balls of tapioca in it!” Mieux shouted, giving Rinka a commanding glance.
“Now that’s whistling a different tune, eh?” Alfie offered. “Clever notion. Be glad to experiment with it.”
“How do you make your moustache stick out like that!” Mieux demanded. He explained the universe of pomades.
“You should show us some stone magica!” she cried, mouthing the words with relish, her enormous eyes sparkling.
“Yeah, I wouldn’t mind seeing that,” Rinka chimed in.
He temporized about the myriad difficulties and intricacies of performing stonespelling indoors and the potentially disastrous stalagmite effects on Ms. Svetkov’s fine flooring. But magica most certainly was on his mind. Had been since he met them.
Because both of these ladies had the air of spells around their persons. Couldn’t put coordinates or algorithms on it yet, but there was the faintest oily thickening of the atmosphere around them, like all lingering spelling caused. Which was a bit unusual, one had to say, what with the waning of magica. Mieux undoubtedly was drawing upon some philosophical power related to her “Sénche-do,” albeit a damn sight more efficiently than he himself could do with Nightspelling or widuwita plantcharming. Intriguing, but not confounding. Rinka, on the other paw, had no apparent magisterial experience or interest whatsoever. Wasn’t tied to any trinket or clothing she wore, either.
And that was why, as the ladies took in a play, he evaded the meek, ghostly housemaid and poked about Rinka’s mausoleum of a mansion. Near broke his neck exploring those gloomy corridors with overwaxed floors. Probably required magica just to walk in heels without landing on her ample bum. He had found no grimoires, no secret altars or pens of sacrificial animals. Heaps more Volanian archaeological souvenirs, posters for some preposterously dressed young people purporting to be musicians, and a collection of revealing underwear so extensive it appeared that a drake had decided to hoard crotchless panties rather than gold coins. He blushed mightily and closed that particular wardrobe door so strongly that he was stunned by the phallus, thick as his arm, that toppled from its top and conked him. Worse than the sexspellers at the University, he thought as he carefully balanced it on its perch once again.
Only writings he could find was a ledger of sorts, untidy thing packed with receipts and notes. Looked like she’d been trying to hire mercenaries of her own for some time, either unsuccessfully or not for very long. Cryptic, but not magical.
So he enjoyed his tea, nursed his questions, and pondered the right time to bring them up with Arrowmask. Chap was awfully busy for such a layabout. At the moment, he was off to notify the counsel of their adventuring band. They would convene within the hour at the wainwright to see their appointed quarters and furnishings, and thence to the provisioners to ascertain any needed supplies. Already had quite the shopping list himself and presumably the others did as well, save Mieux, who seemed to have no needs beyond prodigious quantities of cookies. Certain comforts of home must needs be sacrificed, unfortunately, but there was something to be said for the bracing camp life. He was looking forward to it.
They headed out after Rinka made yet another costume change, this time donning an outfit of mannish dark tight pants, a matching buttoned shirt, preposterous sequin-scaled ankle boots, and a gigantic longsword strapped to her back in an odd scabbard with an open side that displayed a series of metal rings piercing the blade’s upper half. Stamped into the scabbard’s rich maroon leather was the sign of a wolf’s head with a sword in its open jaws, perhaps in offering or perhaps in guardianship, and lighting forking over its chiseled brow. Near that logo was another: a bright-pink adhesive label depicting a moon-eyed white kitten slapping at the viewer with a pink-clawed paw.
Rinka immediately stalked out front as they made their way down the cobblestone street, the natural, or self-appointed, leader, if there was a difference in the terms. Mieux trotted along beside her, clutching chummily at the dagger scabbard hanging on her belt until Rinka slapped her hand away in annoyance. They filled the stroll with their chit-chat.
“I’ve never seen any grown-up with a sticker of My Bitey Kitty before!” Mieux declared.
“It’s not just for kids,” Rinka retorted with a pissy sigh, rolling her eyes.
“I totally agree!” Mieux chattered. “I once saw a Bitey Kitty bed for sale, made in the shape of Bitey herself! But I don’t want to sleep inside the belly of a cat, thank you very much!”
“You don’t snore, do you?” Rinka teased. “Because then I might have to put you through a Thirty-Third Trial.”
Mieux giggled. “There is no way I would know that because I’m the one sleeping!” she cried. “Maybe you make the biggest snores in the world and I will have to wake you up so you can spank yourself! Ha! Ha! Ha!”
Alfie trudged along behind them, feeling the odd man out, and he was perfectly fine with that. Man his age, natural to play chaperone, let the girls have their fun. Or at least one of them was having fun. Rinka was walking eyes-forward with the forbearance of a mother dog ignoring a puppy’s nips, but ever more likely to take out some frustrations on a passing leg. Still, he suspected tha
t was Rinka’s own idea of fun. Meanwhile, he patted his breast pocket to make sure the neatly ironed parchment of his shopping list was still there.
They trundled in this manner into Via Pollis, a small square of working-class shops with apartments overhead, and found the main street blocked by a freshly overturned cart of tumbled cherry crates. They detoured into the side street behind the western row of houses. Alfie found himself momentarily distracted by wheatpaste posters for the “Dainty 104: The Empire’s Cutest Pets” competitive show at the Spectaculum.
His attention was thus engaged when three people in orange-and-silver livery stepped in front of them, then three more behind, as the sound of bowstrings stretching emanated from apartment windows overhead. Rinka immediately cursed the strangers, but Alfie cursed himself. Fools. For all our worry, walking right into the trap. If he’d paid any attention at all, he would have remembered that it was obviously too early in the season for cherry wagons to roll in from Hortium Viridias. And now it was painfully apparent that he, Mieux, and Rinka were no team of adventurers, just a group of near-strangers. Any one of them might have taken their chances against the ambuscade, but all three of them hesitated, uncertain whether the others would back them up or become a casualty of a miscalculated first strike.
Their opponents had no such qualms. The livery marked them as the footsoldiers of the Thousand Leagues, the largest and most ruthless of the trading cartels that dominated the Godsblood and points far inland. Like all cartel thugs, they were scarred faces and chipped teeth overdressed for the occasion. But the Thousand Leagues soldiers were not mere rats in gift wrap. They were far better equipped and disciplined than what passed for the Imperial Army these days, and far better paid so that many of the top infantry recruits ended up in their ranks. Furthermore, their units lived communally and were known to imitate the army practice of engaging in precision orgies of sexual coupling, regardless of gender or interest, to cement the social bonds to unbreakable degrees. They thought as one, fought as one, and surely killed people on side streets as one. However, at the present moment, they appeared disposed to avoid killing anyone. Their lieutenant, a pock-marked cur whose balding noggin was like a question answered by his expansive sideburns, stepped forward, and Alfie bustled up to meet him.
“I say, what is the meaning of this?” Alfie demanded, as Rinka stood with a hand over her shoulder on the grip of the sword, and Mieux bobbed on her tiptoes in a fighting stance, her dark bangs swinging.
“Oi! That’s far enough, old man,” the lieutenant replied crudely. “You all just hand over that sword and anything else pointy, and keep any magica to yourselves, or Bill and Agnes will be you showing you their archery skills. We’re not looking to hurt anyone, just have you down to headquarters for an agreeable chat.”
“I must protest! The waving about of poleaxes is hardly agreeable!” Alfie continued, gesturing to the other soldiers pressing in.
“Protest all you like when we’re safe back at HQ,” the lieutenant replied, sticking out a hand expectantly as his gaze groped Rinka. She ground her teeth as she unstrapped the sword and handed it over.
“You’ll get it back, lass,” he said with a soothing diplomacy.
“No, I’ll take it back,” she snapped, her eyes burning like candles seen through frosted glass.
The soldier plainly had fought wars that employed more weapons than words, and kept his composure. “My name’s Titus, and I think you all know we’re in the guard of the Thousand Leagues. We’re not the Watch nor the army. We’re all business and it’s business you’ll be discussing. So just come along. We got your friend Mister Arrowmask waiting and a ham cooking for some supper.”
The mention of Arrowmask gave them all pause, and Lieutenant Titus had the dramatic sensibility to let it sink in. Mieux remained unusually quiet, her huge eyes absorbing every motion as Titus walked slowly before them.
“Now, you’re Mieux the bouncer, you’re Miss Svetkov of the Temple of Pain, and you are the esteemed Magimath Finstickle. Pleased to meet all of you.”
“Did you hurt Ashton Arrowmask?” Mieux asked calmly, blinking slowly.
There was the shortest of pauses, yet enough to loom ominously, before Titus replied, “He’s just fine. Now come along.”
Alfie glanced at his companions. Rinka looked back him with storm-cloud eyes. Mieux kept her stare on Titus, turning her head slowly to follow him as he paced. There was nothing for it but to go along, and to wonder whether the Thousand Leagues had gotten their identities out of Arrowmask by means fair or foul. Not to mention why.
Armed troops escorting prisoners were hardly a rare sight on the streets of Cor Cordum in this era. And prisoners they plainly were, however much Lieutenant Titus tried to varnish it as business. No one turned a head, let alone offered help, as they marched toward the docks and Customs Row with its houses for harbor pilots, itinerant captains, and, of course, cartel thugs. Alfie didn’t waste time trying to invent a clever escape plan. Instead, he began running through the basic matrix of a warding counterspell to have the groundwork laid for the likely inevitable moment when they would need his magica as a weapon. Besides, running through the numbers put one in the moment, took the edge off the nerves. Thus, he was only dimly aware of their increasingly distressing surroundings as they were thrust first into the sparsely furnished front room of a weathered stone townhouse, redolent of soured wine and termite dust, and filled with milling cartel ruffians. Then down stairs into a fearsome cellar with several iron doors in the walls, and then through one of those doors, and another, until they found themselves in a cramped, windowless cell empty save for a rough ledge around the walls to sit on. Lantern light filtered in through small barred windows cut into the double doors between them and the cellar room. Alfie tried the ledge, but found it damp and gritty and preferred to stand.
The iron door was bright orange with rust that made it smell like blood. But it was solid enough, as Mieux discovered when she planted a hard side-kick against it where its lock met the jamb. The door rang like a gong, making Alfie’s head ring in tune, and drawing a warning shout from the four guards outside, but held fast.
They had not been robbed—yet. But it was hard seeing a good end to a situation that began with kidnapping and was unfolding in a dungeon.
“The Thousand Leagues will be wanting something,” Alfie mused. “The letter of credit Arrowmask has in his possession, perhaps. Or a ransom for us all.”
“I don’t know anyone who would pay a ransom for me,” Mieux said quietly.
“It was stupid of them to leave us alone. We need to go on the offensive,” Rinka said. “Alfie, can you do something to the stone to get these doors open?”
He raised his eyebrows and twitched his moustache agreeably. “Well, most certainly, no question, just a little of the old nose to the grindstone. But look here, what will we do then? Four guards out there, unknown numbers upstairs, no weapons.”
“I’ll handle them. I’ve dealt with situations like this before,” Rinka said heatedly. “Just get those doors open, and both of you wait back here until I come for you.”
“That is totally crazy!” Mieux whisper-cried. “It makes no sense for you to fight them all by yourself! There must be as many of them as I have fingers and also toes!”
“That’s right—and there will be more upstairs, too many for even all of us to fight head-on. There’s another way. Trust me.”
Alfie pulled his lips down in a thoughtful frown. “A bit of the feminine wiles, eh? Pinch of distraction, dash of charm? Could be the ingredients to cook up freedom.”
“Something like that,” Rinka replied. “Just let me go to work and hang back here so they don’t kill you outright.”
“We could wait for Arrowmask, see what the offer is,” Alfie mused.
“Then their trap will be fully sprung. Whatever it is, no way we’re gonna like it,” Rinka snapped.
He exchanged glances with Mieux, who nodded firmly. “She’s right,” the equilibrique
said, then looked up. “But if you are not back pretty soon we will come for you and I will fight them all if they want!”
It was Rinka’s turn to nod, with the faintest curl to her lip. “It’s a deal. Now get me out of this box.”
Mieux sat on the ledge, her feet not kicking for once, as Alfie stood alongside the door, out of the guard’s view through the window. The walls were of sandstone, a bit of luck because its loose crystalline structure meant it could be stonespelled with a minimum of noise and heat. Only really concern was the usual—avoiding magical blowback that could leave him with petrified fingers or a lung-full of pebbles. “Just be a minute,” he said, as he began silently working through the matrix of the counterspelling ward.
The numbers in his mind slid into their proper alignments until he felt the smooth glasslike chill of the ward passing over him. One reason it didn’t hurt for a magimath to have some extra padding around the middle. Kept one toasty despite a ward or two.
Now for the harder part. He ran his fingers along the friable stone next to the iron jamb and mumbled quietly to himself. Soon he was lost in a complex calculus, seeking the reconciliation between the formula adhering the grains of stone and another, Night-governed, that dictated the dark spaces between them. As the solution resolved itself in his mind, he spread his fingers over the area around the door’s lock. A blackness beyond mere shadow appeared like webbing between his digits and sank into the stone. With a faint hissing, bonds were broken, and the sandstone became mere sand, spilling loose onto the floor.
Alfie’s mind slowly emerged from its work in the mines of symbols and equations. Admiring his work for a moment, he reached into the fresh fist-sized hole in the wall and carefully tugged out the metal housing for the lock’s bolt. With a firm shove, the bolt slid back within the lock mechanism. The door was theirs to open.