CHAPTER 1
ENCOUNTER ON A LONELY ROAD
The road to Hell is sometimes paved with good intentions.
—The Books of Rules, CVI, Introduction
IF HE HAD TO GO TO HELL, WELL, IT WAS BETTER TO GO dressed in expensive clothes, drinking good wine, and smoking a fine cigar.
The small figure walking slowly down the road was hardly visible in the darkness, and any who might have come along would probably not even see, let alone notice, him. He stopped for a moment, as if trying to get his bearings from the stars, and sighed. Well, he thought to himself, the clothes weren't bad for being nondescript, and the wine was long gone, but he did have one last cigar. He took it out, sniffed it, bit off the end, and stood there for a moment, as if hesitant to light and consume this one last vestige of wealth. Finally he lighted it, simply by making a few small signs in the air and pointing his finger at the tip. A pale yellow beam emanated from the finger, and the cigar glowed. Such pranks were really pretty petty for a master sorcerer, but he had always enjoyed them, taking an almost childlike pleasure in their simplicity and basic utility.
He found a rock and sat down to enjoy the smoke, looking out at the bleak landscape before him, invisible in the darkness of the new moon to his eyes, but not to his other, paranormal senses.
The darkness was in itself a living thing to him, a thing that he sensed, touched, caressed, and tried to befriend. He found it indifferent to him, interested instead in its own lowly subjects—the lizards, the snakes, the tiny voles, and other creatures that inhabited the desolation and knew it as home. For these and all the nameless citizens of its domain, the night was life itself, allowing them access to food and water under cooling temperatures, sheltered from greater enemies by the cool, caring dark.
The road seemed empty, lonely, desolate as the landscape itself, a track forlorn and forgotten in the shelter of deep night; but as he sat there, nursing the last cigar, he extended his senses and saw that this road was different, this road was for those with beyond normal senses and training. This road was inhabited, used in the night; as he let himself go, he could hear the groans and lamentations of those who used it now in the depths of night.
Even he could not see them, not now, but he could hear them, hear the crack of the whip and the cries of hopelessness and despair from those who moved slowly, mournfully, down that lonely road.
For in the dark, at the time of the new moon, he knew— perhaps he alone knew—that this road had a dark and despairing purpose beyond its utility to the travelers of day and full moon.
They were walking, crawling, along that lonely road, he knew, going toward a destination they dreaded yet had richly earned.
The month's quota of damned souls was a bumper crop, judging from the sounds.
One night, he knew, he'd be there, reduced to the same level as all the rest, walking or crawling down that road himself. One night, he, too, would be brought as low as the lowest of those now moving down that road, paying a due bill he had willingly run up. Perhaps, just perhaps, it would be this night, if his tongue and quick mind failed him for once. He was willing to go, he tried to convince himself, but not yet, not just yet. He had surrendered much to travel that road one day, not the least of which was his honor, and he certainly was loath to pay without at least attaining the goal for which he'd sold his soul.
The cigar was almost finished now, but he continued to nurse it along almost to the point of burning his fingers, as if the end of the cigar would also be the end of his hopes, his dreams, his life, and his power. For the first time, in the dark, with the sounds of the damned filling his bargained soul to its core, he had doubts and fears about his course and his own well-being. Was the great goal worth this sort of ultimate price? Did it really matter one way or the other what he did or didn't do, or was he, like the cigar, a momentary brilliance turned to ash and of no more consequence than that in the scheme of things?
He got up, dropped the stub, and crushed it angrily with his right foot. Such melancholy was for fools and failures, he scolded himself. He had not failed yet, and in his setbacks he had learned a great deal. Now was not the time for self-deprecation, self-doubt, and inner fears to consume him—no, that was what they would want, not merely his enemies but his inhuman allies as well. They, his allies, were the cause of this, for they dealt in such matters, traded in doubt and fear, sowed the seeds of turmoil inside you, and, in that way, they fed and grew stronger.
He began to walk along the dark, lonely road in the wastes, conscious now of being among the milling throng of the damned on their way to perdition, and conscious, too, that they knew he was there, a living, breathing man of power. He could feel their envy, their hatred of him for still cheating what they now faced; he could feel, too, the pity in many of them, not merely for their own sorry fates but for him as well.
Turn back, he could hear them crying. Do not walk this path with us, as we have walked. You still live! For you, there is still time...
Still time... Until his corpse rotted as theirs now did, until his cold and silent soul received their summons, there was always time. Time to set things right. Time not to repent, nor turn back—never!—but time, instead, to complete the work.
Within the hour he had passed through the slow-moving throng and stood at a point in the road where, in the light of day, it went through a narrow pass and emerged in greener, more beauteous regions beyond. Any who dared this path on a night so dark would still pass through to that other side, oblivious to that which lay before them, only slightly out of phase with the world they knew. But he—he was a sorcerer and he saw the many plains in his mind's eye and in the magical energies that flowed through all the world.
The colors of the valley's magic were crimson and lavender, the colors of its district prince, and they flowed along the road with its great traffic of once-human misery, flowed with a curious and subtle beauty to the head of the pass, then seemed to pause a moment before beginning a swirl in the air before him, as if, somehow, these great colors were some sort of liquid, here reaching a great drain.
And, in fact, it was so, for through him passed the souls of the damned, screaming in terror, unable not to press forward, reaching the great swirling mass of magical energy and falling in, their cries and pleas for a mercy now forever denied them cut terribly short as they were sucked down the great outlet from the real world in which they had forged their fate to Hell itself.
Not that Hell was actually so terrible. He had visited there on two occasions and found it more a place of curious fascination than the abject horror of the old tales and mystic religions. Yet it was still an unhappy place, fueled with hatred and revenge, its most terrible punishment a constantly available vision of the glory and beauty of absolute perfection that could always be seen but never experienced. They walked in Hell, always avoiding the vision, their eyes averting from it as men's eyes averted from the sun; yet they were always aware it was there, a place of indescribable joy and beauty that was held tantalizingly before them, just out of reach—always out of reach. It was this vision that had been denied him on his visits, for no living being was permitted to see such a sight as Paradise, lest, it was said, he be consumed in the light and desire nothing else. This did not really bother him; everybody in his past whom he knew, liked, or admired was in Hell anyway, along with all the other interesting people.
The swirl was changing now, becoming more irregular, as if disturbed by some great power or form arising within it, going, as it were, against the flow of the thing. It was less a drain now than a spiral. He saw the four arms of the turning swirl break from the main mass and fly upward above it, then form in a diamond. The light of these four shapes was no longer nebulous, but instead took on the form of wraithlike faces, demon faces, looking down upon him with cold interest. Now from the center of the magical mass shot two more bright lights, out and up into the diamond-shaped phalanx of faces, the demonic captain and the equally demonic sergeant of the guard.
Finally, out of the mass, so large it almost was the mass, walked a vaguely humanoid form. The creature was terrible to behold, one who had once been a creature of near perfection, an angel, distorted by hatred and an unquenchable thirst for revenge into a vaguely manlike thing that oozed the rot of long dead corpses and whose face, twisted in an expression of permanent hatred, was set off by two huge pupil less eyes glowing a bright red.
The creature was dressed in royal robes of lavender, set off by a crimson cape, boots, and gloves. It halted in front of him and looked down menacingly. He bowed low and said, How is my lord Prince Hiccarph?
The demon prince gave a bull-like snort. You really blew it, didn't you. Baron Asshole?
We blew it, he responded calmly. Despite that cursed dragon and the very considerable powers of Ruddygore, it was the lack of the Lamp that did us in. We had it in our grasp— and, in your august presence, a brainless hulk and a slip of a Halfling girl stole it right out from under your nose. All that when one wish would have carried the day and the war for us. You can't make me take all the credit, not this time.
I can make you take whatever I wish, the demon prince hissed. You're mine. Baron. I own you, not merely when you get here but right now. I think this fact bears reminding.
He smiled. If that is true, my lord, and I am your abject slave, then the fault is truly yours for the loss, for you chose the instrument and you played its string.
You are an impudent bastard, Hiccarph commented, his tone softening. Perhaps that's why I like you. Perhaps that is why I just don't strike you down and take you with me tonight.
Inwardly, the Baron relaxed a bit at the comment. Still time... still time... Aloud, he asked, Have you determined why those two were able to ignore your powers? At first I thought it was the Lamp, but I soon realized that the magic Lamp of the djinn would have little authority over you.
I have done much research on the matter, the demon prince told him, and still I have not the answer that is true. Dozens of explanations have occurred to me, but which one is the right one? Unless I know the exact means by which Ruddygore accomplished this, I can take no measures to counter it. We know very little about them, after all; and, if I peer too deeply into it from my side, it will certainly alert his Majesty, and I would prefer he in particular learn nothing of our little project, at least not yet, for understandable reasons. Since they worked so well for Ruddygore, though, it is likely he will continue to use them, and in that we might ultimately learn the secret through your offices. Remember, Baron, that we are in a sense kindred in this matter. Neither of us can afford to fail, and both of us will suffer terribly if we do.
The Dark Baron nodded. The harsh and rugged land of Husaquahr, dominated by the great River of Dancing Gods, had never been totally conquered by force of arms and, as such, it was the key to the domination of the entire continent. The continent, in turn, was the key to the entire world, since a bare majority of the Council of Thirteen, the most powerful necromancers in the world, lived on it—including, of course, himself. Control of the Council meant the ability to rewrite the Books of Rules, which governed the lives and powers of all who lived on the world, and that meant absolute control. From this world, formed by angels in the backwash of the Great Creation, Hiccarph and the minions of Hell could launch an invasion of Earth Prime, an Armageddon that might well have a different ending from the one everybody and every holy book of both worlds predicted.
Of course, there was more to it on a personal level than merely giving Hell a great advantage. Hiccarph might be a prince, but as his sphere of influence was Husaquahr and not any place on Earth Prime, he was a decidedly minor one in the Hellish hierarchy. If Hiccarph could deliver this world to his Satanic Majesty free and clear, his standing in the royal pecking order would be second only to great Lucifer himself.
But Hiccarph was taking a terrible gamble himself. For over two thousand years there had existed a compact between Heaven and Hell, a reordering of the rules of their great war. No longer would angels and demons walk directly upon the planes of the worlds, but would, instead, act through intermediaries native to those planes exclusively. Thus balanced, the minds and souls of the worlds would themselves choose sides and do the work freely and for their own motives. To break the compact would be tantamount to a formal declaration of war, the second War of Heaven called Armageddon, a war Hell did not wish to fight unless it believed it could win.
And yet Hiccarph had in fact broken the compact and directly intervened in Husaquahr. With his powers, unconstrained by the man-made Books of Rules, he had built and backed the forces of the Dark Baron and conquered over a quarter of the entire land. They had been stopped, though, in a great battle in which Hiccarph's powers were blunted by his inability to act against the two from the other plane at a key point in the battle, and by the subsequent skill of opposing sorcery and swords. Because of that defeat, the Dark Baron's forces had had to withdraw, and both the Baron and Hiccarph were in pretty deep trouble.
The longer it took, and the more direct involvement by the demon prince, the more likely his activities would be discovered by his own king, who might not approve of such a premature and unilateral breaking of the compact by a comparatively minor underling. But the more open and direct Hiccarph's involvement, the more the enemies of the Baron would be strengthened, since those opposing Hell would be able to rally all the most powerful sorcerers to their side—a combined power Hiccarph alone could not block. Worse, proof that the compact was being violated would raise even the hands of evil against the Baron—for who, living in decadent splendor and enjoying the power and possessions that evil brought, would like to take a risk on Armageddon, at which point their wonderful wickedness might be destroyed for all time, when they had sure things in the here and now?
Those two saw you, the Baron pointed out. Live witnesses now exist that know you personally intervened.
They are of no consequence, the demon prince assured him. After all, Ruddygore already knew. But the others— particularly those who are already in the service of Hell—will not want to believe. They will find the idea that any might violate the compact unthinkable. Only if faced with proof so clear and incontrovertible that they can not help but believe will they do so. That's the only thing that's saving our collective asses. Baron, but it's a big thing.
He nodded. So what do we do about these two you can't control?
They are no longer any threat, now that we know their looks and boss. Remember, while they are immune to me, they are vulnerable to the Rules of Husaquahr; thus, they can be easily handled by such as you. It is ironic, my dear Baron, that, had you actually gone to attend to them instead of me, we would have won. While my far greater magic was powerless against them, you could have frozen them to statues or turned them to toads with a flick of your wrist. Ruddygore is clever— he foresaw in the Mazes of Probabilities that such a situation might occur and prepared for it—but his advantage is now known. Once known, his schemes are of no consequence. I think we have seen Ruddygore's bag of tricks. He will not expect us to act again so soon, and we will not give him the time to prepare more tricks and traps.
You have a plan, then?
You still control a quarter of Husaquahr. Your army is a good army, perhaps the greatest ever raised here, and it retired from the field intact and in good order. In the end, it was geography that defeated us, as it has defeated all past conquering armies here. Even without the Lamp, we almost carried the day, nor could our enemies mount a credible counterattack. They won in the end because geography told them where we must meet and they were there, well fortified and in the defensive positions of their choice. Eliminate the geographical factors and we will carry any battle.
But how do you eliminate geography? the Baron asked, fascinated but skeptical.
With me, you are the equal of six of the Council, Hiccarph told him. We have the power. Now listen, my impudent instrument, as to how it will be used.
CHAPTER 2
VISITS WITH OLD FRIENDS
The fairies may belong fully to no human orders, nor their political parties.
—The Books of Rules, LXIV, 36(b)
THE GLEN DINIG WAS A PLACE OF MAGIC AND MYSTERY. THE sacred grove of trees along the banks of the River of Dancing Gods was but a few hours north of the great castle Terindell at the confluence of the Rossignol and the Dancing Gods, yet it might as well be on another planet. Legends abounded concerning it, but few had actually seen it and fewer still dared to penetrate its depths. Even those who scoffed at the legends and tall tales nonetheless admitted that there was a strong spell on the place; no human male could enter it, no matter from what direction or means, nor male fairy, either. Only a few steps into the tree-covered area and a man felt his breath become labored and hard; in a few steps more, he would be gasping for air, with the choice of suffocation or fleeing outside the invisible but tangible boundaries.
Legend said that a great witch, a virgin power who was the daughter of Adam and Lilith, had finally tired of the world and its struggles and created this place, perhaps on the spot where, a world away, Eden had once stood; and here she remained to this day, never aging, never changing, in some strange and wondrous world of her own creation, echoing imperfectly the Garden she once actually saw so long ago. Exiled, as her mother had been, to this new and alternate Earth, unable to die and unable to forget, she was in a state where, at least, she might not go mad.
Some said she was mad, of course, while others said she had transformed herself, and that she was not in the Glen Dinig but rather was the magical forest now. All that was agreed upon was that she was there, that her name was Huspeth, and that even those who really didn't believe in her still feared and respected the name.
The woman who rode into the forest confidently had a great
deal of the respect and awe that Huspeth and the Glen Dinig radiated within herself, but she did not fear either the witch of Glen Dinig or the forest itself. She knew them well, as old friends and great teachers, and she owed them much. She did have fears and concerns, though, and she dreaded this trip for what to the superstitious outsiders would seem amazing reasons. She was coming to ask of them that they separate her from this wonder and magic forever, because she had no choice.
The woman had a strange appearance, both human and fairy, with a beautiful, almost unnatural face and figure set off by enormous, deep, sensuous eyes that no human ever had. Her skin, too, was a soft orange, and her hands and feet, with their length and clawlike nails, were pure fairy.
Huspeth met her warmly at the small glen in the center of the forest and tried her best to put the newcomer at ease. The cauldron outside the hut where the white witch lived was bubbling with grand smells, and Huspeth would hear nothing serious from her visitor until both had supped and the sun had vanished far beyond the trees.
Finally, by fireglow, the legendary witch gazed sadly at her strange-looking visitor and sighed. Well, my daughter, time has caught up with thee, and thine anguish I share.
Marge smiled a sad smile and nodded. I owe you everything, she said sincerely, and I'm pained by this—but I can put it off no longer. It's—well, it's driving me crazy!
Huspeth nodded sympathetically and gave her hand a motherly squeeze. Already thou art burdened with living in two worlds, not truly a part of either yet very much a part of both, the witch said soothingly, That is a far greater burden than any should bear, yet to live in three is impossible.
Marge stifled a tear, knowing that at least one other understood. Two worlds and not truly a part of either, she thought sourly. A Texas girl who'd failed at a career, failed at marriage, even failed as a hooker and as a waitress, who'd hitched a ride on her way to Hell with a crazy trucker drafted by a sorcerer to fight a war in another world. Joe was supposed to be here in Husaquahr, at least, although he might argue the point. Ruddygore had needed a hero not born of this world and thus immune to the demons of this place and he'd plucked Joe from Earth just before Joe was to die in a crash. She'd hitched a ride with Joe that dark night, thinking of suicide and expecting to make El Paso. Instead, here she was, in the land where fantasy was real, the origins of all human fantasies and myths, across the Sea of Dreams. And here the sorcerer with the impossible fictitious name of Throckmorton P. Ruddygore—Huspeth had taught her that none of the Council of Thirteen used their real names, since knowing the real name of someone in their class gave an equal opponent some kind of advantage—had sent the hitchhiking Marge to Huspeth in the Glen Dinig, to be trained as a healer and white witch. After the training, she had done her job well and contributed to keeping the powerful magic Lamp out of the hands of the marching Dark Baron, but there had been a catch. The order of white witches to which Huspeth and she belonged drew power from their virginity and celibacy—and Marge had once again been virginal in Husaquahr—but the more magic she had used or been subjected to, the more she changed.
Aye, thou art a changeling sure, Huspeth told her, echoing her thoughts. It is he whom thou dost call Ruddygore who did this knowingly. Is there hatred in thy soul for him for this?
She thought a moment. No, not really. Not at all. Just for a moment there, I was back on that lonely west Texas highway, not caring if I lived or died. Without him I'd be dead, either in that wreck or not too long after by my own hand. Whatever he did, he had a right to do. I've got no kick coming.
Huspeth smiled and nodded. Thou hast learned much, my daughter, and thy wisdom becomes thee. I do not much like him, as thou knowest, for he trafficks in demons, yet his heart is good even if his soul be impure. He had very good reasons for bringing thee and thy companion to this world, and his skill at the art placed you both in the place where you were most needed. It may seem cruel to send thee to a celibate order and then make thee a changeling, but I divine strong purpose in it. Thy string is complex and far from played out. At first I thought him taking a subtle jest at me, but now I see it is not so. He needed thee as a witch of the order, but the clouds of Probability change with events. The first act is done, the curtain is down, but the play is far from completed.
Marge felt a little better on hearing this. Then—whatever I'm becoming—is what is needed next? The ancient witch nodded. It is clear now. Then—why? What must I face?
That is unknown to all save the Creator, Huspeth told her. The future is not fixed but is all probabilities. One highly skilled in the arts may see that a thing is needed while not knowing why, or when, or how. But it is now clear that the curtain must rise on the next act of our play. A conference of the Sisterhood was already held. Thy vows are lifted, as they must be. Thou art free.
Marge frowned. Just like that?
Huspeth laughed softly. Just like that. And why hot? For all the magic of the initiation which confers the power, a vow is a vow and not a spell. It is not a command but a contract. Thou hast not broken thy vow, so there is no dishonor. Release is needed and granted freely and willingly. The war against the forces of Hell needs thee. She sighed. But stay the night with me. Enjoy the Glen Dinig. In the morning, perhaps, we shall visit the unicorn and say thy farewells. Then shalt thou ride forth to a new destiny.
Marge was almost overcome with emotion, and tears welled up in her eyes. May I still—return? For a visit?
At any time, my daughter, for my daughter thou shalt remain always. The Glen Dinig shall sing whenever thou dost approach, and here thou mayest always find rest and comfort.
That made it much better, much more bearable. Mother— what shall I do now?
Travel to the east along the Rossignol, Huspeth told her. Ten days' comfortable journey will bring thee to the tributary called the Bird's Breath, and so thou shall follow it to a forest called Mohr Jerahl, a place much like this one. There shalt thou find the fairy folk called the Kauri, who will complete the process and instruct thee in thy nature. Thou art bright, and so it will take some doing inside thee to trust thy feelings at all times, even over thy head, but this is the way of fairy folk, and they live lives far longer than humankind.
What about Joe? Marge asked. Can he come with me? I think I'd like some moral support.
Huspeth gazed off into space for a moment, seeming not to hear, then turned back to her visitor. He may accompany thee to the edge of Mohr Jerahl, but he must wait there for thee. There is mortal peril for a human to enter the home of a fairy folk; should he enter, he will almost certainly have to kill many Kauri or be consumed by their power. It would not be good to begin thy relationship with thy new people with death, for the fairies do not age as humans do, but exist in their soulstate, and death for any fairy, including thyself, is the true death, not the transition of the humans. If he must come, then make him wait. Time to the fairy folk in their own land is not like time elsewhere, so his wait will not be long, no matter how long dost thou tarry.
These—Kauri. What are they like?
An ancient folk of great power over mortal flesh, which is needed to safeguard their fragility. Their nature is quite elemental and is best experienced firsthand. Don't worry. Thou wilt find peace and confidence as one of them.
CHAPTER 3
A NICE LITTLE BUSINESS TRIP
For a barbarian, image is the most important thing.
—Rules, LXXXII, 306(b)
THE MAN WALKIN® ACROSS THE CASTLE'S INNER COURTYARD would have stood out in any crowd. He was a huge man, well over six feet and so totally muscled that those looking at him generally expected him to crash through stone walls rather than be bothered to walk around them. His face, which he himself described as vaguely Oriental—a meaningless term in Husaquahr but not back in his native Philadelphia—was handsome and strong, with piercing eyes that seemed almost jet-black, the whole thing set off by a thick crop of truly jet-black hair that hung halfway between his shoulders and waist. His skin was tanned a magnificent bronze and looked tough enough to deflect spears. He wore only a flimsy white loincloth, hung from an ornate hand-tooled leather belt, and a hat, made to his specifications by the milliner in the nearby town of Terdiera. It was a cowboy hat, brim sides turning up in starched salute, and on the front was a strange symbol and the word, in English: Peterbilt. The hat, which had shown great utility in deflecting the elements, had been widely imitated in the land around Castle Terindell.
He approached a low building separated from the castle proper and knocked at the wooden door. It opened, revealing a tall, sinister-looking elf whose thin-lined face, penetrating eyes in perpetual scowl, and cold manner were in stark contrast to the small, happy groundskeepers always working on the castle itself. This was a warrior elf, an Imir, a professional soldier and deadly fighter.
Hello, Poquah, the big man said cheerily. Is he in? Downstairs, working on cataloguing his sculpture collection, the Imir responded. Come in—the lady is already waiting inside. You can go down together.
Joe entered, having to bend his head slightly to clear the door, and looked around the familiar study of the sorcerer Ruddygore, its sumptuous furnishings complementing the walls of red-bound volumes that seemed to go on forever—the Books of Rules, which governed this entire crazy world and were constantly being amended.
Marge was standing there, just looking at the huge books as she always did, probably wishing she could read them. Although the trading language they now used routinely as a first language bore an amazing resemblance to English, at least in many of the nouns, adjectives, and adverbs, its written form was pictographic, like the Chinese of their old world, with over forty thousand characters representing words and ideas rather than letters. It took an exceptional mind to learn it, starting from childhood. Total literacy meant power and position, no matter from what origins one came; but there was far too little time to learn it, once one was an adult.
She looked around as he entered and gave him a mild wave, then turned back to the books. You know, she said, they still remind me of the U.S. Tax Code. Thousands of years of petty, sorcerous minds constantly making Rules on just about everything they can think of. And every time there's a Council meeting, there's another volume of additions, deletions, and revisions. I bet nobody knows or understands it all, not even Ruddygore.
He just nodded and shrugged. The whole world was nuts, but people still acted like people, and that meant nutty, too. He'd long since stopped being amazed at much of anything in this world and just accepted whatever came. So how are you doing? he asked her, trying to start a more normal conversation.
She turned and shrugged, and he couldn't help but reflect how she seemed to get more beautiful and sexy every time he saw her. Not bad. You?
Bored, he said honestly; The first time I bent a three inch iron bar into a pretzel, I was like a little kid and I went around bending all sorts of stuff, lifting horses, wagons, you name it. But now it's all just nothin'. I mean, it's no big deal any more.
Nothing, in fact, was any big deal any more. He was used to stares and people scrambling out of his way—so used to it that he pretty well took it for granted now. Just going into a town was an experience only for those with him for the first time—the women all gaga over him, no problems with service, conquests, you name it. There wasn't even any fun in claiming that he could outdrink and outfight anybody in the town. Hell, he could and he knew it. In the two months since the battle, he'd become totally bored, jaded, and itchy for anything new, even if it was risky. Just a couple of days before, two thieves from out of the area had attacked him in a back alley. One had hit him over the head with a club while the other had swung a board into his stomach. Both the club and the board had broken on impact—and so had the two thieves.
Just now he'd come from the practice field down by the river where several trainees had tried to shoot arrows into him. Without even thinking about it he'd twisted, turned, and knocked those arrows that still would have hit him down in midair. Gorodo, the huge, nine-foot, blue, apelike trainer of heroes and military men, had asked him for permission to have trainees try to kill him any time. So far, none had shown the least promise. He feared no man and no physical threat; only against sorcery was he powerless and, even in that department, he'd used his brains and quick reflexes to dodge most of it.
That had been the plan, anyway, since the start of all this. He would be the brawn and Marge would deal with the magic, aided by this Huspeth she always talked about and by Ruddygore, of course. They made a near-perfect team. But since the Dark Baron's defeat, there had been little to do.
Poquah appeared—he had the habit of doing that, without any sound or sign until he spoke up—and said, The Master says to come down. He's in the middle of the catalog and he doesn't want to lose his place.
Marge joined them, and they walked out a back door and down a corridor which led to the sorcerer's magical laboratory. They were not going there, though, but to a basement beneath the main hall and study, where Ruddygore kept many of his more personal valuables. She looked up at Joe and whispered, Ever seen this collection? He shook his head negatively.
Don't crack up or make jokes when you see it, she warned him. He's pretty sensitive about it.
Before he could ask any questions, they were in the basement and surrounded by what she was talking about. For a moment he looked around, trying to sort out the collection from the junk—but it didn't take him long to realize that the junk was the collection.
There were thousands, perhaps tens of thousands of them— in every size, shape, color combination, and in just about every style. It was, he had to admit, the largest grouping in one spot of tacky plaster sculptures short of a Hong Kong factory. Here they were—the monkey contemplating the human skull while sitting on a plaster book labeled Aristotle, plaster dogs, plaster cats, pink flamingos, lawn jockeys, and just about every other expression of the tacky art ever won by contestants at Beat-the-Guesser stands and fire carnivals the world over. The souvenirs were there, too—the plaster Statues of Liberty, the U.S. Capitols, even ones with a foreign flavor like the seven Eiffel Towers, half a dozen Big Bens, and three different Mannekin Piss statues from Brussels, one of which had a definitely obscene corkscrew imbedded in its painted plaster.
He was about to say something when a shaggy head popped up from the midst of the statuary that virtually filled the room, looked at them, and beamed. Marge! Joe! How good of you to drop in! How do you like the collection? I daresay it's the finest of its type on any world!
Joe was about to make a comment on just what he really thought of the junk when Marge kicked his shin. Um, I'll agree that nobody else has a collection like this one, he managed, trying to sound diplomatic.
Throckmorton P. Ruddygore got up slowly from the floor, where he'd been working, then started looking for a way to get out of the pile that surrounded him without breaking anything. This was no mean task for him, since the sorcerer looked like nothing so much as the classical depiction of Santa Claus, although, at a height of more than six feet, his proportionate bulk was certainly over four hundred pounds.
Joe and Marge carefully helped to make a path for him by moving statuary where they could, and at last the sorcerer was able to reach the entry way. Usually dressed in fine clothes or majestic robes, he allowed few people to see him in the gigantic T-shirt and Bermuda shorts he was now wearing.
After greeting them warmly, he looked at Marge with his piercing blue eyes and asked, What is it you want, my child?
I think you know, she responded. At least, you'd better know.
Well, I don't know, Joe grumbled.
Ruddygore just nodded. I think it's best you go and do it as soon as possible. Events are moving at a far faster pace than I had anticipated. Something very odd is going on in the Baron's lands, and that spells trouble. I may need you both at any time.
That interested the big man. You mean another battle?
Not like the old one, Joe. I think the Baron has learned his lesson on that one. But there are disturbing reports from the south. Whole military units seem to have vanished or been broken up and re-formed elsewhere. Boundary defenses have been strengthened, although obviously we can't possibly mount a successful counterattack, and it's getting tougher to get in and out of his areas. Something's up, something new, and we can't get a handle on it; but it's certain that the only reason for such ironclad border control, other than to repel invasion, is either to keep your own people in—and he has other means to do that—or to keep the flow of information to a minimum. Our usual spies have been next to useless, I'm afraid, so I'm hoping to learn something at the convention.
Convention? Marge prompted.
The sorcerer nodded. Yes, the annual meeting of the sorcerers, magicians, and adepts of Husaquahr. It's a rather large, elaborate affair lasting five days, and it's only three weeks away. This year it's in Sachalin, Marquewood's capital. I leave in ten days for it, since it's a long way. Everybody will be there, though—the entire Council, as a courtesy, including those members, both greater and lesser, from the Baron's lands. I might learn something useful.
Wait a minute, Joe put in. You mean to tell me that even the Baron's side will be there? In a country they just tried to conquer?
Ruddygore smiled. Yes, it does sound odd, but the Society is above politics, and politics often intrudes but never interferes. They'll all be there—but on their best nonpolitical behavior, I assure you. The guarantee is that there will be so much magical power and skill present that any side in a dispute will be in the minority—and the majority will act decisively and ruthlessly, I assure you, if the bond of the society is violated.
The Dark Baron—he'll be there, too? Marge asked, temporarily forgetting her purpose.
Oh, yes, but not under that guise. He'll be his usual self and impossible to detect by normal means. It's interesting. He may greet me warmly, then buy me a drink—or I might buy him one. All the time he'll know, while I'll just wonder at each and every one of them. But, no matter, some slip, some slight thing, might be betrayed in such an atmosphere...
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