Crackpot Palace (14 page)

Toler arrived early to the gardens the following day. The entrance led through a long grape arbor thick with vines and dangling fruit. This opened into an enormous area sectioned into symmetrical plots of ground, and in each, stretching off into the distance, beds of colorful flowers and pungent herbs. Their aromas mixed in the atmosphere and the scent confused him for a brief time. Everywhere around him were bees and butterflies and members of Greppen's strange race, weeding, watering, fertilizing. The swordsman asked one where the willows were, and the toad man pointed down a narrow path into the far distance.

It was past noon when he arrived amid the stand of willows next to a pond with a fountain at its center. He discovered an ancient stone bench, partially green with mold, and sat upon it, peering through the mesh of whiplike branches at sunlight glistening on the water. There was a cool breeze and orange birds darted about, quietly chirping.

“Garone,” said Toler, and his servant appeared before him. “What have you to report about the lady?”

“I paced through every inch of the palace, down all its ostentatious halls, and found not a scrap of a secret about her. In the middle of the night, I found her personal chambers, but could not enter. I couldn't pass through the walls nor even get close to them.”

“Is there a spell around her?” asked the swordsman.

“Not a spell, it's her tulpa, Mamresh. She's too powerful for me. She's blocking me with her invisible will from approaching the Lady's rooms. I summoned all my strength and exerted myself and she merely laughed at me.”

Toler was about to speak, but just then heard his name being called from deeper in amid the willows. Garone disappeared and the swordsman rose and set off in the direction of the voice. Brushing the tentacles of the trees aside, he pushed his way forward until coming upon a small clearing. At its center sat Lady Maltomass in her flying chair. Facing her was another of the ancient stone benches.

“I heard someone speaking off in the distance, and knew it must be you,” she said. He walked over and sat down across from her.

“I hope you slept well,” said the Lady.

“Indeed,” said Toler. “I dreamt of you.”

“In your dream, did I tell you I don't like foolishness?”

“Perhaps,” he said, “but the only part of it I witnessed was when we kissed.”

She shook her head. “Here's what I wanted to show you,” she said, lifting a small book that appeared to be covered with a square of Greppen's flesh.

“Is the cover made of toad?” he asked, leaning forward to get a better look at it.

“Not precisely,” she said, “but it's not the cover I wanted to show you.” She opened the book to a page inside, and then turned the volume around and handed it to him. “What do you see there?” She pointed at the left-hand page.

There was a design that was immediately familiar to him. He sat back away from her and drew his sword. Bringing the blade level with his eyes, he studied the design of the inscribed spell. He then looked back to the book. Three times he went from blade to book and back before she finally said, “I'll wager they are identical.”

“How did you come upon this?” asked Toler, returning his sword to its sheath. “The blade has never left my side since it came to me.”

“No, but the weapon is old, and it has passed through many men's hands. In fact, there was a people who had possession of it, two centuries past, who deemed it too dangerous to be at large in the world. They didn't destroy it but studied it. One of the things they were interested in was the spell. For all of their effort, though, they were only able to decipher two words of it. There might be as many as ten words in that madly looping script. My father, digging in the peat bogs north of the Gentious quarry, hauled two clay tablets out of a quivering hole in the ground. Those heavy ancient pages contained reference to the sword, to its legend, and the design of the blade's script. Also included was the translation of the two words.”

“What were they?” he asked, wrapping his fingers again around the grip of the weapon.

“My father worked with what was given on the tablet and deciphered three more of the spell's words.”

“What were they?”

“The words he was certain of were—Thanry, Meltmoss, Stilthery, Quasum, and Pik.”

“All common herbs,” said Toler.

She nodded. “He believed that all the words constituted a kind of medicine that, if prepared and inserted into one of your victim's coral mouths, would reverse the sword's power and return them to flesh. The blade's damage could, of course, have been a death blow, in which case there would be no chance of returning them to life, but those who succumbed to only a nick, a scratch, a cut, would again be flesh and bone and draw breath.”

“I've often wondered about the inscription,” he said. “Your father was a wise man.”

“I'm giving you the book,” she said. “When I heard you'd turned up at the gate, I remembered my father telling me about his discoveries. The book should belong to the man who carries the weapon. I have no use for it.”

“Why would the blade hold an antidote to the sword's effects, and yet be written in a language no one can understand?” asked Toler.

“That fact suggests a dozen possible motives, but I suppose the real one will remain a mystery.” She held the book out toward him. As he leaned forward to take it from her, she also leaned forward, and as his fingers closed on the book, her lips met his. She kissed him eagerly, her mouth open. They parted and he moved closer to the edge of the stone bench. He put his hands on her shoulders and gently drew her toward him.

“Wait, is that Greppen, spying?” she said, bringing her arms up between them. Toler drew his sword as he stood and spun around, brandishing it in a defensive maneuver. He saw no sign of Greppen, heard no movement among the willow branches. What he heard instead was the laughter of Lady Maltomass. When he turned back to her, she was gone. He looked up to see the chair rising into the blue sky. As she floated away toward the tree line, he yelled, “When will I see you next?”

“Soon,” she called back.

Two days passed without word from her, and in that time, all Toler could think of was their last meeting. He tried to stay busy within the walls of the palace, and the beauty of the place kept his attention for half a day, but ultimately, in its ease and refinement, palace life seemed hollow to one who'd spent most of his life in combat.

On the evening of the second day, after dinner, he summoned Councilor Greppen, who was to see to his every need. They met in Toler's room, and the toad man brought a bottle of brandy and two glasses. As he poured for himself and the Coral Heart, he said, “I can smell your frustration, Ismet Toler.”

“You can, can you, Prince of Toads? Tell her I want to see her.”

“She'll summon you when she's ready.”

“She is in every way a perfect woman,” said Toler, sipping his brandy.

“Perfection is in the eye of the beholder,” said Greppen. “If you were to see my wife, considered quite a beauty among our people, you might not agree.”

“I'm sure she's lovely,” said the swordsman, “but I feel if I don't soon have a tryst with Lady Maltomass, I'm going to go mad and turn the world to coral.”

Greppen laughed. “The beast with two backs? Your people are comical in their lust.”

“I suppose,” said Toler. “How do you do it? With a thought?” He sipped at the brandy.

“Very nearly,” said Greppen, lifting the bottle to refill his companion's glass.

“Here's a question for you, Councilor,” said Toler. “Does she ever leave the chair?”

“Only to go to bed,” he said. “I would think of all people, you might understand best. She shares her spirit with it as you do with the Coral Heart. She knows what the world looks like from above the clouds. She can fly.”

Toler finished his second drink, and told Greppen he was turning in. On the way out the door, the councilor called back, “Patience.” Once in bed, again Toler summoned Garone and sent him forth to discover any secrets he might. The swordsman then grasped the sheath and the grip of his sword and fell into a troubled sleep.

He tossed and turned, his desire for the lady working its way into his dreams. Deep in the night, her face rose above the horizon, bigger than the moon. He looked into her eyes to see if he could tell their color, but in them he saw instead the figures of Garone and Mamresh on the stone bench, beneath the willows, in the moonlight. His tulpa's robe was pulled up to his waist, and Mamresh sat upon his lap, facing away, her legs on either side of his. She was panting and moving quickly to and fro, and he was grunting. Then Garone tilted his head back and the hood began to slip off.

Toler woke suddenly to avoid seeing his servant's face. He was drenched in sweat and breathing heavily. “I've got to get away from here,” he said. Still, he stayed on, three more days. On the evening of the third day, he gave orders for the grooms to ready Nod for travel early in the morning. Before turning in, he went to the balcony and sat, staring out at the stars. “Garone, you were right,” he said aloud. “I've fallen in love, but tribulation and certain death might have been preferable.” He dozed off.

A few minutes later, he awoke to the sound of Greppen's footfalls receding into the distance. He sat up, and as he did, he discovered a pale yellow envelope in his lap.
For the Coral Heart
was inscribed across the front. The back was affixed with wax, bearing what he assumed was the official seal of the House of Maltomass, ornate lettering surrounding the image of an owl with a snake writhing in its beak. He tore it open and read,
Come now to my chambers. Your Lady
.

He sprang up off the divan and summoned Garone to lead him. They moved quickly through the halls, the tulpa skimming along above the blue marble floors like a ghost. In the Hall of Tears, they came upon a staircase and climbed up four flights. At the top of those steps was a sitting room, at the back of which was a large wooden door, opened only a sliver. Toler instructed Garone to stand guard and to alert him if anyone approached. He carefully opened the door and entered into a dark room that led into a hall, at the end of which he saw a light. He put his left hand around the grip of the sword and proceeded.

Before reaching the lighted chamber, he smelled the vague scent of orange oil and cinnamon. As he stepped out of the darkness of the hall, the first thing that caught his attention was Lady Maltomass, sitting up, supported by large silk pillows, in her canopied bed. The coverlet was drawn up to her stomach and above it she was naked. The sight of her breasts halted his advance.

“Come to practice your swordsmanship?” she said.

He swallowed hard and tried to say, “At your service.”

She laughed at his consternation. “Come closer,” she said, her voice softer now, “and dispense with those clothes.”

He undressed before her, quickly removing every article of clothing. When he stood naked before her, though, he still had on his belt and the sheathed sword.

“One sword is useful here, the other not,” she said.

“I never take it off,” he said.

“Hurry now. Put it right here on my night table.”

He reluctantly removed the sword. Then he sat on the edge of the bed and put his arms around her. They kissed more passionately than they had in the clearing. He ran his fingers through her hair as she clasped her hands behind his back and kissed his chest. He moved his hands down to her breasts and she reached for his prick. When their ardor was well inflamed, she pulled away from him, and then slowly leaning forward, whispered in his ear, “Do you want me?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Then, come in,” she said and, grabbing the corner of the blanket, threw it back for him.

For a moment, Ismet Toler wore the same look of terrible surprise that was fixed forever on the faces of his victims, for Lady Maltomass was, from the waist down, blood coral. He glimpsed the frozen crease between her legs and cried out.

Garone appeared suddenly at his side, shouting, “Treachery!” Toler turned toward his servant just as Mamresh, bearing a smile, appeared and pulled back the hood of his tulpa's robe. The swordsman glimpsed his own face, with yellow eyes, in the instant before the thought form went out like a candle. He buckled inside from the sudden loss of Garone. Then, from out of the dark, he was punched in the face.

Toler came to on the floor, gasping as if he'd been underwater. Greppen was there, helping him off the floor. Once Toler had regained his footing and clarity, he turned back to the bed.

“Imagine,” said Lady Maltomass, “your organ of desire transformed into a fossil.”

Toler was speechless.

“Some years ago, my father took me to the market at Camiar. He'd been working on the translation of the spell upon your sword, and he'd heard that you frequented a seller there who dispensed drams of liquor. He wanted to present you with what he'd discovered from the ancients about the sword's script. Just as we arrived at the market, a fight broke out between five swordsmen and yourself. You defeated them, but in the mêlée you struck a young woman with an errant thrust and she was turned to coral.”

“Impossible,” he shouted.

“You're an arrogant fool, Ismet Toler. The young woman was me. My father brought me back here a statue, and prepared the five herbs from his research into an elixir. He poured it down my hard throat, and because it was made of only half the ingredients of the cure, only half of me returned.”

Greppen tapped Toler upon the hip and, when the swordsman looked down, handed him the Coral Heart.

“Now you face my tulpa,” said the Lady.

Toler heard Mamresh approaching and drew the sword, dropping the sheath upon the bed. He ducked and sidled across the floor, the weapon constantly moving. He turned suddenly and was struck twice in the face and once in the chest. He stumbled but didn't go down. She moved on him again, but this time, he saw her vague outline and sliced at her torso. The blade passed right through her and she kicked him in the balls. He doubled over and went down again.