Under The Stairs

by John Stockmyer

  Just how quickly a ruler could become isolated from his people was an historical theme John had stressed with his students, this phenomenon the result of friends and functionaries hiding unpleasant realities from "the boss." And now John found himself the "beneficiary" of this same, dangerous pollyannaism. No one wanted to upset him; everyone wished to be the bearer of only the "gladdest" of glad tidings.

  "Everything goes well, great Mage." Though too small to command respect-at-a-glance, Etexin had grown a goatee which compensated for his weak-to-non-existent chin. Almost.

  Etexin's Second, Flebb, wishing nothing so much as to be in agreement with his Head, nodded vigorously enough to rustle the stiff, gold braid on the shoulders of his dress tunic. They were both so eager to please.

  "From now on," John said dryly, "all messages are to be brought to me directly." The Head nodded.

  "Any reconnaissance about when the Malachite mobilization will turn into an attack?"

  "No sir." Etexin placed his weathered hands palm down on the tabletop, his blunt fingers wiggling nervously.

  "Any guesses?"

  "Surely, great one, they will not invade now that you have become the Mage. Your overwhelming power will ..."

  It had been like that since John had fooled everyone into believing he was Stil-de-grain's Wizard. Golden had been right. The right clothes, the yellow Crystal, a talent for bold lying, and John Lyon, "Crystal Mage of Stil-de-grain," had been installed in sumptuous accommodations in Xanthin Palace, John's first decree: that no one be allowed to disturb a Wizard after down-light -- on pain of being turned into a grease spot. John didn't want to think about what would happen to him if the "folks hereabouts" discovered that their Mage didn't speak Stil-de-grain!

  The young king -- a child of nine (and acting younger) -- had proved to be a cipher; all the problems of rule immediately dumped in John's lap. John Lyon, defacto King of Stil-de-grain -- the power behind a very shaky throne.

  Golden and Platinia, Platinia in black, Golden dressed like John in a white robes (though less magnificently) sat behind John in armed, high-back chairs, there as much to frame the magnificence of their Mage as for any other purpose, both continuing to provide John with the help he'd come to expect from them. ...... Little and none.

  As for his elevation to the job of Mage, it hadn't hurt to be arriving at a time of crisis, Yarro assassinated -- though the head of the guards denied it; insisting Yarro had died of apoplexy after some felon had stolen into the king's bedchamber.

  In the negative column, the Malachites continued to muster their forces, no help to be expected from Stil-de-grain's child-ruler who kept lisping, "I don't want to be king," before bursting into tears.

  It went well beyond understatement to say that Stil-de-grain was in need of leadership!

  There had already been limited progress under John's administration -- political prisoners freed -- a squad of soldiers sent for the Weird, Zwicia now installed in the Palace along with Platinia and Golden.

  At first, John could find nothing for Platinia to do. (Cat petting had its limitations as a useful skill.) She couldn't, for instance, be used for an advisor, the girl knowing next to nothing about her world. She had no technical know-how. No ambition.

  In was only later that John discovered -- at first doubting his own observations -- that "things" went better when Platinia was in the room. John had even done some crude testing of that thesis. Both with, then without Platinia, John had held meetings -- with LaVayer, the Palace butler, Kabir, Head of the guards, the wine steward, assorted merchant princes who craved audiences about trade matters, the army and navy Heads. And in every case, the meetings had been more productive when Platinia was near him. Not that she did anything. She never did anything. Just sat and stared. Still, if a scientific term could be applied to her presence, her "being there" served as a kind of catalyst to other activities ... made everything work smoother, seem more pleasurable. Why? Was it that people were on their best behavior with a woman in the room? John didn't know. .... Not that it mattered, since there was no reason Platinia-and-cat should not be beside him.

  As for Golden, John had to admit that the young man had been helpful in getting John orientated to the Palace. For Golden did -- as he claimed -- know the Palace's nooks and crannies. For now, John was keeping Golden on a tight leash, it better to have that secretive man-of-many-talents where John could see him than to let Golden recede into the shadows. Golden was a Malachite, after all, and what's more, one with delusions of grandeur. Then again, it was never wise to take anyone for granted, particularly someone who has intimate access to you. Ignore a crony, and you could find him popping out of the woodwork at you.

  John had even taken the time to think about "woodwork popping" and Yarro's fate. For instance, wasn't that tale of Yarro dropping dead of a temper tantrum a bit too convenient, especially for those charged with guarding Yarro's life? The king assassinated on my watch? Certainly not. He just ... had a stroke.

  After considerable thought, John had decided to keep Kabir on as Head of the guards, figuring that no one would defend the Palace with such fanatical devotion (Kabir not having a hope of surviving a second "assassination" of someone he was protecting.) The result? That Kabir's guards were always with John and John's people, marching before and behind them, securing doors, frisking visitors to the Palace, and standing watch before bedroom doors throughout the night. While annoying, John thought additional security a necessity during war time. (John was also pleased to know that Golden -- under heavy guard like John -- would make no nighttime "ramble" through the Palace without security, and therefore John, being aware of it. The more John knew about Golden's whereabouts, the better John liked it!)

  It was with minor decisions like these that John had begun to "rule," John needing to remember to at least pretend to be carrying out the orders of the boy king.

  If John had made any mistakes so far, it was his early lack of attention to the protocol of the palace (like king-consultation,) empty gestures to be sure, but ceremonies essential to the preservation of the kind of kingly grandeur that buttressed authority. John must remember that no less a political savant than Machiavelli had stressed that it was often more important to the enhancement of a ruler's power to look good than to be good.

  More than protocol, an even greater "black hole" into which John's days disappeared was routine. With the young king unfit for any duties, John had to receive foreign dignitaries, hear complaints about taxes from those most able to pay them, even supervise the work of Palace slaveys. Once a day, John must be shaved by the fussy palace barber, Quig. Had even allowed Quig to style John's hair in the modishly long, Stil-de-grain bob.

  John also had to be fitted for robes that reflected the glory of Stil-de-grain's wealth and worldly position.

  Serious concerns were fitted in around what really mattered -- the continuity of daily life. One of these serious concerns ... war!

  Put in charge of the "war effort," John had started that task by asking to see a map, only to be told there weren't any. (Why was John not surprised?)

  So making a map was the first task John assigned to Golden. (Who better to employ as court cartographer than the man who claimed to have been everywhere?) And the map Golden had drawn on a sheet of parchment -- had turned out quite well, not withstanding the fact that, from a distance, it looked like a pizza with everything on it. (As much as anything, John had begun to miss familiar foods!)

  The map showed the Tartrazine, John crossing that river both as a prisoner and as a friend of prisoners and, further "West," the lake of Quince. In addition, Golden inked in a number of cities John had never heard of: Orpiment, Carotene. And features: the Delta Ridge, River's end, the Leech, and Eyeland in the center, John pleased that the map reflected what he, himself, had learned about the bands. As for the blank spaces, was it because there were few important locations to be noted, or was this lack of detail the result of people traveling so little they were only minimally familiar with
their world's geography?

  Note: to see Golden's maps, go to: www.johnstockmyer.com/books/uts/

  While the map was being drawn, John had continued to ask questions. First, of Golden. Then, as John became more familiar with his surroundings, of others.

  For instance, fearing that his lack of religious knowledge might cause John to make an unforgivable faux pas, John had tried some tactful questions about this world's beliefs. To find to his relief that, though every band had its unique religion -- jumbles of male and female fertility deities, hawk-headed gods, absurd rituals, world-as-an-egg legends, divinity consumption ceremonies, incarnation fables, sacrificial scapegoats, blood drinking, and mutilation -- John found that religion seemed to "run its own," ghastly game. Like Mages, priests had little to do with the people, the sole function of priests, to "tend" various gods. With religion at the margins of society, John felt it safe to postpone studying the place's myths, anything he could "put on hold" for the moment a "gift from the gods."

  Establishing command -- advisors met, experts consulted, economists ignored -- John felt himself (as California crazies would put it) "centered" enough to begin planning the island's defense, the first step, a fact finding tour of the island's perimeter in a forty-oared, big brother of the "skimmer" he and Coluth's men had used to rescue Platinia and Golden, John discovering that the sea around the island -- at 200 yards -- was nowhere deeper than a fathom. In short, too shallow for either this world's military cutters or its deeper-draft merchant boats to get anywhere near the island. The single exception was Xanthin's port, where both the sea approach to the harbor's mouth (as well as the water in the harbor itself) was deep enough to float capital ships. It followed -- though no one in the military seemed to have thought of it -- that a "marine" landing could not be expected anywhere on the island except through the harbor mouth itself. John's master plan? Defend the island's single port and there was nowhere else an enemy could off-load troops. Unless -- John's speculation strengthened by his knowledge of the Normandy invasion in World War II, and in particular of Omaha Beach -- the foe had small "landing craft" in which to ferry troops over the shallows to the island's shores. No possibility of LCTs, the navy Head had assured him, Vancu astonished at a "radical" idea like small-assault-craft.)

  Meanwhile, John had learned that this world's only naval "weapon" was boarding -- grappling lines used to lash warring boats together, the boats' marines fighting over the railings -- pirate style. A little archery, maybe. But mostly sword play. Very Errol Flynn.

  "Assuming my magical powers are less impressive to the enemy than to you," John said, his wandering thoughts returning to Etexin's hopes for a Wizardly win, "what is your best estimate of when the enemy's navy can assault Xanthin island?"

  "I should think ... not less than sixty up-lights, great Mage." Etexin pinched the corners of his thin mouth with forefinger and thumb, making his lips into an O.

  "And how do you arrive at that estimate?"

  "The messenger bird of this morning revealed that it would take another thirty up-lights to gather food for the Malachite marines; a similar time for the armada to row from Bice harbor to Xanthin." When Etexin said the messenger bird "told" him this information, he wasn't using a metaphor. John had learned that messenger birds were this world's equivalent of parrots, messages taught to these "homing-pigeon-birds," the birds "parroting" the information upon arrival at home "perch." (How long it took to train the birds, John didn't know. Just another, completely stupid local custom John planned to change when he had the time.)

  Two months to arrange the island's defense; enough time if the data about the arrival of the Malachite navy was anywhere near accurate. "And by the way, where is Vancu?" Vancu was the Navy Head, one of the staff officers John had summoned to the meeting.

  "Taking soundings in the harbor as you order, sir. You may expect him shortly."

  An update that was followed by fifteen minutes of finger drumming silence before the richly embossed walnut door swung open across the way to reveal the weathered Vancu -- yellow sash across his sunken chest -- the elderly Navy Head entering, pivoting to close the thick door behind him.

  Turning again, the Navy Head bowed to John, then crossed the room with the rolling gait of sailors everywhere. Another bow and Vancu eased his old bones into a vacant, gold edged, straight chair close to John but on the unused side of the ceremonially long table at room center.

  "The soundings?"

  "As you expected, great Mage, the harbor is the only point of entry for capital ships." The Head's voice had the husky quality of vocal cords preserved in brine.

  "All right!" John was as satisfied as he could be -- given the fact that he wasn't sure of the competence of the men on whom he must rely. Had any of these officers actually been in a war? Though they sometimes spoke of wars as if they'd been personally involved, John couldn't be sure. And hated to show his ignorance by asking.

  Looking at each man in turn, John was determined to start the meeting with some straight answers. "From what I've been able to gather, "heavy band" Malachites being stronger than the men of Stil-de-grain, we need overwhelming odds on our side to have a chance of defeating them. Fighting man to man, won't do it."

  "Regrettably, that is true, sir," said the Navy Head, absentmindedly combing the fingers of one hand through his gray-patched beard. Just another old man -- and they were legion in both worlds -- who, when hair deserted his head, had decided to grow some on his face.

  "How do we match up ship-for-ship?"

  "We have more ships, sir."

  "Enough to overwhelm the strength of their men?"

  "Ah ....." To be interpreted: doubtful, at best.

  "Has anyone thought about sinking their ships instead of fighting over the decks from ship to ship?" Blank stares all around.

  "But ... how could that be done ....?" From the horrified look on the Head's shriveled face, Vancu's question was not really how to sink a ship but why anyone would want to "commit that kind of murder"? Even the thought of deliberately damaging a ship was heresy to Vancu.

  John had to agree, of course, that in anything but a mad, mad world, keeping ships afloat should be the first concern of sailors. But this was war, in wartime, people encouraged to be insane. In battle, the willful destruction of property: pillaging, maiming, raping, slaughter -- were normal human activities, those most skilled in these villainous pursuits considered to be the most valuable and virtuous of citizens.

  "The best way ..." (John almost said given your lack of technology) "... is ramming." To demonstrate, John motioned for a piece of paper to be brought to him from a filigreed end table against the wall, Golden, always to John's right and behind him, bringing a sheet of paper (vellum), a quill pen, and an ink pot. "Here's what you do." Dipping the pen, John quickly scratched the side view of a cruiser, adding a ram to its bow, a stout pole mounted just below the water line, preceding the ship by several yards.

  For his part, the Head leaned over to watch John sketch. "The ram is to be of bronze, sharply pointed so it can pierce a ship's side. You've got to shore up the bow behind the ram, of course." John drew in some reinforcing timbers. Triangles of them. "The ram is for punching an underwater hole in the side of the enemy's ship. After doing that, you back oars to pull out the ram; the enemy ship fills with water and sinks. No boarding. No hand-to-hand fighting -- nullifying the individual strength of their marines."

  John put down the pen and leaned back in his chair, the navy man watching him with rapt attention but with no expression on his face. "Since ramming's never been done before, it should take them by complete surprise." The finisher!

  The Navy Head was nodding now -- but without enthusiasm. "Rams like these," John said, pressing, "could be added to the cruisers before the Malachites arrive, don't you think?"

  "Yes. There would be time. But ...." Showing his anxiety at having to say "but" to a Mage, wanting to do something with his hands, Vancu began the nervous smoothing of his long departed hair.
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  "But?" John tried to keep irritation from his voice. God, these people were ... slow!

  "But you are our Mage. Will you not simply repel their ships with your power?" ............

  Of course! That was why this world had so little in the way of technical innovation! Not because people were stupid but because magic was supposed to do all the hard work. Just call on your Mage to blast them.

  "I don't know if you realize this," John said, using the Head's question to make a point that might save John embarrassment at some later date, "but the powers of a Mage are strictly limited." Vancu (as did the other two military men at the table) looked shocked. "I must conserve as much of my potency as possible to use against any magic the enemy might throw against us." Far from convinced, Etexin was pinching in the corners of his lips, Vancu touching his beard -- here -- there -- as if to assure himself that it had not departed.

  What could John use to convince them. Xenophobia? Paranoia? Ah! Fear of the unknown was always good! "You have heard the rumor that Malachite is in league with the Dark Mage? If this is true, I may have to use all my magic to block the evil Wizard's power."

  At that, they nodded. Were impressed by the argument of how much magical force would be needed to thwart "evil."

  "During the war -- my powers engaged elsewhere -- you may be on your own. Is that clear?" Nods all around, the final decision: that rams were to be added to the cruisers, making them "ship killers." To put it another way, all the latest in seventh century weaponry was soon to "anger up" the Stil-de-grain fleet. Seventh century B.C., that is!

  "For now, I'll continue Yarro's policy of buttoning up the harbor. No ships to leave. We have real security interests to protect, now." Nods all around.

  "In case these new tactics go wrong -- our enemies may have some surprises of their own -- our fall back position is to scuttle some junker ships in the mouth of Xanthin harbor, clogging the harbor entrance so their ships can't get into our bay. Secure the port, and there is no way for them to land their marines on Xanthin island." The others seemed to understand. "Share this last bit of strategy with everyone. If all else is lost, we might have to rely on the individual initiative of the common sailor to scuttle ships in the harbor's mouth."