The Only Wizard in Town

by Heide Goody

  “There,” said Pagnell, placing both greaves on Bez’s tile.

  “Why are you doing this?” asked the bard.

  “Well – the principle is the weight should hold the mechanism in place even when—”

  “No, I mean why? Why put yourself to all this trouble?”

  Pagnell gave a helpless gesture. “Same reason I became a dentist.”

  “You weren’t clever enough to become a surgeon?”

  Pagnell laughed. “Okay. Now, here’s the crazy part of the plan.”

  “This was the sensible part?”

  “Everyone! Step back!”

  Merken was only too happy to move away from the mosaic of death. A grimlock axe landed close by. Cope picked it up and hurled it back with force and accuracy.

  Pagnell produced a purse.

  “Magic beans,” said Lorrika knowledgeably.

  “Coins actually,” Pagnell replied. “Right, Bez, the traps take at least a second or two to reconfigure themselves after being triggered. We’re going to run for it.”

  “What?” said the bard. “But the traps…”

  “We’re going to set them all off.”

  “But… You said…”

  Twenty feet behind them, a grimlock possessed of greater bloodlust than sense, jumped from the nearest bridge and charged. He didn’t make it to Bez and Pagnell, but bits of him came very close.

  “It’s going to work,” said Pagnell and tossed a fistful of coins in the air. “Probably.”

  Merken shielded his eyes as the coins rained down on the nearest squares. A wall of light, flame and wicked sharp things erupted like an explosion in a blacksmith’s workshop. Shapes barrelled through the chaos. The blizzard of death mushroomed out in a second wave and then subsided with the tink tink of cooling metal and the ratcheting of invisible cogs.

  There was no sign of the wizard or the bard, except for the pile of clothes and armour they left on the white hexagon.

  “Fools,” said Merken.

  Something coughed on the steps beside him. A tangled lump of cloth and limbs rolled apart. There was a large sooty mark on Bez’s face, and the sleeve of his shirt was a blood-stained mess. The bottom of Pagnell’s outer coat was now more ribbon than cloth and it looked like something had taken a bite out of the heel of his boot. The pair of them were laughing.

  “Damned fools,” muttered Merken.

  Back along the hall, the grimlock tribe hissed and spat and renewed their efforts on their bridge.

  “Time to go,” said Merken. “Pipsqueak, lead the way. Check for traps. Up on your feet, Pagnell. We need you telling us where to go.”

  Cope pushed open the door leading out of the hall and Lorrika stepped through. Out on the floor, devices whirred and crunched and burned, a musical accompaniment to the stupidity of the grimlocks, bashing their heads against the machinations of wiser men of old. Merken shook his head. The world was full of idiots but did there have to be so many of them?

  He turned to go and there was a sudden cold sensation as a blade entered his chest.

  He stepped back involuntarily, felt a tugging at his belt, looked down and saw he was standing on a tile. The tile was pink.

  Merken began to sigh. He had a lot of sigh within him and there just wasn’t enough damned time.

  “Pictures” Bez

  1

  Bez spent most of the day sitting in the belfry of the calendarists’ tower, sketching views of the temple of Buqit.

  Shortly before two bells, he commented, “You know, I know you’re there.” When he received no reply, took out his string-bound pad of Instant Pictures and drew a study of the cold jaffled cake he had saved for lunch. It was a good picture. Artistry was in the details and he had, with certain lines – here and here – given the cake an air of wistful sorrow. It was quite something, he told himself, and ate the cake.

  Shortly before three bells, he said, “You know, I know you’re there.” When he got no reply, artfully added a swig of Gawk’s Old Pentacular Ale to his bulging belly and a red dragon to his temple picture. He was quite pleased with both and wondered what real dragons looked like.

  Shortly before four bells, he said, “You know, I know you’re there.” and, when he received no reply, flicked through his Book of Faces and, using a polished circle of bronze as a mirror, dashed off yet another self-portrait. This time he put a smouldering look in his eyes and a sort of handsomely intense pout to his lips. When it was done, he concluded he had simply made himself look confused and constipated, and didn’t like it. There was more humanity in the picture of his lunch than in his own face. Bez understood how it had happened. The only real question was when it had happened. A trawl through the ages of Bez in his collection of self-portraits would probably have given him some clue.

  Shortly before five bells, he said, “You know, I know you’re there.” When he received no reply, added his regular muse Chainmail Bikini Woman to his temple picture, her burnished red hair blown by an imaginary breeze. People liked Chainmail Bikini Woman. Men liked Chainmail Bikini Woman. He liked Chainmail Bikini Woman – through from a purely artistic stance naturally.

  Shortly before six bells, he said, ““You do know I know you’re there.”

  “No, you don’t,” Lorrika replied.

  “You’ve been there for quite some time.”

  “Prove it.”

  He looked round. “That’s you, there.”

  Lorrika dropped to the floor. She was silent, like a cat. Or, as Stentor would probably describe it: Silent, like the sound of approaching fog taking great care not to wake a colicky baby.

  Bez looked her up and down, appraising her. Some girls would have a problem with men looking at them as directly, but Lorrika seemed entirely unselfconscious. He had added her likeness to his Book of Faces several times. He’d also created a number of purely speculative impressions of what she might look like if she ever did agree to model for him. Chainmail Bikini Woman was getting kind of old now. Maybe it was time for a rooftop prowler character to make a debut in his News pictures. Lithe, agile and appropriately re-dressed in something which both captured the edgy, morally ambiguous nature of the character, whilst showing an aesthetically pleasing amount of young flesh… Ripped Leather Bikini Woman? Cat girl?

  He’d certainly have to clean her up a bit for the public taste. Lorrika had muck on her face and munched gracelessly on a nectarine she swore she hadn’t stolen.

  Bez showed her today’s picture. She made what Bez chose to believe were complimentary noises although she seemed to have some problems with the basic concept of Chainmail Bikini Woman.

  “I mean it must chafe,” she said. “The chainmail. Cos it’s chain, isn’t it?”

  The world was full of critics. “I’ve always considering chafing a matter of personal taste. Besides, I’m pretty sure they don’t make woolmail.” Bez was beginning to regret showing her the painting. The young, what did they know?

  She continued with her critical remarks, adding, “Everyone says you have a problem with perspective.”

  “Everyone can go to hell,” he snapped. He took an angry swig of his Old Pentacular and found it to be empty but for some hoppy foam. “I do not have a problem with— Look, if you don’t mind, it’s been a slow News day, but I’ve got to get this finished if I want to eat.”

  “You want news?” she said.

  “I could be persuaded to listen if it means I get to eat.”

  With fingers covered in sticky nectarine juice, she turned him round and prodded him towards the other side of the belfry. “Not listen, look. In that direction,” she said, pointing towards the north gate and the plains beyond.

  The sun had fully set in the west. The world was composed mostly of shadows. But Bez had sharp eyes. He stared at the gate. “I’m not exactly unfamiliar with the view, so if that’s all…”

  The bell began to toll six bells.

  “Just watch,” Lorrika shouted over the fifth bong and, with that, she was gone.

&n
bsp; Bez untied his cloak from the clapper of the great bell, spread it out on the floor and sat. He stared at the gate. To most people, the fading light would have made a dark blur of the distant gate or started to play tricks on the eye. But Bez’s eyesight was indeed superb.

  Several minutes later, when the first Amanni soldiers burst through the gateway, he swore to himself and picked up the charcoal. But he didn’t put the charcoal to the board. He watched, with increasing confusion and interest.

  2

  A few hours later, in the tavern on the corner of Mercer Row and Kidgate, as Bez was in the middle of his third bottle of Old Pentacular and the beginning of explaining his artistic vision to the gigantic warrior woman, Cope, things got inexplicably out of hand and very very hazy.

  “The sun didn’t gleam at all. We came at nightfall,” said Cope.

  “I know!” said Bez. “And we’ll need to fix it in the final painting, absolutely. Though for your information, for future reference, don’t attack at night. Night attacks, no good. No one can see you. As my old fella used to say, if there’s a battle in the dead of night and no one sees it, did it really happen?”

  And then, just as he was just getting into the details of how, by creatively tweaking Cope’s attire, they could present an altogether more meaningful and truer version of the events of the Amanni invasion, something whacked him in the jaw and knocked him dead to the world.

  He woke in groggy pain, moaning as he rolled on the straw-strewn floor. There were voices and then there were hands and he was being hauled up and outside into the night air.

  Bez had been thrown out of taverns on several, nay, many occasions but somehow this didn’t feel like the usual bum’s rush. For a start, it had never actually taken so long before. Although he wasn’t happy about this turn of events, there didn’t seem to be much his body was able to do about it. Besides, he’d heard unhappiness was just a state of mind. So was pain apparently, but Bez’s mind clearly hated him and the pain stayed with him as he was dragged through the city streets.

  He saw a gate, a great big gopherwood gate, and he saw guards in Amanni uniform. His recovering brain gave him a bit of a nudge and a general Uh-oh, you’re in deep trouble now kind of look. By the time all the pieces of his punch-jumbled mind had been slotted back into their rightful places, Bez saw, recognised and understood he was in one of the Hierophant’s cells of justice.

  That was what they were called. Cells of justice. Bez had, years before, stopped believing in justice (the evening’s events had only confirmed this) but, he supposed, cells of political expedience or cells of maintaining the status quo and creating an illusion of civil safety and stability just didn’t have the same ring. That said, even Stentor would have said cells of justice was a euphemistic metaphor too far.

  They left him in his own private justice cell, giving him just enough time to conclude incarceration didn’t suit him, before a grey-headed soldier, who looked as if he had become an old soldier through something other than luck, entered the cell.

  The soldier stood stock still and looked down at him. Stock still but for his hand which stroked mindlessly at the fabric of a velvet pouch at his belt. “I hate bards,” said the old soldier.

  “Then we’re bonding already,” said Bez. “I hate bards too.”

  “You hate yourself?”

  Bez attempted a laugh to show he appreciated the joke. The old soldier wasn’t in joking mood. “Got any beer?” asked Bez and when he was met with stony silence said, “I’m not a bard.”

  “Do you tell stories?” said the soldier.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you make your living entertaining people.”

  “Is it entertainment or is it information? Can we not do both?”

  “You’re a bard. I hate bards. But, fortunately, most of them are harmless idiots. You have exactly one minute to prove to me you too are a harmless idiot.”

  “Uh…?”

  “A good start. But you’ll have to do better. Do you know who I am?”

  “No,” said Bez.

  “Rantallion Merken. Heard of me?”

  “No, sir,” lied Bez. Of course he’d heard of Rantallion Merken, the conqueror of Abrelia, the scourge of – actually pretty much everywhere, really. But surely that was years and years ago…

  “Tell me what you know,” said the old man.

  The words, “I had nothing to do with the fireball which took the wizard’s head off,” just sort of rushed out.

  “I never thought you did. Until now.”

  “Oh.” Bez continued. “I saw him fiddling with his pouches. All pouches look the same really. Probably went for the wrong one. Pipe weed. Firework powder. Easy to get confused. A pinch of this, a dab of that. You smoke the wrong one and … you know.”

  “Your head explodes?”

  “Probably.”

  “I see,” said Merken. “What do you know about the assault on the city?”

  “Who can really know anything? Like I said, it was dark and— Oh.”

  Merken picked up one of Bez’s picture boards which had been brought along with the creator to the temple. Through blacks and murky greys, it was still clear to the perceptive eye it was either a painting of an invasion or, possibly, a dangerously exuberant street party.

  “Like I said,” said Bez. “Dark.”

  “And yet – unless I’m reading too much into these skilfully dropped splodges, here and here – you were able to capture much of the visceral drama.”

  “A lot of flashes and bangs and shouts is all,” said Bez. “If I didn’t know better I’d say you were using some sort of magical fire?”

  Merken gave him an open and unreadable gaze and said nothing.

  “I know nothing. I swear,” said Bez. “I was merely chatting to your woman, I mean the soldier, the one twice as tall as me and cut from solid oak. Offering my humble services, to paint a historically pleasing interpretation of your mighty victory.”

  “Historically pleasing?”

  “Totally,” he said, warming to the sales pitch. “Real life rarely gives thought to lighting conditions, or framing and composition. It certainly doesn’t give any consideration to the motifs and symbolism and juxtaposition which true art demands.”

  “I’m sure it doesn’t,” said Merken, losing interest and turning to the door.

  “In exchange for my freedom and a reasonable fee – I’m talking practically cost – I could immortalise this night’s work in oils with you at the forefront of this celebrated triumph.”

  “I don’t wish to be at the forefront of anything, young man,” Merken said tiredly. “And immortality has very little appeal.”

  “Picture this!” said Bez, seeing his potential patron about to leave. “You – a paragon of knightly virtue: wisdom, nobility, righteous judgement – striding through the shattered remnants of the city gate, a great warrior unbowed by the years, a little leavening of the some of the greyer hair to black should easily achieve that...”

  “What grey hair?”

  “Er… The rising sun appearing over your shoulder like a benediction from the gods themselves. At your back, a thousand Amanni warriors, a true reflection of your military might in the face of—”

  “True reflection?” said Merken.

  “Of your military might,” said Bez firmly.

  “So you will paint us a picture of a thousand Amanni warriors?”

  Bez could see a yawning chasm open up in front of him. The conversation was a galloping horse and he could think of nothing to do but grip the reins all the tighter. “Two thousand?”

  “Instead of…?”

  “Call it three?”

  Merken clicked his fingers. “And you almost had me convinced.”

  Bez blinked some more. The horse was gone, tumbling end over end. All Bez could hope for was to avoid a metaphorical hoof in the face before they hit rock bottom.

  “Did you know, the mud hog tribes believe it’s good luck to be executed on the same chopping block as a w
izard.”

  Bez wrinkled his nose. “That doesn’t sound like an actual thing.”

  “No. But you’re welcome to believe it if it offers you comfort.”

  3

  The execution escort came for Bez some time after midnight.

  He had spent much of the intervening hours wondering what his last words would be. Stentor was his words man but the fellow wasn’t around to provide any assistance when you actually needed him. When the soldiers came, Bez hadn’t progressed much beyond, I’m really not happy about this at all.

  Bez resisted as they dragged him out; not in any sincere effort to escape, but just to let them know he was ruddy well displeased.

  In the lesser courtyard, a barrel had been placed as an impromptu chopping block. Had he not been about to lose his head, he might have smiled at the irony: it was a barrel of his favourite, Gawk’s Old Pentacular.

  Beside the barrel stood the wizard Newport Pagnell and the armour-clad warrior, Cope Threemen. Neither looked overly pleased to be there, although Pagnell’s displeasure was the more understandable.

  Torch-bearing soldiers stood in a loose circle about the execution spot. In the flames’ flickering light, there was a savage, bleak beauty to the scene. If he’d had his materials and free use of his hands, Bez would have compulsively recorded the moment in oils. If he’d had the free use of his hands and feet and a five second head start, he’d have made a run for it – to hell with the savage, bleak beauty.

  “Right. Let’s get this over with,” said Cope.

  Pagnell turned to look at her. “Let’s get this over with? Is that what they teach you at executioner’s school? No sense of occasion? No appreciation of the solemnity of the moment? I’m about to die and I’m really not happy about this at all.”

  Bez found himself wondering if mind-reading was included in a wizard’s bag of sorcerous tricks, along with plagiarism.

  Cope made a noise which was only a few vocal grumblings away from a growl. “I am a warrior, not an executioner. There’s no honour in butchering the defenceless.”