The Merchant Adventurer (14 page)

Asarah was awakened by someone shaking her shoulder. She shrieked, and scrambled back underneath the table.

“It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s me,” said a voice that was familiar but shouldn’t have been there. Asarah opened her eyes and saw a face lit from underneath by a faint glow. She gasped. The figure opened the shutter on the lamp it held and more light flooded out into the room. It overpowered the otherworldly glow of the sinister flame under glass so that she could see who it was.

“Boltac?!”

“The one and only.”

“What are you doing here?”

“What am
I
doing here? What are
you
doing here. You’re the one who got us into this mess.”

“Us? Wait, what’s going on?”

“I’m here to–”

“No! No, you are not. Are you telling me that I’m the damsel in distress? I am NOT a DAMN DAMSEL in DISTRESS!”

“Fine, fine,” said Boltac, “just keep your voice down. Now, how about you rescue me and get out of here.”

“That’s right! Because I’m the Heroine. I am the girl who rescues herself.”

“And doesn’t forget to take her best customer, Boltac, with her.”

“Best customer, ha! Why, Boltac, when you’re not trying to chisel me out of a drink you’re trying to beat the check.”

“En-henh, and I’m very sorry about that, but if you could hurry up and rescue me so we could get out of here…”

“Oh,” said Asarah, sighing into the darkness, “I forgot. I’m chained to this table.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah.”

“So, uh, if I…”

“Don’t you even think about it,” Asarah said.

“Well, I think I have something in my sack here that could loosen those chains enough so that, y’know, you and I…”

“All by ourselves? You attempted this stupid rescue all by yourself–what were you thinking?”

“Hurry up!” Relan whispered from across the darkened room.

“Wait, you brought someone else on this suicide mission?”

“Ennnn…yeah, the kid I loaned the sword to?”

“You’re endangering a
child
in this foolish rescue attempt?!”

“All right, enough!” Boltac yelled, his voice echoing through the chamber.

“I think somebody heard that,” whispered Relan.

Boltac clapped a hand across his face and shook his head. “Look, Asarah. Please be quiet.”

“Quiet!” she shouted, “Why should I be quiet? So you and some other fool can get himself killed in a rescue attempt that is pointless, because I was going to save munh…”

Boltac smothered her mouth with a kiss. It was so unexpected that when it was over, neither of them knew what to say.

Asarah spoke first. “Uh?”

“You know this already, but I never told you. I love… I Love you.”

“The only thing you love is money, Boltac,” she said.

Boltac ignored this and plowed on. “And here’s something else you already know. You should shut up and let people help you.”

“Hmmpfh.”

“En-henh. That ain’t an argument.”

“Hm-
mpfh
!” she said, making it into an argument by sheer force of inflection.

“Okay, look. If it makes you feel better, I didn’t come here to rescue you. I came here to ransom you. You know, to buy you back.”

“BUY ME!” screamed Asarah, creating a racket that might have been louder than any racket this dungeon had yet heard. “THAT’S EVEN WORSE!”

From the darkness, there was laughter. In keeping with tradition, laughter from darkness should be sardonic. Or sinister. Or, at the very least, mocking. This laughter was not. This laughter was simply amused. “Ho ho ho ho ho, that. Ho ho ho ho, that is… whoo! I can’t take it anymore.” There were two short claps in the darkness, and then the room was flooded with light.

Dimsbury was visible as a darker area near the now blinding light being emitted from within the glass jar. After a moment, the intensity of the light faded, and it became possible to see again. Dimsbury said, “Oh, that is rich. Without a doubt, that is the finest entertainment I have seen since the comedies of the Imperial Opera. Or were they tragedies? I don’t know. It’s so hard to tell until the end. Do either of you sing?”

Boltac turned to face the Wizard. The light that still suffused the chamber was too powerful for anyone to notice that the lamp in his hand now glowed a little brighter than before.

Relan stumbled awkwardly into the room. Partially, it was because he had been blinded. Mostly, it was because Rattick was pushing him from behind as he held a dagger to the boy’s throat.

Relan knew who it was before he heard his rasping voice.

“Undo your sword belt.” commanded Rattick.

“Rattick, how could you?” asked Relan.

“Come now, boy, the question isn’t how could I. The question is, how couldn’t I?”

“For money, Rattick? For money, you help the man who sacked Robrecht? Your home?”

From across the room, Boltac said, “Aw c’mon kid, you didn’t see that one coming? How could you not see he was working for the Wizard all along?”

“I don’t work for anybody but me!” said Rattick, “But I’ll take anybody’s money.”

Relan protested, “But we have–I mean Boltac has money. Plenty of it.”

“Yes, but there is one important thing he doesn’t have. A future. Dead men don’t pay their bills.”

“The good guys always win, Rattick. In the end, they always do,” said Relan, as if it were some kind of sacred prayer.

“Only in the songs,” said Rattick.

A shiver danced up Relan’s spine because for the first time, the prayer wasn’t enough. He didn’t believe the sagas anymore. He believed the thief. Tears welled in his eyes. He wasn’t the Hero he set out to be. Boltac was right. They probably weren’t getting out of this alive. No one would sing songs of him. But in that darkest moment he resolved that he would meet his end like a Hero nevertheless.

Ten Orcs pushed into the room and formed a cordon around the door. Samga came with them. In comparison to these Orcs, Samga was more refined. It was as if he were a different animal altogether. Recognizable as part of the same genus, but not the same species. The ones guarding the door were more animal. They snorted and scuffled their claws against the tile. They paid careful attention to Asarah. And one of them, staring at her with unblinking, hollow, black eyes, drooled a little.

Dimsbury waved a hand, and his creatures were silenced.

“So,” he said to Boltac, “What brings such an unlikely and unprepared Hero to the depths of my lair?”

“Hero?” said Boltac, trying not to let his fear show. “I ain’t no Hero. You want the other guy.” He jerked a thumb at Relan, who was struggling not to cut his throat by breathing too deeply against the pressure of Rattick’s blade.

“Be whatever you like. The question remains, why are you here? Why are you disturbing me?”

Boltac could see no percentage in lying. He jerked his other thumb at Asarah and said, “Her.”

“Oh really, is it True Love?” asked Dimsbury in a mocking tone. He rubbed his hands together with great relish. When Asarah and Boltac both blushed, he laughed. “Oh my, it
is
True Love. And I thought it was rarer than unicorns. But wait, no, it can’t be True Love. Because you told me you had no interest in her. And I took you at your word as a sophisticated man of commerce.”

“I said she wasn’t my wife. And that doesn’t give you license to steal her.”

“I don’t care for being stolen,” said Asarah

“Yes, you are right. I have stolen her, fair and square, and she is mine. And you have come to fight for her. Fine. Take your pick of my creatures you see here before you. You may fight any one of them for her hand. Then, if you win, you may fight the rest of them. And then, if you defeat all of them, you may do battle with me.”

“No,” began Boltac.

“No? What do you mean no? You have come here as an
Adventurer
–as the Hero–to rescue the damsel in distress. You must fight. That’s how these things are done.”

“I’m not here for a fight. You stole her, fine, she’s your property. But I thought perhaps we could make a deal.”

“A deal? You want to BUY ME?!” protested Asarah. “Is that your idea of chivalry? Buying the woman you Love back from–”

“I never said anything about chivalry,” Boltac snapped. “You know how many men have tried to defeat the great Dimsbury? You know how many have succeeded?”

“None,” said Dimsbury with a great swelling of pride. “I’m entirely too powerful to be defeated by anything but a mythical Chosen One, a thing which I reasonably certain exists only within the protected confines of sagas. And if such a one does exist, I’m certain he’s not a short, grubby Merchant from the backwater town of Robrecht.”

“Yes, yes, mighty Dimsbury–you are wise, powerful, handsome, and tall,” flattered Boltac. “A man of the world who is quick to perceive his own advantage and capitalize on it. So I offer you a lucrative trade.”

Dimsbury’s eyes narrowed, “A trade, you say? Tell me more.”

Boltac reached into his bag and withdrew a large coin purse overflowing with gold. “I offer one hundred gold pieces for the girl.”

“Girl?” Dimsbury snorted. “A handsome woman, certainly, but not a girl.”

“The offer stands at one hundred,” –he hefted the purse and reconsidered– “one hundred and two gold pieces for Asarah.”

“But I have such a love of her mutton sandwiches. Crisp and fatty and delicious.” He shivered a little to emphasize the point.

“I cannot compel one so powerful as you to do anything, but my offer presents you with a clear choice–mutton sandwiches or gold.”

“Oh, that word. I cannot abide that word, OR. So harsh on the pallet, so cruel to the ear. I do not accept OR.”

Boltac nodded his head deeply in recognition. “I understand Great Wizard. I understand. But all of life is a trade-off. You can’t have your cake and eat it too. Surely you understand this. The money or the girl.”

“No, I’ll take the AND.”

“The AND?” asked Boltac.

“The AND?” asked Asarah

“Hork?” grunted one of the Orcs.

“The AND,” said Rattick with an approving nod. “That’s what I’d take.”

“Okay, so it’s question of price,” said Boltac.

“No, I don’t think you understand,” said Dimsbury with a little chuckle.

“Understand what? It’s a negotiation. So, how much you want for her?”

“Boltac!” protested Asarah.

“The, uh, serving girl here,” Boltac asked, giving her the signal to calm down with a downward wave of his hand behind his back. “I want my lady friend back. How much for your serving girl, my lady friend?”

“Well,
Merchant
, before we
bargain
, let me show you a few things, so that you might know what manner of man you bargain with.”

“En-henh,” said Boltac. Even though the Orcs did not speak English, they could hear the contempt in his voice. Several of them snarled.

Dimsbury raised his hand. “Samga, silence them or end them, I care not which.”

“I hear and obey,” said Samga. He whispered something in the crude, unfinished language of the Orcs. Whatever it was, the rabble blocking the door snapped to attention.

“Ah, dear Samga, with a thousand men such as you… I would still have a horde of Orcs. But a far, far better horde. At any rate, my dear Merchant, do you know what this is?” Dimsbury indicated the in-focus/out-of-focus flame that flickered on the dais next to him.

“Ehh,” Boltac began, intent on making some kind of crack that would take the wind out of Dimsbury’s over-stuffed sails. But the Wizard would have none of it.

“SILENCE! I will have none of your mockery and crude calculation!” With a nimbleness that Boltac would not have expected, the Wizard leapt up on the dais. He caressed the heavy glass vessel within which the flame danced. “This is beyond money. Beyond your crude buying and selling. This is the essence of the source, the headwaters of Magic itself. See how it flickers imperfectly, blurred, too pure to be fully realized on this flawed plane of existence.”

Boltac rolled his eyes.

“NO!” thundered the Wizard. “This is not to be mocked. Not even slightly. This is power. POWER, do you understand? With power you can get money. But no Merchant,” –he spat the title like a curse– “can ever buy power.”

“Have you ever put that to the test?” Boltac asked, with a scrappiness he was faking for the purposes of negotiation. Of course, the Wizard was right, but Boltac would be damned if he’d give this twisted nobleman the satisfaction of hearing it.

To Boltac’s surprise, the Wizard laughed. “Very good. Skepticism. The basis of all knowledge. Are you a seeker too, friend Boltac? Then let me show you something.” Dimsbury stepped down from the dais and crossed to a small door on the far side of the room.

“Come, Merchant! I will show you what I think of money.” The Wizard gestured to a spot on the wall and the blank stone changed into a doorway. “Themistres’ Third Spell of Ward and Concealment. Do you know it? No matter.” Dimsbury turned the knob and opened the door. “Go ahead, have a good look.”

Botlac stepped forward cautiously. Overcome by curiosity and greed, Rattick moved his knife away from Relan’s neck and stepped forward so he could see.

In the room beyond the door, there were chests and sacks overflowing with gold and jewels. Golden candelabras, salvers, and goblets all encrusted by the jeweler’s art until it was a wonder they could still stand up under their own weight. It was the most impressive Treasure room Boltac had ever seen.

The Merchant blew a long, low whistle, “That is a lot of jingle-jangle you got there.”

“So you see, your offer of gold, for the girl… here, may I?” Dimsbury reached for the purse of a hundred and two coins. Boltac handed it to him.

“Hmm, yes. Watch this.” Dimsbury threw it at the feet of the Orcs. The purse broke open and gold coins scattered across the floor. Instantly the Orcs broke rank and fought for the gold pieces. Boltac jumped back. Rattick disappeared into the shadows. Only Samga remained standing, though he seemed to be under great strain.

At first it seemed like simple greed, but when an Orc got a hold of a few coins, it thrust them between its tusks and gobbled them up greedily. The pecuniary gluttony went on until there were but a few coins left. Then the Orcs began to fight over them.