The Only Wizard in Town

by Heide Goody

  “Fine, fine,” said the artist peevishly. “But I’m not going first. I’m not.”

  Merken was tempted to throw the untrustworthy coward into the hall, just to see what would happen, when he was struck by a memory. “When we finally cornered Lothwar the bandit king, he had holed himself up in a hill fort and had laid pits, wolf traps and razor-sharp snares all across the surrounding land. We could have made a slow approach, checking the ground, but his longbowmen would have picked us off with ease. Instead, we herded together all the mud hogs from the highlands and drove them ahead of us as we charged: let them fall into the traps so we could just run over them with ease.”

  “Yes,” mused Pagnell. “Beside the fact we don’t have any, um, mud hogs, I doubt very much any of these traps would be so easily fooled.”

  He produced a coin and flicked it out into the hall. It struck one tile – huge blades shot up from artfully concealed holes around its base – bounced onto another – a gout of blue flame burst forth – and rolled onto a third. There was the tiny phut! phut! phut! of darts flying out from unseen openings in one of the wall columns.

  “These traps reset themselves to strike again and again and again,” said the wizard.

  “Very well,” said Merken. “Then we’d best not put a foot wrong.”

  “I’ll go first if you wish,” said Pagnell, opening the journal.

  Merken put a restraining hand on Pagnell’s arm. “Not so fast, Sparkles. I’m not going to let the only one who knows the way across put himself out of my reach. Cope.”

  “Sir.”

  “You’re first.”

  “Very well,” sighed Pagnell and consulted Abington’s journal. He stuck his tongue out slightly as he read and re-read a page. Merken was firmly of the opinion people who had to stick their tongues out to think were probably not the world’s greatest thinkers. It was as bad as people who had to use their fingers to read.

  Pagnell ran his finger down the page and muttered to himself.

  “Damn it, man!” snapped Merken. “Can you do it or not?”

  “Yes. Yes. Any tile with an even number of sides if you would, Cope, and tell me what colour it is.”

  Cope stepped. She did not die. “Green,” she said.

  “Green. Good. Consult section D…”

  “What should I do?” said the warrior behemoth.

  “Nothing, just—” Pagnell flipped a page, skimmed down. “Any tile with a curved edge.”

  Cope took a giant stride onto a red semi-circle.

  “Good, good,” said Pagnell. “Green square and red semi-circle. Five straight edges. Table three brackets five— Star! Are there any star tiles you can reach?”

  “There’s this pink one,” said Cope and swung out her leg.

  “Not the pink!” shouted Pagnell. Cope’s leg froze. “Go for that blue one! Never tread on a pink tile!” He turned to the others, repeating, “Never tread on a pink tile.”

  “Never pink,” nodded Lorrika. “Why? What do they do?”

  “Let’s try not to find out.”

  Cope continued across the hall, step by step managing to not be impaled, shot, fried or otherwise killed as she followed Pagnell’s instructions. Merken watched the wizard closely, trying to glean some understanding of the squiggles, ledgers and charts he was following.

  “What’s that?” said Merken, tapping a page.

  “It’s a decision tree,” said Pagnell.

  “Ah, I thought it looked like a tree.”

  “Don’t the Yarwish pray to sacred trees for guidance?” said Bez. “Something like that, yes?”

  Pagnell ignored him and called out to Cope. “You need to find a regular nonagon next.”

  “A what?” shouted back Cope.

  “Nonagon!”

  “What?”

  “She’s too far away,” muttered Pagnell. “A nine-sided shape!” he yelled.

  “Five?”

  “Nine!”

  Cope shouted something back but she was halfway across the hall. The space and distance simply sucked the sound away.

  “She can’t hear us over the hissing of those damned lights,” said Merken.

  “I’m going out to her,” said Pagnell.

  “Don’t try anything funny,” warned Merken.

  “Oh, funny just bounces off you, Rantallion,” said Pagnell. He cupped his hands to his mouth. “Just stay there!”

  “What?” shouted Cope.

  “Stay! There!” yelled Bez.

  Book in hand, talking to himself as he read, Pagnell walked out into the hall, a grown man doing a ridiculous and ungainly hopscotch. Over long minutes, he made his way to a point where Cope could hear him again. He called further instructions to her and then turned back.

  “Who’s next?”

  “You’re up, Pipsqueak,” said Merken.

  “Step on a triangle,” called Pagnell.

  Pipsqueak found one and began her slow journey across. Bez scribbled in one of his pads as they watched her.

  “Do you never give it a rest?” said Merken.

  “It’s called suffering for your art,” said Bez. “Suffering is the fuel of great art, and right now I’m totally on fire.”

  “That might be arranged.”

  “You could just leave me here.”

  Merken held back a sigh. “Pretty sure I threatened to kill you if you suggested turning back again.”

  “Not suggesting turning back. You could just leave me, collect me on the way out. I’m sure I’m just holding you up.”

  “I’ll let you know when you’re holding us up,” said Merken. With a hard shove, he propelled the bard into the hall.

  Bez teetered and stopped on an oval tile. He whirled around, animal fear in his eyes. Nothing happened. Nothing continued to happen. No slicing, stabbing, crushing death. Nothing.

  “Lucky first step,” said Merken, grinning.

  The bard swore, a stream of curses and general insults regarding Merken, his mother, the circumstances of his birth, his daily habits and bodily functions. Merken let it wash over him. Swearing was the last resort of the impotent.

  “The bard and I are coming next!” he shouted to Pagnell.

  Pagnell waved and began to call back instructions.

  Like climbers, moving from precarious handhold to precarious handhold, the five of them moved across the deadly mosaic in a chain, none too far ahead, none left behind, all guided by a dentist with a dead man’s notes. Black square, silver triangle, blue crescent, plum-coloured circle…

  “What colour was that?” asked Pagnell.

  “Plum,” said Merken.

  “Plum?”

  “Plum.”

  “As in…?”

  “As in the colour of a plum. A bit red, a bit blue. Like a dark wine.”

  Pagnell, balancing on a grey trapezoid, twelve yards ahead, gestured violently at his book.

  “So, red then,” he suggested.

  “No,” said Merken patiently. “It’s not red. If it was red, I would have said it was red. But it’s not. It’s half red, half blue. Or, as one might say, plum.”

  “Where do I step next?” asked Lorrika. The wizard was too intent on the colour problem.

  “There is no plum colour in the notes,” said Pagnell.

  Merken shrugged. “Is that somehow my fault?”

  “I’m just saying.”

  “You are welcome to come over here and inspect the damned tile.”

  Pagnell looked at the range of tiles between them. “Bez, Can you see it any better?”

  “I’m not blind!” snapped Merken.

  The bard, who was scant feet from Merken, made a pretence at peering over. “It’s plum. Or perhaps more of a pale damson. Frankly, I don’t give two hoots what colour his bloody tile is. Call it turquoise for all I care.”

  “Is it turquoise?”

  “No!” said Merken. “It’s plum! A blue-red. Dark violet. Beetroot. Plum!”

  Pagnell threw his hand in the air. “Maybe they didn’t
have the colour plum in Kavda’s day.”

  Merken was near speechless. “Didn’t have the colour—! What?”

  “Maybe it didn’t exist.”

  “Where do I step next?” repeated Lorrika.

  “How could a colour not exist?” demanded Merken.

  Pagnell’s frown was deep and troubled. “It’s like … what if in this part of the world, in the time of Kavda the Builder, there were no plums and nothing was plum-coloured? There would be no need for the colour to have a name. And, do you ever wonder, is the colour plum named after the fruit or the fruit after the colour?”

  “I’ve never wondered,” said Merken firmly. “Particularly at moments like this—!” he bellowed, “—when I am standing on what I imagine is some sort of spring-loaded mincing machine!”

  “It’s just an interesting question with philosophical and cognitive consequences. Maybe there are other colours or concepts we don’t yet comprehend. They surround us but we simply don’t see them as distinct and separate. Maybe Kavda the Builder looked at that tile and simply saw it as a shade of blue.”

  “Yeah, it’s blue,” said Bez indifferently. “Just pretend it’s blue.”

  “It’s like,” continued Pagnell, “I sometimes look at the sunset, and that moment when it turns from yellow to red.”

  “When it’s a light red colour?” said Bez.

  “Exactly. But it’s also a bit yellow. And I think to myself, maybe there should be a colour to describe it.”

  “Light red!” snapped Merken. “It’s light red!”

  “But with a hint of yellow too,” said Pagnell. “Maybe somewhere in the world there’s a fruit like a plum – or not like a plum – and we’ll start calling things which are a mixture of red and yellow by the name of that fruit.”

  “By all the gods, I am going to kill you if you do not help me off this tile,” growled Merken.

  “Can you move me on a bit before you do?” said Bez. “I’d like a little distance before this wrinkled plum steps to his death. Don’t want to be in the splatter zone.”

  “I’m ready to go,” insisted Lorrika. “I’ve been waiting a while. Tell me where to step next.”

  “I’m very near the end,” added Cope. “I could probably jump it if I had a little run up.”

  Pagnell snapped his book shut. “Everyone be quiet! We cannot do this if you all behave like needy school children! Cope, you are not to jump it and you are definitely not to do ‘a little run up’. Think about it. Merken?”

  “Yes.”

  “There is no mention of plum or violet or beetroot in Abington’s notes. I cannot help you if you are on a ‘plum’ tile.”

  “Ha!” laughed Bez.

  “So, look at it very very hard and decide what other colour you think it looks most like.”

  “But…”

  “As if your life depended on it.” Pagnell turned away. “Lorrika, what are you standing on?”

  “Um, that shape like a wonky rectangle with two of the lines leaning inwards.”

  “Trapezium?” said Pagnell.

  “Yeah. Trapezium. Ooh, Trapezium in Trezdigar. Is that a good name?”

  “Bit of a mouthful really. What colour is it?”

  “Well, it’s a sort of reddish-yellow. It’s like you said, when the sun’s setting and—”

  “Light red then,” said Pagnell and reopened the book.

  “Hey!” said Merken. “How come you know what her colour means?”

  “Because everyone calls it red, even though, perhaps, just perhaps, there’s a better name for it. Step to a five-sided shape, Lorrika. A decision, Merken?”

  Merken felt queasy. On such a decision, he might go to his death. There were stupid deaths – arguably all deaths were stupid – but to die because of a colour…

  “I’m going to go for red also.”

  “It’s your life.”

  The queasiness in Merken’s stomach hardened into a bitter stone. “Not only my life. Have you forgotten your little girl already? Think what will happen to her if I don’t return safe and sound.”

  “Oh, hell,” whispered Pagnell.

  Merken smiled. It took him a good few seconds to realise Pagnell was not staring at him, but past him. The soldier looked back.

  Scores of grimlocks tumbled and scampered through the entrance to the hall.

  “The grimlocks have found us,” said Cope.

  “I can see that!”

  Bouncing off each other like drunkards at a barn dance, several grimlocks tripped, ran or leapt onto the mosaic of tiles. One vanished in a blast of white steam. Another twisted as metal bolts impaled it from below. A third was hoisted high on invisible wires and then came down again in an unhealthy number of pieces.

  “They cannot reach us,” said Cope.

  “They don’t have to,” said Pagnell. As if to prove his point, a shell axe came spinning out, rebounded off a tile and skittered across a dozen more, setting traps off in its wake. A silver caltrop thrown out by a death trap tinkled to a stop less than a stride from Merken’s feet.

  “Red, damn it!” he said.

  “Step to a green shape,” said Pagnell.

  Merken avoided the lime green trapezium directly in front (he didn’t want to get into a green-yellow debate) and took a difficult stride to a leaf green rectangle. He waited a full five seconds before congratulating himself on a choice well made.

  “Now me!” cried Bez who was furthest back and therefore nearest to the chaos the grimlocks were generating. “I’m on a white hexagon.”

  “Hexagon.” Pagnell read. “Oh—”

  “Oh?”

  “It says you should never step off a hexagon. Ever.”

  “Well, I’ve stepped on it now!”

  “Yes. But you should never step off one.”

  “Why?”

  “It just says. Did it make a sort of click when you stepped on it?”

  “Yes…” Bez’s voice was a warble of fear.

  “Ah,” said Pagnell. “Let me have a think.”

  “That’s clever,” said Lorrika, nodding past them.

  Back along the hall, some grimlocks had by luck found themselves on safe tiles. Others were now passing over blocks and rough cut lengths of wood to make a bridge from one safe space to another.

  Other grimlocks were scaling the walls and jamming what looked like bone pitons into gaps in the stonework to hold their soggy twine ropes.

  “Surprisingly inventive,” said Pagnell.

  “We’re out of time here, Sparkles,” said Merken.

  “Yes.” The wizard coughed uncomfortably. “Cope. Go to the blue squircle.”

  “The what?”

  “The squircle – the square with round corners – and you’re across. Lorrika, that pentagon’s black. Go to a triangle – yes, the red one, the plum red one – and then the diamond. That’s it. Bez!”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m coming to you.”

  Merken gawped as Pagnell took a step back, retreating down the hall towards Bez.

  “Do not waste your time with him. If he was fool enough to step on a hexagon then that’s his damned problem.”

  Pagnell seemed not to hear him and stepped by.

  “Attend to me!” barked Merken. He would have grabbed the wizard if he could have reached.

  There was a crash further down the hall. At least one grimlock had been caught up in a spring-powered vice trap larger than a double bed. Glass flew out across the hall from places unknown and, on a cushion of fire, something catapulted out towards Merken, set off a blade-filled trap over to his left, rolling to a halt close enough for Merken to see it was a grimlock head with an (understandably) frustrated look on its face.

  “Sparkles!”

  Pagnell waved at him without looking. “Grey ellipse and then any shape with more than four corners. You’ll be fine.”

  One part curiosity and three parts indignation kept Merken where he was.

  The rickety mess of makeshift bridges the griml
ocks were building had progressed at startling speed, overtaking the climbing group who were swinging from ceiling to pillar to wall. The bridges were littered (and intermittently charred) with evidence of their trial and error tactics, but the vicious creatures were definitely closing in.

  Pagnell crouched down beside Bez and scratched his beard thoughtfully.

  “What if I just leap off it really quickly?” said Bez.

  “You’re not that quick,” said Pagnell.

  Overhead, a grimlock launched itself from a ceiling hold. It swung out on a rope, only to collide with one of the great glowing orbs. The critter was wreathed in white lightning fire as all along the chain of ropes, grimlocks jerked, spasmed and fell. One landed hard on a square which folded up into a set of chisel-like steel teeth, mincing and dragging the body under the floor in moments. A second grimlock fell onto the same square. It lay there untouched while Merken made a silent count of three. The metal mouth sprang to life and consumed it.

  Pagnell felt around the edges of Bez’s tile. “If it’s pressure activated, maybe we can weigh it down.”

  “Maybe?”

  “Put your pack down.”

  Bez stuffed papers inside his shirt for safekeeping, leaving what was left at his feet.

  “It’s not enough,” said Pagnell. “Lose the jacket.”

  Bez fingered the finely embroidered garment sadly. “But this was a gift…”

  There was squeal, an enormous elastic boing, and Bez’s complaint was cut short by a rain of shrapnel which, on inspection, appeared to be mostly grimlock fingers. Bez quickly shucked off the jacket and placed it under his feet.

  “And the boots,” said Pagnell. “No – still not enough. Cope!”

  “What is it?” shouted back the warrior.

  “Chuck us your leg things.”

  “Leg things?”

  “The armour.”

  “My greaves?”

  “Yes! Them. Throw them to me. Carefully!”

  A spear, thrown by design rather than collateral damage from a detonating trap, flew past Merken. It was considerably off target but the grimlocks had them in range now.

  “Leave him, wizard. Your life is worth more than his,” said Merken. He took the two long strides to take him to the safety of the far side.

  Pagnell caught the first of the pieces of plate armour thrown by Cope, then overbalanced trying to catch the second. Bez grabbed his coat to stop him tumbling.