Another Day, Another Dungeon

by Greg Costikyan

  Veronee pulled out a lace handkerchief, dabbed at her eyes, and twisted it between lacquered fingernails. "Your Grace," she said and gave a sob, "I am ruined."

  "My honor!" said the grand duke, standing upright. "What has happened?"

  "The fundament of my family's fortune," she said despairingly, "has been filched."

  "Your fortress in Filbert has been pilfered?" said the duke, shocked. "Nay, nay," sobbed the baroness. "Our fortune is not founded in our Filbert fortress. Rather, it flows from a figure."

  "A figure?" said the grand duke, puzzled.

  "A statue," explained the baroness, "full-scale, depicting a man in archaic harness. It has magical properties, bringing wealth and well-being to its owner. And now it is gone!" She broke down and heaved sobs into her handkerchief.

  "Now, now," said the grand duke. "Now, now. Fear not, dear lady." He patted her arm somewhat cautiously.

  Veronee threw herself into the grand duke's arms. His wineglass hit the floor with a crash. He nearly tumbled over the footrest. "My lord," she sobbed, burying her face in his dressing gown. "I know you will help me!"

  Unable to believe his good fortune, the grand duke stroked her hair. "What can I do?" he asked.

  She looked up at him. "Oh, Morty," she cooed, "can your men not find my statue?"

  "Eh?" "If a reward is posted; if the guard searches diligently . . ."

  "Oh, yes. I suppose. We'll have the herald make an announcement immediately. Sir Ethelred can coordinate the search."

  She covered his faces with kisses. "Oh, Morty! I shall be forever grateful."

  Idiot, he thought. He'd given away the farm. Here he had her at his power, and he'd simply granted her request. Surely he could have extracted some minor dalliance in exchange for aid? He cursed his tutors.

  Neither romantic badinage nor haggling had been part of their curriculum. Tutors, he reflected, never taught you anything important.

  Mortimer cleared his throat. It was in his mind to suggest that a little advance gratitude would not be amiss, but he could not find the words. She tucked her head into his reedy chest. "Mortimer?" she asked softly. "May I tell you something?"

  "Of course," he said.

  "I . . . I have always found you attractive."

  The grand duke's Adam's apple bobbed like a yo-yo. "Yes?" he squeaked.

  "Do you think . . . I mean . . . are you expecting anyone soon?" "No," he moaned.

  Somehow, they began to move toward the bedroom door.

  The Baroness Veronee doubted he'd make much of a bed partner. On the other hand, she felt hungry. Yes, she thought, she could definitely use a . . . bite.

  Sir Ethelred Ethelbert was in the library. He perched unsteadily on a ladder, a book in one hand. He gaped down at Jameson, his secretary. "Are you sure?" said Sir Ethelred. "Baroness Veronee? A necromancer? And a spy for Arst-Kara-Morn?"

  "The information is from my Sodality connections," said Jameson. "I do not believe they would make such an accusation baselessly."

  The foreign minister replaced his book on the shelf. Slowly, he descended the ladder. "If we act on this information and it proves false, it will mean my head," he said.

  "Yes, sir," said Jameson.

  "On the other hand," said Sir Ethelred, "if I can make it stick, I can probably get Mortimer to see reason about the Ishkabibble crisis. The baroness has been one of the primary obstacles. . . ."

  "Sir, ah . . . the grand duke is with the baroness now." "Now? Where?"

  "In his private chambers."

  "In his private chambers?" Sir Ethelred looked distinctly uneasy. He shook his greasy locks. "Delightful. I shall rush in, find him in flagrante, and inform him that the lady with whom he is delicto is a spy. I'm sure he'll appreciate the stern vigilance of our guardians of public order."

  "Sir," said Jameson uneasily, "he could be in danger at this very moment."

  Sir Ethelred sighed. "It's taking a terrible risk," he told Jameson. "Young men are supposed to take the risks. We old fogies are supposed to stay in our studies and pull the strings. Ah, well; miseria fortes viros probat, eh?"

  Mortimer sprawled on the big four-poster bed. The curtains to the bed were drawn. He snored gently. Two small wounds were visible on his neck. Poor pathetic twit, thought the baroness; he'd never even gotten his pajamas off.

  Veronee wiped the blood from her chin. They were always suggestible in this state. "When you awake," she said to the grand duke's slumbering form, "you shall do as I say. You will remember nothing of this conversation—"

  There was a pounding at the door. There were shouting voices. She distinguished the voice of that meddling minister, Sir Ethelred something. "My liege!" it shouted. "You are in dire peril!"

  She sat bolt upright. They knew she was in here, of course. She had entered Castle Durf openly and requested an audience with Mortimer. If they were saying he was in danger . . . her cover must be broken.

  There was the sound of an axe chunking into the door.

  That clinched it. Interrupting the grand duke was one thing. Breaking down his door was quite another, especially when he was engaged in an amour with a noblewoman. Either they knew what she was, or a coup d'etat was in progress. She doubted the latter.

  How had they found out? No time to worry about it now. There was just time to finish the poor bastard. She leaned over Mortimer and drank deeply. The life rattled from his body.

  Naked, she ran to the French windows and threw them open. There was a bolt of lightning. She started.

  For by the flashing light, she saw the ghost of Mad Roderick, atop his charger Valiant.

  For an instant, she was sure her sins had caught up with her. Mortimer's ancestor was about to wreak his revenge.

  Then she realized that she was seeing no ghost. It was a statue.

  A bronze statue.

  A statue identical to the one in Roderick Square.

  How odd, she thought. Did Morty have a replica made for his terrace? Axes chunked repeatedly into the heavy wooden door. It wouldn't hold much longer.

  She noticed that the statue had pigeon droppings on its shoulders. She examined it more closely.

  It was the one from Roddy Square.

  If it wasn't in Roddy Square, then what was? The door splintered.

  The Baroness Veronee transformed into a bat and launched herself into the night.

  Eighteen Boars had answered the summons. Garfok counted them. In all, Garfok thought, the three orcs were surrounded by twenty-six heavily armed people of various races, all armed to the teeth, most with powerful magic items, many with intrinsic magical abilities. And every single one of them disliked orcs. Garfok had resigned himself to the prospect of a shallow grave in Wentworth's cellar.

  . . . Taking a party this size and this well armed through the streets of the city is inviting trouble. Ergo, we need you to lead us through the catacombs to Veronee's mansion," said Jasper.

  "No chanst," said Drizhnakh. "Unh uh," said Garfok.

  "Does ya think we is stupid or somefing?" said Spug. "You vant to live, or vhat?" said Kraki.

  "Oi, sure we wants to live," said Drizhnakh.

  "Then you take us to house of baroness," said Kraki.

  "Dat don't sound like da way to ensure my future survival, if ya follow me," said Garfok.

  "Look at it this vay," said Kraki. "If you take us to baroness, maybe she kill you. If you don't, for sure I kill you."

  "It ain't dat easy," said Drizhnakh. "Da problem wit' da baroness is dis: if she wants to rip out yer eyeballs wit' red-hot tweezers, a little thing like da fact dat you're dead ain't gonna stop her."

  "Perhaps I can suggest an alternative," said Father Thwaite. "Huh?"

  "Burial in consecrated ground would prevent the use of your body or spirit. . . ."

  "So yer offer is dat you'll bury us in a churchyard after ya kill us, so's da baroness can't turn us into zombies? Dat's real generous, I gotta say." "We're wasting time," said Jasper. "Look here, I admit that there is a certai
n danger that the baroness will wreak revenge upon you should you aid us. However, the odds are that you would survive the experience." "Sez you."

  "We're offering you your freedom. . . ." "Da freedom to be a dead guy."

  "Surely a sufficient cash payment would overcome your reservations." Garfok grinned delightedly. "Now yer talkin'," he said.

  While Jasper haggled and Morglop kept his eye on the captives, the others began to prepare.

  "Two healing draughts per person," announced Wentworth. Garni nudged Sidney. "Take them," he said.

  "We'll be okay," she said. "We've got Father Thwaite."

  "They cost a good pound argentum on the open market," he said. "You never know when one might come in handy."

  "Oh, all right," she said.

  Wentworth handed Garni a lacquered box containing three red gems. "What's this for?" said Garni.

  "They're—rather like congealed fireballs," said Wentworth. "Throw them and they explode."

  "Ah . . . same radius as a fireball?" "Quite. Do be careful with them." "You bet."

  "Don't test that in here!" yelled a woman in black.

  "Why not?" asked an elf who was pointing a rod toward a window. "If it backfires, it could wipe us out," she said. "And you don't know how many charges it has, anyway."

  Wentworth showed Sidney his cache of small weapons. She found room for six throwing stars and a brace of daggers under her belt.

  "I beg your pardon," said Father Thwaite, tugging at Wentworth's sleeve. "Would you have any brandy?"

  Wentworth frowned. "Fortifying yourself before a battle may sound like a sensible notion a priori, " he said, "but I've found that the effects are more deleterious than beneficial."

  Thwaite sighed. "Nonetheless . . ."

  Wentworth shrugged and found the cleric a flask.

  The alchemist moved around the shop, pulling down vials, flasks, and powders. He handed them out hither and yon. A good portion of his inventory was going into the pockets and packs of the assemblage.

  This was, Sidney thought with satisfaction, perhaps the best armed group of adventurers she'd ever seen. The baroness would never know what hit her.

  "Look at dese dips," whispered Garfok to Drizhnakh. "Dey actually think dey've got a chance."

  Drizhnakh gave a hollow laugh. "When does we make a break for it?"

  XVI

  This, thought the Baroness Veronee, is no fun.

  She dodged crazily through the sky. It was raining fiercely. Her fur was wet through and through. Lightning crashed from time to time; she prayed none found her.

  Below her, she saw her destination: Roderick Square. Grand Duke Roddy posed as always, sword aloft. Valiant had three feet on the ground. That meant something or other, Veronee thought; died in battle or didn't die in battle or something of the kind. Two feet aloft meant something else.

  She fluttered around the monument. She tried to land on the sword blade; she grabbed for it with her legs, expecting to swing to a halt and hang facedown—the usual perch for a bat.

  She almost broke her neck. There wasn't any sword.

  She flew to the edge of the square and hung from the rafters of the Inn of the Villein Impaled. It sure looked like a sword was there.

  She wanted to examine that statue more closely. Specifically, she wanted to touch it, to see if it felt like a man on horseback-or more like the lifesize statue of a human male.

  Unfortunately, bats have no hands. To feel the statue, she'd need to return to human form.

  Equally unfortunately, her clothes were now in a pile by Mortimer's bed. Veronee suspected that a naked woman climbing up Mad Roddy's statue would elicit a certain amount of interest. Not that there were many people in the square just at present.

  She caught a whiff of smoke. Pipeweed, she thought. She peered through the inn's small and rather dirty window. There were two men sitting at a table. One was a geezer, passed out on the table. The other was a large, red-haired young man, smoking a pipe-Timaeus d'Asperge, she thought in some surprise.

  Hmm. Could she possibly have misjudged him? Could he have been clever enough to disguise the statue as Mad Roddy? Or was his presence here mere coincidence?

  There was, she decided, only one way to find out.

  She fluttered to the statue and transformed. She climbed it and felt the figure.

  There was no doubt about it. This statue was not what it appeared to be. It merely looked like Mad Roddy. It felt like the life-size statue of a human male.

  Someone must have replaced Roderick's statue and, for want of anything better to do with it, decided to play a practical joke on Mortimer. Who might have done the deed?

  "Hey, sugar," came a voice. "Don't you know 'bout Odd Rod? You wan' sa'sfaction, you lookin' in the wrong place."

  She looked down. A drunk had accosted her. She leapt to the cobblestones.

  "Aroint thee," she said contemptuously. The drunk leered and grabbed for a buttock.

  She clouted him on the side of the head with her fist. Momentarily, the drunk looked surprised; then, his eyes flickered and he keeled over, unconscious. She caught him and lowered his body to the street.

  "So when was this?" asked Timaeus, taking the pipe from his mouth-but his drinking mate had passed out at the table.

  And no wonder, Timaeus thought blearily. One of the advantages of being Igniti was an ability to handle considerable quantities of firewater, but there was a limit to anyone's capacity. Both he and the oldster had imbibed a truly alarming volume of liquor in the course of the afternoon.

  Timaeus was beginning to worry about Sidney and the others but could think of no better place to look for them; of course, in his current state of inebriation, he couldn't think much at all.

  He leaned back in his chair and puffed on his pipe contemplatively. He looked out the rain-smeared window. He felt warm and comfortable. He felt vaguely guilty that he wasn't searching more strenuously; but where to look?

  Outside, a naked and rather attractive woman walked by. Timaeus blinked twice.

  The door to the inn swung open. "Innkeeper!" the woman called. "I plead your assistance." Given her state of deshabille, thought Timaeus, she sounded quite commanding. With a shock, he recognized her. It was the Baroness Veronee. "Extraordinary," he muttered and rose from the table.

  The innkeeper's wife was wrapping a shawl about the baroness. The innkeeper shouted orders to his serving maids. One wench brought her a stoup of mulled wine, another a broiled chicken. The innkeeper guided her to a seat.

  Timaeus cleared his throat and approached. "My lady," he said.

  The baroness looked up and leapt to her feet. The shawl slipped, displaying an alarming amount of cleavage. "Darling Timaeus!" she cried. "How wonderful to find a gentleman in this dark hour."

  Timaeus's breast puffed a little at being so described. "Can I be of any assistance?" he asked.

  She extended a hand for him to kiss. "Chivalry is not dead," she murmured. After he'd done the honors, she continued: "Yes, my dear. Can I possibly impose on you to escort me home? These streets are not safe for a woman alone, as I have, to my cost, discovered this evening."

  "Of course, Baroness," said Timaeus. "I should be delighted." Moments later, he was swaying through the streets, stumbling over the cobblestones, rain battering at his greatcoat. He wondered what he'd gotten himself into this time-and how he'd ever find his friends.

  "You are most kind to help me," said the baroness, "but I feel I should warn you."

  "Sorry?" said Timaeus. Between the alcohol in his veins and the rainslick cobblestones underfoot, he was having a hard time concentrating on conversation.

  "My life is in danger."

  "What? Surely not! A woman in your position, a member of the grand duke's court . . . ?"

  "Precisely." Veronee sighed as they hurried through the rainy dark. "I am a victim of conspiracy."

  "My lady!" said Timaeus. "I had no idea." He was somewhat skeptical; it was hard to imagine the court of Mushroom Morty as
a hotbed of intrigue.

  They hurried on in silence for several minutes. At last, Veronee spoke again. "I perceive that you have seen through my fabrication," she said in a low voice. "Pray forgive me. It is not court intrigue that I fear. Rather, I have-enemies."

  She increased her speed. Timaeus had almost to trot to keep up. He cleared his throat.

  "Before I say more," said Veronee, looking at a tenement as they passed —anywhere but at Timaeus—I must know your allegiance."

  "Sorry?" said Timaeus, bewildered.

  She halted suddenly and stopped him with a hand on his arm. She peered at his face, her own face drawn. "Who is your liege?" she asked intensely.

  "What? Why, the grand duke, I suppose-through the proctor of Durfalus University, of course. . . ."

  "You have no other?" she asked, staring intently into his eyes. Timaeus was taken aback. "Hmm, well, technically my father . . ." She sighed, and her shoulders slumped. "I shall have to trust you," she said softly. She turned and walked forward again, this time more slowly. "Athelstan may seem a dull enough place," she said, "but it has strategic value. It dominates the valley of the River Jones, and in Durfalus University it possesses one of the great magical colleges of the human lands. It attracts a certain amount of attention from the espionage bureaux of the surrounding regions."

  Timaeus was startled. "Are you saying you're a spy? For Alcala? Or Hamsterburg?"

  She gave a throaty laugh. "Would that it were anything so simple," she said. "No, my friend, I work for . . . other masters. Surely you know of the war in Ish."

  Timaeus nodded.

  "Petty human squabbles are mere embroidery on the fabric of the eternal war between Arst-Kara-Morn and the free peoples."

  "Yes, of course," said Timaeus. "But that struggle is fought out over centuries, not . . ."

  "Nonetheless," said Veronee, "each of the combatants has its own collectors of information."

  "And you?"

  "I am a servant of the Council," she said.

  A thrill passed through Timaeus. The White Council? Could it possibly be more than legend? The wisest mages of all the world, joined to fight the eternal battle against the eastern foe? Heroic legends and boyhood daydreams fused within him.