Garni shrugged. He maneuvered objects into his pack, trying to fit everything into the smallest possible space. He'd put something in the pack, move it around, decide it didn't fit precisely right, and try something else. "I'll manage," he said.
Nick noticed a long pole sticking out of the pile. He pried it out; other objects slid and tumbled.
"Be careful!" Garni said.
"Sorry. You'll never get this in, anyway." It was more than double Garni's height.
"Yes, I will," said Garni, taking the pole. He disassembled it; it came apart into four segments.
"What is it?" asked Nick, as Garni strapped the segments to the side of the pack.
"An eleven-foot pole." "Why eleven feet?"
"There are some things I wouldn't touch with a ten-foot pole," said Garni.
Nick chuckled. "You really think all this stuff is necessary?"
"Some of it we may not use. But any of these things might save our lives."
"If you say so, Garni. Tell me something, though." "What?"
"How much does all this weigh?"
Garni hefted his pack. "I'd guess about a hundred pounds, all told." "You're really going to carry a hundred pounds of kit into the caverns?" "Yes."
"I thought the whole point was to bring stuff out of the caverns. Treasure. Jewels. Magic items. How are you going to carry anything out?" Garni ran his fingers through his beard and smiled. "You'll just have to carry my share of the treasure, Nicholas."
It was morning in the city of Urf Durfal. The houseboy of the Inn of the Villein Impaled staggered out into Roderick Square, carrying two buckets. In the center of the square stood the equestrian statue of Grand Duke Roderick, father of the current ruler of the city; and around the statue was a fountain, spouting water borne from the hills by the city's aqueducts. The houseboy went to the fountain and filled his buckets. The floors of the inn badly needed mopping, as they did every morning: the inn's clientele tended to carouse in particularly messy fashion—nor were they all capable of keeping down the rotgut the taproom served.
Around the square, merchants put up awnings to protect perishable merchandise from the fierce sun. The day looked to be a hot one; there was nary a cloud in the sky. Except, perhaps, for a figurative cloud gathering over the head of Sidney Stollitt.
She stood in the shadow of Roderick's statue. With her was a mule cart and a drover. The drover was reclining with his straw hat pulled down over his eyes. Sidney, unable to contain herself, was pacing and scanning the faces of passersby.
Dawn, she had said. And here it was half past seven.
Garni, at least, had been prompt. She'd sent him out after Father Thwaite; Timaeus had advanced them each a small sum to purchase equipment, and Sidney was reasonably certain that the cleric had found a way to turn his into booze. Garni was under orders to examine every body he found in the gutter. Odds were, one was Thwaite.
Nicholas Pratchitt approached. He was wearing black leather-enough to turn a footpad's blade, but not heavy enough to qualify as real armor. Sidney scowled; that might do for the city streets but was hardly appropriate for a dungeon expedition. As he neared, she saw that he had circles under his blue eyes and his black hair was mussed. He looked as if he hadn't slept all night. He was whistling a sprightly tune.
"Where the hell have you been?" snapped Sidney. "Am I late?" Nick asked unrepentently.
"Garni was here on time," Sidney said. "Garni's reliable. Garni keeps his commitments."
Nick winced. The unspoken corollary was that, since he shared a flat with Garni and had not appeared at the same time as the dwarf, he'd spent the night elsewhere. In another bed. Someone else's bed. A bed, to belabor the point, that was neither his own nor Sidney's. With some relief, he saw Kraki lumbering out of the inn. The barbarian held a large mug of ale in one hand, which he drained in three neat gulps. "Hallo," he said. "Ve go now?"
"You're late," said Sidney.
"Late?" said Kraki. He looked around. "Vhere is everybody?" "They're late, too," said Sidney.
Kraki shrugged. "Late," he said, "is if everybody else gets there first. So I not late." He raised his head and sniffed. One of the vendors at the edge of the square had fired a charcoal grill and was cooking something. "Am hungry," said Kraki, and lumbered away.
"Keep an eye on him," Sidney said to Nick. "Keep him out of trouble." Nick grinned at her and followed the barbarian.
There was an explosion. A brilliant flash lit the square. Sidney Stollitt hit the ground and rolled across the cobblestones into the cover of the rim around the fountain. The mules neighed and bucked; the drover came alive and yanked at the reins. Muffled screams came from the merchants' stalls.
Timaeus d'Asperge, Magister Igniti, stood in the fountain. Smoke billowed about him. The water hissed, quenching the flames of the explosion in which he had appeared.
"Good morning, Stollitt," he said, peering at her prone form over the lip of the fountain. "Sorry I'm late." He stepped out of the fountain, shaking his legs.
Sidney sat up. "Is this how you usually get around?" she asked. "Because if it is, I may change my mind about this deal."
Timaeus fumbled for his pipe in a mildly embarrassed way. "Mmm, well, no," he said. "Usually not. Teleportation takes a certain amount of power. I wouldn't have used it, but . . . well, I overslept, I'm afraid, and I was running a bit late. Where is everybody?"
"Good question," said Sidney, brushing herself off.
"There's no one here but you and me," Timaeus said, peering about petulantly.
"Nick and Kraki are over there," she said, pointing toward a vendor's awning. Timaeus looked nearsightedly in that direction; he didn't see them but took her word for it.
"And what of the others? I commissioned you to assemble a group, and yet I find us standing here, two hours after we were supposed to have departed, with nary a soul to be seen."
"You didn't show up," sneered Sidney. "Why should they?"
Timaeus colored. "As to that," he said, "I am financing this expedition, after all. My hirelings may expect to wait on my presence; but I, hardly, on theirs. Now—"
"Hireling, am I?" said Sidney nastily.
"In a manner of . . . I say . . . is that the dwarf?"
Garni was trundling a wheelbarrow toward the statue. Thwaite lay in the barrow, legs flopping over the front, his tonsured pate banging against the barrow's metal surface as the wheel bumped over stones. The cleric was obviously unconscious.
"Here we are," said Garni cheerfully. "Ready to go?"
Timaeus stared at the brown-robed cleric, apparently dumbfounded. He stuck a finger into Thwaite's ribs experimentally. "What's wrong with the man?" he inquired.
"He's unconscious," said Sidney.
"I can see that," said Timaeus. "Is he subject to regular fainting spells?" Garni chortled. "Yup," he said. "He regularly faints when he's downed a hogshead or two of wine."
There was a long moment of silence. "Are you certain," Timaeus asked Sidney unhappily, "that this potted priest is the only cleric you can find who will accompany us?"
"Look," Sidney said with irritation, "priests sit in temples and collect gold from suckers. Why go wander around a hole in the ground looking for more gold? Especially when the hole is populated by nasty monsters with large, pointy teeth. Sitting around's a lot easier. Finding a cleric willing to risk the caverns wasn't easy."
Timaeus sighed and shook his head.
"Thwaite's okay," said Garni. "When he's sober."
"Which, judging by available evidence, is never," said Timaeus. "Ah, well, ad praisens ova cras pullis sunt meliora, as the poet says."
Charcoal smoke swirled into the air and an interesting aroma with it. Several little pastries warmed on a grill over the brazier. The vendor turned them with his one good hand; the other arm ended in a cloth-bound stump.
"What's your pleasure, good sirs?" said the vendor.
Kraki pointed to one of the pastries. "Vhat is that?" he asked. "Greep tart," grunted the vendor.
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"Vhat?" said Kraki. "Vhat is greep?"
"Huh," said the man, waving his spatula. "You don't know what greeps are? Well, when the air goes chill . . ."
GREEP TART
"Well, when air goes chill and the leaves begin to turn, that's when the greep flocks gather. They turn, turn above the painted leaves, wheeling in their thousands, their thousand thousands. The sky is dark with them, the flocks, the many greeps. Their tiny call is magnified so that it becomes a constant honk, the cry of a god, blanketing the woodland with the sound.
"I remember it still, that constant honk, that bleating, that call. . . . "We fled, my family and I, from our homestead in the hills of Cordonia. Mayhap we lived foolishly close to the Eastern Realm, but our homestead was old, ours for generations, and we farmed rich bottomland we would not readily abandon.
"But when the trolls began to move, we had no recourse but to flee, lest we be butchered as our neighbors were. So we fled, fled into the Cordon Wood, with naught but the clothes on our backs and a tool or two. We left our fields, our home, our comforts.
"The elves granted us refuge. They gave us acorn meal, and said that we might live within the wood if we so wished. We were grateful, for we had nowhere else to go, no way to win our livelihood. But the conditions they placed upon us, oh, the conditions were onerous.
"We were not to slay a single animal within the elvenwood, though there were beavers in the streams and deer among the trees. We were not to cut a single tree, though we might burn such branches as were already dead. Certain mushrooms and plants, also, were forbidden us; they were too precious, we were told.
"They stood there in their merry green, their damnable big eyes twinkling, peering at us, and expecting us to kowtow to them, our protectors; our benefactors.
"We could not sow a crop, for the earth lay in the shade of the trees, and no crop would grow on such ground. We could not cut the trees to clear a field, for the elves forbade it. We gleaned a meager sustenance from the forest-mushrooms, berries, acorns, and nuts. But the deer we could not touch, nor the squirrels, nor any of the abundant life that flourished about our little hut.
"The winter was cruel. We cleared the forest round about of dead branches; each day, I was forced to forage farther and father afield for tinder. And our tiny store of nuts and dried berries rapidly diminished.
"We lost our youngest child that winter, my wife too starved herself to nurse him adequately. And all of us were lean.
"The spring brought some relief. Ferns sprang up anew, and herbs. We ate the tender shoots on the trees, anything at all that we could stomach. Gradually, we regained some semblance of health, though always we were hungry.
"But as the weather cooled toward autumn, and as the greeps gathered for their migration, we faced another winter, a winter we knew we could not again survive. . . .
"In Alcala, they string nets among the trees. The greep flocks come down to rest and are caught. Then they gut the birds and roast them. . . . In Alcala, the greep migration is a festival time, a time for celebration.
"But the elves would not countenance the death of a single bird.
"The flocks darkened the skies, and the honks rang counterpoint to the grumbles of my stomach, the stomachs of my children. . . .
"And so I fashioned an awkward bow and strung it with my daughter's hair. I shot seven of the birds, seven small birds, to feed us. And I made them into tarts.
"They were delicious. The gods' ambrosia cannot taste so fine. The flesh was sweet, satisfying, the finest thing we had ever tasted.
"We slept well that night.
"But the following morning, the elf-lord came: He grinned up at me, his pointy ears poking beside his crown of laurel, and told us we had been naughty.
"Then his soldiers took me and struck off my hand in punishment for my theft. For that is what the elves termed it, a theft from nature, a violation of their covenant with my family.
"They drove us from the elvenwood. Perforce, we found our way to this city. Now, I make a meager living selling my greep tarts and gain a meager measure of revenge from knowing that with each tart I sell, another of the birds dies.
"Come, taste the flesh. It is sweet and delectable. There is no taste to compare with that of the greep, the greeps that sweep the skies above the elvenwood, their numbers so great that they darken the sun."
"Is good," said Kraki. Nick shuddered. He'd nibbled on one tart, decided it had all the consistency and none of the culinary attractions of stewed rat, and had offered the rest to an alley cat. The cat had given him a contemptuous glare and had taken off for parts unknown.
"Are we all quite ready?' said Timaeus impatiently.
The drover clucked and the mule cart began to move, eastward into the sun, toward the Caverns of Cytorax.
The mouth of the caverns was blocked by a striped, red and white gate. To one side stood a small building. The travellers entered it and followed the signs that pointed to the customs post.
Inside a small chamber, a bureaucrat wearing an elaborate and ill-fitting blue uniform sat on a stool. He stamped Sidney's papers and motioned her on. Kraki walked up to the bureaucrat, who held out his hand.
"Your papers, sir?" said the bureaucrat.
Kraki yanked the official half over the counter. "LET ME PASS, PIG, OR YOU VILL TASTE THE BITE OF MY STEEL!" he roared. His mighty thews bulged alarmingly.
"Let him down, Kraki," Sidney said.
"Guards! Guards!" screamed the bureaucrat, clawing at Kraki's hands. Kraki threw the official across the room, whirled, and drew his sword. The side door smashed open. Soldiers poured in. "Drop the sword, barbarian!" shouted one. They spread out along the walls, ringing the party.
"I am a free man!" shouted Kraki. "I vill not be herded like sheep! I spit on your papers!"
"Better do what he says, buddy," said Nick.
"No!" shouted Kraki. "I kill them all. Then ve go." "Impractical," said Timaeus.
"Come on, Kraki," said Sidney. "What happens when we come back?" Kraki glanced at her, then turned back to keep an eye on the soldiers. "Hah?"
"We go in the caverns. We slay lots of monsters. We come back with piles of loot. We're tired and beaten up-and we have to fight our way out through dozens and dozens of soldiers. Why not show him your papers, huh, pal?"
Kraki thought about this for a moment, then sheathed his sword. The soldiers looked relieved. The bureaucrat got up slowly, checking to make sure nothing was broken. "Don't got none," said Kraki sullenly.
There was silence for a moment.
"No papers?" said the bureaucrat. "That's impossible."
"In vild North, ve have no need for papers," insisted Kraki. "I say I am Kraki, son of Kronar; any who say different, I kill for the lying cowards that they are. That is how ve identify ourselves in Northland!"
The bureaucrat cleared his throat. "Quite. However, all foreigners are issued letters of transit when they cross the border."
"Yah?" said Kraki. "I valk across border. No vone give me papers. No vone stop me." He pulled his sword about two inches out of its scabbard and let it fall back. "No vone try." He glared at the bureaucrat. "You vant to try?"
"Er . . ."
"Surely, good sir," Timaeus intervened, "there are regulations to cover this eventuality. The discovery of an undocumented alien within the Grand Duke's realm can hardly be an unique occurrence."
"Oh, yes," said the bureaucrat happily, "there is a . . . regulation . . ." His voice trailed off. An expression of dismay passed across his face. He backed toward the soldiers.
"What is it?" asked Timaeus.
"When an undocumented alien is found within the Grand Duchy of Athelstan . . ."
"Yes?" The soldiers tensed. "He must be jailed—"
Kraki roared a challenge and drew his sword. Hastily, the soldiers prepared for combat.
"Unless!" shouted the bureaucrat. The tableau held. "Unless vhat?" said Kraki.
The bureaucrat spoke rapidly. "Unless he is within ten miles
of the border, in which case he must be escorted across it."
Kraki considered this for a moment. "Veil, then," he said, sheathing his weapon and smiling slowly. "I vill go qvietly."
"Yes," said the bureaucrat unhappily, "but I believe the provision is intended to apply to raiders or people who wander across the border by mistake-not to those who have been living illegally in the grand duchy for some time. . . ."
The captain of the guards eyed Kraki's heavily-muscled torso. "If regs give us a choice between fighting that and escorting him ten feet into the caverns, guess what my choice is."
There were mumbles of agreement from the other soldiers.
The cavern was a great gash in the earth, far wider than it was tall, like the mouth of some vast creature. At one end was daylight, blinding compared to the dimness within. At the other end, the chamber broke apart into shafts and passageways, tendrils extending off into the depths. Within the chamber, not far from the customs post, lay the village of Gateway.
"Why did we have to go through customs, anyway?" Nick asked Garni. "The earth below thirty cubits belongs to us—to the dwarves," Garni said.
"That's right," said Timaeus hefting the wheelbarrow containing Father Thwaite over the rocky floor. "Although the Caverns of Cytorax lie entirely within the boundaries of Athelstan, by ancient treaty with the Dwarven Kings, the grand duchy extends only thirty cubits below the surface of the earth. Below that depth is dwarven territory."
Gateway was built of rock quarried from the chamber walls, limestone loosely mortared together. The buildings were small, the walls somewhat rickety; but then, no weather penetrated here, and the cavern remained always at the same chill temperature.
Shops lined the street. An orc wearing an apron stood in one; behind him stood bottles of liquor and bales of weed. "Duty free?" the orc grunted. Sidney smiled and shook her head. She had been here before. Since Gateway lay wholly within the caverns, it was outside Athelstani jurisdiction. It was sometimes convenient to do business beyond the reach of the grand duke's justice.
Another Day, Another Dungeon Page 2