Table Of ContentContent
Cast of Characters
Part I Another Dungeon
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
Part II Another Day
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
XVII
XVIII
Part III Another Quest
I
Notes
Cast of Characters
The Adventurers
Timaeus d'Asperge, Magister Igniti: an aristocrat and fire mage, financer of the expedition.
Sidney Stollitt: partner in Pratchitt & Stollitt, a firm that specializes in theft, divorce work, and
assembling expeditions into the caverns. She is far more reliable than her partner.
Nick Pratchitt: Sidney's partner.
Father Geoffrey Thwaite: a priest of the god Dion, patron of drunkards.
Kraki Kronarsson: barbarian and illegal alien.
Garni Ben Griwi: dwarf and experienced adventurer.
The Caverns
Lenny the Lizard: tour guide.
Drizhnakh, Garfok, and Spug: assorted orcs.
Fragrit: orc priest.
Dorog: another orc.
Rog: large person with claws and an unpleasant disposition.
Corcoran Evanish: customs official.
The Boars
Wentworth Secundus Jorgensen, Magister Alchimiae: Master Alchemist and Fullbright of the Loyal
and Fraternal Sodality of the Boar.
Jasper de Mobray, KGF, Magister Mentis: a flying, largely invisible adept of the mental arts.
Member, Order of the Golden Fleece; Order of the Green Flame. Fullbright of the Boars.
Morglop Morstern: cyclops, Fullbright of the Boars, swordsman.
Manfred: the Grand Boar.
The Court
His Grace, Mortimer, by the Grace of the Gods Grand Duke of Athelstan, Lord of Durfalus, Defender
of the Faiths, etc., etc., etc : enthusiastic mycologist.
Sir Ethelred Ethelbert: his foreign minister.
Jameson: Sir Ethelred's secretary.
General Carruthers: Commander of the Ducal Guard.
Major Yohn: Commander of the Fifth Frontier Warders, recently returned from the suppression of the
Meep Banditti.
University Faculty
Doctor Calidos: Timaeus's don, Senior Professor of the Department of Fire.
Doctor Macpherson: Adjunct Professor of Imperial History.
Bad Guys
The Right Honorable the Baroness Veronee, Magistra Necromantiae: Baroness of the Realm,
necromancer, and spy for Arst-Kara-Morn.
The Lich: powerful dead guy.
Rupert: Veronee's butler.
Cook: Veronee's cook.
Ross Montiel: elven gangster.
Micah: his lieutenant.
George, Fred, and Billy: assorted thugs.
Neighborhood Fixtures
Mrs. Coopersmith: Nick and Garni's landlady.
Elma: mistress of number 11 Cobblers Lane, the house that Montiel commandeers.
Vic: senile old geezer.
Madame Laura: successful madame, in hock to Montiel. Mother of "Priscilla."
Part I
Another Dungeon
I
Timaeus d'Asperge was comfortably ensconced in his favorite armchair at the
Millennium Club. One hand held his ancient meerschaum, stuffed with Alcalan
black leaf. By his other hand, on a small serviette, stood a decanter of
Moothlayan single malt.
"Now that you have your Master's," the man with the monocle asked
Timaeus, "what will you do?"
"Hah!" said the Colonel. "Go to Ish and join the army, that's what, eh?" He
struck Timaeus on the knee with a clenched fist. "Show those damnable orcs
what for, eh, boy? Good man."
Timaeus cleared his throat with slight embarrassment. "Actually," he said, "I
was thinking about opening a practice—"
"Go into trade?" said the man with the monocle with undisguised horror. "My
dear boy, that will never—"
"No, no, the military life, that's the ticket," said the Colonel. "By Dion, I envy
you! Marches in blistering heat, hostiles sweeping out of the hills . . . university
makes a gentleman out of you, but the service makes you a man, what, what?"
The Colonel reached over and slapped Timaeus's slight paunch. "Lose that in the
army, that's for certain." His eyes gleamed over his gray mustache. Timaeus
puffed on his pipe to avoid having to respond. "What about adventuring?" said
the man with the monocle.
"Hmm?" said Timaeus.
"A traditional way for a young nobleman to win fame and fortune," the man
with the monocle continued. "Slaying dragons, rescuing damsels in distress, that
sort of thing." He waved a hand airily.
"Well," mused Timaeus, "I had thought about it, but I wouldn't know where
to start. I mean, what, advertise for quests?"
"Start with the Caverns of Cytorax," suggested the man with the monocle.
"They're not far. Scads of monsters down there, I'm told."
"Mmm," mused Timaeus. "But where would I find companions?" "What
about your mates at the university?" asked the Colonel. "Mostly out of town,"
said Timaeus. "Back at home or joining the army. Besides, I'd need more than
wizards. Men at arms, spelunkers, clerics . . . you know."
"You need a staff officer," said the Colonel. "Take care of these petty
problems for you."
"If you don't know how to do it yourself," said the man with the monocle,
"hire it done." He coughed delicately into a handkerchief. "I know just the firm."
"A group that assembles expeditions into the caverns?" said Timaeus. "Umm,
rather . . . a firm that handles—matters of delicacy. I should think they could
assemble some experienced adventurers with fair ease. Pratchitt and Stollitt,
Stollitt and Pratchitt. Something like that. I'll give you the address."
Garni was sweating into his beard. Dwarves weren't used to city summers.
Their native mountains were usually cool.
At least it would be cool in the basement apartment he and Nick Pratchitt
shared. It wasn't in the best part of town, but it did have the distinct advantage of
being cheap.
Garni walked down the hall to the apartment door. The door was bolted shut.
He heard giggling on the other side.
Garni knocked. "Nick," he said. "It's Garni. Open up."
There was silence for a moment. Then, through the door Nick said, "Uh,
Garni? I'm busy. Could you come back later?"
Damn. "Look, Nick," said the dwarf, "I just want to get some lunch." "Just a
sec," said Nick. There was a shuffling sound, then a bang. The door opened a
crack. Two hands held out a salami, a loaf of bread, and a wine jug. "Here," said
Nick. He didn't have a shirt on.
Garni sighed. He took the food. Nick closed and bolted the door. Garni sat
down in the hallway by the apartment door. At least he was out of the sun down
here. He munched on the salami and listened to the giggles.
Personally, he didn't find human women attractive at all. Too gangly. No
facial hair. Garni wondered what Nick thought he was doing. Sidney would find
out. It was only a matter of time. And Nick certainly acted like he cared what she
thought about things.
Oh, well. It wasn't his business. His business was to find a job. Garni was a
decent blacksmith, but the guild here in the city had that racket sewed up.
Manual labor was about all that was left. He wasn't having any luck finding
work. And the rent was three months overdue.
"Mrs. Coopersmith," said Garni. He got to his feet and brushed crumbs off his
jerkin. "How nice to see—"
"Where's my money, dwarf?" said the woman. Her arms were floured to her
shoulders. Sweat spread in semicircles around her armpits. "Umm, in just a few
days . . "
The woman scowled. "Dwarves and single men," she said bitterly. "I should
have known."
"I'm terribly sorry, but—"
"I want my money Tuesday."
"Of course, Mrs. Coopersmith. We'll . . ."
She turned on her heel and climbed back up the stairway. Giggles came from
the apartment.
Garni sighed and climbed after his landlady. He'd go down to the docks and
see if any ships had come in. Maybe he could earn a few pence unloading cargo.
Kraki Kronarsson leaned on the bar. His dirty blond hair hung down around a
face that hadn't been shaved in days. The bar creaked under his bulging thews.
"Ale," he told the innkeeper.
The innkeeper was walleyed. "Well, honorable," he mumbled, smearing a
greasy rag across a tankard under the misapprehension that this was improving
the tankard's looks, "there's the matter of your tab, sor."
A group of fishermen at one of the tables was singing loudly. Kraki had been
listening to the song and hadn't really heard the innkeeper. He did notice,
however, that he wasn't getting any ale. "Vhat?" he said, touching the haft of the
broadsword slung over his back—a nervous gesture.
"Three weeks stay," said the innkeeper. "Sixpence a night. Meals and drink.
You owe—"
"You qvibbling little snit," shouted the barbarian, standing away from the bar.
The fisherman stopped singing.
"Hoy," said a man at the bar. He wore a workman's apron. His thews bulged
almost as much as Kraki's. "No call for such language. Dere's ladies present." An
overage and rather blowsy whore hung on the workman's arm.
Kraki reached across the bar and grabbed the innkeeper by the shirt. "I am
Kraki, son of Kronar," he shouted. "I grace your sty vith my presence. Be
grateful you may show hospitality to so great a lord!"
The workman walked over and put a hand on Kraki's arm. "We do things
different 'ere, barbarian," he said. "Yer owes the man."
Kraki punched him in the jaw. The workman stumbled back.
The fishermen rose from their table. The whore dived for the exit. The
workman grabbed a bar stool and broke it over Kraki's head. Kraki didn't bat an
eye. "You dare lay hands on the son of a chief?" he bellowed. He grabbed the
workman by the waist and hurled him onto the fisherman's table. It collapsed.
Tankards of ale flew. The fishermen converged on Kraki.
The innkeeper cowered behind the bar and moaned. Why was it always thugs
and barbarians? Why couldn't he have a nice, quiet clientele consisting solely of
spinsters and maiden aunts?
Father Thwaite stopped singing when they pushed him through the door to
the abbot's office. It was cool in the office. A little chilly, even—at least if you
were naked.
"Brother," said the abbot.
Dion help me, I'm in for it now, thought Thwaite. He released his penis. He
swayed a bit. He was drunk. Very drunk.
Well, it had been fun.
"I suppose," said the abbot, shuffling some papers on his desk, "that you can
explain why you were pissing on the chancellery bell?"
"Yes, Reverend Father," said Thwaite. "See, there was this li'l— He
hiccupped. He continued determinedly, enunciating clearly. "Little spot of
tarnish. And urine is acidic. So I . . ."
The abbot sighed heavily. "What am I to do with you?" he said. Father
Thwaite hung his head. "I'm sorry, Reverend," he said. "But the spirit moved me
—"
"Spirits, rather," said the abbot. "They say you've been into the brandy again."
"Wine is a susss . . . a sacrament," said Thwaite.
"In vino veritas, yes, Brother," said the abbot. "One of the precepts of our
order. Yet moderation is also virtue. Why are you naked?"
"It was . . . warm in the garden," said Thwaite. "An', I thought, why do we
clothe ourselves? The Creator gave us skin. So . . ."
The abbot took off his spectacles and folded them up. "Since you refuse to
abide by the rules of our older—"
"I'm sorry," said Thwaite, suddenly realizing the depth of his predicament. "I
promise I'll—"
"It's a little late for that," said the abbot, rubbing his eyes with thumb and
forefinger. "Go to Brother Mortain. He will issue you a begging bowl. Depart
from here into the streets of the city."
Thwaite sat down. The flags were chill on his thin, middle-aged buttocks.
"You're expelling me from the order?" he said, suddenly sober. "Not at all," said
the abbot. "You may return when you have learned moderation."
"And until then?" said Thwaite, head bowed.
"Leave us. Beg for your living. Live only off the largesse of others. If you
obtain more than sixpence, give it to the poor. Drink when you are offered drink;
but purchase none yourself."
Father Thwaite rose, bowed, and shuffled backwards to the door, continuing
