Forward the Mage

by Eric Flint

  " 'Yes! It was none other than he!' exclaimed the wizard. 'Even in that brief glimpse I recognized him.' 'Who?' demanded Sir Carayne. ' "Who?" you said,' spoke the wizard. 'And well might you ask, for I see by your thews you are an ignorant man. Well, let me tell you, sirrah, that now deceased deformity was none other than Stromo Sfondrati-Piccolomini.'

  " 'Not really?' gasped the cleric. 'Yes, yes,' continued the wizard. 'Not—?' exclaimed the cleric, half rising from his seat in excitement. 'Yes, yes, I say—even he! The author of The Beggar's Banquet!'

  " 'Astonishing!' cried the parson, falling back in his seat; he raised his hands most high. 'O Lord, blessed is Thy spirit, for in this recent crushing, Thy majesty is revealed as was Thy will!'

  " 'Who is—was—this fellow, this Tromo Svunder—whatever his name?' demanded Sir Carayne.

  " 'And well should you ask,' approved the cleric, 'for this saint's life is an example for all mankind. Know, Sir Carayne, that Stromo Sfondrati-Piccolomini, of the famed scholarly clan of that name, was a man whose blessed nature in God's eyes is proven by his life. As a youth he entered the field of metallurgy, the which he rapidly revolutionized—or so, at least, I am told, though I know little of these matters myself—yet—'

  " 'Bah!' oathed the wizard. 'Who does not know Stromo's Hammer and Tong is an ignoramus; moreover—'

  " '—yes, yes, no doubt!—' expostulated the cleric, 'but the more interesting and uplifting feature of this saint's life is its later portion. For know, sirrahs and madame, that at the prime of his career, Stromo injured himself in a demonstration of the smithing art before a lecture hall full of students.' 'Oh poor man!' cried La Contessa, clutching her bosom.

  " ' 'Tis true, I fear,' said the cleric. 'Smashed his knee with a single blow of the hammer. He was, needless to say, disgraced; stripped of his post; cast out; disowned by his clan; but he saw the light, and sought to redeem himself in the eyes of God. Thus did he crawl to Goimr and give himself up to a life of beggary. But he did not satisfy himself with the expiation of his sin merely by this travail, oh no!—as well he seized the opportunity to further the pursuit of knowledge and the Lord's work by publishing his book, The Beggar's Banquet, which plumbs the controversial question of the dietary habits of beggars.'

  " 'Bah!' sneered the knight.

  " 'But you are wrong, Sir Carayne,' protested the parson. 'For this was no mere monograph, no paltry academic investigation filled with charts and graphs—no! no! a hundred times, no! 'Twas a profoundly religious work, whose entire purpose was the demonstration that the existence of beggars and their noxious diet is one of God's great boons to humanity.'

  " ' "How so?" you ask,' he continued," said Barley; then—" 'And well you might, for 'twould appear, on the face of things, a paradox that God's boundless mercy should take the form of a mutilated dotard scrabbling midst garbage-strewn streets for the scant sustenance of his daily life—' '—Bah!' oathed the wizard; 'No paradox, but a conundrum—' '—kicked about by ruffians, tormented by mongrels—is this not passing strange?'

  " 'Not at all!' snorted the knight."

  "Natural order of things," agreed the Director gruffly.

  " 'Yet,' went on the cleric, 'in this seeming mystery the genius and the pure spirit of Stromo, now cleansed by his suffering, perceived the truth. For, as he himself explained, this was not evidence of an ethical paradox but rather the deeper proof of God's justice.'

  " 'But therein lay not the source of his genius,' countered the wizard. 'By no means. The demonstration that this is the best of all possible worlds is a commonplace; any student not hopelessly stupid in his mind can prove it by any one of several theorems. No, rather the brilliance of his treatise is found in the specifics of his study of the beggar's diet, for therein he established—with a scrupulous logic which remains an example to all philosophes—that the heretofore presumed connection between social status and diet is subject to the most precise and detailed demonstration, in that through an examination of a man's diet we can determine how he arrives at his social status. This was his contribution to science.'

  " 'What bullshit!' swore the knight. 'Beggars eat what they deserve.'

  " 'Precisely, precisely!' exclaimed the wizard. 'But it was Stromo who first proved it.'

  "At this point the cleric, clearly irritated, resumed his discourse. 'Yes, yes, this is no doubt interesting, and goes to show once again the spiritual essence of Stromo's mind—but the essential feature of the saint's work was the further elaboration of God's justice. This is proven by the very event which we so recently witnessed, the blessed squashing of this holy man. "How so?" you ask—for is it not passing strange that such a virtuous soul should come to such a grisly end? Is this not, on the face of it, an ethical mystery?' 'Preposterous!' interrupted the wizard. 'No mystery, but a paradox, obvious to any half-wit.' The cleric pressed on, his lips pursed with rising ire—'Not so! Rather we see here the greatest example of God's mercy—for look you, sirrahs and madame, the enigma—' 'Clearly we deal here with a third-wit,' commented the wizard.

  " 'You are impudent, sirrah!' stormed the cleric.

  " 'In no wise!' contradicted the sorcerer. 'My characterization of your mentality has throughout been guided by the dictates of science, without a trace of spleen or personal malice. Quite the contrary! I find your intellect admirably shaped for your calling—for are you not a shepherd of the Lord, tending his spiritual flock?'

  " 'Why, quite so,' admitted the cleric, somewhat mollified by these soft words.

  " 'There you have it, then!' spoke the wizard, smiling at the parson in a most cordial manner, his hands outspread in a gesture of conciliation. 'What could be more fitting? For as sheep are amongst the stupidest of beasts, it is entirely proper that the shepherd's brain be suited for his work. As lambs stray about the field, it is necessary that the shepherd grasp the difference between right and left; as sheep rise in the morning and sleep at night, so must the tender of the flock be able to distinguish night from day; as they bleat—'

  "This was too much. Bellowing with fury, the parson rose from his seat and made to fall upon the wizard. Things might have come to a pretty pass, but for the intervention of the Company messenger. This latter had ignored the entire exchange till then, gazing out the window in the same moody fashion he had maintained since boarding the coach. Without moving his eyes, he snapped, 'It is forbidden to quarrel in a vehicle operated by the Consortium. The fine is ruinously heavy.' The cleric paled slightly and resumed his seat.

  "Conversation lagged. Soon Il Conde dozed off, and the knight took advantage of this opportunity to make his approach to La Contessa. Casually extending his leg, he began a surreptitious stroking of the lady's shapely ankle with his mailed and spurred boot. The hot blood of the Grenadine flowed freely; La Contessa uttered several remarks concerning rustic chivalry. Aside from this one-sided romance, the rest of the day passed quietly. Toward the end of the afternoon, the scattered clouds began massing. By evening, the sunny afternoon had become a dreary dusk of pouring rain.

  "Fortunately, before long we arrived at the first way station. The coach came to a halt, and the passengers disembarked. Looming in the rain near the coach was a slovenly edifice built of logs and wattle. Above the doorway hung a crude sign which proclaimed this to be the Inn of the Two Whiches. The explanation for this peculiar name was soon forthcoming; for upon the main counter, behind which stood the dumpy form of the innkeeper, rose a rudely lettered placard bearing the inscription: Which do you want? Pallet or cot? Porridge or gruel? Opting for porridge and cot, I soon finished the meal—if such it could be called—and went to sleep in a corner of the attic.

  "It was still raining the next morning when I arose, though not so heavily as the night before. I descended to the ground floor and made to pay my bill. Ahead of me, the wizard and the innkeeper were quarreling. 'I don't care,' snarled the innkeeper, 'you still owe me money.' 'Nonsense!' spoke the wizard. 'Honest hostels charge only for the services which they provide, and no other.
This fine establishment is called the Inn of the Two Whiches for the good and proper reason that it offers a twofold option of two services—porridge or gruel; pallet or cot. As my apprentice and I slept on the floor and eschewed supper, we availed ourselves of none of your services. Hence, we owe you nothing.' And with that the sorcerer strode out the door, followed by the gnome tottering beneath his sack.

  "The innkeeper roared with rage, and would no doubt have gone in pursuit, save that I stepped up and blocked his way. 'Innkeeper!' I said loudly, 'I wish to settle my bill.' 'In a minute,' he snarled, 'first I'm gonna get that lousy—' 'Now!' I insisted; 'I'm a busy man and I must be on my way!'"

  "You should have let him go, Barley," grumbled the Director. "Damned impudence of that wizard—cheating on his bill!"

  Barley shrugged. "Perhaps so, but at the time my burning desire was to be rid of the place; it stank, and I was rather peeved by the aches and pains in my back from sleeping on the wretched cot which this parsimonious innkeeper had provided for quite a steep charge."

  "Frugality is the necessary basis of profit," insisted the accountant. "No doubt," replied Barley, "but it's unpleasant to be the source of the profit oneself." " 'Course!" snorted the Director. "Never sleep in one of my own hostels; fit only for the herd."

  "In any event," continued Barley, "the innkeeper decided to forego his quarrel and returned to the counter. Reaching into my pocket, I took out a coin and tossed it onto the counter. Then, before the innkeeper could scoop it up, Il Conde's shrunken head thrust itself beside me. His eyes, normally half-closed in reverie, were now wide open; he peered intently at the coin, his lips quivering with excitement. 'Gasp!—a Ruiz!' he cried. 'Been looking for one for years!' The innkeeper made to pick up the coin. 'Unhand that, knave!' shrilled the nobleman, cracking the man's knuckles with his cane. So fierce was his countenance, so menacing the flourish of his cane, that the innkeeper fell back in fright. Not taking his eyes from the coin for a moment, Il Conde said to me, in a quavering voice—'Sirrah, I am an accomplished numismatist, and I must have that coin. What will you take for it?'

  "You can imagine my irritation. I thrust the coin toward the dotard and snapped, 'You can have it—just pay my bill!' And with that, I stalked out of the inn. Outside, it was raining again and I hurried into the coach. Before long, all were aboard and we set off. The constant rain was a damper on our spirits, and only the tersest of exchanges took place. By midafternoon, however, the clouds began to scatter. The first ray of sunlight pierced downward like an arrow of gold; this shaft was soon followed by a full volley—before long the day was as bright and sunny as you could ask for. Soon an animated conversation broke out, this time centered upon the person of La Contessa.

  "La Contessa's given name, as it developed, was Freya; the oddity of this name for a Grenadine being explained by a trace of Alsask blood in her family. In age somewhere between thirty and forty, her life had been spent primarily in the acquisition of husbands, an enterprise she had elevated to a fine art. Seven aisles had she trod to the tune of wedding marches, and the result of her latest wedding mumbled beside her with toothless gums. While she was too delicate to dwell upon it, it was clear enough that each of her spouses had been of the order of the current one; her husbands seemed to increase in age and wealth as her career progressed. As it was obvious that the seventh was soon to follow his predecessors, it did not take great insight to see that she had her own motives in accompanying Il Conde to Prygg, which focused about the nonagenarian figure of Prince Roman, the extravagantly wealthy cousin of the King of Pryggia.

  "And so the day passed. La Contessa seemed to take a kindly interest in the wretched little dwarf. Several times she attempted to draw out from him his life story—peculiar woman!—but the horrid gnome was too shy to respond with more than stumbling half-sentences. Eventually I dozed off for some few hours, only to awaken when the coach came to a halt. Night had almost fallen, but there was still enough light to discern the features of the surrounding countryside. Would it were otherwise!—for we had arrived at the beginning of the next leg of the journey; but a few miles distant loomed the Grimwald, most ancient and somber of Grotum's forests. Shivering a bit, I hurried into the inn.

  "This roadside hostel was even more wretched than the last; no one had even bothered to give it a name. The innkeeper was an obese man of apparently infinite sloth. The accommodations were very simple—no choice provided here! The traveler slept on a pallet on the floor and supped on a thin porridge; nothing else was available. The innkeeper, either through a keen sense for such things or because he had been forewarned by the driver, immediately accosted the wizard and demanded payment in advance. A round of haggling ensued; at the conclusion of which it was agreed that the wizard's apprentice would clean the hostel as payment in kind for lodging; no meal was included in the bargain. Soon the wretch was sent scurrying about by the innkeeper; at the end of his labors, by which time most of us were already asleep, the place looked no cleaner than before. The innkeeper argued that the bargain was forfeit; but the sorcerer countered that the inn was so innately filthy that no amount of cleaning could solve the problem. The argument waxed hotly, but ended soon enough—partly because the wizard was obviously in the right, and partly because the innkeeper's sloth encompassed disputation as well."

  "Find out who that man is and fire him!" bellowed the Director; "I won't abide laziness among my employees!" The accountant coughed softly; the others of us said nothing; I thought of decay in the atolls; delusions brought on by misfortune; senility pressing in like the darkness which congealed upon our boat.

  After a moment Barley resumed. "The next morning we went on; it was a dreary day—not raining; but the sky was overcast from horizon to horizon. All too soon—it seemed—we reached the edge of the forest—there the coach halted; we heard the driver's voice call out—'All passengers read the sign!' Startled, we leaned out the windows—there, on both sides of the road, were identical signs—

  NOTICE

  You are about to enter the Grimwald, so named for good reason. The Grimwald is not a subsidiary of the Consortium. The GGNESWC&EE&T Co. assumes no responsibility for losses of property, limbs, lives or well-being incurred by passengers traversing the forest. Passengers continuing onward do so in full knowledge of the situation, and have no grounds for complaint should your pleasant trip be ruined in any of the myriad ways familiar to travelers with experience of the Grimwald. Be warned. Should any passenger, upon due reflection, choose not to continue the journey, you may so inform the driver and he will allow you to disembark. It goes without saying that finding your way back to what passes for civilization in these parts is entirely your own affair. The GGNESWC&EE&T Co. assumes no liability for any mishaps which may occur, these being not unlikely as the northwestern region of Goimria is notorious for its intemperate weather, impure waters, poisonous plants, slavering carnivores, voracious insects, and—at their best—sullen inhabitants. Should you elect to stay on the coach, we hope you enjoy your trip and we thank you for traveling GGNESW etc.

  " 'Anybody gettin' off?' boomed the driver's voice. 'Last call!' A moment's silence; the passengers stared at each other; stared at the forest; stared back at the landscape just traversed; shrank into their seats; and were silent. 'Pray for us!' came the driver's voice, and the coach lurched into motion. The forest closed around us."

  PART IV

  In Which We

  Momentarily Suspend

  Korzeniowski's Superlative Account

  in Order to Resume Our Examination of the

  Other Fugitives From Goimric Justice, Discovering

  to Our Horror, as We Do, that Their Social

  Villainy Is Becoming Entwined With

  the First Horrid Seeds of

  Carnal Lust.

  The Autobiography of Benvenuti Sfondrati-Piccolomini,

  Episode 3: Umbrellas, Uncles, Urchins, and Urges

  So it was in such a leafy green shroud that I spent many days thereafter. I remember it
, looking back, as a particularly joyful time of my life. All cares seemed to vanish as the great forest swallowed us up. Every day, one after another, was a steady progression along a narrow and winding trail. Above, the canopy of the trees shielded all direct sunlight. Everything was bathed with a dim green glow, which periodically darkened as storms passed overhead. The foliage was so thick that the rainfall from the storms we could hear in the sky above never fell directly on the soil. Like so many umbrellas, the great trees diverted the water into a million trickles seeping down the great boles.

  At first—fueled, I have no doubt, by the grim reputation of the Grimwald—I found the forest oppressive, even fearful. But by the end of the first day, I had lost all sense of foreboding. In large part, that was due to Gwendolyn. She, who had heretofore appeared so stern and unyielding, seemed to lose her years and troubles the farther we penetrated into the legendary forest. Nothing was said throughout the course of that first day's journey, but I am an artist, with an artist's eye. It became obvious, watching the steady change in her posture as she strode ahead of me, the increasing ease of her movements, that she was more at ease with my company.

  Relaxed or not, she set a very rigorous pace. I suspected that she was deliberately trying to exhaust the effete Ozarine urbanite trailing behind her. Had I been a normal Ozarine, I would indeed have collapsed before half the day had past. But my uncles' training stood me in good stead, and by the time she stopped to make camp for the night I was in good shape.

  She commented on it, as she put together the makings for a fire.

  "You held up pretty well today. For a—" She stopped speaking, made a sour face.