Into the Thinking Kingdoms

by Alan Dean Foster

  They were an odd bunch, he decided as he studied them from his seat on the back of Rune, his favorite horse. Three men of radically different size, aspect, and color traveling in the company of the biggest and most peculiar-looking feline he had ever seen. Idly, he wondered if they would be worth interrogating, perhaps with an eye toward charging them a “fine” for traveling through Bondressey without a permit. No permits were necessary, but it was very likely they did not know that, and would pay to avoid trouble.

  Contrarily, the wealthiest of them looked unconscionably poor, and it might not be worth his time to try to extract from them what few coins they might have in their possession. Furthermore, if the great predator accompanying them proved high-strung, he might lose a man or two in the process of making an arrest, and with little or no gain to hope for in return.

  No, better to let the scruffy vagabonds continue on their way, hopefully right out of Bondressey. They were heading northwest. If they kept to that course they would cross the border in a few days, and good riddance. The mere presence on the streets of such uncouth vagrants was an offense to the kingdom’s aesthetics.

  “You there!” Pushing down on Rune’s stirrups, he stood up in the saddle. “Make sure to check thoroughly the attic and any basement, and the walls for hidden compartments! Miscreants such as these often conceal their valuables in such places.”

  “Yes, Proctor!” came an acknowledging shout from the officer in charge. Sword drawn, he reentered the building. Household goods were already piling up on the front walkway as soldiers ferried them out from within.

  Master and mistress of the handsome abode came stumbling out of the imposing entrance. Despite its size, no servants were in evidence. Their absence suggested that the owners took care of all the general maintenance themselves. That insinuated that they were dedicated workers. Bisgrath was gratified. Taking from the poor and the lazy was unprofitable.

  “Please, sir, leave us something!” The master of the house looked older than his years, his face and posture reflecting an unpretentious life devoted to hard work. “All that we have has gone into our home!”

  Rune stirred slightly and Bisgrath used the reins to steady his mount. “Ungrateful miscreant! Be glad I am leaving you the house. You know the penalty for failure to pay taxes in a timely and responsible manner. Fortunately for you, I am today in a generous and forgiving mood. Otherwise I would order your insignificant lodgings razed to the ground.”

  The man stepped back, his gaze glazed by hurt. Stumbling blankly about, he could only turn to watch the emptying of his home. After a moment, he fell to his knees, still staring.

  Bisgrath magnanimously allowed the woman to clutch at his left leg and continue to plead for clemency. Not because he had any intention of listening to her, or because that was a quality normally ascribed to him, but because he found her pleasant to look upon. After a while, though, her uncontrolled sobbing began to grate on his patience. Putting a booted foot against her chest, he shoved hard and sent her sprawling. Another time he might have stalked her with Rune, using the horse’s hooves as threats and making her crawl. But he was too busy directing the plundering of the household. Someone had to make certain that nothing was overlooked and that the spoils were properly loaded onto the waiting wagons. One for the kingdom, and the one with the heavy canvas covers for him. Astute as he was in matters fiscal, he knew better than to rely on official compensation to sustain his status.

  For example, this particular family was not actually in arrears in matters of taxation. Only a simple subtle manipulation of certain texts had made it appear so. By choosing his untutored victims at random, he avoided the attention of his superiors, who were anywise gratified by his uncanny ability to root out the disobedient among the kingdom’s otherwise virtuous citizens.

  Overlooked in the turmoil and confusion was a sandy-haired little girl of seven or eight years. While her parents entreated futilely with Proctor Bisgrath, she walked wide-eyed away from the house proper. Intent on their ransacking, the industrious soldiers ignored her. In the course of her aimless wandering, she found herself confronting an immense black face dominated by huge tawny eyes that seemed to glow from within. Lips parted to reveal canines longer than her hand. A tongue emerged to lick speculatively at her arm. It was rough and raspy as a file and she stepped away sharply.

  “Ahlitah!” a man’s voice yelled sharply.

  The tongue withdrew and the enormous cat looked back and growled irritably. “Just tasting.” With a shake of its magnificent mane it resumed its pacing.

  The place where the tongue had licked her began to burn slightly. Ignoring the chaos behind her, instinctively shutting out the cries of her mother, she began to cry.

  A man was kneeling beside her. While the mild pain produced by the big cat’s tongue remained, so strange and fascinating was the face now inclining toward her that her tears stopped. She stared at him, and when he smiled back it instantly made her feel better. Not better enough to smile, but sufficient to put a halt to the crying.

  “I cannot tell you not to feel bad,” he told her. “Do you understand what I mean by that?” She nodded slowly, wiping at her eyes with the back of one hand as the man looked past her. Her mother and father had always told her not to talk to strangers, but somehow she knew that this oddly dressed man represented no threat.

  “My friends and I have a long ways yet to travel, so we cannot stop to help you or your family. And anyway, this is none of our business.” He had a leather bag or something on his back. Pulling it around in front of him, he fumbled around inside until he found what he was looking for. “But since they are taking everything, I want to give you something. It is a little dolly. It was given to me by a very wise old lady named Meruba. I know that she would want you to take it.”

  Opening his fingers, he revealed a tiny doll lying in his palm. Small enough to fit in her hand, it was carved from a black material that she did not recognize.

  “It’s very nice. Thank you, sir.”

  Reaching forward, he used very long fingers to brush hair out of her eyes. “You are welcome, child.” He started to rise.

  “What’s it made of? I’ve never seen anything like it before.”

  “It is a kind of glass, but not the glass that is made by people. This kind comes from deep within the earth. Sometimes we find it lying about on the ground where I come from. It takes a good edge and makes fine knives and spearpoints. But your dolly is all smooth and polished. It will not cut you.”

  One of his companions shouted something to him. They had moved on past the house and were waiting for him to catch up. “I have to go now,” he told her. “My friends are calling me.” He paused a moment, then added, “Tell your mommy and daddy to go to whoever is in charge of bad things like this. If they will do that, I have a feeling they might be able to get some of their things back.”

  “Yes sir. I will, sir.” The girl clutched the diminutive black doll to her chest. The volcanic glass was slick and cold and slightly waxy-feeling to the touch.

  The tall, kindly stranger rejoined his companions and they were soon gone from sight. She concentrated on the doll, cooing and murmuring to it. So she did not see her father rise from his knees to charge Proctor Bisgrath angrily, or see the blood fly from his head as an alert soldier caught him a heavy blow from behind with the solid wooden shaft of his pike. She did not see or hear her screaming mother throw herself atop the crumpled, unconscious form, or hear the soldiers laugh as they roughly pulled her away in the direction of the rosebushes that had been her pride and joy.

  Ignoring his minions’ harmless frolic, Bisgrath continued to supervise the plundering until even he was convinced there was nothing more to strip from the dwelling. Content with the day’s work and not a little tired, he ordered the wagons formed up. Obedient soldiers fell into lines on either side of the booty, flanking the two carry-alls. At the Proctor’s directive, they began to move out. The larger wagon would be escorted triumphantly back to the c
ity hall. Its smaller sibling would find itself diverted down a little-used side street, eventually to come to rest in the impressive enclosed courtyard of the majestic mansion of Cuween Bisgrath, Proctor General of Bondressey.

  Tugging on the reins, the Proctor turned to follow the procession. A shimmer of light caught his eye and made him pause. Curious, he turned back and trotted over to the source of the gleam. It lay in the open palm of a little girl.

  Leaning down from the saddle, he smiled unctuously and gestured at the object. “What have you there, child?”

  She replied without looking up at him. “I’m not talking to you. You hurt my mommy and daddy.”

  “Tut now, child. I am only doing my job.”

  “You’re a bad man.”

  “Perhaps, but I’m good at it. So that makes me a good bad man.” Behind him, the wagons were trundling off in the direction of the central city.

  Frowning, she looked up at him. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Yes it does. You’ll understand when you’re older. My, but you’re a pretty little thing. Maybe I’ll come and visit you later.”

  “No!” she responded emphatically.

  “You have your father’s spirit—but I won’t hold that against you.” He leaned a little farther out of the saddle. “May I see that little toy, please? Where did you get it?”

  She turned to point. “A nice man gave it to me. He was funny-looking.”

  Bisgrath followed her outstretched arm, but there was no sign of the untidy foreigners. They had disappeared northward. “An exotic artifact. Perhaps from very far away. How interesting. The carving is very well done. I have quite a collection of art myself, and I have never seen anything exactly like it.” He extended his hand. “Let me see it.”

  “No.” Clutching the dolly in both hands, she pulled away from his reaching fingers.

  Pouting, he withdrew his hand. “I just want to look at it. If you let me look at it, I’ll give you back some of the things the soldiers took.”

  Hesitantly, she unfolded her fingers and looked long and hard at the carving. Then she reached out and up and handed it to him. He turned it over in his fingers, admiring the exquisite detail and the play of light over the lustrous black surface.

  “It’s more accomplished than I thought. Thank you, child.” Jerking on Rune’s reins, he turned to go.

  Behind him, the girl started screaming. “Give it back! You promised, you promised!”

  “Something else you’ll understand when you’re older,” he called back to her. He slipped the fine carving into a jacket pocket, wishing the girl’s mother would take charge of her spawn and shut her up. He disliked screaming. But the mother was in no condition to help her child or anyone else.

  He parted with the main body of soldiers after congratulating them on a morning’s work well done, and not before slipping a little something extra into the palm of the officer in charge. Leaving them to make their way into the city with the larger of the two booty-laden wagons, he turned to escort the other down a different road entirely.

  Capable hands were waiting to unload, as stone-faced servants responded to his return. None smiled at his success, none offered a cheery greeting as he dismounted and climbed the steps that led into the great hall. Those who worked for the Proctor did not smile in his presence lest their expression be misinterpreted. By keeping his staff intimidated, Bisgrath felt he insured their loyalty. It was harder to steal from a master you feared than from one you thought of as harmless.

  Lunch awaited and, much to the relief of the kitchen staff and servers, was pronounced satisfactory by the Proctor. As he left the dining room, Bisgrath mentally totaled the profit he would accrue from the morning’s exertions. A good day’s work all around, he decided.

  Entering the library, he pondered a number of possible sites for the exotic carving. There were several empty alcoves that would serve to highlight its luster, and a place on the main reading table already crowded with fine lapidary work. In the end he decided to stand his newest acquisition on the inlaid reading table by his favorite chair, where he could admire it frequently until, as he always did, he grew bored by it and sought a fresh replacement.

  Putting on his reading glasses and settling himself into the chair, he selected one of several massive ledgers from a low table nearby and opened it on his lap. Since things had gone so smoothly this morning, he had all afternoon in which to ferret out the next subject for persecution. Or rather, he mused as he smiled inwardly, the next blatant violator of the Kingdom of Bondressey’s far too lenient tax laws. Afternoon light pouring through the high, beveled glass windows allowed him to read the fine scrawl without strain.

  In this pleasant and relaxed fashion he passed the better part of an hour, using a pen to put a damning mark beside the names of half a dozen potential miscreants. Feeling a slight weight against his right arm, he brushed at it casually—only to have his fingers make contact with something hard and unyielding.

  Glancing impassively to his right, he found himself staring down at the diminutive glass figurine. Somehow it had fallen against his arm. He frowned, but only momentarily. There was no wind in the room, so it must have been placed at an angle on the end table and fallen over against him. His thoughts focused on the ledger, he absently picked it up and set it back down in the middle of the table, and forgot about it.

  Until, several minutes later, he again felt the weight against his arm.

  Frowning this time, he picked up the carving and placed it, not in the middle, but on the far side of the end table. Mildly irritated with himself, he settled back into the chair and resumed reading. In minutes he had once more forgotten all about the figurine.

  In the silence of the library, where no servant would dare to disturb him, a soft tap-tapping caused him to look up from his malevolent perusal. Following the sound to its source, he turned to his right. His eyes widened and air momentarily paused in its passage through his throat.

  Blank of eye, black of body, the carving was tottering on slow obsidian feet across the tabletop toward him.

  Leaping from the chair, the ledger falling heavily to the floor at his feet, he gaped at the tiny apparition. It promptly changed its direction to a new heading to reflect his rising.

  “What manner of foreign necromancy is this?” There was no one in the library to hear him and the figurine, of course, did not reply. Nor did it pause in its advance.

  “Preposterous manifestation, what are you?” Tightening his lips, he reached out and grabbed the carving. A chill ran through him as he felt it moving in his hand. Searching the room, he quickly found what he was looking for.

  Into the gilt silver box went the ensorcelled figurine. A turn of the key, the click of the latch, and it was secured. Slipping the key into a pocket, a contented Bisgrath returned to his chair. “I’ll attend to you later. I count among my acquaintances many knowledgeable practitioners of the arcane arts. They’ll investigate the spell that motivates you, and we’ll fast put a stop to this unsanctioned meandering.”

  Satisfied, he resumed his seat and, a bit more intently than usual, continued with his reading. Another hour passed, at which point he decided it was time to call a servant to bring some drink. He rose from the chair.

  There seemed to be a weight on his thigh. Looking down, he saw the figurine clinging with tiny but powerful hands to the leg of his pants as it worked its way steadily upwards. And this time, each minute, a perfectly carved eye was glowing a vivid intense yellow.

  With a cry he grabbed the carving and wrenched it free of his leg. Without thinking, he drew back his arm and threw the suddenly hideous little manikin as far and as hard as he could. It slammed into one of the tall windows that lined the library’s west wall. Even before it did so, he found himself wincing. Fine leaded glass was immoderately expensive.

  But the windows were thick and well made, and this one did not crack. Neither did the carving bounce away. As he stared, it adhered to the transparency and, beneat
h his incredulous gaze, began to diffuse into it, glass melting into glass. The figurine grew smaller and smaller as a black stain spread across the center of the window. It continued to disperse and disseminate until it had disappeared completely.

  Realizing that he was breathing hard enough to make his lungs ache, Bisgrath forced himself to calm down. Approaching the window, he reached up to feel gingerly of the place where the carving had struck. There was no sign that anything was amiss. The thick glass was not chipped, and even up close there was no sign of the corrupt foreign blackness that had appeared to diffuse within the material.

  Quite astonishing, he thought. He would have to inquire of learned acquaintances as to the meaning of the episode. Meanwhile, there was work to be done. But first, something to drink.

  Using a pull cord to summon a servant, he once more returned to his chair and to his malicious scrutiny of the ledger’s contents. Finding several more prospective victims helped to relax him and set his mind at ease. When the servant knocked, he barked an irritable “Enter!” without looking up from his work. The choosing of unwitting innocents to savage never failed to raise his spirits.

  Entering silently, the servitor approached with tray in hand—only to signal his entrance with an abrupt metallic crash that caused Bisgrath to look up sharply. “What the blazes do—” He halted in mid-accusation. The servant was not looking at him. An expression of utter terror was imprinted on his face. The silver tray lay forgotten at his feet, the contents of the pitcher it had held having spilled out across the immaculate hardwood floor.

  Puzzled, Bisgrath turned to follow the man’s gaze, whereupon he whipped off the reading glasses and flung them aside, unable to believe the evidence of his own eyes.

  Peering out at him from the window and occupying most of its height was an outline of the black glass carving, its eyes burning like oil lamps on a particularly dark and chill night.

  With a stuttering scream, the servant fled the room. Rising and backing slowly away from the window, Bisgrath fumbled along the wall for the weapons that were mounted there. Arraigned in a decorative semicircle, they included a great number of killing devices more suitable for use by common infantry than a cultivated gentleman like himself. That did not stop him from wrenching a short, heavy war ax from its holding clips.