Goblinopolis, The Tol Chronicles, Book 1 (43 page)

BOOK: Goblinopolis, The Tol Chronicles, Book 1
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Gipiont glared at him for a long moment. “Yes, well, perhaps our role in the military action itself was more logistical than tactical, but the goals we set were met. Whether or not we were directly involved in their ultimate achievement is immaterial.”

The kobold, who was called something like ‘Vraklffth’ (kobold names are often difficult to pronounce with only one tongue) raised his hairy arm. “Vhat do ve do now zat majic iz saved?”

“A motion has been brought to the floor that we discuss future goals for CRAMP. Do I hear a second?”

One of the elves stood up. “I second the motion.”

“Seconded and duly placed on the agenda. Speaking of the agenda, the next item up is…future goals for CRAMP.”

“Dint see thet comin,’ nut ut all,” chuckled the ogre mage.

“Irony does not flatter you, Tamlokk.”

Tamlokk guffawed at this. His laughter brought to mind a forge bellows in strenuous operation. The kobold tittered. The elves stared.

“Future goals for CRAMP, as I was saying, are open for discussion. Does anyone have a suggestion?” He glared at Tamlokk. “A serious and physically possible suggestion, to be more precise?”

The only sounds to be heard were the breeze fluttering through the tangles of broad leafy vine dangling through holes in the roof. Gipiont rolled his eyes.

“Very well, if there are no compelling suggestions from the membership then I as chair will plot our next course. It has come to my attention recently that there are great factories hidden in the northern Masrons that spew out machines designed to circumvent magic by duplicating its effects, giving common people the ability to perform actions properly restricted to mages.”

“Thet describes veer neer all machines, pootis.”

“Tamlokk, you know I am offended by that nickname.”

“’Tarnt a nickname: more lak a jub description.”

“Well, whatever it is, I’d appreciate it if you’d just call me Gipiont.”

“So, Jeepeeyawnt, whet do ye propose tae do abut these fact’ries?”

“I propose we travel there and picket them, in lawful protest, over their manufacturing policies.”

“Nae bombs this time round, then?”

“I don’t believe explosives or other ordnance will be required for this mission.”

“Wahl, whet er we waitin’ fer?”

“Indeed. CRAMP: assemble and march!”

They cut a strange, rather ragged figure tramping out of the ruined chapter house, their departure punctuated by the collapse of a portion of one wall opposite the door. A rodent-eater avian watched them recess from the rafters and waggled its feathered head to and fro mockingly. A large brush-wrat scurried suddenly from beneath the ruined lectern. The avian snatched it up and flapped out through a hole in the roof to have dinner.  

 

Chapter Twenty-Five:
Morianella

 

 

 

T
ol’s mind was working furiously as he drove the fancy new pram across town. His plan was a good one, but it hinged on his being able to locate someone he hadn’t laid eyes on in many years. As a rookie cop he had come across one of those scenes where something just doesn’t look right. On the northern edge of Sebacea there is a small luxury inn called Hillew House; it isn’t widely known outside independent luxury hotel circles. Tol did a routine sweep around the building on an evening patrol and noticed footprints underneath one of the windows in the back, not visible from the street. The inn was swanky enough to have gardeners on staff; there was nothing necessarily odd about that. Tol decided to take a closer look, anyway.

He examined the window sill and noticed dried mud clumps on it. The window had pry marks along the bottom of the frame that someone had taken pains to conceal with fresh paint of a slightly different shade. Something was definitely going down here.

He called for backup and waited for them to arrive, keeping both the window and the rear entrance under close surveillance. He left two other officers positioned inconspicuously near the window and back door and headed around to the front. He found out the room number from the desk clerk and was told that a career diplomat by the name of Yarthros used the room for ‘discreet meetings.’ He stationed another officer in the hallway to keep innocent bystanders away, and then approached the door with his weapon drawn.

He knocked loudly. “Hotel maintenance, sir.”

There were shuffling noises from inside and a voice with a foreign accent replied, “I do not need any maintenance, thank you.”

“There is a potentially serious leak in your plumbing, sir. I need to repair it immediately before it floods the entire floor. Other rooms have already been affected.”

There was a pause, then: “All right. Give me a minute to, um, put on some clothes.”

The door was opened partway by a swarthy hobgoblin in a suit. Tol shoved his way inside, flashed his badge, and leveled his disruptor at the hob. “Edict enforcement officer. On the floor, face down, hands behind your head. Now!”

The hob reluctantly complied. Tol patted him down as he lay on the floor and found two disruptors and a wicked knife. He opened the door and summoned the other officer to watch him. “You’re under arrest for possession of deadly weapons in violation of edict. You may request a barrister once we’ve reached the Precinct. Anything you say can and will be used against you before a Tribunal.”

The hob spit at him. “Smek you. You cannot hold me. I have diplomatic immunity.”

“We’ll sort that out later. For now, don’t even think about moving.”

Suddenly another suited hob came running out of the bathroom. He pushed Tol aside and leapt through the window, shattering the glass and spraying hobgoblin blood all over one side of the room. Tol left him for the other officers.

Tol walked over to the bedroom door and found it locked. He kicked it open and discovered the diplomat, Yarthros, thoroughly trussed to a chair and gagged with socks. As he was being cut free, Yarthros gasped, “How did you know they had done this to me?” Tol thought about it for a moment. “I’m not sure. Something just didn’t look quite right. Cop’s intuition, I guess.”

Yarthros was impressed. “You, my friend, obviously made an excellent career choice. I will put you in for a commendation with your Precinct Captain immediately. These people were going to take me under cover of darkness to a ship somewhere in international waters, from what I could gather. They wanted to persuade me not to back a treaty concerning more open trade with Solemadrina; failing that outcome, I suspect they would simply have tossed me overboard knowing that the ensuing disruption to the trade negotiations would set them back for a while at the very least. You have my eternal gratitude and admiration for your instincts. If there’s ever anything I can for you in return, I will take whatever steps are necessary to pay that debt. I do not forget my debts.”

True to Yarthros’ word, Tol did receive his very first commendation from that operation, one that hung on his wall to this day, yellowing a bit. Tol hoped that Yarthros was still around and that his memory for debts had not failed him.

Tol found his quarry after a bit of a search. He lived in a small but elegant home hidden far up a tree-lined cobblestone drive not more than three blocks from Hillew House. He was officially retired from the Royal Diplomatic Corps now, but still occasionally hosted foreign dignitaries at the request of the RDC because he was such a fixture in Tragacanthan diplomatic circles and knew the myriad details of entertaining dignitaries from a variety of cultures intimately. Yarthros himself genuinely enjoyed these formal social gatherings.

Yarthros had been following Tol’s career rather closely and had even been in the crowd for his knighting ceremony, as it turned out. He remembered the debt quite well and was prepared to repay it however Tol desired.

“I knew when you busted through that door that you were destined for greatness, Tol-u-ol. I must confess I could not have predicted that you would be a Knight of the Crimson, but that status nevertheless suits you well, in my estimation. I am extremely proud to call you
Sir
Tol-u-ol.”

“Thank you, Ambassador. I must confess the title ‘Sir’ never entered my life’s plans, even in a dream. However, we must play the cards we are dealt and my hand of late has been one that exceeds imagining.” Tol was definitely getting much better at what he referred to as ‘forsooth speak.’

“Indeed, and I can think of none more deserving. Now, what brings you here, beyond this most pleasant reunion?”

“I must humbly ask a favor from you, Ambassador. If you wish to consider it repayment of your debt to me that is your privilege, but for my part let me state again for the record that you owe me no such debt; I was merely doing the job for which the citizens of Goblinopolis pay me.”

“I accept that as an expression of your personal philosophy, but from my perspective a great deed was done that day, and great deeds must be greatly rewarded in order for balance to be maintained. I am prepared to erase that imbalance which has persisted for these many years. What would you have of me?”

Tol explained to him the transfer to headquarters and how he missed his old beat. He also related the party thrown for him at Egmesta and the outpouring of affection from the people of Sebacea.

“I’ll rot away like an old pot-gourd if I have to devote the rest of my career to being hoity-toity. I need an excuse to spend as much time as possible on the streets of Sebacea. Since I only get assigned to high-profile cases that can boost the EE community’s PR efforts, I thought perhaps you could request that I head the security detail for your diplomatic receptions.”

Yarthros considered this for a moment. “Yes, yes, I think I can finagle that. I’ll need to approach it properly, but the EE Commissioner and I go back a very long way. And of course, you are brother to the king. That makes you a member of the Royal Family, which provides a great deal of lubrication for even the most recalcitrant wheel. Give me a week, no longer, and it should be arranged.”

“You have my profound gratitude, Ambassador, and you may truly consider your debt paid in full for this kind act.”

“It is little enough to trade for my life, Sir knight. I have a selfish motive, as well: it will allow me to see you much more frequently.”

Tol blushed in spite of himself. “I look forward to that also. I must take my leave now, but know that I hold you in, if possible, even higher esteem than before.”

“And I, you. Farewell, my friend. With luck we shall see one another again in under a fortnight.”

As he drove back to his office, Tol could not stop thinking about something Yarthros had said. The term ‘Royal Family’ kept running back and forth through his mind. It had never occurred to him before that he now possessed that status. As with most things connected with his new rank, he wasn’t yet certain how he felt about it.

Exactly a week later Tol received an official communiqué from the Commissioner’s Office assigning him as Chief of the Ad Hoc Diplomatic Security Detail for Extramural Ambassador Emeritus Yarthros. He immediately began to scout locations for his ‘resident’ office in Sebacea. Life was good again.

Tol’s appointment was made public in the weekly EE Commission press release. That gave Selpla the perfect excuse to call him and ask for an interview.

“You already know the price,” Tol replied wryly.

“Absolutely. The ale’s on me. Seven at the
Balrog
?”

“I’ll be there.”

Terp was so happy and honored to have a Knight of the Crimson as a regular patron that he had a special table and chairs built for him, with “Reserved for Sir Tol-u-ol” carved along the top. He placed them in one corner with a view of the entire establishment and put up stanchions with velvet-covered ropes blocking off the area. Tol was shocked and embarrassed the first time he came in, but got accustomed to it pretty quickly. The service was fantastic, and he always got to try the new ales before anyone else. Terp’s flyer now said,

 

The Bloated Balrog, Sebacea.

Good enough for the Royal Family:

Good enough for You.

To give credit where it is due, Selpla did ask a few due diligence questions about Tol’s new assignment: what were his duties, what sorts of challenges did he expect to face, what was it like working closely with a legend of the diplomatic community? He answered them using EE-approved language, which he’d spent hours memorizing the night before (never having had occasion/reason to bother learning it in his prior role as a foot patrol grunt).

What Selpla was really after, of course, was the Morianella story. Tol grinned at her and summoned the waiter (it was so easy to do that here). “A pitcher of Uberrazzle. On her tab.” When she returned with the coveted libation, Tol began his tale.

“Of course, I wasn’t even born when this all took place. Not by a long shot.”

“How did you get involved, then?”

“I’ll explain that as I go. About fourteen or fifteen years ago I was serving on this task force looking at cold crimes: ones that had never been solved and were still on the books.”

“Nine hundred and forty years isn’t a cold case. It’s frozen solid.”

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