1

The lowermost dungeon at Quern lay far underground, an odious cavern carved out centuries ago from the living rock. The darkness was absolute, the air unbreathable, and water dripped constantly. Sanitation was left to natural seepage. Once a day a squad of soldiers delivered food under the direction of the chief jailer. It was the most unwelcome assignment in the fortress.

Torches sputtered, emitting foul fumes and casting evil shadows on the rough walls. The chief jailer peered cautiously through the iron bars of the gate, making sure the corridor beyond was unoccupied. Then he jangled keys and set to work on the rusty locks-five of them. At his back, soldiers were gagging already in the stench.

The gate creaked open unwillingly. With swords drawn, the squad advanced through it and then halted while it was locked behind them. And then they advanced again, down the slanted passage, until they reached the dungeon itself.

The chief jailer peered around appraisingly in the flickering light-two djinns, three dwarves, two of those green monsters, one imp, one female jotunn. All correct and accounted for. All lying on their backs, their legs held upright by fetters in the walls, all unspeakably fouled. They all had their eyes closed against the unaccustomed light.

“Move if you can!” he growled.

Hands moved. They were all still alive.

He moved cautiously around the cell with his basket, precarious on the slimy footing, staying as far as possible from the cesspool in the center. Every day he came to distribute stale loaves and scraps of vegetables to the inmates. For water they could sit up and lick the rock. It was something to occupy their time.

A few groaned. Nobody spoke. But all still living! They were a tough bunch, this. Three days was standard life expectancy in the lowermost dungeon.

The squad moved out again and he followed. Locks and bars clanged. Darkness returned. Silence returned.

“It’s a dull job but somebody has to do it,” Raspnex remarked.

A ‘cool breeze brought scents of pinewoods and fresh grass. Sunlight or something like it shone bright on leather chairs and lavish carpeting, potted flowers, a sparkling fountain in a marble pond. Paintings and stags’ heads ornamented the timbered walls; the wide windows looked out on meadows and snowy peaks, or seemed to. The dungeon was not merely much larger than it had been a few moments ago, it was now transformed into a comfy saloon, combining varied hints of ship’s cabin, men’s clubroom, village meetinghouse, and officers’ mess hall.

Moon Baiter and Frazkr resumed their game of thali on a table of ebony inlaid with ivory. Shandie picked up his book. Raspnex poured himself a tankard of ale at the bar.

The two djinns set to work sharpening their scimitars again. The sorcerers had promised them the chief jailer.

Shandie tossed his book aside and heaved himself out of his armchair. ”Did you learn anything new?”

The dwarf paused in his departure, tankard in hand. “Not much. Those nonentities won’t be told anything significant. The army has left and not returned. The town’s a graveyard.”

“Arrgh! How much longer must we endure this?”

Raspnex frowned ominously. “Until Longday. You know.” The little man was better dressed than Shandie had ever seen him, in a dark suit with colored piping on the lapels and trousers, silver-buckled shoes. By dwarf standards, he was an astonishing dandy. Even his iron-gray beard looked neat and trim. “Anything more you need, your Majesty?” he inquired sarcastically.

Shandie gritted his teeth. “I have a horrible suspicion that I am imagining all of this! I am convinced I am actually chained to a wall by my ankles.”

The goblins were leering at him. Even the dwarves seemed amused. The two djinns were listening intently, though. Like him, they were mundane.

“Well, you’re not!” the warlock said with all his old grumpiness. ”What you see may not be all real, but it’s a lot closer to reality than what the jailer sees. If you want anything, just ask-wine? Roast pheasant? A woman, maybe?”

Before the imperor could answer, the taller of the two djinns roared, ”Is that possible?” His red eyes shone like hot coals. Raspnex turned a sour gaze on him, having to look up although he was standing and the djinn was sitting on a soft divan. “Strictly speaking, no. But we can arrange it so you won’t know the difference.”

Both djinns leaped to their feet.

The dwarf sighed and waved a shovel hand at the door that led to their quarters. “Go ahead, then.”

The djinns vanished at a run and the door slammed.

“Last we’ll see of them for a while!” Moon Baiter remarked with a leer of fangs.

“You organize it, then,” Raspnex growled. “Give you a chance to be inventive! You, too?” he demanded of Shandie. For a moment the imperor thought of Eshiala, but his heart screamed at the thought of associating her with this vile dungeon, even an illusionary Eshiala.

“No. But I do want to know what’s happening to Inos!” Raspnex scowled and looked away. “She’ll be all right! Azak knows her of old and she’s Rap’s wife. Even the caliph won’t dare hurt Inos! Expect she’s living in real luxury, not just this occult artifice.”

“You don’t know that!”

“No. But I know that anything we do about it is more likely to make things worse than better for her. Don’t accuse me of cowardice, imp!”

Shandie clenched his fists. “I still don’t see why we can’t risk sending out a scout! I can walk through the shielding. If you made me some tools I could pick the locks—”

“You’d be the only imp at large in the city and the Covin may still be watching. I’ve told you—we stay here until Longday. Then we’ll break out in force and join in whatever’s happening. Until then, read your damnable poetry.”

Raspnex turned on his heel and stamped off into the quarters he shared with Jarga. The door clicked shut.

Shandie sat down angrily, avoiding the amused looks on the others’ faces.

Come to think of it, what was the old warlock up to with the jotunn? Shandie hadn’t seen her in days.