Medical certifications in gilded frames were scattered across the other walls like art, interspersed with pictures of a heavy-set, middle-aged man (whom Sarpent assumed to be Dr. Hirsch) catching a huge marlin, standing with one foot up on a freshly shot tiger, shaking hands with Saddam Hussein, Oberon, King Drakkor the Black, even a slightly faded one of the good doctor with his arm around a smiling bin Laden.
There were no chairs, only four Chesterfield sofas, upholstered in Solferino-red leather and brass studs. A single door, at the other end of the room, stood closed, next to a desk that fronted a stiff-looking receptionist dressed in finest Ralph Lauren. She lifted her head as they entered, frowned, then subtly pressed a button on the edge of the desk.
As had happened when they had stepped through the portal, the air around Sarpent and his lord wavered, then like a roller blind snapping back upwards, the suited illusions were lifted away, revealing once again the man in black and his horse-faced guard.
Sarpent growled, a low, guttural sound, but the receptionist simply pointed to a small sign by the door that read in jaunty, self-help letters:
If you can't be yourself here, then where can you be?
The lord laid his hand on Sarpent's arm and said lightly, "I suppose that's very true."
They approached the desk. The receptionist pretended to be busy for a long moment, then looked up. "Name?"
Sarpent bristled. "This is his Mighty Revenant Overlord Targ, Destroyer of Mordane and Ruler of—"
"First name, please?"
Sarpent's large mouth clicked shut; he blinked with surprise and turned to face his lord, looking apologetic.
The Overlord cleared his throat and in a small voice said, "Brian."
"Well, Brian," said the receptionist as if she were talking to a small child, "Dr. Hirsch is ready to see you now." She gestured to the closed door. "You," she said to Sarpent with a flick of her wrist towards one of the Chesterfields, "may wait there."
Sarpent looked at his lord, who was just about to knock on the door, then nodded and sat down on the couch. There was a huge outrush of air from the leather cushions of the Chesterfield. Sarpent laid his battleaxe across his knees, picked up a copy of Vogue, and settled in to wait for his master.
"Okay okay, now where did you just go wrong, huh?" A fit-looking older man sat behind a beautiful glass-topped desk.
His head was covered with a thick thatch of perfectly pomaded white hair, although the huge moustache that antlered under his nose was a sooty black. The face itself had a yacht club tan, fierce blue eyes and a somewhat bulbous nose. Thin moist lips, barely visible beneath the overhang of hair, were set in a smile that seemed more rehearsed than genuine. His voice was somewhat nasal, and carried the slightly accusatory-sounding New York cadence well. "Come on, it all starts right here. Right now. What was your first mistake?"
Brian frowned, somewhat bewildered by the sudden questions. "I . . .err, didn't wipe my feet?"
"No no no!" Hirsch said smoothly. "You knocked! You're the Mighty Revenant Overlord Targ, Destroyer of Mordane and Ruler of—" he discretely checked his notes "—Heckinor."
"Hellinor."
"Whatever. Heckinor, Hellinor. Do you see my point? You never knock. You march in, you sit down, and if anyone doesn't like it, you order that person's head to be removed immediately. Or something else, you decide. You're the Boss." Hirsch stood up and offered his hand, "Hiram Hirsch, Consultant to Evil."
Brian shook the pudgy hand as hard as he could, which was difficult because it was like greeting a jewelry store. "Erm, Brian." They were about the same height, but the sculpted white hair made Hirsch look taller.
"Very pleased to meet you, Brian, have a seat," he gestured to the reclining leather chair. "You don't mind me calling you Brian do you? We shouldn't stand on ceremony in here, don't you agree?"
Brian understood the question was rhetorical, but he nodded anyway. Somewhat reluctantly, he lay back. The ceiling was paneled the same way as the walls, and the little squares of wood were somewhat hypnotic.
"Now," Hirsch began, "you were referred here by . . . let me see now . . . the ArchWitch Hagspittle. Ahhh, how is old Maggie doing?"
"Fine," replied Brian. "She has her Dark Court back under control and is even planning an offensive against the Shining Dawn next season. She speaks very highly of you."
"And well she should. When I first counseled Maggie, she had lost touch with evil to such an extent that she could barely string two spells together. The distances and dimensions my clientele comes to me from never ceases to amaze . . . But anyway, let's not get sidetracked. This is about you, now, isn't it?"
Almost against his will, Brian found himself nodding.
"Now, you wrote in your initial consult application that you"—Hirsch's voice took on the tone of someone reading—"just don't seem to have the heart for evil anymore, that it no longer gives you that shivery black thrill that it used to, and that you'd rather go and raise alpacas in Idaho. Is that true, Brian?" Hirsch sounded terribly disappointed.
"They're a lovely animal, very friendly."
"I meant about losing the will to be evil." Hirsch leaned forwards on his desk. "Have you lost your mojo, Brian?"
Brian swallowed. "Maybe . . ."
"Why don't you tell me about it."
So Brian did, from the first hesitant moments when he realized that for no reason he could discern, he had suddenly run out of creative ways to wage war and execute and torture his myriad enemies. Hadn't he botched up his invasion of neighboring Callidan Island by forgetting to requisition and build enough boats, so the invasion had to be called off before they'd even left the shores? The Callidani laughter still rang in his ears. He touched upon his fondness for cats, for jesters and motleys, skipped over his secret plans to implement a better and more fair justice system, and talked briefly (but somewhat fondly) about his aim to one day establish an autonomous government.
When he finished, he felt oddly better, more at peace, at one with the universe.
Then there was silence, broken only by the creaking leather of Hirsch's chair and the occasional clunk of a piece of jewelry against the glass-topped table. Brian resisted the urge to look over, but he could imagine the doctor staring at him, stroking his giant moustache.
"Do you have a mask?"
"Hmm?" (Brian had nearly dozed off.) "Yes, of course. I brought it per your request." He reached inside his jerkin and pulled out a small black square of velvet which he carefully unfolded.
"Put it on, please," Hirsch told him.
Brian slipped it over his head. It was a little like a cross between a balaclava and an executioner's mask. Instead of eyeholes, there was a wide slit that just reached his nose. The velvet looked almost wet in the dusty office light.
Hirsch leaned forwards, steepling his fingers, considering. "Hmmm," he said after a long moment's thought. "It's not exactly, well, intimidating, is it."
Brian shrugged. "I do have another one, made from an elf skull."
"Well, that's a little more like it!"
"But it's dreadfully heavy and it brings me out in a rash around my ears."
"I see."
More pondering.
"Well, Brian, we need to take this one step at a time. Here's what I want you to do. Before our next visit, I want you to find some people, any people, a village, a settlement, some group that's always annoyed you."
"The Do'raki Fenlanders," Brian said, snapping his fingers. "They have never shown proper respect and were late with their taxes this year. Come to think of it, they were a bit late last year, too."
"Whatever." He leaned forwards. "I want you to destroy them."
Brian's eyes blinked out from the slit in the mask. "Destroy them? I'll lose revenue."
"Yes!" said Hirsch feverishly. "Destroy them utterly. Forgo lost revenue. This is more important. Show them no mercy! You're the Mighty Revenant Overlord Targ, Destroyer of Mordane and Ruler of—" he discretely checked his notes again "—Heckinor."
<
br /> "Hellinor."
"Yes, that's what I meant. Destroy all Do'hicky Finlanders!"
"Do'raki Fenlanders," Brian mumbled, correcting the doctor before raising a clenched fist, and repeating in a small, somewhat uncertain voice: "Destroy them."
Dr. Hirsch picked up the receiver of his antique Princess phone; the numerals of the rotary dial glowed yellow in the darkness.
"Hello?"
The line was crackly and sounded like it traveled across the bottom of the ocean. "Dr. Hirsch? This is Sarpent speaking, General of the Revenant Overlord's Fifty Legions, Commander of the Night Watchers, First Chief of—"
Hirsch waved his hand, "Just what is it with you people and your titles? Sarpent would have done you know. I'm old, not senile."
"Forgive me, honored doctor, but I . . .I find myself unable to . . .I don't know quite what to . . ."
"Take all the time you need. I bill by the minute."
"It's the Overlord, sir, he, well, may I ask just exactly what it was you instructed him to do?"
"Well, Sarp, I can't really tell you that, doctor-patient confidentiality being what it is. May I call you Sarp?"
"Yes, doctor, whatever you wish."
Okay, Sarp, then why don't you just tell me what he did, and I'll tell you if he's following my instructions."
"Well, sir, the lord gathered together the whole second battalion, and we all had high hopes, but he, ah . . ."
"What?"
"He relocated the Do'raki Fenlanders."
"Well, that's not exactly what I had in mind, but displacing is a start—"
"It wasn't exactly displacement," Sarpent said around another bark of static. "More like . . .sir, the Overlord helped them move."
"He what?"
"Well, they live in the fens, and they're always being flooded. The Do'raki are extremely poor, filthy, but, on the other hand, they're fierce little fighters and they usually pay their proper taxes to the Overlord."
"All the more reason for them to be wiped out!"
"For paying taxes?" Sarpent asked.
"Don't be literal. You know what I mean," Dr. Hirsch said.
Yes, sir. I agree on general principles that they should be wiped out. But the Overlord, well, ah, he took . . .pity—" he spat the word out like a bitter pip "—on them and had the battalion build them new hovels on higher ground. Sir, he had my men . . ."
"Sarpent, are you still there? You're breaking up. Are you on a mobile?
More static. "Just a moment, sir . . ."
Hirsch held the phone away from his ear a little, which was fortuitous, as Sarpent suddenly thundered, "Get the spell together! You useless NUMBSKULL OF A wizard! Now, focus, before I cut off that little beard and stick it where the spells don't shine!" There was one last yelp of noise that sounded uncannily like a fist striking flesh (or a fish being slapped onto pavement), and then the line cleared remarkably. "There, is that better, Doctor?" Sarpent asked in a calm voice.
"Much better. Telecommunication problems?"
"Oh, nothing that a good sharp jab with my sword won't fix." The end of the sentence sounded like it was aimed away from whatever Sarpent was using as a phone. "So you did not suggest that my lord help the Do'raki move to a more upmarket location."
"I am not presently a real estate consultant."
"Well, what should I do next? Bring my lord back in? I need help here, Doctor. He's really not himself. He's becoming a laughing stock for the other emperors and warlords."
"Let me think for a moment, Sarp . . . Do you have any judgments coming up soon, any judicial trials, anything like that?"
"Well, we don't have courts here, of course. The Overlord just decides their fate. But the criminals are due to be paraded around the hanging square in a fortnight."
"Excellent. I need you to help. The morning before the parade, you will have to talk to your lord, remind him of his notable evil deeds, his past victories, slaughters, all those kind of things. Get him in the mood, give him a few ales at lunch time, then sit at his right hand and prompt him to kill all the criminals as a supreme gesture of His Evil Will to his people. A brief sudden display of malevolence might be just what he needs to jar him back into his nasty ways. And it will be a tonic for the general populace, too."
"I understand. It shall be done, sir."
The Steps of Judgment were quite impressive.
They were located to the rear of the castle, where the black Cliff of Despair buttressed against the Obsidian Mountain. Started at ground level, they ascended up towards the Throne of His Glorious Will like a fan, forming an upside down amphitheatre. Originally, the architect had designed and built it the other way around, with the Throne at the bottom, so that even the people who couldn't afford a front row seat could see everything; but the Overlord didn't like people looking down on him, so he had the architect killed and the Steps reversed, stone by stone.
Sarpent's deep laugh boomed as he told the story, refilling the Overlord's gold tankard and stealing a quick glance at his lord's face. The Overlord had chuckled at the memory, which was a good sign. Sarpent lingered on the part where the Overlord had personally taken the architect apart, fingernails first, then knuckles, then hands and so on, as a demonstration of how annoyed he was at the prospect of dismantling the Steps. He thought the architect had gotten the message, but it was hard to tell between the pitiful screams and pleadings for mercy.
"Mercy," Sarpent said, mouthing the word as if he'd found an old piece of decayed food behind a tooth, "is for the weak, the spineless. Fear . . .now fear, intimidation, terror . . .they are the tools of the strong, do you not agree, my Lord?"
Brian nodded absently; he was still thinking back to a rather disconcerting yet pleasurable dream he'd had the night before where he'd freed all the prisoners and everyone had loved him for it. The people had called his name, thrown flowers, cheered . . .
"Would my Lord care for one last drink?" Sarpent asked, interrupting his thoughts with a wave of an ale bottle. It was a fine brew, strong, but Brian didn't want his head spinning anymore. It would be hard to be just if one were pissed. "A lord must be just, mustn't he?" Brian said out loud.
"Wha—?" Sarpent said.
"Of course justice resides in the definition, and it is I who decides all definitions, is it not so?"
"Yes, Great Lord, you decide all things."
"As was and shall ever be," Brian said by rote.
"As was and shall ever be," Sarpent dutifully repeated as he made the sign of fealty, which resembled the traditional bird: index finger erect.
But Brian wasn't paying attention; he stroked the ginger cat curled up on his lap. "Did you know it is Mrs. Tinkle's birthday today?"
Sarpent blinked. "Mrs. . . .Tinkle?"
"That's right, isn't it," Brian cooed at the cat, who was kneading his knee with a paw. "You're the little birthday puss."
Sarpent swallowed, fingering a horn nervously. "Another movie then?" he said hurriedly. We have the time, the serfs won't mind waiting and I'm sure the dead—I mean the accused—aren't going anywhere." Sarpent picked up another of the DVDs that Dr. Hirsch had lent him. "We've watched most of the Steven Seagal films, but there's still the early Schwarzenegger and some man called Tarantino that comes highly recommended . . ."
Brian shook his head. "No, I've seen enough. Disconnect that . . .thing."
Sarpent nodded and reached over for the plug to the borrowed TV and DVD player, which was inserted into the last socket the original inventors had ever considered as a power supply. The dumpy-looking wizard who had been chanting the spell to create ignescent electricity let out a huge sigh, followed by a yelp as Sarpent's boot helped him out of the room before he'd even had a chance to lower his robe.
"Now," Sarpent continued. "Which mask for today?" The Overlord paused, hand stroking the cat as he considered. Sarpent could see his Lordship's gaze lingering on the soft velvet, so he said, "If I may be so bold, my Liege, Dr. Hirsch would probably want you to wear the elf skull today
. . .for therapeutic reasons."
"Yes, I suppose he would," Brian sighed. He put the cat gently on the ground, stood up, and reached for the pale monstrosity, which had once been the treasured possession of King Ulran of Arboria—so treasured in fact that it had taken a sword through the neck to part Ulran from it. Brian slipped it on, hoping that Sarpent wouldn't notice the distaste on his face. It was heavy, ill-fitting and smelled of elves, no matter how many times they boiled it. And Brian hated elves, almost as much as he hated cats.
But he didn't hate cats anymore.
Brian sniffed. Well, maybe it didn't smell so bad, after all.
"Perfect," Sarpent enthused, bowing. "My Lord looks truly fearsome and mighty. The walking dead—I mean accused—will surely soil themselves mightily upon your approach."
Let's hope not, Brian thought, remembering the last time. It had taken his valets days to get the splash marks off his best black boots.
The seneschal boomed his staff on the ground, and in a voice that Brian had now considered too hammy, pronounced, "RISE for His Highness, the Mighty Revenant Overlord Targ, Destroyer of Mordane, Ruler of Hellinor, Slayer of the Venomous WereSpider of . . ."
Brian yawned discreetly under his mask. That was one thing he did like about masks, you could yawn, smile, even doze off, and people never noticed.
He walked slowly past the blood-encrusted trapdoor to the Throne of His Glorious Will (or should that be My Glorious Will? he thought absently). Behind him hung Pain, the huge executioner's sword that Sarpent used to dispense the Law. After raising his arms to the cheering crowds (his royal guards were using their whips and bludgeons with great subtlety to encourage them), he turned and removed the sword from its ornamented bracket. He spoke the ceremonial words of opening and handed the sword to Sarpent, who, as always, was the official dispenser of justice. Then he sat down on the throne, careful not to let his robe bunch up under him. The unwashed masses descended away beneath him in a maelstrom of color, cacophony and chaos. People from all walks of life jostled for seats, shouted, argued, stood in line for pies from the vendors. Away to his right was the disheveled row of the accused, their shaven heads bowed, some weeping, others looking passively out over the crowd, grimly resigned to their fate. Children threw stones (fruit was generally saved for eating) and occasionally a prisoner would cry out and try to raise his manacled arms to ward off a missile.
Eclipse One Page 24
