"Second, you figure out what you have to do to get it." Another finger. "And three" —he added a third, tapping all three fingers against his other hand— "you do it. That's the way life works." He jerked a thumb toward the city below. "Somehow or other, we're in the world that Doc described, no?"
"Yes, but—"
"But nothing, Karl. That has to be our operating assumption, until and unless we find out differently. Which is unlikely. I mean, I've got skills I never had, Doria's got cleric spells trying to bust their way out of her head, you're a full foot taller than you should be, James is—"
"I get the point. But what does that do for us?"
"Simple, again. The name of the campaign Doc designed is, if you'll remember, the Quest for the Gate Between Worlds. How we got here, I don't know. But if we want to get back, then obviously we've got to find this Gate thing." He pointed at the six wooden boxes, just over fifty yards away. One of the boxes stood open and empty; the other five, smooth, dark, and seamless, closed. "I'm willing to bet that there's something inside that'll give us a clue. Or more than a clue."
Hushed voices whispered behind the cluster of boxes.
"They haven't woken Riccetti yet?"
"They're trying. Jimmy—make that Ahira; he likes it better—Ahira thinks that we should have a fully conscious wizard on hand before we try to open any of the rest. And no offense, Lotana—"
"Andrea."
"Andrea, then—no offense, but the way you fell apart, I wouldn't want to count on you to sniff out any spells on them. You think you could spot a Glyph of Shrouding?"
"I don't know what you're talking about—wait." Her hands flew to her temples, her fingers digging into her scalp. "It's strange. I know things that I don't know, if you understand what I mean."
Karl laid a gentle hand on her arm. "We all do."
She grabbed his hand, squeezing it with white-knuckled fingers. "A glyph is like a magical charm, usually placed on a doorway or entrance. It can hurt anybody trying to get past it, unless it's tuned to leave them alone, or unless they break its spell," she said, her voice calm and businesslike. "Like the ones on the city." She jerked her hand toward the walled city, below. "Right?"
"What ones?" Karl and Walter said in unison.
She chuckled. "C'mon, don't play games with me—I don't need that."
Karl sighed and looked back toward the city. Just a walled city, no writing on it. "You see anything, Walter?"
"No." Slovotsky raised an eyebrow. "And that was a part of the game I always had trouble swallowing."
Karl nodded. "Me, too." He shrugged. "Well, another—"
"If you don't mind, I'd like to know what you're talking about. Please?"
"We can't see magical writing," he said. "To Walter and me, that's just a wall."
"Don't be silly, it's plain as . . ." She turned back. "Really?"
"Really. As Deighton said, unless you've got the genes for wizardry, all magical writing is transparent to you. What does it say?"
"I can see it, not read it. Besides, it isn't something that can be pronounced, but it would fry Aristobulus or me to a crisp if we got inside the city." She wrinkled her forehead. "Wait a minute. How did I—"
"Comes with the territory," Slovotsky said. "Looks like wizards aren't too popular there; probably cost the locals quite a bit to hire one to do the work." He smiled. "But it looks like there's a pony in the bottom of this shitbucket; want to check out the boxes for glyphs?"
Karl frowned. "I thought you said Ahira wanted to wait."
"I'll check it out with him, first. But" —he clapped a hand to Andy-Andy's shoulder— "it looks like you've got what it takes."
Karl suppressed an urge to knock Slovotsky's hand away from her. "Why don't you go clear it with him, then?"
"Which was something else I wanted to talk to you about. You got any objection to him being in charge? Somebody's got to do it." Slovotsky's face was studiously blank.
Karl thought about it for a moment. In the game, he'd always enjoyed his occasional chances to be the team leader. But this is for real. I may be good at the game, but this is for real. "No. No objection. As long as there're no PMDs, or anything like that."
"PMD?" Andrea asked. "What's that?"
Slovotsky grinned broadly. "Stands for Polish Mine Detector." He covered his ears with both hands and mimed stomping fearfully on the ground. "Boom. Seriously, it's a technique for checking for traps. You send the lowest-class character on ahead. If there's no trap, there's no harm. And if there is, then you bring the player back into the game with a new character. It's kind of hard on the old character, but—"
She looked up at him. "You mean that it kills him. Or her."
"Right, but—"
"But we won't have any of that," Karl said. "Not as long as I'm around."
"I can speak for myself, Karl." She scowled at both of them. "And I'm not going to let myself be a guinea pig."
"Understood, Andrea." Slovotsky nodded and walked away.
"Karl, he seems so . . . sure of himself."
"That's Walter. Possibly Hakim, too." Which was one of the things he'd always envied about Slovotsky. Always so sure of himself, no matter what. And so comfortable around women.
Karl shook his head. Even around Andy-Andy he felt awkward, gawky. And she was a friend.
"What are you thinking?"
He returned her smile with interest. "Nothing much." This was ridiculous. Here he was, God knew where, more scared than he cared to admit, even to himself. And thinking about how good it had felt to hold her. "And you wouldn't believe it, anyway."
"Bets?"
* * *
"Well, what's the diagnosis?" Ahira asked.
"I think he's in shock." Kneeling over the limp form of Aristobulus, Doria looked up at him. "Shallow breathing, thready pulse." Her fingers dipped into the wizard's short gray hair. "And I think he might have hit his head on one of the boxes; there's a lump here." She bent over, examining his head more closely. "Although the skin isn't broken. Do you think there might be a blanket or two in one of these boxes? We should keep him warm."
"No."
"What do you mean, no? He could die."
Ahira repressed a smile; she wouldn't have understood. But that felt good; Doria would never have contradicted James Michael Finnegan, would never, ever have argued with a little cripple.
But I'm not a cripple anymore. He bounced on the balls of his feet, reveling in how good, how natural it felt. I'm Ahira Bandylegs, and I'm strong. Better than normal. "No, he won't die. Try your Healing spell, the one for minor wounds. I think this should count as a minor wound."
"But, James—"
"But nothing. You're a cleric, a healer. You've been complaining about spells buzzing around your head. Here's your chance to get rid of one. You'll have to pray for it, to get it back—but we'll have plenty of time for that later."
Her face paled. "I—I don't know if—"
"I trust you, Doria of the Healing Hand. And so would Aristobulus. Do it. Now."
She nodded a reluctant agreement, and planted spread-fingered hands on the old man's chest. The polish was gone from her nails, just as the fear of him was gone from her manner. Perhaps, somewhere inside, Doria Perlstein was confused, frightened. But not the cleric.
"Easy," he whispered. "It's going to be easy. You've done this a thousand times."
Slowly, her eyes sagged shut, as her weight bore down on her arms, on Aristobulus' chest. The old man looked to be in bad shape; his skin was ashen, his breathing barely perceptible.
Strange, liquid syllables issued from her barely parted lips, starting slowly, then becoming a torrent. Ahira could hear the words distinctly, tried to memorize them.
But he couldn't. Not a phrase, not a word, not a syllable. They vanished from his mind like a snowflake melting on a palm.
The volley of sound flowed into Aristobulus, his breathing becoming deeper, a tinge of pink replacing the fishbelly pallor of his face. The fingers of an out
flung arm twitched, then curled, as his eyes snapped open.
Aristobulus sucked in air with a desperate gasp, and a stream of sound issued from his mouth, obscenely guttural and harsh.
And like a striking snake, a bolt of lightning crackled from the tips of his fingers, shattering the nearest of the boxes into a thousand charred, smoking pieces.
"You idiot!" Ahira reached out, grabbed the wizard's throat, setting broad thumbs against his windpipe.
"Stop it! Stop it!" Doria's fists beat a rapid tattoo on his back.
Reluctantly, Ahira released Aristobulus, bouncing the old man's head against the grass.
The wizard's eyes were wide. "You told me, have the spell ready—you told me, Ahira." He rubbed at his head. "Ahira? Or are you James . . . ?" He bit his lip.
Ahira spat in disgust and stood. "Take care of him, Doria. Just get him out of my sight." He raised his voice. "Barak, Hakim, Lightfingers, Lotana—get over here. Let's see if there's anything we can salvage out of this . . . mess."
"I . . . don't understand," the wizard whined. He began to cry, to weep like a frightened child.
* * *
After more than half an hour on their hands and knees, sorting through charred pieces of bone and horn, smashed vessels of glass and clay, Ahira called a halt.
"Anybody find anything salvageable?"
Barak shook his head, rubbing a sooty finger against a smudge on his nose, which only made it worse. "No, whatever was in here is gone." He lifted a jagged scrap of horn and scraped a clean spot with a thumbnail. "What do you think this was?"
Hakim shrugged. "A Joshua's Horn?"
Lightfingers swore softly under his breath. "And unless I miss my guess, these scraps of leather and parchment were spell books. Were. Unless there are duplicates in one of the others, we can kiss Lot—Andrea's and Ari's relearning their spells goodbye." He pitched a shard at the wizard. "You stupid little shit."
This couldn't go on. Ahira agreed with Lightfingers—emphatically—but what was done was done. The problem was what to do now. He wasn't sure that he knew.
Never mind. The leader has to seem to know what he's doing. At least. "Shut up, Lightfingers. We go on from here. Lotana?"
"Andrea," she said, with a friendly nod. Good—at least somebody was on his side. "Yes, Ahira?"
"Do you think that you can check out the rest of the boxes for magic? Without touching them, I mean."
Hakim held up a hand. "I'd better check for mechanical traps."
"Fine. You two do that. And if it seems safe, have Barak open them."
Barak nodded slowly. "You don't think there's any trap."
No, I don't. But if there is, you're probably the most expendable. Without the spell books, we can't afford to risk either of the wizards. And we've only got one cleric, and one two-handed thief. "I'm certain of it. I think that what's in the boxes is our supplies, or what's left of them. But be careful, anyway." He beckoned to Lightfingers. "Come here for a moment."
"What do you want?" the thief asked, walking over, stopping a few feet away.
Just about half a foot farther away than I could swing my axe. Which was good; at least it showed caution, if not respect. "We're going to need somebody to scout around, check out the city down there. The wizards are out, what with the glyphs Andrea sees on the walls. And I don't think Barak or I tend to be subtle enough. You think you're up to it? Jason," he added, deliberately. Not a whole lot was clear to Ahira, not yet. But one thing he was certain of was that he wanted to encourage the other's Jason-part, not the Lightfingers persona.
Lightfingers stood silently for a moment, rubbing his stump against the point of his jaw. "Yes." He stopped himself in mid-nod. "You do want me to pick up more than information, of course."
"No. Just find out whatever you can. We're going to have to find this Gate thing. Whatever and wherever it is. Which means, among other things, that we'll have to find out where we are. And, Jason, you're too valuable to lose. Don't pick any pockets; don't try any swindles. We've got quite a few coins in our pouches; we need information a lot more than money."
"Yes?" Lightfingers tilted his head to one side. "And how much is one gold piece worth, here? It could buy half a town, if gold is scarce. But if not . . ."
"Then maybe we couldn't buy half a sandwich. If they have sandwiches here. Good point."
"It is, isn't it?" Lightfingers' hand came to rest on the hilt of his shortsword, perhaps accidentally.
But perhaps not. Ahira pretended not to notice. "You know, maybe I made a mistake. Declaring myself in charge, that is. You've always been a bit sharper than me. Maybe—"
"Don't be silly. You think Slovotsky or Cullinane and his little friend would follow me? A one-armed thief?"
The dwarf took a slow step forward and laid a hand on Lightfingers' arm. "Perhaps no. But if I am going to be in charge, I'll need your full support. Or I won't be able to do it. If you want—"
Lightfingers cut him off with a full-throated laugh. "James Michael, you little bastard. You're damn good at manipulating people, aren't you?" His smile was almost friendly.
Ahira shrugged. "You have to learn a lot of things when you spend your whole life in a wheelchair. Lots of things you can't do for yourself; you have to get other people to do them for you. In your case," he said, smiling, "all the technique in the world isn't going to do any good, is it?"
"Maybe, maybe not. For the time being, I'll follow your lead." He jerked a thumb at the city below. "You want me to leave now?"
Ahira hadn't thought about it. In the game, daytime was safer than night. But a thief was at his best in the dark. "Hmmm. How far away would you say that the city is?"
"Five miles, or close to it. You want another opinion?"
"No, I'm sure you're right." That sounded phony, even in his own ears. But the point, that he was going to trust Lightfingers, had gotten across; Lightfingers was smiling. "What do you think the chances are that they lock up the city at sundown?"
"If they don't, I'd be surprised. Why build a wall around a city if you don't lock up?"
"Right. So, time it so you get there just about an hour before sundown. Plan to spend the night inside. Find out whatever you can, then get back up here, first thing in the morning. Understood?"
"Fine." The thief nodded. "Which means—figure it'll take two hours to get down there—that I ought to leave, say, about three hours after noon. Sounds good?"
Noon was still a while off; the sun was at about a forty-five-degree angle. "Right. So get Hakim. We'll see if there're any blankets in those boxes. You two duck into the woods and get some sleep." It would be best for them to stay awake all night. In preindustrial cities, the night was a time of danger, when the only safe place to sleep would be behind locked, barred doors.
"Hakim?" Lightfingers glared down at him. "What do you mean?"
"He's going along." I may have to trust you a bit, Jason, but I'm not going to go overboard about it. "Two is better than one. Besides, I want you to keep an eye on him."
A snicker. "Don't play games with me. It's me that—"
"Ahira, Lightfingers—we found something." Andrea jumped up from in front of a now-open box, waving a sheaf of paper. "It's a letter. From Dr. Deighton."
Chapter Four
"It Should Be Relatively Easy"
There is no one who can return from there To describe their nature, to describe their dissolution, That he may still our desires, Until we reach the place where they have gone.
—The Song of the Harper
Stanza Five
Jason threw his arms up in disgust. "I can't read that. What the hell language is it in?" It was frustrating. The letters on the page looked familiar, but strange. Clearly, they formed words. But not for him.
Andrea's brow wrinkled. "It's easy. Listen: 'Tikrach amalo, ift recet quirto blosriet az . . .' "
Dear friends, please accept my sincere apologies . . .
She raised her head. "Can't any of you read?"
Barak t
ugged at his beard. "No." He shook his head sadly. "I can understand it, but I'm not literate. Not in Erendra."
Erendra. Eren meant man, or human; dra was a shortened form of dravhen, mouth. Man-mouth: a language for humans. But how did he know that? No, Jason didn't know that—Lightfingers did. And that's who I am.
Ahira shrugged. "That makes sense, actually. Aristobulus, Doria—take a look. Bet you can read it."
They could. "It's easy," Doria said. "But you can't . . . ?"
No, Hakim, Barak, Ahira, and Lightfingers couldn't.
"Damn." Lightfingers rubbed his fingertips against his stump. It did make sense, of a sort. They all had the abilities of their characters, plus their memories of the other side. But no more than that. Barak, Lightfingers, Hakim, and Ahira weren't literate in the game; warriors and thieves didn't need to be. On the other hand, clerics and wizards had to be able to read.
He licked the tip of his index finger and wrote his other name in the dust on top of an unopened box. JASON. He could read that, at least. Thank God.
"Right." Ahira looked down at the letters, just a few inches below his eyes. "We haven't lost anything, but" —he smiled— "alu n'atega nit damn ekta, pi agli." We haven't gained too damn much, either.
Interesting. Damn was the same word in both languages. And that suggested a possibility . . .
He looked at the others. Barak was the most bothered by it; the big man sat on the ground, his face buried in his hands. Or was it Barak that was bothered? Quite probably, illiteracy was more distressing to Karl.
Hakim stood easily, confidently. "Well, which of you magical folks is going to give me reading lessons? Damned if I'm not going to be able to read."
"That's the spirit." Ahira clapped him on the back. "But maybe we're not going to have to hang around here long enough for that to be a problem. Andrea, how about reading the letter? Out loud, for the sake of us"—he smiled—"disabled types."
Barak shook his head. "Why the hell didn't he just write it in English?"
Andrea, sitting with the letter on her lap, smiled reassuringly at him. "He did, I think. But the letter translated across, just as our bodies did. Either that, or he was trying to show off. Ari?"
The Sleeping Dragon Page 5