Forward the Mage Page 10

  Drawn by the sound of clashing steel, a platoon of the Praetorian Guard burst into the chamber through the very door toward which our heroes made their way.

  "Stop them!" cried Gerard. In an instant, the fierce Praetorians charged the struggling mob of guards and constables, pouring around Zulkeh and Shelyid like water around rocks in midstream. The brawl in the center of the chamber now became three-sided.

  Then, as our heroes were but ten paces from the far door, two new bodies of armed men poured into the chamber from doors behind the throne—Janissaries from the west, Mamelukes from the east. Recognizing his earlier error, Gerard now issued explicit instructions to these newly entered soldiery, detailing with unmistakable exactitude the necessity of immediately arresting the wizard and his apprentice, not forgetting to point directly toward the culprits, all of which precision was pointless since the Janissaries and Mamelukes had immediately started slaughtering each other with the gusto derived from hallowed and historic rivalry.

  Zulkeh and Shelyid passed through the far door into the corridor beyond.

  Dodging and weaving his way through the slashing mob, Gerard pursued. By the time he entered the corridor, his prey were almost to the lobby at the far end. Not twenty feet beyond, a squad of Secret Police stood in the lobby, fingering their cudgels, frowning with concern, gazing down the corridor, wondering at the sounds of struggle issuing from the royal audience chamber.

  The quick-witted Gerard seized the moment. To the Secret Police, he cried: "Arrest the wizard!" To the wizard he cried: "Stop, Zulkeh—stop!"

  Shouting with fierce enthusiasm, the Secret Police charged toward the wizard and his apprentice. The wizard turned abruptly at the sound of his name. Attempting to avoid his master, Shelyid tripped over the loose fringe of the faded and worn carpet and lost his footing. Head down, locked in concentration, completely overbalanced by the giant sack, Shelyid—or rather, the sack—plunged directly into the onrushing squad of policemen, with much the same results as a bowling ball striking pins.

  Half the squad was down, senseless. The ones who managed to avoid the direct blow of the sack now flung themselves upon the dwarf. Alas, as he recoiled from the collision, Shelyid turned a complete 360 degrees, knocking over another two or three of the policemen as he did so. Still struggling to regain his balance, the dwarf now lurched to the left, crushing one wight against the entry wall; then to the right, crushing another; then he caromed right into the lobby, rolling over the last secret policeman still conscious, and burst through the large entry door leading to the plaza beyond. The door shattered into pieces. In a moment the tumult and chaos were left behind as Zulkeh and Shelyid exited the palace and headed down to the lake, oblivious to the cries and alarm behind them.

  The last sight Gerard had of them, as he stood fuming in what was left of the door to the palace, was of Zulkeh and Shelyid climbing into the water taxi and making their way back across the Moyle. Throwing up his hands with rage, the Chief Counselor charged back into the palace. His voice could dimly be heard:

  "Call out the Royal Janitors! The Royal Cooks! The Royal Gardeners! Arrest the wizard!"

  Moments later, the sound of martial clangor resounded from within—mops clashing with pots, pans against shears, clippers versus brooms.

  * * *

  For their part, Zulkeh and Shelyid went their way unmolested. At length they arrived at the central travel station of Goimr. This edifice, huge and many-winged, had once housed a vast assortment of enterprises dedicated to the provision of transport for those citizens of Goimr seeking egress from the dismal city. In times past, the would-be traveler could hire or purchase a coach, a dray, a chariot, a wagon, a cart or, indeed, any other conceivable means of land transport. In recent times, however, all of these enterprises had been acquired by the Consortium, as one of that ubiquitous firm's projects in its conquest of the commerce of Grotum. Their assets had been combined, and the entire travel station had been consolidated under the aegis of a newly founded corporation, the Great Grotum Northern, Eastern, Southern, Western, Central and Environs Express and Transport Company, a subsidiary of Grotum Cultural Endeavor, Ltd. (a non-profit enterprise), itself a subsidiary of Colonial Exploitation, Inc. (a philanthropic foundation), itself, in turn, a subsidiary of the Consortium. This latter was headquartered, as was the case with most commercial enterprises of any note in the civilized world, in the famed and far distant city of splendid Ozar.

  Zulkeh paused for a moment before the archway over the entrance to the great building.

  "Look you, Shelyid, at this example of the inexorable progress of Reason through Time. In days gone by, chaos reigned here supreme. We should have been forced to waste many an hour in demeaning squabble with divers fellows and odd sorts of avaricious mien, quarreling over fare and form of travel. Today, however, this has gone the way of all unreason confronted by science, and we need but apply for an established and harmonized method of transportation suited to our needs, all of it organized, systematized and regularized by this most eminent and stable of firms."

  And with that he passed through the archway into the central court. Shelyid followed, tripping over a portmanteau. The sack went flying. The wizard was greatly displeased, the more so by the unwarranted intervention of a brash and impudent youth.

  But at length, this unpleasantness behind them, the wizard and his apprentice made their way to a door over which was suspended the sign: "GGNESWC&EE&T Co.—Tickets."

  Once inside, Shelyid unburdened himself of his sack and sat upon a bench against one wall. He seemed oppressed by the atmosphere, although the low gloomy ceiling, the unpainted benches equipped with shackles for the restraint of criminals and children, the dirty walls covered with graffiti and obscure signs of no doubt cabalistic origin, should have lent to the establishment a most homelike ambience.

  Meanwhile, Zulkeh approached the ticket vendor's window and examined an enormous sign suspended on the wall above. The sign read:

  TABLE OF TRAVEL RATES AND COACH CLASSES

  Rates

  Classes

  Family

  Deluxe

  Convention

  Superb

  Party

  Royal

  Merchant

  First

  Commercial

  Second

  Clinical

  Third

  Military

  Fourth

  Clerical

  Fifth

  Official

  Coach

  Secret

  Economy

  Vacation

  Poor

  Common

  Scum

  After pondering this table for a moment, Zulkeh stepped forward to the vendor's window. In the small room beyond, he discerned the dim figure of the vendor and a row of boxes holding tickets of different sizes and colors.

  "Sirrah," spoke the mage. "Are there, as would seem reasonable, twelve classes each with twelve rates, or twelve classes each with only one rate, or twelve rates, each with only one class?"

  "Sir," replied the ticket vendor in a voice devoid of inflection or discernible tone, "am I to understand that you are calling into question the commercial philosophy and weltanschauung of the Great Grotum Northern, Eastern, Southern, Western, Central and Environs Express and Travel Company, a subsidiary of Grotum Cultural Endeavor, Ltd. (a non-profit enterprise), itself a subsidiary of Colonial Exploitation, Inc. (a philanthropic foundation), itself, in turn, a subsidiary of the Consortium? If so, that is to say, if such be the case, you may, if you wish, file a formal complaint, that, be assured, will receive the fullest consideration by those officials of our firm who have been appointed to deal with precisely the aforementioned matters. Should your complaint, after due process and close examination, be adjudged picayune, idle, foolish, bothersome, trivial, malicious, ill-advised, inconvenient, well-taken, or justified, your travel privileges on the GGNESWC&EE&T Co. will be revoked, now and for perpetuity; in addition, you will be fined the full administrative
cost of processing your complaint, in addition to a punitive surcharge, such surcharge to be monetary in nature, though not excluding, at the discretion of that office of the Company which has been duly assigned to handle such matters, a thorough investigation of your ancestry, habits, character and associations by the Consortium Constabulary, the results of said investigation to be, at the whim of the Consortium, or any of its subsidiaries involved in the case, or any of its subsidiaries not involved in the case, broadcast to the world at large, with the intention, and the invariable result, of blackening your character, destroying your career, and breaking your spirit."

  Zulkeh thought upon these words. At length he spoke.

  "Sirrah, I see that your establishment does not take these matters lightly. An attitude, I might say, with which I find myself in complete accord! I would, however, appreciate your telling me of the difference between the various classes and rates listed in yon table."

  "The tickets."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "The tickets. Size and color. Size is class, color is rate."

  "That is all?"

  "That is what I said. Am I to understand that you are calling into question the—"

  "No, no, no," spoke the mage hastily. "By no means. I am simply seeking to clarify the matter. As I now understand it, the only difference in the tickets is the tickets themselves. Each ticket, of no matter which class or rate, will purchase the same transport, the same lodgings en route, the same accommodations, etc.?"

  "That is correct."

  "An excellent policy! In former times, prior to your acquisition of a monopoly over this industry, the desirous voyager was beset by impudent hagglers, each offering a different service for a different fee. You have cut through this mindless hurly-burly at one stroke, reducing the question to its intrinsic essence of prestige and social snobbery."

  "That is correct. And now, sir, I am busy and you have taken much of my time. Where are you going? And what is your preference in class and rate?"

  "As for destination, my apprentice and I journey to Prygg. As for class and rate, whichever is the cheapest—for my worldly wealth is little, and the subliminity of my intellect requires no social trappings to sustain it."

  "Common scum," announced the ticket vendor. "Twelve piasters for two common scum to Prygg."

  "I shall take them," spoke Zulkeh, pushing twelve small coins through the slot in the bars. In return, two torn and greasy scraps of paper upon which were scrawled "Prygg" were carelessly tossed back. Picking them up off the floor, Zulkeh gathered up his apprentice and proceeded through the gate leading to the outer court. There the tickets were inspected by an employee, who bestowed upon our heroes a well-practiced sneer. "To the left!" he barked.

  They followed these directions and, after walking through a further passageway, came upon their vehicle. It was a huge old coach, easily large enough to accommodate twelve passengers. The coach was rakishly tilted, not by design but simply because it rested on four wheels of varying design and diameter, the which had clearly been salvaged from other vehicles.

  Within, the coach gave evidence of a past glory now sadly gone. The seats had originally been dyed a deep green, but were now much faded with age. The padding had a tendency to protrude from the many rips and tears in the covers. The floor was covered by a once-plush carpet now stained and soiled. Ingress and egress to the coach were provided by two large and much-weathered doors, hanging on rusty hinges. Tattered curtains hung in the windows.

  Barely had Zulkeh and Shelyid entered the coach when the vehicle lurched into motion. Shelyid sprawled onto the floor.

  "Master!" he cried. "We're off!"

  "Well spoken, dwarf. Our journey has begun."

  PART II

  In Which We Follow the

  Further Progress of the Terrorist

  Trio in Their Unlawful Escape From Goimr,

  Revealing Therein Fell Visions and Portents.

  Taken, As Before, From the Autobiography of the

  Renegade Benvenuti Sfondrati-Piccolomini,

  the Veracity of Whose Account, We Must

  Emphatically Repeat, Is In No Wise

  Guaranteed by the Noble Alfredae.

  The Autobiography of Benvenuti Sfondrati-Piccolomini,

  Episode 2: Statues, Soldiers, Snarls, and Soothsayers

  So it was on such a wretched cart that I left the city of Goimr.

  Strangely enough, the real difficulty we encountered in making our escape was none of the things I had foreseen. It was not the police, not the soldiers, not even the absurd spectacle of Wolfgang posing as a gigantic statue being hauled in the back of the cart.

  It was the damned draymasters. When we entered the boulevard leading to the Dreary Gate on the northwest edge of the city, there was a great mob of them lounging about in front of the stables. No sooner did they catch sight of Gwendolyn in her yoke, hauling the cart, than they rushed up and began a fierce bidding for her.

  I was appalled, really. Often enough had I heard my uncles describe Grotum as backward and medieval, but the reality of it had never truly penetrated until then.

  "And will you look at the size of that mare!" cried one.

  "I'll give you three quid!" exclaimed another.

  "I'll make it four!" came from a third.

  "Five!"

  "Six!"

  The indignity was bad enough. Worse yet was that our escape ploy stood in imminent danger of being ruined. I did not require Wolfgang's sotto voce hissing in my ear to realize that Gwendolyn would not tolerate the situation much longer. The ensuing mayhem would, of course, be gratifying—fierce joy filled my heart at the image of draymasters hacked and chopped into pieces. But it would, as the saying goes, "blow our cover."

  The situation came to a crisis when one of the swine actually made so bold as to advance upon Gwendolyn, open her mouth with his hands, and begin inspecting her teeth, while a second began poking her thighs and buttocks with his thumb.

  Wolfgang's coaching now came into its own.

  "Get your filthy paws off my property!" I roared, cracking the bullwhip. The tooth inspector backed up a step, but the buttock prodder merely sneered and continued his examination.

  A moment later he was rolling on the ground, howling in pain. And well he should! I dare say I removed a good piece of his own buttock with the whip, whose tip was reinforced with steel wire. Two pieces, actually, one from each haunch—for the sight of his great ass in the air as he flopped on his belly was irresistible.

  Perhaps I should have resisted, for the second lash seemed to arouse the mob of draymasters as the first had not. No doubt I had transgressed some quaint local custom.

  A moment later they had surrounded the cart, bellowing their fury, shaking their fists, and cursing my person.

  "Ozarine whelp!" cried one. (I fear my accent was pronounced.)

  "We'll teach you better!"

  "Proper Groutch manners you're about to learn!"

  Wolfgang was whispering some advice into my ear, but I was not paying the slightest attention. I should listen to a lunatic, when I had been trained by my uncle Larue?

  "It's a fearsome arm, the bullwhip," he'd said to me, "but remember—of all weapons, it's the one that relies the most on panache and the psychologic flair. The perfect weapon for you, you sassy, disrespectful little wretch."

  "Would you, base curs?" I roared. The first I had lashed from my seat, but now I arose and began laying about with a fine touch—fine, not only in the hand, but in the jocularity of the remarks which I sent along with the strokes. The key, however, was the scalps.

  Pain will dissuade a mob, of course, as humor will depress their spirits. But there's nothing like the sight of a few scalps lifted from bully heads by smart cracks of the lash to drain their passions. The more so when the cunning of the stroke causes the scalps to fly directly into the whipmaster's free hand. After I had collected four scalps, stuffing the bloody things into my belt, the draymasters fled in all directions, howling wit
h terror. All but two, who made the mistake of trying to hide behind (I should say, in front of) Gwendolyn. Without breaking stride, she shouldered them down, trampled them under, and hauled the iron-rimmed wheels of the cart directly over their bodies. A cart, mind you, bearing not only my weight but that of the giant Wolfgang as well!

  I was adapting to Grotum, I could tell. The sound of crunching bones was a pure musical delight.

  "Oh, well done! Well done!" hissed Wolfgang.

  "Thank you," muttered Gwendolyn.

  "I wasn't talking to you, dear," chuckled Wolfgang. "I was referring to the masterful whipwork. Are you by any chance related to Larue Sfrondrati-Piccolomini?"

  "My uncle," I whispered. "And will you please shut up? You'll give it away, people see your lips moving—you're supposed to be a damned statue!"

  "Not to fear, my boy. I'm a ventriloquist, you know."

  Casually I turned my head, looking into the back of the cart. There was Wolfgang, posed cross-legged like a saint—a statue of a saint, more properly. Quite a good likeness, if I say so myself. I had discovered that painting a man up to look like a huge wooden icon was not all that difficult—not, at least, for an artist like myself who had carved and painted more wooden icons by the time I was nine than I could remember.

  Wolfgang's stance was perfect. He was absolutely rigid and unmoving, for all the world like—well, actually, like a wooden statue.

  "It'll be the easiest thing in the world for me to manage," he'd said after he'd explained the scheme. "The head psychiatrist at the asylum says I've got the finest catatonic trance he's ever examined! Such a compliment!"