“Who are you, exactly?”
“My name is Plåk. I am an...adventurer in The Slice.”
“And a criminal,” added Tol. “Reformed, it seems, but a criminal nonetheless.”
“There you go, always hating—even after all I’ve done for you.”
“I’m not hatin’, I’m testifyin.’ I am grateful for your help, by the way.”
Plåk sighed. “Make a simple mistake and pay for it throughout eternity.”
“You sank an entire island with three major cities on it!”
“It was a technical error, nothing more. I had no intention of harming anyone.”
“Oh, I’ve got to get this story,” said Selpla, almost salivating.
“Morianella,” said Kurg simply, from the rear.
Selpla looked confused for a moment, shook her head.
“Morianella? That disaster was caused by a quake almost a thousand years ago.”
“Yeah,” replied Tol. “Did it ever seem odd to you that scientists never figured that one out? That there are no faults or seismically active areas anywhere near where Morianella used to be? That’s ‘cause geology had nothin’ to do with it. That quake was the result of not-so-Archmage Plåk here goofin’ with something he didn’t understand.”
“That is so patently unfair of you, Tol-u-ol. I understood the Codex Lapidismotus intimately. I simply made a small error reciting one of the rituals. It was an honest mistake that anyone could have made.”
“Except anyone else making it probably wouldn’t have drowned a half million people.”
“Well, it’s obvious you’re not in a pleasant conversational mood today, so I’m off.”
Plåk disappeared, leaving behind a faintly sparkling outline that drifted slowly to the stone floor. The whole group began to move down toward the much more accessible entrance to the cavern used by Pyfox, who was positioned along with his injured henchman in the middle of the group as prisoners of the Southron Ranger, guarded by Tol and the other EE officers. Ballop’ril and Prond brought up the rear. Tol dropped back to talk to the bugbear.
“Beggin’ your pardon, Archmage, but I heard Pyfox call you Perspice back there. What did he mean?”
Ballop’ril took a deep breath. “It is,” he began, “one of those proverbial ‘long stories.’”
“I think I may know some of it,” Tol interjected, “if it involves the Belladonnas.”
Ballop’ril nodded. “Indeed, it does. Gramidius Contentius, the Capo Belladonna, and I are…brothers.”
Tol stopped short. “Not to seem disrespectful, Archmage, but is that even biologically possible?”
Ballop’ril laughed. “No, indeed it isn’t, in the literal sense. What I mean is that we were brought up together. My mother and father were killed in a street riot in a Galangan border market when I was but a toddler. We had crossed over to do some shopping—my mother loved and collected Northern Galangan folk pottery—when a street protest formed right outside the shop where we were browsing. I don’t think either of my parents realized how dangerously the situation had escalated. We had just stepped outside and were crossing to another shop when a mass of people came running down the street, fleeing government troops who were responding in large drays with horizontal rams affixed to them. My father flung me bodily onto the curb just as they were both slammed by a press of people trapped in front of the rams. I never saw them alive again.
Prond had never heard this story, either. He gasped in shock and horror. Tol just listened grimly. He’d seen too many similar tragedies.
“Grami’s family lived in that small town and saw what happened. When the casualties were laid out for identification and they realized I was the only survivor of my own family, they adopted me on the spot using the Galangan Declaration of Fostering. I grew up there with Grami as my ‘brother.’ Clostridius Perspice was the name they gave me as a child, but when I came of age they told me my original name had been Ballop’ril. His parents and I communicated up until his mother passed on; I don’t know if old Terentio yet lives. Not surprisingly, they didn’t approve of Grami’s choice of occupation, or what comparatively little they knew of it. They didn’t understand mine, either, but at least they were supportive insofar as it wasn’t as morally questionable as his. Grami inducted me into his Belladonna ‘family,’ but I never felt comfortable there and did not associate with them often.”
Tol was digesting all this when Selpla came bouncing up. Ballop’ril seemed relieved at the interruption and dropped back. Tol just let him go.
“Tol, can you give me details of the Morianella incident?” Selpla asked, sweetly.
“Sure, doll. All it takes is good ale and patience. It’s ancient history, though. I did learn one thing from it: you can’t prosecute someone who doesn’t reside on the physical plane. The smekkers just skip out on you.”
“I don’t have any ale on me right now. Can we make a date back home soon?”
“I hang out at the Bloated Balrog, on Pacinian in Sebacea. Drop by early evening, before my shift starts.”
“I think your work schedule might be revised, Officer Tol-u-ol,” interjected one of the Goblinopolis cops. “Sarge sent us to find you and bring you back as soon as possible. Captain wants you, and I mean now.”
“Why in the smek would the captain want to see me? Did I forget to file some smekkin’ paperwork or some smek?”
“Not sure. I think Sarge mentioned something about the king being involved. Seems a bit far-fetched, though, for the king to care about a Sebacea EE squad.”
Tol rolled his eyes. “Smek, I forgot about him. It’s not really as, um, far-fetched as all that.”
The EE officer looked surprised. “It isn’t? Why not? What possible reason could the king have for being interested in you or our squad?”
Tol looked annoyed and a bit embarrassed.
“He’s my uh...he’s my kid brother,” he whispered. Their eyes got wide. “Keep it to yourself, all right?”
From somewhere in Tol’s backpack they heard an odd twittering noise.
Chapter Twenty-Three:
A Knight to Remember
At the border between the Municipality of Greater Goblinopolis and the Southern Reaches, the Southron ranger formally handed over custody of Pyfox and his surviving accomplice to the EE officers. They thanked him for his assistance and headed for Sebacea. The news team split off at this point, with Selpla promising to contact Tol soon for the Morianella story. If she’d been aware of Tol’s relationship to the King she probably wouldn’t have been able to tear herself away, no matter how loudly Kurg commanded her otherwise. Access to anything related to the Royal inner circle was an irresistible draw for a Goblinopolis journalist.
As it was, Tol reported alone to the captain, who ordered him to the Royal Palace, a trip Tol made with considerable trepidation as he was immensely uncomfortable with the trappings of power, especially when the little brother he used to torment mercilessly now held that power. He popped into the Crown and Scepter pub just outside the curtain wall of the Royal compound for a little ‘spiritual reinforcement.’ Several large gourds of uberrazzle later, he made his somewhat unsteady way out the door and up the long, winding path to the Palace grounds.
The Royal Protective Corps eyed him suspiciously as he approached the Palace Antechamber. “Here! What’s an EE grunt doing in the Royal Compound? Looking to cite someone for littering to fill your weekly quota?”
Tol cocked his head and eyed the splendidly-dressed guard tiredly. “Just tryin’ to keep the peace. Got several complaints that the reflection from your fancy-schmancy brass buttons was blindin’ people.”
Another guard with stripes on his epaulets stepped forward. “Watch your tongue, citizen. You have no jurisdiction in the Royal Compound and we won’t hesitate for a moment to slap you down if the need arises, badge or not.”
Tol chuckled, “I don’t think so. You’d have to get your nice white glovies dirty to do that.”
“What is your business h
ere, commoner?”
“You call me that as though it’s some kind of insult. It isn’t. My business here is that I got a Royal Summons. I don’t know why.”
The guard supervisor looked doubtful. “A Royal Summons? That’s very unlikely. What is your name?”
“Tol-u-ol. Senior Edict Enforcement Officer, Sebacea Precinct One.”
“Sebacea? How appropriate. I don’t suppose you bathed before coming here, by any chance?”
“I was too busy saving the world for that, fancy-doodle.”
The guard sniffed. “Saving it from hygiene and sophistication, no doubt.”
“No doubt. Should I just tell the Captain you wouldn’t let me in? Come to think of it, that works for me.” He turned around and took a step.
The guard chuckled derisively. “I can’t let anyone through whose name is not on the entry list, as yours, predictably, is not.”
One of the lowered-ranked guards walked up and handed the officer another clipboard. The supervisor turned white and called after Tol.
“My sincere apologies, officer Tol-u-ol. Please, pass by all means.”
Tol turned around, shrugged, and shuffled on through the gate grinning smugly. “See you boys in the hoity-toity parade.”
As they watched him go, a third guard spoke up. “What list was he on, then?”
“Royal Gold.”
“Holy smek. That’s the one reserved for high officials of state and visiting Royalty. How did a scruffy inner city cop get mixed up in that crowd? Some kind of clerical error?”
“I don’t think so. There’s more than meets the eye to officer Tol-u-ol, I believe.”
“The nose, as well, one would hope.”
Tol sauntered up the increasingly elegant marbled corridor leading to the inner Palace. The walls were set with alcoves every couple of meters in which were nestled granite and gold busts of famous Tragacanthans throughout history. The gilt filigrees and acanthus leaf tracings on every exposed surface were getting denser as he proceeded inward. Tol suppressed the very strong urge to turn and run. Why couldn’t Pet have met him in a pub or something?
Finally he came to an enormous door—six meters tall if it was a centimeter—carved from some ridiculously exotic hardwood and decorated with dozens of bas relief figures sprinkled liberally with semiprecious stones set in gold and silver bezels. It seemed to relate the history of Tragacanth in mute narrative; a story Tol had always found singularly boring to recite in class. It wasn’t much more engaging rendered in dead trees, beaten metal and polished rocks.
The door was locked, or at least it didn’t seem to want to open, so Tol pulled the silk cord hanging in a narrow vestibule to the left of the doorframe. He heard a faint chiming somewhere beyond the portal and after a few seconds the ponderous panels creaked open. A large, elegantly dressed half-ogre stood there.
“Welcome to the Royal Palace, officer Tol-u-ol. His Majesty is awaiting you in the drawing room.”
Tol sized him up and figured he could take him three falls out of five, despite his bulk. He relaxed a bit.
“Well, I hope he doesn’t expect me to do any drawing. I ain’t no kinda artist.”
“Indeed, sir. I do not expect your draftsmanship will be called upon in the course of the meeting.”
He led Tol along a lavish marbled corridor and through an arched doorway into a splendidly appointed room where his little brother sat flanked by two stuffy-looking highbrows. Aspet had a shiny metal ring on his head and was looking far too pleased with himself.
“Welcome, Tol. It’s great to see you again.”
Tol sniffed at him. “Hey, Pet. How’s it hangin’? Nice place you got here.”
One of the attendants stepped forward and puffed up his chest. “You’re speaking to His Royal Majesty Tragacanth. The proper form of address would be Your Majesty.”
Tol raised a massive eyebrow. “Maybe for you. He’s just my dorky kid brother to me.” The attendants bristled.
Aspet raised his hand. “It’s fine. I am still his dorky kid brother in some ways.” He motioned for the attendants to withdraw, leaving the brothers alone. They regarded each other in silence for a long moment. Finally Tol spoke.
“I guess congrats are in order. I gotta say, I didn’t really think you could do it.”
“I wasn’t sure I could, either.”
“So, now what happens?”
“Now I try hard to learn this job and do my best for the people of Tragacanth.”
“Good luck with that. I meant, why am I here?”
“Oh. Well, mostly because I wanted to see you…we haven’t had any time together in a couple of years now. Also, though, I wanted to congratulate you on nabbing Pyfox. He’s made himself quite a high-profile public enemy in the past few months. I understand you were instrumental in uncovering and terminating the conspiracy to destroy access to The Slice.”
“Yeah. It’s what I do for a living, oddly enough.”
“Goblinopolis appreciates you for that. Speaking of Goblinopolis, come out on this balcony with me. There’s a really nice view of the city you ought to see.”
“I bet you got all sorts of nice views from this place. I never been inside a building this big before.”
They stepped out on the balcony and Aspet quietly closed the door behind them. There was a curtain drawn around the edge of the balcony to above eye level. Tol chuckled. “Nice curtains. I especially like the little crowns. Did you order these yourself?”
Aspet smiled and pulled a silk cord, parting the draperies to reveal a significant proportion of the citizenry of greater Goblinopolis staring up at them. Tol was frozen in fear and awe. He instinctively reached for the door knob and escape, but his brother had locked it. His Royal Majesty Tragacanth held up a little key and grinned. Tol had nowhere to run, so he shrank back as far from the crowd as possible. Aspet walked to the edge of the parapet and began to address the assemblage.
“Good people of Tragacanth, loyal subjects of the Crown, I bid you welcome to this most joyful celebration. Today we honor a hero, a goblin who has played a pivotal role in preserving our way of life. For without his efforts, there would be no freely accessible magic. The Dubers would cease to function. All access to The Slice would be controlled by a tiny cartel whose only motive was obscene profit for themselves. This hero is one of your own. He is Goblinopolis Edict Enforcement Officer Tol-u-ol, and he hails from Sebacea.”
At this, one area of the crowd broke out into wild cheering. Tol peeked over the edge and saw a lot of folks he’d met at one time or another in that cheering section. Seemed like everyone in Goblinopolis knew about this ceremony but him. He was a little annoyed at the gross failure of his street intelligence network, but he had been more or less incommunicado for a few days.
“One of my more pleasant duties as Monarch is recognizing those who have selflessly advanced the cause of peace; who have defended our civilization against those who would impose their will on the people without their consent. However, this particular hero is also my brother. I would not be accused of lavishing gifts or praise upon my own kinsman simply because of our familial relationship. I leave it, then, to you, the people of Tragacanth. Do you wish to see this hero honored by the Crown?”
There was a brief silence, and then a massive roar of yes erupted from the crowd in the central plaza, which Tol estimated contained at least ten thousand souls. Aspet smiled, turned to Tol and shrugged. “The people of your nation have spoken, Tol-u-ol.”
The King walked over to a small table draped with a velvet cloth and pulled back the covering to reveal an exquisitely worked golden medallion suspended from a blue and silver-striped satin ribbon. The medallion depicted the Royal seal of Tragacanth surrounded by a wreath of Sentallas leaves. Sentallas was the tree traditionally associated with the earliest settlers of Tragacanth, reputed to have provided them with shelter, food, and medicinal bark that enabled one of the first colonies to survive a brutal winter in the northern mountains near what later became the
city of Fenurian. It was revered throughout the country for this reason.
Aspet lowered the medal around Tol’s neck. “Tol-u-ol, in recognition of your inestimable service to the nation of Tragacanth, having put yourself in harm’s way not only in recent days but over a career spanning decades, I, Aspet the First, in my capacity as Sovereign do hereby grant you the Tragacanthan Medal of Royal Merit. May it always serve as a reminder to the people of your service to our great nation.”
Scattered applause began, but Aspet held up his hand. “Good people, this ceremony is not yet concluded.” He unlocked and swung open the doors leading back into the palace. A military general officer in full dress attire walked stiffly onto the balcony, bearing an ornate sword and a pillow on which sat a gold and red garter. He stood beside Aspet opposite Tol, who by this time was almost too weak-kneed to stand.
“Tragacanth has long enjoyed an order of noble Knighthood,” Aspet boomed, “The Order of the Crimson. The red garter trimmed in spun gold has for hundreds of years signified our boldest warriors, our best and bravest defenders. It has traditionally been reserved for those serving in the military, but the actions of Tol-u-ol and others of the civilian sector have convinced me that now is the time to modify the charter of the Order, to expand eligibility to all citizens of Tragacanth who meet the lofty requirements of membership. I therefore today institute the accolade of Crimson Knight-Protector, open to civilian membership, to serve alongside the military accolades of Crimson Knight-Bachelor and Crimson Knight-Commander. In addition, I name Tol-u-ol of Goblinopolis as the premier recipient of that accolade. Kneel before me, candidate.” He took the garter in his hand and the general placed the pillow on the tiled balcony floor.
It took Tol a second or two to realize that Aspet had given him a command. Then he shuffled forward, blushing a bright greenish-blue, and knelt awkwardly on the small pillow. Aspet cinched the garter just above Tol’s right elbow, and then the general passed him the sword, hilt first, balanced on his forearm.
Goblinopolis, The Tol Chronicles, Book 1 Page 29