“Young master Prond, you have proven a most pleasant and, more importantly, intelligent companion. Your mind is like a sponge, with a potential capacity for learning magical arts I’ve rarely encountered. With time and training you could quite plausibly take your place among the great mages of Tragacanthan history. Will you stay with me and be my apprentice?”
Prond’s eye slits dilated to their maximum extent (something like overstuffed sausage casings) and he suddenly had trouble breathing. He tried to speak, but his host held up a finger. “A momentous decision, I realize, and not one to be taken on the spur of the moment. Sleep on it, and we will resume this discussion by the cheery light of morning, over a hearty breakfast. Good night.”
With that he turned and strode down the hallway.
Prond stood there in stunned silence for a longish while, unable to remember how to walk. He finally allowed instinct to propel him forward in an awkward, no-knees manner toward what he assumed must be the bed, although from this vantage it more closely resembled the raised foundation for a new luxury housing project. A foundation swathed in costly velvet and fine linens, with a surprising array of overstuffed pillows. He half sat, half fell on the nearest edge and curled up in the goblin fetal position (which resembles a fossil imprint of an animal trampled by a much larger animal fleeing from something hideously brutal and ravenously hungry).
He lay awake for a few minutes, but the luxuriousness of the bed combined with his mental and physical exhaustion soon lulled Prond into deep slumber. It was anything but restful, however. He dreamed a dream of flying, being chased by dragons and four-winged demons. He dove and swerved through trees and spires of rock, but always the hot reptilian breath seared his eyes and nose. At last he swooped into a narrow cave his pursuers could not enter. It started as a vertical fissure barely wide enough to admit him, but soon opened out into a broad boulevard lined with soldiers in full dress uniform who saluted as he sailed past. At the end of the avenue was an elaborate dais, decorated with golden ribbons and a multitude of precious stones. On it stood a magnificent throne of the finest hardwoods, intricately carved with scenes from the long history of Tragacanth. Seated in the throne was a young monarch in rich robes, looking slightly ill at ease.
The king waited until Prond had landed at his feet, and then gestured toward him. The sovereign presented him silently with a staff encrusted with jewels, the gold-cast figure of an animal Prond had never seen before attached as a finial. The creature was powerfully built with four large paws. The ears were triangular and tilted forward. From the nape of the neck sprouted a generous tuft of hair that spread out around the head and upper body like a halo. The entire body of the beast seemed to be covered in short, thick hair, in fact. It was odd, but irrefutably majestic.
The dream ended abruptly when Prond awoke wrapped so tightly in the silk blankets he could scarcely breathe. He struggled out of his cocoon, confused and disoriented, until awareness slowly trickled back. Eventually the stark vividness of the dream began to fade, but its images remained strongly fixed in his mind. For the rest of the night he relived the mystical experience over and over, pondering its significance. He was not prone to vivid dreams; the vast majority of his oneiric adventures evaporated before he made it to the bathroom in the morning.
By the time a complex series of mirrors set in shafts leading to the surface directed the first rays of dawn dancing through the glass skylights set into the roof of his bedroom, Prond was in a peculiarly conflicted state of mind. The surrealistic dream had temporarily driven Ballop’ril’s proposal just below the surface of his consciousness and now, with the onset of the new day, it bubbled back up to take over his thoughts once again. The simple truth was that he still had no idea whether or not to accept the bugbear’s offer. He could not help but feel that the Archmage had somehow confused him for someone else.
They took breakfast on a stone platform high above a wondrous grotto with many waterfalls and colorful rock formations, including stalagmites, stalactites, curtains, and glittering crystalline flows. Flitting to and fro throughout were magical blue, green, and yellow butterflies that left trails of glowing rose-colored sparks as they flew. Ballop’ril seemed in no hurry to reopen the subject of apprenticeship, and Prond was grateful for that.
Chapter Eighteen:
Astflanar
Three weeks after his coronation Aspet was finally beginning to settle in as king of Tragacanth. The ceremony itself was nothing short of overwhelming; he was glad that pretty much all he had to do was memorize his lines and stand on his marks. The presentation of the royal symbols, the swearing of fealty by officers of the court and high national officials, the investiture of lands, property, titles, and legal authority—each of these activities blended into the next in his recollection a fortnight and a half later. It was overload: an adrenalin-inducing blur.
The vicissitudes of running a kingdom as complex as Tragacanth were now Aspet’s chief concern. He had to decide whether to keep the previous monarch’s advisors or appoint his own, for starters. Some of the decisions were made for him when the incumbent advisors took the opportunity of a change in leadership to retire. His economic advisor, for example, was perhaps the leading economist of the day; Aspet didn’t want to lose her and in fact offered her a raise in salary to stay on, which she gracefully accepted.
His most problematic cabinet position was that of Magineer Liaison. This was the chief magical official of the administration and the primary means by which kings communicated with the Magineers, who operated quasi-independently of the royal government. Aspet suspected the current Liaison to have been involved in what he had good reason to believe was an attempt to cheat him out of the crown during the Challenge. Boogla had, in fact, provided him with clear and compelling evidence of this transgression his first day in office.
The ML didn’t have to be a great mage himself, but he did need to have a strong command of the terminology and theory of both magic and technology in order to be able to interact effectively with the Magineers and their staffs. The Royal Transition Team had provided him with a list of Civil Servant Corps officers with adequate magical training, but Aspet wasn’t enchanted by any of them. He paced along the parapets of the Royal Residence overlooking Goblinopolis and pondered the situation.
As he took in the dramatic sweep of the villas and inns crowding each bank of the wide, rolling green Mernal River that skirted the northern edge of the city, a tiny seedling of an idea took root and began inexorably to push its way up into the light. Aspet stopped and stared off into the distance, transfixed by this mental gestation. After a few seconds he blinked and a slow grin spread across his face. He turned abruptly on his heel and strode back to his office with renewed purpose and a sense of mission.
Having a good idea is one thing, making it a reality quite another. He knew without the merest sliver of a doubt who he wanted for the ML position, but he didn’t have any solid idea exactly how to move ahead with the recruiting process. For one thing, he and the candidate had never met face-to-face. For another, he had no idea at all where she resided, how old she actually was, or anything else about her, if indeed she was even truly a her. All he knew was that his gut told him she was the right person for the job.
To: boogla!boogla!boo
From: aspet!Palace!Royal!Tragacanth
Subject: Employment Offer
I need someone implicitly trustworthy and devastatingly intelligent to act as liaison between the crown and the magineers. Someone who has a great aptitude for technology, magic, and the interaction between the two.
The pay is pretty good, as are the benefits.
Interested?
A.
He didn’t expect an immediate reply, of course. He wasn’t sure if he’d get a reply at all, to be honest. He’d barely leaned back in his Alpha Humphing Beast leather chair with the Royal Seal of Tragacanth gold-embossed on the back when the reply popped up, nearly knocking him out of it:
From: boogla!boogla!boo
To: aspet!Palace!Royal!Tragacanth
Subject: RE: employment Offer
I’m all over it, Your Majesty. Where we can meet? I’m not very keen on public appearances. Someplace private and out of the way, perhaps?
B
Aspet pushed his chair away from the desk and stared at the screen for a long moment. He was so surprised that Boogla had accepted his offer, and so quickly, that his chain of thought was momentarily disrupted. Finally he overcame the shock and responded. They arranged to meet in a secluded Royal retreat known as Hikklew situated in the Bungash Mountains southeast of Port Zog. His Majesty Tragacanth found himself nervous and a little giddy at the prospect of meeting the legendary Boogla, even though he’d come to regard her as something of a friend over the past few months.
Boogla turned out to be younger than Aspet had expected, and also quite attractive. She had an aura of wisdom that belied her tender years, however, and an unmistakable current of powerful energy running just beneath the placid surface of her charming smile. He knew instinctively and immediately that she would be one very powerful ally if treated with the respect she was due. He had every intention of making sure that was the case.
Their first meeting was a little awkward for him, but he remembered halfway through that he was king and that helped a bit. Boogla seemed extraordinarily politically astute in addition to her obvious elite technical skills. Aspet was already beginning to think she would make a better monarch than he. When he told her so, she laughed out loud for a full ten seconds, and then chuckled for a while longer while she wiped the tears from her eyes. Aspet was a little offended. She noticed this and regained her composure. “I am flattered, really, but being king, even if it was possible for one of my gender and lineage, is not the sort of life I would wish to lead.”
Aspet thought for a moment. “You are a wise woman; this I already knew. You have the life you want, and you got it entirely through your own skills, on your own terms. Why, indeed, would someone like that want to change anything at all? I am gratified beyond words that you chose to take on this high office. I believe Tragacanth will benefit immeasurably from it.”
Boogla’s first assignment was to meet with the Magineers and form working relationships with them. This was a tall order, and Aspet was curious how well she would do at it. Being an expert hacker did not qualify you as a diplomat, as had been pointed out to him rather strongly by his other advisors, but Aspet had a feeling that there wasn’t much Boogla couldn’t handle. She simply oozed confidence and competence (and a few other things, as well, but that came with being a goblin).
The Magineers seldom left their Dubers for a number of reasons, not least of which being that they were forbidden to travel out of their districts, so Boogla would have to travel to them. As an officer of the Royal Cabinet she was required to be transported in a Royal carriage or dray with an RPC escort detail at all times. She found this annoying and at first refused, but Aspet explained to her that it was for her own safety and the responsible thing to do, so she finally acquiesced. He allowed her at least to hand pick her security detail.
Stop number one was originally scheduled to be Tillimil, but the weather was reportedly quite inclement down there at present, so she diverted to Ferroc Oria, in Lumbos. It was only a day’s journey by barge and carriage, and that would give her an opportunity to get acclimated to her RPC entourage as well as time to study up on the Oria Magineer, Kryptoq.
Tol sat down in the mostly repaired Bloated Balrog, at the bar rather than his customary table, and ordered a razzle on draft. He had a hankerin’ to chat with the barkeep. “Looks like you got most of the damage squared away,” he said, after the third pull at his brew. Terp looked up from polishing a glass. “Most of it. You nab the smekheads what done it yet?”
“Nope. But I have a good idea who they are, at least.”
“The little smeks will be on the obituary page if I catch ‘em around here again.”
“I don’t think you will, unless Pyfox drops by.”
“Pyfox? What’s that sleazy smekker got to do with it?”
“That’s who they were after.”
“What? You mean they blew the smek out of my pub trying to off that waste of breathin’ air? Why didn’t they just plug the smekker as he was leavin’?”
“Hard to say. I get the feeling this was their first attempt at the assassination game. Not exactly a professional job, if ya get my drift. Speaking of Pyfox, what do you know about him?”
“He’s a scumbag with fingers in every slime pie in Sebacea and beyond. If it’s sleazy and illegal, Pyfox is involved somehow.”
“Sounds like you don’t care much for the guy.”
“Smekkin’ brilliant deduction. You oughta take the detective exam.”
“How would you like to help bring Pyfox down?”
“So long as it don’t get my pub blown up again, I’m in.”
“All you gotta do for me is keep your ears open. I’ve got a hot tip that Pyfox uses the Balrog as a messenger drop. His minions meet each other here and exchange information. You probably won’t see his ugly face in here anymore, because he won’t be likely to appear in public again after the botched smackdown. But, his toadies will be in and out of here regularly; I’d bet solid billmes on that.”
“So, you want I should spy on them. D’ya know which ones they are?”
“Here are EE sketches of two of them. There’s also rumored to be a troll named Fen involved—he’s been sighted with Pyfox before—but you may not see him. As you know, trolls don’t come into goblin-sized establishments too often because they’re not very comfortable for them.”
“I gotta room in the back just for trolls, actually. Built it for my dad’s side of the family. Don’t advertise it outside the troll community.”
“I never knew that. Well then, keep an eye out for Fen, too.”
It was only two days later as Tol was walking his beat near the western edge of Sebacea, where the shanties graded gradually into farmland—although like the residents, the soil here was too poor to produce much beyond weeds—that a young goblin who worked as an errand-boy for Terp and several other merchants in the neighborhood came running up to him. Tol waited while he caught his breath.
“Officer Tol-u-ol,” he gasped, “I have a message for you from Master Terpitude.” He handed Tol a scrap of parchment with some scratching on it:
Pyfox sending messages back and forth to Astflanar
Tol raised his eyebrows and patted the gob on the head. “Thanks, kid.” The messenger made no move to leave, and Tol suddenly realized he’d forgotten something. “Here ya go, sport,” he said, handing the boy a billme note. The gob left his hand extended. Tol rolled his eyes and gave him another one. “Terp’s definitely rubbed off on you, kid. Don’t spend it all in one place.” The little goblin grinned and jogged away.
Tol made a pollenbug-line back to the Precinct. He marched straight into the duty sergeant’s office.
“Gotta an extrajurisdictional assignment request, Sarge.”
“We ain’t got much left in the pay pot for that sort of thing. Whatta ya need it for, and where?”
“I got a hot lead on the Balrog bombing case. There’s somethin’ going down on Mt. Astflanar.”
The grizzled old cop looked at him over his rusty optics. “That’s halfway across the smekkin’ country. Just write up a report; we’ll let the Southron Rangers handle it.”
“Come on, Sarge, this is Pyfox we’re talkin’ about. That smekker is mine. I ain’t handin’ this over to those smekkin’ backcountry yahoos.”
“Sorry, did I make that sound like an option? You ain’t goin’ mountain climbin’ on the city’s billme. Period. End of discussion.”
“Fine. I got a smekload of use-or-lose leave to take. Put me down for a week’s worth, startin’ tomorrow.”
“You know leave requests have to be put in at least two weeks in advance, for schedulin’ purposes.”
“I ain’t got two weeks,
Sarge. Pyfox is on the move now. Give me leave, or not. I’m out of here either way.”
“You’re a smekkin’ hardnose, Tol.”
“Have you been behind this desk so long you don’t remember what it’s like to be hot on the trail of a slimy smekker like Pyfox?”
He paused, and then shook his head. “No, I ain’t. All right, leave approved. Don’t get yourself killed, Tol. Ain’t nobody else on the force willin’ to take your beat.”
“Don’t I know it. See ya.”
The next morning before the sun crept over the horizon, Tol was waiting at the carriage station, backpack stuffed to the gills. He had seriously intended to leave Eyejay behind, but at the last minute changed his mind and stuffed it in a waterproof pocket of the pack. The carriage would only take him as far as the village of Cartlug in the Espwe foothills, with a three-hour layover in Tillimil. The weather was atrocious all the way down. The leading edge of the hurrarcane had reached the south side of Goblinopolis by then, so the trip was non-stop nasty. At least, Tol mused as he stared nervously out the windows of the savagely swaying carriage, I won’t have to walk my beat in this muck. He purposely avoided thinking about the fact that soon he would be walking up a mountain in it.
As it turned out, the weather actually improved once they headed west from Tillimil. By the time the first bumps of foothill hove into view, the rain had slacked off to a steady drizzle and the wind had dipped below gale force to more of a stiff breeze. Tol felt for the reassuring bulge of his disruptor and the ten clips he’d brought with it. He had no real idea what to expect from this mission, but he was reasonably certain a little firepower would come in handy at some point.
Goblinopolis, The Tol Chronicles, Book 1 Page 23