Page 14 of The Dungeon Book

“It gets a little narrower up ahead, but I think you can squeeze through.”

Or

“Try breathing out. You don’t need all those ribs, do you?”

Or

“There’s no turning back now. Literally. I mean, there’s no space to turn around.”

I may have lost the knack of encouraging people. What can I say? The last person I encouraged was so fired with vim and passion that he stabbed me in the back. Doubt and doleful predictions were a safer bet. My doleful prediction then was that the child would get stuck and suffocate in this narrow gap in the bowels of the mountain, never to be found again. Her silent skull and my loquacious one would lie side by side until the world’s ending. It would be a sad ending for her, and awkward for me.

“Keep going! Nearly there!”

Our enforced closeness did give me a chance to form a fresh opinion of our young Bait, and to observe how she had changed in the few years since our first brief meeting. Then, the words that first sprang into my skull were: well-fed, wilful, stubborn and heedless. I might also have remarked upon the fine lace and expensive cloth of her nightclothes. True, Throte had told me that she’d been plucked by Nithscalpa from some distant castle, but I’d still have guessed that she came from wealth. I had a nose for such things when I had a nose.

Now the nightclothes were rags, and any baby fat was lost to scabs and scars. A child of seven years old, maybe, but “stubborn” and “wilful” had been alloyed into a determination that would have been impressive in a soul of any age. It certainly impressed me in my advanced age, but I had always bent to the prevailing winds and looked for easy answers. A good con involves going along with what people want, feeding their impulses until you’re in a position to pick their pockets. It requires being flexible in every way.

Bait, despite her name, would never have made a good con artist, or a good wizard. She would not bend, no matter what the universe said or the situation demanded. This crack was impossible to crawl through, but she’d put her mind to it, and so she’d do it.

When her bare feet touched the cold floor in the cave at the far end, a thrill of familiarity ran through her. She knew where she was now, and didn’t need my guidance any more.

“If you’d be so kind as to return me to my tomb, I’d appreciate it.” After all that time face down in the mud, I was worried about the crack in my wall. When all you have to stare at for eternity is a wall, you get notions about plasterwork.

Bait had been about to deposit me on a stone shelf. Instead, she shrugged and stuffed me under her arm as she tiptoed through the cave. Our short cut had brought us close to the safety of the Arcade, but there was still a way to go – and, I feared, plenty of kobolds. We could hear the distant tack-tack-tack of stone on stone as they tapped out messages to one another.

She halted in front of a wooden door set in the cave wall.

“What are you waiting for? The Arcade’s not far. Just cut through the Chasm Hall, and—”

“Clickglee said no.”

“No to what?” Even after she learned to talk, Bait was always overly curt, whereas I regard verbosity as a virtue. Let he who is without limbs say the last word!

“No Chasm Hall.”

“Why ever not? It’s the most direct route back to the Trapsmiths’ Arcade – not to mention my tomb.”

“Mintyoar,” she whispered.

“What?”

“There’s a mintyoar.”

“A what?”

She let out a grunt of frustration and rapped on the door.

“Oh,” I said, “a minotaur. There’s no minotaur in this dungeon.”

The minotaur opened the door.

He towered over both of us. He filled the doorway with hide and muscle, and had to hunch over to bring his massive head down to stare at us with those mad, twitching eyes. He seemed confused, as if just roused from sleep.

“Go away,” he growled.

“No,” said Bait.

Anger rumbled in his throat. “Unwise, goblin. Go away before I become angry.”