FSF, March-April 2010

by Spilogale Authors

  Also flanking the road were mobs.

  The mob on the left—the queen's side—were in the midst of burning an ocelot, in effigy. They were dressed entirely in orange, and seemed to be chanting anti-ocelot slogans. Though it was hard to make out the exact words, because the mob on the other side of the road—dressed entirely in red—had taken up their own chant, which seemed to be vaguely pro-ocelot.

  "Should we Flee?” said Epidapheles.

  "No, they're not mad at us. Yet.” Door watched the queen's side. The ocelot-effigy was mostly cinders now, and the orange protesters had taken up a new chant: “Our Queen is our King! Our Queen is our King! God save the Quing!"

  The king's mob shook their fists, and launched into their own new chant—something about the wisdom and handsomeness and uprightness and mellifluousness and crossword puzzle prowess of the king—but the chant contained far too many laudable attributes for something as simple-minded as a mob to remember, and their delivery was half-hearted and unconvincing. Eventually, they gave up on it and charged across the road, weapons brandished. A great deal of bludgeoning followed, and then some stabbing, a little beheading, and a really shocking amount of eviscerating. The road grew slick with blood.

  "What are they fighting about?” said Epidapheles.

  "I doubt they know any more. Mobs tend to forget why they're mobs, so they can concentrate on being mobs.” Door pondered the carnage. “But I suspect there's a power struggle going on. We might be too late."

  Epidapheles nodded, sagely. He said: “Too late to save the Damsel."

  "I think the damsel is doing pretty well for herself. What needs saving here is the kingdom."

  They waited until everyone was finished being killed, then stepped gingerly over the carcasses and continued on their way. The moon had risen by now, and it bathed the ghastly scene in an eerie white glow, corpses piled like dark hillocks, leaking areas of deeper darkness onto the road: puddles of shadow, or blood, or both.

  "We should pick a side, I suppose,” said Door.

  "We should pick both sides,” said Epidapheles.

  Door looked at him. “You know, I think that's maybe the first useful thing you've ever said."

  The old wizard bristled. “I can only assume that you have forgotten my disquisition on the Six Magical Methods of Colon Cleansing."

  Door shuddered. “I've tried,” he said. “Believe me."

  * * * *

  The old wizard's genius for insincerity proved quite useful on their journey to the capital. They encountered several more mobs, all of whom—though momentarily confused by the red and orange motley with which Epidapheles had garbed himself—quickly warmed to the old man, after he launched into the appropriate scabrous indictment.

  "That shrieking harridan, that pustulant, frigid harpy, has from the beginning of her supposed ‘marriage’ to our glorious Regent fixed her eyes on the throne!” he said, to an angry group of red-clad ocelot enthusiasts. “She turned Kitty against her Master, knowing it would sink Him into the Gloom that imperils our kingdom!"

  The king's mob seemed quite pleased with this. They embraced the old man and moved on, cheering and waggling their weapons about.

  "That impotent simpleton, that ineffectual, incompetent half-wit, has from the beginning of his ‘reign’ brought nothing but shame and ignominy to the throne!” said Epidapheles, ten minutes later, to an angry group of orange-clad ocelot immolators. “He has put aside the welfare of the kingdom to moon over the affections of a glorified house cat!"

  More cheering and weapon waggling. The queen's mob embraced Epidapheles and moved on.

  "You really are very good at this,” said Door.

  "It is one of the many things I am good at, yes,” said Epidapheles.

  "How do you do it?"

  "The enemies of Success,” said the old wizard, stopping in the road, with one arm outstretched and one foot forward, in his standard bloviation stance, “are Sincerity, Belief, and Commitment. They are the bars of the prison in which much Greatness has languished, and died. I have the courage to eschew these things."

  "Courage,” said Door, eyeing an approaching flock of vultures.

  "Look at these rubes we just encountered. They suffer from all three Qualities, and will likely die for their troubles. But even if they do not, the best outcome they can hope for is Disappointment."

  "Another way to look at it,” said Door, “is that they're worthwhile qualities, misused.” The vultures were circling above them now, cawing cantankerously. “What if these were, say, ravening mobs of orphan-feeders?"

  "Orphans,” said Epidapheles, curling his lip. “Filthy, contemptible creatures. One wonders how their parents live with themselves. But I take your point, and it is a silly, worthless point. Yes, it would be nice if people bent their Finer Feelings toward Worthwhile Endeavors. It would also be nice if I shat golden ingots and sneezed harlots. Some things Cannot Be, and it is pointless to base your ethos on the hope that they will."

  A few of the vultures broke off and spiraled down toward them, their great wings spread out across the sky's invisible avenues. Door watched them descend, and alarm began to creep up all four of his legs, and pool in the bowl of his seat. “We should run,” he said.

  Epidapheles peered ahead, and then twisted around and looked behind, and saw nothing but dusty road. “Why?"

  "Up, old man. Up."

  Epidapheles looked up. “These are vultures."

  "Yes."

  "Vultures feed on carrion. We are not carrion."

  "Have you gotten a whiff of yourself lately?"

  Epidapheles bristled. “My magic is filth-based, as you know, sir."

  "Look closer."

  He looked. “They appear to have something in their claws.” He looked again. “Sword-like somethings."

  "Not sword-like."

  "Why do they have swords?"

  Door sighed. “This is old news. Vultures figured out a while ago that it doesn't make much sense to wait around for dead things to show up. They just make their own now."

  "That seems Unlikely.” Epidapheles drew himself up. “But, to be safe, I will transform them into badgers."

  "No!” said Door, but it was too late. The wizard drew out his wand, and pointed it at the descending vultures, and cried “Transformus Badgerus!” A great ochre bubble blurped out of the tip of his wand and floated up to the descending vultures, enveloping them.

  There was a blinding flash of light.

  When it subsided, the sky was roofed in vultures, thousands upon thousands of vultures, enough to blot out the sun. They all had two swords now, and pistols grasped in their beaks, and an army of goblin skirmishers poised on their backs. Also, it was hailing lava.

  "How do you do it?” said Door, dodging sizzling, fist-sized balls of fire. “Seriously, how do you make everything worse?"

  The old man seemed dazed. He mumbled something about the inscrutable ways of magic, then turned and ran.

  Door went after him, crashed into the back of his knees, scooped him up, tilted up onto his back legs, and ran down the road, pursued by a screaming vulture goblin army, dodging arrows and pistolfire, putting out the little conflagrations that kept springing up all over his body.

  This was, oddly enough, not the worst day he'd ever had.

  * * * *

  The king sat on the grass, running his fingers through Kitty's fur.

  "And then,” he said, “we can go for a walk in my Royal Daffodil Pasture and dance and sing songs,” he said. “Doesn't that sound fun?"

  The ocelot cracked open an eye and regarded him balefully, and then contemptuously, and then wearily. It went back to sleep.

  "Oh, Kitty!” wailed the king.

  The Kingsguard, who'd formed a circle around the Royal Picnic, coughed and studied the tips of their halberds.

  The queen lay reclined in the shade of her canopy, some distance away, watching. When the king began to sob again, she shook her head and turned to Victor, the Royal Advisor, an
d said: “Can we just kill him already?"

  "That would be unwise, M'lady,” said Victor. “His death would tear the kingdom apart. And it would certainly put You in great peril. Not all of the people recognize Your many virtues."

  "Well then, Victor, you need to do a better job of manufacturing them, don't you?"

  He bowed. “Forgive me, M'lady."

  "Oh shut up. Gods, I can't even tell a joke around here without getting the bowing and scraping treatment.” She accepted a grape, and chewed it, loudly. “What if it's an accident? He could fall in a well while he's bucketing up water for his filthy hellcat."

  "Even if it were a real accident, M'lady, all the blame would almost certainly redound to Your person. I believe that it is in Your interest to keep him alive, at all costs."

  "Gods.” She shook her head, again. “I can't believe I actually married that nitwit."

  "It is not my place to say, of course, M'lady,” said Victor. “But His Highness did cut quite a dashing figure before the advent of his ocelot. I remind you that he single-handedly vanquished the band of goblins that ambushed Your party on Your first journey to this kingdom."

  "That was a different man, Victor. He was a killing machine. Dumb as a rock, but I've never seen anyone better at righteous slaughter. And he was a genius in bed."

  Victor averted his eyes. “Yes, M'Lady."

  "But I barely recognize that thing.” She waved a hand at the king, who had turned onto his back now, and was bawling at the sky. “You know what he told me last night?"

  "I would not presume—"

  "He said he wished he could turn himself into the thing's bed, so that he could spend all night snuggling with it.” She grabbed the grapes out of her Royal Grape Dispenser's hand, and began to rocket them into her mouth, rapidfire, one after the other. “I almost strangled him right there. Just to put him out of his misery."

  "Perhaps if Kitty were to suffer an unfortunate accident, M'lady? The king would be devastated, of course, but after a period of mourning may return to his former self."

  "Believe me, I've thought about it. The problem is he'd just throw himself off a bridge. Which I wouldn't mind, of course, except the mob would probably throw me in after him.” She discarded her denuded grapevine and looked around for more. “Sometimes I dream about a world where you can run a kingdom without having to attach yourself to idiot man-children.” She sighed. “It's a nice dream. I'm free, I'm independent, and I can do rational things without disguising them as bloodthirsty adolescent war fantasies."

  Victor didn't respond. His eyes were fixed on a point over her shoulder, and growing steadily wider. She turned and followed his gaze to a thick blanket of vultures in the distance. The vultures were overtopped with goblins, and undergirded by what appeared to be a lavastorm. All of which was making its way steadily toward the capital city, with a tiny gray speck scurrying down the road at its vanguard. She squinted. The speck appeared to be an old man, in dirty white robes, floating just above the ground, tilted slightly backward, with his legs stuck straight out ahead of him.

  "Well,” she said. “You don't see that every day."

  "I have never seen its like,” said Victor. He turned to the king, who was performing an elaborate jig for the sleeping ocelot's benefit. “My Lord! An enemy approaches!"

  "Oh, be quiet, Victor. I'm dancing."

  A detachment of vultures broke off from the main horde and sped toward them. “But My Lord! It is a foe the size and strength of which we have never...."

  The king executed a tidy little pirouette, jumped high in the air, and then landed in the splits, with his arms held out to his sides. “Tada!” he cried.

  The ocelot opened its eyes. It yawned, rose slowly to its feet, turned a couple of circles, then settled down again, with its back to him. It fell asleep.

  "Okay, Kitty!” cried the King. “You—” But before he could continue, a vulture streaked over his head and grabbed the ocelot in its claws and tore it neatly in half. One of the goblin riders reached down and took one of the halves and began to eat, noisily. The other pointed its sword at the king and roared something menacing.

  The vulture rose into the air, wheeled, paused at the apex of its ascent, and then came streaking down again.

  "My Lord!” cried Victor.

  The king stood agape, looking at the bloody patch of grass that bore, still, the imprint of his ocelot. “Kitty,” he whispered. He looked at the approaching vulture, and its cargo of goblins, and said: “Kitty.” The lead goblin raised its sword, and bellowed, and the king screamed, “KITTY!” and ducked under the sweep of the sword, and grabbed the vulture's long neck, and swung it around, and smashed it onto the ground, dislodging the goblins. One of them tried to struggle to its feet, but the king tore off its head, and bludgeoned the other goblin to death with it. Then he jumped onto the dazed vulture's back, and pulled up on its reigns. “Fly, Filthy Creature! Turn your Blighted and Evil life, at last, to the service of Good!"

  The vulture flapped its wings, and rose off the ground—a little uncertainly, perhaps.

  "Victor!” boomed the king. “Gather my armies! The Griffin Warriors! The Amazon Archers! The Mastodon Skirmishers! The Fire Hurlers! The battle is joined, Victor! We go to war, Victor!” And then he rose into the sky, with his sword held high, and sped toward the onrushing army.

  Presently, it began to rain blood, and feathers, and bits of goblin.

  The queen smiled. “That's more like it,” she said.

  * * * *

  "You can stop cowering now, old man,” said Door. “It's over."

  Epidapheles bristled. “I'm not cowering, servant,” he said. “I'm tying my shoelaces."

  "Really? You've been tying them for a while."

  "They are Difficult shoelaces."

  "And you're not wearing shoes."

  "Exactly.” Epidapheles poked his head out of the shrubbery. The ground around them was thick with the mutilated remains of goblins and vultures. The sky was clear, though, and the sounds of celebration wafted over from behind the walls of the capital.

  Epidapheles stood, and brushed himself off. “It seems that Victory has been attained."

  "Apparently."

  "Then we can continue with our Quest,” he said. “Lady Ocelot may live yet."

  Door sighed, and then started. A woman with long raven tresses, dressed in velvet finery, and a crown, stood not far away, surrounded by a retinue of guards. He nudged Epidapheles. “Queen at eight o'clock,” he said.

  Epidapheles looked dyspeptically over his shoulder, then drew himself up, and stuck out his chest, and dropped to one knee. “Lady Ocelot!” he said. “I have come to deliver you from your vile oppressor. Your salvation is nigh!"

  The queen frowned. “Are you the son of a bitch that brought a goblin army to my doorstep?” she said.

  Door stiffened. “Deny it,” he whispered.

  "Indeed I did!” said Epidapheles. “Conjured out of nothing, no less, in a matter of seconds! And that is the least of my Powers."

  The soldiers around her drew their swords.

  "Idiot,” said Door. “Sit down. We need to flee again."

  "Give me one reason,” said the queen, “why my men shouldn't slaughter you."

  The old man hesitated, and the first inklings of disquiet appeared on his face. “Because,” he said, and faltered. You could see, for a brief instant, in the wizard's expression, a moment of existential confusion, the mind questioning its own worth, reaching out into the void for some semblance of Purpose. “Because you might stain your gown?"

  The queen grimaced. “You're a deeply stupid man, aren't you?” she said. “But you're also the answer to my prayers.” She gestured, and a guard brought forward a mule, laden with heavy saddlebags. She reached into one of them, and brought forth a handful of golden coins. “So, a token of my appreciation, which you almost certainly don't deserve."

  Epidapheles's eyes widened. “Lady Ocelot,” he breathed.

  "Okay, first of a
ll, stop calling me that,” said the queen. “Second, take your mule and get the hell out of here, before I change my mind."

  "Yes, M'Lady.” Epidapheles took the reins, and turned, and hurried down the road, toward the capital.

  The queen watched him go. “Does he know he's going the wrong way?"

  It was a few moments before Door realized that she was talking to him. He said: “You can see me?"

  "No,” she said. “But I saw the idiot talking to you. You're his familiar?"

  "Yes,” said Door.

  "Magically bound?"

  "Yes."

  "But desperately don't want to be."

  "Yes."

  "I'm sorry to hear that.” She turned toward his voice. “We have wizards in the palace. The non-halfwit kind. They can probably break your bond."

  Door hesitated. “The thing is,” he said, “I'm a chair. If they did that, I'd go back to being nothing but a chair, just sort of waiting around for people to sit on me.” Door paused. “I'm sorry. I don't mean to seem ungrateful."

  "No, I understand,” said the queen. “Being chained to that moron is better than being free and powerless."

  "Yes, just barely,” said Door. “And who knows? He might change."

  The queen watched the old man totter down the road. “But probably not."

  "Definitely not, actually."

  She laughed, though there was a hint of sadness in it. “We have a lot in common, I think."

  Door hesitated. He said: “Would you like to sit for a while?"

  The queen smiled, and nodded. “That would be nice."

  Door maneuvered himself behind her, and she eased herself down, slowly, and rearranged her skirts.

  "You're not incredibly comfortable,” she said.

  "Bits of me were on fire not too long ago."

  "I was on fire last year,” said the queen. “My idiot husband likes to play with his flamethrowers in bed."

  And so they sat and talked, well into the night. At some point in their conversation, long after the moon had risen over the trees, Door realized that the perpetual crush of anxiety to which he'd become accustomed was gone. In its place he discovered something very much like contentment.

  He smiled. It wasn't quite the best evening he'd ever had. But it was close.