The Dungeoneers (28 page)

“She did help shrink Master Velmoth's ears,” Colm added.

Quinn nodded. “What will you two do?”

“Are you kidding?” Lena said. “In less than five days, we will be deep in the festering putrid bowels of our very first bona fide, monster-infested dungeon. I've got to get sharpening.” She turned to Colm. “You want to come? I can make sure Scratch has a good edge.”

Colm glanced around the great hall at the paintings, the stalwart portraits of heroes standing boot to claw with terrifying creatures. Suddenly the immense castle, with its giant marble pillars and its constant reminders of mortal danger, felt strangely claustrophobic, especially with all the sidelong glances from the other dungeoneers. He felt like everyone was watching him, waiting to see what he would say, what he would do. His eyes darted to the massive front entrance.

“I'll catch up with you later,” he said. “I think I need some fresh air.”

Master Velmoth's giant slab of rock, produced during the orcs' assault, still protruded from the center of the field edging the castle's front courtyard. Colm touched it, marveling at how cool it stayed, even soaked in sunlight. He pressed his back against it and stared out across the sea of grass into the wall of woods beyond, from which, not too long ago, had poured dozens of screaming orcs—the first monsters Colm
had ever seen, unless you counted Renny, of course, which Colm no longer did. Colm could still make out the hoofprints in the soft earth, punctuated by a scrap of armor or a broken arrow shaft, reminders of a battle that he had watched from a distance. He pictured Master Wolfe, sword in each hand, charging to meet the horde head-on. Lena called it bravery. Finn called it foolishness. Colm had sided with Finn at the time, though he supposed he could see it both ways.

The trees seemed to stretch on forever. Somewhere beyond that interminable horizon lay roads and villages and homes where men mended shoes and sisters braided one another's hair. There were also mountains and bogs and caves, and tucked somewhere beneath those, there were dungeons. Hundreds of them. And one in particular, picked out already. Colm reached into his bag and found his sister's silver hairpin. He rubbed the butterfly's shimmering wings with his thumb and wondered how far it was to Felhaven, if you were to just walk it, not travel by crystal or other magical means. Wondered whether, if he left here, he could ever find his way back.

“Thinking about running away?”

Colm spun, hand leaping to the hilt of Scratch—no doubt Lena rubbing off on him. He figured it was probably her, following him out here to ask what was wrong. Or maybe Finn. The rogue had a knack for appearing out of nowhere. But this was one of the last people he would have expected.

Ravena stood just behind him, dressed in a black tunic and billowing black pants to match her hair. She looked to be
more rogue herself today, though Colm knew she could be lots of things at once. “You shouldn't sneak up on people like that,” he said.

“For your information, that was
exactly
how you should sneak up on people,” she replied. “But I shouldn't have to tell you that.” Her long braid of black hair hung like a chain down her back. “You didn't answer my question.”

“I'm just catching my breath,” Colm said. “What are you doing out here? Where's your book? I'm not used to being able to see your whole face.” Though now that he could, he had trouble looking into her eyes for too long. It made him anxious. Not the nervousness that came from staring down one of Finn's locks, but a different kind of nerves. A sort of clammy, clumsy giddiness that he didn't really understand or have any control over. It wasn't just because she was older or more talented than he was, though that was certainly part of it. It was something else.

“Actually, I saw you slip out the door and came out to apologize. I know all about Tyren's little stunt with the paste.”

“It worked out okay,” Colm said, thinking about the look on Quinn's face when Colm had scraped the icing from his chin to disable the lock. “It only slowed us down a little.”

“Obviously not enough,” Ravena replied. “Though if we had ended up beating you, I would have said something to Master Thwodin about it.”

“That's nice of you.”

“It's not nice. It's fair. We didn't deserve to win. Not after
that. Even if I hadn't fumbled with that lock, even if we had beaten your time, I could never have accepted it.”

“It was a tricky lock.”

“Number twenty-four. Not that tricky,” she said.

Colm stared at her.

“Don't look so dumbfounded. I've been working with Master Argos longer than you have. Surely you didn't think you were the only one around here learning how to disarm traps and pick pockets?”

“No. Of course not,” Colm said.

“He did tell me that you are one of the most talented rogues he's ever seen, though,” she added offhandedly.

“Really? He said that?” Colm couldn't help but sound surprised. Finn had said that directly to him at least a half dozen times, but it was different coming secondhand, knowing he said the same thing to others. Not just others. Ravena Heartfall.

She rolled her eyes. She was standing over him now. Shadowing him. “Of course, you can't believe
everything
Master Argos says. Did he ever tell you how he got that scar of his?”

“Pirates,” Colm said. “Or goblins.”

“Fishing accident,” Ravena countered. “Or a failed assassination attempt. I've heard them all. They all have their stories, each one bigger than the last. Just like the rest of us.” Ravena knelt down and put her hand to the grass, just brushing the surface. Colm wondered if she didn't have a little druid in her too. She glanced back at Colm, spied the butterfly in his hand. “That's beautiful. Who did you steal it from?”

Colm knelt beside her and held up the hairpin. “I didn't steal it. It's my sister's.”

“So you have a sister.”

“Eight of them, actually.” He held the pin out so she could get a better look.

Ravena took the pin, spinning it slowly in her own hand, pretending to make it fly. “I wish I had a sister.”

“One, maybe. Eight is a little much. No brothers either?”

“No sisters. No brothers. No mother. I grew up in a quiet house. I've learned to make do by myself.”

“That explains some things,” Colm said, though he instantly wished he hadn't.

“Like what, exactly?” she asked, pinning him with her eyes.

“Well . . . like how even though you are with Tyren and them, you aren't really
with
them. I mean, you don't really seem to fit, is all,” Colm managed.

“They're not as bad as they seem,” she said, handing Celia's pin back. “Like all your warrior friend's shiny weapons, most of it is for show. Tyren Troge would probably risk his life to save mine, if it came to it.”

“I picture it the other way around,” Colm countered.

“Maybe,” she said. Then she stood back up and looked behind her at the castle gates. “Though it looks like you'll get a chance to go diving before I will. Do me a favor and tell Frostfoot I'm sorry, and pass along the apology to the rest of your party. And congratulations for winning the trials. You deserved it.”

Colm wasn't exactly sure about that, but he told her thanks anyways. She turned to go.

“What's yours?” he blurted out, stopping her.

“What's my what?”

“Your story. You said everyone has one.”

Ravena shrugged. “Still working on it,” she said. Then she vanished back beneath the castle gates as quietly as she had appeared.

Colm arrived at Finn's workshop later than usual, though the rogue barely seemed to notice. He was still surrounded by his flasks. The room smelled much better than it had on previous afternoons. Maybe that meant he was making progress.

“Ah. There's the victorious adventurer, risen from the depths of the dungeon with treasure in hand, rewarded with riches beyond compare. No time for bragging, though; we have a lot to do.” Without even looking up, Finn pointed toward the back of the room. Colm settled himself in front of the Door of a Hundred Locks and unpacked his bag. He looked at lock twenty-four again, the one he had probably practiced more than any of the others. He glanced over his shoulder at Finn.

“Sorry I'm late,” he said. “I ran into Ravena.”

“A rogue never
runs in
to anything,” Finn chided, hawk's nose angled over a flask. “We tiptoe. We skulk. We creep. But the only time we ever run is when we are getting
out
of something. Was she impressed by your victory, or simply bitter that you won?”

“She congratulated me,” Colm said. “Though I think maybe she was a little jealous.”

“Of course she's jealous. I imagine every trainee in the whole castle is envious of you right now. That was quite a feat you pulled down there. Most impressive. Even Tye Thwodin took note.”

Colm laid his picks out in front of him, carefully aligning them next to one another. Hook. Claw. Tooth. Needle. Rake. A tool for every occasion. Even a pin for his hair. Ready for anything. In his sack he came across the discarded sheaf of brown paper that had once held a leaf. Looking at it made his stomach turn. He wondered if anyone else had thought to bring stimsickle with them. He wondered if anyone else had read the same chapters in
The Rogue's Encyclopedia
. Maybe it was common knowledge. Or maybe Colm had just been fortunate. “Did
you
know that stimsickle can cure paralysis?” he asked over his shoulder.

“I think I heard that somewhere, yes,” Finn said absently. The rogue was sifting and pouring, the liquids in his glass vials shifting colors, belching smoke. “Though I've mostly heard it used for constipation. I suppose the two are related.” The rogue turned and smiled.

Colm took up Celia's hairpin and twirled it between two fingers, watching the butterfly flitter around his thumb and back again. “And did you know that goblin trap makers almost always include a fail-safe in their designs, to protect themselves?”

“Even my grandmother knows that,” Finn said. “I believe we are back on lock twenty-two.”

“Lock twenty-two,” Colm repeated, leaning in and inspecting the one in question. It looked tricky, but no trickier than the conversation he was trying to have. “It's just . . . it's quite a reward, you know. Going into a real dungeon with Master Thwodin and the rest. And the promise of real treasure. I wouldn't want anyone to think I didn't earn it. That I cheated somehow.”

Finn slumped back in his chair, abandoning two smoking green tubes. He sighed impatiently, then turned to face Colm. “Did
you
know that someone sneaked into Master Merribell's office two nights ago and acquired a jar of Magic Dan's Anti-Magic Paste?”

Colm knew what
acquired
meant, at least in rogue-speak. He felt his face turn red. “I might have guessed,” he said.

Finn leaned on his elbows, his fleckless blue eyes unblinking. “In order to cheat, everybody has to be playing by the same set of rules, Colm. But they don't. The world doesn't work that way. Your friend Lena, she follows a warrior's code, and Serene sticks to the laws of the druidic order, and Frostfoot—who knows what lunatic voices mages hear in their heads? The point is, we all have our own compass. Even our own rules—yours and mine—aren't absolutely steadfast. They're tough, like steel, but even steel can be shaped, bent, molded to fit your purpose, transformed into a sword or a fork or a key or a trap. There is no single rule that is absolutely indisputable.
Some just bend more easily than others.”

“But we weren't supposed to have help,” Colm whispered. Finn threw his four-fingered hands in the air. “Nonsense! You were
absolutely
supposed to have help. If I've taught you anything, it's that you can't be expected to succeed all by yourself. We all need
somebody
. Even Ravena Heartfall. Even you. Even me.”

Finn stood up and walked over to where Colm sat by the door and dropped to his knees, placing both hands on Colm's shoulders and staring him in the eyes. Colm followed the curving path of the scar along his cheek. “Listen to me. You succeeded in that dungeon because you are a gifted rogue, a fast learner, and a good companion. It wasn't anything I did. Understand?”

Colm nodded. “I understand.”

“Good.” Finn looked past him at the door. “Lock twenty-two.”

Colm turned back to the door and tried to concentrate. Finn went back to his desk full of vials and resumed his mixing. Every minute or so one of them would whisper a “Gentle” or a “Just a little more.” When Colm picked the lock and said, “Got it!” Finn said, “Not quite, but I'm close.” Colm massaged his hand and swiped at the drop of sweat angling off his nose, while Finn reset the door for lock twenty-three.

The next one opened in even less time. The idea was that they got harder as you moved around the door, but to Colm they almost seemed to get easier. He was beginning to see
how they were all related, the same basic ingredients exploded into a thousand permutations. He could draw on everything he'd learned so far to find out what had changed, what subtle mechanical shift made this lock different or more complicated than the one before, like telling eight sisters apart simply by the sound of their laughter. Once he discovered the difference, he exploited it, digging around, probing every angle until it all clicked and the door swung open, revealing Finn's musty boots.

Colm thought about the times he had helped his father out in the barn. It seemed no matter what Colm did, his father ended up coming over and correcting it somehow, silently making an adjustment, resetting a heel or redoing a stitch. He never said anything—never chastised Colm for his shoddy work—but Colm never got the feeling that he had really accomplished anything, even when the sun set on a row of freshly mended boots. Seeing Finn's tattered spares behind that door, though, Colm felt different. Whole somehow. Colm let the pick drop and turned to his mentor.