The goblin blocked the doorway. “Master will see you, but he requires a hair from the scribe and a shaving from the gem.”

  “Mage Hardere can shave himself,” I said.

  The goblin held up a chisel coating in an alchemical drip and thrumming with magical energy. “A shaving from the gem.”

  “No damn way.”

  “Then he will not see you.”

  Gulliver plucked a hair from his head. “Don’t worry, Beno. This is just a precaution. Lots of mages and witches do it.” He offered the hair to the goblin. “This should suffice, surely? My hair will grow back, but a core’s body does not.”

  “Hmph. This way.”

  The old mage leaned forward. His robe slipped open and revealed his wrinkled, hairy chest underneath. Mercifully for us, he was wearing a pair of shorts to cover his modesty, but it seemed that apart from that and the robe, Mage Hardere didn’t much care for clothes.

  “Sorry about the shaving business,” he said. “You wouldn’t believe how many people try to kill a mage. They stand outside my tower at all times of the night. They shout the most ridiculous things.” He shook his fist in the air. “‘You bring the dead back to life! You create gargoyles!’ They ought to grow up. That’s the way of the world. Magic exists, gold exists. When the two are swapped, someone wins, someone loses.”

  “The hair was for a spell of some sort, I take it?” I said.

  “And the gem shaving, though the hair will suffice. Security for me, you see. If you tried anything when you were in here, you’d quickly regret it. Of course, I won’t keep Mr. Gulliver’s hair. I will destroy it before your eyes once our business is concluded. Now, Scribe Gulliver and Core Beno. What exactly is our business?”

  “I need a portal.”

  “That’s almost so simple that I’d be ashamed to take your gold. But as I have debts…where do you want to go?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “That’s the problem.”

  “Ah. It’s not a where, but a who, then. You wish to follow someone, and you need me to open a portal to their whereabouts. A mistress, perhaps? Do cores have mistresses?”

  “Scribes do,” said Gulliver. “Plenty of them.”

  “Scribes also like to brag,” said Hardere. “Almost as much as mages.”

  “Gull, give him the blood,” I said.

  Gulliver opened his satchel and took out a glass jar with scrapings of dried blood in the bottom.

  Hardere leaned forward, his man-breasts swinging like fleshy pendulums. “You know, such portals are against the Magic Dictorium. A mage may not produce such a portal unless he has a writ signed by an official of magistrate level or above. You can appreciate the complications when one has the ability to open portals like that.”

  “How important is the Magic Dictorium to you, Hardere?”

  “Oh, I treasure it. I have every law and edict scored into my mind, and I follow them as if they were the words of the gods themselves. You would never find a more Dictorium-abiding mage in the whole of Xynnar.”

  “Might there be a way to erase a certain edict from your mind, just for a little while?”

  He shrugged. “Perhaps. You tell me.”

  Hardere held out both of his hands, palms up. One palm was raised much higher in the air than the other.

  “Go on, Gull,” I said.

  Gulliver sighed. Reaching into the satchel again, he said, “You really ought to find a way to get arms, Beno. Or bring one of your kobolds along with you next time. I’m not your servant.”

  He took out a coin purse, inside which was half of the gold I owned. I had earned this from selling the surplus ores from my miners’ labors to the merchants in Yondersun. It was one of the benefits of having so much underground space to mine through.

  Gulliver placed a gold coin on Hardere’s higher palm. The mage lowered his palm an inch, adjusting it like a scale.

  “Another,” I said.

  Gulliver put a second coin next to the first, and Hardere moved his palm further down, yet still much higher than the other.

  “Exactly how much will this take?” I said.

  “Only the scales may answer that.”

  I had already counted on having to spend all the gold I had brought with me, but it still rankled. What choice did I have, though?

  “Keep going,” I said.

  By the time that the purse was empty, Harder’s coin-filed palm was still an inch higher than the other one.

  “That’s everything I have,” I said. “Take it or leave it.”

  “I’m afraid you are still a little short.”

  “As I said; that’s all.”

  “Not necessarily,” said Hardere. “There might be another way.”

  Now, he flipped his hand over, dropping the coins on the floor and sending them scattering.

  Gulliver leaped to his feet. “You senile old-” he began, and then stopped himself, no doubt remembering that he wasn’t just talking to a mage, but a mage who was in possession of one of his hairs.

  “Gold is one thing,” said Hardere. “But I desire something else.”

  “Oh?”

  “Chip-Chap!” said Hardere, and then clapped his hands.

  The studded-eared goblin appeared. “Yes, master?”

  “Fetch her.”

  “Certainly.”

  Gulliver had gathered all of the coins by the time Chip-Chap reappeared. He came bearing a red velvet cushion, on top of which was…

  No way!

  I floated upwards in surprise, hitting the roof and making a chandelier shake. “What are you doing with a core in your possession, Hardere?”

  “This is Namantep,” he said.

  Gulliver shook his head. “The core who destroyed half the town? It can’t be.

  Sir Dullarse dealt with her.”

  “You have heard of her, then?”

  “Of course. She’s the reason nearly everyone in this place stared at Beno like they wanted to incinerate him with their eyes.”

  “That she is. Though as you can see, her days of destruction are over.”

  That much was obvious. Namantep was only slightly smaller than the cushion she rested on. She was colored a deep red, and she might once have been shaped like a tooth, with a broad, flat top that tapered into a spiked bottom. Now, though, a large chunk of her was missing. No doubt from Sir Dullbright’s heroism.

  Seeing a fellow core like that, lifeless and half destroyed, didn’t feel right.

  Something began to happen to me. My vision faded for a second, returned, and then faded again.

  “Beno?” said Gulliver.

  “I’m fine.”

  There it was again. The room darkened for a second.

  What’s happening to me?

  I felt myself drop in the air.

  Glass smashed, and the room went completely black for several seconds.

  When my vision returned, I was on the ground, surrounded by the smashed remains of Hardere’s glass table.

  “I’ll take two coins for that,” said Hardere. “Not to be a penny pincher, but that was a nice table.”

  Gulliver went to pick me up, but I floated up on my own.

  “Are you okay?” he said.

  “I’m fine.”

  And I was fine, right then. But I hadn’t been. Seeing another core in that sorry state had given me the strangest feeling. It was as though someone had reached into me and grabbed hold of raw nerve endings, ones that shouldn’t exist in a core, and gripped them tightly and wrenched them out like roots from the earth.

  “Is she alive?” I said.

  “Are any cores alive, Beno? Truly?”

  “That’s rather insensitive,” said Gulliver.

  The mage shook his head. “It’s an honest question. A core’s body is not flesh. No heart, no blood. Can such a thing be alive?”

  “What is consciousness,” I said, “if not life?”

  “To answer that question; I do not know. Namantep has rested in my tower for sixty-six years, ever since Sir Dullbright destroyed her. Sometimes I sense something coming from her. Other times I’m quite convinced that there’s nothing inside that ruined gem.”

  “What do you need from me?” I asked.

  “Dullbright has gotten wind of Namantep’s existence here. I need her taking away, and I imagine a dungeon way across the wasteland is as good a place as any.”

  “How would Dullbright find out about her being here? Did someone betray you?”

  Hardere nodded. He took two jars from his robe pockets. He unscrewed one. “Gulliver, this is your hair,” he said, giving it back. He unscrewed the other jar and took out another strand of hair. “And this belongs to Chip-Chap. I’ve been meaning to do this for a few days now, but I just haven’t gotten around to it. You know how these chores are.”

  Hardere clicked his fingers, sparking flame from his hand. The fire took hold of the hair and melted it in an instant.

  From outside the room, from somewhere higher up in the tower, came the sound of a goblin screaming.

  CHAPTER 7

  “People have spotted the monster somewhere around here, the bulletin board said.”

  “You’re sure?” asked Gulliver.

  “As sure as I can be. The directions on the job posting weren’t the best.”

  We were outside of Hogsfeate and back in the wasteland. Not too far, but enough that the town walls were in the distance. The heat didn’t affect me at all, but looking at Gulliver, it was clear to see that the middle of the afternoon wasn’t the best time to be out here.

  “I’m going to have to do it, Beno,” he said. “I have no choice.”

  “Do it?”

  “May the gods forgive me.”

  Gulliver took off his hat and stuffed it in his satchel. He rolled his shirt sleeves up, revealing pale forearms that were surprisingly muscled. On his right forearm was a scar that zigzagged from elbow to wrist.

  “Think of the creases,” he said, shaking his head. “Dear gods…”

  “You were a warscribe. You covered dozens of battles. You have traveled with merchant companies in all kinds of weather. How in Xynnar did you cope, if a few creases are such a disaster?”

  Gulliver displayed his scar to me. “That was from a blunder wolf.” He unbuttoned his top shirt button and showed me another scar on his chest. “That was from following a duke into a serpent nest. I’ve spent weeks in the Howsi jungle, getting drenched until my skin wrinkled like a frowning elephant. I’ve been so dehydrated that I tried catching my own tears. I’ve been with caravans where disaster struck suddenly and hard, and we were a day or two away from cannibalism. I’ve done my time in the gutters, Beno, and now I like to enjoy the rewards that hard work should bestow. So I like nice things. Not such a crime, is it?”

  “I suppose not. But you’re not likely to keep your wardrobe intact following a dungeon core around. You know that from last time.”

  He sighed. “Sometimes I wake up and I put on my silk pantaloons and my favorite winkle pickers and I think Gulliver, how did it come to this? How did you let yourself become softer than a eunuch’s bum cushion? That’s when I resolve to get back out there. Go find a warmongering duke or duchess and follow them and write their story. Other times, I just want to buy some nice things, go to a nice place, and have a nice, relaxing time. Nobody ever got a horrible scar by lying on a beach. Yet, people don’t read the stories of folks who just lie on their arse all day. I don’t know, Beno. I can’t settle down, but I also don’t want to keep on crawling through the mud.”

  “Maybe there’s a happy medium somewhere.”

  “Perhaps I just have to accept that as much as I want a quiet life, it bores me.”

  “You’re not going to get the quiet life following me, you can bet on that. Come on, we better hurry this up. We have the portal stone already,” I said. “Let’s get the monster, and then go home. I’ve had enough of towns and wizards.”

  “Aye, I can’t say I’d be happy to speak to him again. I had heard that Hardere made unusual bargains sometimes,” said Gulliver. “But nothing like this. Is it worth it, Beno? Having to hide this old, deranged core for him just so you can have the portal stone?”

  “I didn’t have much of a choice. If I just sit around waiting for Cael to recover from his wounds and come to me, I’m begging for a beating.”

  “At least Namantep is dead. Crazy is crazy, and I don’t mess around with things that are both crazy and capable of destroying half a town. But a dead lion is just a rug, and a dead core is just a lump of minerals, I suppose. No offense.”

  “None taken, because obviously you’re right. A dead core is a dead core. Whereas human Whereas human corpses are so much more than just a sack of rotting meat, aren’t they? Besides, Namantep isn’t dead.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t soil your best britches. She isn’t conscious, and she could never become conscious unless certain rituals are done, but she isn’t dead either.”

  “You might have told me that. I’m walking around with a weapon of madness in my satchel!”

  “You also have a mimic capable of stealing memories and then embodying them,” I said, “but you weren’t being such a baby about carrying Dolos. Besides, I told you; Namantep isn’t conscious. She will never be conscious unless I go through a ridiculous effort to make it so. Relax, and focus on finding the monster.”

  “What is it that we’re looking for, anyway?” said Gulliver. “You said you only wanted to catch a monster better than the ones you have. A monster that can kill Cael. It must be quite something. So what is it?”

  “What is it?” I said. “Well…it’s over there. That, Gulliver, is a bogan.”

  It was a beast that had no business living in the sun-drenched wasteland. Twice as tall as a man, bulky, and wearing a coat of fur that made me sweat just to look at. Its face was dark, and the fur covering it seemed almost like a hood. Three pink eyes glowed from within the darkness. On its head were two horns, one much bigger than the other. Its arms and legs were tree trunks, easily muscled enough to serve as battering rams or skullcrushers, whatever its needs were.

  It was about what I expected, of course, having read about bogans in the Dungeon Core Academy. But seeing diagrams in a book and coming face to face with such a beast were two different things.

  Cael Pickering, you’re going to really regret me killing your brothers and forcing you to vow revenge.

  “That thing can’t be native to these parts,” said Gulliver. “Not a chance.”

  “It isn’t. They live in much colder places. The question is, why is it here?”

  “Escaped from a hunter’s wagon, perhaps. Caught in the south, hauled all the way here to be sold for meat. Or as a pet, maybe.”

  “It’s hardly a lapdog.”

  “That’s the thing about the rich; they buy all sorts of stupid things. Something about having money makes the world boring to you. Take me, for instance. Every time one of my stories earns a substantial amount of gold, I find that the ales I used to drink taste now like tap water, and only the best brews will quench my first.”

  “If a hunter bought it here, then where are they? Why aren’t they trying to recapture it? It’s not as if it is hard to miss.”

  “Our horned friend either killed its captor, or fled far enough away from them. Either way, are you sure you want this thing in your dungeon, Beno? A kobold is one thing. They’re reasonable creatures. This is a wild animal!”

  “That’s the thing about wild animals, yes. They tend to be wild, and be animals. But there’s a reason that nobody has claimed the job of killing it from the board yet.”

  “What are we supposed to do if even mercenaries can’t deal with the bloody thing? It looks like it could crush a house.”

  “We’ll reason with it,” I said.

  “Beno, I normally defer to you on monster matters, but…”

  “Gulliver. You’re a scribe – use your eyes. See how it’s cowering beside that giant rock? It doesn’t want to leave the shade. However it found itself all the way out here, it isn’t enjoying its new scenery.”

  “I’ll stay here and…uh…keep our rear flank guarded from a distance.”

  “Very wise,” I said.

  Leaving Gulliver behind, I floated across the wasteland and toward the creature. The closer I got, the warier the creature became. From this proximity, I could see how thick its fur really was, and how unbearable the heat must have been.

  Seeing me, it stood tall on two legs. Its trio of eyes glowed a deep, reproachful red. Despite its fur coat, it was impossible to miss that its body rippled with muscle, and that one swipe of a paw could send me flying back across the wastes. Its horns, meanwhile, looked sharp enough to punch through steel.

  This was one of those moments where I was glad to have been reborn as a core, and to no longer be trapped in the useless flesh sack that they call a body. Not only did I have little fear of a creature that would have sent many heroes crying for their mothers, but I knew I could talk to it.

  All cores in the Dungeon Core academy were required to use our advanced memories to learn an immense variety of languages spoken by man and beast. Despite the fact that creatures created by a core could speak the common tongue, there were other ways to recruit a creature to a dungeon. Finding a bogan in the wasteland being one of them. We needed to be able to communicate with monsters borne not of our own essence.

  Knowing I could talk to it and knowing the right thing to say, however, were two different things. If I set my mouth flapping in the wrong direction, I was likely to provoke this beast into trying to destroy me and Gulliver.

  I dredged my memory, searching through my memorized tomes on beasts, critters, creatures and monsters that I had read in the Dungeon Core Academy library.

  What do I know about bogans? Where can I find some common ground?

  Ah.

  “You are a long way from home,” I said.

 

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