by Paula Volsky
“Cousin Ogron’s northern advance,” Miltzin mused. “Predictable, of course. Inevitable, really. But who could have guessed that it would happen now?”
The king’s cousin Ogron—that would be Ogron III, imperior of Grewzland. Northern advance—through the land of Rhazaulle, presumably. The Grewzian forces were pushing north toward Rialsq, the capital of Rhazaulle. The natives blocking their path were being slaughtered, and Mad Miltzin not unnaturally expected his supposedly Rhazaullean sorcerer “Nevenskoi” to display a little becoming distress.
Nitz Neeper, alias Nevenskoi, could oblige and would oblige shortly, only—
Big! Big! Let me be big! blazed the voice from the pit-of-elements.
Now is not the time, Nevenskoi replied.
Big! Now! Big! Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease—
“Later. Patience,” he advised aloud.
“What’s that, Nevenskoi?” asked the king.
“The forces of destiny have yet to conjoin in support of Rhazaulle, Sire. The moment approaches, however. Salvation illumines the future.”
“The near or distant future?”
“Later. Patience.”
“Well, that’s encouraging, but what of the present? You’re all but buried alive down here in this workroom, but surely you’ve heard tales of the Grewzian atrocities. No doubt you fear for your family and friends, back in—where was it again? You told me once, but I can’t recall the name of your home village.”
Nevenskoi froze. Home village? He’d cobbled a suitably colorful biography years earlier, fleshing the account with fanciful detail. He’d invented a picturesquely primitive rural point of personal origin, but what had he called the place? Usually he remembered such particulars, but just now, when he was distracted and taken so much by surprise—
His mind groped vainly, and the palms of his hands went clammy.
Trouble? Worry? Badness? asked Masterfire.
I must think of something to tell the king.
Eat him. No more worry. EatEatEatEatEat!
No!
“Chtarnavaikul, wasn’t it?” recalled Miltzin. “Have I got the pronunciation right?”
“Exactly right, Sire.”
Big! Big! Wannabe big!
Not now!
“Those Rhazaullean names must be invented by contortionists of the tongue,” the king complained.
“Ah, Majesty, to me they seem natural as breathing,” replied Nitz Neeper.
“I don’t mean to disparage your native tongue, my friend. No doubt it possesses its own rough-hewn beauty. Let me hear a little, and judge. Speak to me in Rhazaullean. Say anything you like.”
Nevenskoi suppressed a twitch. He spoke not a word of Rhazaullean. He had been telling himself for years that he ought to teach himself at least a few phrases of the language, just in case, but he had never found the time and now it was too late. Terror shot along his nerves and, as always, the negative emotion wreaked interior havoc. His innards knotted and the pain was fierce.
OUCH! Hurt! observed Masterfire.
“Just a few words,” the king urged.
No way out of it. Nevenskoi took a deep breath.
“D’ostchenska ghoga ne voskvho.” The invented syllables rolled forth fluently. “Aluskvaya troiin King Miltzin shvenskul ne Rhazaullevnyitchelska.”
“Ha, but I heard my own name in there!” exclaimed the king, diverted and apparently unsuspecting.
“Indeed, Majesty.” Success. Nevenskoi’s alarm loosed its intestinal grip. “I just said, ‘A humble expatriate’s fear on behalf of his endangered Rhazaullean countrymen finds comfort in the wisdom of King Miltzin.’ ”
“Very prettily said, Nevenskoi. Very affecting, and very true. Comfort you will have, you deserve it. I shall personally intercede with Cousin Ogron. I’ll ask him, as a favor to me, to command his Northern Expeditionary Force to spare your home village of Chtarnavaikul. Will that cheer you up? I must have my Nevenskoi in good mind and healthy spirits! Now, where is this Chtarnavaikul, exactly? Somewhere along the River Xana, I suppose?”
“Not exactly, Sire.”
“Mountains? Lowlands? Near some city of note? Come, man, help me.”
“The fact is, Majesty—the truth is …” Nevenskoi unconsciously pressed a damp palm to his unruly belly. His mind whirred. Fiction impinging upon fact was always the best. “Actually, there is no Chtarnavaikul. The village cannot be spared, for it does not exist.”
“Eh?”
“Nature itself has anticipated the fury of the Grewzian invader,” Nevenskoi confided sadly. “Twenty years ago it was, during the vernal thaws, a tremor of the ground—no rare phenomenon, in that part of the world—precipitated a mudslide of unparalleled severity. The vast river of mud flowing down into the valley from the surrounding hills inundated, flattened, and obliterated the village of my fathers. When all was done, it seemed that Chtarnavaikul had been swallowed whole. Survivors, their hearts and spirits broken, abandoned the site of the calamity, and now it is as if Chtarnavaikul had never been. The very name is all but forgotten.” Lost in the past, Nevenskoi gazed off through the mists of time.
“Upon my word, but that is a sad tale.” King Miltzin shook his curled head. “I am sorry, my friend, indeed I am.” He thought a moment, and a happier notion struck him. “You mentioned survivors, however. Surely the list includes friends and family?”
He had family. A couple of Neeper siblings, many cousins, uncles, aunts, a troop of nieces and nephews, all living in or around the Low Hetzian city of Flenkutz. He had not communicated with any of them in fifteen years or more. Undoubtedly they all imagined nugatory little Nitz long dead, and he had not the slightest desire to undeceive them.
“We’ll rescue them,” Mad Miltzin decreed. “We’ll pluck them from the path of the advancing Grewzian army and bring them back to Toltz, where you may revel in their company day and night. Eh, Nevenskoi?”
The internal uproar recommenced, infusing his voice with anguish both dramatically appropriate and perfectly genuine, as he replied, “Dead, Sire. Carried off by pestilence, famine, or misadventure. So many dead!”
“What, all of them?”
“Alas, Sire, your servant is alone in the world.”
“Well, that is remarkable. Almost unbelievable, in fact.”
Miltzin didn’t believe him. An iron fist gripped his innards and twisted. A gasp escaped Nevenskoi. He doubled, and his hands clamped on the arms of his chair. An empty bowl sat on the table before him. Not an hour earlier the bowl had brimmed with chili-oil eels and spiced devilswimmers. He should have left both alone.
“What’s the matter with you? Come, what is it, man?” demanded the king.
“Nothing, Sire. A momentary weakness,” the stricken savant managed to answer through clenched teeth. “The recollection of the lost loved ones never fails to affect me.”
“Well—er—yes. You foreigners are emotional, aren’t you? Come, what will cheer you? I know. We shall seek out a few of those survivors from Chtarnavaikul, and even if they aren’t your own blood, at least they’ll be—”
A pang of exquisite agony tore through Nevenskoi’s middle, and he could not for the life of him contain a muted moan.
Ouch! Masterfire crackled and flickered in sympathetic unrest. What? What?
Nothing, my beauty, Nevenskoi answered in silence. Foolish human concerns, nothing to trouble you.
I can help, for I am strong, I am brave, I am big, big, BIG! So saying, Masterfire arose.
A twisting column of green flame reared itself from the pit-of-elements, thrusting powerfully for the ceiling. The crackle of the little blaze deepened to the purr of a great predator, opalescent green smoke billowed, while tentacular offshoots branching from the fiery pillar snaked experimentally in all directions.
“What is our friend doing?” Mad Miltzin’s eyes expanded in childlike wonder.
Exactly. What are you doing? Nevenskoi telepathed from a mind filled with alarmed confusion.
I am big, I am
strong, I am great, I am grand, I am MASTERFIRE, I am big, bigger, BIGGEST—
No. Resume your former size.
NoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNo—!
I do not permit you to enlarge.
Big! Strong! Hungry! Eat! I am huge, I am wonderful, I am fine and lovely, I am the winner, I am everywhere, I am MASTERFIRE!
Nevenskoi felt the savage power within himself and it was glorious, triumphant, insatiable. He was huge, he was wonderful, he was master and destroyer, emperor and hungry god, hungry, and it was goodgoodgood, and he was magnificently BIG—
But there was pain there inside him, ravening alongside delight, and the pain weakened his will, yet anchored his awareness to reality.
No. He could hardly form the denial, even within the sanctuary of his own mind. The effort required to produce that mental syllable was inordinate. And seemingly wasted, for Masterfire ignored it.
I will make it right, I will eat this wet meat-stuff that makes badness. He is gone, EatEatEat, he is gone for good, eat.
“Splendid sight,” admired His Majesty. “Our clever green friend seems so animated, so filled with enthusiasm.”
His control had lapsed badly, to potentially disastrous effect, but the fear sweeping through him somehow focused Nevenskoi’s intellect and his strength, superseding physical pain. He was master, he would rule. He must. He took a deep, calming breath and mutely exerted his concentrated force.
Subside. Resume your original size.
He expected instant obedience, but Masterfire resisted yet.
Big! Pleasepleasepleasepleasepleaseplease!
Small. Now. Obey.
No fun.
Shooting reluctant sparks, the great blaze grudgingly subsided, dwindling and shrinking in upon itself, relinquishing tentacles and radiant streamers, height and whirling breadth, until it crouched once again within the confines of the pit-of-elements, for all the world like a disgruntled green hearth fire.
Another day, my treasure, and you will once again stand tall, Nevenskoi vowed.
The promise seemed to produce the desired effect, for the voice from the pit resumed its accustomed tone of contentment.
EatEatEatEatEatEatEatEatEat.
The savant breathed a sigh of profound relief. His creation and his internal organs were both submissive, for the moment. He would see that they stayed that way.
“Now, what was that little effusion all about?” inquired the king.
“A simple excess of inflammable enthusiasm, Sire,” Nevenskoi explained. “No doubt stimulated by the honor of Your Majesty’s presence.” Determined to seize control before Mad Miltzin’s capricious fancy wandered off again down undesirable paths, he added casually, “I have been meaning to ask, if I may, for the latest news of the Grand Ellipse racers.”
“And well you may ask, my dear fellow! Ha, but what a surprise!” Miltzin’s eyes lit up. “Which of them d’you suppose is leading the whole pack? Wouldn’t you have placed your money on that Grewzian war hero fellow? If so, you’d lose your last copper! Believe it or not, there’s a woman out in front. By all accounts, the Szarish scarecrow with the outlandish carriage has drawn so far ahead that the chances of overtaking her are near zero. Now that’s what the mastery of technology can do! Of course,” he mused, “the newspaper reports are always days behind foreign events. And in the interim I suppose there’s no telling what may have happened, is there?”
DO SOMETHING. DO SOMETHING. But what? Hop across the room to the Overgeneral Brugloist’s table, plop down on my knees, and beg his assistance? Weep buckets? Would it work, or would I just be thrown out of the restaurant?
Quick, before he gets away!
Even as she exhorted herself, Luzelle saw the Overgeneral Brugloist rise from his chair. His subordinates stood, and then they were all moving smartly toward the exit.
Jumping from her own chair, she scurried in pursuit, but had not advanced more than a few paces before an urgent Lanthian voice halted her.
“Madam—if you please—madam!”
She turned back reluctantly to discover a waiter holding her valise.
“I believe Madam has overlooked—”
“Oh. Thank you!” Extracting a couple of coins from the store of Lanthian currency furnished by the ministry, she tipped the waiter, took her bag, and hurried in the wake of the retreating overgeneral.
Brugloist and his officers had already exited the restaurant. Emerging into the foyer, Luzelle spotted her quarry leaving the hotel by way of the front door. She ran after him, straight out onto the spotless Prendivet moorings, and saw the overgeneral entering the sleek little vessel that his dignity required to carry him back to the Grewzian headquarters, all of a two minutes’ walk distant.
“Overgeneral!” Luzelle let fly a shout. “Overgeneral Brugloist! Please, sir, one moment of your time!”
Certain that he’d heard her, she made for the boat at a quick trot. Long before she reached it, a couple of grey-clad soldiers intercepted her, materializing out of nowhere to block her path.
“Stay back,” one of them commanded in Grewzian.
“I must with the Overgeneral Brugloist make to speak,” she appealed in her own lame version of the same tongue.
“Not permitted.”
“But I must—”
“He won’t be interested. Maybe you’ll have better luck in the alley behind the hotel.”
“Please, you do not understand—”
“Yes I do, honeydugs. You think you’re the first? Now run along, before you get yourself in trouble. Off with you.”
A firm push punctuated the command, and Luzelle felt the alien hand close for an outrageous instant on her breast. She contained her impulse to slap the Grewzian’s face. No point, no use. It would only make things worse. The Overgeneral Brugloist was already gone, and she had missed her chance.
“Do all Grewzian morons smell like goats, or is it only you?” she inquired of her molester, and backed off before he had time to formulate an answer.
Shouldn’t have said that, only make him mad, if he happens to understand Vonahrish. So what? Disgusting filth.
She looked around. Behind her, the Prendivet Hotel. Ahead, the breathtaking panorama of the Lureis Canal, but she was in no fit state to appreciate the spectacle.
What now?
Railroad station? Livery stables? Train or carriage? Which best to carry her along the Dalyonic coast to some harbor free of the Grewzian stranglehold?
Railroad, most likely. And how to get to the station? Via dombulis, one of those famous Lanthian water-taxis, always available night and day.
And today was no exception. There were scores of them out there, cruising the Lureis like hopeful sharks. She moved toward the taxi stand at the edge of the moorings. As she went, some faceless boor jostled her roughly and then, to compound the offense, grabbed her elbow as she stumbled. Angrily she pulled back, felt his clasp slide down her arm to her wrist, and then to her hand, which he squeezed firmly. Something foreign tickled her palm. She wrenched herself free and turned, ready to loose a verbal blast, but she was too late, the oaf was already gone.
Luzelle scowled, then shrugged. She noticed then that her clenched fist contained a scrap of paper, presumably pressed upon her by the anonymous lout. What now, some sort of advertisement? She was about to toss the thing aside when her eye caught the sweep of dark blue script, and she paused. The message, whatever it might be, was not printed, but handwritten. Interest snagged, she unfolded the paper and read:
Fastest transportation to Aennorve.
Mauranyza Dome, top floor, today, three o’clock.
What in the world? She read it over twice again without enlightenment. No salutation, no signature. But the message addressed her most immediate need, and had been placed literally in her hand. It must have been meant for her, but she had no idea who had sent it, or why, or what it might actually mean. She also did not know just what she should do about it.
Answer the mysterious summons? A waste of valuable tim
e, most likely. Perhaps even dangerous; no telling what she might be walking into. On the other hand—fastest transportation, the note offered, if indeed it was an offer. And she had the Khrennisov to protect her, should difficulties arise. Not that she knew how to use it, but surely no one would realize that. And finally there was the matter of her own curiosity. If she failed to investigate this matter, she would probably spend the rest of her life wondering about it.
A clock atop a nearby tower chimed the hour of two, and that decided her. It was already too late to make it by coach to the neighboring city of Hurba before sunset. She would end up spending the night at some inn along the road if she left now. The railroad might be a better bet, but not necessarily. Heavily dependent on its splendid harbor, accustomed to aqueous highways, the city of Lanthi Ume probably offered mediocre train service at best. For never in their worst dreams could the Lanthians have imagined that their access to the sea would be lost.
Nothing much to lose by gambling an hour or two on the intriguing message. She’d be positively remiss if she failed to investigate. Really, it was practically her duty.
She took a moment to strip the paper wrapping from the pistol reposing in her side pocket, then stepped to the watertaxi stand and waved. A fragile black dombulis with a high-curving prow was there in an instant. Declining the assistance of the liveried hotel attendant, she climbed in. The dombulman shot her a questioning glance, and she commanded without hesitation, “Mauranyza Dome.”
SHE ARRIVED SOME QUARTER HOUR EARLY, and thus had time to inspect the building’s exterior at leisure. Very old, she saw at a glance, and wondered just how long Mauranyza Dome had stood staring at its own reflection in the waters of the surrounding canals. Centuries, most likely. And quite a reflection it was, with those rounded walls of heavy red glass and that endless spiral staircase hugging the inner curve. For a while she stood watching, but the silent structure told her nothing.
She bought a cone of ganzel puffs from a vendor and killed a few more minutes eating them. Then she heard the clock chimes tolling over the water, and knew it was time to go in. Touching her pocket to reassure herself of the loaded Khrennisov’s presence, she squared her shoulders and walked into the Mauranyza Dome.