Page 84 of The Dungeon Book

“Indubitably,” I agreed. “Profit and, ah, legs?”

“In time. We have not concluded our negotiation.”

“An administrative assistant, you said. Some light paperwork, a little spell-craft, helping dig you out of the mess you’ve made for yourself.”

I was so drunk on my new body that Orphir’s request seemed dizzyingly reasonable.

“I can do all that,” I assured him. “Would you pour me a glass, too, or, better yet, grow me an arm so I can do it myself?”

“I want something else from you, Cornelius. The child. Ealdufrida or Bait or . . . ah, call her what you will. I know she laired with you for a time. Where is the child?”

“You will not find her. She’s not in the dragon’s belly where you tried to leave her. She might be anywhere below.”

He scowled at the reminder of his mistake. “I – that is to say, we need her, my friend. My hold on the kingdom runs through the Princess Aldebara—”

“The changeling you made?”

Orphir stiffened in shock, then worked out how I knew. Few in the upper world had any reason to suspect the Princess Aldebara was anything other than what she appeared to be. Only in the Dungeon did we have a snot-nosed, stubborn and troublesome counter-argument. He sipped his wine. “Keep your voice down, you idiot. Yes, the princess I rescued. She is ill. I need the other to cure her. Where is she?”

“I have been asking myself that daily for a decade. Anywhere and everywhere below. You have no idea how hard it is to keep track of that child.”

“Cornelius,” he said, “I have given you a neck again, and we shall hang side by side if it comes to it. By the by, I may have told Nala and my other acolytes that it was you who made the changeling in the first place.” He leaned forward. “Without the child, everything falls apart. For your sake as well as mine, where would she go?”

I knew, of course. We’d spoken of it often enough. It was the key to the Dungeon, the last refuge of Yrn Kyos. I did not know then about the ghast’s machinations, but I could guess.

I hesitated on the threshold of betrayal.

“I don’t know.”

“I shall give you time to think,” he said.

He spoke a word of power as he left. The door slammed shut and locked. So did the shutters on the window. I was all alone in the tower room.

I could smell the food, but not reach it. For a while, I could see the wine, but not taste it, then the fire in the grate guttered and went out and all was dark – truly dark, to my conjured all-too-human eyes.

Long was that night.

Pain would have been easier. If Orphir had used force on me, if he’d brought vices and hot pokers and spiky things, then I could have defied him, and found strength in that defiance. When you have nothing else, there’s always spite. But he was, after a fashion, generous. He used temptation, and I have always been so very good at justifying my desires. The con artist cons himself first of all.

I told myself that struggling against Orphir was folly. He’d prepared for this assault for many years, forearming the RATS with knowledge of the Dungeon. All labyrinths can be overcome if you’ve got a map; if the master of a place turns against it, the house cannot stand. Orphir had given the book of our ways to his soldiers, and they had used it to terrible effect. The upper levels had already fallen.

I told myself that it would not be so bad to help Orphir. We’d been friends once, as he’d pointed out. And, yes, he’d become the tyrannical power behind the throne and pushed the kingdom into disastrous wars and civil strife – but other kings have done all that and worse. Surely one had to respect his ambition. And why should I not share in his ascension? He was right – the Dungeon was dank, and gloomy, and wholly lacking in fine wine, soft beds and scantily clad serving girls. What was the point of sitting atop a huge pile of gold or mastering the secrets of lost sorcery if you could not enjoy it? We had set out to be master in a strange new underland, but our old land had nice stuff, too. All I had to do was give him Bait, and we could have the best of both worlds!

I told myself that Bait would not be harmed by Orphir’s experiments. I could see to that. He’d take a little blood, a whisper of her breath, some tiny portion of her soul, nothing injurious. Bait had been given every opportunity to reclaim her stolen life, and always she’d returned to the Dungeon below. This would harm no one, I told myself – and was I not due some reward? I’d helped keep Bait safe all those years, I’d guided and nurtured her, educated her in the ways of both the Dungeon and the surface world. Why, if nothing else, I’d never been paid for teaching her. All those hours surely counted against any moral debts.

And what was Bait to me, anyway?

Arus was her father by blood. Clickglee had raised her as an infant. Peledon – before his decline – was her protector. Rudyard, in his capacity as local magnate, was her legal guardian. She had a wealth of mentors and champions. I owed her very little – and I had suffered a great deal, all things considered. She’d been rude, inattentive and troublesome. I’d only taken her in as a favour to Old Throte, and for that I’d been endangered, nearly incinerated, driven from my tomb. All manner of indignities had been visited upon me.

As the night wore on, as the sleepless hours slowly ground past, I reconsidered every word the child had ever spoken, everything she had ever done. All the memories of her mischief and strangeness, all those I poisoned with suspicion. I scraped out all my sympathy and made her a monster. I made her a thing of the underworld, and I – I was returning to the light.

When dawn came, I was ready to talk.

“She’ll go to the tower,” I told Orphir.

And I was right.

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