Amber and Iron - Margaret Weis [125]
Nuitari had won and he had Chemosh to thank, which the God of the Dark Moon thought extremely ironic.
Inside the Tower, Basalt was making up beds, while Caele mostly stood around watching Basalt. A large pile of mattresses had been hauled up from the storage room. The apprentice mages had to carry each mattress into each room, wrestle it onto the wooden bed frame, then cover it with linens and a blanket.
The two were working in the chambers where the high-ranking Black Robes would reside—each in his or her own private quarters. The mattresses for these beds were made of goose down, the sheets were fine linen, the blankets softest wool. Rooms for lower ranking wizards were smaller and had mattresses of straw. Apprentice wizards shared rooms and in some cases shared mattresses. Thus far, only high-ranking wizards had been invited by the god. They were due to arrive tomorrow morning.
“You’re going to have to help me shift this,” Basalt said. He indicated a mattress on the top of the pile that was out of the reach of the dwarf’s short arms. “I can’t reach it.”
Caele heaved the long-suffering sigh of the overworked and took hold of the ends of the mattress. He gave a half-hearted attempt, then he moaned and clutched his back.
“All this bending and lifting. I’ve torn a muscle.”
Basalt glowered at him. “How did you tear a muscle? The heaviest thing you’ve lifted thus far is a glass of the Master’s best wine, and don’t think I won’t tell him!”
“I was tasting it to see if it had gone bad,” said Caele sullenly. “You wouldn’t want to serve the archmagi bad wine, now, would you?”
“Just help me lift the damn mattress,” growled Basalt.
Caele raised his hands, and before Basalt could stop him, the elf waved his hands and muttered a few words. The mattress floated up off the pile and hung suspended in the air.
“What are you doing? You’re not supposed to be using magic for housekeeping chores!” Basalt cried, scandalized. “What if the Master should see you? End that spell!”
“Very well,” said Caele, and he withdrew the magic, with the result that the mattress crashed down on top of the dwarf, flattening him.
Caele sniggered. Basalt gave a muffled howl. The dwarf emerged from beneath the mattress with murder in his eye.
“You told me to end the spell.” Caele’s lip curled. “I was merely obeying orders. You are the Caretaker, after all—”
Caele stopped talking. His eyes widened. “What is that?”
Basalt’s eyes were white-rimmed. He shivered at the terrible sound. “I don’t know! I’ve never heard anything like it.”
The low rumbling noise, like enormous boulders all being tumbled about, grinding together, came from far, far below their feet. The noise grew louder and louder, coming nearer and nearer. The stack of mattresses began to jiggle. The floor started to shake. Desks and bed frames began to skitter and dance across the floor. The walls quivered.
The shaking entered Basalt’s feet and went from there into his bones. His teeth clicked together, and he bit his tongue. Caele staggered into the pile of mattresses and stood braced against them.
The shaking ceased.
Basalt gave a gasping croak and pointed.
The floor, which had been perfectly level, was now pitched at a steep angle. A bed frame came sliding slowly down the hall with a desk right behind it. Caele pushed himself off the mattresses.
“Zeboim!” he snarled. “The sea bitch is back!”
Basalt staggered across the canting floor, walking uphill, and entered one of the rooms. All the furniture was piled up in a heap against the far wall. Basalt ignored