Robert Hughes - The Wizard in Waiting

“Where are you going?” Ligne snapped. “Just out in the hall to collect my thoughts.”

What thoughts? the castle growled.

“Five minutes,” Ligne told him. She seemed in a terrible humor. Pelmen hoped he didn’t know why.

He nodded at the pan1 of guards who opened the door for him, then walked fifteen feet down the hallway and leaned against the wall. The guards craned their necks to watch him. After a moment, one asked the other, “Is he talking to himself?”

The other, who had already had some strange experiences with Fallomar, nodded wisely and tapped his head. “With this one, expect anything.”

You’re undoubtedly the most miserable Drax player to set foot within

“That’s not sporting, you know,” Pelmen said quietly. Everyone in the castle was relieved by the sudden cessation of the bells.

Do you address this House?

“You think I talk to walls to hear my own echo?”

You do understand! the House shouted, and a whistling wind of joy whooshed down every hallway, blowing tapestries off of walls and vases off of tables.

“I certainly do, and I’m appalled! If you are the expert Draxist you claim to be, you ought to know it’s poor manners to mock a man at the board.”

It’s bad manners to ignore the Imperial House! the castle responded defensively.

“Actually it’s only been in the last hour or so that I’ve understood your speech. It’s remarkably easy to pick up.”

Naturally, the House sniffed. It makes infinitely more sense than your human gruntings and snortings.

“Nevertheless, it is distracting to play with such vile language ringing in one’s ears. Literally.”

Then pay attention! You’ve forfeited one golden opportunity after another!

“Because I’m trying to lose.” The Imperial House was shocked. It responded with a frosty silence. “I realize that’s offensive to a purist like yourself, but I’m losing these games to keep the Lady relaxed and happy. There’s something far more critical at stake here than the outcome of a Drax game.”

If you’re speaking of your trivial little plot to deceive the Queen, how could you possibly compare them!

“Misplaced priorities?” Pelmen shrugged sardonically.

This House could not agree more!

“In spite of what you think,” Pelmen whispered, “it’s more important to me than Drax.” The House echoed with an angry ringing.

That’s a form of cheating! To throw a Drax game is repugnant behavior, far more unsporting than to mock a horrid Draxist at the board!

“It bothers you that much?”

There is only one thing worse than a Drax cheater, and that is a Drax welcher! I suppose you’re one of those as well?

“Well, I really didn’t bet anything ” Pelmen was unprepared for the explosion of outrage that greeted his words.

Then why play at all? bellowed the Imperial House. The castle took its Drax quite seriously.

“If it’s cheating to lose a match deliberately, isn’t it also cheating to intimidate your opponents so that they fear whining worse than losing? That’s what this Queen does.”

The House was silent for a moment.

This demands some consideration.

“Fine. You think about it. I’ve got to go back inside and lose another round, and I’d appreciate it if you’d keep your opinion of my play to yourself.” FaHomar turned away from the wall and walked back to the door of the game room. The guards regarded him curiously as he passed between them and stalked back to the table.

“Where have you been?” Ligne demanded.

“Telling the walls to shut up.”

“Oh, you talk to walls, do you, clown?”

“Only when they talk to me.”

“I see. And are the walls amused by your jesting

“You hear them laughing, don’t you?”

“Did my warders laugh at your jests today?” Ligne asked pointedly. “I was told you paid them a visit.”

“To the warders? Oh, the dungeon! Certainly. I frequently visit prisons. They’re always good for a laugh.” Pelmen studied the board.

The game it represented would quickly be lost and forgotten, but he suddenly found himself in a game he needed to win.

“You were trying to follow me in. Why is that?” She turned a harsh stare at him.

Pelmen maintained his composure, smiling smoothly and saying, “To amuse you, my Lady. As I said, I know dungeon life well all jesters do. I sought only to entertain.”

“I see. I’ve decided to give you your wish.”

“My wish? My Lady, in my work I utter many meaningless phrases, which live in my listeners’ ears only briefly, and in my own memory not at all. Which wish is this?”

“Why, to see my dungeon, of course.” Ligne smiled cruelly. “I do hope you truly are entertaining. Otherwise, I might be tempted to leave you there.” She tapped the board, then swept her hand across the pieces and stood up. “I tire of this. I’m off to bed.” The maid quickly hopped up to follow her. “After breakfast, clown,” Ligne called from the doorway, “I promise you the grand tour. I’m sure well both find it amusing.” She swept out, followed by the maid and the pair of guards.

Left alone, Pelmen contemplated this new twist. One thing was sure he could do no more today. He felt exhausted.

“WHAT DID I DO to deserve you?” Bronwynn spat down at Tibb, who lay at her feet. She had just tossed him against the wall of the canyon and was threatening to inflict more damage if he got up.

Tibb rubbed his aching back. “You know, Lady, I was just asking myself the same question.”

“Would you get up,” Pinter urged his short companion as he cast an anxious look over his shoulder. “Admon Faye is watching us!”

“Fine, he can watch me lie here awhile

“He’s laughing.” Pinter frowned, his gaunt face flushing.

“Let him,” Tibb grunted.

“But he’s gonna think we’re fools!” Pinter cried.

Then he’s half-right already. I’m not proving I’m one by standing up and getting my head split open.” Tibb gazed up at Bronwynn. “You’re good, Lady. You’ll make a great murderess.”

“Murderess,” came Bronwynn’s dull echo.

“You’re a natural. I even feel a little sorry for the fellow.”

“A natural murderess,” Bronwynn repeated grimly.

“He’s wondering why we’re just standing around,” Pinter said nervously, still gazing over his shoulder. He spun around and charged Bronwynn earnestly. She responded with a quick grab of his arm and a flip, and Pinter cartwheeled off the wall, just as Tibb had done.

Tibb raised his head to watch, then smiled. “He’s all arms and legs, hunh.” Bronwynn didn’t smile back, but leaned thoughtfully against the wall. “Why so glum?” Tibb asked. “Being a cutthroat is great practice for ruling ”

“Wonderful,” the girl snarled, staring at her hands as if they were filthy. “Now I’m a cutthroat.”

“What’s the matter? You got something against being a cutthroat?”

Bronwynn looked at Tibb, surprised. “Well, of course I do!”

“What?” he demanded.

“It’s… it’s just… wrong!”

“What’s wrong about it?”

“Why… ah… what’s right about it?” Bronwynn challenged.

“Listen, Lady. It’s us cutthroats that make this economy go. Why, without us robbing people along, and kidnapping, and murdering the nobles and the merchants would have all the gold by this time, instead of just most of it.”

“But… to murder someone! To be a murderer! That isn’t ”

“Ladylike?” Tibb finished for her. “Some of the best women I know are murderesses.”

“Really?” Bronwynn asked.

“Sure. My mother ”

“Your mother!”