Another Day, Another Dungeon

by Greg Costikyan

  The light zipped to a display case, which opened. A ring rose from it. "How about this? Just got it in. Reputedly, it turns color when in the presence of a god or goddess—very useful, what with all these damned deities wandering around incognito and exacting horrible punishments on those who treat them discourteously."

  Timaeus snorted and looked the bookshelf over further. He pulled down a heavy tome, entitled An History of the Hamsterian Empire.

  "Damn," said the light, and zipped back to Sidney, hanging about two feet in front of her forehead. "Let me see . . ."

  "Actually, we're not here— Sidney began.

  "No, no," interrupted the light petulantly. "I need the practice. Let me see. You're upset with your partner . . . Oh, really? Hmm. Oh, my dear! I am so sorry."

  "Look," said Sidney loudly. "Stop it. Stop fumbling around in my mind."

  The light backed off. "Oh, dear, oh, dear," it said. "This is most rude of me. I hadn't intended to go quite so deep."

  Timaeus looked up briefly, then returned to his book. Its prose style was quite archaic. He flipped through it, studying the color plates, chewing on his pipe stem.

  "It'd be a lot faster for me just to explain," said Sidney.

  "Yes, yes, of course," said the light, somewhat abashed. "Please go ahead."

  "Okay," said Sidney. "We have this statue. It's of a full-size human male. It's made of athenor."

  The light made a fast circle around the room and stopped before her again.

  "Athenor?" it said. "Yes," she replied. "Solid?"

  "Yes." "How much does it weigh?"

  "We haven't weighed it," Sidney said, "but it's damned heavy." "It would be."

  There was a sudden choking sound from Timaeus. His pipe hit the floor. The light zipped over to the wizard. "What's this?" it said, hovering over Timaeus's shoulder.

  Timaeus looked up and slammed the volume shut. "Nothing, nothing," he muttered. "How much do you want for this?"

  "Three pounds ten," said the light. As Timaeus fumbled for change, it went back to Sidney.

  "Who's the artist?" it said. "Don't know."

  "Hmm. Do you know who is depicted?" "No."

  "Is it enchanted?"

  Timaeus cleared his throat. "It puts out quite a magical field," he said, "but it doesn't respond to any of the standard tests. If it has a function, we haven't been able to divine it."

  "Mmm," said the light, "that may be a problem. I suspect the statue is worth more for its metal value than for either its artistry or magical function. But if it was created for some magical purpose, dissipating the mana so that it may be melted down may be difficult. Can you supply a provenance?"

  Timaeus and Sidney exchanged glances. "I'm afraid not," said Timaeus. "I don't deal in stolen goods . . ." said the light. "Ah, so that's it, eh? Evaded customs, what?"

  Sidney swallowed. Timaeus moved toward her. "Nonsense," he blustered.

  The light cackled. "Don't worry, old man," it said. "Not the first adventurer to cheat old Mort of his due. Nor the last, I should think." It cackled again. "And I could tell you a story or two of my own adventuring days . . . but they are long behind me." The light whizzed around the room again.

  "Now then," it said. "We do have a few problems selling this object. Imprimis, artist, subject, and provenance are unknown. Secundus, it's highly magical, and no one knows why. Tertius, it's a damned lot of athenor to put on the market at once—if we melt it down and sell the metal in ingot form, the local market for the metal will certainly crash.

  "And quartus, I could buy the thing myself, but it would take more of my fortune than I care to commit. So I must either find a buyer and simply take a cut as a go-between, or find investors to share part of the risk.

  "So here's my offer. Sight unseen, I'm willing to pay ten thousand pounds argentum, subject only to the proviso that the object must prove to be as you have described it—the life-size statue of a human male, cast of pure athenor. If you are willing to provide additional information, to let me test the object, and to give me a few weeks to line up investors, I may be able to offer a considerably greater sum."

  Timaeus's yearly income was two hundred pounds. He considered the amount exiguous, but many a petty nobleman or haut bourgeois survived on considerably less. He choked again and grabbed for his pipe as it fell.

  Smoothly, Sidney said, "Well, it is a little less than we'd hoped to get. But it's a reasonable offer."

  "Ten th-thousand . . ." stuttered Timaeus. Sidney glared at him. "We'll have to confer with the other members of our group," Sidney said hurriedly. "And we'll think about your other offer, too." She hustled Timaeus outside as fast as she could.

  "You idiot," she said as soon as they were beyond the door. "You nearly blew that." She walked him briskly down the street.

  With shaking hands, Timaeus packed his pipe. "Ye gods," he said. "That's enough to buy my father's demesne several times over."

  "How do you think I feel?" she said. "Until the caverns, I'd never seen more than ten pounds in a single place. But only an idiot accepts a first offer."

  Timaeus bristled. "These mercantile considerations," he said airily, waving one hand, "are beneath one of noble blood."

  Sidney snorted. "Okay, okay," she said. "Let me do the bargaining, all right?" She leaned away from Timaeus as he lit his pipe.

  Thunder filled the street. Passersby dived for cover. A horse reared and whinnied, overturning a cart. Sidney and Timaeus marched on innocently. Timaeus puffed deeply. "Perhaps I'd better, madam," he said softly.

  "And you'd better look at this." He opened his newly purchased book to a color plate.

  They stopped, and Sidney studied the painting. It depicted a man in his thirties wearing archaic military dress and a prominent mustache. He had a rather silly grin on his face. The legend underneath the portrait said, "Stantius III of the White Council, last human king, captured by the forces of darkness at the Battle of Durfalus, 3708 of the Modern Era."

  It was the man depicted by the statue. There was no mistaking the mustache.

  Sir Jasper de Mobray, KGF, whizzed about his shop, polishing things invisibly and absentmindedly. He judged that he'd hooked them. A minor nobleman and a thief; ten thousand quid was so far beyond their experience as to be staggering. Oh, they'd bargain a bit, but they'd bite.

  On the other hand—there was many a slip 'twixt cup and lip. It was hard to hide an object as valuable as the one they described. They might elicit an offer from someone else. Or someone else might steal it.

  That could not be allowed. Under no circumstances could he permit the statue to fall into the wrong hands.

  It depicted Stantius III. He was certain. Timaeus's reaction upon viewing the color plate had been unmistakable.

  And the Sceptre of Stantius was glowing, in far-off Hamsterburg.

  Sir Jasper was unsure of the import but certain there was a connection. Once, he had been an adventurer himself. He had stories to tell, that he did; one didn't become a nearly invisible, flying wizard of the mental arts, an adept of the Cult of the Green Flame, and a Fullbright of the Loyal and Fraternal Sodality of the Boar by accident.

  He had a sixth sense about these things. And he knew that the forces of darkness were on the march. He had a vague feeling that the statue of Stantius was considerably more valuable than its metal content implied. He had the feeling that it could move nations.

  A small spark split off from the green light that was Sir Jasper. "Damon!" said Sir Jasper.

  "Yeah?" said the spark.

  "Go to the Grand Boar. Tell him—the hunt is on." "Yeah, yeah. Whatever."

  "Get going, you!"

  "All right, all right, you don't have to get testy." The spark zipped through the plate-glass window.

  Kraki stood in the doorway of Nick and Garni's flat, the body of Father Thwaite slung over one shoulder, his free hand poised to knock. Nick had asked the barbarian to go to the flat with Thwaite to make sure Garni was all right. "I'll meet you later," Nick h
ad said.

  There wasn't, Kraki noted, much point in knocking. There wasn't any door to knock on. Whoever had broken in had not been a skilled locksmith. He'd simply smashed the door open. Kraki approved.

  "Hallo?" he said. "Garni Dwarf?" He walked into the room and deposited Father Thwaite on a pile of rubble.

  The apartment was a shambles. Whoever had searched it had broken the furniture up by slamming it into the walls. Huge clumps of plaster lay on the floor; sections of wall were down to the lath. Clothing and bedding were strewn about. Straw from the ripped-up mattresses was everywhere.

  The thundermug had been smashed; its smelly contents puddled in one corner.

  Garni's equipment was hither and yon, most of it broken. Garni was nowhere to be seen.

  "Fine thing," muttered Kraki to himself. He wandered over to the center of the floor and pushed aside some rubble. Nick and Garni had said they had a secret compartment in the floor. Kraki didn't really know where, but . . . Yes, the cracks around those floorboards looked a little prominent. He pried them up with his fingernails.

  The statue was still there, peering up uncertainly. Kraki put the floorboards back.

  "Bad guys come," he said to himself. "Take dwarf as hostage. Search for statue. Don't find."

  He surveyed the room.

  "Not very good searchers," he muttered. "Vhy not look under floorboards?" He shrugged.

  He looked around the room. There were only two ways in—the exterior door and a window. He pulled the remnants of a bedstead to one end of the room, a position that gave him a clear view of both apertures. He drew his sword, sat down, and laid the sword across his knees. And waited.

  Father Thwaite rustled. A moment later, he sat up, rubbing his eyes. He surveyed the room. "Good lord," he said. "What happened here?" Kraki sighed.

  IV

  "Hey," wheezed Vic. "Give an old man a peach?"

  The fruit vendor glared at him and continued to pile apples onto the table.

  Vic stood in the shade of the fruit stand awning and contemplated the statue of Roderick II. Old Mad Roddy looksh good on horsheback, he thought. It was a brilliant summer morning, already hot, the square redolent of dried horse dung and the smells of fresh food. The women of the neighborhood went from stall to stall, stocking up on produce, fresh-killed chickens, the occasional piece of meat.

  A matron wearing a loose-fitting dress and sensible shoes flounced up. "Good morning, Jeremy," she said. She had a serving boy in tow, with a small wooden wagon.

  "Morning, ma'am," the vendor replied. "What'll it be today?" She looked over the display. "Are those peaches fresh?"

  "Aye, yes, ma'am," he said. "Just in today. Heard about the Sceptre of Stantius?"

  "I'll take three dozen," she said. The serving boy began to load them onto his wagon. "In Hamsterburg? What about it?"

  Vic coughed directly into the apple display. Neither seemed to notice. "It's glowing," said the vendor. "News is all over town. They say there's going to be a king again."

  Vic placed both hands on the apple table and put his back into the cough. He gave a tremendous, racking wheeze.

  The matron laughed scornfully. "Some people will believe any . . . What is that man doing?"

  Vic noticed their attention. He redoubled his efforts. He wheezed, hacked, and choked. He wheezed some more. Spittle flew into the apples. The matron was appalled.

  "Shorry," gasped Vic. "Just my conshumption acting up." He coughed again.

  "Martin," said the matron in a faint voice. "Put those peaches back." She walked rapidly away, giving Vic an uneasy glance. Somewhat embarrassed, the servant boy began to take the peaches out of the wagon and put them back on the table.

  The vendor cursed, thrust three peaches at Vic, and said, "Get the hell out of here."

  Vic cackled and grabbed them. He wandered out into the square, the sun warm on his back. He gummed the overripe fruit toothlessly. He tore off bits of skin and tossed them to the pigeon. "How do you like that?" he asked the bird.

  The pigeon pecked at the peach skin. "It's okay," it said.

  Glowing, eh? Vic thought. He stared up at Roderick again. I remember a shtatue. Long ago, sho long ago. There was a shtatue that disappeared. And then . . .

  He scowled. I ushed to be able to remember these things, he lamented. Lived beyond my time, that'sh the problem. Hanging on too long. He wandered in a circle around the statue, gumming his peaches, juice running down his chin, trying to remember . . .

  And then it came to him. He almost swallowed a peach stone and doubled over, coughing. Shtantiush! he thought in triumph, hawking spittle into the street. It'sh Shtantiush!

  Someone kicked Garni in the ribs. There was a high-pitched giggle. His eyes still closed, he shook his head. It felt fragile. This was the second time he'd been knocked unconscious in a single week. Much more of this, and I'm in for irreparable brain damage, he thought.

  "I know you're awake, dork," said a high-pitched voice. Someone kicked Garni in the ribs again.

  He peeled open one eye. The foot that had kicked him was small. It was shod in a green cloth boot with a curly toe. The foot belonged to an elf. Garni had never seen the elf before. "Goodness gwacious," said Garni nastily. "It's a fearsome elfy-welfy." He sat up.

  The room was small—little more than a cubicle. It was bare of furniture. Garni sat on the pine-plank flooring. There was a single, tiny window at the back of the room.

  The elf sneered. "Gosh, Garni, old boy," he piped. "Guess you're in for a rough time."

  In addition to the elf, the room contained two mountains. At least, that's what they looked like: they were human, but they were narrow at the top and wider farther down. They had the false-fat look of goons everywhere: their stomachs and torsos were huge-with solid muscle, not with fat. Garni didn't recognize the elf, but these guys had snatched him from the apartment. They were grinning.

  Outside the room, there was hubbub. It sounded like a market—people talking, something clanging, the clop of horses. Garni could smell water and old, undisturbed dust.

  "Where's the statue, dork?" said the elf.

  Garni perked up. That meant they hadn't found it. "What statue?" he said.

  That was a mistake. One goon picked him up, twisted an arm painfully, and threw him to the other goon. Goon number two slugged Garni in the stomach several times. Hard.

  Garni fell to the floor and retched. He wished he had a war axe. The elf giggled.

  "Permit me to introduce myself," said Garni to the pine boards. "We already know who you are, dork," chirped the elf.

  "And who the hell are you?"

  "I think maybe I'll ask the questions. Where's the statue, dork?" "Gawrsh," said Garni. "The widdle elfy-welfy is twying to act tough. Ain't he cute?"

  Goon number one picked him up again. Garni's abdomen was starting to become rather tender. "Cute," he gasped into the goon's face.

  "Duh, boss?" said goon number one. "Yeah?"

  "I don't think he's gonna talk, boss."

  "Probly not," sang Montiel. "But I like watching dorks crawl." "Okay," said the goon. Both thugs played kick the can with Garni's ribs for a while.

  "That's enough," said the elf after several minutes. Garni lay on the floor, blood running into his beard. The elf sounded disappointed. "All for nothing, dork," he said to Garni. "You're a hostage, anyway. Your friends will give up the statue, I bet—after we start sending 'em pieces of dork."

  Garni tried to think of something witty, but his brain wasn't working too well just then.

  "You guard the room, Fred," said the elf as he minced out the door. All of a sudden, the room was empty. "I hate pointy ears," said Garni to the air.

  The Grand Boar was in full dress. His face was completely masked by a boar's head, tusks curving skyward, glass eyes staring glassily, bristles bristling impressively. His eyes peered out through the boar's mouth. He wore the robes of office and dark green cummerbund that befitted his rank. He was sweating heavily.

  Jasp
er, old man, delighted to see you," he said, despite the fact that all he saw was a greenish glow. He offered the forefinger and pinky of his right hand in the ritual Boar handshake. He felt something grab them and perform the shake.

  "Manfred, it's been a while, hasn't it? And how is your darling Amelia?"

  "Growing up too quickly for my taste," said the Grand Boar, shaking his tusks. "Things have changed since I was a boy, I must say."

  "The way of the world, old thing. The way of the world. Have some sherry?"

  "Don't mind if I do." They wandered over to the side-board. A carafe of pale brown liquid rose and poured two drinks. Both glasses rose into the air; one pressed itself into the Grand Boar's hand.

  The room was filling up with others, many wearing boar masks, though most far less elaborate than Manfred's. They greeted one another with glad cries, gave the ritual handshake, and talked of the latest news and the jokes in current circulation.

  The room itself was luxuriously appointed, with overstuffed armchairs, footrests, and heavy oaken tables piled high with books. At the back of the room was an elevated stage, and behind it, the coat of arms of the order: a boar's head, and the motto of the Loyal and Fraternal Sodality of the Boar, Adiuvo Te—"I Aid Thee."

  The Grand Boar laboriously climbed the short stairway to the stage and walked to the lectern. The three Fullbrights of the Urf Durfal chapter sat on the couch behind him. They were Jasper de Mobray, KGF and Magister Mentis; Wentworth Secundus Jorgensen, Magister Alchimiae; and Morglop Morstern, cyclops, and a landsknecht of renown.

  The Grand Boar cleared his throat. Silence grew as the members of the order noted his presence at the lectern and seated themselves. The herald put a horn to his lips and blew. The last vestiges of conversation died away at the sound.

  "The hunter's horn sounds," said the Grand Boar. "And we prepare," responded several dozen voices.

  "Ahem," said the Grand Boar. "I called this meeting in response to an urgent summons from Brother Jasper. I thank you for responding so promptly. Actually, I don't have the slightest idea what's up. Jasper?"