MYTH-Interpretations: The Worlds of Robert Asprin (20 page)

A low growl from the others assembled showed their assent, an opinion that was noted by the head of the House as he tried to collect his thoughts.

"It's important, yes," he said. "But so is the fact they aren't making any direct moves on us or our holdings. It's also important to know how many of them there are
.
.
.
exactly
.
.
.
as well as where each is stationed. Once we have that information, we can decide
.
.
."

The door burst open before he could complete his thought.

"
They're killing us! PAPA!
"

Instantly, the room was filled with exclamations and babble.

"I knew it!"

"Who was it
.
.
.
?"

"But what about
.
.
.
?"

"We've got to
.
.
."

"
Quiet! ALL of you!
"

Helwein's voice, seldom raised, now roared, shocking the assemblage to silence.

"Now, you tell
me
," he demanded, fixing the interloper with a steely gaze, "who's been killed."

"I
.
.
.
don't know, Papa," the youth faltered. "It was just reported downstairs by a deliveryman. He said that one of our House had just been killed
.
.
.
stabbed in broad daylight and dumped off a bridge by three men who ran. He didn't know
.
.
."

The head of the House was suddenly on his feet, towering in his anger.

"Who's outside right now?" Helwein Hannon asked, not waiting to hear the balance of the report.

"Five, I think," someone volunteered. "William
.
.
.
and Uncle Lonnie
.
.
.
and—"

"Six. Tellon went out early."

"Tellon can take care of himself. There isn't a Gregori who can match sword with him."

"One on one, maybe. But there dozens of them on the walkways."

"
Enough talk!
" Helwein bellowed. "Zahn, assemble everyone in the House who can carry a weapon and follow as soon as you can. The rest of you, come with me,
now
!"

Despite his earlier impatience, Zahn was taken aback by the sudden flurry of action.

"But Uncle, shouldn't we wait
.
.
."

"There's no more time if the Gregoris have already started their move," was the snarled response. "we've a chance, though, if we can make our countermove in force while they're still scattered. Aye, catch them in their small groups before they can unite or scuttle back to their hole. All of you now
.
.
.
with me
!"

The assemblage followed Helwein out of the room, caught up in his urgency and excitement, though more than a few were chilled by the bloodlust that shone in his eyes.

Damn Demitri
.
.
.
and damn Nikki!

Anger and worry warred within Pietor Gregori as he half walked, half ran toward Kass Middle Bridge.

If harm came to his youngest brother because Demitri had been too busy drinking to keep proper watch
.
.
.

He prayed that Nikki was already at the College. If so, then he would fetch him home if he had to drag him kicking and screaming every step of the way. Safety was more important now than teaching a lesson.

He was nearly at the Pile West Bridge now, but his path was blocked by a shopper speaking with a walkway vendor. Beside himself with impatience, Pietor started to edge past just as the shopper turned
.
.
.
revealing a bright gold and yellow sweater beneath his cloak.

Tellon Hannon! Said to be the best swordsman in his House!

The two men stared at each other in shocked recognition.

"Tellon
.
.
.
Have you seen my brother Nikki?" Pietor blurted suddenly, voicing the first thing that came to his mind.

The Hannon blinked in surprise and bewilderment.

"The artist? No, I haven't
.
.
.
You're asking
me
?"

The absurdity of the situation began to creep into Pietor's mind. Here he was, seeking assistance from a Hannon, the very ones he feared were threatening Nikki. Still, he had blundered into a conversation with one of the Gregori's arch rivals, and he set himself to make the most of it.

"That's right. The young fool is out here somewhere
.
.
.
Say, Tellon, while we're talking
.
.
.
I wanted to tell you how sorry I was about your sister's death."

"Teryl?" Tellon's bewilderment changed to a scowl. "Why should you be sorry? I heard the Gregoris paid for her murder."

"My father did," Pietor admitted, "but even he didn't order it. I'm the head of the House now, and
.
.
.
Look, my father was killed by your family, but I'm still willing to talk. Can't we
.
.
.
?"

"We had nothing to do with your father's death," Tellon said. "I won't try to tell you we wouldn't have killed him if we had the chance, but no one from my House is laying claim to that death."

"Really? See what I mean? No,
.
.
.
I'm saying this badly. Look, Tellon, can you tell Helwein that I'd like to meet with him? If we can't stop this feud, maybe we can at least modify
.
.
."

"
Pietor
! There's no sign of Nikki at the
.
.
."

Demitri Gregori halted his approach and his news in mid-step as he realized who his brother was speaking to. His hand flew to his sword hilt as Tellon drew back, mirroring the move with his own weapon.

"Stop it! Both of you!" Pietor ordered sharply, stepping between them. "Demitri. Take your hand off your sword! We were just talking. I was telling Tellon here how sorry I was about Teryl's death."

"Teryl?"

Demitri blanched at the name, his shoulders tightening as if expecting a physical blow.

"That's right," Pietor continued hurriedly, wondering what was ailing his brother. "You remember Teryl. She was
.
.
."

"
Tellon! 'Ware!
"

They all started, then turned toward the hail. No less than eight Hannons were hurrying toward them across the bridge.

"
 
'Ware the Gregoris!
It's an ambush!
"

"What?" Pietor gaped. "No! Wait!"

Tellon's sword leaped from its scabbard as he backed away from the Gregoris, his head turning back and forth between the two groups in confusion.

Demitri stepped forward, shoving Pietor toward the upstairs of the pile as he fumbled for his own weapon.

"Run for it, Pietor!" he hissed. "I'll try to hold them here!"

"Stop, Demitri!" Pietor cried desperately, seizing his brother's arm in an attempt to keep him from drawing his weapon. "We've got to
.
.
."

"Let go, dammit! I can't
.
.
."

That was how they died when the Hannons swept over them
.
.
.
Demitri trying to do something right, even if it meant sacrificing his life to save his brother—and Pietor struggling to keep a Gregori sword in its scabbard.

"It were terrible," Old Michael returned to the House to report—

Which report stopped cold midway, at the sight of Nikki Gregori on the stairs, paint-smeared and smelling of turpentine.

Everyone stopped
.
.
.
of those servants who were there to hear. And Anna Gregori, who came from the parlor to hear the account.

Nearly a dozen had been killed, mostly Gregoris
.
.
.
though a few Hannons as well as innocent bystanders had been cut down in the fighting that had ebbed and swirled through the walkways near the College for nearly an hour.

Pietor lost, his brother Demitri—both killed. The servants, realizing the status of things—gave new deference to Anna, who cast a look of amazement and outrage in Nikki's direction.

"Where did
you
come from?" Anna asked; and Nikki, puzzled, answered his new Househead:

"Upstairs.
.
.
."

—It being that he had left the House only briefly, to turn back when he realized the afternoon light was perfect, falling on the fact of the upper tiers opposite his studio window—and his study arrangements with Rhajmurti in the College had been informal at best.

Damn you, Anna might have said. But Anna said nothing at all. Anna only stared at him.

And Nikki Gregori, who had a houseful of such stares to face, instead went upstairs and methodically put away his paints, folded down his easel, and threw his latest work down from the topmost tier into the dark of the canals.

He took his disused sword from the armoire then—his middle brother had given him the blade—and sat down on the bed, taking up a discarded canvas-knife to scratch a name patiently and deep in to the shining metal.

Tellon Hannon, it said.

Wanted: Guardian

Robert Lynn Asprin

"Baaaaa!"

Even if dragons did not have exceptional hearing, the sound would have been sufficient to rouse Schmirnov from his slumber.

Without opening his eyes or raising his head, the massive reptile reached out with his senses to confirm the noise.

"Baaa-aaa."

No. There could be no doubt about it. There was a sheep
.
.
.
no,
several
sheep in his cavern.

Sheep!

What in the blazes were those idiot villagers up to now?

"Baaaa."
Clink
.

The second noise, almost obliterated by the sheep's bleating, caught Schmirnov's total attention. His eyes opened and his head came up, searching for the source of the sound.

Sheep don't wear armor. Whether four legs with fleece, or two-legged with huts, sheep don't wear armor.

"Show yourself!" the dragon demanded.

"Baaaa."

He could now see the sheep, at least half a dozen of them, milling around the entrance to his cavern. As suspected, however, none of them were wearing armor.

"
Show yourself!
" Schmirnov called again. "State your intent, or I shall assume the worst and act accordingly!"

A short, chunky figure emerged from behind a boulder and stood silhouetted in the light from the entrance.

A dwarf! First sheep, and now a dwarf! Well, now. And he had thought this was going to be just another boring day.

"I am Ibble!" the figure said. "I come in peace!"

"In peace?" the dragon growled. "That would be a pleasant change."

Still, the dwarf had no visible weapons
.
.
.
unless he had some secreted behind his boulder. Then too
.
.
.

"And what about the others?" Schmirnov sneered.

Ibble started visibly, and shot a glance back over his shoulder.

"Others?" he said.

"Don't play games with me, little man! There are at least a dozen more of you waiting outside. Warriors, from the sound of them."

Now that he was more awake, Schmirnov could clearly hear the creak of leather scabbards and other small noises that bespoke a group of armed men. What's more, the very sparseness of the sounds indicated not only warriors, but seasoned veterans.

This was a bit more like what the dragon had learned to expect from humans.

The old sneak attack, eh? If he were a bit less sporting, he would pretend that he didn't know they were there and let them try it.

"There are others, yes," the dwarf said hastily. "But we all mean you no harm. We seek only to talk to you. That and, perhaps, to request a favor."

"A favor?"

This was getting interesting indeed. Searching his memory, Schmirnov could not recall the last time, if ever, that a human had requested a favor of him. Whether he granted it or not, simply the asking could be amusing. Still, one could not be too careful. The treachery and deceit of humans was their trademark.

"How do I know this isn't a trick?" he said, letting a suspicion creep into his tone.

It had the desired effect, and the dwarf began to glance nervously at the cavern entrance. If Schmirnov became angry, there was no way Ibble could reach safety before suffering the consequences
.
.
.
and they both knew it.

"I
.
.
.
we've brought you presents as a sign of our good intentions."

"Presents?"

Though much of what is said or known about dragons is exaggeration or flat-out falsehood, the reports of their avarice are accurate.

Schmirnov raised his head to the greatest extent his neck and the cavern's ceiling would allow and peered about for his promised gifts like an eager child
.
.
.
a very
large
eager child.

There was nothing readily apparent in sight.

"Baaaa."

The dragon stared at the sheep for a moment, then swiveled his head around to gaze down on the dwarf.

"When you mention ‘presents,' you didn't, by any chance, mean these miserable creatures, did you?"

"Well
.
.
.
yes, actually," Ibble said, edging a bit closer to his boulder. "I
.
.
.
we thought you might be hungry."

Schmirnov lowered his head until it was nearly resting on the ground, confronting his visitor nearly face to face.

"And in return for this, you expect me to grant you a favor?" he said. "You. Personally?"

"We're emissaries from Prince Rango," the dwarf explained hastily. "The favor we seek is in his name
.
.
.
for the good of the kingdom."

"A Prince, is it?" the dragon said. "But, of course, he isn't with your party himself. Right?"

"Well
.
.
.
no."

"In fact," Schmirnov continued, "I'd be willing to wager that you aren't even the leader of the group. Is that correct?"

Ibble drew himself up to his full, diminutive height and puffed out his chest proudly.

"I am the closest friend and confidant of the leader," he declared. "What's more, I've been his right-hand man and companion at arms for many harrowing campaigns and quests, and
.
.
."

The dragon cut him short by throwing back his head and giving off a short bark, which was the closest Schmirnov had come to laughing in decades.

"Let me see if I have this straight," the reptile said. "Your leader wasn't sure of the reception I'd give him if he just walked into my home
.
.
.
if I'd listen or simply fry him where he stood on general principles
.
.
.
so he sent you in ahead to test the water. You, in turn, decided to try to maximize your chances of survival by herding a bunch of sheep in to see if I was hungry before trying to approach me yourself. Am I right so far?"