“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!”