by Paula Volsky
King? Badmeat?
Our benefactor, our royal patron. The one who visits us here, from time to time—
Badmeat.
Has summoned us to his presence.
Why?
He is king. His motives are not to be questioned. Enough to know that His Majesty Miltzin desires the company of Masterfire and Nevenskoi.
Nitz.
What? What was that?
Nitz. Neeper. NitzNeeperNitzNeeperNitzNeeperNitzNeeper—
Where did you get that name?
Inside you.
Well, keep it to yourself, sweet one.
Why?
That is a long story with which I would not weary my Masterfire. There are better things to think of. Even now Masterfire departs the workroom for the first time. There. Nevenskoi shut the door behind him. It is done. We are out.
Let me see! Let me see!
Not yet.
Wanna see! Let me out!
Soon, I promise. For now, repose in patience above Nevenskoi’s heart. This apparently fanciful sentiment reflected literal truth. The breast pocket of the adept’s voluminous robe contained and concealed the tiny shrunken spark that presently was Masterfire. Obedient to its master’s commands, the flame consumed nothing. Nevenskoi experienced neither pain nor even a sense of unwonted heat upon his skin. Despite his creation’s physical diminution, the mental link persisted.
Where are we? Where?
Walking along a corridor deep underground. The walls are of plain grey stone, like the walls of my workroom, and the floor is likewise stone, uncarpeted. The ceiling is low, barrel vaulted, and hung at regular intervals with iron lanterns containing lighted candles.
There are flames? Like Masterfire? Wanna see them, wanna meet them, wanna dance, dance, DANCE!
They are not like you. They are mindless, unaware, and ignorant.
Can they dance?
I suppose so.
Wanna meet them!
Not now. We go to wait upon—
Badmeat.
His Majesty.
EatEatEatEatEatEat—
Behave yourself. Now we are climbing the stairs, the secret stairs known to the favored few. Thus we ascend unobserved, and the location of my workroom remains undisclosed. Thus we ascend—
With considerable effort. Nevenskoi’s lungs labored, his heart pounded, and there was a stitch in his side. Long before he reached the top of the stairs, he had to pause. Seating himself on one of the treads, he rested there, chest heaving and face sweating. No doubt about it, he was overweight and out of condition. He spent too much time in his workroom, he needed to get out and exercise. He also needed to decrease his intake of lard-smackers, deep-fried ganzels, and cracklers, or perhaps renounce them altogether. If only they weren’t all so good. Just thinking of them made his stomach clench.
EatEatEatEatEatEat. Hungry! EatEatEat—
Exactly.
Where are we?
Still on the stairway, but not for long. Hauling himself to his feet, Nevenskoi resumed the ascent. Presently reaching the exit he sought, he departed the concealed stairwell, emerging into a storage closet tucked into the shadowy corner of a forgotten utility room.
The utility room opened onto a wide third-story corridor, and now his surroundings assumed a recognizably palatial aspect.
Highly polished marble underfoot, Nevenskoi reported soundlessly. Like rose-veined ice. Tall windows, floor to ceiling, overlooking the water gardens. Gigantic mirrors in the fanciest gilt frames you ever saw, and before each mirror, the white marble statue of a two-headed, four-breasted woman. His Majesty’s tastes are singularly plural.
Let me see! Let me out!
Soon, I promise. Now we ascend three gilded steps, and pass beneath an archway covered with carven images of sharks, whales, rays, octopi, sea serpents, and other such denizens of the water—
Badwater.
And now at last we reach the entrance to the king’s own apartment. Two armed sentries stand guard there, but they admit us without hesitation, for they know that His Majesty has summoned Nevenskoi.
NitzNeeperNitzNeeperNitzNeeperNitzNeeperNitzNeeper.
Please don’t do that. We are passing through the door into the king’s private antechamber, all hung in blue damask. The servants in their livery of blue and silver bow low before His Majesty’s favorite, the famous, talented, and noble Rhazaullean mage. They respect and even fear Nevenskoi—
NitzNitzNitzNitzNitzNitzNitz.
And now they usher us through into His Majesty’s study, haunt of the elite. Loveliness, we have arrived. I could almost wish those Neepers back in Flenkutz might know that little Nitz is alive and hobnobbing with royalty. Oh, if they could see me now!
Wanna see! Wanna see!
Soon. Remember your instructions. Remember—
Remember!
Nevenskoi raised an experienced hand to his black wig, which was properly positioned; ran an expert finger along his dyed moustache, which was properly groomed; squared his shoulders and marched into the king’s study.
King Miltzin IX, attired in a gorgeously patterned brocade dressing gown inappropriate to the hour, sat at a desk whose surface supported a very large, beautifully crafted model comprising miniature buildings of eccentric design lining small boulevards starbursting from a central plaza. His Majesty was not alone. Beside the desk stood a stout, foreign-looking gentleman with a broad face framed in greying whiskers. It was the square cut of the beard and sideburns, Nevenskoi decided, that marked the stranger as a foreigner. That and the bristling luxuriance of the moustache, together with the sea-sable frock coat lapels so alien to Hetzian tastes.
Both men turned to the door as Nevenskoi entered.
“Ah, there you are at last, my dear fellow,” observed the king.
“Sire.” Nevenskoi bowed deeply.
“Come over here, my friend, you must see this, it is quite remarkable. Look at this!” Mad Miltzin’s gesture encompassed the model metropolis. “Have you ever seen the like? Is it not splendid?”
“Very fine, Sire,” Nevenskoi replied neutrally.
“Very fine? That’s all you can find to say? Bah, you are tepid as yesterday’s tea. Nevenskoi, use your eyes! Don’t you see what this is?”
“It is an excellent model, Majesty, a miniature representation of a handsome city, no doubt a very excellent city—”
“It is not simply a city.” Miltzin controlled his visible impatience. “It is the city, Nevenskoi—the city of the future! Only look at it. You are gazing upon the shape of things to come! The architecture, the advanced features, the design of the streets, the indescribably scientific methods of waste disposal, the inspired use of water power, steam, necromantic exploitation of ghoststrength, gaslight, rational use of vibrational vertices—it’s all perfect, quite perfect, and quite killingly modern! I’ve never seen anything so modern in all my life. It’s all here, Nevenskoi. The answer, the truth, right there in front of us!”
“Answer, Majesty? To what?” Nevenskoi hazarded.
“What’s to become of us and our world? Where shall we go, how shall we live, what will we do? Such little questions as those, my friend! And now they’re answered, our path is plain before us, impending reality sitting right there on my desk. I tell you, we are privileged! I can hardly wait to begin!”
“Begin, Sire?”
“To build, man, to build! I’ve already selected a site—sweetest tract of marshland you can possibly imagine, not far from Gilksborg—and I’m ready, willing, and eager to commence! When I think of the future and its wonders—when I contemplate the ideal world awaiting all mankind, the universal benefits that I shall bestow—I confess, Nevenskoi, such delight pierces my heart that I could weep with it! Ha, but it will be tremendous! Only look at the extraordinary details adorning my model here. Well,” Mad Miltzin recalled, “to be perfectly accurate, it’s actually Zelkiv’s model.” The king’s nod recalled the existence of the silent foreigner.
“Revised to incorpor
ate several original concepts belonging to Your Majesty, and greatly improved thereby,” the stranger observed gracefully.
“That’s certainly true. There’s a great deal of me in it.” The king nodded. “Nevertheless, honesty compels me to acknowledge Zelkiv here as the master architect. He is quite the clever fellow, Zelkiv is. Just like you, Nevenskoi. Moreover, he is your Rhazaullean countryman, and so I think it high time the two of you were introduced. Noble Landholder Frem Zelkiv, meet my good friend, the talented and entertaining Nevenskoi. No doubt you two northern compatriots will have much to speak of!”
The king’s introduction abolished the social disparity between the noble landholder and the untitled adept. Zelkiv extended a cordial hand. A torrent of rapid Rhazaullean poured from his lips.
Nevenskoi went cold, and his mouth went dry.
Badness? asked Masterfire.
Extreme badness. I don’t understand his language, to me it’s all gibberish.
Gibberish bad?
Gibberish very bad, so bad that I—Nevenskoi’s mind swirled, and a fresh idea shot to the surface. He took care to compose his face before remarking aloud in his accented Hetzian, “Much though the music of my native tongue delights my ear, I cannot forget that His Majesty Miltzin regards our Rhazaullean as so much northern gibberish. His Majesty is generous beyond measure, yet I would not presume too selfishly upon his patience, and must therefore express myself to the best of my limited ability in the king’s own language.”
“Ha! But what a pretty courtesy! Well said, Nevenskoi!” exclaimed the king.
The Noble Landholder Frem Zelkiv flushed a little at the implied rebuke and his demeanor cooled, but he conceded with apparent good nature, “Patriotic sentiment temporarily overcame my sense of perfect propriety, Sire. Fortunate am I that my countryman, burdened with no such excess warmth of feeling, stands ready to correct my error.”
Nevenskoi murmured the appropriate disclaimer.
“We shall drink vouvrak and speak of Rhazaulle another day, my compatriot,” Zelkiv promised frostily. “We shall share a thousand memories of our home.”
Home. Shall I tell you of the flat above my father’s shop in Flenkutz? Aloud Nevenskoi replied correctly, “Home is enshrined within each Rhazaullean heart, Landholder.”
“Ah, my two favorite northern geniuses revel in one another’s company, just as I anticipated,” Miltzin misinterpreted cheerily. “But I did not bring you here to reminisce, gentlemen. That vouvrak you Rhazaulleans so unaccountably relish must wait, for there is business at hand. You are here to experience the wonder of each other’s talents and accomplishments. Zelkiv, you must demonstrate the features of our marvelous model to Nevenskoi here—he’s certain to appreciate our work. Go ahead, man, show him!”
For the next half hour Nevenskoi stood silently absorbed as the Noble Landholder Frem Zelkiv displayed the various futuristic features of his miniature city. There were aqueducts and fountains with real running water, tiny gaslights that glowed, moving mechanical stairways connecting the levels, glass-enclosed aerial walkways accessible by modern steam-powered lift, cleverly concealed chutes descending to the subterranean waste-disposal units, an extraordinary vibrational vertexia with moving parts, miniature boilers producing real steam, working windcatchers, an elaborate system of signal lights capable of transmitting messages clear across the city, an icehouse sheltered beneath an insulated silvery dome, and much more, all of it remarkable as the king had promised.
The demonstration concluded and Nevenskoi excreted the requisite admiration, in this instance sincere. His listeners basked briefly, and then Mad Miltzin decreed, “Your turn now, Nevenskoi. Come, astonish us, man!” His tone waxed conspiratorial. “You have brought our green friend, eh?”
The adept inclined his head.
“Ha, excellent! Then loose him at once—awaken our wonder, entertain us!”
Entertain! This is my great work, you nitwit, this is my life! Nevenskoi hid his indignation behind a deferential smile. His silent voice turned inward and elsewhere, as he inquired, Loveliness, do you hear me?
Hear you! returned Masterfire.
Then come forth, my beauty, to dazzle the world.
A thin, serpentine tendril of green flame slithered out of Nevenskoi’s breast pocket. An audible gasp escaped the watching Noble Landholder Zelkiv.
“See? Didn’t I tell you?” Mad Miltzin exulted. “But this is a trifle, this is nothing! Only wait until you see what my Masterfire can do!”
Embrace me, Nevenskoi commanded mutely, and the fiery serpent stretched, lengthening to loop itself about its master’s body again and again until the adept stood lapped in endless coils of living flame that consumed nothing.
Enfold me.
The green coils swelled and merged, reared up and roared, enclosing Nevenskoi within a whirling column of flame.
The Noble Landholder Zelkiv’s face was a study in disbelief. Seeing this, King Miltzin loosed a gratified giggle.
Big! declared Masterfire. I am BIG, I am huge, I am great, I am wonderful—
True indeed, my sweetest.
I am grand, I am glorious, I am tasty and delicious—
You are all of that and more, but now you must dwindle again. Shrink, my beauty, reduce yourself to the tiniest spark—
NONoNoNoNoNoNo!
Only for a little while, and then, I promise, you will stand taller than you have ever stood before.
Promise?
Trust me.
Goodgoodgood!
The great whirling column diminished, contracting to a single node of green fire burning harmlessly in the middle of its master’s outstretched palm.
A flood of excited Rhazaullean burst from the Noble Landholder Zelkiv, and Nevenskoi took refuge in professional abstraction. Deaf to his supposed countryman’s queries, he focused his intellect upon the rudimentary awareness of his creation, telepathing silent commands.
At once the sentient spark leapt from its master’s hand to land at the center of Frem Zelkiv’s model metropolis. An instant later Masterfire disappeared down one of the chutes leading to the underground maze of utility corridors.
“What is it doing? What is it doing?” Zelkiv demanded in alarm.
As if in reply Masterfire reappeared, his divided self spouting suddenly from the upper windows of half a dozen tall edifices ranged about the perimeter of the city.
“Call it off!” Zelkiv cried.
“Take heart, my friend,” Miltzin IX counseled indulgently. “All’s well. My Nevenskoi and our Masterfire know what they’re about. You’ll see!”
Green flame gushed from the tower windows, streamed down walls of dry thin wood textured to resemble masonry, without so much as bubbling the painted surface. Descending to ground level, the fires flashed through the miniature boulevards, hurrying from street to street, meeting at the plazas and branching out from there, until the model city burned along every artery and vein.
Masterfire destroyed nothing. Frem Zelkiv’s initial alarm gave way to wonder, while Miltzin IX smiled complacently as if he imagined himself author of the marvel.
Nevenskoi enjoyed no such untroubled optimism. His psychic link with Masterfire continued, and the messages blazing in his brain invited concern.
Others! Here! Like me! Others!
Explain, Nevenskoi requested.
Others! Small ones eating gas. We meet, we dance, dance, DANCE!
The little burners beneath the tiny boilers. The gaslights. Fires. Should such mundane flames merge with Masterfire, no predicting the result.
No dancing. Do not mingle with inferiors, never debase the purity of your substance.
DanceDanceDance!
I forbid it.
Too late. As Nevenskoi watched, the green torrents blazing through the streets of Zelkiv’s model city subtly altered color and character. The wooden walls of the buildings began to darken. The paint started to blister.
“No.” Nevenskoi spoke aloud. “Stop. Reduce yourself, dwindle—”
Sensing no comprehension, he focused strenuously. Shrink. Now. Obey.
NoNoNoNoNoNo!
Obey!
No! I stand tall! You promised!
Later—
NowNowNowNowNowNowNow! So saying, the fiery rivulets filling the tiny boulevards shot clear of the model, rushed across the surface of King Miltzin’s desk, cascaded down the four sides in burning streams, hit the floor, and raced off in all directions.
Come back! Resume your original size and shape! Now! There was no response, no sign that Masterfire noted or comprehended the command, and terror wrenched Nevenskoi’s innards. An exquisite pang shot through him, and his jaw clenched.
“Well, this is a new one!” Mad Miltzin smiled. “Nevenskoi, my dear fellow, there is truly no end to your powers of invention! What clever feat will our Masterfire perform this time, eh?”
I have no idea! Drawing a deep breath, Nevenskoi marshaled his mental forces and exerted his will. Obey.
The reply came in a burst of wordless exhilaration. Roaring, Masterfire swept along the floor, up the walls, and across the ceiling. Green fire sheeted overhead. The doorway and both windows were engulfed in flame. The room remained undamaged, and its human occupants unsinged—Masterfire consumed nothing as yet—but his wild excitement was mounting, and his self-restraint probably measured itself in seconds.
“Oh, splendid.” Miltzin IX’s pleased eye roamed the surrounding inferno. “Nevenskoi, you have absolutely outdone yourself!”
Nevenskoi hardly heard him. Every sorcerous faculty strained. He sent his intellect questing through fiery eternity, and finally caught the echo of his creation’s thoughts.
Big! Dance! Big!
Loveliness. Hear me. The adept exerted every atom of will. Hear me.
Hear you! I am everywhere, I am everything, I am MASTERFIRE! Dance! Big! Eat! Eat! EAT!
NO.
YES! Eat!
Reduce yourself. Down, down, no higher than the hem of my robe, no wider than the tip of my finger. He had achieved nearly perfect concentration, but Masterfire resisted yet, and a hideous moment of uncertainty passed before the flame’s will buckled.
Masterfire gave way suddenly and completely. Green flame flowed down the walls like water, drawing in upon itself and dwindling to a thumb-sized wisp within the space of seconds.