Greg Costikyan - Cups and Sorcery 02 - One Quest,Hold the Dragons

The reluctant heroes of Another Day, Another Dungeon are at it again!

Cast of Characters

OUR HEROES

Timaeus d'Asperge, Magister Igniti

Sidney Stollitt, of the firm of Stollitt & Pratchitt

Nick Pratchitt, likewise

Kraki Kronarsson, descendant of Gostorn Gaptoothéd, Mighty Pie-Eater

Jasper de Mobray, Magister Mentis

Vincianus Polymage, absent more often than not

Frer Mortise, adept of Deeset

BIDDLEBOURGEOIS

Barthold, Baron Biddleburg

Bertnam, his heir, Magister Aeris

Broderick, regent, Barthold's younger brother

Captain Slentz, of the castle guard

Beatrice of the Band, rebel and love interest

Mr. Bates, the butler

Mistress Mabel, of the International Amalgamated Sisterhood of Witches & Allied Trades

Master Woodsley, a yeoman

Marek and Gaston, soldiers

Master Gorham, a stonewright and rebel sympathizer

HAMSTERIANS

Lotte, an innkeeper

Pablo von Kremnitz, Leftenant, Mayoral Foot Guard

Hamish Siebert, Lord Mayor of the Most Serene Republic of Hamsterburg

Guismundo Stantz, "The Spider," Minister of Internal Serenity

Renée Wolfe, his best agent, Magistra Umbrae

Gerlad, Graf von Grentz, patriarch of the gens von Grentz and a leader of the Accommodationists

Julio von Krautz, patriarch of the gens von Krautz and ineffectual conservative

Fenstermann, the reluctant torturer

Mauro and Kevork, guisardieres

Stauer, master of the Pension Scholari

Agent G, of the Ministry of Internal Serenity, seventh in a strictly limited series

Chad, a troll

Millicent, Egbert and Rutherford, house guests of the Graf von Grentz

Magistra Rottwald and Serjeant Kunz, lackeys of von Grentz

ALSO

Beliel, an elf

HOLD THE DRAGONS

Timaeus d'Asperge stood unsteadily before his parlor window, snifter of brandy cradled in one hand

and meerschaum in the other. Out there, a cold, late-winter rain gave a glossy patina to the cobblestones

and stoops. Wind pattered rain against the window, hard enough to rattle the panes. He shivered, though

the coals were heaped high in the grate and the room was warm enough to be uncomfortable to anyone

who wasn't a fire mage. He became suddenly aware that he was weaving on his feet, late hours and too

much brandy catching up with him—and that the parlor windows extended to within a cubit of the floor.

If he were to lose his footing and pitch forward, he'd find himself cracking his skull open on the slate flags

of the sidewalk below. He began to contemplate retiring to his bed, another dull day completed.

And they were dull days, he had to admit. He had his master's, he had enough wealth to live

comfortably the rest of his days, he had his clubs and his companions—but it didn't seem enough. He

almost missed the adventurer's life, the moments of blind terror and adversity; but the purpose of

adventure was wealth, after all, and he had that now, in sufficiency. Perhaps his father was right, he

reflected; he needed a wife, children, a life. Or perhaps he should return to the university, and pursue a

doctorate; heaven knew what he would do with another degree, but the pursuit of one would give him at

least the illusion of purpose.

Sighing, he set down his drink—tossing it off would only render him more inebriate, something he

really didn't need—and put one hand on the window frame, to brace himself as he took a last look out

into the cold, wet dark before going to bed. There was something reassuring about the fury of the

weather; something that said that the world of nature continued oblivious to the works of man, that human

strife was immaterial; something that said—

"Boodabooodaboodabooda!"

A horrible white apparition sucked up against the glass of the window, face smeared against the pane,

body sprawled askew. A creature of the night, an undead, a vile shapechanger—Timaeus leapt back in

alarm, pipe flying. He shouted the Words of a spell—

"Heh heh," chuckled the apparition through the window. "Gotcha."

It was, Timaeus realized disgustedly, some decrepit wino, some filthy beggar who had crept up the

stoop and flung himself against the adjoining parlor window. Timaeus stormed into the hall and flung open

the door, to give the bum a piece of his mind—

Rain crashed into cobbles. Water plastered the old man's white hair to his skull; he smirked toothlessly

at Timaeus. "Gotcha, Timmy," he said.

"Vic," said Timaeus resignedly. "What the devil are you doing out on a night like this?"

"Need to talk with you, Timmy," said Vic.

"Don't call me Timmy, by Dion," said Timaeus. "No one's called me Timmy in fifteen years. Come in,

come in; you must be chilled unto death."

"Nope," said Vincianus, coming in. "Reshishtance to cold. Eashy enough shpell."

Timaeus held open the door as Vic entered, and got a whiff of the old man. "I say, Vic," he said,

"when did you last bathe?"

Vic came in, levered himself arthritically onto the settee, and snatched Timaeus's snifter, the contents of

which he gulped greedily down. "Let'sh shee," he said. "The Third Interregnum, wash it? No, I dishtinctly

recall a bath during the War of the Liliesh. Or, wait; didn't I shower in—"

"Never mind," said Timaeus, yanking on the bellpull. "More brandy?"

"Never turn that down," said Vic.

By the time Vic was on his third snifter, Reginald appeared at the door to the hall, yawning and tying

the belt to his robe. "Yes, sir?" he inquired.

"Sorry to wake you, Reginald," said Timaeus apologetically, "but we have an unexpected guest. Could

you draw Vincianus a bath?"

Reginald gave Vic a glare of undisguised loathing. "Certainly, sir," he said distantly. "This way, if you

will."

By the time Reginald returned, with a well-scrubbed and faintly rebellious Vic, Timaeus was snoring

soundly on the settee.

"By crumb!" roared Kraki. "You have the temerity to ask Kraki, son of Kronar, for a raise? You

effete civilized putz, I spit on you!"

"See here, mate," said the clerk defensively, "I'm your best salesman, I am. How many blades have I

sold in the last fiscal quarter?"

"Folk buy swords from Kraki because Kraki have best swords," shouted the barbarian. "Not because

puling pantyvaist inveigle them! Out of my shop!"

"You can't fire me, you lout!" shouted the clerk. "I quit! And much luck to you, I don't think!"

"Bah!" shouted Kraki. "Get out! Before I smite you, hip and thigh!"

Kraki glared through the plate glass into the morning sun. The clerk marched down the street, out past

the gilt letters that read "Fast Kraki's Flashing Swords" and "Barbarian Blades Are Better!" The swine

was his best salesman, no doubt about it, but to ask for a raise! Was this the way of honor? Was this the

way of courage? He want a raise, he should demand it like a man, not wheedle like a puling babe!

Scum-sucking civilized turds, they were all alike.

The door tinkled as a customer entered. Some fop; in a faggotty hat and hose. As he examined the

blades in their brackets against the walls, the stacked daggers and knives, he took snuff from the back of

his hand. Kraki curled a lip.

"I say, my good man," said the customer. "Would you have something in an épée."

"Épée, you catamite?" snarled Kraki. "I do not sell such filth. Ve have honest, manly veapons here.

Here, look at this claymore. Sixteen pounds of hard-slung steel, fit to smash the pate of the fiercest foe,

honed to a razor edge."

"Err, yes," said the fop, "but I am rather in the market for a duelist's weapon. I'm afraid this is just a tad

too heavy—"

"Too heavy?" said Kraki. "Too heavy for the likes of you, belike. A hatpin, you vant; or perhaps a

letter opener. Here." He handed the fop a cheese knife. "This should do you. I vill not sell good steel to

the likes of you. Get out of my store."

"Well!" said the dandy. "I never!" And he left.

Kraki glowered out into the morning sun. It had seemed like a good idea. Who knew weapons better

than he? Would they not flock to buy their blades from Kraki, son of Kronar? Barbarian chic would see

to that. But it hadn't worked. You had to write little numbers in books and do something mystical with

them; they never came out right. And the damned government wouldn't let you slay the accountants for

the lying cheats they were; by crumb, the Financial Accounting Standards Board would see some

changes, if he were king!

What would they think of him, back home? They would laugh at him, that's what. Win a fortune by

force of arms, and sink it all into some stinking shop. Ach, what an idiot he was. He should build a pile

with the skulls of his creditors, that's what he should do, and ride off to slay dragons.

"And on the night of October the seventeenth, on or about the eleventh hour of the clock," droned the

prosecutor, "did you or did you not forcibly enter the premises of one Johnson Merriweather the Third?"

"I did not," said Nick Pratchitt.

The prosecutor raised an eyebrow. "And yet," he said, "we have heard the testimony of Officer Sams

of the Town Guard, that he found you in the guest bedroom closet in Mr. Merriweather's mansion after

being summoned to the house by Mr. Merriweather. Are you calling Officer Sams a liar?"

"No," said Nick. "But I didn't enter the house forcibly. I was invited."

"I see," said the prosecutor, with heavy sarcasm. "You were invited into the house as an honored

guest, which is why, when Mr. Merriweather went to investigate a noise that disturbed his repose, you

found it necessary to secrete yourself in a closet."

"Nonetheless," Nick insisted, "I was invited."

"And who," said the prosecutor, "invited you? A little birdie?"

"Samantha," said Nick.

The prosecutor's jaw dropped. There were titters from the gallery. "Mrs.—Mrs. Merriweather?" he

said.

"Uh huh," said Nick.

The prosecutor shot a look of black hatred at Mr. Merriweather, who had evidently failed to alert him

to the possibility that Nick's testimony might follow these lines. "I see" he said in annoyance. "And why

did Mrs. Merriweather invite you inside at so late an hour?"

Nick gave him a wicked grin. "I prefer not to say," he said.

The prosecutor snorted. "Even if your chances of avoiding conviction depend on your testimony?"

Nick glanced at the jury, and adopted an expression of false nobility. "There are some things," he said,

"that a gentleman does not discuss."

There were more titters from the gallery. Merriweather le mari looked mortified.

The prosecutor whirled on the judge. "Your Honor," he said in a long-suffering tone, "I ask for a short

recess." The judge, a shrunken little man in black robes several

sizes too large for him, roused himself from an apparent reverie, and quavered, "Wherefore?"

"There are matters," said the prosecutor, "I must discuss with the complainant."

"Granted," said the judge. "We shall reconvene in an hour."

One of the women on the jury, a plump but not unattractive matron of at least forty, gave Nick a hard

stare. He winked at her, and smiled as she blushed from the neckline up.

From far away came the sound of the monsoon. Somewhat closer, a cough sounded; a panther in the

jungle, that was it. A panther coughed, amid the dense foliage of the—"Excuse me, sir," said the panther.

"Your bath is drawn and ready."

Timaeus opened sleep-gummed eyes. Dwarves beat out magic blades inside his skull. Reginald stood

there, looking crow-like in black clothes.

"Dammit," croaked Timaeus, "what time is it?"

"Nearly eleven," said Reginald.

Timaeus closed his eyes. "Wake me at two, then, if you will."

"Ahem," said Reginald with determination. "Excuse me, sir."

Timaeus opened one aching eye. "What is it?" he moaned.

"Your guest, sir," said Reginald.

"What guest?" said Timaeus.

"Vincianus Polymage, I believe he is called," said Reginald.

Timaeus recalled something dimly. "Yes," he said. "Let him sleep, too."

"He has been up," said Reginald, "since six."

"All right," said Timaeus, sighing. "Keep him entertained then, please." He closed his eyes.

"Ahem," said Reginald.

"What the devil is it?" snapped Timaeus, opening his eyes again and instantly regretting having done so.

"Mr. Polymage has ensconced himself in the kitchen," said Reginald, "where he has located all Cook's

pans, and is in the process of preparing cornmeal flapjacks."

"Yes, good for him," said Timaeus testily. "If he wants to make himself pancakes, by all means let -w"

"He has been cooking pancakes since six this morning," said Reginald. "We've been out four times for

additional cornmeal."

Timaeus gazed wordlessly on his valet.

"He keeps on talking about `the Legion,' and muttering something about `An army travels on its

stomach.' `The boys will be hungry,' he says. I estimate we currently have fifteen linear cubits of stacked

flapjacks."

Timaeus groaned and sat up. After a moment, the urge to retch faded. "All right, all right," he moaned.

"I'll try to talk sense into him. In the meantime, have the girl take the pancakes down to Father Thwaite's

mission. No doubt they can find some use for them."

"Very good, sir."

"Really, Priscilla," said Laura, long nails slicing fivefold paths through the air in a gesture eloquent of

disdain, "this notion of yours is quite impossible."

"Look, Mom," said Sidney. "Figures don't lie. Roomnights are down fifteen percent compared to last

year's figures, the girls are idle four hours out of every ten, our gross receipts are down by a third—"

"I'm aware of the numbers," said Laura. "But—"

"Aware of the numbers?" protested Sidney. "The hell you are! You never look at the damned

numbers! That's why you wound up in hock to the mob the first time round. You—"

"Priscilla, you are such a child, sometimes," said Laura. "When one has been in the business as long as

I, one develops an instinct for these things. I'm aware that business is slow. With the war on, business is

slow everywhere; just one of those things, you know. We must carry on—"

"It doesn't matter why business is down," said Sidney in a dangerous tone. "What matters is, what are

we going to do about it? How can it hurt to advertise, to—"

"To have pimps standing on every street corner, saying `Psst! Wanna have a good time?' " said Laura

contemptuously. "Madame Laura's is not some disease-ridden neighborhood cathouse, my dear. We run

a first-class bordello, and I won't stoop—"

"Ma!" said Sidney. "It's not like that! We're talking about well-dressed gentlemen standing outside the

betterclubs, handing out discreet pasteboard cards. Cards, by the way, printed with an original etching by

de Lauvient— "

"Avant-garde dauber," sneered Laura.

"A first-rate artist," said Sidney with determination. "And the legend merely says, `Madame Laura's,'

with the address. Of course it's important to retain our reputation for discretion and exclusivity; of course

we wouldn't want to do anything downmarket, anything . . ."

"Déclassé," supplied Laura.

"Anything déclassé," said Sidney. "But we do need to drum up some business, and—"

"Next you'll have the girls standing out front and hiking up their skirts," said Laura. "My dear, you must

leave the business to more experienced heads. Really, Priscilla—"

"Stop calling me that!" shouted Sidney.

"Now, then, dear," said Laura. "If you're going to scream at me, I refuse to continue this

conversation—"

"What conversation?" shouted Sidney. "We don't have conversations! I propose ideas, you sneer at

them, then you lecture me! That's your idea of a conversation!"

"Darling, you might give some slight consideration to the notion that perhaps I do have some idea what

I'm doing," said Laura. "I have been running this business for close to thirty years, you know."

"Running it into the ground, that's what you're doing," shouted Sidney, hurling the card samples onto

Laura's desk and storming from the office.

The heavy wooden door slammed behind her. Why, oh why had she let herself get dragged back into

the business? She stamped down the richly carpeted hall, past the rows of oaken doors with their brass

numbers. Six was the only one occupied at present, she noticed; faint moans came from within. One

room out of twelve, on this floor. "Slow" wasn't the word for business.

Well, it had been necessary to bail her mother out, hadn't it? Couldn't leave her in hock to the elven

gangsters. And that left Sidney with half the family business; could she stand aloof and watch as her

mother drove it into the ground once more?

She'd run away from home once before. "Running away isn't the answer," Father Thwaite had told her.

Well, then, she thought savagely, what is?

"Yes, yes, delicious, thank you, Vic," said Timaeus, not entirely happily.

"Eat up, eat up, boyo," said Vic, slapping him on the back and smiling broadly. "Can't march on an

empty shtomach."

"Mmm," said Timaeus through a mouthful of pancake; it wasn't half bad, actually. He reached for a

cup of tea to wash it down. "Now, then; what was it you wanted to talk to me about?"

Vic stared at him blankly. "Talk ... ?" he said. "What wash your name, shonny?"

Timaeus sighed. "Timaeus d' Asperge, Vic," he said patiently. "Remember? I found the statue of

Stantius?"

Vic blinked. "Found the-wash it losht?" He frowned, and mumbled puzzledly to himself.

Reginald entered, bearing a folded newspaper atop a silver tray. "I thought you might want this, sir," he

said, handing it to Timaeus. "Special edition."

And it was. The Durfalian News-Gazette was a morning paper; it was unusual for them to print an

edition so late.

"ISH FALLS!" screamed the headline. Timaeus didn't think he'd ever seen type quite so large.

Vic peered over his shoulder. "Ish fallsh!" he said excitedly. "Orcsh are gonna be all over the Bibblian

plain. Better get your ash in gear, shonny."

"What do you mean?" asked Timaeus

"Get your damned companionsh together and get cracking on this quesht, by cracky!" said Vic. "No

more dillyfuddling around, or you're going to wind up in shometroll'sh larder, that'sh what I shay. You

and half the human race."

"Off on this quest thing, again, what?" said Timaeus tiredly. "You know what the others say—"

Vic smiled faintly. "Ashked 'em recently?" he said craftily. "Maybe they've changed their mindsh. Like

you have, eh, Timmy?"

Timaeus blinked. Had he? Taking Stantius to Arst-Kara-Morn still sounded like suicide, did it not?

He looked at the headline. The gods, duty, and nation, what? A comfortable life didn't look like it was

in the cards. If he stayed here another few months, he'd probably wind up drafted.

Yes, actually; perhaps he had changed his mind.

"We do not," said the majordomo freezingly, "permit riffraff in the Millennium."

"Riffraff!" protested Nick. "What do you mean, riffraff?"

"Please," said the majordomo. "I suppose you imagine that, that thing you are wearing makes you

appear to be a gentleman. The very supposition marks you out as the most vulgar, gutter-dwelling—"

"Ahem," coughed Timaeus. "He's with me."

The majordomo's jaw dropped. "This—are you certain, sir?" he said.

"Yes, I'm afraid so," said Timaeus apologetically. He could see the wheels turn in the man's mind; no

doubt within minutes it would be all over the servants' quarters that Timaeus d' Asperge had problems

with gambling debts. Certainly Pratchitt looked every inch the racetrack tout.

"I thought these duds were first-class," Nick complained as Timaeus guided him up the wide marble

stairs. "Fellow in the shop said they were all the rage."

"Really, Nick," said Timaeus. "Checked hose? And your hat looks like an admiral's. Next time you

want to buy something to impress anyone other than your lowlife companions, do let me know. Or

Sidney; she's had enough exposure to—"

"Don't talk to me about Sidney," Nick said. "She's still mad at me for—"

"There you are, Nick," said Sidney. She sat in an armchair by a small teak table, wearing, in deference

to the customs of the club, a modest black dress. Jasper hung in the air nearby, while Vic sprawled back

in his own armchair, snoring. Reginald had managed to get Vic, at least, into suitable attire. "Glad to see

you're still out of jail," Sidney said.

"I ought to be, given my legal bills," said Nick. "You can't believe what lawyers charge—"

"If you'd stop cuckolding rich men," said Sidney, "you wouldn't wind up in court so much."

"Yeah, I suppose," said Nick, "but the problem with cuckolding poor men is they'd rather kill than sue

you."

"You don't have to do either," said Sidney. "If you need your ashes hauled, I can get you a very good

deal."

"That's not the point," said Nick. "It's the chase that's interesting, not the conclusion."

"Now, now," said Timaeus. "Let's not fight yet, shall we? Where's Garni?"

"If you'd kept in touch," said Sidney freezingly, "you'd know that he left for Dwarfheim months ago.

Death in the family, or something."

"Errm, well, yes," said Timaeus, fumbling with his pipe. "I have been rather preoccupied, haven't I?"

"No," said Nick. "You just didn't want to talk to your—lowlife companions, wasn't that the phrase?

Rather hobnob with—"

"Well, I apologize if it seemed that way," said Timaeus. "But—"

"But nothing," said Sidney heatedly. "Nick's right. You—"

A crash sounded from the stairwell. "By all the gods!" came a bellow. "Kraki, son of Kronar, goes

vhere he vills!"

"Oop," said Timaeus, rising hastily. "Better go collect Kraki, what?"

There was an awkward silence in his absence. Nick tried to catch the eye of a waiter—Timaeus could

probably be induced to pay for the drinks—but they seemed to evade his gaze with consummate ease.

"So, Sidney," he said at last, "how's business?"

"Terrible," she said. "And Mom's driving me nuts."

"That was predictable," said Nick.

"You're enjoying yourself, I suppose?" she said resentfully. "Always wanted to be rich. Now you can

spend every waking hour chasing—"

"Actually," said Nick, "I'm pretty sick of it. I'm in court all the time, I don't dare pull off a heist because

I've got enough troubles, and anyway, I don't need the money; I can only spend so much time at the

track before I go nuts—you know, a life of leisure is not all it's cracked up to be."

"Poor boy," said Sidney coldly. "What about you, Jasper?"

"Actually, you know," said the green light, "I've been quite enjoying myself. Joined up with some

youngsters in a couple of little forays into the Caverns; felt good to be on an expedition again. And those

lads desperately need a wiser head among them, I must say; not making adventurers like they used to.

Either that, or I've forgotten how much of an idiot I was when I first started out."

"You've taken up adventuring again?" said Sidney. "Why would you risk your life like that? You don't

need the money."

"True enough," said Jasper, "but business is down at the shop, and—you know, I quite enjoyed our

little run-in. When Timaeus asked me if I wanted to join you in your venture, I—"

"Venture?" said Sidney. "Oh, no-Vic's quest? Is that what this is about?"

Timaeus approached with a glowering Kraki. "Ale, lackey!" Kraki shouted at one of the waiters.

"Bring it quick, by the gods, or you feel the bite of barbarian steel!"

"Simmer down, Kraki," said Timaeus.

"You vant another shop?" Kraki said to Jasper. "I give to you. Make very good deal."

"Very generous of you, to be sure," said Jasper, "but—"

"I ride for northland tomorrow," said Kraki. "Get out of stinking city. Had enough."

"I thought you said you'd help Vic on his quest," Timaeus said.

Kraki blinked. "Veil, sure," he said. "Good idea, test mettle against all the forces of evil, for sure. But I

thought all you pansies said no, yah?"

"We're having a bit of a rethink," said Timaeus.

"You're having a bit of a rethink," said Nick. "Me, I've got a court date at two o'clock. Throwing my

young life away on some fool—"

"You haven't seen the papers?" said Timaeus.

"Sure," said Nick. "The orcs have overrun Ishkabibble. So?"

"Stay here, and you'll be drafted within the year. I guarantee it," said Timaeus.

Nick contemplated that. "Probably," he said. "But—"

"Do you know what the casualty rate was on the Ish front?" said Timaeus.

"Well," said Nick. "Yeah. But I can always cut out for Far Moothlay, or—"

"Good heavens!" said Jasper in astonishment. "I knew you were a cautious fellow, young Pratchitt, but

I had noidea you were a craven swine! When the nation calls, will you not answer?"

"No," said Nick, "I won't."

Vic, who had woken up some time ago and had followed this exchange with interest, began to speak

Words of power. The others fell silent and watched him until he was done. Vic pointed at Nick and

spoke the final Words; a line of viridian energy stretched from his finger toward Nick's crotch. "Better

come along, shonny," he cackled.

"Why?" said Nick.

"Or your thing' l1 fall off," said Vic.

"My—"

"Yup," said Vic. There was silence for a long moment.

"Just promise me one thing," Nick said.

"What'sh that?" Vic asked.

"No dragons," said Nick. "All right? Is that too much to ask? Orcs and trolls and basilisks, fine;

goblins and wyverns and the gods know what-all, jake by me. But leave out the dragons, okay?"

"What've you got againsht dragonsh?" demanded Vic. "Fine traditional part of a quesht, dragonsh."

"I don't like dragons," said Nick. "I don't like unicorns, either, but I'm just asking about dragons. All

right? No dragons, or I stay."

Vic shrugged. "Do my besht," he said. "Can't promishe shome fool lizard won't shtick hish head where

it oughtn't to be. But we aren't heading into dragon country, anyway."

"All right," said Nick. "I'll come, then."

"That just leaves you, Sidney," said Timaeus. They all looked at her; she looked rather uncomfortably

back.

"What about Father Thwaite?" she said.

"I've already asked him," said Timaeus. "He's under strict orders, apparently. I talked to the abbot,

who seemed to appreciate the direness of our task, but he refused to release Thwaite from his vows.

Perhaps correctly; while it is true that he's been on the wagon for some time, we cannot be confident of

his sobriety once he departs the monastery."

"And Garni's gone," said Sidney. "Oh, hell, I'll come. If they're going to be drafting every man in sight,

business is going to dry up entirely."

"Suicide," moaned Nick.

"Buck up, man," said Jasper in disgust. "Are we not heroes? Does not the right triumph?"

"No," said Nick, "and no. What about the statue? Every wizard in the world will be able to track us as

we travel; when we get to the Dark Lands, we'll be snatched up instantly, like hors d'oeuvres on a tray."

"Have a little faith," said Vic. "I put a shpell on it. Short of an invishibility to magic thing. Nobody'sh

going to be detecting that shtatue, or my name ishn't Polykarpush Magicush."

"Your name isn't Polykarpus Magicus," Timaeus pointed out.

"Jusht hedging my betsh," said Vic.

"How very reassuring," said Timaeus.

"Shpeaking of hors d'oeuvresh—they have lobshter on the menu here, Timmy? Didn't get to be two

thoushand by shitting around waiting for lunch, by cracky. Which way'sh the dining room?"

Part 1.

Omnia Vincit Amor

I.

Above the mountains shone a brilliant sun, casting its rays across an azure sky. Green-clad slopes

lifted upward to snowy peaks; the cool mountain air was freshened with the scent of pine. Across the

wilderness stretched a single road; and along that road, upward into the mountains, came a merchant

caravan, consisting of a single wagon and outriders.

An observer-a bandit, say, lurking in the woods atop one of the many rises cut through by the

road-would have seen nothing amiss in the scene. There is considerable trade up and down the road, for

the Iscabalian Way is the most direct route from Urf Durfal to Ishkabibble, and the Biddleburg Pass,

toward which it rises, the most convenient traverse across the Dzorzian Range. And the riders, diverse lot

though they were, were clad as merchants might be clad. Oh, not the bare-chested barbarian, to be sure,

but it was usual for merchants to hire guards of one kind or another, in these unhappy times. Legend has

it that, in the days of Imperium, an undefended lass bearing armbands of gold, roped pearls, and showers

of gems might have ridden from one end of the land to the other without molestation; alas, whatever the

truth of such tales, the modern world is far less orderly. Merchants habitually travel with armed guardians.

It would have taken close inspection to shake the initial impression. A keen eye might have seen that

one of the riders rode quite adequately without a mount; indeed, without corporeal existence whatsoever,

as he consisted solely of a small point of green light, flitting through the air at sufficient speed to remain

abreast of the horses of the others. Another of the merchants was a wizard of at least minor power, as he

proved by lighting his pipe with a spell-enveloping his head in flames in the process, to no ill effect. And

the sight of an ancient codger, snoring toothlessly at the rear of the wagon, might have raised questions

also; what purpose would merchants have in hauling a senile old graybeard about?

It is well, therefore, that our observers, whatever their other characteristics, were neither as keen-eyed

nor as questioning as they might have been.

Fleecy clouds floated lazily across an azure sky. Mighty firs rose from either side of the road, limbs

stretching outward as if to catch the benison of the sun. The air was cool, the breeze a gentle one. It was

the sort of day that lifts the soul, that seems to beckon one on to adventure. On such a day, it would take

grim determination to feel anything less than contentment.

Sidney Stollitt glowered distrustfully at the trees. Behind every curve she expected an ambuscade.

She, who walked the roughest streets of the city without fear, felt utterly out of place in this bucolic

wilderness. Her unease was merely sharpened by the lightheartedness of her companions: No one was

keeping a proper watch.

Kraki Kronarsson rode behind, chanting the sagas of his barbarian youth to himself. Nick Pratchitt

rode aboard thewagon, reins in his hand and idly speculating on the likelihood that the mountains were

inhabited by dragons. Vic, as usual, was sound asleep, snoring into his scraggly white beard. And the

mages, Timaeus and Jasper, rode ahead, talking good-naturedly of nothing much.

"Amazing engineering, those Imperial chaps, what?" said Timaeus about the stem of his pipe. Smoke

curled into the pine-scented air. "I mean to say, running a road into these mountains at a constant grade.

Couldn't be done today, I should think."

Jasper floated alongside, matching the speed of Timaeus's mount. "Oh, I don't know," said the green

spot of light. "Magical knowledge has increased, if anything, since Imperial times."

"Nonsense," said Timaeus. The doctrine of decline from the Golden Age was the fundament of all

historical knowledge, or so he had been taught at university; he was surprised that as educated a man as

Jasper could hold so ill-informed an opinion. "The works of the ancients vastly outshine anything

accomplished in the modern age."

Sidney grimaced, studying the road ahead. The grade might be constant, but it was uphill; they were

climbing into the mountains, whose white-capped peaks lifted high on the horizon ahead. The horses

pulled onward, smoothly but under some strain; they would need to be rested soon. The road curved

frequently, no doubt to maintain the grade; there was no telling what might lurk behind the next twist or

turn.

Far up the road and high into the mountains, Sidney could just barely see the ramparts of Biddleburg

Castle. With luck, they would reach it by nightfall. It was wedged between two mountains, athwart the

Iscabalian Way, the seat of Baron Biddleburg, who ruled all the land for, say, half a day's ride from his

castle. A petty domain, but not a poor one; the geography conspired to let him impose a stiff tariff on the

trade that went up and down this road.

To either side of the Iscabalian Way was dense coniferous forest—pines, firs, and hemlocks. Sidney

examined the woods mistrustfully. Bandits, familiar with the land, could appear from the greenwood at

any moment—and melt away once they had despoiled the caravan.

"I say," said Timaeus, "here's an example, up ahead. To keep the road level, they had to cut through

the hill. To reduce the rock to magma and clear a path—"

"Bosh,". said Jasper. "How typical for a fire mage to propose an incendiary solution. Rather than

melting your way through the rock, wouldn't it be easier to cause the earth to subside?"

Yes, there was a road cut ahead. Cliffs, perhaps eight cubits in height, rose to either side of the road.

Atop the cliffs were trees. A perfect spot for an ambush, Sidney thought unhappily. A foe would have the

advantage of them, atop the cliff, protected by the wood.... She rode up toward the two magicians.

"Cause the earth to subside?" said Timaeus indignantly. "How the deuce does one cause the earth to

subside? You seem to imagine that ordering solid rock from place to place is as easy as squishing pureed

vegetables with the flat of a knife!"

"Perhaps it is," insisted Jasper, "if one is an earth mage—"

"Listen," interrupted Sidney, "we're riding along as if we don't have a care in the world. For all we

know, these woods are filled with bandits. And that cliff up there is an ideal spot for an ambush. In fact,

there are ideal spots for ambushes about every three yards on this damn road—"

"Don't be absurd, my dear," said Timaeus. "This is a civilized area. I'm sure the road is well patroll—"

Sssssh-TRUNK. A clothyard shaft protruded from the headboard of the wagon, inches from Nick's

ear. He had been cracking pecans, and froze in an attitude of surprise, a handful of nuts halfway to his

mouth.

"Stand as I bid ye, fellows, lest subsequent shafts find deadlier mark," rang out a voice—curiously, the

voice of awoman. And there on the cliff above crouched a good dozen ruffians, unkempt as one might

expect brigands to be, wearing worn and patched clothing in green and brown. Each held a longbow,

each with an arrow nocked, each string drawn full back.

Sidney drew a ragged breath. Her sword was of no use; there was no way to close with the

highwaymen before they could shoot. "Timaeus!" she whispered urgently, trying not to move her lips. "A

fireball ..."

But he was ahead of her. He was chanting in a low voice, hands waving over his head in a ritual

gesture. One hand held his meerschaum pipe, which—

—went spinning off across the road to smash into the scree of shale at the base of the cliff. "I say!"

protested Timaeus, peering woundedly toward it.

"No magic," quoth the female voice, "or the next shaft shall pierce thy throat."

"Dash it all!" said Timaeus. "That's my best pipe!"

There was a scurry of motion from Kraki's direction. He was crouching atop his horse, standing on the

saddle; arrows shot toward him as he launched himself in a mighty leap toward the cliff top, sword

already drawn. Shafts whizzed past him as he grabbed the cliff edge, scrambled over it, raised his

sword—

A quarterstaff smashed into the side of his head. He was propelled groggily back over the cliff,

bouncing off the shale and smashing into the road below.

A woman in forest green stood atop the cliff edge, quarterstaff in her hands. Close-cropped hair shone

brilliantly red in the afternoon sun. "That will be all, I trust?" she inquired in an amused tone.

Sidney looked about. Kraki was sitting up, groaning and holding his head. Timaeus chewed his lower

lip unhappily. Sidney herself saw no point in resisting.

Nick was surveying the woman with a definite leer. Sidney gave a silent snarl.

Where, she wondered, was Jasper? The green light had disappeared.

The woman dropped lightly to the roadbed, quarterstaff still in hand. The line of bowmen remained

atop the cliff, bows drawn, unmoving. "Good morrow, gentles," the woman said cheerfully. "We'll take

up donations, now, if you will."

"Donations?" inquired Timaeus.

"Quite so, quite so," said she. "The poor groan under the usurper's oppression. 'Tis our unhappy task

to alleviate their plight by extracting revenues from travelers. Your purse, now, and yarely, if you please."

"So the money you steal goes to the poor?" asked Nick skeptically. "A coin or two doesn't stick to

your fingers?"

"Certes," said the woman, giving him a smile. "How would we live elsewise? Come, sir; your purse."

"Can I ask your name, doll?" said Nick.

She tossed her head, as if she were used to having longer hair. "You are taxed," she said, "by Beatrice

of the Band." With a dagger, she cut Nick's purse loose from his belt, and pocketed it.

"Taxed?" sputtered Timaeus. "This is nothing but common brigandage!"

"The hypocrisy of the aristocracy," Beatrice said sardonically, as she lifted Timaeus's purse. "It is

taxation when Broderick's men dig up the meager grain a peasant stores against famine, or burn an entire

Greg Costikyan - Cups and Sorcery 02 - One Quest, Hold the Dragons

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