Haniel ignored the stairs and they walked through the foyer to a sitting room with couches and stuffed chairs, where Haniel found and lit two candles, then took a long drink from the bottle. She left Gondorf and one candle in the sitting room and took the other to a kitchen, where she found two glasses and came back and poured two large drinks.
"What is this place?" he asked her.
Haniel drank her rum and took off her tunic.
He put his drink down, took her in his arms, and kissed her. His shirt was rough against her naked breasts, so she wrestled him out of it, and pressed herself against his bare torso.
"What's going on here, sister?" he whispered, worried, in her ear.
She moved her head to face him. "You don't want to know."
He looked at her with deep blue eyes, caught her wrist as she started to reach a hand into his trousers, and held the hand in place.
She sighed, pulled away, and refilled her glass. "Rogue wizards were running a whorehouse here with people whose minds they'd broken. Little children lived here who'd been done over by the wizards so they'd do nothing but grin and let you screw them." She drank.
"That's…perverted, twisted, and crippled."
"Yeah." She kicked off her shoes and took off her pants.
"You're really a wizard?"
"No, just an Adept."
"I'm not really a big game hunter."
"No shit."
"I'm a Two-Hundred-One hustler," he said.
He told her all about it, after they had sex. Under other circumstances she might have wished that he hadn't, but Gondorf's lengthy story, along with lots of rum and a postcoital glow that was pleasant, if not so much as she had hoped, let her forget her own troubles and self for a deeply welcome period.
Furthermore, Haniel was actually interested in Two-Hundred-One, a highly technical archery game that could only even be played by extremely skilled longbow shooters. The reason for this was that the matches were amazingly dull to watch, and so not only were drinks always available, but a class of gambler existed who made their living by buying everyone drinks until they were drunk enough to take idiotic side-bets. Haniel, who never wagered because she was poor, was a fan of the sport and pleased when she learned that the man she had slept with was actually very good at it.
Gondorf was from Youngkent, where his family had been rangers on the border for generations. His older brother had taught him how to shoot almost as soon as he could walk, and he had killed his first orc at twelve years old. Their parents fell to orcs when Gondorf was young and Gondorf was raised by his brother, when the brother was not on patrol. When he was, Gondorf stayed with neighbors and practiced shooting.
Gondorf spent his adolescence playing Two-Hundred-One with his brother and other rangers and was beating them regularly when he joined the rangers full-time at eighteen. Shortly after he joined up, his brother went on a mission with a wizard from a bordering territory and never returned, although the wizard made it back, along with some other soldiers.
This had left Gondorf thoroughly alone, unhappy, and pessimistic about the prospects of life as a ranger. The Youngkent Rangers were skilled enough archers that almost all of them played Two-Hundred-One, and the area was relatively fertile for hustlers. Eventually, Gondorf abandoned the rangers to play Two-Hundred-One full-time. After he lost everything that he had to a dwarf, who, it turned out, could hit the "double one" on the top right edge of the target whenever he wanted, he formed a partnership with the old man who had just gone away on the cart. From that time on the old man helped him out with financing, training, and selecting opponents in exchange for half of what he made.
They left Youngkent, journeying amongst the plains and rivers for about four months, playing whomever they could find, on a slow trip to Skalaban. Although the average dragar player was excellent, they struggled with the idea that a non-dragar could beat them, and Skalaban was easy pickings for two years. Eventually, however, the stories of a human Two-Hundred-One hustler became too persistent, and they were forced to move on.
The old man had wanted to go back through the plains, either back to Youngkent or on to the dwarven cities, but mostly staying on the road, where travel would assure them easy if moderate pickings. Gondorf, however, wanted to take the considerable amount of money they had made in Skalaban to the capital and use it to get into a game with Misty Mountain Slim; and Gondorf prevailed.
Haniel knew of Misty Mountain Slim, one of Kroywen's minor celebrities. An old, impossibly thin dwarf, he was widely considered the best technical archer in the Alliance. Several human lifetimes back, he had acquired a fantastic amount of gold killing dragons and protecting metal shipments out of the mountains from griffin packs and bandits. Since then, he had been a silent partner of the capital's most exclusive archery range. He would wager any amount of money on a match of Two-Hundred-One, but would only play when he thought that he had found an interesting opponent—about once every four or five years.
Gondorf had to spend two weeks knocking around the capital and making fools of respected archers before he got Misty Mountain's attention. Before meeting Haniel, he had been engaged in an uninterrupted, 72-hour archery match with the thin dwarf. Although the fortunes had changed radically several times over, it had ended with Misty Mountain winning all of the gold that they had swindled from dragars over two years except for the seventy pieces which he had just split with the old man.
Haniel fell asleep as Gondorf moved on to his plans for the future, which centered exclusively on the remote possibility of eventually besting Misty Mountain Slim.
30
Explaining the death of the soldier to the sergeant at Cohos Pass was not difficult, nor was talking him into letting Wit borrow the other soldiers for the remainder of the trip. They told their story, leaving out the No-Clan and the discoveries about the mine and renegade wizard who had left with the orcs. Wit said that they had spent the several days searching the scene, that they had found Enexiyo hidden, not imprisoned, and that the soldier had died falling off of a cliff.
The collection of cutthroats and scoundrels at the inn had thinned out somewhat and they were able to get a room without much trouble. Wit, still exhausted from the Bindings, went to sleep almost immediately.
While Wit had been working on the Bindings, Wa'llach and Shain had worked out a schedule for keeping in touch. Outside of Cohos Pass, three of the surviving trackers left the group to meet the No-Clan in the woods with new instructions from Wa'llach. The night at the tavern had given him some insight into the activities of the area's bandits, and he sent the messenger back with a list of areas to avoid, as well as the location of a now-abandoned hideout that could make for a welcome shelter.
"A thing about being locked up," said Wa'llach, "is that you get out of the habit of conversation. Myself, I've spent more than my share of years in a dungeon, and aye, when I got out I would show a tendency to speak too freely."
They had stopped for water and food at an inn around noon. Wit and Wa'llach were rubbing down the horses while Enexiyo had gone on into the inn.
"What are you getting at?" Wit asked.
"Well, you know me very well, I should think. And a well-rounded individual is a fair way to describe me. So, whenever I have been out of gaol, and developed a tendency to run my mouth, I'll talk to you on all manner of subjects—rum, weapons, horses, ale, fighting, rum, travels, blacksmithing, rum—I am highly conversant on all manner of things."
"On the other hand, a certain newly released prisoner of our acquaintance happens to be primarily interested in one thing. And he's been talking about it? Shit on all the gods."
Wa'llach fidgeted. "I don't like to create unnecessary worry for a wizard, and I have a good deal of esteem for Enexiyo—even if he is a muck-dwelling halfwit. But, yes, the mechanical dragon has come up in conversation. I don't think he has said anything very specific about it, but I don't think it would hurt any for us to be especially on our guard."
Several days later t
hey found themselves camping for the night. They had bypassed the last town, after Enexiyo had assured them that he had met a merchant who would put them up in his house just off the road for free, but had encountered none of the landmarks that the dragar had mentioned and kept looking until it was too dark to go on. They tethered the horses in a clearing off of the road, started a fire, and Wit and Wa'llach went looking for a spring. Their water skins were full enough, but Wit wanted a chance to talk to the dwarf outside of Enexiyo's hearing.
"He hasn't told me anything, why can't you read his mind?" Wa'llach said.
"Oh, I can tell you the exact angle that the last mechanical dragon he saw was flying at when it crashed into the ground, write out a diagram of a cannon he built six years ago, and paint a picture of a dragon flying over the Peaks of Fire in the morning sun: that's the stuff he's thinking about. He's not thinking about whatever mess he's got us into—that's what worries me."
"Maybe," Wa'llach said hopefully, "he really did meet someone who said he was a merchant—maybe they were really a footpad, they knew we'd miss the signs and end up camping here, and they mean to rob us."
"Yes, that would be nice wouldn't it? A simple robbery…I'd even let them take our gold, we haven't got very much of it left. Why do I think we won't be so lucky?"
They came back to find a roaring bonfire shooting green flames, the smell of roasting meat, and the chirping of skirbit voices. Half a dozen of the creatures were sitting around the flames or hanging from the branches of trees, laughing and talking with Enexiyo.
"What the hell is this?"
Enexiyo excitedly introduced them to the skirbits. The leader, Zunz, a cackling creature with orange string woven into his fur, and unusually small, even for a skirbit, hopped in excitement when he saw Wit.
"An Aubrey? Here?" A serious murmur went up amongst the skirbit. "What is the meaning of this, Captain?"
Enexiyo shook his head. "Wit is a wizard of the Order."
"You'll get no tax from us! Thief! We already paid!"
"I don't care about your damn tax! Shit on the gods…"
"So, you're not a wizard, but an Aubrey? Are you lost? How did you get so far from the sea?"
"You confounded creatures…I am a wizard, I just don't care about your fool tax."
Unlike humans, dwarves, and dragars, skirbits possessed no political or even social organizations that could be relied upon to pay the Order dues. So that the skirbits would not be given the protections of the Alliance and the privilege of having their Controversies decided by the Order for free, the Order imposed a notional tax of ten percent on all goods and gold ever given to a skirbit. However, the Order had, at all times, recognized that the ability to collect this tax was entirely theoretical; by the Principles of the Order, wizards were instructed to write skirbits out chits excusing them from the tax whenever doing so would get them a favor. Some wizards amused themselves by trying to get gold from skirbits, but this was done entirely as a hobby and for bragging rights.
Due to being short-lived, excitable, and disorganized, the skirbits were the only beings in the Alliance that did not realize this, and while none would pay a tax voluntarily, they lived in constant fear of the wizards coming for ten percent of their property. Thus, it took some time for Zunz to accept that Wit was both a wizard and uninterested in his money.
When it finally had been made clear to him, Zunz nodded seriously. "It is fortunate that we have found the captain, and it is well that he has a wizard with him, for these are serious times, and we carry serious news."
"What news?" asked Wit.
"News for the captain, not thieving wizards."
"To hell with that," said Wa'llach. "If it weren't for Wit, your captain would be bones in Hogan's dungeon, so spit it out, you moldy heap of bat shit."
Zunz scowled and seemed to deliberate. "The Zunz have left the service of LinLaugh—and we mean to rise against him and steal the metal bird."
Enexiyo grinned. "But that's great news! Wit and Wa'llach and I were on the way to Youngkent ourselves—on a mission to strike against the High Dragar." He turned to Wit. "This is an excellent development: Zunz and his band are some of the bravest and most ferocious fighters I know—not to mention that they will have more up to date intelligence than we. I can't wait to tell—"
Wit coughed. "Zunz," he said firmly, shooting a deliberate glance at Enexiyo. "It is very well that we met you: we just came from Hogan's mine at Cohos, which was deserted except for dead bodies, and found Enexiyo in the dungeon. When we looked over the evidence at Cohos, we came to the conclusion that LinLaugh might have had something to do with it, and I think, as a representative of the Order, I must take him into custody. I am short troops for this endeavor, and if you would aid me in this the Order will definitely give you some gold: probably several hundred pieces. And I will be willing to excuse you and your descendants the tax for the next fifty years."
"Fifty years without dues!" An awed murmur went up from amongst the skirbits, and after a hushed conference, they happily assented.
As the creatures prepared to camp for the night, Enexiyo approached Wit in private. "I understand your being cautious about mentioning the orcs, but I assure you your fears are misplaced: I would trust Zunz with my life."
"Would you really?" asked Wit. "I've been going over their minds, the best I can, and am almost certain he is lying about nearly everything."
"I've heard dozens of times that skirbits give you lot fits," said Enexiyo. This was true: the Order was known to be less successful reading the minds of skirbits than any other races. "It's never surprised me: they've hardly got minds to read, so you can't have much to work with."
"Your opinions on the Gift are worth less than my opinions on your fool dragons," said Wit, and then felt guilty for sounding like a cranky old wizard.
Enexiyo looked at the ground. "Do you know what he's up to?"
"I don't. I have the strong feeling that it's something, but beyond that I cannot say."
"I've known Zunz since he hatched, and will gladly vouch for him and his people."
"Well, I hope you're right, but we will tell them as little as we can get away with, for the time being at least."
Wit was approached by one of Zunz' followers in the morning as they were making ready to leave. "Pardon, your eminence, but some of our supplies are missing, would you happen to have packed them by mistake?"
"What sort of supplies?"
"A quarter gallon of rye spirits. We use it to disinfect wounds and as lamp fuel, although madmen have been known to drink it."
"Were they mad before they drank it, or only after?" said Wit.
The skirbit smiled. "It is not certain."
"Well, I haven't seen it in any event."
The skirbit nodded and turned to Enexiyo. "I am afraid I have not seen your jug either."
"And you, gentle dwarf?"
"Wit!"
"Yes, Wa'llach?"
"You're s'posed to be a great magician, what knows the secrets, and all the things, well if you're so damned smart, and so damned learned, can you 'splain one thing, to an humble dwarf?"
"What thing?"
"Can you explain what in fourteen hells this monkey is doing with wings on, and how it leaned how to talk?"
"Ah, never mind, I see my bottle now, I'll just take it…"
"It not only talks, but it steals! Away creature!" Wa'llach lurched at the skirbit and retook the bottle. He gave it a shake as the skirbit ran away and then threw it after him—he missed by several feet and it broke, empty, on the ground.
Wit shook his head sadly. With the help of Enexiyo and two of the skirbits, they eventually wrestled Wa'llach onto his horse.
The skirbits had a large cart drawn by two horses, and some of them rode in this while others walked alongside or glided short distances. The three travelers kept pace with the skirbits, and they moved slowly down the road.
"This is, um, a little excessive, even for you, wouldn't you say?" Wit said to Wa'
llach. They were bringing up the rear, while Enexiyo kept pace with the cart and spoke to Zunz.
"'sessive? Whaddya mean?"
"Well, you're hardly anyone's ideal of temperance, but a quart of lamp fuel? Before noon?"
"Hell do you know about anything, Wit?"
"Very damned little, I suppose. Still, I am in charge of you, and I need you in better shape than this."
It was sunny and they were approaching a long open stretch of road. Several of the skirbits were flying in circles over them. In the distance, Wit could make out a group of travelers approaching them—a tall bearded man in a cloak and a burly man with a sword.
"'In charge a me'? Shows how much you know." Wa'llach craned his head up to look at the flying skirbits. "I'm doing you a favor, idiot magician, and you're too dumb to know."
Wit followed Wa'llach's gaze in time to see the flying skirbits—there were four of them—all suddenly dive. Two of them struck Enexiyo, knocked him off of his horse, and restrained him on the ground. The others headed for Wit.
Wit brought his staff into the path of one of them and managed to stun it. The second one knocked Wit off of his horse, but Wit was expecting it, and landed on his feet. He grabbed the skirbit by the neck, threw it away, and struck it over the head with his staff. It slumped over unconscious.
Wa'llach dismounted unsteadily and approached Wit. "Doin' you a favor, as you're my most favorite magician in all the eighty rotten years I've been Bound to you sons of bitches." He took the hammer out of his belt. "Ol' Wa'llach got himself good an' drunk before he had to kick your ass—give you a chance."
"What in hell is happening? I command you to stop it." Wit had to try, but he also felt silly and sure it would not work.
Wa'llach laughed at him, and then lurched forward with the hammer. Wit got out of his way and blocked the blow. Wa'llach slowly regained his balance, and Wit shifted the staff in his hands.
"That all you got, magician? Come at me!"
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