The Dungeoneers (29 page)

“Did you get it?” Finn asked, holding up a liquid concoction so clear it made the flask look empty.

“Yeah. Did you?”

Finn grinned in satisfaction. “Almost,” he said with a sniff. He put down the container and admired the open door. “I'm not sure you even need me in that dungeon of yours. Pretty soon Tye won't even pay to keep me around anymore because he'll have you,” he joked.

“But you
are
coming,” Colm prompted. “You're not going to make us go down there by ourselves. Master Thwodin said it was your idea.”

“Of course it was my idea. What better prize could there be than the chance for us to go after some real treasure together? I thought you, of all people, would appreciate such an opportunity. I'll be right beside you the whole way,” Finn assured him. “After all, I have a promise to keep.”

“And Master Thwodin said you had one picked out already. The dungeon, I mean,” Colm said.

“I have one in mind, yes,” Finn replied.

“And . . . ?”

“And?”

“And it's going to be worth it. Trust me.”

By the time Finn let him go, Colm was late for dinner. But he wasn't the only one. Serene was apparently still training with Master Merribell. Quinn had gone with her to see the cleric earlier and had described, in the vaguest terms possible, his unfortunate run-in with Magic Dan's enchantment-eating paste. Master Merribell informed him that there was no instant cure, but there was something he could drink that would speed up the process of getting his magic back. There was only one unfortunate side effect.

“I've peed more times in the last five hours than in my entire life,” Quinn explained. “There can't be anything left. I'm going to shrivel up like a raisin.”

“Do you feel more magical, though?” Colm asked.

“I feel . . . I feel . . . ,” Quinn muttered, then quickly rose from the table. “Excuse me.”

“As if that boy didn't have enough problems.” Lena sighed, bringing her bowl to her lips.

When Quinn came back to the dining hall, he was accompanied by Serene, both with mischievous looks on their faces. Serene glanced around the room, then pulled everyone at the table close together.

“I think I've found a way to teach Tyren Troge a lesson,” she whispered.

With an uncharacteristically devilish grin, the druid produced a small earthen jar from her robes. “It's specially formulated for people with big heads,” she said.

She explained what she had in mind. It wasn't complicated, but it was a little tricky. And there was a high chance of getting caught.

“Who's going to do it?” Colm asked.

All eyes looked at him.

“Stupid question.”

They had to wait until nightfall, until the moon cast a pallid glow over the castle gardens and seeped through the muddy glass windows. The thieves' sunrise, Finn called it, their busiest hour. Not that there were any thieves in Thwodin's Legion. Not really.

“And you are certain this will work?” Colm asked again as
he peered down the empty hall.

“Absolutely,” Serene said. “I picked the ingredients from Master Merribell's garden and whipped it up myself. It might not last long, but it
will
make an impression.”

Colm led them down the hall, hissing at them to take lighter steps, especially Lena, who seemed to clomp along like she didn't have a subtle bone inside her. Halfway there, he put up a hand—he thought he heard voices coming from the kitchen. Whispers only, but he had attuned his ears to pick up on such things. The one voice was gruff, almost assuredly Fungus. The other was quieter, much harder to make out. Colm brought his finger to his lips. Getting caught skulking around by the gnarled-knuckled cook wasn't part of the plan. Colm motioned the others around the dining hall and into another corridor, the muffled discussion from the kitchen fading behind them.

“This is it,” Quinn said.

They grouped outside Tyren's door. Lena took her post as a guard at the end of the hall with the express command to hoot like an owl—and not bellow like an enraged lunatic barbarian—at any sign of danger. Colm removed his picks and started working the lock, undoing it in a matter of seconds. He wasn't entirely sure why Tye Thwodin even bothered having locks on the young dungeoneers' chambers when the masters were training those same dungeoneers to undo them. Only the one on the treasury door was impossible to pick. “We're in,” Colm said. Serene handed him the
jar, half full of cream the color of seaweed.

“You have to use all of it for it to take full effect,” she said.

“And I just rub it on his feet?” Colm questioned. That was perhaps the most frightening part of the whole affair.

Serene shook her head. “It needs direct contact with the skin. I just thought feet would be safest.”

Colm nodded. Truthfully, he didn't want to touch any part of Tyren Troge. He looked over at Quinn. The mageling, dressed uncharacteristically in black robes per Colm's instructions, was wringing his hands. “You ready for this?” Quinn nodded. Colm turned the handle and pushed the door open.

The moon shone through the only window, providing a faint light to navigate by. The room was the same as the one he and Quinn shared, except there was one fewer bed; Tyren had the space all to himself.

Perhaps because he snored even louder than Quinn. For once, though, Colm welcomed the sound. Colm slowly approached the bed and deftly peeled back the covers near the bottom, where the lumps of Tyren's feet stuck up like boat masts.

They were still stuck in his shoes. Colm frowned and pointed to the boots. Quinn shrugged. They had already come this far.

Colm handed the jar of ointment to Quinn and bent over the boots anchored to Tyren's feet, slowly undoing the laces of one, tugging at them gingerly, like coaxing fishing worms
out of the dirt. When he had the ties plenty loose, he gave the boot a gentle pull and it slipped off easily.

Colm flinched. The smell was palpable. A musty fog that emanated from between the sleeping boy's meaty, sweaty toes. Quinn covered his face with his hands. Colm squinted, eyes stinging. They had talked about slathering both feet in the stuff—for it to have maximum effect, Serene said—but Colm didn't think he could. He would just use all the cream on the one foot. One hairy, disgusting foot, with its cracked yellow nails and that patch of green fuzz growing between the last two digits.

Quinn handed Colm a pair of gloves, the same kind Finn wore to hide the fact that he was missing fingers. Colm pulled them on, then snatched the jar from Quinn's trembling hand. The mageling was dancing.

Hurry,
he mouthed, making the word with his lips. Then he crossed his legs and started rocking back and forth. Colm dunked two fingers into Serene's jar and reached out to the sleeping boy's cracked yellow heel. He paused.

He had survived an attack by thugs on the road to the castle. Had survived Renny's dungeon not once, but twice. He had been inches away from spikes and lightning bolts and giant scorpion tails. But he was fairly certain Tryen's crusty foot would be the death of him.

Beside him, Quinn let out a little whine and crossed his legs even tighter. He really needed to go.

Colm closed his eyes and started rubbing.

The next morning, the dining hall was buzzing with rumors. Something had happened to one of the members of the guild. A curse. Or a disease. Whatever it was, it must not have been
too
serious, judging by the occasional snort of laughter that accompanied the whispers. Colm looked over at Quinn, both of them barely corralling the smiles that threatened to give them away. All four of them sat and waited.

The buzzing stopped. Colm turned around, though he already knew what he would see. He just hadn't realized he'd have to stand to get a good look.

Tyren Troge paused in the entrance of the dining hall, stopped by the collective gasp that met him there. It was unmistakably him. The same pitch-black goatee. The ice-cold blue eyes. The unibrow. Everything.

Just all of it three feet lower than usual.

“He shrank,” someone at the table next to Colm murmured.

“He's barely the size of Master Bloodclaw!”

“But his head is so
big
!”

It was true. Tyren's head looked gigantic compared to the rest of his greatly compacted body. Serene's salve had worked beautifully to shrink everything except for his already too-large head, which now seemed to wobble precariously on top of his dainty shoulders. Maybe Colm should have used both feet. Or maybe started at the top.

Then again, he thought, it was probably even better this way.

Tyren gave an oversized scowl to everyone in turn as he shuffled through the dining hall, barely able to walk in boots that were much too large for him, his pants bundled and bunched at the ankles, tunic billowing well past his knees. He looked like one of Elmira's rag dolls dressed in Elmira's own clothes, his head bobbling with each step. Colm was certain he was going to tip over, his skull planting into the stone like an anchor and his reed-thin legs sticking out like flagpoles. But Tyren managed to take one wobbly step after another, head lolling this way and that, till he stopped at Colm's table.

“This isn't over,” he said. His voice sounded squeakier. Almost mouselike.

“Go pick on someone your own size,” Serene said. Tyren balled his tiny hands into tiny fists and shook them, then turned away and shuffled toward the back of the room, ripples of laughter chasing after him. He stormed straight into Master Bloodclaw, the two of them actually bumping chests.

“What happened to you?” the goblin asked, giving Tyren a long once-over. Then he took one hand and measured from the top of his head to the top of Tyren's and smiled with satisfaction. The goblin was taller by an inch.

The shrunken warrior fumed and circled around the smiling goblin, retreating to his table, where even his own friends seemed to be laughing at him. All except for Ravena, who turned and looked at Colm, eyebrows raised. She seemed to be asking,
Now do you feel better?

Across from Colm, Quinn Frostfoot chewed his food
contentedly, seeming to savor each bite. The enchantment from the shrinking ointment wouldn't last more than a day. And it could still be several more days before the mageling could cast spells again. But for this one moment, at least, it didn't seem to matter.

Colm looked back at Ravena, as if to say,
Maybe I shouldn't, but yes.

Yes, I do.

After all, they might all be part of the same guild, but Quinn was a member of Colm's party. He was almost like a brother. Like family.

And you don't mess with family.

At the table in the back, Tyren's head got too heavy for him for a moment. The sound of it hitting the table filled the room.

Quinn grinned. “Best. Foot rub. Ever.”

B
y the next day, Tyren Troge's body had stretched back to normal, though he still stumbled when he walked, as if he had to get used to the redistribution of bones and muscle. His head also seemed slightly smaller than the rest of him, as if he would never quite be in proportion again.

Quinn waited for retaliation, keeping even closer to Lena when the four of them were together and making Colm sniff and taste all his food ahead of time. That is, when he wasn't back in the lavatory, getting Magic Dan's out of his system.

It was also the day that Lena received a letter from her father, asking her when she expected to delve into her first dungeon. She happily wrote back that it would be much sooner than expected.

It was on that same day—the day Tyren got his body back to shape and Lena heard from home—that Colm did the
seemingly impossible, picking six new locks in record time, Finn egging him on, Colm ignoring everything the rogue said, focusing on the cold metal that soon grew warm in sweaty hands, the sound of minute gears clicking, the smell of Finn's old leather as he opened the door. His fingers were rubbed raw, his joints stiff. He was afraid his back had developed a permanent hunch. As lock number thirty unhinged and the door fell open, Colm nearly collapsed, exhausted.

Finn whistled and stroked his scar. “Incredible. It would take me the better part of an hour just to pick that last one. I've never seen anyone get through them so fast.”

“Not even Ravena?” Colm asked. She had been a member of Thwodin's Legion much longer than him, after all. Maybe long enough to work through every lock on the door already.

“Being good at everything usually comes at the expense of being great at nothing,” Finn answered. “Even she couldn't do what you just did.”

Colm arched his back and heard things snap and pop. His father made the same sounds when he stretched and bent. It was in the bones, Colm guessed.

“Why don't you take a break?” The rogue fished around in his cloak and pulled out a plum, tossing it to Colm.

Colm sank his teeth into it, the juice seeping out and stinging the sores on his fingers. He pressed his aching back against the floor and stared at the ceiling as Finn leaned over his desk. The rogue was busy scratching away at a piece of parchment. Colm's instinct was to steal a glance—to gather information,
like every good rogue should—but this was Finn. The man who had saved his hand and his life and his father's reputation. Also the same man who taught him how to pry. He would most certainly catch Colm peeking and then lecture him on why he got caught. Colm wasn't in the mood for a lecture.

Instead he took a deep breath and gazed around the room, at the maps with their circles and lines and indecipherable scribbles. At the shelves of books, including the other two volumes of
The Rogue's Encyclopedia
that he hadn't been asked to read yet. At the door with more than half of its locks still unbeaten. And even after all of those, there was still one more.

Colm looked in the corner, at the chest that simply sat there gathering dust, untouched since the day he'd arrived. The simple shiny box with its single lock that Finn had never been able to open. How could something so simple be so confounding? From the outside it was just a hole, but the insides obviously held such complexity, such minute intricacy, that even after years of trying, the estimable Finn Argos hadn't been able to pick it.

What would it take, Colm wondered, to solve this dusty puzzle? He had been fiddling with Finn's confounded door for well over an hour. Every muscle in his hand had seized with cramps, and his eyes were going cross. The last thing he wanted to look at was another lock, especially one that was impossible to crack. Better to just close his eyes and forget about it.

But as soon as he did, one eye snapped open and found the chest again, its silver plate reflecting his own face back at him. He glanced over at Finn, but the rogue was still hunched over his desk, deep in thought.

He didn't even know what was inside. That was the thing that Colm couldn't get out of his head. With the door it didn't matter—just Finn's crusty old boots. The point was the lock itself. But this was different. There could be anything in there. Well, not
anything
. But something remarkable. Something more remarkable than boots, at least. Imagine having something like that sitting beside you your whole life and never knowing what secrets it held.

Colm quietly sat up and pulled his lockpicks over to him, then scooted closer to the chest, keeping his back to Finn's desk. He ran his hand along the cold, smooth metal, trying to sense some semblance of magic, but it gave off no vibration, no aura or crackle of energy. It was foolishness, he knew. He still had over thirty locks on the door, including some of the toughest that had ever been dreamed of, but the more he thought about it, the harder it was to resist. It was as if the chest was mocking him.
If you don't want to know what's inside, what are you even doing here?

He couldn't stand it anymore. He grabbed his smallest pick and hunched over the chest, silently exploring the lock's inner workings, the delicate mechanism that kept its jaws clamped tight. From the start, he could sense that this lock was different—its insides more like a labyrinth than a tunnel. He
imagined it as a dungeon in miniature, almost impossible to navigate in the darkness. And he was blind, like Bartholomew Plink, the first dungeoneer to avoid the ogre's hole. He had to feel his way around, but it seemed even his finest pick was too large to worm its way through the maze of tiny gears and levers, hammers and tumblers, that comprised the lock's delicate composition. He would need something even smaller. Something thin and pliable, capable of weaving and bending, molding and maneuvering, but without breaking. He had no such pick. The only thing he could think of that was even the right shape and size was . . .

Colm reached into his sack and pulled out Celia's hairpin, studying it carefully. No thicker than a bristle on a brush, but longer than any single hair he could pluck from his own head. It couldn't possibly work. It was much too fragile. He wasn't even sure exactly what kind of metal it was made of. It would be one thing if it had some kind of magical properties, but the Candorlys had never owned anything magical in their lives. Odds were he would try to force it through and it would snap off inside, making the nearly impossible completely impossible. Then what would his sister say?

And yet he found himself deftly threading the hairpin through the tiny black aperture, eyes closed, navigating on touch alone, pausing at the slightest sign of resistance, working with trembling fingers. He felt the pin maneuver through the curves, felt the subtle shifts, the most minuscule tremble at the end of the pin in his hand.

And he imagined himself back down in Renny's labyrinth, navigating the dungeon, weaving his way through one corridor after another, stepping delicately, dodging traps, listening around corners, ferreting out his path until he came to the end. Colm licked his lips and pressed his eyelids closer together, blocking out even the sound of Finn's scribbling. Holding his breath until he thought he might pass out.

Colm had wound his way through four of the lightest pins he'd ever manipulated, and the fifth was perhaps the most difficult he'd ever encountered. But soon it too gave way, and he felt the hairpin twist slightly. Then he heard a series of
click
s, barely perceptible, like somehow hearing your own eyes blink. He froze.

“Did you just do what I think you did?”

Colm turned to see Finn staring at the chest, eyes wide. Colm nodded. “I think so.”

“But how did . . . ?” Finn stammered. “I mean . . . they said it was unpickable. For two years I've been trying . . .”

Colm started to hold up his sister's pin, then thought better of it, tucking it under his leg instead. Celia had given it to him, after all. It was a treasure. Her only one. Not that he thought Finn would take it from him, but what was his was his. “I don't know,” Colm said. “I just followed my instincts, did everything you taught me.”

Finn covered his mouth with one hand, as if he was afraid of what he might say. He just stared at the unlocked chest.

“Well?” Colm asked, giddily, pushing it toward him. “Aren't you going to open it?”

The rogue shook his head. He looked almost shocked at the idea. Or maybe he was simply so surprised that Colm had done something he never could. “You solved the puzzle, Colm Candorly. You get to see what's inside.”

Colm nodded, wiped his hands on his knees, then put one on either side of the lid. He wondered if Finn would share it with him, whatever it was. Wondered if half of it would have to go to the guild. His stomach twisted. He closed his eyes, afraid to look, then opened them, more afraid not to. He nearly fell backward.

“What?”

It was empty. Not empty like the chest in Renny's dungeon, which at least held the one silver coin and an awful poem, but actually empty. Colm leaned over the chest, dumbfounded. Maybe it was an illusion. Maybe it only
appeared
to be empty, but when you stuck your hand in, you buried it inches deep in gold. But a sweep of his hand along all edges of the box only kicked up motes of dust.

“There is nothing. It was all a complete waste of time.”

Colm looked imploringly at Finn, expecting a look that shared in Colm's disappointment. Instead the rogue had a grin that was just starting to unwind. He wasn't looking at the empty chest or its opened lock. He was looking at Colm.

“I have to disagree,” he said.

That night, after everyone else had gone to sleep, Colm lay in bed thinking about the dungeon, now only three days away, and Finn's promise that there would be plenty of treasure to go
around. At dinner, and even after, he and the others had discussed what they would do with their share, Lena describing a new set of practically seamless armor she had seen advertised and Quinn talking about buying a bigger house for his parents. Even Serene, who had once told them that gold is no replacement for the enormous bounty that nature provides, described how she would like to one day own her own farm and raise rabbits. Everyone had their own reason for being here, but none of them was at a loss when it came to thinking of ways to spend imagined loot.

But the more Colm lay in bed and thought about mountains of gold, the more he came back to Finn's empty chest. Something about it didn't seem right. How could Finn not be upset? For two years, he had been trying to open that chest, and for what? Just to find it empty? And yet, instead of being filled with disappointment, Finn's eyes had sparkled with pride. He had called Colm a genius, said that they were destined for great things. And yet the chest itself held nothing. An empty promise.

Colm lay in bed and listened to the sound of the owls loosed from their cages up in the rookery, taking to the night sky, off hunting. Through the open window, he could hear the cicadas and the hushed whisper of tree boughs tussling with the wind, the whistle winding its way through the cracks in the castle's stone.

And above all this, he heard the shout, followed by the
clop
of hooves on stone.

Someone was coming. In the dead of night. To the castle that nobody knew the way to.

Just go to sleep,
Colm told himself.
Whatever it is, it's none of your business.
But he could still hear the hooves pawing on the stone, the rider dismounting, verbal exchanges. He couldn't
keep
himself from listening. He listened for the locks undone, the front doors creaking open.

Colm sat up straight, cursing Finn Argos for making him so high-strung and curious—though to be fair, the curiosity had been there long before they met. Still, the rogue had only made it worse, he was sure. Colm quietly slipped out from under his covers—there was very little he didn't do quietly anymore—and donned a cloak but ignored his boots. On smooth floors, bare feet were best. The ball of blankets that contained Quinn didn't move an inch as Colm opened the door. He whispered for the mageling not to worry. He wasn't going to be gone long.

Colm sneaked down the vacant halls, past the shut doors, skirting the pools of light from the torches out of habit, ears perked for the slightest sound, until he found himself standing just outside the great hall, peering around the corner at the two figures standing inside the castle's main entry. Colm recognized both of them instantly. The one by his yellow mane, dressed in too-tight satin pajamas that didn't quite cover his hulking frame. The other by his swords, one resting on each hip, the man himself almost completely concealed by his hood.

The ranger had returned.

Colm pressed his back against the wall and crouched down, careful to stay in the shadows, wondering what Finn would say if he caught him here. Would he be angry at Colm for snooping or admire him for his stealth? Colm wasn't sure, but he could easily imagine the rogue doing the exact same thing. Tye Thwodin was speaking softly, but his gruff voice carried down the cavernous hall; Colm had to strain to hear Master Wolfe, though. He could see the ranger's face set in a scowl. It didn't take long to discover why.

“An assassin?” Master Thwodin rumbled.

The ranger nodded. “Ambushed me outside Saddle Hills. There was no doubt of his intent. His dagger was poisoned. Quality stuff. He was not some random thug.”

Tye Thwodin pulled on his beard. “Did you get a name?”

“I'm afraid he was all out of breath by the time I got around to asking,” the ranger said slyly. “I asked around at some of the thieves' guilds, but nobody would take responsibility. But I did learn something. . . .”

Colm watched as the ranger leaned in close and whispered in Tye Thwodin's ear. The flame-bearded founder frowned, his eyes narrowed.

“Best to keep this to ourselves for now, until we know for certain. After all, someone out there clearly doesn't like you very much.”