One for the Morning Glory (5 page)

"It is understood absolutely," Amatus said, rising and extending his hand. His own voice was unexpectedly deep and solid and from the corner of his eye he saw that eyebrow shoot up on Golias's face again, perhaps even accompanied by a trace of a nod.

Something in his manner must have touched Duke Wassant, as well, for instead of taking the hand and shaking it as might have been expected, with a low flourish he bowed and kissed the extended fingers. When he stood again, there was something of a salute in his manner, and under his cloak the Prince bowed, acknowledging it.

The room was distinctly colder, the fire glowed sad red rather than lively orange, and the spilled Gravamen smelled more sour after the Duke flung his long scarlet cloak about his shoulders, pulled the broad brim of his plumed hat low over his face, and strode out into the sleet. He was gone up Wend toward the Carpenter's Square in an instant.

"Time remains in the hour," Slitgizzard said, "and I prefer we keep all of it—but I will remain."

"And I," Calliope said.

Prince Amatus sat back down, carefully making sure that his cloak concealed the absence of his left side as much as anything could. What had come over him in that moment with the Duke? It had felt right and good, but now that it was gone, he felt tired and young.

"We will stay out the hour," he said softly. "And I would like to hear any song as long as it is of love and spring, and not spilled blood and night, and most especially as long as it is not 'Penna Pike.'"

Golias bent to his palanquin and plucked away at "The Codwalloper's Daughter," but though his voice was deep and true and the poetry as beautiful as the subject was bawdy, some of the color was gone from the Gray Weasel, and the sleet outside spattered harder in a nasty cold tattoo that mocked but never matched the tempo of the alchemist's strumming.

All the same, the Prince did not call for it to stop, but looked around as if drinking up all the sight and sound and smell he could while the last of the sand in the hourglass ran out, and even felt in his throat the words that would cry out for a few more minutes, or one more song, or one more glass . . . he fought them down, because he knew they would come in a boy's breaking voice, but it was a fight, and he knew, too, that he only won it because the boy inside him wanted to be fought down.

Just as the last strains of "The Codwalloper's Daughter" were bouncing around in the rafters, and Calliope pulled her boots off the table, and Sir John wetted his lips to speak, there was an all but unbearable moment when Amatus wanted more than ever to say, "One more dance of the shadows on the wall, one more merry tune, one more hoisted glass—"

And at that moment three figures, disguised, entered the taboret, and were recognized instantly, for even in long cloaks and many garments and veils, there was no mistaking the tall, thin woman whose skin was covered with scales and pale blue, or the huge, lumpy misshapenness of the man, and given that much, who else could the dark-haired, soft-faced youth in page's clothing beside him be but Psyche? The other three Companions had come, punctual at the time, and though Amatus could still feel the longing for this to be any other night, he knew now that it was time to go, and the dull ache of anticipated nostalgia no longer had any power over him. He rose silently, drawing his cloak tighter about him, and Sir John, Calliope, and Golias did as well, and then the seven of them were out in the icy, damp, windy streets, headed down toward the faint fishy foulness of the river.

If any saw them pass, it was only by peeking through the slats of shutters, and no one would have had even one slat open if it could be helped, on such a night. They passed out of the Hektarian Quarter and on down Wend past the sweeping arches and pinnacles of the houses of the Vulgarians and among the little stupors where on pleasant summer days they had often stopped for tea. Following torches held aloft by Golias, Sir John, and the Twisted Man, at last they came to the place in the riverside walls where the city sewers poured into the Long River below them.

"It so happens," Golias said, "that I brought a rope along, although when I brought it I did not know what for."

The Twisted Man went first, handing his torch to Calliope and climbing down into the near-complete darkness, and Amatus was never sure afterward whether he had seen the Captain of the Guard descend, or whether he had merely caught moments when the twisting, bucking rope passed through blots of dim torchlight.

It would have been natural for someone else to go next, but before anyone had a chance Amatus had drawn on the heavy glove he carried with him for such occasions and was sliding down the line to the bottom. He had seen how the rope swayed under the Twisted Man, but nothing had prepared him for the wild way it whipped in and out of the darkness, sometimes swinging into the great sewer-mouth, and sometimes far out over the river, or for the heart-stopping slips every time his grip loosened. As he neared the bottom, the line began to steady, and with an almost-gentle bump his foot touched the slimy pavement.

"You might have steadied the line," he said to the Twisted Man.

"You did not need it. Those who follow will, so give me your hand here." Their three hands took up slack in the line.

"You're quite the bodyguard," Amatus said, not liking the whining tone he noticed in his own voice, and regretting it instantly.

"I'm not. I'm a mysterious Companion." The Twisted Man's voice rasped like a file screaming against a grindstone. "That's what the tale calls for. And if I were anything else, I would be the Captain of the Guard, and I would be carrying you home to your father and administering a sound spanking. Fortunately I have no taste for administrative duties and your father has a keen understanding of what goes into the making of princes."

"Enough chatter. The others are coming down. Slitgizzard will come last, so that he can help others onto the line," said Mortis's voice behind them.

Amatus knew better than to ask the Royal Witch how she had gotten there; possibly she had flown or just walked through some little fold in the world. So he nodded acknowledgment and braced his foot.

The first one down was Calliope, scrambling down and yanking the rope in all directions. Amatus helped catch her at the bottom, his open hand pressing upward to stop her, then letting her slide down into his arm, and enjoyed it a great deal. Psyche came quickly and lightly, barely moving the rope; Golias clambered after, more clumsily because he was stout. Finally Sir John Slitgizzard made his quick, neat descent, and they were ready for their journey into the dark wet spaces under the city.

For a long time there was no need to speak, and so they only followed the torch that Golias held aloft, and glanced at each other now and then. Mortis was calm as ever, and now that they were belowground had thrown back the hood of her cloak so that her white hair and blue skin shone in the near darkness. Golias, John Slitgizzard, and the Twisted Man all seemed to be waiting calmly for something, and Amatus decided it must be because they were more experienced adventurers than he. He tried to act like them but all he could manage was a moment or so of it between his heart lurching at shadows and walking along as if he were trailing behind his father at some boring Court function.

Behind him, Calliope and Psyche walked; he didn't look back because he was afraid that either they would be cowering, and seeing them his own nerve would break, or that they would look more brave and unconcerned than he felt.

They had walked for a long time before they saw any signs of goblins. Since Boniface had given him the army, Cedric had been systematic and efficient about goblin control, and nowadays it was only a rare one who came to the surface, usually on a dare, and usually doing only slight harm, writing something scurrilous on a wall or dumping the milk sitting by someone's door. As they neared Goblin Country, they could see byproducts of goblin control; skeletons of goblins and pieces of armor and escrees appeared around every bend. The skulls were the worst of it, for the torchlight flickered in the eyeholes so that for a moment a light would seem to dance in the skull's eyes, as if it were about to speak.

They were hideous, with jaws as prognathous as a bulldog's, and bony ridges around the snoutlike noses. The skull seemed to slope straight back from the heavy brow ridges, and the bony crest down its middle was spiked and bumpy.

And those eye sockets—strange how your gaze kept returning to them—were round and deep as wells.

Amatus kept walking, deciding that if his courage was going to desert him, he would just have to go on without it.

Finally they came to a crumbling, rotten wood bridge across a deep crack in the tunnel floor. Before it there stood a wooden gate, and at the gate was a small, hairy goblin, unusually ugly, and with a glint of malice in his eyes that must have made even the other goblins nervous.

"Your business?"

Amatus remembered from Golias's lessons that you had to tell the truth in Goblin Country. So he said, "We are here to rescue a maid held here for many centuries."

"Oh, her. Sure, have a shot. Haven't had anybody except the occasional ambitious commoner in ages. Not even many of them. There are just seven of you?"

"Yes."

"And will there be seven coming out?"

At first he was going to answer "Yes," then "No, eight," then he realized, and said, "I have no way of knowing."

The goblin's eyes glinted with disappointment. "Very well, then. You might say you've passed a preliminary test. All right, advance through the gate, and then go across the bridge where the Riddling Beast will ask you your riddle."

The bridge swayed alarmingly and pieces occasionally broke off and tumbled far, far down into the black depths of the crevice. "This is the sort of bridge that someone might have to hold in a story," Amatus muttered to Golias.

"It is—whoops!" The bridge jumped sideways for a moment. "It is indeed. I rather assume it has been before and will be again. But not every prop is used in every story . . . surely you know that rule of magic as well. It may be here purely for atmosphere."

A bit of railing fell from under Calliope's hand and spiraled slowly downward until it was completely out of sight; two long breaths later, the sound of it whacking against stone reached their ears, and then a series of bangs and thuds as it made its way down into the depths.

"Enough!" Mortis shouted. They all jumped at the sound, and if the bridge had continued to sway it might have thrown one of them off, but abruptly it had become steady as stone and broad as the King's own highway. Moreover, the murk seemed to dispel, and they could see down into the depths far enough to perceive that the chasm was unpleasantly far to fall but by no means bottomless.

Mortis permitted herself a cold smile. "Golias provided the clue. This bridge was either important to the story or it was atmosphere. If the latter, it would be dispensed with as soon as there was enough of it. The word of power is the one that finishes a thing that wants to be true. I thought 'Enough' might be such a word of power in this case. One can count on nothing in this place, but some things that do not matter are easily dispelled."

They advanced across the wide, safe bridge and waited for the Riddling Beast. After a moment, there was a great rumble in the echoing cavern, and a furry head halfway in appearance between a bear's and a snake's, with jaws big enough to crush six men whole, poked around the rock on a long, dark-furred neck. On both sides of the huge rock, the leathery batwings could be seen spreading out. "What is it that goes on four legs in the morning, shaves the barber at noon, and crosses the road at evening, and what does it have in its pockets?"

"Myself and my own things," Amatus said at once.

"Your party may pass. Good job, by the way, most people need all three guesses. Best of luck up ahead."

"Do you suppose he'd have been so pleasant while eating us?" Calliope whispered to Amatus.

"Not at all," the Beast whispered, grinning. "Human tastes perfectly horrible. I have to force it down and it puts me out of sorts for weeks."

They proceeded up the road into Goblin Country. Now the corpseworms above and around them gave off a pale green light, and they were able to see more than enough. Goblin lords on litters raced by them, goblin merchants rode by with baskets full of goods, and in general there seemed to be goblins everywhere, though none took any notice of them.

After a long time, Calliope asked, "How did you know the answer to that riddle?"

"Practice and training," Amatus said. "Golias told me that whenever you are asked such a question, the answer is always yourself. The question about the pockets was the one that made me edgy."

"It was well answered in any case," John Slitgizzard said. "And it begins to give me hope that it went so well; plainly this is not the sort of quest I had feared it was, where loyal henchmen perish at every peril."

Amatus shuddered, for he knew there were such quests, and only then did he realize that this could have turned out to be one of them, and that Calliope and Slitgizzard had come along anyway. Even more than before he felt himself to be the coward of the party.

They had just begun to wonder if there was a turnoff they should have taken when they came to a sign: "To the Goblin Court."

"Odd that they use our language," Calliope said.

"It is the kind of creatures they are," Golias explained. "They make nothing. They only use that which others make."

The road to the Goblin Court was more trail than road, for it was little used. The goblins relished civil disorder too much to pay taxes to suppress it, and therefore the Goblin Court was less a seat of government than an expensive playpen where prominent goblins sent their less capable offspring in hopes of accruing some political advantage. It was thus the home of every wastrel, ne'er-do-well, amiable idiot, effete malignant prankster, petty untalented sadist, dimwitted flirt, small-minded gossip, amoral boonmonger, and vicious sexual conquistador or conquistadora in Goblin Country, and wiser goblins stayed away from it as if it had been an asylum for the malodorous, which in a sense it was. Had the Terracottas, the royal line in the goblins, not been so erotically insatiable as to litter the goblin population with illegitimate children, they might well have died out long ago, for to be sane enough to rule they had to be capable of feeling what dreadful company they were forced to keep.

All of this Golias explained in a hasty whisper to Amatus, as they passed through the long row of gibbets from which hung the thoroughly gnawed skeletons—or scraps of skeletons—of men, goblins, and things that might never have been alive at all. The trail stank of charnel. Parts of corpses lay on the trail and they were forced to pick their way among them.

When Calliope accidentally touched a dead hand with the tip of her boot, it grabbed her toe and had to be kicked off into the mess at the roadside, and when Sir John slipped on a slimy patch and caught himself by stepping on a skeletal forearm, it turned and grasped at him with its few remaining phalanges as if he had stepped on a viper in the forest.

"Ha," Golias said at that. "I see the game now." From his cloak he drew a short stick of wood with a bit of cloth tied to the end, and a tiny vial which he poured over the end of the little stick. Instantly the stick and its bit of cloth grew into a broom, which stood upright in front of them for one moment, then began to advance up the trail, sweeping fiercely, clearing the path of the corpse pieces.

"One must be careful how one walks in Goblin Country," Golias explained. "Not so much to walk in any particular way as to avoid walking in a particular way; there's a pattern that sets it all off. In this case some sort of spell laid out in the bare spaces between the disgusting objects."

The broom, having cleared the trail for some distance in front of them, turned around and bumped up and down impatiently.

With a guilty laugh, Golias followed it. Amatus chuckled himself, knowing full well that the alchemist might have spent hours discoursing on the nature of pathways of malice and how they were laid out, and of the making and use of magic brooms.

In a short time, they rounded a bend to find themselves in a great, vaulted chamber, obviously copied inexpertly from some building in the world up above. Their entrance caused a great hubbub, with goblin courtiers and ladies rushing everywhere to be seen to be in the right places.

The walk up the aisle was worse by far than the trail among the gibbets had been. The goblins at Court were for the most part mad, and entirely vicious, and being goblins they were an affront even to their own eyesight. Moreover the goblins at Court dressed in copies of the finery of the world above, cut and recut to reveal and emphasize whatever this particular goblin's distortion was. Here a cluster of vestigal arms in the middle of the chest had been set off with a decolletage as if the goblin lady were a human woman with a fine bosom; there a ruff graced the top of a hump on a courtier; everywhere, there were ever-flowing sores, the clothing cut away around them and sometimes sewn into the living flesh so that an open spot of raw flesh seemed to stick directly out of a rent.

Sir John swore softly under his breath, looked straight ahead as much as he could, and kept his left hand under his coat, near the swash that held three pismires and his pongee, and his right hand conspicuously upon the hilt of his escree. Psyche knelt a moment to adjust her boot, and steel glinted where she made sure the concealed throwing knives could be drawn in an instant. Amatus himself let his hand fall to the hilt of his own escree, and from the many motions he saw under the Twisted Man's cloak he suspected there was a census of armaments being taken.

The king and Queen—she was the real Terracotta, he a bastard upstart who had married her because she was his half sister—were not so deliberately or cruelly disgusting to look at, but the horrible mad stare of the Queen, with its mixture of will to hurt and stupid coquettishness, was bad enough.

"Why do you intrude upon our Court?" the King growled sternly at Golias.

"My master will speak of that," Golias said, "and you will listen, and then we will have what we seek."

The words sounded formal, and Amatus wished he had read more about diplomatic protocol, for they sounded more like the sort of thing one had to say in the Goblin Court than like a formal courtesy. But after all, to go anywhere with Golias was to wish one had read more, so Amatus plunged directly into the subject. "You hold among you a human maiden, a subject of the Kingdom, and her family having failed in her rescue, we seek her now."

"She is no maiden now, for we have raped her until she ceased to fight, then until she ceased to care, and finally till she lies and grunts for more of it like a sow," the Queen said.

"That is a singularly clumsy lie," Golias replied. "Being what you are, you obey laws more stringent than humans do, and you are not capable of so defiling her, however you may have heaped her with filth and forced her to live in foul confinement. Had your goblins attempted her rape, they would have died in the attempt, for a mockery of real flesh such as yourselves may not touch the real thing of power that is a maiden. This is written down in many books, some of them by me."

There was a long pause, and a great rumbling as the Queen clenched her shaking fists in fury and the ceiling began to tremble. Stone plunged in among the courtiers and ladies, and with a soft, squashy crunch, one goblin lady was knocked to the ground, her legs and lower back shattered by a boulder. She shrieked, then began to sob in agony; those around her began to point and laugh, except for a few who sat down next to her and wept, having a wonderful time with their sympathy, and a thin one who began to eat her hand. No one made the slightest move to help, until, with a grunt of disgust, Sir John Slitgizzard drew his pismire, cocked the chutney, set the lovelock, pointed it, and squeezed the trigger.

The pismire made a solid boom, and its heavy ball killed the goblin lady instantly. Amatus felt like coughing from the sulphurous smoke, but dignity forced him to draw breath slowly and carefully.

"It was bad enough she was suffering," said the Queen, "but now you have slain her." A greasy tear trickled down the Queen's cheek, matting the patches of hair. "I feel this strongly. We could almost be said to have suffered together, she and I, for I am a very tenderhearted queen and I do not like to see such hurts done."

The king sat up straight and thundered, "Who are you that you dare to slay the ladies of my Court before my eyes?"

Amatus noted that the ceiling failed to move for the King's wrath. If he had not known already, he would have been quite sure by now where real power rested.