Well, we escaped. Barely. As time passed, the rumble and
crumble of collapsing passageways behind us faded slowly into distant thunder. But by the time the wizard got done leading us down about a million twists and turns in the labyrinth, we were hopelessly lost.
Or so I thought. Zulkeh claimed otherwise.
We finally stopped in another grotto. A very small one, dank and damp. Nervously, I inspected the moisture-glistening walls in the lantern light. Except for an oval-shaped door on one side—what sailor types call a hatch—and a tunnel maybe fifteen feet from it, the grotto seemed empty.
Zulkeh was standing in front of the hatch, inspecting it closely. After a moment he straightened, exuding satisfaction. "Just as I planned!" he proclaimed. "My stratagem bears fruit."
I must have snorted loudly enough for him to hear. He turned a baleful eye upon me.
"You doubt my words?" he demanded. "Lost, you say? At wit's end, I presume?" Zulkeh rapped the hatch with his staff. The rusty iron rang hollow. "Stymied by this unexpected obstacle in the course of my science, you claim?"
He was genuinely pissed, I could tell. Not hard, that. Zulkeh was usually genuinely pissed about something.
"You shouldn't doubt the professor, Ignace," complained Shelyid. A moment later, the huge sack gave a little heave and whumped softly on the floor of the grotto. Shelyid's furry little face stared up at me reprovingly. " 'Tisn't right."
"What, kid?" I demanded. "Are you still standing up for the tyrant? I thought we cured you of that habit in Prygg. Gave you a labor contract and everything!"
The dwarf rummaged in one of the pockets of his tunic. "Teach your grandmother to suck eggs," he muttered. A moment later his hand emerged, clutching a well-worn and dog-eared little booklet. I recognized the thing. It was the labor contract which Les Six had negotiated for him in Magrit's house, after the full extent of Shelyid's position had become clear. Most indignant, they'd been—and rightly so. True, Les Six are notorious malcontents, even by the standards of the Groutch proletariat. But there wasn't much doubt, by anybody's standards except outright slavers, that Zulkeh's concept of "conditions of apprenticeship" was, ah, quaint.
Shelyid's little fingers flicked through the pages with practiced ease. "Here it is!" he piped. " 'Part IV, Section B, Paragraph 3, clause (a): It shall be the responsibility of the short-statured-but-fully-qualified apprentice to rise to the defense of the sorcerer when said mage's sagacity is questioned by ignorant louts.' "
The nerve of that kid!
"I know how to read contracts myself, you know!" I flicked a finger dismissively, curling my lip. "Read the next clause, why don't you?"
Shelyid didn't bother to consult the booklet. He was already returning it to his pocket. "Clause (b)," he intoned. " 'Except when the mage is making a damn fool of himself.' "
He gave me a half-reproachful, half-derisive look. "Which he didn't, in this case, because this is exactly how he planned the whole thing."
"Well said, my stupid but loyal apprentice!" spoke Zulkeh.
My lip curled mightier still. I daresay my mustachios flourished.
"It's true!" insisted Shelyid. "It all happened exactly like the professor said!" He hesitated. "Well. He gave it an eighty-seven percent probability. But that's awful close!"
The dwarf pointed back at the tunnel through which we had entered. The rumbling sounds of collapsing passageways had almost faded away completely by now.
"He said we were bound to meet a Great Ogre of Grotum before too long. And then it was almost a sure thing that somebody would screw up and alert the Great Ogre of Grotum's Mother and the Peril More Dire Still."
He gave the sorcerer an apologetic glance. "It's true the professor predicted it would be somebody else who'd blow it. Instead of himself."
Zulkeh started to bridle. So did Greyboar and Gwendolyn. So did Jenny and Angela. Fortunately, Magrit—of all people!—intervened before tempers got further aroused. "Cut it out, all of you!" she wheezed.
The witch huffed and puffed. Magrit's on what they call the matronly side, which is a polite way of saying middle-aged and plump. The long race through the corridors had clearly put a strain on her.
But she's a tough cookie, Magrit, no doubt about that. Under all that heft there was plenty of muscle. Not to mention probably the most sarcastic soul in the world, except her familiar. Which, since she's the one who conjured him into sentience, explains Wittgenstein. Like witch, like witchee.
"And he's right, anyway," she huffed, jabbing a finger at Shelyid. "I heard the old fart say it myself. Then blather on about how the inevitable ensuing destruction of a portion of the labyrinth would disguise our entry from malevolent monsters while he led us to a secret alternate route into the Infernal Regions." Sourly: "Scheming like he always does, even if he calls it thaumaturgical guile."
Zulkeh started to say something, but Magrit cut him off.
"So—okay, genius! We're here. Now what?" She nodded at the hatch. "You did notice that the 'secret alternate route' has got no handle to open it, I trust. And by the looks of the thing, we're certainly not going to break it down. So how are we supposed to get in?"
"Bah!" oathed Zulkeh. He pointed with his staff toward the tunnel not far from it. "Some of us shall simply take that route, circle around, and open the hatch from the other side." He cleared his throat. "Greyboar and Ignace, to be precise."
A torrent of protest erupted.
"Why only them?" demanded Angela.
"Yeah—we should all go!" yelped Jenny.
"And how will they keep from getting lost?" added Gwendolyn.
"We're already lost," groused Wittgenstein. "Don't believe all this wizardly folderol. Probabilities, my ass!"
"I think we should—"
"Enough!" thundered the mage. "Is my science to be questioned at every step? My reason doubted at every fork?"
Again, he jabbed at the tunnel. "Some of us, I say, because all of us may not go. Imprimis, because Gwendolyn and Hrundig are needed to stay behind, in the event some sullen brute insensate to my sorcery should happen to stumble upon us in this grotto. One does require mighty thews upon occasion in these adventures, even when guided by such a puissant mage as myself. Secundus, because it is no fit place for ladies."
Here, he managed a gracious bow at the "ladies." Magrit snorted. Jenny and Angela stuck their tongues out. The Cat just gave him her patented bottle-glass gaze, followed with: "You're not a lady. Neither's the runt."
Zulkeh cleared his throat. "Indeed not. But, if you will allow me to continue, madam: Tertius, because Shelyid is needed to carry my sack and, as you can plainly see, the sack will not fit into that pitiful entryway."
The Cat's cold, unforgiving eyes were still upon him. "Still leaves you."
Bless the woman! She's nuts, but she's no fool.
Zulkeh straightened indignantly. "My dear young lady! Surely you don't expect me to advance into danger without my instruments? My scrolls! My tomes! My talismans! My—"
Wittgenstein blew a raspberry. Zulkeh broke off his expostulation and glared at the salamander. "None of which reasoning requires this odious amphibian to remain behind. Indeed! He would make a splendid addition to the party soon to be advancing into yon tunnel!"
Wittgenstein blew another raspberry. "Do I look like one of these primate morons? Think I can't smell what's down that tunnel? Ha!"
Zulkeh, for just a fleeting instant, almost looked abashed. One of the few times I'd seen the wizard even come close to being embarrassed about anything. When you've got an ego as big as he does, "chagrin" and "mortification" are pretty much terra incognita.
None of which, of course, prevented me from smelling a rat myself. "What's in that tunnel?" I demanded.
Zulkeh cleared his throat. Said nothing. Cleared his throat again.
"It isn't a 'tunnel,' dimwit," sneered Wittgenstein. "It's the entrance to a sewer."
"I don't like it," rumbled Greyboar.
"The needs of science!" cried Zulkeh. "The requirements of our quest!"
"I still don't like it," grumbled Greyboar.
"Shuddup!" I snarled. I probably liked it even less, but—
As the wise man says: "Cheap shots are life's bargains."
So, with a perfect sneer: "You've got to learn to be philosophical about these things."
Oh, joy. The pure glare on the chokester's face registered the bull's-eye. Greyboar started to snap back some—feeble, feeble—retort, but his eyes bulged and he lunged to the side. Pressing himself against the rough, curved stone wall, he goggled at a very large object floating by.
At first, I thought it was a dead body of some sort. But then, as the object floated further into the light shed by my lantern, I recognized it and started to choke. Disgust, sure, but—oh, joy! Another cheap shot!
I sneered again. Perfectly.
"What did you expect to see in a sewer, big guy? The philosopher's stone?"
This time, alas, the shot missed. At least, no glare erupted on the strangler's face. Instead, he just frowned mightily as the object went its way. Didn't even wrinkle his nose.
"What in the world," he mused, "could have produced that thing? D'you see the size of it, Ignace? Like—"
"I did."
I froze. The voice, coming from the darkness ahead of us, thundered down the sewer like an oxcart racing over cobblestones.
"Who spoke?" demanded Greyboar. His basso voice was like a twittering bird compared to—
Again, the thundering oxcart: "I did."
"Show yourself!" demanded Greyboar. Forgetting all squeamishness, the strangler surged into the very center of the sewer, arms and hands spread wide.
"Show yourself!" he commanded.
"No, don't!" I cried, interjecting the voice of sanity. "Stay right where you are!"
Alas, too late. In the gloom ahead, a greater darkness began to congeal. A figure took form, advanced. Ahead of it, a bow wave surged through the stinking water.
Now it was my turn to press myself against the rough stone wall. Very rough, that wall, very stony, and wet with slime. But I clutched it like a baby clutches his mother's breast.
Even Greyboar was shaken, a bit. "By the bones of Saint Agnes," he whispered. "I always thought the damn thing was a fairy tale. It's the Ogre of the Sewer!"
The rumbling voice: "I wish you wouldn't call me that." A plaintive tone filled the voice, contrasting oddly with the rumble: "I really wish you wouldn't."
"Don't call him that, Greyboar!" I snapped. "It's so impolite. You should be ashamed of yourself!"
I smiled my best smile at the advancing monster. "I apologize for my friend—acquaintance. He really has no manners at all."
"Don't smile at me like that."
Smile vanished.
"Nasty little smile."
The horror was close enough to discern features, now. It was—well, another ogre. But there was no disguise about this one. The creature was even bigger and nastier-looking than the Great Ogre of Grotum! Gray, lumpy skin. Beetling brow. Huge, flapping ears. Small, red, piggish eyes. And all the rest, of course. You know—tusks. Talons. The lot.
The piggish red-fury eyes transferred their glare from me to Greyboar. "There's no such thing as the Ogre of the Sewer. It's a fairy tale!"
Greyboar looked puzzled. The monster's eyes became flaming slits.
"Just because I'm ugly!"
Greyboar suddenly laughed. "Ugly, be damned. It's not your looks, it's your diet. Every kid knows that if you jump into a sewer to go exploring, the Ogre'll get you. That's why kids don't—"
He stopped. Frowned. "Though, now that I think on it, I don't imagine too many kids—"
"Last kid got lost exploring the sewers was Tommy Wingle. Eight years ago. He stills comes down, now and then, brings me chocolates."
It eyed us hungrily. "Got any chocolates?"
Greyboar was still frowning. As usual, I had to do the quick thinking.
"No, we don't, sir, sorry about that," I piped up. "But we've got a loaf of bread. And some cheese." I unhitched the backpack from where it had been riding on my shoulders. (High on my shoulder, needless to say; only proper way to carry a backpack in a sewer.) Started rummaging through it.
"What kind of bread?"
I pulled out the bread, stared at it. "Uh, I don't really know. I'm not a baker. It's good bread though! I swear! Really really good—"
It's odd, if you've never heard it. A sort of rumbling, gigantic, disdainful sniff:
"It's rye." SNIFF. "Crappiest bread there is. Even worse than pumpernickel."
I prepared for the worst. Just about the very absolute worst I could imagine. I'd never thought I'd die of old age in a bed, mind you. But still! Being devoured by an ogre in a sewer was a bit much.
Suddenly, the monster sniffed again. Then again. I realized it had detected the odor of the cheese in the knapsack. Nasty, gooey stuff, it was. Jenny and Angela had scrounged it up just before we left. Neither Greyboar nor I had touched the crap, after taking one look at it. I cringed.
"Camembert!" squealed the horror. "And I've got just the wine for it, too! A nice little pinot noir I've been saving!"
"Delightful," purred Maurice, daintily dabbing his lipless maw with a talon. "And such a wonderful change from baby alligator!"
The not-ogre cast a reproachful glance at Greyboar. "You'd crap some giant turds too, if all you had to live on was baby alligator."
The chokester nodded politely. "I'm sure I would."
The not-monster stuck out his tongue with disgust. It looked like a giant, purple leech.
"Nasty things, baby alligators. All bones and teeth and tail and scaly hide. And it takes at least five or six of them to make a decent meal." A heavy, heavy sigh. "Fortunately, people keep buying the stupid things and dumping them after they start growing up. When they discover they've got a big, stupid, nasty, man-eating reptile on their hands. Some pet!"
Maurice craned his head around—had to turn his whole body to do it; no neck—and glared at a huge pile of baby alligator bones in a corner of his grotto. He snorted. "Wouldn't find a troll doing something that stupid."
To back up a bit, Maurice—that was the monster's name, as you may have deduced—had explained, with quite the air of injured amour propre—that he was not an ogre, but a troll. A bonafide troll, yessirree. A member in good standing of the species Trollus sapiens.
I managed to keep a straight face, after he clarified the point. Not easy, that—not even with the sight of Maurice's tusks and talons to keep me civil. It was a bit too much like a murdering fiend insisting he was really a homicidal maniac.
Greyboar, of course, had no trouble at all keeping a straight face. Naturally, he got interested in the distinction, and started asking questions. So we had to sit there for an hour in that cold, dank, stinky, dimly-lit grotto while Maurice blathered on. It seems—
Oh, yeah. I suppose I should pause in order to give you a proper description of what they call the "locale." Hm. A bit difficult, that. Let's do it this way:
Close your eyes and try to imagine a troll's lair. Try real hard. Got it?
Add raw sewage.
Okay, moving right along, Maurice insisted on giving us a long-winded discourse on the fine distinctions between:
1) Ogres and trolls. This mainly involves—you're getting the troll version, mind—an extra little bone in the ankles, certain minute and subtle differences in the shape of the talons, and a vast difference in cranial capacity. I.e., they look exactly alike except trolls say they're smarter.
2) Trollus horribilis vs. Trollus sapiens. This mainly involves the same picayune differences (see above). If this does not make sense to you, join the club.
3) Trollus sapiens, civilized and couth, vs. Trollus sapiens, au naturelle. This mainly involves dietary habits, along with a fine distinction in ecological niche. To wit: Trollus sapiens au naturelle eats anything, anywhere, anytime. Trollus sapiens, civilized and couth, on the other hand, eats anything, anywhere, anytime—so long as in so doing they do not disturb the ecological balance of their habitat. And cheese and chocolates, of course. And whole wheat bread, bean sprouts and something called tofu.
Finally done with this tedious tripe, Maurice got around to asking us what we were doing in the sewer. Greyboar explained, more or less. The troll got an uncertain look on his face (I think that's what those furrowed wrinkles signified, anyway) and scratched his jaw with a talon.
"Dunno," Maurice muttered. "Not supposed to let anyone through that hatch."
"Says who?" I demanded. My voice was perhaps a bit more shrill than the circumstances warranted. I wouldn't normally get peevish with a giant troll in his lair. But I really wanted to get out of that place. If I needed to explain why, you wouldn't be reading this book. You couldn't read, period.
"The CEO of the Infernal Regions, that's who!" Maurice snapped. He hesitated. "Well . . . I suppose I shouldn't boast. I've never actually had the honor of meeting the Top Devil in person. The Lord of Evil communicates with me through channels, you understand."
The horrid face got more horrid still. I realized I was looking at a troll version of a scowl.
"Kind of resent it, actually. He always sends imps up here with my orders, instead of proper devils. He really ought to show me a little more respect." Now, the monster was practically whining. "This is an important post, you know. The only thing standing between the Infernal Regions and possible invaders is that hatch."
I refrained from pointing out the obvious—what idiot is going to invade the Infernal Regions?—and went for the main chance. "Time for some working-class action, then! A slowdown, by G—by the Devil!"
Greyboar nodded solemnly. "Ignace's right. A work-to-rule campaign. We slid by on account of you were all tied up carrying out your multitude of other responsibilities with meticulous precision. Obviously, you need some help. A couple of imps, maybe, to serve as your flunkeys. A promotion!"
Maurice growled. Growled again. "Got that right!" he snarled. A moment later, he was heaving himself erect.
"This way," he commanded. "We'll show the bosses what's what!"
After he opened the hatch and saw who was waiting on the other side, Maurice changed his tune.
"Zulkeh!" he bellowed. "You swine!"
The troll glared at me and Greyboar. "You didn't tell me that he was on the other side!"
I didn't know what to say. Greyboar shrugged. "You didn't ask," he pointed out, reasonably enough. "But if you had—"
Maurice was not mollified. He started to shake a huge fist in Greyboar's face. But the wizard distracted him.
"Come, come, my dear troll!" reproved Zulkeh. "Surely you're not still peeved over that monograph?"
"Peeved?" roared Maurice. He stooped and stuck his head through the hatchway, spitting in Zulkeh's face. "You slandered me! And after all the hospitality I showed you, too!"
The sorcerer immediately matched the troll's umbrage with his own. "Slander?" he cried. "Do I hear me aright? Slander?"
Zulkeh was practically spitting himself. He was hopping about in a funny little dance. You know the one: the scholar, critiqued and disputatious.
"No slander in the least! Preposterous! Oppobrious! My research was meticulous, my logic impeccable, my conclusions foregone!"
"You tricked me!"
Zulkeh was apparently prepared to argue that point too, but Shelyid interrupted him.
"Uh, he's right about that last part, professor. You did tell him you were doing an article for Subterranean Life. Not the Review of Contemporary Monstrosity." The dwarf looked up at the troll. "Sorry, Maurice. I couldn't say anything at the time because—"
"Be silent, miserable dwarf!" commanded Zulkeh.
"—I wasn't working under a proper labor—"
"Silence, I say! Degenerate imbecile!"
"—agreement like I am now." Shelyid frowned at the sorcerer. "And you shouldn't call me those names, professor. That's a clear violation of the contract, and you know it."
I braced myself, sighing. I'd seen Shelyid and Zulkeh mix it up over a contract dispute. Tedious, tedious—lengthy. The mage's temper full-matched by the dwarf's stubbornness. Temper, as in volcano; stubbornness, as in Mule God.
To my relief, Shelyid broke away. The next thing I knew, he was rummaging in the huge sack. "But I always planned to make it up to you, Maurice! Honest!"
A moment later he emerged, clutching a package. "Look! Chocolates!"
Well, that did it. A word to the wise: if you're ever faced by a huge and murderously furious troll, make sure you've got some chocolates on you. I can recommend caramel creams.
After Maurice had gobbled down the whole box, he belched and retreated from the hatchway. "Go on through," he muttered, waving a huge paw. "I'll wish you luck, all of you except Zulkeh."
The troll leered. "Bet you didn't tell them either, did you? The truth, I mean."
Greyboar frowned. "What truth?"
Maurice's leer was a sight to behold. "About what's coming next. Bet the lousy mage just said all you had to do was get through this hatch and you'd have a clear shot at the Infernal Regions. Didn't he? Boasted and bragged about how he knew a shortcut that'd avoid all those nasty Things From Below and It Came From Unders. Didn't he?"
All eyes now turned to Zulkeh. "Yeah, as a matter of fact," muttered Magrit. "He just got through spending the last twenty minutes bragging about it."
The sorcerer drew himself up stiffly. "And 'tis true!" he exclaimed. Cleared his throat. "As far as it goes."
All eyes were now squinting. As in: hostile suspicion.
"There is the matter of the Guide," added Zulkeh. In as close to an abashed mumble as I've ever heard issue from the wizard's lips.
"Oh, swell!" shrilled Wittgenstein. The salamander reared up on Magrit's shoulder. "You're talking about Virge, aren't you? The Little Snotnose from Hell!"
Zulkeh was abashed. "Well . . . Well. The poetry's not that bad."
"It is too!" shrilled Wittgenstein. The creature swiveled his beady little red eyes onto the rest of us. "You'll see!"