Crypt of the Moaning Diamond (4 page)

you understand, of the success or failure of this lady’s work.” The Thultyrl nodded at Ivy.

Sanval had bowed, very deeply, to his ruler. Ivy thought that she had heard him sigh, but it had been a very, very soft sigh.

But it was the Pearl who apparently had mystified Sanval. She waited until they had left the Thultyrl’s presence and then stopped them.

“You will find your glory easier underground than in Enguerrand’s company,” the Pearl said to Sanval. “If you remember who you are and forget your vanity.” Sanval stared at the white-haired woman and did not seem to know what to say to her.

The Pearl turned to Ivy next. She picked up one of Ivy’s gauntlets. The armored glove had slipped from where Ivy had tucked it into her belt and had fallen to the ground. The Pearl handed the gauntlet back to her, fingering the little silver token sewn onto the leather cuff. The token felt surprisingly warm to Ivy when she slid the glove back under her belt.

“You need no prophecy from me. You have always known your way and are wise enough to trust your luck. Continue to believe in your luck when you make your plans,” said the Hamayarch of Procampur. Then the Pearl glanced down and smiled faintly. “But I would suggest that you clean your boots.” The Pearl rustled back inside the silk-draped pavilion.

Now, marching down the hill, Ivy muttered to herself, which meant she was loud enough for only Sanval to hear clearly. “If she can see the future, I wouldn’t mind knowing it. I can take a prophecy as well as the next woman. It’s not like my mother or my father wasn’t always meddling in some great magic. There were long prophecies, short prophecies, incredibly cryptic prophecies all naming one or the other at some time. But do I get some prediction of glory? Of course not!

The woman just tells me to clean my boots. What is wrong with my boots?”

“They have camel dung on them,” said Sanval from behind her. “On the back.”

Ivy ground to a halt. She pulled up one foot and twisted it to look at the back of her boot. She put her foot down slowly. She pulled up the other leg and looked at the back of that boot. Both of them were liberally splashed with dung. She had walked through the Thultyrl’s silk-lined, wool-carpeted, incense-scented pavilion with dung-mired boots. Even for her, that was a bit much. No wonder Beriall had been sniffing so loudly today.

“I would have told you,” said Sanval, “but you kept singing that song.”

Ivy thought about hitting him. But they were still in the Procampur section of the camp, and somebody was sure to make a fuss if she knocked down a Procampur officer and ground his face in the dust.

“Come on,” she said. “I need to tell the others that they have two days to do a tenday job. The Thultyrl has decided.”

But even as she hurried toward the tunnel, she wondered if she could make good on her promise. No matter how fast the Siegebreakers dug, she was not at all sure that they could bring down the wall in time to save the Thultyrl’s troops from disaster.

Once Ivy arrived at the site of the tunnel, she considered that meeting the Thultryl’s deadline might be easier if anyone were actually digging. Instead, the Siegebreakers were resting in the shade of a small grove of trees. Out of the corner of her eye, Ivy caught a glimpse of a slight disturbance on Sanval’s handsome features before his face smoothed into its usual stoic expression.

“So what do you think is wrong?” huffed Ivy at Sanval, because it was easier to be mad at him than start yelling at her friends.

“Pardon?” said Sanval, startled enough to turn his head so she could see his face clearly under the brim of his shining helmet.

“You disapprove of something. I’m an excellent judge of those non-expressions of yours,” Ivy replied.

“Really?” His tone was as even and bland as his face.

“Quarter turn down of the left corner of the lips: deep disapproval from Captain Sanval.”

Sanval choked slightly at her retort, and the recently criticized left corner of his lips quirked up for moment. “They are not in armor,” he observed. “This far from camp, that is not well advised.”

“They are digging a hole in the ground, which is a little hard to do in full kit,” said Ivy, ignoring the fact that she had been shouting only last night that they were too close to the walls to fully ignore all precautions. Of course, she never felt comfortable in a war camp without armor. Besides, her gear hid the stains on her shirt and breeches. Sanval was fully armored too, but then he seemed to live in halfplate (and live in it without sweating or feeling the weight, which was most unfair). Ivy suspected that even the shirt underneath the plate was gleaming white.

Still, Sanval was right. So close to the walls, the Siegebreakers should not be lazing about in the shade like they were taking a break on the farm. There was a siege going on only half a field away—even though, like most sieges, it was more often than not an exercise in yelling insults at your opponents from a safe distance, out of range of their weapons and spells.

Stripped down to her shirt sleeves and leather waistcoat, sitting on a rock with her legs dangling before her, Zuzzara appeared to have no cares at all. At her feet, the wizard Gunderal was lying on her back, watching the clouds float by, weaving strands of water between her pale fingertips. She was lazily nodding along to Zuzzara’s reading of a letter that had arrived yesterday with the latest shipment of supplies from Procampur.

Ivy stared at the two women, hoping they would see her wink her right eye toward the Procampur officer standing politely and silently beside her. Gunderal gave her a languid little wave.

Zuzzara was squinting too closely at the parchment to notice Ivy’s approach. “Mimeri says that the sundial and the water clock no longer agree.”

“Then Mimeri needs to shift the sundial,” said the dwarf Mumchance. At least he was wearing his helmet and chain

mail vest. But, Ivy knew, that was only half-armored for the old dwarf—his big war axe, his full plate, and other more vicious weapons were currently buried under a pile of panting dogs back at the camp. “I told Mimeri to adjust the clock as soon as the solstice had passed. What about the shingles for the barn roof?”

“I think we have more pressing concerns right now,” said Ivy, sidestepping around Zuzzara’s shovel, carelessly propped against a large rock. Sanval sidestepped right with her, saying nothing. She smiled, a friendly showing of teeth directly at the others, in the hope that they would get the message.

With a vague smile back at Ivy, Zuzzara continued to puzzle over Mimeri s cramped scrawl. “She says that the carpenter will bring the shingles when we have the payment,” Zuzzara said.

“You’d think that man would give us credit by now,” Mumchance grumbled. Ivy tried a gentle cough to attract his attention, but the dwarf ignored her and Sanval. “We have replaced that roof often enough.”

“Only twice,” murmured Gunderal. “And this time was not my fault.” The wizard rolled over on her stomach with a swish of silken skirts and caused a tiny rain cloud to shower on a nearby weed with a waggle of her right hand.

“Never said that it was your fault,” Mumchance stated. “But it is a good thing that we have got this payment coming.”

“Not if the walls of Tsurlagol are still standing,” interrupted Ivy very loudly. Enough of winks, smiles, and discreet coughs. Subtlety around her friends rarely worked. Very aware of Sanval watching the whole group over her shoulder, Ivy continued, “Are we not supposed to be digging a tunnel today? Mumchance, I’m surprised at you. Where’s that fabled dwarf work ethic?”

“Ground is too soft,” replied the one-eyed dwarf, squinting up at Ivy. The shadows dappling the little glade barely softened

the heavy scars on his face. “Told you yesterday that we needed to shift the entrance.”

“We don’t have enough time to move it if we want to earn our fee,” said Ivy, with a quick glance at Sanval and a frown at Mumchance. She did not want the silver-roof noble from Procampur legging it back to the Thultryl’s tent with the message, “Send these foolish farmers home and let us charge the walls like true warriors.” Of course he would probably be more elegant in his wording as he lost them their payment.

When they had first broken ground, the Siegebreakers had been lucky enough to hook into an older passageway that ran under the ruined remains of a former city’s wall, probably dug hastily and long ago for the same reason that the Siegebreakers were digging their tunnel. That older siege tunnel had led into a city that had long since vanished. Tsurlagol had been invaded, burned to the ground, and then shifted to a new location so many times that one jester suggested the city’s best defense would be to build all the houses as boats on wheels and run them into the sea every time a new invasion force came into view.

“We need to slow down, not dig faster,” argued Mumchance. “We’re moving away from the first tunnel, and the ground doesn’t feel right.”

“Did the roof collapse again?” asked Ivy.

“No,” said Zuzzara. “Just the usual bits of dirt down the back of my neck. But Mumchance pulled me out and sent Kid in.”

“He’s smaller than Zuzzara and lighter too,” explained the dwarf. “And he has a good feel for the dirt under those hard little hooves of his. It is the ground below, Ivy, not above, that I don’t like. Nothing feels right. I wanted Kid’s opinion. I left Wiggles with him. She’ll bark if anything starts to go wrong.”

“Wiggles to the rescue,” drawled Ivy, who did not have nearly the same faith in Mumchance’s favorite mutt. He had picked up the yippy little horror two years ago when they had been in the south. Mumchance always claimed Wiggles had a dwarflike nose for trouble underground.

“You have never appreciated Wiggles’s talents, not even when she saved us under that sorcerer’s tower,” muttered the dwarf.

“I gave her a bone afterwards,” said Ivy. “A lovely bit of ham hock.” In Ivy’s opinion, it was just luck that Wiggles had sounded the warning in time. Wiggles barked almost continuously, so the dog was bound to yap at a strategic moment some day.

“Which you picked out of the rubble,” Mumchance reminded her in a sour tone. As if a little dust on a bone had ever stopped Wiggles’s enjoyment. The dog loved bones, with meat on them, or without. It did not matter to Wiggles as long she got something to chew.

Zuzzara ignored the argument about Wiggles, as the dog never woke her at dawn with her insane barking (Zuzzara snored too loudly to hear it). Instead, she was busy telling Sanval that she always did most of the digging for the Siegebreakers, and even a half-ore of her size could only dig so fast and so far in a day.

“I could bring more men from the camp,” offered Sanval. “And some guards. We must not let this position be overrun.”

Ivy gestured at the scraggly trees surrounding them. “We have enough cover to hide us from Fottergrim. They are not paying much attention to this side of the wall—that’s why we picked this spot!”

“Just what we need, more humans!” huffed Mumchance. “Doesn’t matter how many dig, or how fast. The ground is rotten, Ivy. I know it is.”

Ivy stared at the dwarf. He gave her that one-eyed stare back that said most clearly that he was a dwarf and she was a human, and everyone knew who knew the most about soil conditions and digging. But if the tower did not fall, then there would be no gold for their purses, and that meant a long winter with no roof over the animals sheltering in the barn. Which, Ivy knew, meant every single dog, cat, goat, chicken, pig, mule, and stray bear cub currently sleeping in the barn would end up in the farmhouse’s kitchen or, much worse, her room.

“We have two days or we don’t receive a clipped coin from the Thultryl,” Ivy explained more bluntly than she had intended, her voice rising to a bellow. Her crew knew that voice. Zuzzara stood up and grabbed her shovel, swinging it up to her shoulder. She reached a hand down to Gunderal. The wizard floated daintily to her feet, fluffing her skirts around her. After a couple of quick twists with her fingers, Gunderal’s hair obligingly arranged itself into long blue-black ringlets, perfectly framing her pale oval face.

“Oh, Ivy,” said Gunderal, her violet eyes widening in disapproval. “You are wearing that cap again.”

Ivy put up her bare hand and tugged the brim of her leather cap lower on her brow. Just because she had plucked it off that dead man’s head—and he certainly did not need it at the time or since—Gunderal had taken the most unreasonable dislike to her current cap. Well, Gunderal said that it was the stains and the reek of the leather when the cap got wet in the rain that she disliked. When Ivy had responded that it did not smell any different from the rest of her gear, Gunderal had given one of her huge sighs and said, “That is part of the problem.”

Ivy frowned at Gunderal. She was not going to start a discussion about her cap in front of Sanval. After all, she doubted that officers of Procampur wasted time discussing the quality of their leather goods when they could be doing

something else. Or, glancing over at the brilliantly polished boots that Sanval wore, maybe they did. But she knew that the Siegebreakers had better things to do. “It won’t rain today,” Ivy said as firmly as she could.

“I know, but really that cap! I swear there arc teeth marks on the brim.”

“Well, if you hadn’t thrown it at the dogs and encouraged them to play tug-of-war with it… Took me forever to get it back!”

“I was just trying to discourage you from wearing it.”

“Thought you wanted to see what Kid found in the tunnel,” said Zuzzara, placidly stepping between the two of them. Since she was digging today, Zuzzara’s braids were bound back from her face in a neat array, and she was wearing a sturdy leather waistcoat rather than one of the more ornate brocade ones that she favored in peaceful times. Heavily influenced by Gunderal’s nagging, Zuzzara’s style did not match the many other half-ores roaming the North—the kind who typically wore rough untreated pelts with the occasional bone jewelry decoration.

Ivy, however, refused to heed Gunderal’s criticisms. Ivy was a mercenary. Mercenaries wore what they could loot. That was tradition and certainly easier than commissioning matching sets of armor (and cheaper too). When something got too dirty or battered to wear, you grabbed something new or traded with the guy in the next tent over for what you needed. Ivy did not see the point of Gunderal’s constant little lectures that inevitably started with “you would look so nice if only…”