Rogues

by George R. R. Martin

  Antipater smiled ruefully. “Alas, I doubt if I’ll live long enough to do so.” Typically, at the mention of the word “poet,” Antipater thought immediately and only of himself.

  “Perhaps I’ll do it,” I said.

  “You, Gordianus? But you’re not a poet. And your Greek is barbaric!”

  “Must every poem be in Greek?”

  “Any poem worth reading.” Antipater was showing his anti-Roman sentiment again.

  “I wonder, Teacher, would this poem show us as heroes or scoundrels, as wise men or fools? Or as rogues?”

  “Ha! I should think the rogue in our latest encounter would be your bedmate Kerynis!” Antipater saw the chagrin on my face, and laughed aloud. “Can a man not be all those things at once, as were Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser? That’s what makes them so fascinating. Some men are one thing on the surface and another underneath. The true poet shows not just the exterior of his subject, but all the contradictions within, and lets the reader draw his own conclusions.”

  I looked at my snowy-haired tutor and smiled, feeling a great affection for him. “I shall remember that, Teacher, when it’s time to write my memoirs.”

  Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser are copyrighted by the estate of Fritz Leiber and are mentioned with permission of Richard Curtis Associates, Inc., agents for the estate. Leiber’s books are published by ereads.com.

  Garth Nix

  New York Times bestselling Australian writer Garth Nix worked as a book publicist, editor, marketing consultant, public-relations man, and literary agent before launching the bestselling “Old Kingdom” series, which consists of Sabriel, Lirael: Daughter of the Clayr, Abhorsen, and The Creature in the Case. His other books include the “Seventh Tower” series, consisting of The Fall, Castle, Aenir, Above the Veil, Into Battle, and The Violet Keystone, the “Keys to the Kingdom” series, consisting of Mister Monday, Grim Tuesday, Drowned Wednesday, Sir Thursday, Lady Friday, Superior Saturday, and Lord Sunday, as well as stand-alone novels such as The Ragwitch and Shade’s Children. His short fiction has been collected in Across the Wall: Tales of the Old Kingdom and Beyond. His most recent book are two novels written with Sean Williams, Troubletwisters: The Mystery and Troubletwisters: The Monster, a new stand-alone novel, A Confusion of Princes, and a new collection, Sir Hereward and Master Fitz: Three Adventures. Born in Melbourne, he now lives in Sydney, Australia.

  Nix has written a popular series detailing the adventures of Sir Hereward, a roving knight, and his companion Master Fitz, a millennia-old sorcerer who happens to be an enchanted puppet. Here Sir Hereward and Master Fitz reluctantly undertake a spot of housebreaking, only to find everything they were not looking for, including some very deadly surprises.

  A CARGO OF IVORIES

  Garth Nix

  “We should have purchased the monkey,” whispered Sir Hereward, as he balanced precariously on the ridge of the tiled roof, which was shining bright under the moon and had become extremely slippery, the result of the squall of needle-sharp rain that had just blown through and over the erstwhile knight and his puppet-sorcerer companion, Mister Fitz.

  Neither looked the part of knight or sorcerer this night. Sir Hereward was garbed in the soot-stained leather vest and breeches of a chimney sweep, the latter cut short at the knee, with a coil of rope over his shoulder and a dagger at his belt rather than a sword; and Mister Fitz had assumed the disguise of a sweep’s boy by putting a ragged and filthy hood over his pumpkin-shaped papier-mâché head and child-sized leather gauntlets on his wooden hands.

  “The monkey was insufficiently trained, and its mind not well formed enough for the impressing of sorcerous commands,” Fitz whispered back.

  “It stole my purse easily enough,” countered Sir Hereward. “If we had bought it, then it would be here, and I wouldn’t be wet and cold and—

  “The matter is moot, as we did not purchase the monkey and furthermore we have arrived at our point of ingress.”

  Sir Hereward glanced ahead at the huge brick chimney stack that protruded six or seven feet from the roof. Halfway up the stack, a thin ribbon of gold had been affixed to the brickwork, the metal etched with many malevolent-looking runes and sorcerous writings.

  “The monkey could have jumped straight to the top of the stack and avoided those curses,” said Sir Hereward. He shuffled forward a pace or two, wincing as his bare feet found a sharp edge to the copper that sheathed the ridge.

  “Jumping to the top would not avoid them,” said Mister Fitz. His piercing blue eyes reflected brightly in the moonlight as he studied the gold ribbon. “The architect-sorcerer who made this place was well versed in her art.”

  “I trust you can counter the spells?” asked Sir Hereward.

  “It were best to leave them in place but render them less efficacious,” replied the puppet sorcerer. He rummaged in the pouch at his belt as he spoke, withdrawing a number of long pieces of onionskin paper that were heavily inscribed with runes, written in an ink the color of dried blood, in close lines.

  “Less efficacious?” asked Sir Hereward. “In exactly what proportion? Those are death curses, are they not?”

  “Indeed,” said Fitz. He licked the roof with his long, blue, fabriclike tongue, picking up the moisture he would need in lieu of the saliva his mouth did not make, moistened one of the pieces of paper, and carefully pasted it over the gold ribbon, pressing it hard against the brickwork of the chimney. The runes in the gold began to glow hotly, before being soothed and quietened by the counterspells on the paper. “They will now merely cause a pang, an ache, or something of that order.”

  “There are many degrees and varieties of ache,” said Sir Hereward gloomily. But he took the coil of rope off his shoulder and pressed the catch on the grapnel that extended its three barbed arms. “Shall I fix this in place now?”

  “Not yet,” said the puppet, who was peering closely at the lip of the chimney. He took another paper, wet it in the same manner, and stuck it over the cornice. “A clever mage. There were hidden spells upon the top bricks. But I believe it is now safe enough to proceed. Are you confident of the plan?”

  “If everything is as we have been told, and as you have scried,” said Sir Hereward. “Which of course, is almost certainly not the case. But I do not think Montaul suspects our coming, which is something.”

  The house whose ensorcelled roof they were perched upon belonged to the aforementioned Montaul, commonly known as “Flatpurse”—not because of his poverty but because of his vast riches, which he denied existed and did not easily spend. He had drawn the attention of Sir Hereward and Mister Fitz, who were only house-robbers upon occasion, because two days previously he had secretly taken delivery of a cargo of ivory figurines, seventy-four finger-high carvings that represented the godlets of the far kingdom of Asantra-Lurre. Possibly unbeknownst to Montaul, fourteen of the figurines were not merely representations of godlets but energistic anchors that secured the actual deities to this mortal plane and could be used to summon them into renewed existence. As the said godlets were all proscribed for various reasons, usually their inimical nature, the destruction of the ivories had long been sought by the Council of the Treaty for the Safety of the World, the possibly mythical, often thought defunct, and generally surprising sisterhood that Sir Hereward had been born into, his male gender a surprise that had not been allowed to interfere with his usefulness. Mister Fitz, on the other hand, was both male and female, or neither, or whichever he wished to be, and had served the Council in various roles almost since its establishment by a number of now mostly vanished polities several millennia gone.

  In other places, or perhaps other times, it would not have been necessary for Sir Hereward and Mister Fitz to climb over the rooftops and make entry into Montaul’s house through a death-charm-warded chimney. But the city of Kwakrosh was far from any of the Council’s traditional allies who might exert some influence or force. Here, Montaul was not only a councillor and a colonel of the city’s trained bands, he also reluctantly
but wisely paid good, fine-minted money to a great number of judges, advocates, watchmen, and thief-takers to ensure that if any criminal activity was going on, it would be done by him rather than to him or to his exceedingly valuable property.

  Hence the rooftop in the rain and the descent down the chimney.

  Sir Hereward gritted his teeth as he lifted one leg over the papered charms to straddle the chimney stack, expecting something like a dagger strike to the groin, this being the kind of thing Mister Fitz might call an ache. But there was only a faint tingle, reminiscent of the sensation usually called pins and needles, that came from sitting too long in one spot.

  Fastening the grapple to the lip of the chimney, he let the rope down as slowly and quietly as he could, till it hung slack. If the plans they had bribed the chimney-tax inspector to provide were accurate, the rope should now be hanging a foot or so above the top of the open hearth. Close enough to drop easily but hidden from view.

  “Considering the quantity of Alastran wine you drank last night, I think we should take a moment to recapitulate the plan,” said Mister Fitz quietly. “I go first, to take care of any additional sorcerous defenses. You follow on the count of eight …”

  “Ten. I thought we agreed ten,” whispered Sir Hereward. “What if there is something that takes you more than a moment to dispel? I don’t want to blunder into a death spell or skin separator or the like.”

  “Very well. You follow upon the count of ten. We emerge in the Great Hall, likely deserted—”

  “Hmmpf,” said Hereward, which was not exactly disagreement but a certain hedging of bets.

  “Likely deserted due to Montaul’s parsimony, apart from the hounds who have free range of the interior,” continued Mister Fitz. “If they are present, we throw the soporific bone I prepared earlier … I trust you have that somewhere easy to reach?”

  Sir Hereward indicated the left leg of his breeches, where there was an unusually large bulge that extended almost to his knee, marking the position of the segmented bone that Mister Fitz had imbued with a sleeping spell for dogs. The bone itself was jointed in quarters, to allow each of the four lurchers, grippers, alaunts, or whatever breed of guard dog there was inside to tear off and secure its own portion. The merest lick would then send them to sleep. Fortunately, the soporific bone only worked on dogs, so it was safe to handle. Mister Fitz knew many variations for other species, though when he prepared it for humans, the spell was normally emplaced in confectionary or sweetmeats, unless intended for cannibals such as the terrible inhabitants of the ruined city of Coradon.

  “We turn right, along the hall, up the steps, and through the inner door to the countinghouse,” said Mister Fitz. “Scrying suggests that this inner way is not locked when Montaul is in residence, he likes to come and go, but in any case I have two remaining curiosities, which should suffice to pick the lock if it proves necessary.”

  “We grab the ivories, open the main door of the countinghouse from the inside, go across the courtyard, fight the gate guards who won’t be expecting us, go out the night postern, and run away,” picked up Hereward. “Simple, elegant, straightforward.”

  “I would not describe it as elegant,” said Mister Fitz. “However, it should serve the purpose. Shall we proceed?”

  “Please do,” said Sir Hereward, inclining his head as if acknowledging someone of importance at a ball or court levee.

  Mister Fitz gripped the rope with both gauntleted hands and began to climb down the rope headfirst, his blue-pupiled eyes staring down into the sooty darkness.

  Hereward counted to twelve before he followed. His movements were not as fluid as the puppet’s, but he climbed with a spare efficiency, the technique learned years before as a supernumerary aboard the pirate chaser Termagant Biter returning to him without conscious thought.

  The chimney, though rarely used, in accordance with Montaul’s cheeseparing ways that begrudged the purchase of any fuel, was still caked with soot. Though Hereward tried to keep to the rope and only touch the side with his feet, he swung a few times on the way down, and his back and elbows dislodged a considerable quantity of choking, black dust. Much of it blew up as well as sinking down, so that by the time he gently lowered himself down next to Mister Fitz, they were both entirely blackened, their chimney-sweep disguises much enhanced.

  The Hall was not only empty, but very dark. Montaul did not approve of candles or lanterns in rooms where he was not present. Mister Fitz could see perfectly well, but Sir Hereward had to depend upon his ears alone, and he didn’t like what he was hearing. A wet, slobbery snuffling that sounded likely to precede the crunch of large teeth, and it was much closer than he deemed secure. It also did not sound particularly like a dog. It was louder and just … different.

  “Hand me the bone,” said Mister Fitz, who seemed calm enough, though this was little indication of the seriousness of the situation. Mister Fitz was always calm.

  “What is it?” whispered Sir Hereward, moving very slowly to pull the soporific bone out of his trousers. He moved slowly because he was deeply concerned that a sudden movement might hasten the transition from slobbering noises to crunching ones, with his hand or arm featuring as the source of the crunching.

  “A basilisk,” said Mister Fitz. “It’s licking my glove right now.”

  “A basilisk!” hissed Sir Hereward, instinctively screwing his eyes tight at the very mention of the petrifying beast. “Will the bone work on a basilisk?”

  “We shall see,” replied Mister Fitz. Hereward felt the puppet take the bone and a second later the slobbering noise increased, followed by the hideous crunching sounds he had feared. Almost immediately they then ceased and were punctuated by a very loud thud, a strong vibration through the floor, and the cessation of the munching and crunching.

  “Remind me to amend my treatise on soporific bones,” said Mister Fitz. “I thought there was a slim chance it would prove efficacious, as Plontarl’s Index states there was dog in the original hybrid made by Kexil-Ungard when it created the first basilisks. A gaze-hound, perhaps, though there is clearly a preponderance of reptile in the creature—”

  “Is there?” asked Sir Hereward, with no small degree of sarcasm apparent in his voice. “Given I can’t see a thing, I must trust to your opinion. Could we perhaps continue? With a little light?”

  “Indeed,” replied Mister Fitz.

  The puppet did not resort to an esoteric needle for something as simple as shedding a little light. Instead Sir Hereward noticed two faint blue sparks appear, as if a copperized wick had been lit. Slowly they grew brighter as Fitz increased the luminosity of his eyes, an old trick of his that had more than once proven to be of great value, most famously when the hasty reading of a map at midnight had resulted in Hereward’s leading a rear guard to safety, rather than certain defeat and a lingering death, since the enemy in question were devotees of Pozalk-Nimphenes, a god whose concept of prisoners of war was indistinguishable from that of food, so anyone captured was invariably fed into its insatiable but toothless maw, expiring days later in the god’s otherworldly stomach or whatever organ processed things so devoured.

  Fitz did not make his eyes shine very brightly, so Hereward squinted as he poked his head out of the hearth and looked around the hall. The basilisk was a dark shape on the floor just beyond the bronze firedogs. As far as he could tell from its silhouette it looked entirely like an ugly lizard, which is what he had always thought they were, albeit ones with the power to mesmerize their prey into statuelike stillness.

  “Why would there be a basilisk here?” asked Sir Hereward as he slowly looked around the room. “Unless there is some trap to set lights going, it would be entirely wasted in the dark.”

  “I do not think it is an intentional inhabitant of the house,” said Mister Fitz.

  “There is something else near the door to the countinghouse,” said Hereward. He could make out a silhouette that at first he had thought some very large piece of furniture, but it was moving sligh
tly, suggesting breathing. “The door behind it is ajar. Can you see what it is?”

  The puppet edged out next to him, holding Hereward’s knee for a moment as he leaned around the marmorealized foot of a moklek, the shorn and domesticated cousins of the wild mammoth. This hollowed-out foot served to hold several pokers and other useful fireplace implements, including a six-tined toasting fork.

  “Yes … I can,” said Mister Fitz. “Curious.”

  “What is it, if you don’t mind?”

  “A pygmy moklek. An albino, I should think. Which is surprising, but also presents us with an opportunity.”

  “A basilisk and an albino pygmy moklek were most definitely not part of the plan,” said Sir Hereward. “Nor do I consider the presence of said creatures to be an ‘opportunity.’ That moklek is lying in front of the door. Does it have tusks?”

  “Short tusks jeweled at the tips,” confirmed Mister Fitz. “It is asleep.”

  “Even a moklek can lose its temper, and even short tusks can disembowel,” said Sir Hereward. “The jewels might even help. The question is, how did it get here?”

  “The ‘why’ may also be relevant,” suggested Mister Fitz, his tone educational. He had never really given up his early role as Sir Hereward’s nurse and tutor.

  “Lord Arveg, whose house lies adjacent to the perimeter wall here, has a private menagerie …” mused Sir Hereward, after a moment’s thought. “If breaches were made in the west wall of his house, and then the eastern wall of this … but there has been no explosion, no petard blast …”

  “Stone may be dissolved by sorcery,” said Mister Fitz. “Animals transported energistically through solid matter. Sound may be dulled, or sent elsewhere, via a number of magical instruments.”

  “Someone else is after the ivories,” concluded Sir Hereward. He drew his dagger, turning it so the light from Fitz’s eyes did not reflect from the bright steel blade. “Presumably a sorcerer.”