Goblinopolis, The Tol Chronicles, Book 1 (32 page)

B

Aspet pushed his chair away from the desk and stared at the screen for a long moment. He was so surprised that Boogla had accepted his offer, and so quickly, that his chain of thought was momentarily disrupted. Finally he overcame the shock and responded. They arranged to meet in a secluded Royal retreat known as Hikklew situated in the Bungash Mountains southeast of Port Zog. His Majesty Tragacanth found himself nervous and a little giddy at the prospect of meeting the legendary Boogla, even though he’d come to regard her as something of a friend over the past few months.

Boogla turned out to be younger than Aspet had expected, and also quite attractive. She had an aura of wisdom that belied her tender years, however, and an unmistakable current of powerful energy running just beneath the placid surface of her charming smile. He knew instinctively and immediately that she would be one very powerful ally if treated with the respect she was due. He had every intention of making sure that was the case.

Their first meeting was a little awkward for him, but he remembered halfway through that he was king and that helped a bit. Boogla seemed extraordinarily politically astute in addition to her obvious elite technical skills. Aspet was already beginning to think she would make a better monarch than he. When he told her so, she laughed out loud for a full ten seconds, and then chuckled for a while longer while she wiped the tears from her eyes. Aspet was a little offended. She noticed this and regained her composure. “I am flattered, really, but being king, even if it was possible for one of my gender and lineage, is not the sort of life I would wish to lead.”

Aspet thought for a moment. “You are a wise woman; this I already knew. You have the life you want, and you got it entirely through your own skills, on your own terms. Why, indeed, would someone like that want to change anything at all? I am gratified beyond words that you chose to take on this high office. I believe Tragacanth will benefit immeasurably from it.”

Boogla’s first assignment was to meet with the Magineers and form working relationships with them. This was a tall order, and Aspet was curious how well she would do at it. Being an expert hacker did not qualify you as a diplomat, as had been pointed out to him rather strongly by his other advisors, but Aspet had a feeling that there wasn’t much Boogla couldn’t handle. She simply oozed confidence and competence (and a few other things, as well, but that came with being a goblin).

The Magineers seldom left their Dubers for a number of reasons, not least of which being that they were forbidden to travel out of their districts, so Boogla would have to travel to them. As an officer of the Royal Cabinet she was required to be transported in a Royal carriage or dray with an RPC escort detail at all times. She found this annoying and at first refused, but Aspet explained to her that it was for her own safety and the responsible thing to do, so she finally acquiesced. He allowed her at least to hand pick her security detail.

Stop number one was originally scheduled to be Tillimil, but the weather was reportedly quite inclement down there at present, so she diverted to Ferroc Oria, in Lumbos. It was only a day’s journey by barge and carriage, and that would give her an opportunity to get acclimated to her RPC entourage as well as time to study up on the Oria Magineer, Kryptoq.

Tol sat down in the mostly repaired Bloated Balrog, at the bar rather than his customary table, and ordered a razzle on draft. He had a hankerin’ to chat with the barkeep. “Looks like you got most of the damage squared away,” he said, after the third pull at his brew. Terp looked up from polishing a glass. “Most of it. You nab the smekheads what done it yet?”

“Nope. But I have a good idea who they are, at least.”

“The little smeks will be on the obituary page if I catch ‘em around here again.”

“I don’t think you will, unless Pyfox drops by.”

“Pyfox? What’s that sleazy smekker got to do with it?”

“That’s who they were after.”

“What? You mean they blew the smek out of my pub trying to off that waste of breathin’ air? Why didn’t they just plug the smekker as he was leavin’?”

“Hard to say. I get the feeling this was their first attempt at the assassination game. Not exactly a professional job, if ya get my drift. Speaking of Pyfox, what do you know about him?”

“He’s a scumbag with fingers in every slime pie in Sebacea and beyond. If it’s sleazy and illegal, Pyfox is involved somehow.”

“Sounds like you don’t care much for the guy.”

“Smekkin’ brilliant deduction. You oughta take the detective exam.”

“How would you like to help bring Pyfox down?”

“So long as it don’t get my pub blown up again, I’m in.”

“All you gotta do for me is keep your ears open. I’ve got a hot tip that Pyfox uses the Balrog as a messenger drop. His minions meet each other here and exchange information. You probably won’t see his ugly face in here anymore, because he won’t be likely to appear in public again after the botched smackdown. But, his toadies will be in and out of here regularly; I’d bet solid billmes on that.”

“So, you want I should spy on them. D’ya know which ones they are?”

“Here are EE sketches of two of them. There’s also rumored to be a troll named Fen involved—he’s been sighted with Pyfox before—but you may not see him. As you know, trolls don’t come into goblin-sized establishments too often because they’re not very comfortable for them.”

“I gotta room in the back just for trolls, actually. Built it for my dad’s side of the family. Don’t advertise it outside the troll community.”

“I never knew that. Well then, keep an eye out for Fen, too.”

It was only two days later as Tol was walking his beat near the western edge of Sebacea, where the shanties graded gradually into farmland—although like the residents, the soil here was too poor to produce much beyond weeds—that a young goblin who worked as an errand-boy for Terp and several other merchants in the neighborhood came running up to him. Tol waited while he caught his breath.

“Officer Tol-u-ol,” he gasped, “I have a message for you from Master Terpitude.” He handed Tol a scrap of parchment with some scratching on it:

Pyfox sending messages back and forth to Astflanar

Tol raised his eyebrows and patted the gob on the head. “Thanks, kid.” The messenger made no move to leave, and Tol suddenly realized he’d forgotten something. “Here ya go, sport,” he said, handing the boy a billme note. The gob left his hand extended. Tol rolled his eyes and gave him another one. “Terp’s definitely rubbed off on you, kid. Don’t spend it all in one place.” The little goblin grinned and jogged away.

Tol made a pollenbug-line back to the Precinct. He marched straight into the duty sergeant’s office.

“Gotta an extrajurisdictional assignment request, Sarge.”

“We ain’t got much left in the pay pot for that sort of thing. Whatta ya need it for, and where?”

“I got a hot lead on the Balrog bombing case. There’s somethin’ going down on Mt. Astflanar.”

The grizzled old cop looked at him over his rusty optics. “That’s halfway across the smekkin’ country. Just write up a report; we’ll let the Southron Rangers handle it.”

“Come on, Sarge, this is Pyfox we’re talkin’ about. That smekker is mine. I ain’t handin’ this over to those smekkin’ backcountry yahoos.”

“Sorry, did I make that sound like an option? You ain’t goin’ mountain climbin’ on the city’s billme. Period. End of discussion.”

“Fine. I got a smekload of use-or-lose leave to take. Put me down for a week’s worth, startin’ tomorrow.”

“You know leave requests have to be put in at least two weeks in advance, for schedulin’ purposes.”

“I ain’t got two weeks, Sarge. Pyfox is on the move now. Give me leave, or not. I’m out of here either way.”

“You’re a smekkin’ hardnose, Tol.”

“Have you been behind this desk so long you don’t remember what it’s like to be hot on the trail of a slimy smekker like Pyfox?”

He paused, and then shook his head. “No, I ain’t. All right, leave approved. Don’t get yourself killed, Tol. Ain’t nobody else on the force willin’ to take your beat.”

“Don’t I know it. See ya.”

The next morning before the sun crept over the horizon, Tol was waiting at the carriage station, backpack stuffed to the gills. He had seriously intended to leave Eyejay behind, but at the last minute changed his mind and stuffed it in a waterproof pocket of the pack. The carriage would only take him as far as the village of Cartlug in the Espwe foothills, with a three-hour layover in Tillimil. The weather was atrocious all the way down. The leading edge of the hurrarcane had reached the south side of Goblinopolis by then, so the trip was non-stop nasty.
At least
, Tol mused as he stared nervously out the windows of the savagely swaying carriage,
I won’t have to walk my beat in this
muck
. He purposely avoided thinking about the fact that soon he would be walking up a mountain in it.

As it turned out, the weather actually improved once they headed west from Tillimil. By the time the first bumps of foothill hove into view, the rain had slacked off to a steady drizzle and the wind had dipped below gale force to more of a stiff breeze. Tol felt for the reassuring bulge of his disruptor and the ten clips he’d brought with it. He had no real idea what to expect from this mission, but he was reasonably certain a little firepower would come in handy at some point.

The carriage passed through a short, but very dark, tunnel about twenty minutes out from Cartlug. When the lights came back up, Tol noticed a note pinned to the seatback in front of him. Odd. He was sure he would have noticed it if it had been there before, but he was equally certain no one could have squeezed by him during the blackout. It had two words written on it in neat block letters: DINING CAR.

The dining car wasn’t open, though. The run from Tillimil to Cartlug was too short to have meal service. Tol shrugged and headed back, anyway. There was obviously something interesting waiting there for him, and a cop can’t afford to pass up any opportunity to gather intelligence on a case. Fortunately, or maybe not, the car just in front of the dining car was totally empty. He drew his weapon and slid open the door.

At first glance the dining car appeared uninhabited. After scanning it for a few seconds, Tol spotted a single white-haired occupant seated at a table on the far end of the car. He holstered his weapon and sat down across from him.

“Hallo, Oloi. What brings you to a carriage heading for nowhere?”

“On the contrary, Tol-u-ol. You’re headed for quite a fascinating destination. Pyfox has established an elaborate organization, the nexus of which is located in an ancient temple deep in the bowels of Mount Astflanar.”

“Funny, I never pictured Pyfox as the big-time crime boss sort. He always struck me as a small change racketeer.”

“He is. The brain behind this outfit, as you might say, is not Pyfox at all, but a much more dangerous entity known as Namni.”

“Who or what the smek is Namni?”

“Namni is a transcendent mage: one that has crossed over from the physical plane and now exists primarily in The Slice itself.”

“A lot like you, eh?”

“Astute of you, Tol-u-ol. Exactly like me, in fact. Namni and I were once brothers on the High Mage’s Council in another dimension. Exactly like me, except that I have no wish to rule your world, or any other.”

“This Namni character wants to rule the world, huh? Imagine that. What megalomaniac doesn’t? What’s his scheme?”

“He has convinced the fool Pyfox that he can make him immortal.”

“Can he?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes. An ‘image’ of any creature can be taken by magic and stored in The Slice, to be used to construct an exact duplicate of that creature once it has passed from life. This process may be repeated as many times as desired, thus effectively rendering the subject immortal. There is a catch, however. The reconstructed creature will have no memories, knowledge, or skills garnered in the previous life. These must be relearned each time.”

“Does Pyfox get that?”

“Namni has convinced him that he alone has developed a philter that will restore Pyfox to his full state each time.”

“And I suppose that’s malarkey?”

“Not entirely. Namni really is a very accomplished magic practitioner. I believe he has, in fact, developed such a talisman, but with one subtle difference. Pyfox will be largely identical during each reincarnation except that he will be entirely and utterly obedient to Namni. He will never realize he is being controlled; his thoughts will seem to be his own. But they will be the thoughts of Namni and Namni alone. Pyfox will be nothing more than Namni’s automaton on the physical plane. The plan is that he will come eventually to rule not only Tragacanth, but all of N’plork with an iron glove—and the hand inside that glove will be Namni’s. Oh, and one further incidental detail Pyfox is not aware of: reconstructs are sterile.”

“Heh. That one won’t be much of an issue, if you get my drift.”

“Not given Pyfox’s current lifestyle, no. But if he ascends to a position of power he may find it something of a drawback, as having children to whom to apportion resources can be of great advantage in ruling large, dispersed populations.”