by Eric Flint
"Somewhat," I replied. "I know the General is the latest of a long line of Kutumoffs who have achieved world renown as military leaders, and have repelled all attempts by others to dominate the Mutt. As for the Mutt, all I know is that people here take a great aversion to money and all its wicked ways."
"Quite so! Well, every time one of the Kutumoff generals leads the people of the Mutt to a victory, the various tradesmen of the Mutt come here and do some more work on the house. It's the tradition, you see. And since there have been so many victories over the centuries, well, the house has grown. Two hundred and seventeen rooms, I believe we're up to now."
I felt I was on delicate ground, so I tread lightly.
"Ah, I notice, ah, however, ah, that the General himself doesn't seem to spend much time in the house."
"Oh, certainly not! That would be most improper! A modest man of the people, he is, just like all the generals have been. So he mostly lives in the shack. That's also part of the tradition, you see?"
The expression on my face caused Madame Kutumoff to laugh.
"Oh, Benvenuti! The people of the Mutt are passionately attached to their traditions. The world's greatest general has to be a plain and simple fellow, scorning luxury and ostentatious display. But in order to do that, he has to have a luxurious and ostentatious mansion he can scorn. Don't you see? It all makes perfect sense!"
We toured for over an hour and yet I did not see all of it. Indeed, during the days I spent at the Kutumoff residence, I got lost any number of times in the multitude of stairways, turrets, galleries, hallways, passages, loggias, rooms and rotundas.
The lower floor consisted of the most commonly used rooms: the music salon, the breakfast room, the morning room, the dining room, the great dining room, the feasting hall, the drawing room, the office—each with its attendant cloakrooms, antechambers, closets and alcoves. Belowstairs was a virtual warren of storerooms, pantries, a buttery, a bakery, the small kitchen, the morning kitchen, the big kitchen, the really big kitchen—not to mention a beer and wine cellar of truly legendary proportions.
The upper floors were divided into the family wing with divers bedrooms, nurseries and suites, and the guest wing, again with many spacious rooms. There was even a padded cell, built especially for Wolfgang on those occasions when he escaped from the asylum. In addition, there were two ballrooms, a conservatory, a library, a smoking room, and a whole shoal of rooms and salons devoted to the special passions and interests of Kutumoffs past and present. There was also a trophy room, which, I was surprised to notice, was empty. Madame Kutumoff explained that the Kutumoff generals were really only interested in bagging whole armies, and that the ancient practice of mounting the heads of defeated field marshals had been discontinued several generations earlier.
"Modern times, you know. Nowadays it's considered uncouth."
There was even a large and well-equipped art studio, which I eyed hungrily.
Several of the rooms came equipped with their own stories and traditions. One of the rooms, of course, was haunted. And several closets were full of skeletons. Another room was locked and barred—the "locked room," Madame Kutumoff explained, where all were forbidden to enter lest the secret therein be revealed.
"What's the secret?" I asked.
"Who knows?" replied Madame Kutumoff. "You'd have to ask the workmen who built the room. They felt a proper mansion should have a locked and barred room holding a dark secret. But they're all dead now, I imagine—that was four generations of Kutumoffs ago."
At last, Madame Kutumoff and I returned to the music salon, where nobody seemed to have noticed our absence. Later that evening at dinner, however, everyone asked me about my tour, and it soon became clear that each one had his or her own favorite room or part of the house. I discovered that there was hardly a single inhabitant of the Mutt who didn't know every nook and cranny of the mansion, and didn't have a favorite room where they had spent many happy hours. I caught a glimpse, then, of the reason the Mutt had broken every army sent against it over the centuries.
* * *
The next several days passed quickly. Peaceful days, at first. But by the third day, I could feel Gwendolyn's increasing agitation. Soon she was spending most of her time with the General, discussing the prospects for future struggle. I came along, the first time, but their conversation really meant very little to me.
It was then that I remembered the figurine I had obtained in the Doghouse, and I resolved to create my own version of the piece. Madame Kutumoff readily granted me permission to use the studio, and so I went happily to work. After an initial period of indecision, I finally decided to make a carving—inspired by finding an exquisite baulk of walnut. By the end of the week, I felt satisfied with my work.
Yet, as enjoyable as the time was, there was always a little cloud of unhappiness lurking in a corner of my heart. It could not last, I knew. But I thrust the thought from my mind.
* * *
We were awakened, the morning of the seventh day, by a great, booming, familiar voice. Before I was even out of the bed, Gwendolyn was clothed and rushing through the door.
A minute or so later, I arrived downstairs in the music salon which seemed to double as the mansion's all-purpose gathering place. Sure enough. It was Wolfgang. When he heard my footsteps, he broke off his conversation with Gwendolyn and Hildegard.
"Benvenuti!" he cried. "I hear you've had the most heroic adventure! Such a hair-raising exploit!"
I shrugged modestly. "It was nothing—not much more than a hike through the woods."
"Not that, you silly boy! I'm talking about seducing Gwendolyn—such a daredevil! Such a credit to his family!"
Gwendolyn slapped him playfully. Anyone but the gigantic lunatic would have been flattened.
"Stop that, Gwendolyn, stop that! You mustn't strike a psychopath—it's very bad therapeutic technique. Not at all modern!"
Gwendolyn laughed. "It was a sad day for the world when they did away with snake pits."
Wolfgang rolled his eyes. "Oh, but they didn't! They just turned the whole world into a snake pit, so nobody could tell the difference."
"And I'll have you know he didn't seduce me, anyway. Ha! I had to drag the screaming virgin to the bed. Then I had to teach him everything."
My upper lip grew stiff.
"I'll admit, he's been a good student. Doesn't fumble near as much, although his stiff upper lip still gets in the way when he tries to—"
"Gwendolyn!" cried Hildegard.
Gwendolyn chuckled. "Bait me, will you? Make fun of the dour fanatic, will you? Ha! All right, Wolfgang, enough of that. What happened to the Rap Sheet? And how did you get here so fast, anyway?"
Wolfgang sighed. "Oh, Gwendolyn, always so serious. Business, business, business. It's not good for your mental stability, you know? The head psychiatrist at—"
"Wolfgang!"
The giant rolled his eyes. "Where should I start? How did I get here so fast? Well, I was so eager to tell you the wonderful news that I just started off. I'm so impulsive, you know, I forgot how far it was. So it didn't take me any time at all, naturally." He waved his arms about. "Space—time—people are much too concerned about all that. Slows them down terribly."
Gwendolyn rubbed her face. "Never mind. I should have known better than to ask. But what happened to the Rap Sheet? Can you at least give me a straight answer to that question."
Wolfgang scratched his head. "Oh, that's so difficult! I'm really not very good at straight answers. Not good at anything straight, actually. And it gets me in so much trouble. Like this man I met once who told me he liked straight shooters, but he wasn't telling the truth at all. Because when I went and got a bow and started shooting arrows at him I could tell right off that he wasn't angry at me because I was missing him but because I was shooting at him in the first place. He couldn't fool me! I'm not stupid, you know—just crazy. But then—"
"Wolfgang!"
"Oh, dear. I've made you angry again. Very well, th
en, I'll do my best. It was really so grand! Such heroes they were! The wizard and his apprentice—such a splendid little fellow! He's a dwarf, you know?"
"Who's a dwarf?"
"The wizard's apprentice, of course. Anyway, where was I? Oh, yes—and your brother was there! And his friend, that little Ignace fellow."
Gwendolyn's jaw fell. "My brother? What was he doing there?"
Wolfgang looked puzzled. "Well, of course he was there. Where else would he be? We couldn't have stolen the Rap Sheet without him. Oh, no—it would have been utterly out of the question! You need serious muscle for this kind of thing, Gwendolyn. Don't you read any novels?"
Suddenly the lunatic was howling like a lunatic. "But the funniest thing was—was—" He was unable to speak for a few seconds, hooping and whooping and drooling. "The funniest thing was that in the end most of the muscle came from the dwarf! Ho! Ho! Sort of, I mean—actually, what I mean is that most of the muscle came from the snarl who carried the dwarf, so it was really the snarl who did most of the shredding and gobbling and rending and all that. But he couldn't have done it without the dwarf!"
He wiped tears of laughter from his eyes. "Even so, we couldn't have done it without Greyboar. Because Greyboar had to carry the sack, you see? Except for the dwarf, he's the only one strong enough."
He beamed down at Gwendolyn. "So that's how it happened."
Gwendolyn shook her head. "That's all gibberish, Wolfgang."
Wolfgang cackled. "Of course it's gibberish! What else do you expect from a lunatic?"
Hildegard interrupted. "Nephew, let us leave aside for a moment the ins and outs of the thing. Where is the Rap Sheet itself?"
"Oh! I forgot! I have it—it's right here." The giant dug a hand into his tunic. He brought it out, clutching a green book.
"That's it?" demanded Gwendolyn. "It doesn't look like much."
"Of course it doesn't, dear," said Hildegard. "Joe was a plain and simple fellow. None of his relics look like much. But don't be fooled by appearances. That—that horrid thing—is worth the lives of thousands."
"Oh, at least!" exclaimed Wolfgang. "It's such a clever gadget! Let me show you!" He opened the book and began thumbing through the pages.
"Look, Gwendolyn—here you are!" He handed her the book. "The life and times of Gwendolyn Greyboar!"
Gwendolyn scanned the page the book was open to. Then she began turning more pages. More pages. More pages. After a minute or so, she closed the book. Her face was pale.
"This—relic—knows more about me than I do. I'd forgotten half the things in it."
Shaking her head, she started to hand the book to Wolfgang. Suddenly she drew it back, and reopened it again. She scanned a few pages, closed it. The expression on her face was strange—relief, tinged with sadness.
"What's wrong, dear?" asked Hildegard.
"Nothing's wrong, Hildegard. I just—needed to know something."
She gave the book to Wolfgang and walked over to a window. She stood there silently for a time, staring, thinking. Then she squared her shoulders, took a deep breath, and turned away from the window. She looked at me.
"You're not mentioned anywhere in the Rap Sheet, Benvenuti. Not once. That means none of the authorities have any idea of what you've been up to since you came to Grotum."
The news should have pleased me, but it didn't. I had a sudden premonition, which Gwendolyn immediately confirmed.
"So you should go. Now, while you still can."
I opened my mouth to speak, found no words. I tried again, and found no words.
At that moment, General Kutumoff came into the room, followed by his wife. I was relieved to see them, although I knew the respite was only momentary.
"General! And Madame!" cried Wolfgang. "So good to see you! How are the children? And the dogs?"
"Everyone is fine, Wolfgang," replied Madame Kutumoff.
"I must apologize for this interruption," said the General, "but there is pressing business which we need to discuss."
Wolfgang rolled his eyes. "Business, always business."
The General smiled. "I'm afraid so, Wolfgang. What are you going to do with the Rap Sheet?"
"I'm supposed to give it to The Mysterious Q. Magrit decided it wasn't safe to keep it herself. Ozarae is bound to retaliate, you know, and it'll strike at Prygg first. The poor witch! It just broke her heart—all those enemies she'll have to pass up. Of course, the list she did compile will keep her busy for several years. But you know Magrit! Once a horrid harridan, always a horrid harridan!"
The General pursed his lips. "Yes, that's probably best. If the Rap Sheet will be safe anywhere, it'll be safe there. And The Mysterious Q can make the best use of it."
"Use it?" exclaimed Hildegard. "That horrid thing?"
The General's face grew bleak. "Yes, Hildegard, use it. We'll be able to keep track of the activities of the police and the Ozarine spies. The enemy has suffered a double blow here, don't you see? It's not just that they won't be able to use the Rap Sheet, but that we'll be able to use it against them. And why not? It seems fitting to me."
Hildegard shook her head. "Oh, it's not the justice of the matter that bothers me, General. It's—well, perhaps you're right. I'm certain that Joe wouldn't mind. After all, he made the thing to keep track of the baddies. Not the baddies he originally had in mind, of course, but then things have turned out differently than he thought they would."
She shook her head. "Still, I don't much care for the idea. And I don't think it will really stop the Ozarines."
"Of course it won't stop them," replied the General gruffly. "To the contrary—now that their favored methods of conquest are neutralized, they'll fall back on simpler methods. Direct military intervention—starting at Prygg, I imagine."
Hildegard looked distressed. "I had so hoped to avoid this unpleasantness," she said softly.
A look of sympathy came to the General's face, but when he spoke his voice was like iron. "It was never possible to avoid it, Abbess. Never. And it won't just be a military intervention, either. The Ecclesiarchs will drop their facade of holy dispassion. Soon enough they'll bring out the Switches—and who knows what other relics they've been hoarding for centuries?"
"Don't forget the Godferrets!" cried Wolfgang.
"I have not forgotten them," replied the General. "They'll be right in the thick of things. In many ways, they'll pose the greatest danger because of their magical powers. God's Own Tooth is probably the world's most powerful sorcerer."
Wolfgang cackled. "Oh, I don't think so, General! Oh no, not at all! In fact, the world's greatest sorcerer is on his way here this very minute."
The General frowned. "Who is this? And why is he coming to see me?"
"Well, actually, he's not coming to see you. He's coming to see Uncle Manya. His name's Zulkeh—Zulkeh of Goimr, physician."
"Oh, dear," said Hildegard.
The General looked at her sharply. "What's all this about, Hildegard? Do you know this Zulkeh?"
"Oh, yes, General. I've known him for years."
The Abbess bestowed a look on Wolfgang which fairly reeked of disapproval. "You had to go and do it, didn't you, nephew?"
Wolfgang rolled his eyes. His body began twitching. "Oh! Oh!" he cried. "I think I'm having one of my attacks! Oh! Oh!"
"Stop it, Wolfgang!" exclaimed Hildegard. "Stop that this instant! I want a straight answer and none of your foolishness!"
The lunatic ceased twitching. He beamed at the Abbess.
"Hildegard—such a disciplinarian! So medieval! That's not at all the proper approach to a demented seizure, you know? The head psychiatrist at the asylum says—"
"A straight answer, I said! Now!"
"Oh, all right," pouted Wolfgang. "Well, yes, I did think your approach was altogether too placid. We argued about this years ago, if you remember. And I don't see what you're so upset about—or are you still hoping you can change the Old Geister's mind?" Wolfgang broke into a fit of howling laughter. "It was
always such an idiotic idea, my dear aunt! How can you change God's mind? He's omniscient, you know?"
"He most certainly is not!" snapped the Abbess.
Wolfgang shook his head. "Such heresy! Such outré theology!" He looked at the rest of us. "It's why they excommunicated her, you know? Can't say I blame them! What kind of a proper abbess goes around saying God's got an ego problem?"
"Yes, Wolfgang, we know that's why they excommunicated her," said the General patiently. "But I'm afraid I'm not making much sense out of all this—and spare me the line about expecting sense from a lunatic!"
Wolfgang pouted. "But it's one of my best lines!"
The General smiled. A very wintry smile.
"Perhaps Fangwulf needs a good run. He's been getting a little fat lately."
Wolfgang smirked. "Fangwulf won't chase me, General. He's partial to lunatics. Uncle Manya's influence, that is."
The General glared. I might mention that the glare of the world's greatest general is a fearsome sight to behold. Fortunately, Wolfgang came to his senses. So to speak.
"The reason Zulkeh is coming here to see Uncle Manya, General, is because he's gotten thoroughly mixed up in Joe business."
"To put it mildly," interjected Hildegard.
"And as for who he is," continued Wolfgang, "the fact is that he's the world's greatest sorcerer. Oh, yes! God's Own Tooth couldn't hold a candle to Zulkeh!"
"Then why haven't I heard of him?" demanded the General.
"Well, that's because it's often been noted that he's the least notable wizard of Grotum." Then, forestalling the General's looming outburst: "It's because he's such a goofy pedant, General. You know the old saying of the wise man? 'Wherefore profit it a man to be learned, if he remains stupid in his mind'?"
"Everybody knows that saying."
Wolfgang grinned. "What everybody doesn't know is that the wise man said it after he met Zulkeh."
The General threw up his hands with frustration. "Then what good is he? And who's side is he on?"
"What good is he?" exclaimed Wolfgang. "General, he's the world's greatest sorcerer! Such a magician! Such a thaumaturge! Why, we couldn't have stolen the Rap Sheet without him!"
