Robert Hughes - The Wizard in Waiting

“Pelmen held up a hand for silence and cocked his head “to listen. “No soldiers right now,” he said; then he smiled and added, “Believe me.”

He waved at the two young players who had closed the trapdoor, and they opened it up again and climbed through.

While they were gone, Danyilyn tugged anxiously on Pelmen’s arm and asked, “What if these adversaries are just around the corner? We’re helpless—”

Pelmen hushed her again. “They’re still on the far end of the castle.”

“How do you know?” she demanded. She was cross and wanted to be sure he noticed. “You’ll see.”

Jamnard and Magrol hustled quickly back down the stairs, their arms laden with odd armor pieces and assorted weapons. These were distributed quickly around the small circle.

“Just a shield, thank you,” Yona Parmi said, “and… those.” He pointed to a pair of armored shoes, and swiftly took them from MagroFs hands. By the time he had fitted them onto his feet, the door was once more in place, and the other players were armed and ready to move.

“Stay near me,” Pelmen ordered. “I’d rather not lose any of you.” He took their single candle and led them down the passageway toward the cistern.

“Feel as nervous as opening night—” Gerrig began, and someone shushed him. Then there was silence, broken only by the clink-clink-clink of Yona Parmi’s metal boots.

“IT’S TIME,” Admon Faye murmured, and he moved out, leading a long train of fierce, dangerous-looking men and one frowning Princess. He’d ordered them to leave their swords sheathed to prevent the noisy scraping and clanging that would naturally result from carrying drawn weapons through a narrow, dark tunnel. As always, he travelled without a light, relying on his memory of the twisting maze.

He was in no way prepared for an ambush.

“Now!” someone grunted, and something whispered past the slaver’s face. He knew the sound of a blade cutting air far too well to hesitate. He threw himself to the side and jerked his own weapon free.

Before he could swing it, though, he was sent crashing to the ground, crying out in pain. Something had slammed into his shin!

“Ambush!” someone behind him cried, and a thunder of scrapes and clatters echoed through the tunnel as the House of Faye armed itself for battle.

“Oww!” Admon Faye roared a second time, and someone nearby chuckled:

“I got him again.”

“Get back!” another voice warned sharply, so the ugly slaver thrust his sword savagely at the voice, venting his rage with a full-throated scream.

None of the survivors could ever adequately describe what took place after that. Like enraged cats sewn into a sack, the frustrated combatants struggled to fight each other, but found themselves battling the cavern instead. Scores of swords were broken on the walls.

Knuckles were scraped raw. Faces were trodden underfoot. Some people screamed, while others seemed at times to laugh. The entire situation lent itself to description in expletives the black darkness turned blue with curses: muttered, grunted, hollered, screamed, spat and sighed.

One of the maidservants preparing breakfast heard something strange as she passed by the cistern and reported it to the cook.

“Just boatmen, arguing with one another over some trifle. Fishing rights, probably. Set the table.”

The cook served a baked pig that morning.

Ligne missed the actors at breakfast. “Where’s the fool?” she asked airily. “Where’s the rest of your tedious players?”

“They’ve b-b-been working hard lately. Let them s-sleep,” Rosha said as he downed a helping of steaming ribs. His acting was improving. The Queen didn’t realize just how anxious their mass absence made him feel.

Had he been left behind?

“They’ve been working you too hard as well,” Ligne snarled.

“Why, n-no, m-m-my Lady, it’s only that it t-t-takes practice to d-d-do a play well.”

“You’ve not been rehearsing,” the Queen spat. “Your speech isn’t a bit improved for all your practice.”

“Yes, but the p-p-play—”

“The play had better be ready today,” Ligne announced, and she twisted in her seat to look him in the eye as she added, “Since it’s going to be performed tomorrow night, as part of our wedding celebration.” She saw Rosha’s eyes widen. The young man choked down the piece of pork he’d been chewing.

“Wedding?” Kherda broke in, leaning out over the table to try to look at Ligne’s face. “Why is it that I have not been informed of this?”

“Because I just now made up my mind,” Ligne shrugged. “That is satisfactory with you, Rosha, is it not? Your friends are ready to perform?”

Rosha nodded, but his swarthy complexion seemed unusually waxy. “Y-yes, my Lady.”

“But this is highly irregular,” Kherda protested, “to plan a royal wedding while the city is under attack!”

“Ah, but Joss has assured me that Admon Faye will be apprehended before noon. Tomorrow at dinner I will have a celebration of my victories, Kherda. All of them.” She looked pointedly at the Prime Minister, then rose from the table. “I’ll be in my bath,” she announced. “Send Joss to me as soon as he arrives. And Rosha,” she added, “I’ll see you later.” Then she turned to climb the grand spiral to her apartments.

The gallery abruptly emptied before them, as Admon Faye’s crew finally responded to their leader’s screams for retreat and got moving in the right direction.

“Follow them!” Gerrig shouted, flourishing his sword. Though he’d often brandished blades coated with imitation blood, this weapon wore a patina of the real substance. They had experienced real battle and Genig had found that he liked it.

“Let them go,” Pelmen ordered, and his tiny troupe stopped their pursuit.

“But we’ve got them on the run,” Gerrig protested.

“Quiet,” Pelmen snapped, and he cocked his ears to listen.

They’ve gone around to the left-hand gallery. Back up twenty yards and to your right. You’ll cut them off.

“Did we lose anyone?” Pelmen demanded briskly. The troupe took a quick roll call in the dark.

“No,” Danyilyn answered, “though we’ve got some cuts and scrapes mostly from each other.”

“There do seem to be a number of bodies scattered around, though,” Jamnard said, and Pelmen nodded.

“I expected that. Most of them killed by their own mates. They’re trying to get around behind us back that way.” As the power shaper herded his charges backward to their new position, he couldn’t shove from his mind the implications of the past few moments. Could one of those bodies be that of a young woman? For the first time in many weeks, he missed the gentle life of the monastic and the morning had barely begun.

Only a few minutes separated the clashes, but the second skirmish had a far different flavor from the first. Slavers were accustomed to this type of warfare, though they were normally the ambushers, not the ambushed. This time they were ready and, when the fray was finally rejoined, fewer swords scraped the walls and more rang on steel. Pelmen and Gerrig, though untouched by enemy metal, were driven steadily backward by waves of fresh warriors. As one pair tired, Admon Faye sent another pair past them. Soon the two players could no longer effectively return their attackers blows, and Pelmen shouted, “Break off!” The actors behind him quickly vacated the corridor, and it was Admon Faye’s turn to hold his troops back from pursuit.

“Slowly!” he shouted to the men on the point. “There’s no telling how many warriors Joss has scattered through this cavern, and this retreat may only be a lure into further ambush.” The pressure of this pitch-black struggle with what he assumed were superior forces had given him a horrible headache, but he shook it off and endeavored to plan his next move. They couldn’t turn back there was only one boat.