The Wicked Years Complete Collection

by Gregory Maguire

  Over dinner—a noxious potato porridge and sandwiches on stale bread—the subject returned to Shiz. Naturally. Brrr learned a good deal more about the Animal Adverse laws enacted during the Wizardic reign. Early on, when professional Animals could still quit their positions and freely cross the borders, Professor Lenx had fled too quickly to liquidate a sizable portfolio held by a Shiz fiduciary house. He assumed the funds had since been co-opted by the Wizard’s financial ministers, but he had no way of knowing.

  “I daren’t write to enquire. I don’t care to give my location away, you see. Old-fashioned reticence about money matters, and cautious that way,” said the Boar.

  “No one would call you cowardly, old darling,” said Mister Mikko, which sounded like a riposte in a disagreement between them that stretched back years. “A little mustard on your cheese butty? I think so. Let me spread it for you.”

  Perhaps it was a thrill of sympathy for Professor Lenx having to endure that particular slur—cowardly!—or maybe Brrr was simply relieved not to be the target of the criticism himself. He found himself saying, “I actually had a profile in Shiz once—of a sort—and of course I am now formally a Namory, by order of Lady Glinda.”

  “A Namory! And you didn’t mention it till now. You are too humble, Sir Brrr,” said Professor Lenx. “May I humble you further with another spoonful of pottage?”

  “There’s a shortage of certain kinds of labor in the Emerald City these days,” said Brrr. “Domestic work isn’t yet open to Animals again, it seems, but there are other opportunities. The WOO is history, gentlemen. Your old stomping ground, Shiz, has become ringed with factories. I understand Dixxi House to the north of Shiz is begging for a workforce. The Animal Adverse laws are greatly relaxed, and the EC is making all sorts of overtures to exiled Animals.”

  “Well, we’re far too old to enter the workforce,” said Mister Mikko.

  “And I’m crippled,” said Professor Lenx. “Not to mention that my field was mathematics. I specialized in diluted equations.”

  “Did you say deluded equations?” Mister Mikko posed this piously.

  “Ha-ha, exceedingly ha. What a robust sense of humor you have. Too bad it isn’t equaled by your sense of history. Or perhaps you taught histrionics, I quite forget, as of course one would tend to.”

  As much to smooth over the comedy of professional sniping as for any other reason, Brrr said, “If the EC’s ministers of labor are really interested in wooing back the Animal workforce, they would be smart to free up any funds appropriated from Animals who had to leave under the Wizard’s ‘courtesies.’”

  “We didn’t have to leave,” said Mister Mikko. “I did teach history, young Sir Brrr, and I know that much. We could quite as freely have chosen to go to prison, you know. That option was never denied us. So we are considered to have departed of our own volition.”

  “You know what I mean,” said the Lion. “The banks could institute an amnesty of sorts. If Animals were permitted again to invest and profit, they might be more likely to lend their shoulders to the wheel of industrial progress. The powers that be should consider this.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t trust the current administration any more than I trusted the Wizard of Oz, may he rot in hell and all babies sleep well, thank you very much.” Professor Lenx worked at a bit of rind with his tongue and then spat the mess out of the side of his bristly mouth.

  “Tut-tut. And I just swept that dung heap,” said Mister Mikko, and spat in concert.

  “Oh, the Scarecrow’s not smart enough to be devious,” said the Lion.

  “Stupidity is as dangerous as cleverness,” retorted the Ape.

  “More so,” said the Boar.

  Brrr looked at the two of them, noting their infirmities, their indignities, their brave courtesies to him. He didn’t like the old codgers, nothing so drastic as that. But if he had been of a certain class of urban Animal, he might have gone to Shiz University himself, once upon a time. He felt a tenderness at the idea. They might have been his very professors. For a moment he pretended they were, and he was a devoted student who had made good in the world, and was looking after their interests, the old dears, now that they couldn’t manage much for themselves.

  “I attended a few lectures now and then,” he told them, playing at the fantasy. Well, attending lectures open to the public, that was true enough. “I once had a private practice trading in small original etchings under glass, the occasional watercolor. I grew to know quite a bit about old paper, and the fugitive qualities of certain pigments…”

  “Oh, you don’t say! But how bizarre,” said Mister Mikko. “I don’t suppose you ever came across a Miss Quasimoda? She was a White Ape who taught drawing from life. Quite scandalous.”

  “With you involved, I shouldn’t wonder,” intoned Professor Lenx.

  “I mean the drawing from life,” huffed Mister Mikko. “The very idea!”

  “No, no, I never did,” said Brrr hurriedly. “I don’t remember anyone’s name from that time, except for a headmistress of one of the women’s halls. Someone named…Madame…Madame Morrible.”

  The silence could have been scraped with a putty knife.

  “She was in cahoots with the Wizard,” said Professor Lenx shortly. “That’s what was said in the SCR, anyway.”

  “Of course she was, she and that little tiktok agent of hers. Gramitic.”

  “Grommetik.”

  “All due respect. I am certain it was Gramatic. Gramitic.”

  “Your certainty has more bare spots than your scalp does.”

  Mister Mikko bared his old teeth at his colleague and turned back to Brrr. “Don’t mind Professor Lenx; his mind is going. I don’t suppose you ever came across a Doctor Dillamond? A Goat with expertise in several fields, history and science among them.”

  “The history of science,” murmured Professor Lenx. “The science of history.”

  “I never did. And I’m sorry for mentioning Madame Morrible. I didn’t meet her personally. She presided over teas for the visitors—community relations, that sort of thing, a town-and-gown tension-mitigation scheme. She lectured once or twice. I don’t remember the topic.”

  He did, though. The Animal Adverse laws, and the Wizard’s mercy.

  “Doctor Dillamond,” said Professor Lenx. “A fine scholar.”

  “And an early admirer of Elphaba Thropp’s, as I recall,” added Mister Mikko.

  Brrr took the chance that was presenting itself. “I don’t suppose you remember an occasion in which an infant Lion cub was brought into a laboratory in Shiz? For some kind of treatment?”

  Professor Lenx and Mister Mikko exchanged glances.

  “Much was done that is best not to remember,” said Mister Mikko softly.

  “I think I might have been that Lion cub.”

  A grave silence as, in the next room, a few coals fell from their little heap.

  “We might all have been that Lion cub,” said the Boar.

  The Ape got up to clear. The cups trembled in his hands. When he left the room, the Boar leaned forward. “We did not approve,” he whispered. “Please don’t speak of this again. He gets very upset, the old fool.”

  “It was my life,” said Brrr.

  “And this is ours, what’s left of it. Spare us, and save yourself. You’re young enough. Look: You have survived. Bless you, dear sir. Bless you, and shut up.”

  As Mister Mikko cleared away, Brrr pushed Professor Lenx’s cart into the front parlor, where it took up half the room. The Lion stirred up the fire while the Boar sunk into a reverie about Madame Morrible and the last golden years of an integrated university life. When Brrr settled in a ratty old upholstered chair ( just covered with silvery Ape hairs), he didn’t speak but thought about Animals in exile and the need for a modern workforce in the factories.

  There was an opportunity here. Staring him in the face. Rehabilitation of a sort, if he worked it right. If he had the mettle to do it.

  During afters, Brrr made his proposal o
ver a bitterroot sherry. He offered his services as a go-between. He would return to Shiz and present himself to the appropriate authorities as Professor Lenx’s agent. He would ask 15 percent of any funds he was able to locate and arrange to have released. Everything notarized and formalized.

  “I know you’re young,” said Mister Mikko. “Well, youngish. But have you really the nerve to return to Loyal Oz?”

  “I am a Namory,” he reminded them. “I once got a medal from the Wizard of Oz himself. And for a time I counted the Scarecrow, who sits upon the Throne, a personal friend.”

  “We move in lofty circles, yet we wear such a nobly frayed jacket,” said the Boar, as gentle as he was wry.

  Brrr pressed his case. “I ought at least to be able to get an audience with him, if the banks give me a hard time.”

  Professor Lenx couldn’t control his trembling as Mister Mikko, with a more capable hand, labored over a contract engaging Brrr as a financial agent.

  “Assuming on the Loyal Oz side of the border that the Shiz bank honors its terms, will the Eminent Thropp here in Munchkinland allow the funds transfer?” asked Brrr. “I don’t know much about monetary policy. And who is the current Eminent Thropp now, anyway?”

  “With the deaths of both Elphaba and Nessarose, the title of Eminent Thropp ought to have reverted to Shell,” said Mister Mikko. “I mean, given the absence of the issue of the women of the line. For, like the descent of Ozmas, the Eminenceships descend with a matrilineal bias. But Shell is said to be a playboy in Emerald City gambling parlors. Also a regular visitor to girlie arcades. He’s shown no inclination to give up the high life and waltz back here to govern a rogue state. One suspects his political sympathies, if he’s ever developed any, would have conformed with the Wizard’s, anyway.”

  “Who else has emerged?” said Brrr. “I mean, to pick up the county where Nessarose left it when she died?”

  “Bit of a local scrabble,” said Mister Mikko, “but if we had the money you might bring us, we’d put it on the Eminent Pastor in Old Pastoria. Her name is Mumbly.”

  “Her name is Mammly.”

  “Her name is immaterial. Mumbly, Mommy, will you let me finish, old darling? She keeps to herself. She’s distantly related to Pastorius, who was the last Ozma Regent before the Wizard’s takeover. She probably has the most legitimacy to stand up to the Emerald City in case of an attempt at reannexation, though I don’t know if she would. I don’t think she has the conviction of exceptionalism that Nessarose possessed.”

  “We use the same currency, in any event,” added the Boar, “so how could there be a prohibition against our reclaiming our retirement funds?”

  Brrr left them to their nattering and sunk into a haze of anticipation. Could this work? A legitimate job serving two populations at once? If he helped to resolve the labor crisis, surely that would confer upon him a legitimacy that had hitherto eluded him in human society?

  It had been several years since he’d left the Emerald City. He could return in triumph, circling north to Shiz first, of course, to begin the negotiations.

  He fell asleep in front of the fire and dreamed of gratitude.

  IN THE MORNING, Brrr managed to cadge from the two old bachelors an advance on future earnings—a sack of fifteen mettanite florins. With mounting hopes he made his way back overland to Shiz. Back from the farthest habitable corner of Munchkinland, back to life. Scheming all the while. He’d spend a third of the money on a new wardrobe, first; then secure a pied-à-terre in a respectable neighborhood. Someplace better than Ampleton Quarters: that was important. People would notice.

  For a week, no more, he would bring himself out to cafés and concerts. He’d condescend to recognize none of his former associates. It would be enough to be seen. Brrr’s back. Brrr’s back in town. Delicious. He’d returned: a Lion unafraid of human society. Let it be said of him that he was the first of the Animals to emerge from hiding. He’s the first, you know. Who’d have thought it of him?

  Let it be said that he held his head high.

  His mane is a ruff of bronze. Adversity has strengthened him! Let that be said, too.

  His knees were shaking, though, behind the panels of his red velvet greatcoat—cut intentionally long to hide just such a syndrome—when he got up the nerve, at last, to present himself to the governor general of the banking house identified by Professor Lenx.

  He gave his name as Sir Brrr, Namory of the Palace of the Throne of Oz. He didn’t specify his rank nor identify his district, which proved a smart move. The governor general apparently thought it impolite to enquire. (An Animal Namory was an aberration in and of itself, so far, and perhaps, Brrr speculated, the GG of the bank didn’t care to be seen ignorant of the conventions, however newly established.)

  Somewhat shocked by Sir Brrr’s request, the banking officials couldn’t quickly enough find out a reason to reject his petition. In the end it was a matter of deciding what fee to apply against the withdrawal sum for the backbreaking work of having kept Professor Lenx’s deposit secure all these long years, while said absentminded Professor had gone lollygagging about without so much as a postcard over the holidays.

  When they announced the amount that they would take—30 percent—Brrr was shocked. He understood at once that he had undersold himself as to the percentage of his own fee. But how easy to exaggerate by 5 percent what the bank had charged, and pocket the difference. He was worth it. Without his skill at negotiation and his nerve, the Animals back in Stonespar End would be getting nothing.

  Carrying a letter of assurance, Brrr traveled back to Munchkinland. He avoided the high road, fearful of bandits—he was carrying cold cash—so it took a while to arrive. In the time he’d been gone, Mister Mikko had suffered a viral infection of some sort and lost all his teeth, and he refused to come out of his room.

  For his part, Professor Lenx was irate to learn that his investment, far from growing, had lost 50 percent of its original value. But to have some cash was better than having none. He thanked Brrr profusely with tears and scratchy embraces, and introduced him to a neighbor from Three Dead Trees, a crippled old Tsebra, whose family also had a sizeable trust fund in a Shiz cash emporium…

  Thus did Brrr’s career as a professional adjustor of personal finance—his own—root and thrive. He took new digs in Shiz at the top of a converted palace. He had a private lift and he hired a personal valet—a human, what a delicious touch—and from his salon at night he could see the glittering lights of the banks reflected in the black waters of the Suicide Canal. The pelt of a tiger was draped across the piano.

  • 7 •

  A LION COULD move in circles that others could not. Once he established himself as a professional arbiter, Sir Brrr began to demand—and get—the more useful sort of testimonials. Letters from the proper officials that permitted his passage across the Oz-Munchkinland border at the checkpoint called Munchkin Mousehole. A good thing, too. Much safer than the off-road scurry that black-market enterprise favored. Still, the fear of highway robbery remained strong, since the wheels of the rented phaeton had bronze rims that rang out an alarm—the progress of money over here!—as they struck the yellow brick paving.

  Brrr’s valet doubled as a chauffeur. He carried a cosh and a pistol and looked like a bandit himself, which was perhaps useful. His nose ran constantly and he seemed to enjoy his toddy at all hours of the day and evening, which Brrr overlooked since everything else seemed in order. He was called Flyswatter.

  The need for Brrr to approach his old chum the Scarecrow in the Emerald City had never arisen. A good thing, too, as the Scarecrow had stepped down or been stepped over. Indeed, Flyswatter—speaking for the demimonde—insisted that the Scarecrow had disappeared. The power in the EC now devolved upon the improbable person of Shell Thropp, who had boasted publicly of his estrangement from his famous and powerful sisters, Nessarose and Elphaba. And then he had ordained himself Emperor.

  On what authority? He’d had a conversion. The Unnamed God had cho
sen him to lead Oz. The Unnamed God had selected in Shell a servant and a steward of this great people, this deserving nation, this heap of goodness, this blessed verdant pasture ringed by stinging deserts…well, the rhetoric was almost as bountiful as the moral surcease with which Oz credited itself.

  Brrr took little notice, except to be glad he hadn’t needed to approach the Palace of the Emperor of Oz. Instead, he involved himself in more traditional credits of the double-entry bookkeeping sort.

  The banks didn’t like seeing their deposits dwindle, but those in the know were always muttering about the cost of an impending military strike. Who could say when deposits might be impounded by the Throne for the purpose of funding the army? If the banks could charge 30 percent for every withdrawal by an Animal and then use magical accounting to disappear their earnings as thoroughly as Ozma herself had been disappeared, they were in some ways ahead.

  Any in-house scruples were easily suppressed. A certain Loyalist strain had never accepted that Shiz banks should be holding Animal funds in the first place. Tainted!

  So the banks prospered in the short term, and hid their gains; the Animals received some capital after a long period of penury; and Brrr thrived. His own account accumulated like—well, like magic. He paid off old debts involving Ampleton Quarters, and he invested shrewdly in the less gaudy of Hiiri Furkenstael’s gilded engravings. Not for trade, but for his own pleasure.

  The Lion ran into Piarsody Scallop one afternoon at the Fine Engraving Exchange this side of Ticknor Circus. She had not aged well, growing purple in the face and kitted out in an unsuitably girlish gown, all white ruches and pink furbelows. Her boot was undone because she suffered from elephant ankle. The malady forced one shoulder lower to the floor than the other, but Miss Scallop bolted upright with surprise to see him. She came stumping across the sawdusty floor with both hands flung in the air as if she were about to hurl a watermelon. He cut her.