Forward the Mage

by Eric Flint

  Chairman Whelm: Very well. The Angel Jimmy Jesus, can you inform the Committee with regard to the point raised by Senator Bourse?

  The Angel Jimmy Jesus: Certainly, sir. Pursuant to the authorization given by this body, I immediately organized the dispatch of our third Rap Sheet to Prygg, under the direct supervision of one of my most capable and trusted lieutenants, Rupert Inkman. (Cries of "O fell and mighty operative!" and "The savior of the Rellenos!" fill the chamber.) Agent Inkman reports that the Rap Sheet is in position and we are on the verge of launching our final campaign to destroy the revolutionary movement throughout Grotum. Indeed, the announcement of the campaign will be made very soon, at the culmination of the festivities surrounding the upcoming wedding of the Princess Snuffy and the Honorable Anthwerp Freckenrizzle III. It seemed to Agent Inkman and myself that this social occasion, embodying as it does the unity in action of Ozarae and Prygg, was the perfect occasion for making public our plans. Needless to say, all police and military forces throughout Grotum are now on full alert status and will throw themselves into action at the stroke of midnight, October 31, simultaneously with the public announcement of the campaign. (Cries of "Bravo!" and "O shrewd stroke!") I might add that the fact that our campaign will begin on Halloween has the additional advantage of making full use of the well-known superstitious proclivities of the Groutch masses.

  Senator Bourse: Excellent! My principal concern, however, is not with the actual plan of operation. I would not presume to interfere with your expertise in these matters. And I am certainly gratified to hear that our noble Agent Inkman is in direct charge. Why, the man's name alone strikes fear into the heart of subversives the world over. (Cries of "Ozar's finest!" and "The iron heel!") My concern is rather with the security of the Rap Sheet itself. Should, by some mischance, the Rap Sheet be—well! Its loss would be irreparable. Our other two are already committed, the one to the Rellenos and the other to Ozar itself. We will not be able to replace the Rap Sheet now in Grotum, should it be lost. That was always my great concern, and the reason I agreed with such reluctance to this project.

  The Angel Jimmy Jesus: I believe you may rest easy here, Senator. I assure you that the security for the Rap Sheet is insurmountable. I cannot, of course, go into the details. But let me simply say that the security for the Rap Sheet could only be overcome by a combination of brains and brawn which—certainly the brains!—is far beyond the capacity of the Groutch rabble. Finally, even if by some impossible stroke of blind luck the Rap Sheet were to be taken from us, its loss would only be temporary. I hesitate to say the following, but I will trust the discretion of the Committee. Know, Senators, that despite his own great misgivings regarding our project, that God's Own Tooth consented to apply his immense magical powers and has incorporated Rupert Inkman's soul into the Rap Sheet. (Cries of "O mystic power!" and "Ozar's grandeur swells!")

  Senator Bourse: I confess I am not quite sure what that means.

  The Angel Jimmy Jesus: What it means, Senator, is that so long as Rupert Inkman exists, he can call the Rap Sheet to his presence, whatever it is.

  Senator Bourse: But what if he's killed?

  The Angel Jimmy Jesus: I said, "so long as he exists," Senator. Rupert Inkman can be killed, but his body will be revivified by the power of the Rap Sheet. Indeed, any part of his body will serve. So you can see the trap which lies here for our opponents. Should they, by some unimaginable means, obtain the Rap Sheet, we will simply get it back—with their names emblazoned on it! Even if our opponents should kill Inkman in the process. So long as Rupert Inkman exists, the Rap Sheet is ours—so long as even a finger bone remains. (Cries of "Bravo!" and "incomparable cunning!")

  Chairman Whelm: Senator, are you satisfied? (Senator Bourse nods his head.) I then declare this session of our Committee meeting at a close. (Chairman Whelm bangs his gavel. The members of the Committee file from the chamber.)

  PART XI

  In Which the

  Artist Arrives in That

  Disreputable Realm Called

  the Mutt And, Though Discovering

  For Himself the Nature of That Disrepute

  is Given Neither to Reproof Nor

  Demurral, Thereby Confirming

  His Own Most Odious and

  Disreputable Nature.

  The Autobiography of Benvenuti Sfondrati-Piccolomini,

  Episode 6: Boots, Beer, Banners and Beds

  So it was on such a wretched pair of patent leather shoes that I arrived in the Mutt.

  Indeed, my first action upon reaching the Doghouse—for such is the curious name of the Mutt's capital, insofar as the term "capital" can be applied to the chief town of that country—was to locate the shop of a bootmaker and limp therein.

  Entering the shop, I approached the bootmaker at his bench. He looked up at the sound of my approach. A huge grin split his wizened old face. I began to smile myself, pleased at this amicability toward a customer, an attitude sadly lacking in all too many Ozarine establishments.

  I soon discovered my error.

  "Gwendolyn!" yelped the oldster. He charged past without so much as a glance in my direction and flung himself into Gwendolyn's arms. She picked him up, for all the world like a wrinkled babe, and planted a big kiss on his bald head.

  "Hello, Mishka. Long time."

  "Much too long." Now back on his feet, he looked up at her with a hurt expression.

  "The word is you came through here three months ago. Is it true? And why didn't you stop by for a visit? Distressed, I was, at the news."

  Gwendolyn shook her head. "I had no time for visits, Mishka. I was on a mission from—"

  The old man held up his hand abruptly. " 'Nough said! I don't want to know the details. 'What you don't know, the porkers can't screw out of you,' as they say." He laughed. "Not that I've had to worry much about porkers since I retired and moved to the Mutt! But still, you never know."

  I looked around his shop, which had about it all the signs of a busy establishment.

  "Doesn't look like much of a retirement," I said.

  The old man peered at me, scowling. I'm afraid my Ozarine accent was just as thick as ever, even though I'd been speaking nothing but Groutch for weeks. I'm good at learning languages, and I'd become quite fluent in Groutch, but I just don't have the ear for speaking without an accent.

  Still scowling, Mishka darted a sharp look toward Gwendolyn.

  "Relax, Mishka," she said. "I'll vouch for him."

  "He's a sympathizer?" he asked.

  Gwendolyn shrugged. "Yes and no. He's not really involved in politics. He's an artist."

  Mishka was still scowling. Gwendolyn scowled back.

  "Impossible old man! I told you I'll vouch for him."

  Mishka looked away. "Well, your word's as good as gold, of course. But still, I just don't understand why you've got him around."

  "It's personal, Mishka."

  The old man suddenly grinned.

  "Well! Well! That's all different, then!" The next thing I knew, Mishka was vigorously pumping my hand.

  "Wonderful, wonderful," he prattled, "I've always said you were too intent on the cause, Gwendolyn. It's not good for the soul, you know, never taking the time out to smell the roses and such, and shouldn't I know?"

  He continued his vigorous handshake.

  "Pleased to meet you, young man. Very pleased, even if you are an Ozarine oppressor. My name's Mishka, by the way. Mishka the bootmaker."

  "Benvenuti Sfondrati-Piccolomini."

  Gwendolyn interrupted. "He needs a new pair of shoes, Mishka. Proper Groutch boots, if you would."

  Mishka looked down at my feet, still shaking my hand.

  "And will you look at those monstrosities!" he cried. "A wonder the man's not a cripple! All the way from Goimr, you say you've come? In those things?"

  I nodded. Mishka released my hand and began busying himself in stacks of leather, muttering about "mad dogs and Ozarines."

  I cleared my throat. "Uh, Sirrah Mishka, b
efore you get started, I'm afraid I have very little money left. So if—"

  I stopped, struck dumb by the ferocious glare the old man was bestowing on me. I looked to Gwendolyn for assistance.

  "Money's not the custom in the Mutt," she said. "Quite disapprove of money, people here." She looked at Mishka. "Oh, stop glaring, Mishka! The man's new here—how's he supposed to know? I assure you, he's not a Consortium agent."

  The old man was still glaring. "A Consortium provocateur came through here not long ago, you know? Tried to give money to children, he did, the scurvy knave! Proper boys and girls, though, well brought up, so they turned him in and the General called out his dogs." A wicked laugh followed. "Squealed like a pig, the rotten collaborator, when Fangwulf pulled him down. Didn't get more than half a mile, he didn't, even with the General's usual generous head start."

  "You'll have to make allowances for Mishka, Benvenuti," said Gwendolyn. "When he said earlier that he was retired, he meant from the struggle. Old habits die hard, especially his."

  Mishka's glare eased. "Well, I suppose so. Have to make allowances, I guess, for honest strangers, even plundering Ozarines." His glare briefly returned. "But no more talk of money, d'you hear? I won't have it! This is a respectable establishment!"

  "By no means!" I exclaimed, fending off his glare with my hands. "But how—" Again, I looked to Gwendolyn for assistance.

  "See if you can do him some service or other," she said. "How about the sign over his door? Thing's so weathered you can hardly read it. Can you make him a new one?"

  I went outside, looked at the sign, came back.

  "Certainly. But I'll need some fresh wood."

  Mishka disappeared into the back of his shop. A moment later he reemerged, carrying a nice slab of oak.

  "How about this?" he asked. "Ingemar the cabinetmaker gave it to me a few months ago. I've been meaning to use it for a new sign, but I never got around to it. I've even got some paint, but I'm not much of a painter, actually. Are you?"

  I managed to make some modest but reassuring noises, while digging in my pack for my woodcarving tools. And so did the time pass pleasantly, with me carving and painting Mishka a new sign, while he busied himself with my boots. As he worked, Gwendolyn told him of our adventures, leaving out, I noticed, any mention of Wolfgang. This odd reticence left great holes in the narrative, but Mishka didn't notice them, so upset was he when he heard of the imminent arrival of a Rap Sheet in Grotum.

  "We're doomed!" he cried, over and again. "Doomed! It'll be the Rellenos all over again! The streets awash in blood! The executioners collapsing from exhaustion! The racks splintering from overuse! The whips worn to a nubbin! The dungeons bursting at the seams! Even here! Even the Mutt!"

  But he only stopped working once, looking up at Gwendolyn intently.

  "You've got to tell the General right away. Everyone else, too, of course. If you get the word out at the Free Lunch it'll spread quick enough, sure, but you've still got to tell the General right away. Maybe he can think of something."

  "First the Free Lunch," responded Gwendolyn. "Then I'll talk to the General."

  Mishka made as if to argue, but then went back to his work. He finished with my boots at almost the same time I was done with his sign.

  Mutual admiration followed.

  "What a sign! What a sign!" exclaimed the old man, as I tried on my new boots. A perfect fit, they were, and very comfortable. Not fashionable, I admit. I noticed the old man was rummaging around again in his stacks of leather.

  "Just give me a little time," he muttered, "I'll have another pair of boots ready."

  "What for?" I asked. "These are perfect."

  Mishka looked up, surprised. "Of course they're perfect. Am I not Mishka? But a sign like that! It'll be the best sign in town! Calls for two pair of boots, at the least."

  I waved him off. "Nonsense. The sign was a trifle, I assure you."

  Mishka wrung his hands. "Well. Well."

  "Relax, Mishka," laughed Gwendolyn. "Benvenuti's an artist, doesn't have any proper sense of value. Leave it be. He's happy with the deal, and besides, we've got to be off to the Free Lunch."

  "Oh, yes! I forgot. Well, then, at least let me obtain a cab for you. I insist!" he cried. "Such a great sign!" He rushed out into the street and began a fierce whistling.

  A minute later he reentered the shop, a burly man in tow.

  "Look who's here, Gwendolyn!"

  "Mario!"

  The beefy newcomer swept his cap off his bushy head and stretched out his arms. Big as he was, he was almost dwarfed in Gwendolyn's embrace.

  "Take us to the Free Lunch, if you would, Mario. Oh, let me introduce you to Benvenuti Sfondrati-Piccolomini."

  Mario and I shook hands and exchanged pleasantries. He did not, I was relieved to note, seem to take offense at my Ozarine accent.

  A minute later, Gwendolyn and I piled into the back seat of the cab, stowing our packs and my easel in the back. Mario eyed the easel with curiosity, but refrained from comment. He slapped his horse's rump with a short whip and we jolted out into the streets of the Doghouse.

  Within a few blocks, I had come to the conclusion that this was the oddest town I had ever seen. There seemed no rhyme or reason to anything about it—neither the layout of the streets, nor the mixture of the buildings scattered about. Despite its relatively small size, the town positively shrieked "polyglot" in a way in which even the great and cosmopolitan imperial city of Ozar didn't. Still, the relations of the numerous inhabitants seemed quite cordial.

  The Doghouse is not a big town, however, so it was not long before Mario reined in and wheeled the cab through a narrow gateway into a large walled courtyard.

  Along one wall was a livery tending to the needs of the horses. On the opposite wall, under a well-weathered colonnade, stood a stout door, much abused by time and circumstances. The door's green paint was peeling off. Numerous cuts, gashes and nicks in the wood of both door and frame gave evidence that the customers were not a particularly sober and upright sort.

  Above the colonnade stood—or rather, leaned slightly askew—a sign (very badly lettered) which proclaimed:

  THERE AIN,T NO SUCH THING AS A

  FREE LUNCH

  Gwendolyn and I grabbed our belongings and followed Mario inside. The place, to all appearances, was a classic provincial alehouse: numerous tables and chairs, a long, long bar, a few small windows high in a back wall, and several curtained alcoves or private rooms. Behind the bar was a small kitchen from which emanated a variety of amazing smells. The air was thick with tobacco and cooking smoke, not to mention alcohol vapors. A subdued hubbub filled the room, which soon changed to cries of loud greeting when the customers spotted Gwendolyn. We took our places at the bar. The tapster, a fat and placid-looking man, made a slow but inevitable progress up the long bar, like a stout ship moving through a canal, propelled by ritual wipes of the counter with a towel.

  " 'Lo, Mario. 'Lo, Gwendolyn. Long time. And who's your friend?"

  Gwendolyn introduced me. "And this is the Tapster, Benvenuti. What's the free lunch, today? Arsters? Arsters and beer?"

  " 'Course it is," snapped the Tapster. "Just like it's been for the past twenty years and more."

  "I'll have some," said Gwendolyn. The Tapster eyed me.

  "I'll have oysters and beer, also." The gathering fury on his face warned me. "Arsters, I mean! Arsters!"

  He waddled off, wiping the bar, then passed through a curtain into the kitchen.

  "What is it about shellfish," I complained to Gwendolyn, "that people will commit mayhem over pronunciation?"

  She and Mario frowned at me, like bishops regarding a heretic.

  "A quahog is a quahog, a clam is a clam, and an arster is an arster," came their joint pronunciamento. I sighed, but let it go. I'm bold, but I'm not crazy.

  The Tapster returned, bearing great pots of ale and a platter full of mollusks.

  Famished, I started to dig in, then hesitated.

 
; "Uh, tapster, a question. What about—?" I avoided the obscenity. "What I mean is, the sign above says there is no free lunch."

  "Well, of course there isn't! What are we—witless nihilists?"

  "He's new," said Gwendolyn, devouring her "arsters."

  "Oh. Well, then, young man, let me explain the customs of the Mutt. In this happy and prosperous little place, we handle the exchange of goods and services rather differently from those benighted lands groaning under the yoke of"—here, a tight jaw, a grim lip, jowls quivering with contempt—"money. Keeps the Consortium off our backs, you understand? Not to mention the usurers and the rest of the world's drones. So it's like this. You come in here looking for something to eat and drink, but naturally I can't sell it to you because if I did, before you know it I'd be a subsidiary of the Consortium—whether I wanted it or not—and the next thing you know all of my customers would boycott the place and the next thing you know I'd be run out of town on a rail, if I was lucky and the General's dogs were in need of a rest. So we can't have that. So instead I give everybody a free lunch. Booze is on the house too, of course."

  He proceeded to give the counter a solemn wipe of his cloth.

  "Now, of course if people didn't help me out, I'd soon be starving on the street. And then they'd miss out on their free lunch. So out of the goodness of their hearts they provide me with the various services which I require. Everything make sense?"

  I thought it over. "Yes, I think so. Your system reminds me a bit of a book written by one of my relatives. Proudhon Sfrondrati-Piccolimini, you may have heard of him? If I recall, he argues—"

  "The man's an idiot!" cried the Tapster. "All that nonsense about the people's bank and such! No, no, young man, you're quite mistaken in all this!"