Crackpot Palace

by Jeffrey Ford

  Inside, the guards dispersed and left Toler standing at the head of a hall with a vaulted ceiling, all fashioned from blue limestone. People came and went quietly, keeping their distance but stealing glances. Eventually, he was approached by a very old man, diminutive of stature, with the snout and mottled skin of a toad. When the little fellow spoke, he croaked, “A pleasure, sir,” and offered his wet hand as a sign of welcome.

  Toler took it with a shiver. “And you are?” he asked.

  “Councilor Greppen. Follow me.” The stranger led on down the vast hall, padding along at a weary pace on bare, flat feet. The slap of his soles echoed into the distance.

  “May I ask what manner of creature you are?” said Toler.

  “A man, of course,” said the councilor. “And you?”

  “A man.”

  “No, no, from what I hear you are Death’s own Angel and will one day turn the world to coral.”

  “What kind of councilor can you be if you believe everything you hear?” said Toler.

  Greppen puffed out his cheeks and laughed; a shrewd, wet sound. He shuffled toward the left and turned at another long hall, a line of magnificent fountains running down its center. “The Hall of Tears,” he croaked, and they passed through glistening mist.

  As Toler followed from hall to hall, he gradually adopted the old man’s pace. The journey was long, but time suddenly had no bearing. The swordsman studied the people who passed, noticed the placement of the guard, marveled at the colors of the fish in the fountains, the birds that flew overhead, the distant glass ceiling through which the full moon stared in. As if suddenly awakened, he came to at the touch of the councilor’s damp hand on his arm.

  “We have arrived,” said Greppen.

  Toler looked around. He was on a balcony that jutted off the side of the palace. The stars were bright and there was a cold breeze, just the kind he’d wished for when heading north from Weilawan. He took a seat on a simple divan near the edge of the balcony, and listened as Greppen’s footfalls grew faint. He closed his eyes and wondered if this was his lodging for the night. The seat was wonderfully comfortable and he leaned back into it.

  A moment passed, perhaps an hour, he wasn’t sure, before he opened his eyes. When he did, he was surprised to see something floating toward the balcony. It was no bird. He blinked and it became clear in the resplendent starlight. It was a woman, dressed in fine golden robes, seated in a wooden chair, like a throne, gliding toward him out of the night. When she reached the balcony and hovered above him, he stood to greet her.

  “The Coral Heart,” she said as her chair settled down across from the divan. “You may be seated.”

  Toler bowed slightly before sitting.

  “I am Lady Maltomass,” she said.

  The swordsman was intoxicated by the sudden scent of lemon blossoms, and then by the Lady’s eyes—large and luminous. No matter how he scrutinized her gaze, he could not discern their color. At the corners of her lips there was the very slightest smile. Her light brown hair was braided and strung with beads of jade. There was a thin jade collar around her neck, and from there it was a quick descent to the path between her breasts and the intricately brocaded golden gown.

  “Ismet Toler,” he finally said.

  “I grant you permission to stay this night in the palace,” she said.

  “Thank you,” he said. There was an awkward pause and then he asked, “Who makes your furniture?”

  She laughed. “The chair, yes. My father was a great scholar. By way of his research, he discovered it beneath the ruins of an abbey at Cardeira-davu.”

  “I didn’t think the religious dabbled in magic,” said Toler.

  “Who’s to say it’s not the work of God?”

  The swordsman nodded. “And your councilor, Greppen? Another miracle?”

  “Noble Greppen,” said the Lady.

  “Pardon my saying, Lady Maltomass, but he appears green about the gills.”

  “There’s no magic in it,” she said. “His is a race of people who grew out of the swamp. They have a different history than we do, but the same humanity.”

  “And what is your story?” said Toler. “Are you magic or miracle?”

  She smiled and looked away from him. “I’ll ask the questions,” she said. “Is that the Coral Heart at your side?”

  “Yes,” he said and moved to draw the sword from its sheath.

  “That won’t be necessary,” she said. “I see the coral from here.”

  “Most people prefer not to see the blade,” he said.

  “And pardon my asking, Ismet Toler, but how many have you slain with it?”

  “Enough,” he said.

  “Is that a declaration of remorse?”

  “Remorse was something I felt for the first thousand.”

  “You’re a droll swordsman.”

  “Is that a compliment?” he asked.

  “No,” said Lady Maltomass. “I hear you have a tulpa.”

  “Yes, my man, Garone.”

  To Toler’s left, there was a disturbance in the air, which became a pillar of smoke that swirled and coalesced into the hooded servant.

  “Garone, I present to you the Lady Maltomass,” said Toler, and swept his arm in her direction. The tulpa bowed and then disappeared.

  “Very interesting,” she said.

  “Not a flying chair, but I try,” he said.

  “Well, I also have a tulpa,” said the Lady.

  “No,” said Toler.

  “Mamresh,” she said, and in an instant, there appeared, just to the right of the flying chair, the presence of a woman. She was naked and powerfully built. “A warrior,” thought the swordsman. His only other impression before she disappeared was of the deep red color of her voluminous hair.

  “You surprise me,” he said to the Lady.

  “If you’ll stay tomorrow,” she said, “I’ll show you something I think you’ll be interested in. Meet me among the willows in the garden after noon.”

  “I’m already there,” he said.

  She smiled as the chair rose slowly above the balcony. It turned in midair and then floated out past the railing. “Good night, Ismet Toler,” she called over her shoulder.

  As the chair disappeared into the dark, Greppen approached. He led the swordsman to a spacious room near the balcony. The councilor said nothing but lit a number of candles and then called good night as he pushed the door closed behind him.

  Toler undressed, weary from travel and the aftereffects of the drug that was Lady Maltomass. He lay down with a sigh, and then summoned his servant. The tulpa appeared at the foot of the bed.

  “Garone, while the palace is sleeping, I want you to search around and see what you can discover about the Lady. A mysterious woman. I want to know everything about her. Take caution, though, she also has a tulpa.” Then he wrapped his right hand around the sheath of the Coral Heart, clasped the grip with his left, and fell asleep to dream of kissing Lady Maltomass beneath the willows.

  Toler arrived early to the gardens the following day. The entrance led through a long grape arbor thick with vines and dangling fruit. This opened into an enormous area sectioned into symmetrical plots of ground, and in each, stretching off into the distance, beds of colorful flowers and pungent herbs. Their aromas mixed in the atmosphere and the scent confused him for a brief time. Everywhere around him were bees and butterflies and members of Greppen’s strange race, weeding, watering, fertilizing. The swordsman asked one where the willows were, and the toad man pointed down a narrow path into the far distance.

  It was past noon when he arrived amid the stand of willows next to a pond with a fountain at its center. He discovered an ancient stone bench, partially green with mold, and sat upon it, peering through the mesh of whiplike branches at sunlight glistening on the water. There was a cool breeze and orange birds darted about, quietly chirping.

  “Garone,” said Toler, and his servant appeared before him. “What have you to report about the lady?”


  “I paced through every inch of the palace, down all its ostentatious halls, and found not a scrap of a secret about her. In the middle of the night, I found her personal chambers, but could not enter. I couldn’t pass through the walls nor even get close to them.”

  “Is there a spell around her?” asked the swordsman.

  “Not a spell, it’s her tulpa, Mamresh. She’s too powerful for me. She’s blocking me with her invisible will from approaching the Lady’s rooms. I summoned all my strength and exerted myself and she merely laughed at me.”

  Toler was about to speak, but just then heard his name being called from deeper in amid the willows. Garone disappeared and the swordsman rose and set off in the direction of the voice. Brushing the tentacles of the trees aside, he pushed his way forward until coming upon a small clearing. At its center sat Lady Maltomass in her flying chair. Facing her was another of the ancient stone benches.

  “I heard someone speaking off in the distance, and knew it must be you,” she said. He walked over and sat down across from her.

  “I hope you slept well,” said the Lady.

  “Indeed,” said Toler. “I dreamt of you.”

  “In your dream, did I tell you I don’t like foolishness?”

  “Perhaps,” he said, “but the only part of it I witnessed was when we kissed.”

  She shook her head. “Here’s what I wanted to show you,” she said, lifting a small book that appeared to be covered with a square of Greppen’s flesh.

  “Is the cover made of toad?” he asked, leaning forward to get a better look at it.

  “Not precisely,” she said, “but it’s not the cover I wanted to show you.” She opened the book to a page inside, and then turned the volume around and handed it to him. “What do you see there?” She pointed at the left-hand page.

  There was a design that was immediately familiar to him. He sat back away from her and drew his sword. Bringing the blade level with his eyes, he studied the design of the inscribed spell. He then looked back to the book. Three times he went from blade to book and back before she finally said, “I’ll wager they are identical.”

  “How did you come upon this?” asked Toler, returning his sword to its sheath. “The blade has never left my side since it came to me.”

  “No, but the weapon is old, and it has passed through many men’s hands. In fact, there was a people who had possession of it, two centuries past, who deemed it too dangerous to be at large in the world. They didn’t destroy it but studied it. One of the things they were interested in was the spell. For all of their effort, though, they were only able to decipher two words of it. There might be as many as ten words in that madly looping script. My father, digging in the peat bogs north of the Gentious quarry, hauled two clay tablets out of a quivering hole in the ground. Those heavy ancient pages contained reference to the sword, to its legend, and the design of the blade’s script. Also included was the translation of the two words.”

  “What were they?” he asked, wrapping his fingers again around the grip of the weapon.

  “My father worked with what was given on the tablet and deciphered three more of the spell’s words.”

  “What were they?”

  “The words he was certain of were—Thanry, Meltmoss, Stilthery, Quasum, and Pik.”

  “All common herbs,” said Toler.

  She nodded. “He believed that all the words constituted a kind of medicine that, if prepared and inserted into one of your victim’s coral mouths, would reverse the sword’s power and return them to flesh. The blade’s damage could, of course, have been a death blow, in which case there would be no chance of returning them to life, but those who succumbed to only a nick, a scratch, a cut, would again be flesh and bone and draw breath.”

  “I’ve often wondered about the inscription,” he said. “Your father was a wise man.”

  “I’m giving you the book,” she said. “When I heard you’d turned up at the gate, I remembered my father telling me about his discoveries. The book should belong to the man who carries the weapon. I have no use for it.”

  “Why would the blade hold an antidote to the sword’s effects, and yet be written in a language no one can understand?” asked Toler.

  “That fact suggests a dozen possible motives, but I suppose the real one will remain a mystery.” She held the book out toward him. As he leaned forward to take it from her, she also leaned forward, and as his fingers closed on the book, her lips met his. She kissed him eagerly, her mouth open. They parted and he moved closer to the edge of the stone bench. He put his hands on her shoulders and gently drew her toward him.

  “Wait, is that Greppen, spying?” she said, bringing her arms up between them. Toler drew his sword as he stood and spun around, brandishing it in a defensive maneuver. He saw no sign of Greppen, heard no movement among the willow branches. What he heard instead was the laughter of Lady Maltomass. When he turned back to her, she was gone. He looked up to see the chair rising into the blue sky. As she floated away toward the tree line, he yelled, “When will I see you next?”

  “Soon,” she called back.

  Two days passed without word from her, and in that time, all Toler could think of was their last meeting. He tried to stay busy within the walls of the palace, and the beauty of the place kept his attention for half a day, but ultimately, in its ease and refinement, palace life seemed hollow to one who’d spent most of his life in combat.

  On the evening of the second day, after dinner, he summoned Councilor Greppen, who was to see to his every need. They met in Toler’s room, and the toad man brought a bottle of brandy and two glasses. As he poured for himself and the Coral Heart, he said, “I can smell your frustration, Ismet Toler.”

  “You can, can you, Prince of Toads? Tell her I want to see her.”

  “She’ll summon you when she’s ready.”

  “She is in every way a perfect woman,” said Toler, sipping his brandy.

  “Perfection is in the eye of the beholder,” said Greppen. “If you were to see my wife, considered quite a beauty among our people, you might not agree.”

  “I’m sure she’s lovely,” said the swordsman, “but I feel if I don’t soon have a tryst with Lady Maltomass, I’m going to go mad and turn the world to coral.”

  Greppen laughed. “The beast with two backs? Your people are comical in their lust.”

  “I suppose,” said Toler. “How do you do it? With a thought?” He sipped at the brandy.

  “Very nearly,” said Greppen, lifting the bottle to refill his companion’s glass.

  “Here’s a question for you, Councilor,” said Toler. “Does she ever leave the chair?”

  “Only to go to bed,” he said. “I would think of all people, you might understand best. She shares her spirit with it as you do with the Coral Heart. She knows what the world looks like from above the clouds. She can fly.”

  Toler finished his second drink, and told Greppen he was turning in. On the way out the door, the councilor called back, “Patience.” Once in bed, again Toler summoned Garone and sent him forth to discover any secrets he might. The swordsman then grasped the sheath and the grip of his sword and fell into a troubled sleep.

  He tossed and turned, his desire for the lady working its way into his dreams. Deep in the night, her face rose above the horizon, bigger than the moon. He looked into her eyes to see if he could tell their color, but in them he saw instead the figures of Garone and Mamresh on the stone bench, beneath the willows, in the moonlight. His tulpa’s robe was pulled up to his waist, and Mamresh sat upon his lap, facing away, her legs on either side of his. She was panting and moving quickly to and fro, and he was grunting. Then Garone tilted his head back and the hood began to slip off.

  Toler woke suddenly to avoid seeing his servant’s face. He was drenched in sweat and breathing heavily. “I’ve got to get away from here,” he said. Still, he stayed on, three more days. On the evening of the third day, he gave orders for the grooms to ready Nod for travel early
in the morning. Before turning in, he went to the balcony and sat, staring out at the stars. “Garone, you were right,” he said aloud. “I’ve fallen in love, but tribulation and certain death might have been preferable.” He dozed off.

  A few minutes later, he awoke to the sound of Greppen’s footfalls receding into the distance. He sat up, and as he did, he discovered a pale yellow envelope in his lap. For the Coral Heart was inscribed across the front. The back was affixed with wax, bearing what he assumed was the official seal of the House of Maltomass, ornate lettering surrounding the image of an owl with a snake writhing in its beak. He tore it open and read, Come now to my chambers. Your Lady.

  He sprang up off the divan and summoned Garone to lead him. They moved quickly through the halls, the tulpa skimming along above the blue marble floors like a ghost. In the Hall of Tears, they came upon a staircase and climbed up four flights. At the top of those steps was a sitting room, at the back of which was a large wooden door, opened only a sliver. Toler instructed Garone to stand guard and to alert him if anyone approached. He carefully opened the door and entered into a dark room that led into a hall, at the end of which he saw a light. He put his left hand around the grip of the sword and proceeded.

  Before reaching the lighted chamber, he smelled the vague scent of orange oil and cinnamon. As he stepped out of the darkness of the hall, the first thing that caught his attention was Lady Maltomass, sitting up, supported by large silk pillows, in her canopied bed. The coverlet was drawn up to her stomach and above it she was naked. The sight of her breasts halted his advance.

  “Come to practice your swordsmanship?” she said.

  He swallowed hard and tried to say, “At your service.”

  She laughed at his consternation. “Come closer,” she said, her voice softer now, “and dispense with those clothes.”

  He undressed before her, quickly removing every article of clothing. When he stood naked before her, though, he still had on his belt and the sheathed sword.

  “One sword is useful here, the other not,” she said.

  “I never take it off,” he said.

  “Hurry now. Put it right here on my night table.”