The Almost Complete Short Fiction

by Don Wilcox

  Low whispers of excitement greeted this announcement. Whiteblock went on.

  “This week our honored Maria Dodoplume, whom we affectionately call the Old Lady will carry out Randello’s will. She will read documents from the Vault. For this reason, the Vault has at last been opened, and it will remain open until after this event.

  “Needless to say, it will be guarded constantly. From early dawn until the palace curfew, guards will be stationed in sufficient number to make sure that no group of bandits or other parties, however bold, will have any chance to enter.

  “The king regrets that it is necessary to take such measures. But a king can never know which of his citizens might take it into his head to steal into the Vault for an advance reading of these documents. Do you not agree?”

  Many heads nodded in the affirmative, and there were whispered yeses throughout the banquet hall. Whiteblock drew himself up for the master stroke.

  “Therefore your king does decree—and I read his own words from this sheaf—‘that instantaneous death shall strike anyone who shall ascent the twenty steps at the east end of the

  Arena and thereupon cross into the Red Door that leads to the Vault. Only by the king’s special permission may this way be made open to any of his subjects, whether they be lords and ladies, or the humblest servants. Do you understand my reading?”

  A chorus of “Yes! Yes!”

  “The decree is in operation from this moment,” said the confidential advisor, waving the blank paper from which he had pretended to read. “The king signs it in your presence.”

  The king, slipping a sly nudge to Whiteblock, signed the blank paper with a great flourish of his pen, and Whiteblock bowed and took the document away. Everyone applauded, and the prince beamed to show that this action had his fullest approval.

  “Excuse me for a moment, please,” said the king to the prince. “I must make sure that Whiteblock’s broadcast reached out to all my subjects.”

  The dinner guests were left to themselves. The king hurried away. Out of hearing of their excited talk, he hurried down to the Arena. He opened a door and walked in, crossed the wide floor and came to the twenty steps. He paused. There were no guards stationed here as yet. Very dangerous. He must attend to this at once.

  Dangerous?

  Why was it dangerous?

  The king scowled. Why hadn’t that devilish little Whiteblock explained the principle of this deadly magic?

  The king walked up the steps slowly, his eyes on those level, silent, motionless knifeblades. There was a slight hum from somewhere in that vicinity, and the faintest smell of the heat of an electric motor.

  The king reached the twentieth step. He drew the sword from its scabbard—the gold handled sword that had been a gift from a maharajah—which he always wore at formal dinners. He raised it slowly, cautiously. It pointed toward the vertical plane in which the blades would whirl—if they whirled.

  The point of the sword, apparently touching nothing but air, reached that plane.

  Vlnnk!

  The sword barely jerked in his hand. Something invisible had struck it. Struck it with the force of lightning. Instantly he drew it back, to see whether it had been scratched.

  The point was gone. Two full inches of the end had vanished.

  Were his eyes mocking him, or had he seen a score of tiny slices of steel melting into the air almost instantaneously?

  “Not bad,” he muttered to himself. “Whatever the damned thing is, it’s ready.”

  He hurried back to the dinner table, and quelled his trembling nerves.

  “Ah, Prince Randall, how is the feasting? Be sure to eat aplenty. You never know how long it may be until your next meal. Ha-ha.”

  “Thank you, Levaggo,” said Randall. “The service is excellent. And here comes another helping.”

  It was Sondra who refilled his plate. “Eat heartily, gallant prince. You never know whether there’ll be another meal.”

  He caught the message of warning again in her eyes. The king’s ugly glare caused her to hurry on.

  The second event of the feast, which went almost unnoticed, was a whispered message which fell disturbingly upon the king’s ear.

  “The Old Lady wants to know if it is true.”

  The king looked up abruptly into the patient old face of Sebastian, one of the Old Lady’s servants. The white haired man’s lazy eyes were half closed, as usual. The king never saw him without wanting to kick him, just to wake him up. But strangely, the Old Lady had kept him all these years as her most reliable messenger.

  “If what’s true?” the king growled. “If the Vault is being left open.”

  “Sure it’s true, and death to all trespassers. Can’t she tell an official decree when she hears it on the radio?”

  “Thank you,” said Sabastian. “I’ll reassure her.” And he started off.

  “Wait a minute,” said the king. His eyes narrowed with a glint of murder. “I want you to take a private message back to her. Private. No one is to know. Here, I’ll whisper it . . . There are no guards on duty at the Red Door yet. You have my secret permission to walk in. I want you to see whether this key will work in the small iron chest just inside the Red Door. Do you understand? Then-go try it at once. Report to the Old Lady if the key works. If it doesn’t work, bring it back to me.”

  “Yes, your majesty.” Sebastian trudged away, not knowing that he had been given a spare key to one of the royal garages.

  Very soon the king again excused himself, and this time he was gone for an interval of about fifteen minutes.

  “Is the king not well?” the prince asked one of the ladies across the table.

  “Of course he’s well. Just slightly nervous. He’s always that way. The affairs of state are always on his mind, you know.”

  “It must be very uncomfortable to be a king,” the prince observed. “But if I were king, I’ll swear I’d manage to sit through a feast like this without being interrupted. Oh, here he comes. What now, Levaggo? Is everything under control?”

  The king was white and perspiring, but gay—so very gay that the prince thought he was outdoing himself for the sake of appearances.

  “Is something wrong, Levaggo?”

  “Nothing’s wrong,” said the king. “Everything’s fine. Everything’s fine. What was that story you were telling about the war? You walked in front of a cannon or something?”

  “It’s a very dull story,” said the prince. “I’ll repeat it some other time.”

  “There might not be another time,” someone whispered over his shoulder. The soft voice Of Sondra, serving him olives and throwing him another warning look for good measure.

  The feast of welcome lasted until midnight. The pleasing personality of the returned prince was taking a hold upon the court. They liked his stories. They liked his laughter. They were mystified by the hints of certain adventures in the war that he did not care to relate in full.

  But Prince Randall was no braggart when it came to his own achievements. His own modesty was in high contrast to the bluster of King Levaggo and some of the Council members.

  During the final course, after the king had observed that it was growing late and all good things must come to an end, Randall announced his own plan briefly.

  “Of course I shall be glad to stay for a day or two—until the Old Lady reads from the Vault. But please do not bother to provide a bed for me. I’m not in the mood for sleep. I would prefer to spend the night by the fireplace—alone.”

  The court dignitaries shook their heads skeptically. We he suspicious of the king’s hospitality? His gaze came to rest on Sondra, standing in the doorway beyond. She was talking to him with her eyes again, nodding her approval of what he had said. He must know it would be dangerous for him to sleep in this palace.

  “Prince Randall’s wish shall be granted,” said the king. “He may sit by the fire and admire the portrait of his father all night if that is what he prefers.”

  An hour later the palace wa
s quiet. Nearly everyone had retired: Randall sat gazing into the low flickering coals.

  The king bade him goodnight.

  “One moment,” said Randall. “I have a very personal question to ask.”

  “Huh?”

  “Was it my father’s wish that you take over the throne? I’m entitled to an official statement, you know.”

  The king gave a laugh that was heavy with irritation. “Such a simple question. How old are you, cousin? I took you to be mature. You must know that such matters are always properly executed by the members of the Council.” He pointed to the east wall, where a series of entrances opened the way to the Arena. Through the largest arch, the whole stretch of dark Arena floor could be seen, and beyond it, in the dark distance, the twenty steps leading up to the glowing Red Door. “Can you see the Red Door through that arch?”

  “What about it?” said Randall.

  “Do you remember when your father constructed the Vault beyond?”

  “I was away most of the time,” said Randall, “attending school in India.”

  “Within that Vault are the official documents of your father’s will.”

  “I am entitled to read them,” said Randall.

  “I hope you will stay to hear the Old Lady read them.”

  “I wish to go in and see them tonight. This very hour, if you please.” Randall rose and motioned for the king to accompany him.

  “No, Randall. You can’t do it.”

  “Why can’t I?”

  “Because everyone is strictly forbidden, upon the pain of death. Didn’t you hear Whiteblock read my decree? That applies to everyone.” The king mopped perspiration from his white forehead. “No person, whether servant, or Councilman, or prince may enter the Red Door. I have placed balanced scimitars in the arch as a reminder. The punishment is death.”

  “Cousin Levaggo, I have traveled eight thousand miles.”

  “But you would not disobey your father’s order.”

  “Wouldn’t I?”

  “Of course you wouldn’t.”

  The prince looked at the king steadily and tried to swallow his anger. He said quietly, “It’s not like my father to make such mysterious arrangements.”

  “I have no more to say. You understand, I trust.”

  “Yes.”

  “Good night, then.”

  “Good night.”

  Down the south wing corridor Whiteblock had been listening to every word. Now the king, having walked the length of the corridor with loud footsteps, slipped back quietly to join him.

  “Perfect,” Whiteblock whispered. “Perfect. It can’t fail. It’s even better than you think.”

  The king mopped the sweat from the edges of his double-pointed black beard. “Better—how?”

  “I planted a microphone to carry your conversation to the six Councilmen. They were holding a midnight conference, expecting trouble. Now they’ve made a recording of your words with the prince. History will know that you gave him full warning.”

  The king gave a relieved sigh. “Then the worst is over. If he goes in—”

  “When he goes in, you mean,” said Whiteblock eagerly.

  “When he goes in and gets sliced by those invisible knives, or what-the-devil-ever they are, you and I will be in the clear. All we have to do now is sit back and wait.”

  “And relax.”

  “Relax? That reminds me. Where’s Sondra? Do you know whether she retired? She’s in danger of warning him. I meant to put her under lock and key for safe keeping.”

  “You’d better do it yet. I’ll keep my watch. S-sh! Someone’s coming.”

  The hard thumping footsteps, with just the slightest limp, were easily recognized. Down the dimly lighted corridor came the Old Lady in a gaudy purple dress and the yellow boots she always wore. The anger in her eyes could be detected instantly. Her wild white hair was in worse disarray than usual. She was muttering to herself.

  The king hurried down the hall to intercept her. “Maria! What are you doing up this time of night?”

  “I smell a storm,” the Old Lady snapped. “I smelt it all the way across the village, and the closer I got to the palace the more I smelt it.”

  “You’re dreaming,” the king mocked. “There’s not a cloud in the sky.”

  “I smell a storm, and it smells awful thick around here. Where are all your guards? You’ve sent ’em to bed, huh? You must have wanted to get ’em out of the way.”

  The king tried to turn her back, and Whiteblock joined him in the effort.

  “Go home and go to bed. It’s too late to be starting a search,” the king said nervously. “Wait till morning. He’ll probably turn up.”

  The Old Lady turned savagely, and her crossed eyes seemed to straighten for a moment. “How did you know?

  “I don’t know a thing,” the king growled.

  “I didn’t tell you Sebastian was gone. You must know.” The Old Lady’s hands tightened into claws. “You’ve done something with him, that’s why.”

  “You’re crazy. You’re crazy. You’re crazy. You’re—” The king broke off his enraged words only because Whiteblock throttled him. The little confidential adviser took matters in his own hands.

  “Maria, if you’ve lost a servant, we’ll start a search at once. There. Are you satisfied?”

  “You’d better find him and get him back to me safe and sound. This is the first time he’s missed his duties since they got him drunk one Saturday night thirty-five years ago. You better find him.”

  The Old Lady trudged away. Whiteblock turned to the king. “What this all about. Is Sebastian missing?”

  “I don’t know,” said the king. “I don’t even know what she’s talking about. She’s crazy if she thinks I—”

  “Shut up!” Whiteblock cracked, and then added, sarcastically, “Your majesty, I smell a storm.”

  CHAPTER V

  Whiteblock Wants a Medal

  Whiteblock had wanted a particular medal for a long time. It was a. large white-gold medal set with a circle of fifteen emeralds. It had no official significance, for it had been given to the king by one of the wealthiest noblemen of India simply as an ornament, and a handsome ornament it was. The king wore it tonight to match his green and white dinner suit.

  “He’ll give it to me tonight,” Whiteblock thought.

  Twice in the past, when the king had been particularly pleased with Whiteblock’s favors, the confidential adviser had been on the verge of requesting this gift. Tonight would be the night. Within the hour. As soon as the prince—

  “What’s happened to Randall?” the king asked.

  “He’s still there by the fireplace,” said Whiteblock. “He’s boasting about his father’s portrait again.”

  “To whom? Not Sondra!”

  It was Sondra. She was looking very charming, indeed, and it was quite apparent that she and Randall were falling in love.

  “This won’t do,” the king muttered. “I’ll give her the royal order to get to bed.” And he forthwith marched across to the fireplace to do so.

  In their brief conversation that preceded the king’s unwelcome interruption, Randall and Sondra had lost no time getting acquainted.

  Randall was certain he had seen her before, somewhere in India. Didn’t she and her father interpret dreams on the stage? Sondra, smiling, admitted that this was true. Until her father’s death they had been entertainers. But here at the palace of Askandia, no one knew of this except the Old Lady.

  “My dreams,” Sondra admitted, “brought me to this palace in the first place. Someday I must go through a terrible explosion of fire—if I wish to be a princess.”

  “How do you know that?” Randall was on the edge of his chair with curiosity.

  “My dreams,” Sondra smiled. “I know that if I wish to be a queen someday, I must be a match for the prince who will become my husband. And my dreams tell me that my prince has already gone through fire.”

  Randall suddenly lifted her to her feet. He held
her at half an arm’s length, his hands pressing her elbows at her waist. He tried to read the mysterious depths of her eyes.

  “You know so many things,” he said. “You knew my father during the years that I was away at school. You must have known that he was a learned man—a scientist—and that he and I built the most wonderful laboratory. Did you know these things?”

  “At the laboratory I must go through fire,” Sondra said, gazing at him with a far-off look in her eyes.

  He wanted to kiss her, then, and he would have. But the intrusion of the king prevented. In another moment Sondra retreated, according to the king’s orders. Then the king repeated his own good night and trudged off in the other direction.

  Now left to himself, Randall turned and walked toward the nearest arched entrance to the Arena.

  “She must know the secrets of those documents already,” Randall thought. “Father must have planned . . . Or perhaps the Old Lady has prepared her to share my secret . . . I wonder what Father wrote . . .”

  As he crossed the wide Arena floor slowly, certain stimulations played upon his senses. He broke out of his reveries and began to study the Red Door. He could hear a faint hum, as if of a ventilator fan somewhere in the Vault. He must be mistaken. The Vault, he knew, had been hewn out of the solid stone of the mountainside. The faintest odor of warm machinery could be detected.

  The lights around the door were all red, and none too bright. They gave the glistening pair of blades, which hung like outspread propellor blades, an ominous reddish-black cast.

  He stopped and listened. A large room like the Arena could not help echoing the little sounds of squeaking floorboards. He moved up the steps slowly. On the tenth step he paused, listened.

  Then he knew. He was being watched. Not one, or two, but several persons were lurking in the shadows of this room, watching his every move.

  He chuckled to himself. “So this whole welcome becomes transparent,” he thought. “They are expecting me to walk into death.”