From across the room, Boltac said, “Aw c’mon kid, you didn’t see that one coming? How could you not see he was working for the Wizard all along?”
“I don’t work for anybody but me!” said Rattick, “But I’ll take anybody’s money.”
Relan protested, “But we have–I mean Boltac has money. Plenty of it.”
“Yes, but there is one important thing he doesn’t have. A future. Dead men don’t pay their bills.”
“The good guys always win, Rattick. In the end, they always do,” said Relan, as if it were some kind of sacred prayer.
“Only in the songs,” said Rattick.
A shiver danced up Relan’s spine because for the first time, the prayer wasn’t enough. He didn’t believe the sagas anymore. He believed the thief. Tears welled in his eyes. He wasn’t the Hero he set out to be. Boltac was right. They probably weren’t getting out of this alive. No one would sing songs of him. But in that darkest moment he resolved that he would meet his end like a Hero nevertheless.
Ten Orcs pushed into the room and formed a cordon around the door. Samga came with them. In comparison to these Orcs, Samga was more refined. It was as if he were a different animal altogether. Recognizable as part of the same genus, but not the same species. The ones guarding the door were more animal. They snorted and scuffled their claws against the tile. They paid careful attention to Asarah. And one of them, staring at her with unblinking, hollow, black eyes, drooled a little.
Dimsbury waved a hand, and his creatures were silenced.
“So,” he said to Boltac, “What brings such an unlikely and unprepared Hero to the depths of my lair?”
“Hero?” said Boltac, trying not to let his fear show. “I ain’t no Hero. You want the other guy.” He jerked a thumb at Relan, who was struggling not to cut his throat by breathing too deeply against the pressure of Rattick’s blade.
“Be whatever you like. The question remains, why are you here? Why are you disturbing me?”
Boltac could see no percentage in lying. He jerked his other thumb at Asarah and said, “Her.”
“Oh really, is it True Love?” asked Dimsbury in a mocking tone. He rubbed his hands together with great relish. When Asarah and Boltac both blushed, he laughed. “Oh my, it is True Love. And I thought it was rarer than unicorns. But wait, no, it can’t be True Love. Because you told me you had no interest in her. And I took you at your word as a sophisticated man of commerce.”
“I said she wasn’t my wife. And that doesn’t give you license to steal her.”
“I don’t care for being stolen,” said Asarah
“Yes, you are right. I have stolen her, fair and square, and she is mine. And you have come to fight for her. Fine. Take your pick of my creatures you see here before you. You may fight any one of them for her hand. Then, if you win, you may fight the rest of them. And then, if you defeat all of them, you may do battle with me.”
“No,” began Boltac.
“No? What do you mean no? You have come here as an Adventurer–as the Hero–to rescue the damsel in distress. You must fight. That’s how these things are done.”
“I’m not here for a fight. You stole her, fine, she’s your property. But I thought perhaps we could make a deal.”
“A deal? You want to BUY ME?!” protested Asarah. “Is that your idea of chivalry? Buying the woman you Love back from–”
“I never said anything about chivalry,” Boltac snapped. “You know how many men have tried to defeat the great Dimsbury? You know how many have succeeded?”
“None,” said Dimsbury with a great swelling of pride. “I’m entirely too powerful to be defeated by anything but a mythical Chosen One, a thing which I reasonably certain exists only within the protected confines of sagas. And if such a one does exist, I’m certain he’s not a short, grubby Merchant from the backwater town of Robrecht.”
“Yes, yes, mighty Dimsbury–you are wise, powerful, handsome, and tall,” flattered Boltac. “A man of the world who is quick to perceive his own advantage and capitalize on it. So I offer you a lucrative trade.”
Dimsbury’s eyes narrowed, “A trade, you say? Tell me more.”
Boltac reached into his bag and withdrew a large coin purse overflowing with gold. “I offer one hundred gold pieces for the girl.”
“Girl?” Dimsbury snorted. “A handsome woman, certainly, but not a girl.”
“The offer stands at one hundred,” –he hefted the purse and reconsidered– “one hundred and two gold pieces for Asarah.”
“But I have such a love of her mutton sandwiches. Crisp and fatty and delicious.” He shivered a little to emphasize the point.
“I cannot compel one so powerful as you to do anything, but my offer presents you with a clear choice–mutton sandwiches or gold.”
“Oh, that word. I cannot abide that word, OR. So harsh on the pallet, so cruel to the ear. I do not accept OR.”
Boltac nodded his head deeply in recognition. “I understand Great Wizard. I understand. But all of life is a trade-off. You can’t have your cake and eat it too. Surely you understand this. The money or the girl.”
“No, I’ll take the AND.”
“The AND?” asked Boltac.
“The AND?” asked Asarah
“Hork?” grunted one of the Orcs.
“The AND,” said Rattick with an approving nod. “That’s what I’d take.”
“Okay, so it’s question of price,” said Boltac.
“No, I don’t think you understand,” said Dimsbury with a little chuckle.
“Understand what? It’s a negotiation. So, how much you want for her?”
“Boltac!” protested Asarah.
“The, uh, serving girl here,” Boltac asked, giving her the signal to calm down with a downward wave of his hand behind his back. “I want my lady friend back. How much for your serving girl, my lady friend?”
“Well, Merchant, before we bargain, let me show you a few things, so that you might know what manner of man you bargain with.”
“En-henh,” said Boltac. Even though the Orcs did not speak English, they could hear the contempt in his voice. Several of them snarled.
Dimsbury raised his hand. “Samga, silence them or end them, I care not which.”
“I hear and obey,” said Samga. He whispered something in the crude, unfinished language of the Orcs. Whatever it was, the rabble blocking the door snapped to attention.
“Ah, dear Samga, with a thousand men such as you… I would still have a horde of Orcs. But a far, far better horde. At any rate, my dear Merchant, do you know what this is?” Dimsbury indicated the in-focus/out-of-focus flame that flickered on the dais next to him.
“Ehh,” Boltac began, intent on making some kind of crack that would take the wind out of Dimsbury’s over-stuffed sails. But the Wizard would have none of it.
“SILENCE! I will have none of your mockery and crude calculation!” With a nimbleness that Boltac would not have expected, the Wizard leapt up on the dais. He caressed the heavy glass vessel within which the flame danced. “This is beyond money. Beyond your crude buying and selling. This is the essence of the source, the headwaters of Magic itself. See how it flickers imperfectly, blurred, too pure to be fully realized on this flawed plane of existence.”
Boltac rolled his eyes.
“NO!” thundered the Wizard. “This is not to be mocked. Not even slightly. This is power. POWER, do you understand? With power you can get money. But no Merchant,” –he spat the title like a curse– “can ever buy power.”
“Have you ever put that to the test?” Boltac asked, with a scrappiness he was faking for the purposes of negotiation. Of course, the Wizard was right, but Boltac would be damned if he’d give this twisted nobleman the satisfaction of hearing it.
To Boltac’s surprise, the Wizard laughed. “Very good. Skepticism. The basis of all knowledge. Are you a seeker too, friend Boltac? Then let me show you something.” Dimsbury stepped down from the dais and crossed to a small door on the far s
ide of the room.
“Come, Merchant! I will show you what I think of money.” The Wizard gestured to a spot on the wall and the blank stone changed into a doorway. “Themistres’ Third Spell of Ward and Concealment. Do you know it? No matter.” Dimsbury turned the knob and opened the door. “Go ahead, have a good look.”
Botlac stepped forward cautiously. Overcome by curiosity and greed, Rattick moved his knife away from Relan’s neck and stepped forward so he could see.
In the room beyond the door, there were chests and sacks overflowing with gold and jewels. Golden candelabras, salvers, and goblets all encrusted by the jeweler’s art until it was a wonder they could still stand up under their own weight. It was the most impressive Treasure room Boltac had ever seen.
The Merchant blew a long, low whistle, “That is a lot of jingle-jangle you got there.”
“So you see, your offer of gold, for the girl… here, may I?” Dimsbury reached for the purse of a hundred and two coins. Boltac handed it to him.
“Hmm, yes. Watch this.” Dimsbury threw it at the feet of the Orcs. The purse broke open and gold coins scattered across the floor. Instantly the Orcs broke rank and fought for the gold pieces. Boltac jumped back. Rattick disappeared into the shadows. Only Samga remained standing, though he seemed to be under great strain.
At first it seemed like simple greed, but when an Orc got a hold of a few coins, it thrust them between its tusks and gobbled them up greedily. The pecuniary gluttony went on until there were but a few coins left. Then the Orcs began to fight over them.
“Enough!” cried Dimsbury. He clapped his hands together and there was a sound like thunder. The Orcs froze. “You see, my Orcs are hungry for gold. Not greedy, you understand, but literally hungry for gold. They eat it. A flaw in the design, I’m afraid: they require vast quantities of heavy minerals and metals. It’s the only thing they crave more than human flesh. I am afraid I have created an armory that marches on the treasury. Upkeep is murderous, but then, so are they.
“So, as you see, I have quite a lot of gold, and they will mine more for supper. Your paltry hundred gold pieces are worth nothing to me, Merchant. You cannot negotiate. You have nothing I want.”
“Wait, wait,” Boltac said, opening his sack, “I’ve got more. I’ve got a lot of gold. I mean, I don’t even know how much it is. Not as much as in your Magic room there, but it’s a lot. A fortune. And this sack, it’s a Magic sack. A sack of holding. Themistres’. Take it. I mean, please, you’re welcome to it.”
“Really,” said Dimsbury. “One of old Themistres’ sacks? I met him once, you know.”
“Yeah, so, it’s a very nice sack. This sack and all the gold in it. And, in exchange, you give me that vile-tempered woman. You don’t want to own her anyway. Believe me, the upkeep on her is real murder.”
“No one owns me,” Asarah snarled.
“See what I mean?” asked Boltac, “Who needs that? I’d be doing you a favor.”
“You know,” Dimsbury said with a strange half-smile, “I must say, you are a civilized man.”
Boltac made a little bow, “Thank you.”
“Do you have any idea how many people have tried to raid my dungeon, laboratory, whatever, trying to steal my property?”
“I am not raiding you. I am a customer,” he said taking pride in the title.
“Yes, here for trade. Trade is vile. But, I must admit, it is more civilized than treachery, deception, and thievery.”
“Deception has its uses for the mighty,” whispered Rattick from the corner of a round room. How did he do that? thought Boltac.
“Yes, civilized…” Dimsbury said, staring off into the smoky air of his spherical chamber. “I have spent so much time arguing for unreasonable people to take the civilized path.”
“It’s always the best way,” Boltac said hopefully, “Reasonable people, getting along in a reasonable world. Able to do business together? Reasonably?” he asked hopefully.
“It is surprising,” said Dimsbury.
“Funny old world, isn’t it,” said Boltac.
“Seize him!” commanded Dimsbury. Samga snapped his fingers and three Orcs leapt from the rabble and grabbed Boltac. Samga barked, “Take him to the cells,” in the harsh tongue of the Orcs.
“No!” cried Asarah.
“Wait, wait!” cried Boltac.
“And bring the bag to me,” said Dimsbury.
“Believe me, Mr. Wizard, you don’t want to mess around in that bag,” said Boltac as the Orcs dragged him away.
“STOP!” cried Dimsbury. “What did you say?” he asked Boltac.
“I said, for your own good, you should leave that bag alone.”
“WHAT!”
“Okay, this is ridiculous. What are you, a moron? I said, stay outta the bag or you’ll regret it.”
“DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM?”
“Johnny Hubris?” asked Boltac. Dimsbury just stared. “He’s a guy I usedta know, never mind. Look, buddy. And by ‘buddy’, I mean ‘friend.’ And by ‘friend’ I really mean, ‘jackass.’ Your hocus-pocus is gonna backfire. It always does. So how about you shut up and get on with it already.”
Dimsbury clapped his hands together, and lightning bolts ricocheted around the stone chamber. Everything human in the room hid its face against the terrible noise and rush of superheated air. “I command the forces of nature. I can harness the elemental power that turns the world. And I am supposed to be afraid of your sack of goodies?”
“Only if you’re not a jackass,” Boltac said out of the side of his mouth.
Dimsbury crooked his fingers into a claw. Boltac was ripped from the grip of the Orcs and lifted into the air.
“Offering me a trade,” Dimsbury sneered. “I have no need of your trade. I will take the AND. I will take your gold AND I will take your sack AND I will take your woman AND I will take your life. Did I forget anything?” He waved his other hand, and the wooden cover at the center of the chamber crashed into the ceiling and shattered into toothpicks. Dimsbury dangled Boltac over the bottomless pit.
As Dimsbury turned, he exposed his back to Relan. Strictly speaking, it wasn’t the most Heroic of opportunities, but Relan seized it. His legs drove him forward. He could almost feel the Wizard’s neck in his hands. He could imagine what it would feel like to bash the man’s skull against the ground. He made it one step, two steps, three steps. It was going to work! He raised his hands… then felt the knife slide into his belly.
“No, no,” said Rattick, still holding the lunge position that had brought him out of the shadows, “we’ll have no Heroes here.”
Asarah stopped sobbing and struggled to breathe.
Relan staggered forward another step, dragging Rattick with him.
Asarah pleaded with Dimsbury, “No. Don’t crush him!”
“Oh, I say,” Dimsbury said with a smile, “That is a good idea. That way it will hurt more on the way down. Goodbye, Merchant.” Dimsbury opened his hand.
Boltac dropped into the bottomless pit.
34
Rattick slid the knife deeper into Relan’s belly, then pulled it out. The brave Farm Boy collapsed to the floor, trying to hold his guts in.
Asarah screamed until her lungs were out of air. When she paused to take a breath, she could still hear the far off echoes of Boltac’s body crashing into the sides of the pit. She screamed again, but with very little air in her lungs her cries degenerated into a cycle of shallow, choking sobs.
“Hmm, yes, thank you Rattick, for taking care of that minor nuisance.”
“I live to serve, my Lord.”
“It would be nice to believe that, wouldn’t it, Rattick?”
“Well, whatever humble reward you see fit to bestow on my unworthy person…”
“Oh, Rattick. Oh, Faithful Rattick,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Your job was to see that no Adventurers disturbed me.”
“And for that, my cut was whatever loot they had on them,” Rattick said, eying Boltac’s Magic sa
ck greedily.
“Yes, but you see, I have been well and truly disturb–”
“Geh,” said Relan, as the last of his life leaked out across the stone floor.
“Oh, good Lord, man, just die already and get it over with.” Dimsbury looked at Asarah, collapsed in a heap on the ground. “You’ll clean this up! I swear to the Nether Gods you will. They’re your rescuers. This is your mess. Now, where was I? Oh yes, Rattick. I know not what to do with you.”
“I just saved your life, Master.”
“You saved my robe, Rattick. You think he had a chance?”
“Eeeh…” said Rattick.
Dimsbury bent over and addressed the dying boy directly, “You never had a chance! Do you understand? Not a chance.”
Relan made a gurgling noise.
“So, Rattick, I will allow you to take as much gold as you can gather and carry from Boltac’s sack. Is that acceptable?”
“Quite acceptable.”
“Excellent. And I trust I will never see you again.”
“Not in this or any other lifetime,” Rattick said, with a courtly bow of his head.
“Very well. Samga, take the sack to the UnderHall, gather the horde, and dump the Merchant’s gold for the feast.”
“As you command, Master.”
“But,” Rattick interrupted, as gently as possible, “I take mine first, right?”
“Oh, no Rattick. Where is the sport in that? No, you can scrabble and claw for your reward with the rest of my creatures. Conduct him to the UnderHall and give him the place of honor,” Dimsbury said with a smile. Rattick was quickly surrounded by Orcs and led from the room.
As he left, he had just enough time to say, “You are too kind, Master.”
Dimsbury dismissed him with an annoyed wave.
“What shall I do about this one, Lord?” asked Samga, nodding at Relan.
“Leave him to die slowly. Kill him not. But when he is done, you may feed him to whatever Orcs you deem worthy of reward. Or keep him for yourself, Samga. You deserve it for keeping this rabble in line.”
“They will be so pleased, Master,” said Samga.
“I am a good and gentle Master, am I not?”
The Merchant Adventurer Page 14