Goblinopolis, The Tol Chronicles, Book 1

by Robert G. Ferrell

  Egmesta had a fair number of people swarming it, all right, but they didn’t look as though they’d come for a riot. It looked more like some sort of celebration. Anything this size and location would require a permit, though, and Tol knew these shopkeepers well. They would not allow a gathering here that wasn’t permitted properly because violations ran the risk of costly city-imposed fines and/or sanctions. EE HQ should already have the permit on file and be aware of the logistics. Something was a little odd with this. He walked over to one of the shopkeepers he knew played a leadership role in the local Merchants’ Association.

  “Afternoon, Zapu. What kinda shindig you got goin’ here?”

  The old Goblin regarded him kindly. “It would probably be easier to show you than tell you, Tol,” he replied, and led him by the elbow to the head of one of the long series of tables set in the center of the square. His voice carried much better than one might guess.

  “Denizens of Egmesta and wider Sebacea, our guest of honor has arrived. I give you Sir Tol-u-ol, Knight-Protector of the Crimson and the Hero of Sebacea!”

  Tol blinked in surprise and scanned the crowd. The seats nearest him were occupied by, it appeared, every single person who worked in his old office. He wondered who was minding the Precinct. Beyond them he could spot dozens of the shopkeepers and ordinary citizens of the district he’d served all these years. He knew every one of them by name, and could recite their family histories on demand. The crowd milling around them were probably mostly shoppers from other districts who’d come for fresh produce or the finely-tooled leather goods for which Sebacea was widely known, but they joined in the celebration just the same.

  They feted Tol for over two hours. There were at least a dozen testimonial speeches by people ranging from community leaders to ordinary citizens who’d been helped by Tol at some point. His embarrassment quota got overloaded during the first of these and he just sat there in stunned silence after that.

  He never realized how much he’d meant to these people; how they depended on his day-to-day familiar, comforting presence on the streets to make them feel safe. His new position as Special Investigator began to pall for him. This is where he was needed and appreciated, not some gilded cage in the hoity-toity Royal district. He made up his mind there and then to do something about it.

  They insisted on a speech, of course, but unlike with previous ceremonies, Tol actually wanted to speak at this one.

  “Good people of Sebacea: I love each and every one of you. I have devoted my career to keeping your streets safe to walk and your businesses safe to patronize. I do not leave you by choice…” He stopped in mid-sentence to look them over for a moment. “In fact, I do not believe I will leave you at all.” At this the crowd broke into wild cheering and began to chant his name.

  He left Egmesta feeling really good about the world in general, and determined to figure out some way to spend most of his time in Sebacea. He ran over a number of possible strategies when suddenly he stumbled over the one that could not fail. He smiled broadly, flipped on the flashing lights, and put the pedal down.

  Chapter Twenty-Four:

  Aftermath

  His Royal Majesty Tragacanth stared at a map that covered most of one wall of his Palace Situation Room. It illustrated in lurid matter-of-fact detail the locations and extent of the structural damage done by the magically-induced quakes from Namni’s monstrous scheme. It also listed casualty figures and reconstruction efforts underway. This was a large-scale project, by any measure. Since the damage encompassed all four of the provincial districts, Aspet had appointed a senior member of the Royal Engineering Corps in each Ferroc to oversee the project personally. He also had to deal with the offers of assistance coming from Galanga, Lardonica, Ovinis, Asmagon, and as far away as Solemadrina.

  The parallel, and in many ways much more logistically complex, effort was going to be reconstituting the magical portals to The Slice. That would require a very high-level mage to lead the effort, the logical choice for which would be Cromalin. The Loca Magineer, unfortunately, was already swamped with handling greater than one fifth of the magical traffic for the entire planet, as the Dubers housed the only fully functional portals remaining and Loca Duber was the most heavily used of those.

  That left Aspet with something of a conundrum: where to find (and recruit) a mage of sufficient power to assist with this vital effort. The question was preying on his mind heavily when Boogla entered the room and walked up and touched him on the arm.

  “Your Majesty?”

  Aspet jerked involuntarily at the contact. He also felt a tiny, unexpected thrill. He looked at her with wide eyes. She seemed nonplussed as well and stammered a bit. “I…I have…read your brother’s report on the Pyfox case. I think there is someone in there who might prove helpful in our current crisis.”

  Aspet took the bound manuscript from her. “Oh? Who?”

  “His name is Ballop’ril. He’s a very high-level mage. My sources at CoME say he’s probably the most advanced mage on the planet at present, in fact, and could become transcendent at any time he chooses.”

  “Meaning he could relocate himself to The Slice?”

  “Essentially. Transcendent mages are able to manifest themselves bodily in The Slice. After a certain amount of time spent there, they lose the ability to return to the physical plane for any but relatively brief periods.”

  “Any sign that Ballop’ril is planning this in the near future?”

  “I don’t think so. He’s taken an apprentice by the name of Prond whose progression to full mage will require a number of years. I doubt Ballop’ril will want to transcend prior to that.”

  “Where is he located?”

  “He owns an entire mountain in the Espwe range, adjacent to Mount Astflanar. His abode is apparently magically carved out of that.”

  “Wow. That’s a lot of magic.”

  “It gets even more impressive. The mountain itself is mobile in at least a few dozen kilometer range. A Goblinopolis news team actually documented that.”

  Aspet gaped at her. “Okay, we definitely need this mage on the Recovery and Reconstruction team. Have a Royal Writ of Appointment drafted and I’ll sign it.”

  “As you command, Majesty.”

  Something about the way she walked off stirred a primal instinct in Aspet. It was a thoroughly enjoyable experience and it precipitated a decision that had been latent for some time, waiting for the proper trigger.

  “Boogla,” he called after her, softly. She turned. “I would very much like to have dinner with you tonight. Not official business, just you and I and someplace quiet. We have...things to discuss.”

  “Is that a Royal Command, Your Majesty?”

  “No, Boogla. It is a humble request.”

  She stared for a moment. “I accept. Eight?”

  “Eight it is. I will send an escort for you.”

  “I’d prefer you came to get me in person.”

  “Splendid. I’ll tell the RPC to take the night off. We’ll have to stay on the castle grounds, but there are plenty of places to have some privacy. The Royal Chef will of course deliver wherever I tell him to.”

  She smiled slyly. “I have just the spot in mind.”

  • * • * • * •

  Ballop’ril proved not only willing, but quite eager to help. “It will provide my apprentice a wonderful opportunity to experience some aspects of magic he might not otherwise be exposed to for a long while.”

  Re-establishing the destroyed magic markers was going to be a long and arduous road. The inviolability spell on each would take a minimum of a year to cast, and require a suite of extraordinarily rare ingredients as well. Ballop’ril, however, had an alternative solution. Rather than permanent, always-open portals, he proposed that the Dubers enchant wormhole talismans that created, in effect, on-demand access to The Slice. They took only a brief moment to connect, provided almost unlimited bandwidth, and could be disconnected with a single command. Since the Magineers had jeal
ously guarded the marker-created portals anyway, the functional difference would be minimal.

  In addition, portals that could be ‘toggled’ would be much less subject to the sort of attack that had brought the magical community to the current state of affairs. They would have to be activated regularly to bleed off excess manna from The Slice, but that shouldn’t present a problem given how often they were used in the course of daily business.

  After due floor debate in plenary session, the CoME accepted this plan and forwarded it to the king as a recommendation, with the endorsement of all five Magineers. The king signed the proclamation into effect, and the work of creating and enchanting the talismans began.

  • * • * • * •

  After the sea-avian incident, CRAMP had voted to have their meetings in a location a little bit less subject to wildlife intervention, so they chose an old deserted abbey overlooking the Mernal River, northeast of Goblinopolis proper. They also opted to retain their normal sizes this time around.

  The Abbey of Serene Waters was abandoned two hundred and thirty years ago after the ‘serene waters’ raged across their lands during a millennium flood, destroying all crops and livestock upon which the monks depended for subsistence. The abbey itself was relatively undamaged, but without a nearby food supply the monks eventually relocated and the buildings fell into ruin. The chapter house was still nominally inhabitable, for the most part, so it was there CRAMP decided to convene.

  The black-clad leader of CRAMP was in reality a graying half-elf named Gipiont who had served at one time on the Goblinopolis Municipal Council as well as in the capacity of Warden for his home district of Eshvodsi. Not a mage himself, he nevertheless had made his fortune supplying the magical community with the vast inventory of paraphernalia and natural products used in the arcane arts.

  Gipiont was in a far better state of mind at this meeting. “Fellow supporters of the magical arts in Tragacanth, I bid you warm welcome to our conclave. After much travail we have triumphed over our bitter nemesis Pyfox and magic is preserved. There was much ill done by the enemy; there are many scars that will heal only with considerable time and toil. But victory is nonetheless ours, and so the work of restoration shall be a labor of love.”

  Tamlokk, the ogre mage, leaned back in his somewhat less than structurally sound chair and smirked at Gipiont. “’Peers tae me thet we heven’t triumphed over nothin’. ‘Twere thet Tol-u-ol fella what did most of th’ fightin.’ We jest sat on our bumps and jawed abut how bad things wuz.”

  Gipiont glared at him for a long moment. “Yes, well, perhaps our role in the military action itself was more logistical than tactical, but the goals we set were met. Whether or not we were directly involved in their ultimate achievement is immaterial.”

  The kobold, who was called something like ‘Vraklffth’ (kobold names are often difficult to pronounce with only one tongue) raised his hairy arm. “Vhat do ve do now zat majic iz saved?”

  “A motion has been brought to the floor that we discuss future goals for CRAMP. Do I hear a second?”

  One of the elves stood up. “I second the motion.”

  “Seconded and duly placed on the agenda. Speaking of the agenda, the next item up is…future goals for CRAMP.”

  “Dint see thet comin,’ nut ut all,” chuckled the ogre mage.

  “Irony does not flatter you, Tamlokk.”

  Tamlokk guffawed at this. His laughter brought to mind a forge bellows in strenuous operation. The kobold tittered. The elves stared.

  “Future goals for CRAMP, as I was saying, are open for discussion. Does anyone have a suggestion?” He glared at Tamlokk. “A serious and physically possible suggestion, to be more precise?”

  The only sounds to be heard were the breeze fluttering through the tangles of broad leafy vine dangling through holes in the roof. Gipiont rolled his eyes.

  “Very well, if there are no compelling suggestions from the membership then I as chair will plot our next course. It has come to my attention recently that there are great factories hidden in the northern Masrons that spew out machines designed to circumvent magic by duplicating its effects, giving common people the ability to perform actions properly restricted to mages.”

  “Thet describes veer neer all machines, pootis.”

  “Tamlokk, you know I am offended by that nickname.”

  “’Tarnt a nickname: more lak a jub description.”

  “Well, whatever it is, I’d appreciate it if you’d just call me Gipiont.”

  “So, Jeepeeyawnt, whet do ye propose tae do abut these fact’ries?”

  “I propose we travel there and picket them, in lawful protest, over their manufacturing policies.”

  “Nae bombs this time round, then?”

  “I don’t believe explosives or other ordnance will be required for this mission.”

  “Wahl, whet er we waitin’ fer?”

  “Indeed. CRAMP: assemble and march!”

  They cut a strange, rather ragged figure tramping out of the ruined chapter house, their departure punctuated by the collapse of a portion of one wall opposite the door. A rodent-eater avian watched them recess from the rafters and waggled its feathered head to and fro mockingly. A large brush-wrat scurried suddenly from beneath the ruined lectern. The avian snatched it up and flapped out through a hole in the roof to have dinner.

  Chapter Twenty-Five:

  Morianella

  Tol’s mind was working furiously as he drove the fancy new pram across town. His plan was a good one, but it hinged on his being able to locate someone he hadn’t laid eyes on in many years. As a rookie cop he had come across one of those scenes where something just doesn’t look right. On the northern edge of Sebacea there is a small luxury inn called Hillew House; it isn’t widely known outside independent luxury hotel circles. Tol did a routine sweep around the building on an evening patrol and noticed footprints underneath one of the windows in the back, not visible from the street. The inn was swanky enough to have gardeners on staff; there was nothing necessarily odd about that. Tol decided to take a closer look, anyway.

  He examined the window sill and noticed dried mud clumps on it. The window had pry marks along the bottom of the frame that someone had taken pains to conceal with fresh paint of a slightly different shade. Something was definitely going down here.

  He called for backup and waited for them to arrive, keeping both the window and the rear entrance under close surveillance. He left two other officers positioned inconspicuously near the window and back door and headed around to the front. He found out the room number from the desk clerk and was told that a career diplomat by the name of Yarthros used the room for ‘discreet meetings.’ He stationed another officer in the hallway to keep innocent bystanders away, and then approached the door with his weapon drawn.

  He knocked loudly. “Hotel maintenance, sir.”

  There were shuffling noises from inside and a voice with a foreign accent replied, “I do not need any maintenance, thank you.”

  “There is a potentially serious leak in your plumbing, sir. I need to repair it immediately before it floods the entire floor. Other rooms have already been affected.”

  There was a pause, then: “All right. Give me a minute to, um, put on some clothes.”

  The door was opened partway by a swarthy hobgoblin in a suit. Tol shoved his way inside, flashed his badge, and leveled his disruptor at the hob. “Edict enforcement officer. On the floor, face down, hands behind your head. Now!”

  The hob reluctantly complied. Tol patted him down as he lay on the floor and found two disruptors and a wicked knife. He opened the door and summoned the other officer to watch him. “You’re under arrest for possession of deadly weapons in violation of edict. You may request a barrister once we’ve reached the Precinct. Anything you say can and will be used against you before a Tribunal.”

  The hob spit at him. “Smek you. You cannot hold me. I have diplomatic immunity.”

  “We’ll sort that out later. For now, d
on’t even think about moving.”

  Suddenly another suited hob came running out of the bathroom. He pushed Tol aside and leapt through the window, shattering the glass and spraying hobgoblin blood all over one side of the room. Tol left him for the other officers.

  Tol walked over to the bedroom door and found it locked. He kicked it open and discovered the diplomat, Yarthros, thoroughly trussed to a chair and gagged with socks. As he was being cut free, Yarthros gasped, “How did you know they had done this to me?” Tol thought about it for a moment. “I’m not sure. Something just didn’t look quite right. Cop’s intuition, I guess.”

  Yarthros was impressed. “You, my friend, obviously made an excellent career choice. I will put you in for a commendation with your Precinct Captain immediately. These people were going to take me under cover of darkness to a ship somewhere in international waters, from what I could gather. They wanted to persuade me not to back a treaty concerning more open trade with Solemadrina; failing that outcome, I suspect they would simply have tossed me overboard knowing that the ensuing disruption to the trade negotiations would set them back for a while at the very least. You have my eternal gratitude and admiration for your instincts. If there’s ever anything I can for you in return, I will take whatever steps are necessary to pay that debt. I do not forget my debts.”

  True to Yarthros’ word, Tol did receive his very first commendation from that operation, one that hung on his wall to this day, yellowing a bit. Tol hoped that Yarthros was still around and that his memory for debts had not failed him.

  Tol found his quarry after a bit of a search. He lived in a small but elegant home hidden far up a tree-lined cobblestone drive not more than three blocks from Hillew House. He was officially retired from the Royal Diplomatic Corps now, but still occasionally hosted foreign dignitaries at the request of the RDC because he was such a fixture in Tragacanthan diplomatic circles and knew the myriad details of entertaining dignitaries from a variety of cultures intimately. Yarthros himself genuinely enjoyed these formal social gatherings.