Tara Duncan and the Forbidden Book (23 page)

He sounded more upset about his rosebushes than about the dead prince.

“A storm came up unexpectedly while Prince Bandiou was fishing,” the count declared firmly. “He slipped off the dock, fell on a boat, and broke his neck. That's the story I'll tell the empress and the rest of OtherWorld. And to think I welcomed that piece of garbage as a friend!”

The count looked bitterly at the prince's corpse, and Tara felt he was itching to kick it in the ribs. Tara rolled her eyes, thinking,
Adult politics are just too complicated!

She cupped her hands and shouted: “King Glul Buglul!”

His small blue head popped out of the ground.

“Yes?”

“Everything's all right, you can come out now. Fafnir did a number on Prince Bandiou, so you have nothing to fear anymore.”

The gnomes emerged shouting with joy and did a frenetic dance around the wizard's body.

With blue tears in his eyes, the king bowed to Tara's group. “My people owe you a great debt. We will give you whatever you desire. Just ask, and we will obey.”

“Obeying that monster Bandiou didn't work out very well for you,” remarked Manitou severely. “So just cure Cal, give us
The Forbidden Book,
and return the magic objects you stole. Then we'll be even.”

“And if you feel like tossing in a few jewels, that would be perfect!” said the smiling thief.

“Cal!” shouted Tara and Sparrow.

“Hey, what? I deserve them, don't I?”

They left the count to handle any remaining problems—including facing an empress who certainly wouldn't be pleased that someone had killed her favorite uncle—and raced upstairs to the Transfer Portal before he started asking too many questions. They activated the scepter, and in a few seconds they were back in Smallcountry.

News of the rescue had preceded them, and an honor guard escorted them to the Throne Room. The hall's floor was strewn with luminous confetti, the beams were laden with flowers and hanging lamps, and fairies and imps scampered around celebrating their friends, the gnomes.

When she saw that the two arachnes were still carefully guarding
The Forbidden Book,
Tara heaved a sigh of relief.

“It's not that I don't like worms,” said Cal nervously, “but it would be nice if I could take the antidote right now.”

Sitting on his pink metal throne, the king smiled. “Of course. I will have it brought immediately.”

He gestured to one of the arachnes. The giant arachnid squeezed a glittering crystal vial up out of its gizzard and handed it to the king.

“Here you are,” he said. “Drink it, and the t'sil eggs will be immediately destroyed.”

Cal reached out to take the vial. But just then Barune, who'd been frightened by a huge arachne, tripped on his trunk and bumped into Fabrice, who stumbled into Cal. The little thief dropped the vial, which shattered against the base of the throne, its precious contents soaking into the thick grass.

King Buglul instantly went from blue to an unusual color somewhere between white and green.

“By my ancestors,” he muttered, “the vial is broken!”

“No big deal,” said Cal with a smile. “Just give me another one.”

“You don't understand. That is the only one we had!”

Now it was Cal's turn to turn pale. Very quickly he recited: “By Repairus, take these shattered bits and assemble them so each one fits.”

The crystal vial reformed and hovered obediently in front of them, but it was empty! The liquid had soaked into the grassy floor, and they had no way to retrieve it.

Buglul stared at Cal in dismay. “You are doomed. You only have a few more hours to live. There is no more t'sil antidote.”

Though emotions were running high, Manitou was thinking hard.

“How long ago did you infect Cal?” he asked.

“Three days and twelve hours. Which means the t'sil will become active in eight hours. And he absolutely must take the antidote two hours beforehand, otherwise it won't do any good. So, he only has six hours left.”

Tara could feel herself starting to panic.

“Where can we find it?” she cried. “You must have bought that critter and the antidote from someone. Where is he?”

“It was a Salterian merchant,” said Buglul quickly, his voice thick with tension. “We ordered a shipment of birds from him, and he threw in the t'sil as a bonus. The only way to find him is to go to Sala, the capital of Salterens. Our ambassador there, Tul Tultul, will help you. I will immediately dispatch a messenger to alert him.”

“Don't bother,” said Manitou firmly. “You're coming with us. We don't know what this merchant looks like. And since your people do business with the Salterians, you'll be our safe-conduct in case they get any weird ideas, like turning us into slaves.”

“But—” began the king.

“No buts!” snapped Sparrow angrily. “You've manipulated us, lied to us, and infected our friend, who might die because of your scheming! You don't have any choice in the matter.”

The king's pretty fiancée Mul Mulmul had been watching the exchange and was floored to see these strangers talking to her future royal husband this way. Suddenly, she frowned.

“Just a second, Glul,” she said in her melodious voice. “What did you do to this boy that he should be in danger of dying? I thought you engaged him to help free us. You have been talking about t'sil worms and an antidote. Why?”

The gnome king suddenly looked very ill at ease.

“You were in danger, darling,” he said very quickly. “Helping you escape called for somewhat expeditious methods. I will explain everything later.”

It didn't work. Mul Mulmul was no fool, and she quickly understood what steps her future husband had taken to force Cal to free them. When she let Buglul know what she thought of that, the gloves came off.

The discussion quickly rose to a distinctly higher decibel level.

“Her voice is very . . .” commented Manitou, who wasn't able to put his paws over his ears.

“Yes, very . . .” agreed Robin, who was following the discussion with rapt attention. “Now 
there's
an expression I didn't know!”

Buglul soon realized that it was wiser not to argue. His “But I's” very quickly became, “I am sorry, I am sorry, I am sorry.” Which eventually did the trick, but only after he had sworn to the furious little gnome that he would personally do his utmost to cure the boy.

With a sigh of resignation, King Buglul stepped down from his throne and headed to the Transfer Portal Room. Tara and her friends followed him in total silence. There was no chuckling, no comments. Even Fafnir behaved herself.

Though he was scared to death, Cal finally cracked. “So, you're planning to marry that young gnome?”

The king looked at him wearily. “Yes, of course. We are engaged.”

“I see . . . If I were you, I'd seriously consider the ‘running away' option.”

“I have loved her ever since I was old enough to tell the difference between boys and girls,” Buglul said with a helpless shrug. “And she is right. I should have found another way. What I did was perfectly contemptible. I behaved like our enemy. For me, the end justified the means. I am sorry.”

“Yeah, we got that,” remarked Manitou sarcastically. “I think you told her at least a thousand times in the Throne Room. All right, can we get a move on here? You have a girlfriend to get back to, and Cal is carrying some undesirables around that we'd like to help him get rid of.”

As they walked, Tara was thinking. She had the annoying feeling that she was missing something. Something that Cal had told them. Something important. 
Rats! I just can't think of it!

Also, she was feeling a bit overwhelmed. Fafnir, Cal, the mysterious killer who was trying to get rid of her, Magister, the Hunter . . . too many events and too much pressure were weighing on her. She had the unpleasant feeling of somehow being manipulated. Someone was burying her under these problems, to keep her from having time to think. Her brain was working at top speed, but it came up with solutions too late. She sighed, feeling a major headache coming on.

Which didn't improve when they reached Salterens.

The gnome embassy was cooled by an air-conditioning spell, but outside, the city felt like an oven on its self-clean setting. The sun beat down like a hammer on a glittering anvil. The buildings were all a blinding white, and the spellbinders and their familiars quickly activated the ocular protection spell provided by the gnomes at the embassy. It turned their eyes completely black and filtered the light. That way, they could begin their search without going half blind.

The Salterians were large, two-legged felines with flowing golden manes. Their amber eyes glowed under their hoods, and they seem to view each passerby as a potential prey. Elaborate white camelin robes protected them from the sun. Spellbinders were shaded by discs floating overhead. Nonspells used parasols.

Tara and her friends rode giant slugs like the one that attacked her in Lancovit. Their thick hides made an unpleasant screeching as they slid over the sand-strewn cobbled streets.

Tul Tultul told them where the Salterian merchant's shop was located, but they also tried their luck in other stores along the way. The feline merchants treated them suspiciously when they explained they were looking for the antidote to a t'sil infestation. In Salterens, the only people interested in getting rid of t'sil worms were runaway salt mine slaves.

To overcome their reluctance, Glul Buglul displayed his crown, after which the merchants became much more cooperative.

The problem was, they didn't have any antidote. Not a shadow of a drop.

After more than two hours of vainly walking and searching, they finally reached the store of the merchant that the gnome had told them about. And gasped in dismay.

The place was closed.

A sign—which Manitou was able to make out because he knew some Salterian—read: “I am traveling in the deep desert. I will return in three days. For information or complaints, see the central administration.” Deeply concerned, the dog shook his head. They turned around and headed for Sala's central administration, which was housed in a large white building they'd passed a few minutes earlier.

Like all bureaucracy headquarters, it was three times as big as the palace. The Salterians were ruled not by a king, but by a tribal chief called the Great Cacha. His vizier Iznogud greeted the friends suspiciously.

Unlike his fellow Salterians, who looked like a sleek mix of lion and leopard, Iznogud was a fat slob whose tangled mane and stained clothes testified to a distinct aversion to cleanliness. He was accompanied by his secretary, Satir, who had a profile like a knife.

A sharp one.

Ambition burned in Satir's amber eyes, and the way he watched Iznogud's every move suggested that the vizier would do well to avoid dark hallways and poorly lit staircases.

“Welcome, King Buglul,” said Iznogud, sprawled in an armchair. “To what do we owe the honor of your presence in our beautiful capital?”

Satir remained standing behind him, watching the visitors closely.

“I want to buy some t'sil antidote from you,” answered the gnome king. “This young spellbinder has been infected and the worms will become active in less than four hours. He has done Smallcountry invaluable service, and I owe it to him to save his life.”

The fat Salterian scratched his head with a claw and yawned, revealing impressive fangs.

“I'd be delighted to sell you the antidote,” he said amicably. “Problem is, I don't know where to find any. Infecting slaves with t'sil is going out of fashion. Too expensive. Even with the antidote, half the time the worms develop anyway, and we lose a good worker needlessly.”

Cal glared at the gnome king, who was writhing in embarrassment.

“We've bought much more efficient anti-escape spells,” continued the Salterian. “So we don't need to stock the antidote anymore. Look around town; one of our merchants must have some left over. Otherwise you'll have to go into the deep desert to get some. But even with sand slugs, it would take you a day and a half. I'm very sorry. Your friend's going to die.”

Tara didn't much like the Salterians to begin with. Slavery was a monstrous practice, and OtherWorld's inhabitants didn't seem especially anxious to stop it. So the Salterian's casual condemnation of Cal made her act rashly.

“Making slaves of people is bad enough,” she spat. “Infecting them with deadly worms to make sure they don't escape is even more monstrous. What kind of people are you?”

Satir's beautiful amber eyes narrowed, and he hissed like an angry tomcat.

“Insulting the vizier could cost you dearly, young lady,” he snarled. “We aren't in the habit of discussing with humans what we can and can't do. One more word, and you'll wind up in our mines, where you can feed your fine speeches to the members of your chain gang.”

Tara opened her mouth, but Manitou spoke first, which caught the two cats by surprise.

“I am High Wizard Manitou Duncan of Lancovit,” he declared, “and I officially demand the unrestricted assistance due to high wizards. Under the Treaty of 5042 signed among the peoples of OtherWorld, you are obligated to help us in our search.”

“Tsk, tsk, tsk!” exclaimed a surprised Satir. “A talking dog—amazing! Who claims to be a high wizard, which I don't believe for a second.”

Iznogud was studying Cal when he abruptly adopted his hunting vision. The boy's neck snapped into sharp focus; everything was a blur. What he saw startled him.
Hmm, just as I thought.

“Come here, young spellbinder,” he ordered, silencing Satir.

Cal approached, uncomfortable at being so close to the big cat's fangs. Iznogud seized him with his large paw and shoved his mass of black hair away from his neck.

“I have good news and bad news,” he growled. “Which would you like first?”