THE GOD BOX

by Barry B. Longyear

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  Barry B. Longyear's

  THE GOD BOX

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  Enchanteds

  Enchanteds Publishing

  PO Box 100, New Sharon ME 04955

  www.Enchanteds.net

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  The God Box is a work of fiction. The content of this work is either a product of the author's invention or is used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons or events is coincidental.

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  Enchanteds Kindle edition copyright © 1989, 2000, 2012 by Barry B. Longyear. All rights reserved. This work was originally published by NAL/Penguin (1989), the Authors Guild Edition trade paperback was released in 2000.

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  Manufactured in the United States of America

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  To Jean for being there

  To Georgius of Lydda for making it work

  And to Paula for the suggestion.

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  FOREWORD

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  Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Korvas. K-o-r-v-a-s. There are no throat-clearing or tongue-bending exercises here: my name is pronounced just the way it is spelled.

  Ah, I see a skeptical eyebrow or two. They appear to ask, "Korvas the what? Why does this fellow not identify himself as Korvas the rug merchant, Korvas the magician, or, at the very least, Korvas of Iskandar or whatever city or village it is from which he comes?" What nefarious personage is this, you whisper to yourselves, who must hide his rank, trade, and place of origin in the manner of a thief or assassin?

  Be calm. I give only my name because time is valuable. I have only these few moments with you, and it would burden our time together to list all of my accomplishments, occupations, ranks, and places of origin. For I have been all of these: rug merchant, magician, thief, soldier, assassin, and more. I have been pauper, priest, and prince, and I have been and have been from everywhere.

  I see your lips moving. They say, "If nothing else, Korvas is certainly a great liar." Perhaps you are correct. I have been that, too, and nothing less than that has rescued my giblets on more than one occasion. However, should I introduce myself as Korvas the Liar, don't you think it might put a shade on my social standing? When I offer my counsel at court, which on occasion I do, can you not picture His Majesty, Ticron VII, asking, "And who offers me this vital wisdom?" That bloodsucking parasite at the royal family's elbow, Tretia the bloody horror, would take a moment from picking her teeth with the raw bones of newly born babies to inform the King, "Why, that is merely Korvas the Liar. Pay you no attention to his words."

  Look at how restless you've become! Several of you are thinking, "He is not such a great liar at that if he is so clumsy as to claim an advisory relationship with the King. I can stand and listen to lies cut from whole cloth, but lies still on the spindle or still growing on the sheep's back are not worthy of attention."

  "Yet," says another, "hear what he openly calls Her Blessed Self, Tretia, First Priestess of the Heterins. How can he do this without fear of spies or the vengeance of the fanatic Heterin Guard?"

  "Bah, it's just that he's a liar and a fool. Smell for camel piss on his breath. He looks drunk. Perhaps he is only mad and will start drooling and twitching in a moment. Already he gibbers."

  I see I have already strained your patience. Perhaps I should show you my bottles. These huge, black, silk covered flasks are my treasures, and please do not be startled by what you see. Just let me pull the drawstring, and—

  Oh dear, did it startle you? You must forgive me. A headless corpse viewed so close to mealtime is a bit unsettling, isn't it? Before I cover it again, though, please note the well-developed musculature, the huge, gold-studded sword still gripped by the corpse's massive left hand, and the red tattoo over the heart of the corpse. For those of you who cannot see it clearly, it is of a great red flame. Of course you recognize the insignia of the Heterin Guard's elite fraternity, Soldiers of the Fire. Look at that sword, those muscles, that tattoo, and can you have any doubt that these are the remains of Captain Shadows?

  I heard a few gasps. I certainly did. There are those here who know of Captain Shadows, and to know him is to fear him. But I hear another whisper—no point in denying it, fellow. I heard you and I will answer your question. What if this is just a corpse snatched from some graveyard, beheaded, tattooed, and dropped into a jug along with a sword? Does it have no head because too many know the real face of Captain Shadows?

  First, please notice the etching on this magnificent bottle. Those of you who can recognize the mark of Ticron VII's household will see it there. Now, let me draw the silk from this smaller bottle —Ah, I see I have again caught you unprepared. You must forgive me. Observe this head, my friends, and look upon the face used by countless mothers to frighten countless little children at their bedtimes. I have the pleasure of introducing to you Pagas Shadows, Captain of the Heterin Guard.

  See how the eyes blink and the jaw snaps? He's still alive in his spirit bath. Watch what happens when I knock on the bottle. There, see how the lips snarl and the jaws snap? Isn't that simply delightful?

  Perhaps, now, I have your attention. Korvas, your humble servant, may not be all things; but he is something, you are thinking. Who is it that has on display the decapitated corpse of Captain Shadows? Who is it that can, with impunity, stand here and say that Tretia, First Priestess of the Heterin Temple, murdered her own mother? I don't say that she did and I don't say that she didn't. I do say that I can accuse her of it without fear—

  Hold on there. No harm will come to you for listening to me. You are under my protection. "Oh," I hear someone ask, "and what is the protection of Korvas the Liar worth? When I stand in front of the King's magistrate accused of treasonous conspiracy, what will they say when I disclose my great trump: that I am under the protection of Korvas the Bodysnatcher? They will wear out nine whipmasters on my bleeding back."

  Fear not. Let me cover these distracting bottles again, and I shall explain. —Look at him snarl! He is certainly lively tonight, isn't he? There. Perhaps the good captain can sleep beneath the silk. Perhaps not. I have never caught him napping. He might always be awake. Let me peek—yes, he's awake. Hello, hello. My, what a snarl.

  He's so angry he's beside himself! Yes, please forgive me.

  As I remarked, I am no bodysnatcher. These bottles and their contents were the gifts to me from none other than Tretia her bloody self. Now that my bottles are covered, I shall tell you about myself, about a great hero, a beautiful maiden, a great villain, and how Captain Shadows became my present associate earning me two coppers a peek.

  —What say you, sir? What do I have beneath this third piece of black silk? I was just getting to that. Are you certain you want to see? What grisly thing might it be that Korvas saves for last? Could it be another head? Perhaps it is only a bowl of intestines.

  Fear not, friends, for the object that lies beneath this silk is and can be only good. It is the reason why we are all here. This object is a gift of the gods, an item invested with great powers. This is not the instrument of some mere wizard or magician, however. This is the power of the gods themselves.

  —Hold your accusations back there, fellow! I do not lie and I am not about to sell you any medicines! In fact, I cannot lie. If I should tell a single lie during my following narrative, may all of the bolted fires of Heaven itself descend and strike me dead this instant—

  —Now, why are you all moving away? Come back here. Please, come back. I said that to calm you,
not to frighten you.

  Now, where was I? Ah, yes. The power of the gods.

  Let me remove the silk. I see by your puzzled looks that this thing has fallen far short of your expectations. For those of you in back, the object is a small chest of four drawers built into a roundish cabinet of dark wood. It looks almost like a tiny barrel. It has some scrolling for ornamentation, and there is a carved ivory handle on top. Each drawer can be pulled open from either end, and none of the drawers look large enough to serve any useful purpose, some of you are thinking, I'm sure. The entire thing might be nothing but a child's toy. Can this contain the power of the gods?

  It is the truth. These drawers might be tiny, but what if they were filled with gold reels? What if they were filled with diamonds? That would impress you, would it not? What if I told you that what these drawers contain is something much dearer to you than either gold or diamonds? What if what these drawers hold could tap you into the wisdom and the power of the gods themselves?

  More important than that, what if I told you that the magic in this object is available to anyone who chooses to use it? You do not need to seek the intervention of a priest or wizard. This piece of magic is for anyone who wants it. However, to want it requires a certain degree of bravery, as well as a peculiar bent of mind. Who among you has the courage, humility, and sense of mystery to try it?

  How much does one cost? What a strange question to ask. It is an even stranger question to answer: It costs nothing and everything. You must invest no coin, but you will hand over much of what you are. It is not a price, my friend. The gods are not merchants beseeching you to toss them a few coppers in exchange for their favors.

  Yes, fellow, I'm certain it sounds confusing. But never fear. I shall explain, for there are secrets involving the use of such a thing that you must know before building or purchasing your own.

  —Yes, my friends, you heard correctly. You can buy these or build them, and they all work as well as this one, if you know the secret. Save your expressions of disbelief until after you have heard my tale and have witnessed the great powers contained in these drawers. I promise you great magic of your own. If I do not deliver, I will willingly refund any investment you have made. So, hear me out.

  I shall now retire behind this curtain to prepare my narrative. Meanwhile, my assistant Ruuter will pass among you with a cup for your coppers—I'm sorry back there. Yes, you will find the doors are all locked. Some of you may notice from Ruuter's rather powerful aura that he is of the Omergunt tribe. As most of you know, Omergunts customarily cultivate hideous body odors. In fact, it is one of their highest traditions. If you would like him to move more quickly through the rows, please have your coppers ready.

  Until then, my friends.

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  My story does not start very long ago. I was then, as you see me now, a handsome figure of a man. From inclination, rather than necessity, I was always interested in the possibility of learning more efficient ways of increasing my fortune. Gold is not my sole motivation in life, I assure you, but the reasons I do things do make an occasional stopover in that neighborhood. On one such an occasion was my visit to the Omergunts and Oghar the Valiant, Chief of the Omergunts —but I am getting ahead of myself.

  A few days before on my piece of the square at the Iskandar Bazaar, for I could not afford a stall, there was a lesser magician named Jorkis who was shopping for a flying carpet. I had the usual weaves imported from the sleazier districts of Iskandar's blemished jewel bearing somewhat untruthful labels from as far away as the exotic kingdom of Ahmrita. What eventually transpired concerning this alleged magician, by the way, was not entirely my fault. After all, the fellow was shopping for a carpet any fool would expect to cost thousands of reels. Here he was in the market square shopping with a purse holding barely enough coins to weigh down a mosquito. I believe at least a portion of the blame should rest upon his shoulders.

  Be that as it may, this magician was searching among my carpets, and when his back was turned I blew upon a silent whistle. A carpet, one of the better blue designs on loan from the Zivenese, began twitching.

  "Great Yhandra!" he cried as he invoked the ancient Itkahn goddess of flight. Inwardly I smiled, for I knew I already had my fingers in his purse. As I silently whistled my signals, the carpet crawled around left, then right. "Yhandra herself is in this carpet, Korvas."

  "She is there, true enough," I answered. "She only awaits a great magician such as yourself, Jorkis, to bring her chariot to life."

  "Then the carpet would fly?"

  "Fly? That is such an ordinary word—such a feeble word." I looked toward the sky and pointed toward a cloud. "Say instead that it would soar." I pointed with the movement of my hand at an imaginary flight far above consisting of dives, loops, and great reaches of height and speed. I was about to blow the signals for the rug to roll and wrap itself when Dorc, a local fool the merchants use to send messages, ran up to us.

  "Master Korvas, I have—"

  I quickly hid my whistle. "Silence, Dorc! I am with a customer." I turned to the magician saying, "My apologies, Jorkis."

  "What is this?" Jorkis's voice sounded quite puzzled.

  "I beg your pardon?"

  I looked at where the magician was pointing and saw about fifty of my trained mahrzak beetles running from under the carpet pell-mell into the square. I could not spare the time to explain them away to Jorkis. It had taken me years to train those bugs, and of course I ran after them.

  "Hold, sir! Madam, watch where you step!" I confess, my composure was already threadbare just wondering what Jorkis would do, but suddenly a madman from one of the market stalls came at me with a horrible contrivance surely designed to be used by Quaag the Torturer in the King's dungeon.

  It was a huge drum run by a handle. As the drum rolled. it rumbled after the manner of an earthquake. It quite stopped me in my tracks. Before I could get moving again, the creature had run his contraption over my precious mahrzak beetles.

  I was aghast. I was ruined. Who wants to buy a carpet that just lies there? To add more distress to my portion, I thought of the beetles I had known well enough to name. There were Benthia and her children, Nab and Tib, that I had nursed through the croup, brave Bomba who lost a leg to a hungry mantis and who still carried his share of the rug using the tiny peg leg I had whittled for him, ancient Hadrubba who was the first to come to me after I had been cut down from the whipping post and had nothing. . . .

  I was devastated. Before I could recover, the creature with the torture instrument returned, his face beaming. "There is no charge, brother, for my services."

  "Charge? Charge! Charge for what, you maniac? And don't you brother me, you crawling, muck-sucking, son of a Vulot slug!"

  The color came to the fellow's face. "I find your words a trifle offensive, ragman."

  "Ragman? Ragman? I am Korvas the rug merchant, and I sell the finest weaves in this or any other universe. Just who and what are you?"

  "I am Obushawn the Shrubber. I am a merchant, as well."

  "Merchant," I sneered. "What merchant rolls about on such a torture instrument?"

  He laughed at me, and I would have throttled him had he not placed that thing between himself and my aching fingers. "Brother Korvas, this is no torture instrument. I sell these articles. This is a lawn roller."

  "Lawn roller?" I looked at the thing, the surface of its drum stained with the corpses of my faithful beetles. "What is it for?"

  "Why, it is for rolling lawns."

  I shook my head and laughed at him. "Do I look as though I have hay in my ears, fellow? Just why, madman, would anyone want to roll his lawn? There would be nothing left but mud, and the grass would die from lack of sun."

  "No, Korvas. Rolling means to flatten," he attempted to explain.

  "No, it doesn't," I disagreed. "A roller rolls; a flattener flattens."
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  Obushawn sighed and nodded. "Very well, it is a lawn flattener. It's for flattening lawns."

  "I see no purpose in it. If I wanted a flat lawn, that's what I would have planted in the first place. I think you are a failure at business, you obviously drink to excess and beat your wife, dog, and children, you steal from the temple and blind beggars, and are most likely well on your way to being put away in a home. I do not want to talk to you anymore. Go away."

  I turned back to my place of business to find the magician Jorkis, as well as his golden reels, gone. In his place was the fool Dorc. This fellow groveled to excess. "Forgive me, Master Korvas! Forgive me!" he begged.