“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.