Liar's Bargain: A Novel

by Tim Pratt

  Rodrick nodded. “All right then, Bannerman. Take me to Hrym, and I’ll help you do whatever it is you think you’re doing.”

  Bannerman looked at him for a moment, grunted, then led him to the right. He chose without hesitation at two other intersections, and finally pressed against a wooden panel that swung open. They stepped into Temple’s small and rather impersonal office. Hrym was sheathed in the skymetal scabbard, hanging on a coat hook on the wall, still bound up with leather thongs.

  Rodrick rushed across the room, sliced through the leather bindings, and drew forth the blade, feeling whole and complete for the first time in what felt like ages.

  “Hello,” Hrym said. “Have I been asleep long?”

  Rodrick began to laugh, tears squeezing from the corners of his eyes. “You lazy sword,” he said. “You’ve missed a lot.”

  “Let’s go,” Bannerman said. “We shouldn’t linger here any longer than necessary.”

  “Where are we going?” Hrym said.

  “To a feast,” Bannerman replied.

  31

  TRUE FORMS

  They escaped the same way they’d come in, though when one of the unconscious guards outside the storage room stirred, Rodrick gave him a blast of ice to pin him to the floor. Then it was back down the trapdoor and on toward the harbor, with Rodrick filling Hrym in on everything that had happened since he’d been sheathed into oblivion.

  “I’m glad I missed all that,” Hrym said when Rodrick was done. “It sounds exhausting, and you didn’t even make much money. I’m going to need back the gold you borrowed from me, too. Don’t worry, my interest rates are very reasonable.”

  “It’s good to have you back, old friend,” Rodrick said, with total sincerity.

  “Ha. Pining away for me, were you? That’s only natural. I’m amazing. Everyone says so.”

  * * *

  They all paused under the pier, suddenly awkward at the point of parting. “If you two want to help us, I can offer you gold,” Bannerman said. “You can consider yourself freelance agents of the Bastion of Justice.”

  “Ah, but you’ll only be able to pay us if you win,” the Specialist said. “No, I’m content. I’m actually leaving Lastwall with more than I’d hoped. I think I’ll go visit the elves.”

  “I’ve got a vault to open.” Eldra embraced Rodrick and kissed his cheek, then squeezed him harder and kissed his lips. She pulled back. “You’re Andoren, aren’t you? There’s a place in Almas, the Golden Eagle Tavern—do you know it?”

  “I do,” Rodrick said.

  “The owner is an old friend of mine,” Eldra said. “I haven’t visited Almas in ages. I think, after I recover the family riches, I might go see the city for a bit, and if I do, I’ll probably stay at the Golden Eagle. Stop in to see if I’m there, if you happen to be in the area. Maybe we could help each other out again.”

  “You’d like to work with me again?” Rodrick said. “After all this?”

  “I don’t know about work,” she said, giving his bicep a squeeze. She stepped back and linked arms with the Specialist, who seemed surprised but not displeased by the contact. “Bannerman, I assume our deal still holds, and if you find yourself in the position to grant us a pardon, you will?”

  “Yes, fine, go.” The crusader flapped his hand at them. “Lastwall thanks you for your service.”

  Eldra gave a little wave, blew Rodrick a kiss, and then she and the Specialist walked off into their own bright futures.

  “I envy them so much right now,” Rodrick said.

  “We could just freeze Bannerman, and run away,” Hrym said. “We haven’t done nearly enough running away lately.”

  Rodrick shook his head. “I couldn’t have saved you without his help, Hrym. Besides, if we betray him now, and he succeeds anyway, we’ll be dodging crusaders for the rest of our lives. There are enough countries I don’t dare visit already—I don’t want to add another one. All right, Bannerman. What’s the plan?”

  “We storm into the feast honoring General Andraste, and we kill Prinn,” he said.

  “Ah,” Rodrick said. “I can see why you and Temple wanted to recruit people who actually know how to plan.”

  * * *

  There wasn’t much time to spend coming up with a real plan, but Rodrick did what he could. He wrapped Hrym’s glittering blade in his cloak so he wouldn’t be seen carrying a bare magical sword through the streets, and led Bannerman to the basement room. The Specialist’s gear was gone, along with Eldra’s, and Rodrick supposed they must have cleared out just moments earlier. Ah well. It was for the best. They’d said their farewells already.

  Rodrick tossed aside a mundane longsword and put Hrym in its sheath, belting it on over the military garb he’d worn for the infiltration of the Interdicted Library. Bannerman already looked every bit the crusader, so that was all right. Rodrick took the document the Specialist had forged to get into the library—the one festooned with ribbons and seals and the fake signature of General Andraste—licked his thumb, and smeared the ink strategically.

  They strode down the streets with the swagger of crusaders on a mission of righteousness, and after a block or so, Rodrick realized Bannerman wasn’t even faking it, which struck him as so funny he had to stifle laughter. It was just possible Rodrick was exhausted enough, and under sufficient stress, that his sense was starting to unravel. He hoped he could keep his faculties about him long enough to avoid catastrophe. Or, rather, worse catastrophe. They were already in the midst of a catastrophe, after all.

  The feast was being held in one of the marble-clad buildings near the city center, and the festivities—insofar as crusaders could be festive—were already well underway. Bannerman strode up to the pikeman guarding the front entrance and barked, “Straighten up, soldier. You’re a disgrace. Open that door, we’re here with an urgent message.” He waved the official-looking document in front of the soldier’s face, not giving him a chance to read it, assuming he even could read.

  “I—” the soldier began.

  Bannerman growled. “Boy, did I tell you to speak? Do you see this seal? This is the Watcher-Lord’s seal. Do you see this signature? This is General Andraste’s signature. I work for the Bastion of Justice, boy. Do you want to hinder an agent of the Bastion in the execution of his duties?” He really leaned on the word execution, which Rodrick thought was a nice touch.

  “I—no sir, absolutely, sir, go right in.”

  Bannerman nodded curtly and walked into the building, Rodrick following. “That was easier than I’d expected,” Rodrick said.

  “Ha. There are only two of us. I don’t know how they do things where you’re from, but in Lastwall, you don’t rise through the ranks without proving your ability to hold your own in a battle. We’re walking into a room full of some of the most dangerous people in the country. How much trouble could two men possibly cause?”

  “You’ve got the scroll?” Rodrick said.

  Bannerman patted the front of his shirt. “Tucked in here. How much do we trust the Specialist? If this thing doesn’t work … we don’t really have a fallback plan.”

  “I wouldn’t say that. If it doesn’t work, we quietly leave the room, and I look for a fast ship out of Vellumis, and you sneak back to the Bastion and wait in Temple’s office and cut off Prinn’s head as soon as he comes in.”

  “Oh,” Bannerman said. “I suppose that’s an option. Do you know if totenmaskes revert to their true form when you kill them? Or would everyone think I murdered Temple?”

  “Not sure. I never read the Specialist’s little book.”

  “Did you notice how I didn’t ask how he came to have a volume from the Interdicted Library?” Bannerman said. “I was very particular about not asking that.”

  “You are a man of wisdom and good character. Are we going to do this?”

  “I’m ready. Are you?”

  “Oh yes. Hrym?”

  “What?” Hrym said. “Why are you still talking? Am I supposed to kill something now? How mu
ch are we getting paid for this again?”

  They went to the double doors that led to the feasting hall, Bannerman nodding at the sentry and holding up the parchment as if that explained his presence. You had to love the military, Rodrick thought. Wear the right clothes, walk confidently, and wave around an impressive-looking bit of paper, and you could get things done.

  The sentry opened the door and waved them through.

  Rodrick had been to more than a few feasts, because rich people enjoyed them, and Rodrick liked being around rich people, because they had the most money to steal. He’d seen grand affairs with jugglers and acrobats and musicians and countless courses of rich food, parties with whole cows roasting in fireplaces. Trust Lastwall to eschew the decadence of a good feast: there were long tables of polished wood, and straight-backed chairs that probably didn’t even have cushions, and a whole lot of people eating off plates that weren’t even a little bit made of gold. The only entertainment was whatever conversation the crusaders could muster among themselves. The guests all looked like they’d rather be wearing armor and wading through an ankle-deep slurry of blood than wearing formal uniforms and making small talk.

  Some of the guests looked up when they saw the doors open, but seeing only a couple of crusaders on some errand, returned to their food or desultory conversation. Andraste was on a raised dais in the center of the room, but there was no sign of Temple.

  Bannerman went to a man in gleaming armor leaning against the wall, holding an ornamental mace—some kind of sergeant-at-arms?—and asked him a question in a low voice. The man shook his head and murmured a reply. Bannerman looked stunned, and returned to Rodrick. “Temple’s not here. She never showed up.” He shook his head. “Of all the ways this could go wrong, I didn’t think this was one of them.”

  Rodrick frowned and stared at General Andraste, who was laughing uproariously at something the old man seated beside her had said. Rodrick glanced around, and caught sight of a servant approaching with a tray—not even silver, just some dull metal—laden with glasses full of pale liquid.

  Rodrick discreetly put his foot into the servant’s path, causing the man to trip and send a torrent of glass and wine crashing to the floor. Everyone in the room looked up, some in alarm, some with laughter, and there was a even a bit of mocking applause. Rodrick kept his eyes fixed on Andraste, who looked up, caught his eyes—and stared murder at him, baring her teeth. They weren’t the same eyes, oh, no … but it was the same look.

  “Read the scroll,” Rodrick said.

  “What?” Bannerman stared at him. Rodrick reached out and tore open Bannerman’s shirt, snatching the scroll, as Andraste rose to her feet and began shouting for the guards to seize them. Rodrick dove behind a large ornamental planter with a small tree growing in it, tried not to worry about whether he was in range for the spell to work, and then opened up the scroll. He was never happy using magic, despite having a very magical sword on his hip, but this was an emergency. He looked at the general, focusing on her, then lifted the scroll. The words seemed to squirm into his eyes and emerge from his mouth without bothering to pass through his brain first.

  The general hubbub of alarm changed its tone, with a few more screams and numerous profane oaths added to the mix, and when Rodrick peeked from behind the potted plant, he was unsurprised by what he saw.

  At some point, Prinn in his disguise as Temple had gotten into a room with General Andraste, and taken on her form instead. The scroll’s spell to reveal true forms had ripped the totenmaske’s disguise away, though, and now the monster stood revealed in its green-skinned, maw-faced horror, lashing about it with long claws as high-ranking crusaders armed mostly with ceremonial weapons tried to kill it. Bannerman drew his weapon and ran roaring right into the fray. Good for him. Rodrick wished him well. For his part, he slipped back to the building’s lobby and started thinking of the most efficient strategy to exit Lastwall entirely, and with all due haste.

  “RODRICK!” The roar was guttural, enraged, and most unwelcome. He turned as the doors to the banquet room burst outward and the totenmaske rushed out, swinging its immense baleful head to and fro. Prinn saw Rodrick, roared again, and raced toward him. Rodrick hurried toward the front doors, but there were crusaders in the way raising crossbows and shooting them, so Rodrick’s well-honed survival instincts advised him against charging into oncoming crossbow bolts. He darted instead for a stairway and rushed upward, hoping the totenmaske would be occupied by the attackers coming at it from behind and the front.

  But no. Prinn apparently held a particular grudge against Rodrick, which was understandable. He should have made Bannerman read the scroll instead. The beast bellowed as it came up the stairs after him. Were these crusaders incompetent?

  “How hard is it to kill one undead monster?!” Rodrick shouted as he hammered up the stairs.

  “Probably quite hard, since it’s already dead,” Hrym said from his hip. “We could fight it instead.”

  “Why should we?” Rodrick shouted. “There are soldiers here for that sort of thing!”

  There were, but the stairway was narrow enough that the crusaders pursuing Prinn were probably getting in one another’s way more than they were damaging the monster.

  “I will eat your mind!” Prinn shouted from entirely too close behind him.

  The stairs reached a landing, switchbacked, and continued to climb, so Rodrick climbed with them. It crossed his mind that running up stairs wasn’t the best strategy, since he would, inevitably, run out of “up” at some point, and then getting down again would prove difficult.

  He passed doors on each landing, every one tempting him with the possibility of escape, but Prinn was so close Rodrick didn’t dare stop and try one. Prinn would have those long claws wrapped around Rodrick’s face before the door was even half open. Rodrick could only hope the pursuing crusaders would kill the monster before he ran out of stairs.

  That didn’t happen, though they were at least inflicting a bit of damage on Prinn, based on the howls, and the pursuit slowed down. Rodrick took full advantage of the few steps he’d gained and put on a final burst of speed to rush up the last half-flight of stairs. He reached the landing with the last door, which fortunately opened outward, and pushed through it—not into a hallway or room, but into open air.

  He hesitated for a moment, surprised by the wind and the star-flecked sky above. They were on the roof. The problem with roofs was, they didn’t allow a lot of options for escape, unless you could fly. He kept running anyway, toward the parapet, and looked over the low wall. There was no help there, just a dizzying drop to the stones below, and while there was a neighboring building, it was too far away for Rodrick to leap to its roof.

  He spun, then, drawing Hrym. What else could he do?

  The totenmaske came through the door, slammed it closed before the crusaders could follow—and threw a bolt to lock it.

  32

  SHATTERED

  Rodrick cursed. He hadn’t even thought about locking the door. In his defense, he’d been terrified.

  “Rodrick.” The totenmaske advanced a few steps, needlelike talons extended, then paused, eyeing Hrym. (Probably, anyway. Prinn had so much mouth, it was hard to tell what his eyes were doing.) “You ruined everything. Why did you turn on me? I showed mercy. I let you and the others go.”

  “You expected me to die, Prinn,” Rodrick pointed out.

  “I had faith in your ingenuity. We’re not so different. You want gold, and a life of ease and pleasure. That’s all I want.”

  “We’re a little different. For one thing, I’m from Andoran. For another, you’re an undead monster.”

  “How is that my fault? I didn’t ask to rise from the dead. I’m just trying to make my way.” Prinn moved forward in a motion that seemed somehow snakelike.

  The closed door shuddered in its frame. The totenmaske looked back, then turned its gaze to Rodrick. Rodrick couldn’t read the expression of something that was all horrible mouth, but the totenma
ske had clearly gotten over its initial rage, and now it was worried. Creatures like Prinn survived by hiding among humans, and he’d been found out. They might be hard to kill … but the crusaders of Lastwall were adept at killing the undead. “Listen. It doesn’t have to be this way. You can use your sword to make a bridge to the next building—”

  Oh. That hadn’t even occurred to Rodrick. Well, it was a bit late now.

  “We can get away, and I’ll steal another identity. Someone rich. I’ll give you the gold. You love gold, Hrym.”

  “I do,” Hrym said. “What do you think, Rodrick?”

  “Hmm, yes, that’s very tempting—” Rodrick swung Hrym’s point toward the monster. The totenmaske leapt at him, and Hrym spewed forth a cone of ice and wind, knocking Prinn back—but not knocking him down. Apparently the undead could weather attacks of ice magic better than most, which made sense; the grave was reputed to be a terribly cold place.

  The monster lashed out with its horribly long arms, and Rodrick moved out of the way, the backs of his knees bumping into the parapet. He waved his arms, terrified he’d lose his balance and tumble over the edge of the low wall.

  Prinn howled. “I may die, but I’ll have the pleasure of drinking your face first, Rodrick of Andoran.” Prinn reached out with his claws.

  Rodrick thought of Temple, her mouth erased by the monster’s touch, and whimpered. Maybe falling off the building to his death would be preferable.

  He raised up Hrym, trying to get the blade between himself and the beast, hoping to shear off a few of its fingers, at least. Hrym blasted forth a spray of foot-long spikes of ice, and one of them shot into Prinn’s gaping mouth, piercing his green cheek and poking all the way through.

  The monster recoiled, and Rodrick flung himself to one side, then scuttled away on the ground, in something between a slither and a crawl. The maneuver wasn’t very dignified, but neither was having his face smeared into featurelessness.

  He turned onto his back in time to see Prinn running toward him, and sprayed a torrent of ice just as the monster leapt at him. He rolled out of the way as Prinn, partially encased in frost, smashed into the stones where Rodrick had been. The totenmaske struggled to its feet, clawing at the icy encrustations on its body and ripping them away, sometimes taking flesh with them.