Page 24 of The Dungeon Book

Sir Peledon stirred. “She needs protection—”

“The Rules protect all Denizens,” I said, “don’t they?”

To this, the manticores assented – and in that assent, Bait had her protection. They acknowledged her as a fellow Denizen.

Bait did as she’d promised. She gathered up her stolen treasures – the knife, the belt, even the boots, wrapped them up in the blanket, and brought them down to the manticores’ lair. She did as the Rules dictated; very politely she begged for entry, and waited until they let her in.

They had no use for boots or belt or backpack, or even the knife, and they let Bait keep those. And if she understood why the floor of the manticores’ temple crunched with splinters of bone, or why their smiles were languid and red-stained, she showed no fear.

When she came back, she related some half-remembered bits of a story that Third-Sister had told her. With diligent enquiry, I have reconstructed this tale, which runs like this:

Once, in the days of the Elder Empire, there was a captain of the occupying forces. He looked very grand as he led his column of spearmen into the defeated town. The palace of the former ruler had been smashed to smithereens by bombardment, so he had to find another place to dwell. He saw an old, abandoned villa atop a hill, and decided that spot was both defensible (in the event of an uprising) and suitably grand for a man of his newly exalted station. The captain and his family moved into the villa, and had servants restore the house and its extensive gardens to their former glory.

When the work was done, the captain surveyed his new home. He admired the freshly painted ceilings, the restored plasterwork, the bright new tiles, the high and sturdy walls (from which he could look down on the town below, all still in ruins). He commented on how airy and bright the place felt, how the hilltop breezes drove away the stultifying heat of the town below. The ornamental gardens gave him particular pleasure, with their walkways of crushed stone, their manicured lawns, their neat rows of fruit trees.

Then he saw one outbuilding that had not been restored. Weeds grew from cracks in the stone; the roof sagged, and the barred door was filthy.

“Why has that building not been repaired?” demanded the captain.

“Forgive us, lord,” said the head of the servants, “but that is the bathhouse of the old king. By long command, no one is to approach. A monster dwells there.”

“Why would the old king keep a monster in his garden?”

The servants conferred. “It’s said that the monster could be compelled to prophesy, and that its prognostications always came true.”

Now it happened that the captain was prone to worrying about the future, and he thought it would be a grand thing indeed if he could learn certain things by magic. The location of the camps of various rebels, or where treasures from the temple had been concealed – indeed, he worried about how well or ill the occupation of the town might go. And beyond that, he worried about the plans of his rivals in court, the health and fortune of his family, the curious growth on his nose, and many other things.

He found that he greatly desired the power of prophecy.

The captain entered the bathhouse. The glass windows were caked with dirt, and admitted no light. At first, he could see only the slime-encrusted tiles closest the door. But he heard the slow breathing of some huge beast.

“Show yourself.”

“You would not like to look upon me, mortal.”

“I’m told you can tell the future.”

“I can, if I choose.”

“Do so!”

“You humans are unworthy of prophecy, I think. You are weak and foolish. You have no virtues – except maybe as my meat.”

The monster took one step forward, and the light caught its many rows of teeth.

The captain retreated from the bathhouse.

The head servant said, “There is no need to fear, my lord. The monster is bound within the bathhouse by sorcery. It cannot leave. Just shut the door once again, and forget about it. Come, the merchants are here to discuss the reopening of the markets. Let us serve mint tea in the gardens, and forget about this place.”

But the other servants whispered in their own tongue, and the captain feared they mocked his cowardice. He paid no attention while the merchants talked of tariffs, and scrip, and the price of bread, and the importance of rebuilding the market square; he thought only of how he might deal with the monster in his garden. Even after the merchants departed and he retired to his bed, silk sheets and cool pillows brought him no comfort. All he could think of was those rows of teeth, and his dreams were nightmares of crunching bone.

Over breakfast, the captain asked the head servant how the monster could be compelled to speak.

“I know only what the old tales say, my lord. They say that the old king was a warrior of such singular prowess that the monster bowed to him.”

Now, the captain had been a good soldier in his youth. He had a fine sword, although it had seen little use in the recent campaign – wars, he felt, were not won from the front lines – not to mention a suit of armour and a stout shield. The folk of this kingdom – including, he reflected, the old king – had favoured much flimsier armour, and their weapons were dull compared to his well-forged sword.

He dressed himself for battle, and admired himself in the mirror before setting off down the garden. He was, he reflected, the very flower of knighthood.