Crypt of the Moaning Diamond (18 page)

one callous mercenary intent on negotiating a good settlement for herself.

“They had orders to return me to the defenses of Tsurlagol. Which was a waste of my time. Fottergrim never understood. I could have made him a king of the Vast, after I retrieved my treasure,” said Archlis with no lack of self-confidence. The lines running between his nose and mouth became more pronounced as the magelord brooded. “I persuaded the fool to come to Tsurlagol. Fottergrim was supposed to have made my access to the ruins easier, not more difficult.”

“Except he decided to take the city, rather than just hang around the edges,” guessed Ivy.

“Gruumsh must have driven him mad,” Archlis replied, still obviously peeved. When he named the ore’s war god, both the bugbears straightened up and made some gesture, to either appease the angry god or, more likely, to avoid Gruumsh s notice. “The temptation was too great for Fottergrim. Once he seized the city, he had no idea what to do and refused to listen to my suggestions. Hobgoblins and ores… Once they drink the taverns dry and eat all the meat in the butcher shops… Do they even pause to consider where the next meal is supposed to come from?”

Ivy asked in a sympathetic tone, “Down to eating the horses?”

“Yes. And what could be more foolish? How am I supposed to leave the city if they eat my carriage horses? I recommended that they eat their own mounts or, more practically, the citizens.”

“And they refused? How surprising.”

“Fottergrim muttered something about worgs tasting bad and wanting the citizens as hostages in case he needed to negotiate.”

“Obviously, an unreasonable ore.”

“A dim-witted buffoon, all stomach and no brains, like most ores. He threw away my advice and power.”

“And the treasure beneath Tsurlagol?” She wondered what a magelord of his power could want in these looted ruins.

“I tell you, not even that creature’s powers can find the crypt,” said Archlis. Again he gestured toward Kid.

“Actually, we have never heard of…” began Gunderal, but stopped when Mumchance tapped her on the knee.

“Let Ivy do the talking,” whispered the dwarf.

Archlis switched his attention to Mumchance. “You are a dwarf,” stated the magelord.

“Thought that would be obvious.” Mumchance peered up at Archlis in his usual tilt-headed squint so he could see the magelord clearly out of his one good eye.

“Do not be insolent. What is that?” Wiggles had popped her head out of Mumchance’s pocket.

“My dog.” Mumchance could be very taciturn with humans he did not like.

“Ah, your familiar. You are a dwarf wizard, then?”

“Not a wizard.” The dwarf put up one hand to rub his fake eye, as if he were tired or trying to clear some grit out of it. Ivy knew what he was doing—preparing to pop out the gem bomb. She shook her head slightly and got an even slighter nod back from Mumchance. The room was too small, and the chances too great that the rest of them might be hurt by the blast. Besides, given that the magelord could apparently set himself on fire and not be burned, she doubted a gem bomb would cause Archlis any serious damage.

“Then it changes shape? Becomes a creature of unparalleled size and ferocity?” Archlis was still fixated on Wiggles, who was snarling at him with as much ferociousness as she could manage.

“No,” said Mumchance. “Wiggles stays a dog. A small dog. My dog.”

“Wiggles?” “That’s her name.”

Archlis was clearly baffled by someone wasting pocket space carrying anything as useless as Mumchance’s fluffy white dog. It was an emotion that Ivy understood. Archlis abandoned his questions about Wiggles as profitless to himself. “Well, I may have a use for you—a dwarf in armor should be heavy enough.” With that baffling remark, the magelord turned back to Ivy. “You will serve me. For now.”

“All a matter of fee.”

“I will decide the appropriate reward.”

Ivy did not argue. Something about the way that Archlis kept fingering his Ankh and the bugbears kept backing up warned her that further discussion would not be beneficial. Pleased by her silence, Archlis continued. “A section of these ruins contains a simple trap in the floor, but it takes four at least to pass through safely. We made it through once, but we came upon a complication and were driven back. Then we ran into the hobgoblins.”

“And there are only three of you now,” pointed out Ivy, who knew that two bugbears and one magelord did not add up to four.

“There are only three,” admitted Archlis, “due to the complication. Which I will explain after you take us through the trapped corridor. Four of you are all I need, but I will let the others live as part of your fee.”

Archlis did not look like he was making idle threats. The stench of burned bodies still filled the chamber where they stood. Of course, they could refuse and fight. She knew the others were just waiting for a signal from her. Mumchance had even remembered to get a good grip on his sword instead of his second-best hammer. Zuzzara was swinging her shovel in idle little circles, drawing patterns in the dust as if she were paying

no attention at all to what was happening, and she had definitely loosened her grip on Sanval. Gunderal was looking pale but more determined; her good hand had the fingers spread wide to cast some water spell. But Kid was still cringing behind her and pulling on her weapons belt. Three sharp tugs—the little thiePs signal for danger.

Ivy knew that they could take the bugbears. But she did not know how fast Archlis could activate that Ankh. He looked just crazy enough to set off a firestorm in a small room, and who knew what protections he had for himself woven into that coat of multiple charms.

“So,” said Ivy, “how far is the corridor with the funny floor?”

Archlis led them out of the room and into another tunnel that continued to run uphill, much to Mumchance’s relief. The dwarf was still muttering about hearing water moving behind them. Personally, Ivy was just glad to be out of that small room littered with the burned reminders of the magelord’s power.

After several twisting turns, the magelord called a halt. “I must consult my book,” he declared. “The rest of you sit. Be quiet.”

The bugbears slumped against the wall and began hauling out various supplies from their packs. As Ivy knew from past campaigns, if there was ever a creature whose first love was food, and who hated to share, it was a bugbear. And normally she would not annoy anything that big and furry and none too bright. But she was hungry, and so were the rest of her crew. She swaggered over to the biggest bugbear, stuck out her chin, and got her nose as close to his as possible. Like most males, this maneuver made him nervous. He tried to back up, but he had no place to go. She leaned a little closer. He growled, and she snarled back, “Give me bread! Give me water!” in the only ore dialect that she knew.

He answered back in Common, “Don’t have to.”

“Have to!” barked Ivy, relieved to be able to drop out of Orcish and into a language that didn’t make her throat hurt. Still, she didn’t know how much Common this creature knew. She kept it simple. “Archlis said!”

“Did not!”

“Ask him.” Ivy jerked a thumb at the magelord, his long nose already buried deep in his spellbook and muttering to himself. “But he won’t be happy if you disturb him.”

The bugbear rumbled something at his companion, and the other bugbear grumbled back. “Females,” the creature said, very pointedly in Common so Ivy would understand, “are nothing but trouble.” He handed over a bag of supplies.

“I would never disagree,” replied Ivy with a grin as she turned on her heel and headed back to her friends.

On the top of the bag was fresh bread, still warm, as if it came from Tsurlagol’s bakeries only that morning. Under that was some dried meat. Everyone grabbed at the bread as soon as they smelled it. Ivy shtugged and snatched her share. It had been a very long time since breakfast; or, in Ivy’s case, since a few bites of dried biscuit.

Mumchance offered some of the unidentified meat to Wiggles. The dog whined and turned up her nose at it. After seeing the dog’s reaction, the rest of them set the meat aside.

While they ate, Archlis carefully turned the crumbling pages of his scorched spellbook. He bent so close to the book that the tip of his narrow nose looked in danger of smudging the ink. The expression on his face grew more sour, as if the spellbook did not yield exactly the answers that he desired. Yet he handled the decaying parchment with judicious care. The bugbears sat with their backs to Archlis and their attention on the group, but nobody did anything overtly hostile.

Released by Zuzzara with a friendly pat to the back that

staggered him, Sanval chose to sit down next to Ivy. She took it as a good sign that he had not minded her more colorful comments about his character when she had been dickering with Archlis. For the first time since he had come to her tent that morning, Sanval stripped off his gauntlets to accept some bread and fresh water from Ivy. She passed the food and drink over to him with a slightly apologetic smile. His own look lightened a little as he took the bread from her. When he took her peace offering, she noticed his big hands bore the usual scars across the knuckles and the backs of his fingers that came from sword practice. Even with wooden weapons, cuts were a common hazard; and no matter how good a cleric a house employed, not everything healed without a trace. Ivy’s own hands had a similar pale network of white scars across her skin.

“Why was Archlis interested in that?” said Sanval, reaching out and touching the small silver oak leaf worked into the cuff of Ivy’s left glove. Her gloves were stuffed, as usual, through her belt.

“Harper token. I told you my mother was a bard,” she said with an affectionate glance at her mother’s last gift. She still remembered the sting of the wind against her cheeks as she stood on the dock, watching her mother’s ship sail away. Over the wind and the sailors’ shouts, she had heard her mother’s cries of, “Farewell, farewell, I will return.” She remembered how warm the token had felt in her hand and how tightly her father’s hands had grasped her shoulders as they watched her mother wave good-bye.

She tapped the little silver leaf. “This gets me free beer in an amazing number of places.”

Sanval looked a little disappointed at her answer.

“No, unfortunately, it is not much of spell. Just a tiny bit of extra luck, my mother said. It does keep me from losing whatever it is attached to, which is why I sewed it onto the

glove. I hate losing my gloves. Of course, it only keeps one glove with me at all times. So I replace the other one quite frequently. I should have sewn it on my cap. I miss that cap.” She ran her hand across the top of her head, causing more short bits of blonde hair to escape her braid and trail across her face. She pushed them back with impatient, dusty fingers, ignoring Gunderal gesturing behind Sanval’s back with one of her own delicate shell combs. They were in the middle of an underground ruin, surrounded by bugbears, and essentially held prisoner by an unfriendly magelord. Ivy was not about to let Gunderal rebraid her hair now, even if it did give her fussy friend fits to see her braid come undone. Ivy let Gunderal braid her hair once a tenday, after she had washed her hair and bathed, and that was enough as far as Ivy was concerned. If she listened to the vain little wizard’s lectures on personal hygiene, she would be bathing every day and twice on holidays.

With a sigh, Sanval pulled off his metal helmet and ran his own hand across his hair. Ivy checked with a sideways glance. All his curls looked very washed and polished. He probably did bathe once a day, and then let his servants clip and comb his hair into that regulation cut that all of Procampur’s officers favored for this particular war. Yet that one curl stood defiantly out of line with its fellows. Ivy smiled at the curl’s crooked gallantry, and Sanval gave her an inquiring look. She did not enlighten him.

“I thought the charm on your glove was something that we could use against Archlis. He seemed disturbed by it,” Sanval said.

Ivy shook her head. “It’s not much of charm. Won’t do anything spectacular. Besides, Archlis has a dozen or more charms sewn on that coat of his that are certainly more powerful than this. And look at his hands—a magic ring on each hand. Those are probably protections and spells too.”

“But you must have more magic than that,” said Sanval, tapping the token again.

“Zuzzara’s ring, but we used that already. Gunderal’s potions, which we lost in the fall.”

“Armor? Weapons?”

“Mumchance has full plate with some extra protection hammered in, but he doesn’t wear it in the summer. It is too hot, he says, and that’s why he just has the chain mail today. All of us have charms against injury from falls, but as you can tell from Gunderal’s arm, they are not too powerful.” She thought about mentioning Mumchance’s fake eye, but the secrets that Sanval did not know, he could not let slip to others. Archlis did not seem to be paying any attention to them, but wizards could have ears and eyes in the backs of their head, sometimes quite literally. Better to appear more harmless than they were, especially when they did not have that much magic to spare.

“But weapons. Magic swords? Spears?”

“Do you see any of those things on us? Zuzzara’s shovel is most firmly unenchanted. My sword is just that—a sword. Good balance, keen edge, no spells. Mumchance’s sword is the same. Better balance than mine, being forged by dwarves and all, but no spells of smiting. In fact, he usually forgets he is carrying it and uses one of his hammers instead. Gunderal never carries weapons, because she usually can cast spells or use her potions, when she hasn’t broken all the potion bottles. Kid, do you have anything magical?”

“No, my dear. Two sharp little knives, but that is all.” Kid had pitched his voice loud enough to carry to where Archlis was sitting. Good, thought Ivy, he has figured it out—do not give Archlis any reason to be nervous. Kid had flipped open the collar of his leather tunic to display the two needle-thin blades neatly sheathed there. Sanval seemed disappointed. Of course, he did not know that the stilettos were deadly in Kid’s