From alt.pub.dragons-inn Wed Sep 14 08:47:15 1994 Xref: netcom.com alt.pub.dragons-inn:7673 Path: netcom.com!netcomsv!decwrl!spool.mu.edu!agate!soda.CSUA.Berkeley.EDU!erikred From: erikred@soda.CSUA.Berkeley.EDU (Erik Nielsen) Newsgroups: alt.pub.dragons-inn Subject: [MG] And What She Saw... Date: 12 Sep 1994 10:08:06 GMT Organization: Computer Science Undergraduate Association, UC Berkeley Lines: 522 Message-ID: <3519a6$d6a@agate.berkeley.edu> References: <3517l4$cut@agate.berkeley.edu> NNTP-Posting-Host: soda.csua.berkeley.edu "...And What She Saw There" In less sophisticated societies, it is generally recognized that size and intimidation are the direct routes to power. In more sophisticated societies, it is generally recognized that size and intimidation are the direct routes to exploiting less sophisticated societies, with high-powered weapons, deceit and demagoguery being the direct routes to power in more sophisticated societies. While the Kitchen of the Magi Guild is ruled by the latter, it employs believers in the former, which explains why a certain hulking behemoth was fed all of the Apprentices' share of the daily food, much to the outrage of said Apprentices. (Some of the Apprentices grumbled that the entire incident was another instance of favoritism on the part of the Kitchen, some said the whole thing was simply more hazing on the part of the Journeymen, while a very large (but quiet) contingent breathed sighs of relief when they realized they wouldn't have to eat the foul slop the Kitchen usually prepared for the Apprentices.) When Philip brought the immense and hungry new arrival into the kitchen, the Cook had taken one quiet look at the visitor, appraised the amount of broth he had on the fire, and ordered it doubled. Then he had sent a messenger to his superior, Old Man Hansen, and then he had offered, with the most genuine smile he could manage, some broth to the giant. The newcomer had accepted without a second word. Sometime between the end of the Apprentices' rations and the end of that polite interval after which a guest might clear his throat oh-so-politely in the hopes of receiving yet another portion, Old Man Hansen's messenger arrived, and the Cook breathed a sigh of relief. The messenger led the genial giant through the Guild to Old Man Hansen's workspace, a room that had once had the prestigious title of Guest Room until Old Man Hansen had moved into it. Old Man Hansen was what the caretakers of the Guild call "A Guest with an Indefinitely Postponed Departure." Thus, the Guest Room had become Not That Guest Room, as in, "Well, we could put you in a Guest Room, but Not That Guest Room." The messenger knocked once on the door, and then opened the door, waving the stranger inside. "Close that door," snapped Old Man Hansen. "Man could catch cold with a draft like that. Why, in my day, 'tweren't supposed to have the door open more than an instant. Good reason, too; snowed a lot more then than now." The messenger closed the door as soon as the huge arrival was inside. "Who're you?" said Old Man Hansen, his eyes narrowed to pinpricks behind his window-thick glasses. The messenger smiled quite amiably and shrugged to the giant as if to express apologies. The guest smiled quite amiably and nodded as if to express understanding. Old Man Hansen smiled quite amiably and drooled on his jerkin as if to express senility. The messenger cleared his throat. "This is the man who was found in the Kitchen, Sir." Old Man Hansen raised his shaking fist. "Caught you, you bastard! I knew if we waited long enough we'd find out who was robbing the stores. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, stealing food from the mouths of babes like that! Why, I have a mind to--" The messenger hastily interrupted, "No, Sir, this is the man from the cabinet. We found that thief ten years ago. There hasn't been anything but the usual pilfering by the staff ever since." "Oh. Well, that's different." Old Man Hansen chewed his mustache apparently unaware that it was attached to his upper lip. "Mighty peculiar, though, isn't it, son? Being in a cabinet and all. And you're a fairly big'un, aren't you? Where'd you find a cabinet big enough?" The old man's brows furrowed as he stared at stranger. "You weren't meeting that maid from the Library, were you? You mark my words, she's trouble all the way! Why, I remember one time when she tried to--" "Sir," interrupted the messenger mercifully, "the maid from the Library married you, had two children by you, and died in her sleep five years ago." The old man blinked rapidly. "Is that right? You'd think a man'd remember something like that. Her name was Karen?" "Karen was your granddaughter, Sir." The messenger sighed. "We need to get back to the task at hand. What shall we do with this man?" "I don't know. I've never seen him before. What's he done?" He peered at the stranger. "What's the matter with him? Doesn't he talk?" "As a matter of fact, Sir, I do," said the stranger, "but I didn't want to interrupt you." Old Man Hansen smiled quietly. "I like that. You have manners, son, unlike some others I could mention." He shot a cold look toward his messenger, who merely rolled his eyes toward the ceiling, as though hoping a large weight would suddenly appear above the old man's head. "What's your name, son?" "Jon DeJoors, Sir. I'm from Aleut." "Aleut? Aleut?" The old man turned to his messenger again. "Wasn't Robert Hemsted from Aleut? Or was that Jaime Garcia?" "I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about, Sir," said the messenger. "Sir, don't you think we should refer Master DeJoors to your supervisor? It hardly seems like the sort of thing we usually deal with." "Now wait just a minute, you!" accused the old man. "Are you saying I'm not competent enough to handle this situa-- this situ-- this, um, what were you saying?" The messenger smiled. "I was agreeing with you that this was something we should refer to your supervisor." The old man stood up suddenly and hit his desk with his fist. "That's right! How dare they expect me to handle this! This is hardly the sort of thing we usually deal with!" "Quite right, Sir." The messenger motioned for Jon to stand as he headed for the door. "I'll take care of everything. Right this way, Master DeJoors." Jon stood up and followed the messenger out the door. Behind them, the old man was muttering something about a Jon Wilcox and how he'd given that bastard a piece of his mind. "You must excuse the Director," said the messenger as he led Jon down the corridor. "He used to be quite brilliant, according to all accounts. Age has had its way with him." Jon smiled kindly. "Quite so. Not his fault at all, I'd warrant. By the way, where are you taking me?" "Well," said the messenger, "to the Domestic Director. Perhaps he can help you." He walked silently a moment more. "What exactly is it you need help with?" Jon shrugged. "I can't begin to imagine, but I suppose if I ask enough people someone is bound to tell me." The messenger smiled at him. "You're awfully patient." "A lot of practice," smiled Jon. **** **** After a long walk through twisting and turning corridors and past strange and miraculous marvels (such as clean lavatories and study halls where students actually studied), the messenger and Jon came to a wooden door almost indistinguishable from the previous door, yet obviously different in some way that the messenger could identify, for this is where he stopped and knocked. A voice called out something unintelligible from inside. The messenger shrugged and opened the door, motioning for Jon to walk in. Behind a desk almost indistinguishable from Old Man Hansen's sat a small, darkly dressed man of middle years. He looked up anxiously when Jon entered. "Who are you? Who let you in here?" Old Man Hansen's messenger managed to squeeze himself in around Jon's bulk. "This is the man who was found in the cabinet. You have been informed of this, haven't you?" The darkly dressed man looked around anxiously. "Informed? Informed?!? Of course, I've been informed! I know everything that goes on around here, and don't you forget it!" His eyes blazed wildly. "Don't think I don't know about, you little worm. I know how you and your master are plotting to take over my position, but you won't succeed! I know your schemes, and I'll stop you, mark my word! I'll stop you!" The messenger patted Jon on the shoulder lightly. "Good luck, Sir. You're in his hands now." So saying, he sped away down the corridor. Jon turned back to watch the darkly dressed man. "Well?" accused the man. "What do you want?" Jon licked his lips and then smiled in a friendly fashion. "I'm not quite sure, really. I've been fed, so I suppose I'd like some place to go to sleep, if you don't mind." The little man's lips curled in a sneer of contempt. "Oh, bed, is it? Think you can order me around, do you? Think you can mock me? They used to, you know, those worms and venomous serpents, before I was made Director. They used to snicker at me behind my back. Do you know what that's like, being snickered at all the time? Bastards, every one. But I showed them. They wanted me to work in the Library, said it was more prestigious, but I knew better than that! I knew it was just a ruse, so I purposely asked for this job!" The man was nearly foaming now. "And now I'm the Master down here, do you hear me? I--AM--THE--MASTER!" Jon managed to look extremely interested in the cuticle on his left index finger. "Of course," said the little man, breathing heavily, "of course, you understand. A man of my position. Many responsibilities. Have to look after the Whozit, have to care for the Whatzit. It's an important job, down here." He puffed out his chest. "And I make sure it all runs smoothly." He was about to start again when something crossed his mind and distracted him. (He made a mental note to set more traps.) "Where'd you say you were from?" Jon looked up from his finger. "Hm? Oh, yes, from Aleut, lovely place, very temperate, quite picturesque." The little man shook his head rapidly. "No, no, no. Where did that, that worm say you were from?" Jon looked around, puzzled, and then oh'ed in understanding. "Oh, him. He said I was from the cabinet." "From the cabinet? Which cabinet? Where?" "Well, I don't know," Jon shrugged, "it was in some back corner of the Kitchen I suppose." "What," said the little man in a low whisper implying great secrecy, "were you doing in the cabinet?" "Well," said Jon in a similar voice to be polite, "I wasn't actually in the cabinet; the cabinet briefly became a portal between this plane and where I was." The little man stared eagerly. "And where," he whispered, "were you?" Jon whispered back, "The deepest, dankest armpit of a dimension I ever hope I never go back to." He sat back and smiled curiously. "Why? Are you planning a vacation? Can't say I recommend the place, awful service, horribly rude natives." The little man stared at him in complete fascination. "This is incredible. I don't think I've heard such an incredible tale in many years. And don't think I haven't heard my share, let me tell you." He chuckled. "Oh, yes, they try to pull fast ones on me all the time. 'I can't come to work, sir, my arm's been transformed into a tentacle.' 'I need more food sir, on account of Master Fumblefingers cast a spell on me and now I have two mouths.' Oh, yes, I've heard them all before. So what do you want? Vacation? Posting to another part of the Guild? Because I'll warn you right now, you're not going to get it, not at all. No, I know your little scheme for what it is. Why, I've half a mind to report you to Archmage Rivy herself! That's exactly what I will do! Hans! Hans! Get in here, Hans!" An emaciated, pimply-faced youth stuck his head in from the hallway. "Yes, Director?" "Aha! You were listening in on our conversation, weren't you Hans? How else could you have known I needed you! Even my own messenger. I can't trust anyone." The poor youth shook his head violently, tears of denial in his eyes. "No, don't bother to deny it," said the little man heavily. "I'll give you one chance to redeem yourself." The youth fell on his knees with thanks. "Take this, this gargantuan to the Archmage Rivy. Tell her he was caught wandering about the cabinets somewhere. Tell her I can't work with all these disruptions!" The youth quickly tapped Jon lightly on the shoulder and jerked his head toward the open door. Jon moved quickly outside, and Hans shut the door behind him, the Director still mumbling something as they left. The youth led Jon a short way and stopped. "Don't mind that old windbag," he whispered. "He's nuttier than Old Man Hansen. Archmage Rivy can help you out." "That," said Jon, "may be a problem. I'm still not sure how I got in." "Oh?" said the youth. "That's rather odd. Aren't you some sort of wizard? Phillip says you hopped out of a cabinet, making all kinds of noise and racket. He says your familiar carried you out in its claws, and then you made it disappear in a wall of magickal fire." He scratched his head as he talked. "Then again, Phillip also says the moon's a wheel of cheese and that all ravens are princesses' brothers." His charge said nothing, merely smiling pleasantly and walking beside at a leisurely pace. After a moment the boy spoke again. "Is it true you're cursed?" The large man smiled down on him nicely. "Oh, yes, rather cursed, I should say. But don't worry, it's not catching." "What sort of curse was it?" queried the youth, trying not to let the awe in his voice show. He'd never met anyone who was cursed before, except perhaps Ivan the Porter, who always lost at knucklebones. ("Thirteen times in a row!" Ivan had shouted last night. "I'm cursed, and that's the truth!") The tall man sighed. "It's a sort of Malediction inflicted by Divine Powers mixed with a Sigil of Warding and a touch of Geas." "Oh," the youth said in what he hoped was an authoritative voice, "those are the worst." "Yes, my boy, they certainly are." **** **** The youth knocked at a rather heavy wooden door, the first Jon had been able to distinguish from its rather uniform brethren. The door opened quietly as the youth was about to rap again. Across from the door sat a very small man at a very small desk. He nodded once, and the youth waved Jon inside. "Pardon me," he whispered as the giant slipped by, "if I don't stay, but Master Gwali makes my spine crawl." Without another word, he skipped away down the hall. Jon continued into the room. The door shut quietly behind him. The little man made a motion for Jon to take a seat in the chair opposite the desk, so Jon sat down. The little man made a motion toward a silver tea set, but Jon shook his head and smiled politely. The little man made a motion toward the pen he had dropped at his feet before being disturbed, and Jon shot out of his chair and pinned the little man to the wall with one hand. Jon's face smiled apologetically. "I'm sorry," he said, "but we're a little jumpy after so many false leads. I'm sure if you simply said you'd dropped your pen, we'd let you go." "I dropped... my pen," the little man gasped. The hulking hand released him gently, putting him back in the chair. "Please excuse the rudeness; I'm sure no offense was intended. It's just that the way you reached for your pen was very similar to the way an enemy might reach for a knife in the boot." The little man rubbed his throat. "I've half a mind to have you executed immediately. Do you greet everyone in this fashion?" Jon smiled sadly. "I certainly wouldn't if it were up to me." "And whom," murmured the little man, "is it up to?" "Why, my body, of course. It has a sort of mind of its own, from time to time." As though to prove the point, the left hand removed a cloth from the belt and began wiping off a knife. The little man's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Do you seriously mean to tell me that you are not responsible for your body's actions? That you have, in fact, been completely removed from the decision making process when it comes to the behavior of your body?" "Well, not entirely," said Jon affably. "Occasionally I have a little control. I can generally determine where we will walk, and the head is entirely under my command." "Are you possessed? A vessel for demons or elementals? Do you sometimes speak in strange languages and expectorate fire?" Jon looked surprised. "Well, I speak a great many languages, but that's hardly unusual for a trader. I've yet to spit fire, and somehow I doubt demons would get close enough to me to take possession of my body." He leaned in a little closer. "You see," he said in an ironic voice, "I'm a demon hunter." He frowned. "Well, not really, but that's the title." "What you are is completely confused and not a little dangerous. Your antics may be amusing in whatever backwater plane of existence you claim to call home, but here they are nothing short of irresponsible and will get you, my house-shaped friend, into nothing but trouble and plenty of it." The little man waved away any attempts on Jon's part to protest. "Now, I'm not a man to trifle with, and neither is Archmage Rivy. Especially not the Archmage. I'll give you a single moment of my time to prove that you need to see her." As the little man spoke, Jon began rooting around in one of the bags on his belt. "Here," he said, thrusting scraps of parchment toward his accuser. The little man frowned down at the scraps of parchment for a few moments, reading them, and then, as the words began to make sense, his frown relaxed to a grimace, and from there to a narrow-eyed glare. "Your point," he said, "is made." **** **** The Archmage Rivy looked up from the scraps of paper on her desk into the overwhelmingly convinced gaze of her little Administrative Assistant, Gwaliostrok. Oh, dear, she thought to herself, I really have been working him to hard. "Gwaliostrok, I've read these three times, and I've yet to understand why this was important enough to warrant me getting out of my bath." Her hair was still wet, which she knew enhanced the image others often had of her as an air headed but pretty woman. Of course, the entire act was just another defense against being hurt. Her diminutive assistant smiled ever so slightly at the use of his proper name, an appreciated touch on the part of the Archmage; most of the staff called him Gwali, a nickname he despised. "Well, Archmage, it's really quite simple. You see this fellow used one of our Kitchen Cabinets as an unauthorized portal from the Stygian Depths. His case is rather... extraordinary, as I have discovered through extensive research. It seems that he and his kind are reluctant demon hunters, in much the same way that people who tend to attract cyclones are called Cyclone Rangers." Gwaliostrok took a deep breath. "Those scraps of parchment are journalistic proofs that his appearance has heralded the arrival of demons within one hundred days with a one hundred percent rate of occurence." Rivy chewed her lip, another affectation. She knew exactly what Gwaliostrok was talking about, had done as much research as she could squeeze in between being interrupted in the bath and coming down to her office. Thankfully her familiar spirits were efficient. Through them she had been able to learn that the stranger was under an incredibly complex curse, the nature of which was still unclear. She made a mental note to talk to Kardia, on the oft-chance that the journeyman might know something about this sort of curse. After all, she reasoned, Kardia was able to help out with Dasham's "trouble." "All right, Gwaliostrok, so he attracts demons. So what? Thorn's part demon himself, and demons do most of the housework around here." "Ah, but with all due respect to Archmage Thorn, those are a different kind of demon from the kind he brings, Archmage. You see, the demons he brings used to be agents of a divine entity, with whom they had a falling out. This divine entity punished his defectors by casting them into a dimension called Hell, where they developed their magick and power and then began a full war against their former liege. The liege has armies of those he calls Angels, and these Angels are the implacable enemies of the Demons. Unlike the Demons we've encountered, who've been either bent on corruption or been bent to service, these Demons want nothing more or less than to feast on the souls of those they dominate. Apparently, these Demons--" Gwaliostrok glanced over at Rivy, who seemed to be more engrossed looking at the huge stranger. "Archmage, shall I simply prepare a report?" Rivy looked up from the giant, her mind a whirl. By the infinite, what an incredibly well-built man, she thought. "Hm? Oh, yes, Gwaliostrok, a report will be fine." Obviously, Gwaliostrok had a point, insofar as there was no point in rushing into things without proper research or caution, but certainly there could be no harm in talking to the fellow for a bit, getting his side of the story, perhaps even casting a major magickal scan to determine just what kind of geas he's under. She smiled at the giant. "I'm afraid we've been neglecting you." "Not at all, Milady. After the Stygian Depths, time to relax is a pleasure." He shuddered. "Have you ever been there, Milady? Entirely unappetizing place, so gloomy and dark all the time. No wonder Demons behave the way they do! If I'd a home like that, I'm sure I'd be a malcontent as well." Rivy could detect no real malice in his talk of Demons, and she wondered a little about that. "I have never been there myself, so I'll take your word for it. What's your name?" "Jon DeJoors, Milady," he said with a nod and a grimace, "demon hunter, at your service. Although, of course, I'm not really, it's just part of the silly curse that we have to announce ourselves that way. Many's the time we could have avoided plenty of trouble without that little epithet, let me tell you." Rivy giggled politely. "Gwaliostrok, I'd like to speak to Jon in private for a little while. Don't," she said as he started to mouth a complaint, "worry, I didn't get to be an Archmage by mistake." She shot him a warning look, and he nodded with a sigh and left, closing the door behind him. "Now, Jon, I'm sure you've been many places under this curse." She tilted her head to one side. "What exactly is the curse?" "Well," said Jon with a friendly smile, "it has something to do with Maledictions, Sigils and Geases, if I'm not mistaken." "And your divinity put this curse on you?" Jon almost choked with laughter. "I-- I'm sorry, it's just that we Aleutites are all atheists; it's such a more reasonable alternative to all this religious nonsense, what with holy wars and religious intolerance and all that. No, thank you, we said, we'll just live without." Rivy looked at Jon in horror. "Then this curse was placed on you by another people's God? Were you at war with them?" Jon shook his head. "Oh, no, war on Aleut is almost unheard of -- we've been peaceful for years. We trade amongst ourselves, and we farm, of course, but there's plenty of food and land for everyone." He took out a small knife and began to sharpen it, all without his eyes leaving Rivy's. "Wait, wait, wait. I'm getting confused. If you weren't at war, why'd they curse you?" Rivy also glanced carefully at the knife and pulled her guardian familiars closer around her. If this fellow thought she would be easy prey, he was in for a rude surprise. Jon stopped sharpening and pointed across the room at a book on the shelf. "Isn't that a copy of Ichbinloch's 'Things I Have Seen'?" Rivy warily glanced at the book in question and just as quickly returned her gaze to her guest. "Yes, it is. Have you heard of it?" "When it comes to explaining Aleut," said the giant, returning to his sharpening, "that book is the most accurate. Page four hundred or so, I believe." He yawned and immediately covered his mouth. "I'm sorry," he apologized, "but I haven't slept in quite a few days." "Of course," said Rivy. "Tell you what, why don't you go lie down for a while, and I'll get to work on that passage in the book. Gwaliostrok can find you a room." Though not a bed that'd fit, she added mentally. That was for sure. Jon grinned. "Thank you, that would be lovely. Do send for me if you have any questions, won't you?" He stood, bowed and stepped out the door, closing it behind him. From the other side came the voice of Gwaliostrok, obviously already in control of the situation. Rivy stared at the chair where Jon had sat a moment before, its contours now a little warped by the enormous girth of the man who had sat in it. I wonder, she thought, if this fellow will work out all right. Then, with a shrug, she turned to the bookshelf and began reading. **** **** **** **** Erik Nielsen -- "To sleep perchance to dream, Ay, there's the rub; for in that sleep of death, what dreams may come when we have shuffled off our mortal coil must give us pause...." The Bard, waxing poetic...