King Bauchelain sat on his throne. ‘Ambassador,’ he said by way of greeting, ‘are you well? Very good. So here we are again, another late-night meeting. Fortunately, it is my nature to prowl the span of night, although in this instance, and in the wake of conjurations, bindings and whatnot, I do admit to being somewhat weary. Given that, do be quick about it, will you?’
Tyrants, Ophal decided, loved to listen to themselves talk. ‘Prrlll, gweetings, Thire.’ He drew out his Imperial missive and began reading, ‘To King Bauchelain and to the thitizens of Fair Farwog on the Wiver, after the untheasing prowocationth upon our peathful trade, carawanth and carawantherai, after the egwegiouth pwoclamation of Holy War upon the Wealm of Nightmawia, after the thucthethion of inthults and unwemitting therieth of hateful inthitationth, herrrwenow let it be known that a thtate of war exithth between Nightmawia and Farwog—’
‘How delightful,’ interjected the king. ‘We were wondering when you’d get around to it. I should inform you that Grand General Pin Dollop has assembled an elite force of formidable legions and is even now preparing to march to your mountain realm, there to slaughter and burn your civilization to ash.’
‘Yeth,’ Ophal nodded. ‘However, prrllmit me to inforrrm you that our thpieth are well aware of your pwepawationth, and that Nightmawia, in antithipathion of thith impending hsssp thvlah conflict, hath not only athembled the Thoutherrrn Imperial Army, but ith awready on the march. Fllapp prrlll thlup!’
‘Ah, well then, we shan’t have to march as far then, to wipe out your measly horde of scaly lizards.’
Ophal frowned. ‘Thcaly Withards?’
‘Or is the epithet “Fiend” a more palatable descriptive?’
‘Ahh, prrrl. Not “Fiend”, Thire. “Firrrwend.”’
Bauchelain frowned. ‘Excuse me?’
‘Firrwend, the name of the people of Nightmawia.’
From the wall, the manservant seemed to choke on his wine, hacking out a cough as his face reddened.
After a moment, Bauchelain waved a hand. ‘Fiend or Firrwend. Unhuman either way.’
Ophal shook his head. ‘Thadly, Thire, no.’ He gestured somewhat embarrassedly at himself. ‘Unfortunate thkin aiwlllment, awath, thuffithientwy abhorrwent to my fellow thitithenth that I wath thent to the motht wemote wethidence pothible. Thaddled with but one therwant, and but one Impewial Methenger.’
The manservant’s coughing worsened and a glance over showed the old man sagging helplessly against the wall.
Ophal shrugged at the king. ‘Mithchanth of birrrth, poor Ophal, cweft of pawate, dithjointed of jaw, thenthitive to wight and dryneth, thuth wequirrring thick humidity, dank and darrrk, forrr comforrrt.’ The Ambassador shrugged again. ‘Motht twagic that I thould love petth in my company, ath I mutht thettle forrr toadth, snakth, worrrmth and the wike. Of dethent company, ahh, prrrl, poor Ophal mutht make peath with thowitude.’
King Bauchelain had leaned back and was now stroking his fine beard. ‘I see,’ he murmured. ‘Now then.’ He sat forward. ‘This Imperial Army of yours …’
‘Twenty-four wegionth, eighty thouthand heawy infantwy, twellwe thouthand cavalllwy, twellwe thiege engineth, eighteen twebuchetth, two wegionth Imperialll Thapperth, the Royalll Cadwe of High Mageth and Withardth of the Ninth Orrrderrr. Thith forrrce, conthituting the Thoutherrrn Awmy of Nightmawia, ith ewen now cwothing yourrr borrrder and thould be at yourrr wallth in two dayth. Prrrl, flp!’
‘I take it, then,’ said King Bauchelain, ‘that reopening peaceful negotiations are out of the question.’
‘Alath, too wate, Thire. Motht unfortunate, yeth?’
Bauchelain then raised a long, thin finger. ‘A question, sir, if only to satisfy my personal curiosity. Your realm’s name, Nightmaria …’
‘Yeth, welll, what betterrr name to keep unwanted foreignerrrth out of ourrr terrrwitowy?’
‘So, in truth, you’ve been milking that dread reputation, and, one might conclude, in no hurry to disavow the appellation of “Fiend” either?’
Ophal shrugged for a third time. ‘Wegretth arrre cheap.’
‘Hmm, I see,’ said King Bauchelain. ‘Mister Reese?’
The manservant started slapping his own face. ‘Aye, Master, get the carriage ready. I’m on it.’
Tiny Chanter stepped around a corner and grunted as a man nearly as big as he was stumbled into him. An instant later, with an echoing bellow, the man swung his fist. The crack of that fist impacting Tiny’s prodigious jaw was a complicated mélange of breaking bone, popping teeth, splitting lip and spraying blood. Eyes rolling up to examine his own brain, Tiny collapsed.
Still bellowing, the stranger now ploughed down the steps, fists flying. Shartorial’s nose broke with a crunching sound. Steck Marynd bulled forward, attempting to grapple, only to meet a knee under his jaw that lifted him from his feet. In falling backward, he landed on Apto Canavalian, thus sparing the critic any of the stranger’s attention, as he leapt over the jumble of four tumbling, intertwined bodies, and hammered into both Midge and Flea. Biting, punching, kneeing, gouging, the three men fell in a heap, rolling down the stairs.
Shrieking, Brash Phluster leapt high. While this sent him above and thus clear of the tumbling bodies, it also slammed the top of his head into the ceiling. The impact closed his teeth about his tongue with a loud snap, cutting that tongue clean in half.
In the meantime, the wrestling mob reached Tulgord Vise, who had been staring slack-jawed. The impact took him across the shins, breaking both legs. Howling, he collapsed onto the others, although his interest in fighting was likely minimal at the moment.
Even as Apto pushed aside Steck Marynd’s unconscious body and clambered upright, a knife hissed past, less than a hand’s breadth from his face. It caught Brash Phluster on the way back down from the ceiling, sinking deep into his right shoulder. His scream was a throaty gurgle that erupted in a red cloud.
An instant later, strangers were rushing down the stairs, led by a cross-eyed woman who kept caroming off the walls to either side. They stepped on everyone in their mad rush down and past the escaped prisoners. Blinking, confused, Apto stared after them.
He saw the still-bellowing attacker now rise over the battered forms of Midge, Flea and Tulgord Vise, and then, with a blubbering bawl, set off after his friends.
Gasping, Apto sank down to sit on the steps.
Shartorial Infelance sat up opposite him, holding her mashed nose.
‘That looks painful,’ said Apto. ‘Had I a handkerchief, Milady …’
She shook her head, gingerly, and then said, ‘Most kind, sir.’
‘Were they … guards?’
‘I think not. But some were, uh, known to me. Thieves.’
‘Thieves? Down here? Whatever for?’
‘The King, he arrested Dam Loudly Heer, the Head of the Thieves’ Guild. I suspect they have come to affect her rescue.’
‘Right, but, uh, there’s nobody down there. In the crypts, I mean.’
She nodded, but said nothing more.
Steck Marynd groaned where he was lying sprawled on the steps. Farther down, Brash Phluster had found his tongue and was cradling it in his lap as he wept. Someone had pulled the knife from his shoulder, but as there was no-one down there still conscious, Apto assumed that whoever had thrown the knife had retrieved it in passing.
Apto gestured, ‘Look down there, Milady. At least one mercy in all this.’