"Well, of course he's an Ozarine. As I was just about to say, Benvenuti Sfondrati-Piccolomini, of the noted scholarly clan of that name—and not just scholars! Oh no! Artists and condottiere galore! Come to Goimr to seek his fame and fortune." Here he broke into a horrid cackling. "And they say I'm crazy!"
My feebleness was rapidly fading. I muscled myself up into a sitting position. In the process, I noticed that my wound had been expertly bandaged. Looking around, I saw that I was in a chamber hewn directly out of bare rock. Along one side was a stone bench, where Wolfgang was sitting. Behind him, bored into the rock wall, were some odd-looking holes. The chamber was otherwise bare, except for the entrance to a dim tunnel which loomed in the far wall. The woman leaned against the wall next to the tunnel.
"How do you know so much about me?" I demanded.
The giant stopped cackling and shrugged. "Well, I read the letters in your pocket, while Gwendolyn was bandaging you up. Quite impressive. An invitation from the King. A recommendation from the Consortium's Director of Companies. A letter of—Gwendolyn!"
I turned, flinched. The woman was looming above me again, cleaver upraised.
"An Ozarine agent!" she raged. "A Consortium spy!"
"Nonsense!" boomed Wolfgang. "He's an artist."
"What kind of artist would have letters in his pocket from the Director of Companies?" hissed Gwendolyn.
"A Sfondrati-Piccolomini, of course. They didn't get to be one of the two great learned clans in the world by being wallflowers, you know? Great self-promoters, the Sfondrati-Piccolominis—take it from a Laebmauntsforscynneweëld! Besides, the letter wasn't even written by the Director. I recognized Giotto's handwriting. Been corresponding with him for years. Oh, I've no doubt the Director's signature was genuine enough. Never catch a Sfondrati-Piccolomini in outright forgery! And so what? The man must sign twenty letters like that a day. He's not much better than a parvenu, the Director, and he knows full well that if he's to take his place at the summit of Ozarine society he's got to develop a reputation as a Patron of the Arts. It's part of the plutocrat ritual."
Gwendolyn was still frowning, that amazing frown. And it's odd, looking back after all these years, how my life went off course so early. Can't say as I regret it, mind you. But still, it's odd. A young man's heart is supposed to be caught by a young girl's eye, or the smile on her lips, or the curve of her neck, or the toss of her hair.
At that very moment a faint sound was heard. Wolfgang held up his hand, motioning us silent. He pressed his ear to one of the holes in the wall behind him. A moment later Gwendolyn had joined him on the bench, her ear pressed to another hole. And it was but another moment before my ear was pressed to a third.
"Make your report," I heard a voice say. A hard, cold, cruel voice.
"The dead men are all Fangs, Mr. Inkman."
Again, the cold sneering voice: "Tell me something I don't know."
"It's hard to tell exactly what happened, sir. The wounds are strangely varied. Some were decapitated, as by an ax. Others skewered. An expert swordsman's work, that—a cunning one, to boot. Perfect backstabs and low blows, the most of those killed by the sword. And then there are the three who look like they were clubbed by an ogre. Crushed flat, those were."
"Three killers," mused Inkman. Silence. Then, he spoke again: "What did you do with the bodies?"
A harsh laugh. "We put them in the lower catacombs. Rolled them right back up in the shrouds and bones they'd pitched. Nobody'll look for them there. Certainly not the Goimr police! Couldn't find their dicks in the dark, those clowns. And I don't think there are any Fangs left alive in Goimria. Leastways, all the ones I knew are lying right now on cold stone slabs below. By the time God's Own Tooth finds out what happened and sends another ferret pack, these'll all be moldy bones."
"Excellent! We're the only ones who know what happened, then?"
A cough. "Well, not exactly, Mr. Inkman. The killers know what happened. Know more than we do, actually."
"Them! Who cares? Hasn't the Angel said it a thousand times? 'It's your friends who are the problem. Enemies take care of themselves.' "
"Yes, sir. That's what he says, sir."
"So! What could be more perfect? For once, the miserable Fangs will be in the dark, instead of us. The Angel will be very pleased. He's been trying to convince the Committee and the Nabobs for months that it was time to send a Rap Sheet to Grotum. They've been stalling, listening to the damned Fangs whispering in their ear. 'Don't rouse the Groutch beast from its sleep.' 'Let Grotum lie.' That's all the Fangs ever say! Bah! Is the swelling grandeur of Ozar to be denied by these ancient legends of Grotum? Nonsense! It's long past time we took firm and direct measures. The Senators will whine and whimper, of course, like a typical lot of politicians. But the Nabobs are made of sterner stuff. Especially the Director of Companies! Now there's a man of action, after my own heart."
"The Fangs won't like it much, sir," responded the second voice.
"There's the beauty of it," replied Inkman. "This little massacre here will throw them into a panic. And well it should! When was the last time a whole pack was wiped out to the last ferret?"
Silence. Then, Inkman again: "Never, that's when. I can't stand the holier-than-thou bastards, but there's no denying they're a murderous crew. Can you imagine the reaction of God's Own Tooth when he hears? He'll be baying for Groutch blood!"
"He'll want to know who did it, too. Don't you think we should—"
"Nonsense. What? Are we to waste our time trying to sort out which lot of Groutch malcontents butchered the Fangs? No, no, it won't do. Remember the Angel's motto: 'Do in your friends first, and your enemies are bound to follow.' "
"As you say, sir."
"So, let's be off. You are sure you cleaned up all the evidence?"
"All except the bloodstains on the street. But who'll notice that, in Grotum?"
"Well said! It won't be long now before this entire miserable sub-continent bends its knee to Ozar. Not with a Rap Sheet here on the scene to help us."
"Goimr will fall into our laps for sure, with a Rap Sheet."
"Bah! Who wants Goimr? No, I'll be proposing to the Angel that we start with the Rap Sheet in Prygg. I know he'll agree. He's often said Prygg was the key to Grotum."
The last sentence I only heard faintly, for the voices were dwindling into the distance. When I looked up, I was struck by the differing ways in which my two companions in the cell were reacting to the conversation we had just overheard.
Wolfgang was grinning from ear to ear.
Gwendolyn's face was flushed with fury.
"The Ozarine dogs!" she cried. "The filthy Cruds!"
"The vainglorious fools!" cackled Wolfgang. "The incredible idiots!" He began laughing insanely.
Gwendolyn glared at him. "They're going to bring a Rap Sheet to Grotum to complete their conquest of our homeland. And you think that's funny?"
Wolfgang wiped tears from his eyes. "But, my dear Gwendolyn, don't you see the irony of the whole thing? The fools propose to bring one of Joe's great relics to subdue Joe's own homeland. Doesn't it strike you that there's a hint of folly in the logic? Typical Cruds!" Here the giant imitated Inkman's cold voice: " 'As the Angel says, first do in your friends. Then your enemies will fall.' " He fell again into his horrible mad laughter.
"I love it!" he cried. "The Ozarine paranoids will hide the massacre of the ferret pack from the Fangs, so the Fangs—who know the lurking danger in Grotum better than anyone!—won't be able to get in the way of the Ozarines when they come trampling all over the place and rouse the lurking danger to full fury."
Gwendolyn was still glaring at him.
Wolfgang shook his head. "Gwendolyn, the whole problem here is that you don't really understand the Joe question."
"I don't want to hear about it!" she snapped. "All I know is that the Ozarine Empire—which has already half swallowed Grotum!—now intends to gulp us down complete. What do you propose to do? Sit around drooling and g
iggling while we wait for some myth to rescue us?"
"Well, not exactly. I do believe Joe will need a little help along the way. But don't let me stop you. I quite admire your efforts! Sally forth—by all means! Smite the Ozarine with your cleaver!"
I thought that last was an unfortunate turn of phrase—the more so when Gwendolyn turned her hot glare onto me.
I spread my hands in a calming gesture. "Madame, let me assure you that—"
"Don't call me 'Madame'!" she barked.
I took a deep breath, tried again. "Gwendolyn, then. It's true I'm an Ozarine. What of it? I'm an artist, before all else. I care not a fig for the pomposities of the rulers of Ozar. Certainly not the Angel Jimmy Jesus and that whole lot of Cruds! Nasty creatures. Besides, like every genuine artist I know, my heart lies with Grotum. It's the center of the world's art! Its music!"
"Its mischief!" giggled Wolfgang.
I nodded at him. "Perhaps, perhaps. It's certainly a livelier place than Ozar. At first, I thought Goimr an unutterably dull place—"
"It is," spoke Wolfgang and Gwendolyn in unison.
"—but here I am—not a day since I landed—and already I've been arrested, tortured, been in a bloody swordfight, hidden in a secret hidey-hole, spied on Cruds—what next? What next?"
"Next you'll have to make your escape," said Wolfgang. "The both of you."
He turned to Gwendolyn, who was—and I was glad to see it—calmer in her aspect.
"I assume you'll be trying to follow Zulkeh—when you discover where he went—to deliver Hildegard's message."
"A pox on Zulkeh!" came the response. "A pox on Hildegard and her damned schemes! I've got better things to do than be chasing all over Grotum looking for some obscure sorcerer. I've got to warn my comrades. If the movement isn't prepared for it, the Rap Sheet will cut through us like a scythe. Even with an advance warning, it's going to be bad enough. Besides, I don't even know where the wizard went."
The key moments of decision come unexpected in life. If I have learned nothing else, this I have. And when they come, it amazes me how instantly they are made. Later, musing over the events, I was struck by how light were the feathers that wafted my fortune. A dwarf's voice, a woman's frown—these the things that sent me off on a road unforeseen.
I had told the police nothing, but now I spoke.
"The wizard—Zulkeh, that is his name? Accompanied by a dwarf servant?"
"His apprentice," corrected Wolfgang. "Shelyid, his name is."
"Yes—an ugly creature. But he seemed a sweet boy. Anyway, they've gone to Prygg." I told them of my encounter with Zulkeh and Shelyid at the travel station, and the words I overheard spoken by the wizard.
"But why would he go to Prygg?" asked Gwendolyn. She peered closely at Wolfgang.
"It's time for some answers, you lunatic. You've been keeping things from me."
Wolfgang looked aggrieved. "My dear Gwendolyn!" He began rolling his eyes wildly.
"Cut out the act, Wolfgang!" she snarled. "Who is this wizard, anyway? And why is everyone so interested in him? Including you!"
"Me?"
Gwendolyn waved at the chamber. "This hidey-hole. This wasn't put here by the wizard. Look at the scale of the chamber—and that tunnel. This was built by you. Why?"
Wolfgang coughed, then smiled. "Can't put a thing past you, can I? Well, yes, actually I built this chamber so I could keep an eye on the wizard. Built it years ago. Zulkeh's never known about it. The room beyond—the one which these holes enable you to listen to—that's the wizard's study."
"Why?" demanded Gwendolyn fiercely. "What's so damned important about this sorcerer? You said yourself he was just a pedant."
Wolfgang looked hurt. "I said nothing of the sort. I said he was the world's greatest pedant, that's true. But I never said he was just a pedant. Dear me, no! Ridiculous!"
Gwendolyn threw up her hands. "Enough. Enough! I'll never get any sense out of you. And I don't care, anyway. I'll let lunatics like you worry about the legendary Joe. I've got real things to worry about—real enemies, and real comrades, and real struggles. And I've wasted enough of my time already. The wizard's gone to Prygg—let him go! I'm not chasing after him. I've got to get back to the Mutt. The Ozarines with a Rap Sheet here in Grotum will wreak havoc. I've got to get the warning out—and quick."
She rose, like a tiger, and turned to the tunnel. Then stopped abruptly.
"Where does this tunnel lead to, anyway?"
"Where else?" giggled Wolfgang. "To my secret door. But, Gwendolyn, will you please stop long enough to think?"
He raised his hands, as if to fend off the blow of her glare.
"Please, my dear, please! I'm not trying to talk you out of your plans. Forget the wizard—by all means! It's no problem, anyway. I've had a hankering to visit Prygg again. It's Magrit, you know." He smirked, for all the world like a schoolboy. "She and I are quite the item! Such a passionate witch!"
He coughed. "Well, enough of that. The point is, I'll follow the wizard. But if you want to warn your people, you first have to get out of Goimr. The police will be everywhere. You heard Benvenuti—they'll be watching every gate. You're rather a noticeable woman, you know? How do you think you'll get out?"
Gwendolyn frowned. "Well, I hadn't really thought about it. I just walked in, I thought I'd just walk out."
"If I might make a suggestion, and"—here he cackled—"if you can manage to overcome your anti-Ozarine prejudices for a moment, I believe that Benvenuti might be the solution to your problem."
He turned to me. "Tell me, my boy, have you given any thought to your future?"
It took me a moment to grasp his meaning.
"No, I hadn't. Not really. My original plans seem to have fallen through."
"I should say! Idiotic plans, to begin with. Imagine. Wanting to be the Royal Artist of Goimr!"
He and Gwendolyn both burst into a fit of laughter. Now that I'd experienced Goimr, I admit I found it impossible not to laugh myself.
"You see, Gwendolyn?" demanded Wolfgang. "Just as I said! A marvelous young man! The perfect traveling companion for you."
"What are you talking about?" she demanded.
"Don't you see? It's perfect! For both of you. Benvenuti has a letter vouching for him, signed by Chief Counselor Gerard. That'll get him through the gates with no questions asked. As for himself, the sooner he shakes the mud of this wretched city off his boots, the better."
He smiled at me. A wonderful smile he had, actually, if you left aside its demented aura.
"The place for an aspiring young artist, my boy, is New Sfinctr! There's the ticket! Oh, it's a horribly wicked city, I admit. 'The pesthole of the planet,' they call it. But exciting! Alive! Vigorous! Just the place for you. But your problem, of course, is how to get there. It's all the way across Grotum. You'll have to traverse forests, mountains—the Groutch wilderness. On your own, you'd lose your way. Lose your life, no doubt. But with Gwendolyn as your guide, it'll be a Sunday stroll, near enough."
"I'm not going to New Sfinctr," growled Gwendolyn.
Wolfgang dismissed her protest with a wave. "Quibbles, quibbles—and you know it! You're going as far as the Mutt, aren't you?"
She nodded.
"And isn't New Sfinctr but a hop, skip and a stumble from there? Of course it is! A well-traveled route, too. Even a simpleton could find his way from the Mutt to New Sfinctr. And Benvenuti's no simpleton. Not even today—and he certainly won't be one by then. No, not at all! He'll be what the Ozarine call 'an old Groutch hand.' "
I wished he'd left off that last bit. Needless to say, the mention of the Ozarine brought a scowl from Gwendolyn.
"And that's another thing! There are people I've got to meet." She glared at me. "People I don't want this damned Ozarine to see, so he can run and tell his people who they are."
"Damn you, madame!" I overrode her bellow with one of my own. "And don't tell me not to call you 'madame'! Aren't you acting the perfect high and mighty lady? I assure
you, no Ozarine heiress could do it better. I told you once—I will say it again—I am an artist, not a politician. And I'm certainly not a policeman! Make any detour you wish. See anyone you desire. If you want me to remain off to one side while you undertake your mysterious missions—why, so I will. If you choose to have me accompany you—why, I will say nothing to anyone."
I spat on the floor. "And finally—madame—you may rest assured that not all Ozarines are pig-bellied plutocrats. My own branch of the Sfondrati-Piccolominis has known its share of poverty and hard times. But we've always been artists, or scholars, or soldiers of fortune. Or—if those words don't suit you!—call us potters and pedants and plunderers. But there've been precious few respectable bourgeois in the lot. And never a police informer!"
We were glaring at each other fiercely, practically nose to nose. It was she who stepped back, with a new look in her eyes. Respect, I thought, and I was stunned by how much I cared.
"Got quite the bite, this boy does," she chuckled.
"No boy, Gwendolyn!" exclaimed Wolfgang. "No boy could have carved up so many Godferrets. Skill and training be damned—that takes an adult passion. He did save your life, you know. Well, actually, I would have saved it if he hadn't—but he didn't know that at the time. Quite the hero lurking somewhere inside this young fellow, if my twin powers of madness and amnesia are to be trusted—and they are! They are!"
The round of insane laughter which followed from the giant's mouth enabled both Gwendolyn and me to catch our breath and take new stock.
And then she smiled, for the first time since I had met her. Not a sunny smile, Gwendolyn's, never—too many scars had forged that smile. But there was a great cool gleam in it, like moonlight, and friendship, and a sense of unyielding courage.
"All right," she said. "I'm willing, if you are. I warn you, the trip will be long, hard, and dangerous."
I didn't need to answer with words. I was grinning from ear to ear, and laughing, and happier than I'd been—ever, I think. An adventurous life, I'd wanted, since I was a lad. And here it was!
But after Wolfgang explained the details of his plan, I wasn't happy at all. And the look on Gwendolyn's face was positively terrifying.