FSF, March-April 2010 (22 page)

"Merchant!” said Epidapheles, to the merchant's back. “Answer my question at once! Where is the ravenous, ossified king that I seek?"

"Okay,” said Door, tapping the back of the wizard's knees. “We can go now."

"But...."

"I think you must have divined his location, by mistake. It just popped into my head."

"Ah,” said the wizard, and smiled. “I told you."

"You did,” said Door. The merchant had by now struggled to his feet, and was regarding Epidapheles with an expression that mingled all the best parts of enraged and homicidal. “We really should go now."

They went.

The road to the Kingdom of Uther winds through the Barony of Kranz, the Plains of Smelted Terror, and the Forest of Very Small Trees. A journey of a month under normal circumstances, it took them six, mostly because of a time rift that Epidapheles inadvertently opened while in the midst of a particularly violent sneeze. It thrust them five months into the future, to the same intersection, of the same road, near the same copse of threadbare trees—surrounded, however, by a large mob of goblins, which was markedly different from the no mob of goblins that had been surrounding them before.

Luckily, the rift belched one more time and transported them backward a few hours, to a moonlit version of the same intersection, beside a
sleeping
mob of goblins—which was much better, from their perspective, than the awake kind, and also easier to tiptoe past.

The point at which the road touched the border of the Kingdom of Uther was flanked by two large statues: a handsome young man statue, wearing a crown, holding the hand of a lovely young woman statue, also crowned. Their joined arms formed an arch that stretched over the road, their clasped hands its keystone. A stone ocelot sat at the feet of the king, looking up at its master with feline adoration.

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, and 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.