Newsgroups: alt.pub.dragons-inn From: hutch@ibeam.intel.com (Steve Hutchison) Subject: [MG] Who Knows What Evil? Message-ID: Date: Sun, 14 Feb 1993 01:09:44 GMT [Admin] Part of this happens just before the party at Karl's residence. -------------- Amaan twitched, feeling the pull of a nervous tic at the corner of his left eye. The damned greasy useless son of the second wife of the Shaheran may he live forever, oh, yess, and his greasy useless son with him, in a cage hanging over the main square of Arkebah Low Town, the so-called "ambassador plenipotentiary" to this misbegotten heap of ugly snow-clotted buildings, had commanded HIM to appear and make obeiscence. Well, the dung-flea whoreson camel-rapist still hadn't shown, and it was long past the appointed hour. Amaan glanced nervously at the curve of the small window, and found himself slipping into the dream again. The warm comfort of the dream - the place where he had been stored, like a djinn in a bottle, but with an aching hole in his spirit like the empty socket of a festered tooth pulled by the surgeon, where his magical power had been. His loss didn't matter there. Anything he wanted had appeared for him there, houris, dancing girls, courtiers and servants. All the viands, all the wines, any pleasure of body or spirit, and now all was gone. Maybe this, maybe the misery he felt now was some fantasy he had elaborated for himself. Well, then he could just end it by wishing... No, it wasn't working, as it hadn't the last fifty times. He was still in this ugly room with the brutish guard in his outlandish clothing. So it wasn't the dream globe any more. He cursed quietly. Finally when he had dozed off, the guard nudged him. "they're coming," he whispered. Amaan stared dumbly. Four eunuchs entered the room, their bulky forms spared of the usual fatty softness by something which he almost felt sure was magic - if his talent had still been there he would have known exactly how it had been done. He could have twisted it to control them, turn them against the hulking, perfumed, silk-wrapped form that was now entering the room. He bowed, disgusted with his own weakness, grovelling in the proper and required degree of obedient humility, promising himself that he would someday revenge himself on this petty princeling. The ambassador stroked his freshly oiled and perfumed beard. So this was the much-feared necromancer and thaumaturge, the terror of his fathers' other sons. A skinny, broken, whimpering nothing. Well, he would still be a useful pawn for the Shaheran. "Arise, o Amaan, arise countryman." The once-wizard stood, head still properly bowed in subservience. "I am informed by one high in the Guild of Magicians, that you have been charged with a small task. Tell me of its nature." "There is one who is now present in this city, whose name I dare not speak. Such a one impedes the progress of certain factions who are friends to our most holy ruler, may he live forever in grace. They have expressed a desire for a process to be put in motion that will result in a smooth pathway." "And you are directed to use what means necessary to remove that obstacle." "I am to see that the road is once again clear." "Ah. I understand. And it should be done by local talent." "If it could be laid at the feet of those factions who are not our friends, it would not be amiss." "Then it is indeed too sad. The best agent for our uses seems to have been drowned in a most unfortunate accident. But his sister still lives." "A woman? It would be demeaning. Very good. Who is she?" "Ah, a gambler and purveyor of intoxicants, and more. Her name is Ale. If she cannot herself perform the task, she can arrange to have it done." "Is she trustworthy?" "Of course not, but she does honor her agreements, as precisely as any of the ifreeti. So be certain to formulate your contract with care." "How do I contact her?" "She will be in contact with you. Simply go to the House of Green Shutters and lose three gold wheels at tarots. Bet on the mark of the fallen tower." "I am commanded to attend the ball at the home of the Ambassador, that wooden-legged commoner named Karl. The House of Green Shutters is nearby." "Good. May the One Who Rules bless you through the grace of the Shaheran." Amaan bowed again, while the son of the Shaheran's second wife left the room, then he began reconsidering how best to take advantage of this contract. Perhaps the flea-of-swine ambassador could be killed as well? He would have to speak again with Thorn, discover what exactly should be gained. If the Archmage was pleased, Amaan might prevail upon him to be returned to the sphere of dreaming again. Or maybe he could take revenge ... ---- Amaan was asleep, drowsing in the heat of the small kitchen, the only decently warm place in this filthy cold northern town. He kicked, fitfully, his dreams haunted by the image of an implacable horror, whispering to itself, talking in many voices: isthisonewortheating? Nononono,ithasnopower Ithasknowledge Ithasgreatlearning Itknowsthenamesofmanydemons Butithasnowill Oneapproaches! Silence. Secrecy is paramount. Retreat. The voices stopped, he peered through the murk and saw something large and faintly green and shapeless. Then it turned into his mother, who paradoxically, looked just like Dariel, and smiled lovingly, but he was a gingercake, shaped like Amaan, with a frosting face and his mother bit off his head and chewed on it and ... "AAAaag!" He fell backwards, his chair overtoppled with a crash. Painfully, he staggered to his feet, setting the chair upright, then froze in place. He was not alone in the room. All the cooks, the scullery crew, were gone. There was a delicate smell, like cinnamon and ginger, pleasant and cloying. A part of his mind quietly identified it as mimosa, then subsided into a pleased giggling. The smell grew stronger, and a lassitude crept across his body. Abstractly, he knew he would obey the next person who spoke to him, and this was right and proper. A voice, silken and honey-drenched, edged with diamonds, spoke, and he marvelled at how beautiful his mistress' voice seemed to him. "You are Amaan. You may call me Mistress Ale. Do not speak until I permit it, do not move at all until I tell you that you may."