Another Day, Another Dungeon

by Greg Costikyan

  Wentworth's weightless blood drifted in globules about the room. On the verge of unconsciousness, he pulled out a healing draught and gulped it greedily. He floated, semiconscious, as the potion began to do its work.

  Jasper shouted a Word. A ray of green light struck George. George froze.

  The water mage peered in through the basement window. He, too, spoke a Word. Blue energy began to glow about his hands.

  At the back of the room, the fire raged merrily.

  Mrs. Coopersmith battered Morglop from behind with her umbrella. "You try my patience, woman!" yelled Morglop. He reached behind and yanked the umbrella from her grasp. While he was off balance, Billy struck him a glancing blow.

  Jasper spoke another Word. Under Jasper's mental control, George attacked Billy from behind.

  The water mage released the blue glow about his hands. A sphere of water smashed across the room, tumbling Morglop and the three goons to the floor.

  The fire hissed out. The room filled with the smell of wet charcoal. "Trouble at the flat," gasped Micah. Montiel's lieutenants crowded round.

  Soon, messengers spread out across the city, carrying Montiel's summons to the underworld.

  Sounds like a battle zone, thought the lich. Explosions, bolts of energy, and the clash of weapons sounded from down the street. It peered around the corner to see a brilliant green flash shine from the window of number twelve.

  It pulled back into the alley. A bedraggled cat peered out from under a heap of trash. "Puss, puss, puss, puss," the lich whispered. "Here pretty pussy." It held out its sleeve, taking care to hide its bones, trying to give the impression that it was holding a treat.

  Hesitantly, the scrawny cat came forward. The lich grabbed it and broke its neck. The lich felt the life force flow through its frame. It spoke a Word. The spell seized the cat's expiring spirit and placed a compulsion on it. The spirit flew out of the alley and across the city, toward the town house of Baroness Veronee, carrying the lich's message.

  She would come, it reflected, daytime or no. And she'd come with all her resources.

  Corcoran Evanish stood in the shelter of a doorway, out of the pouring rain. He studied his list. He crossed off the fifteenth name. Eight more to go. He patted his burgeoning purse with satisfaction.

  His work was well done:

  In a lonesome garret, a wizard clad in red spoke to her familiar. "Come, my pet," she said. "Solid athenor; think of it."

  In a filthy inn, a huge, bearded man drained his tankard and spat out the lees. "Awright, gents," he said. "There's a job we can do that'll make us all rich."

  Down by the harbor, the captain of an elvish ship spoke to his crew. "And after we have it, it's away and downriver for us," he said.

  In a study in Old Town, the ambassador from Hamsterburg spoke to his spymaster. "There may be a connection with the sceptre," he said, "which, as you know, is the embodiment of our claim to rightful rule of the human lands."

  A dozen groups plotted, and the battle raged.

  Major Yohn prowled the battlements of Castle Durf. He was restless. It was too early to start carousing, his men were fine, nothing much was going on at the castle.

  The view from Castle Durf was spectacular. It was an eminently defensible spot, a volcanic pipe that loomed over the city. Cliffs fell away on three sides to the city below; the only approach was a long, low ridge leading to the castle. From the battlements, it was possible to see the entire city and a good portion of the region. The rain reduced visibility, but the gray skies and wet streets lent a certain somber grandeur to the town.

  Yohn passed a member of the Ducal Guard. The man's mail was rusted in spots. Yohn scowled.

  "What's that?" said Yohn. Out over the city there were flashes of light. A brief explosion revealed people flitting around on a carpet.

  The guardsman yawned, scratched himself, and looked. "Beats me," he said.

  "Give me your spyglass," said Yohn. The guard shrugged and handed it to him. Yohn peered through it.

  Ye gods. Looked like a battle over there. "Five Corners Parish, isn't it?" Yohn said.

  "Huh?" said the guardsman. "Yeah, sure. Guess so."

  It was obviously no riot. Rioters wouldn't have access to that much magic. Yohn handed back the spyglass and hurried away. If he knew his men, most of them were sleeping, preparing for the night's revels. He'd better get them organized, send out some scouts, find out what was going on. They might be sent into action at a moment's notice.

  Nick raked in the coins. He grinned from ear to ear. Spug stared, roundeyed and gape-tusked.

  "You is sure you hasn't played dis game before?" said Garfok.

  "Oi, Garfok," said Drizhnakh disgusted. "He's a bloody cardsharper, ain't it as plain as da boil on yer face?"

  "Another round, boys?" said Nick. He squeezed the deck with his right hand. The cards shot across a cubit of space to be caught in the left hand. He performed three quick poker cuts with his left hand alone.

  "I is down to da last copper," said Garfok, fumbling the coin.

  "Tell you what," said Nick. "I'll advance you a shilling for every question you answer."

  "What?" said Garfok suspiciously.

  "It's not like I'm asking you to let me go or anything," Nick explained. "I know you're too sharp for that. No, I realize I can't win my way to freedom. "

  "Days for sure," said Drizhnakh. "Da baroness would moider us if we let ya loose."

  "She's a baroness, huh?" said Nick. "That's interesting. For instance," he said to Garfok, "I'd give you a shilling of silver if you'd tell me her name. Now, what could be the harm in that? I'm not going anywhere, after all."

  The orcs glanced at each other, then moved away. They conversed in low voices.

  "It's a shilling each," said Garfok. "Sorry?" said Nick.

  "We'll go fer it," said Garfok, "but we decides how many questions you gets to ask, and we gets one shilling, each of da tree of us, fer every question."

  Nick raised an eyebrow. "You're a hard . . . er . . . orc, Garfok, but it's a deal."

  He shoved three piles of silver across the floor. "Veronee," said Drizhnakh. "Da Baroness Veronee."

  XII

  A toothpick nearly embedded itself in Timaeus's eye. He ducked behind the door. When he peered back into the room, a wild-haired face stuck up from behind the gaming table. It was wearing an archaic Imperial helmet. "Damnation!" it shouted. "Arbalests are bloody worthless."

  A dark-skinned man stood up on the right. "They're siege machines," he said. "What do you expect at a field battle?"

  "No," muttered the man in the helmet. "It's the damned rubber bands. Musn't wind them so tight."

  The two leaned over the table. Rank upon serried rank of metal soldiers stood on little hills of sand. There were infantry, cavalry, a dragon or two elevated above the fray on sticks. Stands of orcs stood slavering, their officer's whips measuring out command radii. The arbalests were on a ridge to the rear. The man in the helmet turned a tiny crank on one of the siege machines and laid a toothpick against the rubber bow string.

  "Professor Macpherson?" said Timaeus.

  The man in the helmet stared briefly at the intruder. "Yes? My office hours are ten to . . . d'Asperge, isn't it?"

  "Yes, sir," said Timaeus.

  "A year may not seem long in the geologic scale of things," said Macpherson scathingly, "but it's too long to wait for a term paper. Your failure stands."

  Timaeus blushed. Damn, but the man had a memory. "I haven't come about that," he said. "I need your help."

  The dark-skinned man studied the table. "I do believe the II Cobatrix can see my hill trolls," he said. He produced another stand of minatures, and placed them on the table.

  "Gadzooks!" said Macpherson. "Well placed. I shall have to commit the reserve." He pushed several stands of soldiers about the table with a sort of miniature rake.

  "It's about Stantius," said Timaeus.

  Macpherson snapped to attention. "Ave!" he shouted. `Ave Stantius
!" The dark-skinned man bellowed, "Ash nazg thrakataluk!"

  "None of your damnable orcish gibberish!" yelled Macpherson. "The Imperium shall prevail. The vexillation from the V Victrix attacks the Severed Hand-Standard orcs, over here. I make it a seventeen to twenty-four assault."

  The dark-skinned man studied the table. "Looks right," he said. There was the clatter of dice. Macpherson frowned and removed several figures from the table—two Imperials and six orcs. He laid them to the side. The dark-skinned man picked up one of the figures and studied it idly.

  "I'm sorry to intrude," said Timaeus, "but it is rather important. You see, I've acquired this statue—"

  "I say, Macpherson, old man," said the dark-skinned man. "You've got the uniform of the V Victrix wrong."

  "What?" said Macpherson. "Devil I do!"

  "Look here," said the dark-skinned man. "The coat buttons are blue." "Yes, that's right," said Macpherson.

  "Yet the Edict of 2837 specifies buttons `dyed in the color of the Cataphringians'-a sort of muddy ochre," said the dark-skinned man.

  "A statue of Stantius the Third—" said Timaeus.

  "Nonsense!" said Macpherson. "Nobody knows quite what color is `the Cataphringian,' and I have a monograph somewhere about that maintains it was, in fact, identical with the Imperial purple. But that's all irrelevant, as the V Victrix was, by order of the Emperor Sculpine, entitled to adorn its buttons with the crest of the Blessed Bode—predominantly cobalt blue in color."

  "Entirely cast in athenor," said Timaeus.

  "But Sculpine antedates the Edict of 2837," said the dark-skinned man. "Surely the V Victrix would have adopted the new standard uniform." "Surely not!" said Macpherson. "Does one abandon a mark of distinction, merely because some general order-?"

  "Absurd! Would one dare to defy an Imperial edict . . . ?" said the dark-skinned man.

  "I was wondering what you could tell me about Stantius's capture, and if you might know anything about—" said Timaeus.

  "Fool!" shouted Macpherson. "What do you know, anyway? The Early Successor States is your period! I'm the authority here, and if I say the buttons were blue, then they're damned well blue!"

  "Are not!" "Are so!" "Are not!" Timaeus sighed.

  A steady stream of mud-brown water flowed into the tunnel opening. Beyond was a weed-covered lot, perhaps two acres in extent. Not far away, tenements rose. On the far side of the lot stood a shanty town—lean-tos and shacks made of scrap wood and pieces of trash.

  "Where are we?" Sidney said.

  Father Thwaite pulled himself out of the tunnel, depositing a layer of mud on his robes in the process. He looked around.

  "We're about three blocks from Roderick Square," he said.

  Sidney clambered up beside him, likewise smearing herself with mud. The heavy rain began to wash it off, simultaneously drenching her.

  "I don't suppose the statue is hidden in the underbrush," she said. "Not a bad hiding place," said Thwaite. "People wouldn't expect to find a valuable object in a place like this."

  Sidney knelt and examined the soil around the tunnel. "I'm no tracker," she said, "but the statue is awfully heavy. I don't see any wagon tracks or the kind of path you'd expect if several people carried it. It's like it was spirited through the air when it got here."

  Thwaite shrugged. "Not impossible," he said. "Demons could do it." Sidney nodded slowly. "Yes. But could demons have dug that tunnel?" "Maybe, Sidney; demons come in a fantastic variety of shapes. Look, if we're going to chat, can we get under cover?"

  "I'm going to look around," said Sidney.

  Thwaite headed for the cluster of shacks. He bent over and scuttled under a lean-to.

  There was a snore; Vic was lying on a pile of straw. "Vic," said Thwaite softly.

  The old man woke up with a snort. "Geoffrey," he said. "What are you doing here?"

  "I might ask the same of you." "I shleep here a lot," said Vic.

  "Oh." There was silence. The rain drummed on the canvas overhead. The lean-to was in a spot with good drainage, but a rivulet of water ran down Thwaite's back. He realized he was pressed up against the canvas, and water was leaking through. He leaned away.

  The old man rested on one elbow and eyed Thwaite keenly. "Sho what're you up to today?" he inquired.

  "Nothing much," said Thwaite vaguely, looking at the rain. "Sho where'd you find thish shtatue, anyway?"

  Thwaite sneaked a guilty glance at Vic. "Sorry, Vic," he said. "I'm not supposed to talk about that."

  Vic's mouth tightened. "Play it your way, then," he said, rolled over, and made as if to go back to sleep.

  With some startlement, Thwaite noticed that a pigeon was standing in the shelter of the lean-to, close to one end. It eyed him beadily.

  Thwaite stared out into the rain.

  Sidney was glad it was warm. She was drenched; if it had been cold, she'd have been miserable.

  She searched the lot carefully. She walked clear across it, moved to the right a few cubits, and traversed the lot again. She was determined to search every square foot. The statue could be hidden anywhere, buried in underbrush.

  But it wasn't.

  She did discover a mound of dirt about six cubits from the tunnel. It was vaguely humanoid in shape, as if someone had made a snowman from dirt. The rain was gradually pounding it into mud.

  Sidney stared at it, sighed, and then attacked it with her hands. It was just possible that the statue was hidden inside. She got dirt under her fingernails. She got mud all over her clothing, her face, and her hair. It took her a few minutes to convince herself that the statue wasn't there. It wasn't.

  She went to look for Thwaite among the shacks and lean-tos. "Father?" she called.

  "Here, Sidney," he replied. She found him by the sound of his voice. He was with some old guy-the same geezer he'd been with in the gutter this morning.

  Vic gave up pretence of sleep and sat up. "You," she said to him.

  He stared at her with the bright-eyed gaze of senility. "Hello?" he quavered.

  "We met this morning," Sidney said, bending over and moving into the lean-to. She hunkered down by the cleric.

  "Thish morning?" the old man's brow furrowed. "Let'sh shee . . ." His voice trailed off, and he muttered inaudibly to himself.

  "He's gone," said Thwaite. "It comes and goes. What happened to you? You're a mess."

  "Never mind," said Sidney with some embarrassment. She swiped futilely at her face, dirtying it further. "It's not here."

  "Did you expect it to be?"

  "Not really. You know, I'm getting tired of being pushed around." "Hmm?"

  "No statue; everyone a hostage; Nick and Garni's flat trashed by jerk wizards. And I've just been sitting around waiting for things to happen." "Well, Nick and Kraki tried to do something—"

  "And just wound up in a closet somewhere. The hell with it." She stood up in the rain determinedly. "Let's go get Garni."

  "How the devil do you propose we do that?" "Come on."

  Vic continued to mutter to himself.

  The guard at the gate looked Sidney up and down. She was dripping wet, her hair was plastered to her head, her pants were covered with burrs, and there were smears of mud across face and shirt. "If you're here for a job interview," he said, "the answer's no."

  "Very funny, jocko," she snarled. "I want to see Madame Laura." The guard laughed in her face. "But she doesn't want to see you," he said.

  Sidney slugged him, hard, in the stomach. He bent over. She knocked him on the back of the head with the pommel of her dagger. He fell to the brick paving.

  She walked briskly through the gate and toward the door.

  Thwaite went briefly to the guardhouse door. "Sorry," he said, and blessed the guard, who was sitting up, groaning.

  Sidney took a key from her pocket, unlocked the heavy wooden door, and flung it open. She strode into the foyer.

  All motion in the room stopped. Everyone stared at her.

  A nobleman of middle years, clad only
in a leather harness, was on his hands and knees on the rug. A bit was in his mouth. A flame-haired, softskinned lovely rode on his back, holding the reins. A look of horror passed across the nobleman's face.

  One of the chief officers of the town watch lay on a couch, his coat off and his shirt unbuttoned to the navel, a glass of whiskey on the table beside him. A dark-haired girl who could hardly have been older than sixteen sat next to him, legs drawn beneath her, one hand inside his shirt.

  On the long staircase with its patterned rug stood a dark-skinned woman wearing the helm of a Ducal Guard and not much else. Sidney headed for the stairway.

  Thwaite trailed her, goggling at the girls and the sumptuous furnishings. The room was lit with small fire elementals, trapped in globes affixed to the walls. That was expensive and, should a globe be broken, quite dangerous.

  "Hey!" said the woman wearing the helm, standing with hands on hips halfway up the staircase. "Where the hell do you think you're going? And you're getting mud on the carpet."

  "Out of my way," said Sidney. The woman moved to block her. Sidney faked right, then left, and the woman scrambled to keep in front.

  "You can't come in here," she said.

  "Actually," said Sidney, "that's why people visit this place." "What?"

  "N-never mind. Get out of my way, bitch, or I'll get more than mud on you."

  Thwaite peered over Sidney's shoulder from down the stairs. "Try not to actually kill anyone," he pleaded.

  Sidney pulled her sword. The woman's eyes went wide, and she backed up the stairs. Sidney pursued. The woman halted, took a breath, and screamed loudly.

  Sidney grabbed her and pushed her over the bannister. The woman caught the edge of the stairs and dropped, unharmed, to the floor below. She glared at Sidney. "Have you considered a career on the stage?" Sidney asked, trotting up the stairs to the landing, Thwaite close behind her.

  Several hall doors opened. A dwarf wearing nothing but trousers and carrying an axe came into the hall. His chest was amazingly hairy. Two human women peered over his shoulders.

  A thin man, naked as a jaybird, rushed out. He stared at Sidney and her sword, and transformed into a hawk. He fluttered past her, toward the main door.