Villains by Necessity (31 page)

"Should," was Arcie's response.

"How long?" retorted Sam. "Soon will notice."

"All right, not try. Not tell, not try." Arcie sighed.

"Should kill him."

"Not self. Working." An assassin was loath to kill in cold blood when a target was already fixed in mind. Random killing diluted and confused the fire and dulled the edge.

"Self will, then," replied Arcie. "Suggestions?"

"While sleeping. Cut throat," the assassin recommended.

He thought a moment. "Two hearts, can't stab.

Throat."

"Right."

Blackmail's lead took them out into the wilderness once more. The darkness, coupled with the dramatic fog that seemed to infest this country, made it nearly impossible to tell where they might be going, and even more difficult to speculate how they would get back. It was as if the countryside itself-tiny woods, rocky hills, and tiny twisty streams that all looked alike-was being deliberately confusing. But Blackmail plodded on, sometimes stopping atop the crest of a hill to look around or staring silently upward at the stars.

Finally, in a small woods at the base of a steep rocky hill, they came upon a miniature grotto, a glen dominated by the gentle rushing sounds of water. The sound came from a waterfall in the hillside, about ten feet tall, silver in the moonlight. The water flowed round in a shallow pool at the base, then hurried off to join with the myriad of tiny streams elsewhere. Blackmail walked up to this waterfall and beckoned them forward.

As they approached, the knight raised up his shield and held it over his head, and stepped into the waterfall.

The cascade was broken and fell widely around his shield, wider than logical physics should have dictated, in the same way that Lumathix's breath had spread out and away. Revealed behind the waterfall was a dark opening, a faint glimmer shining inside. Cautiously they walked in.

A short passage and then the tunnel opened out into a round chamber, a ceiling twice Sam's height and walls worn smooth by centuries. A small altar stood against one corner, now almost worn away by a steady drip, drip, drip; a stream of pure water that fell from a spire on the ceiling and landed in a worn pool on the altar. The drops were soothingly regular. Sam noticed with a start that they came at exactly one-second intervals; slowly measuring time for all eternity.

Blackmail strode forward and splashed his gauntlet into the pool, then roughly broke the tip off the spire.

The drops and water splattered everywhere, losing count, losing time. The group startled as a sudden change in the air swelled forth.

A purple glow suffused the walls and water, and there came a clattering sound, as of stones dropping. In the wall behind the small altar a mosaic of tiles spun into place, tile by tile flipping around from its smooth back side to a colorful glossy front, scattering rock chips as it happened. They stepped back from the noise and chips; all but Blackmail, who stood and stared silently at the mural revealed.

When at last it clicked into stillness, the mural depicted a scene of dragons and battles, castles and fields. The famous battles of the War were shown, with vast clouds of swarming, bat-winged demonic fiends being driven by the shining armies of Light. The central figure in this case was a paladin, a human man in shining silver armor. The man had light brown hair and a regal mustache, just beginning to silver. His face was stern, with piercing gray eyes. His helmet, decorated with purple plumes, was tucked under his arm, and in one hand he held a shining sword, with a shield on his arm that depicted a golden griffin on a field of crimson.

"I guess this is one you're to do, knight," said Valerie, examining it.

"That looks like the one I had in my dream!" exclaimed Robin. "With the tracks and ... but this is ... wait a moment!"

"Uh-oh," Arcie muttered, looking at the centaur and stealthily drawing his dagger.

"What are you doing!?" exclaimed Robin. "What is this?"

Arcie readied his dagger, but felt a strong hand descend upon his shoulder. He looked up, and up, to see Blackmail lift his hand again and motion a negative.

Arcie looked exasperated, but Blackmail signaled a request for trust. Arcie sulkily put away the dagger; Kaylana sighed and turned to the centaur.

"I suppose we should have explained to you earlier, Robin. Our quest is a strange one, and one that many would not approve of. I shall explain it to you, and hope that you will be as wise as my companions and can grasp it."

Kaylana briefly explained the situation to the centaur: of the world's increasing imbalance, of the danger of such an influx; of the Darkgate and the Key. Robin listened with increasing horror. Undo the actions of the Heroes?

Release darkness and evil? This must not be! But at the same time, he felt a faint unease; these people he journeyed with did not seem like evil demons. They were certainly very nasty, it was true, but still they seemed so human at times; he had watched Sam's bumbling attempts to attract the attention of the Druid, heard Arcie whistling along to the music of his harp. Blackmail's obvious sorrow at the loss of his steed ... These things showed something more than a mindless evil...

But that was no concern of his. He absorbed all the information Kaylana gave to him, and then steeled his thoughts. He could feel the deep gray eyes of the Druid boring into his own, but made his will stern and secret, controlling his thoughts instinctively so that her gaze did not go past his retinas, and then answered as Mizzamir had instructed him.

"Oh! Well, you should have said so. How fascinating! I won't interfere at all. What a ballad this will make, whether you succeed or fail. Please, let me continue with you ... I may not be much help, other than as an entertainer, but this is so ... unusual, that my curiosity, among other things, drives me to know more ..." he stammered nervously, head swimming from the weight of this news but careful to speak only the truth. It wasn't hard. Centaurs by nature were an honest people; only Robin's poet training gave him the ability to fudge and exaggerate and delude slightly.

"Look, minstrel," Sam put in. "If you want to come along you're going to have to start pulling more of your own considerable weight. When we fight, you fight.

When we run, you run. No more fainting or skipping out.

Do you understand?"

"Yes, I understand," Robin answered firmly. That was true enough, anyway. He understood every word.

Whether he would have to obey was another matter.

"Right, then," retorted Valerie. "Blackmail?"

The knight nodded and stepped up to the mural. Pausing a moment to trace the golden griffin device on the shield in the mural, he then pressed his gauntlet into it.

There was a flash of brilliant light that left purple afterimages dancing around the room, and he vanished.

"I hope he makes it," worried Kaylana. "We are running out of time and are probably being pursued even now. I wonder if we will be killed by the likes of Sir Fenwick before the entire world sublimates in light."

"How do you spell 'sublimates'? One b or two?" asked Robin, taking out a roll of parchment and scribbling furiously, to cover his shakey relief that the villains had bought his story. Now for a few convincing ballads to let them think he really was interested in their insane plot, which would also serve as notes for his report to Mizzamir...

"I never likes speculating on how I'm going to die,"

Arcie retorted, pulling out his pipe. "The only thing to do right now is wait. Smoke 'em if ye has 'em."

"There ought to be a way to get around this," Valerie said in annoyance, tapping the floor. "It irks me no end to have my own survival hang on the actions of cretins like yourselves, no offense."

"None taken I'm sure," Sam retorted sweetly.

"I am not worried," Kaylana put in thoughtfully. "It seems to me the dark knight knows what is going on better than any of us."

"Unusual fellow, him," Arcie said. "Not a word this whole trip... Doesn't eat, doesn't sleep..."

They continued to inspect the mural, while the drops of water spattered about in a random dripping chorus.

"The Hero Sir Pryse," commented Valerie, looking at the mosaic. "A powerful man."

"What does the inscription say?" inquired Arcie, as they waited. Valerie studied it.

"Here is the Test of Honor," she read. "You who hold to what is right, ploys of others all despite, are the true champions of the light."

"Sort of rhymes," said Sam grudgingly.

"Who says they have to rhyme?" asked Robin. Sam shrugged. "Well, I think it's a nice touch. I hope when you write a song about us, that is assuming we survive ..."

"And that you can remember anything worth writing about," put in Arcie. "... I hope you manage to make it rhyme, or at least try... too many of your modern ballads are just a collection of disjointed sentences."

"That's true," agreed Arcie. "Damned hard to remember them words after the first seven beers, some of them.

Not real songs."

"No," admitted Kaylana. "Those were all lost with the bards."

"What-" began Robin, rather crossly.

There was a sudden popping sound, and Blackmail appeared in the room, apparently unharmed. He was holding a deep purple chunk of crystal and beckoning to them, as it flashed tight and then settled into stillness. He hastened to the opening and parted the waterfall, as a low groaning grating sound began to thrum through the stone.

As they hurried out of the cave, a sudden rumble shook the earth. On the safety of the edge of the grotto, they turned. The hidden shrine caved in, rocks and water splashing, as outside the waterfall collapsed, sinking in on itself. Valerie raised an eyebrow.

"Sir Pryse was a rather crafty fellow," she commented.

Next to her. Blackmail nodded, looking at the destruction.

"One almost has to admire it."

They passed through the rest of the sullen Kwartan countryside without incident, avoiding the looming castles of the feudal lords. Early morning, and with the sight of human habitation in the distance, the little band of renegades put aside thought of dinner and sleeping the new %%%day away. Instead they pressed onward, heading for the large town in the distance, looking forward to recovering some of their strength and replenishing some of their provisions.

Sam made a vow under his breath not to touch even the merest drop of alcohol. They passed through the front gates of Martogon, along with oxcarts of goods and chatting pedestrians, shortly before noon. Martogon was near the coast, a neutral city established here somewhat against the wishes of the local lords. Inhabited mainly by other outlanders, it was probably one of the few cities that strangers like themselves could find decent treatment.

"Fenwick's men are probably still dredging the Fens for us," chuckled Sam.

"I believe we can rest here today and tonight," suggested Kaylana, "and then move on early tomorrow evening."

"Sounds well enough to me," said Arcie. The rest concurred, and they drifted off on their own errands.

In Sam's opinion, of course, the first thing to do was buy some new clothes. He knew he looked like a villain, and a fairly scruffy looking one at that. He felt terribly conspicuous as he walked down the street, and at the first opportunity he ducked into the shadows of the buildings and inched his way invisibly toward a haberdasher's.

Within the shop at last, and free to inspect what the establishment had to offer, he found himself torn. The shop's owner, busily taking the measurement of a portly local merchant, merely gave him a look that one might reserve for a dead mouse found in one's breakfast, and left Sam to his thoughts.

Back at the Guild, of course, all one's clothes were not only tailor-made, but specially tailor-made, with hidden pockets and loops and slits in which to hide various tools of the trade. The average assassin didn't feel really dressed unless he was carrying at least fourteen different lethal weapons about his person. And of course, back in those days, he'd had plenty of money. He-could afford %%%the very best. People had once asked for his services in particular, hearing of his reputation, asking for the blade that never missed. He'd had a whole wardrobe then, lots of clothes and costumes for wear in the outside world so that none would know him for his trade. Merchant, soldier, beggar, prince, thief-he could appear as anyone if it helped him come within reach of his target. But one by one, the clothes had been sold away, for the money he now needed for food; his profession, the only one he knew, was no longer in demand. At the end he'd had nothing more than his "working" clothes; the uniform of matte black that allowed him to blend with the shadows.

Sheer stupid stubborn pride had made him keep them this long, knowing the risks he ran in this new Light world ... but that same pride now gnawed at his heart as he debated the clothes before him. He couldn't afford a tailor. His old outfit would have to go, there was no choice in the matter, he insisted with himself; faded, torn, tattered, it barely kept him warm. What to take its place?

Within the confines of the shop's stock, clothes of a similar color were conspicuous by their absence. He couldn't have anything of bright hues; it would cut his efficiency by half, at least, besides making his eyes hurt. He rubbed his face on the soft sandwashed silk of his sleeve absentmindedly, lost in distraction. Perhaps ... he winced. It was shameful, bitter, unpleasant... but unavoidable. He was going to have to charge Arcie expenses.

Arcie, meanwhile, was busy. He had followed Sam's example and padded his way to the lower merchant quarter of town, where some of his Barigan kinfolk looked up from their honest work in surprise at seeing a stranger in town. They had greeted him cheerfully, with that comradeship held between those of a country people in a world of city folk, and he had responded in kind, giving compliments on the condition of the houses and gardens.

By the time he'd gotten to the store he was after, he'd already been gifted with a couple of ripe apples and a biscuit.

Munching these, he padded into a different tailor's shop, exchanged words of good cheer with the seamstress, %%%and emerged attired in a clean new overshirt of dark green and a pair of natty brown breeches with a touch of yellow braid around the cuffs, nicely setting off his newly polished brown boots. A few more stops gained him a pouch of tobacco, a new tinderbox, and a brand new hat to replace his battered leather cap lost to the recent chaos. It was soft brown, with a bright blue plume.