Frisson took the pen with a show of reluctance, which I didn't believe for a moment. "If you say to, Lord Wizard. Natheless, I am yet slow to form my letters."
I had to admire how well he took a cue. "Try," I urged. "Do you know an old song called 'The Castle of Dramouye'?"
"From the Isle of Doctors and Saints? Aye, I have heard it."
"You might try a variation on that, to get us into her dungeon. Then we'll need one to get us out of this castle; have you ever heard a song that goes like this?" I hummed the first eight bars of "Greensleeves."
The poet nodded. "I have heard them. Must I hold to their limits, though?"
"Of course not! If the muse visits, wear her out! Write what comes to you; I'm just giving you a starting point - call it muse bait." But Frisson was already sitting down cross-legged, gazing off into space. After a moment, he dipped his quill and scratched a few words, gazed off into space again, then dipped his quill once more and started scribbling furiously.
Slow to form his letters. Right. Well, I had known the man was a genius - I wasn't surprised that he'd learned so quickly. The Rat Raiser was, though. He was staring, though the rest of his face was immobile. He didn't say a word, of course - too experienced a bureaucrat to give anything away - but from the way he watched, I knew he was reassessing our skill as wizards. Admittedly, Frisson was too ragged to look like much, and my clothing was too outlandish - but if the "spells" we used were so potent that we had to write them down and check them before we read them aloud to cast them, we must be mighty indeed.
I didn't argue.
Frisson looked up and held out the page, looking very anxious.
"Will it sail, Lord Wizard?"
I took the parchment and studied it. My eyes widened. Could this really be as excellent an adaptation of a folk verse as I thought it was?
It could. After all, I had just finished reminding myself that Frisson was a genius. "This is very good, Frisson," I said slowly.
"Almost too good to be used as a spell."
Disappointment shadowed the poet's face.
" 'Almost!' I said. "If I weaken it a bit, it should work stronger magic than anything I've ever made up. Brace yourselves, men - and join hands."
Gilbert seized my right hand, and Frisson seized my left as I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and began to recite.
The cell darkened, the light went out, and the Rat Raiser cried in the darkness. A wave of nausea swept through me and was gone;then the light came back, and I saw Angelique, still stretched out on the torture bench, eyes wide and unseeing, chest still.
Beyond her, Suettay was just taking the cork out of the bottle, intoning a chant. The torturer, restored, was chuckling as he tightened the thumbscrews on the corpse.
The ghost rose from the bottle, trembling with apprehension. Then Suettay saw us, and stared at us in amazement and alarm. The assistant torturer held the corpse's leg, stroking it lasciviously, as the chief torturer paused to make a last adjustment to the iron boot. He looked up, saw the expression on his queen's face, spun about, and smashed a fist into my face.
I saw it coming just in time to roll with the punch - but I saw stars, and pain racked my head, stirring up anger. I was too slow, though - the squire beat me to it. Gilbert roared and leapt forward; the torturer was just beginning to turn when the squire's fist caught him under the jaw. I heard something snap, but all I saw was the torturer sailing over the table in a perfect parabola. He crashed into the wall just above the floor, but by that time, his first assistant was in midair heading for the south wall, and Gilbert's fist was in the second apprentice's midriff. Then he picked up the man like a javelin and sent him after the first; he almost had all three in midair at the same time. I hadn't known the squire was a juggler - or such a strong one, either.
It only took him a few seconds, but that was long enough. Suettay whirled about, teeth bared in a snarl, and began to shout a verse. I rose up from the floor, trying to forget that my momma had taught me never to hit a lady, and slammed a fist into her jawbone. She slumped, out cold, and the bottle hit the floor, shattering. The ghost drifted free with a cry of relief.
Two guardsmen shook off their stupors and stepped forward. One drew a sword; the other hefted his pike, then realized it wasn't there. I leapt forward, shouting, "Go down!"
The guard looked up, startled, just long enough for Gilbert's fist to connect with his cheekbone. As he was crumpling, his mate was looking around for his pike when he tripped over its butt, fell sprawling, rolled over, and found himself staring at its blade. Gilbert spared him confusion by clouting him neatly on the crown, and he lapsed into unconsciousness.
Then Frisson whirled and stabbed down with the pike he'd used to trip the guard. He plunged it straight into the queen's chest. It was a good move, and one Gilbert couldn't have forced himself to do, since it was in cold blood, and therefore without honor - but Frisson wasn't a knight, or a squire. I just didn't have the heart to tell the poor vagabond it wouldn't do any good.
Gilbert whirled to Angelique's body, unscrewing the boot. "Be consoled, maiden! It shall not hurt you any longer, even if you are reincorporated! Nay, fear not - your tormentors shall harry you no more!
He wasn't even panting.
I turned to Frisson. "Thought you were a poor, law-abiding victim."
"What-this?" The poet looked at the pike as if he'd never seen it before. "Well, I have learned some knack of separating people from objects, aye."
"Valuable objects, right? And without their ever noticing it." Frisson shrugged. "The mammon of wickedness can be turned to a good purpose, Lord Wizard."
"Oh, I don't dispute your use of the techniques - just wondering how'd you'd learned them."
Then Angelique's ghost gave a cry of horror.
Gilbert was at her side in an instant. "Be assured, fair maid, 'tis only us, who are your friends."
"But who is he?" Angelique gasped.
Frisson followed her glance and said quietly, "We came accompanied, gentles."
"Aye," Angelique said. "Who is yonder old coil?"
"Old coil!" a voice behind me cried. "I'll have you know, lady, that I am scarcely into the middle of my years."
I turned slowly. "That's right. It's just that a lot of those years passed while you were in a dark dungeon. That aged you a bit." Then, to Angelique, "Milady, may I present to you a former star of Suettay's administration, fallen upon evil days - the Rat Raiser."
"A henchman of Suettay's?" she cried. "How came he to accompany you?"
"Why, by seizing hold of the wizard's hand, when he bethought him 'twas that of one of his comrades," the Rat Raiser cackled. I turned to Frisson. "I thought it was you holding my left hand."
"Nay," the vagabond said, "I did seize the squire's fist." I turned back to the Rat Raiser with a face like an iceberg. "You definitely were not invited."
The bureaucrat glared up at me with vindictive malice. "You would have gone off and left me no better than you had found me, would you not?"
I cocked my head to the side, considering. "Maybe not, if you had asked. But of course, if you were going to continue working for Suettay ..."
"Wherefore should I do that?" The Rat Raiser stared, appalled.
"To try to get back into her good graces."
"Wherefore? So that she might turn me out again? Faugh!" The Rat Raiser glared at the unconscious queen, gloating. "Let her look to her own!"
"She cannot look to anything!" Frisson stared, frightened at his own accomplishment. "She is dead!"