[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
Forward the Mage
by Eric Flint & Richard Roach

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2002 by Eric Flint & Richard Roach

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.

A Baen Books Original

Baen Publishing Enterprises
P.O. Box 1403
Riverdale, NY 10471
www.baen.com

ISBN: 0-7434-3524-9

Cover art by Larry Elmore

First printing, March 2002

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Flint, Eric.
Forward the mage / Eric Flint, Richard Roach.
p. cm.
“A Baen Books original”—T.p. verso.
ISBN 0-7434-3524-9
1. Artists—Fiction. 2. Women soldiers—Fiction. I. Roach, Richard. II. Title.

PS3556.L548 F67 2002

813’.54—dc21              2001056468

Distributed by Simon & Schuster
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020

Production by Windhaven Press, Auburn, NH

Printed in the United States of America

This book is dedicated to our wives and
mothers, who always believed;

and to those great pioneers who first aroused our enthusiasm for fantasy:
Francois Rabelais, Miguel Cervantes, Voltaire, and Jonathan Swift;

and, of course, to the world’s Sancho Panzas.

Joe’s World series
The Philosophical Strangler
Forward the Mage (with Richard Roach)

1632

Mother of Demons

Rats, Bats, and Vats (with Dave Freer)

Pyramid Scheme (with Dave Freer)

The Shadow of the Lion (with Mercedes Lackey & Dave Freer)

The Belisarius series, with David Drake:
An Oblique Approach
In the Heart of Darkness
Destiny’s Shield
Fortune’s Stroke
The Tide of Victory

By James H. Schmitz, edited by Eric Flint:
Telzey Amberdon
T ’n T: Telzey & Trigger
Trigger & Friends
The Hub: Dangerous Territory
Agent of Vega & Other Stories

By Keith Laumer, edited by Eric Flint:
Retief!
Odyssey

Wisely hath it been written that those great upheavals which so enflame the passions of society that they excite the masses to rebellion and enmity against all lawful custom and sovereignty, wherefore the common herd is led to commit many profane mischiefs against the peace, including both mad foreign adventures and rude civil revolts, may not be comprehended as mere brutish conflicts between vast opposed powers, each bent on conquering for itself the Helm of State. Rather, we say that they are compounded of many societal atoms, indeed, of a multitude of small dramas, mere chance encounters, perhaps, ’twixt private persons of divers degrees and sorts.

Vulgar history will, of course, take no heed of these events, for they will appear to those witless sycophants of Clio’s muse to be so contemptible, prosaic and inglorious, compared to the deeds of kings, ministers, generals, revolutionists and agitators, to the discordant flux of the classes and the masses, that they will be blinded to their import and, forsooth, will roundly and churlishly despise them. Yet these small episodes, we say, are the true stuff of History. For, though men go their way quietly in tranquil times, yet, in such epochs when storm clouds gather o’er the State and insurrectionary thoughts steal into the minds of the pauper classes, then may the separate lives of men be severally fused as if by a lightning bolt of social hatred, wherein all of society is transformed, and, like the wounded Leviathan, vents its unleashed fury at mute and fear-filled Nature.

Of course, we find in the literature other theories, chiefly ­opposed to our own. These, however, we may dismiss, for they are all of them perniciously false and utterly repugnant to the human intellect in every respect.

The College of Historians

University of Ozarae (in Exile)

PRELUDE.

In Which We Introduce the Gentle Reader to Our Tale Through a Most Cunning Usage of the Ancient Narrative Device of The Plunge Direct Into the Turbulence of the Times. Taken From the Autobiography of the Notorious Scapegrace, Benvenuti Sfondrati-Piccolomini.

Autobiography of Benvenuti Sfondrati-Piccolomini,
Episode 1: Police, Potters, Pedants and Plunderers

I arrived in the city of Goimr upon the most wretched ship imaginable. The CSS Lucre, it was called, a name which was as inappropriate as possible. The CSS Pigsty would have served better; the Shipwreck-in-the-Making, ideal.

Yet, upon my first glimpse of Goimr, I was almost sorry to disembark. The sight which greeted my eyes was even more disheartening than the ship. I had expected, without really giving it much thought, to find Goimr’s harbor a smaller version of my native Ozar’s great port, the Horn of Surfeit. At the very least, I should have thought Goimr—which is, after all, the chief port of southeastern Grotum—to be a match for any of the smaller harbors of the Philistine at which my ship had stopped on the voyage from Ozar.

Not so. I was encountering my first taste of that reality which has given rise, throughout Grotum, to the expression “grubby as Goimr.” Upon the oily, sluggish waters of the harbor bobbed a variety of vessels, which seemed to compete with each other in their disrepair and desuetude, not to mention their antiquity and obsolescence. Numerous dilapidated warehouses dotted the quays, most of them boarded up, if not burnt and gutted. Everything was covered with a deep layer of grime. Roofs sagged, doors were unhinged, steps were cracked and broken. The very stones of the quays seemed corroded by some foul reagent.

The sole exception to the general miasma of decay was the building in front of which my ship was docked. The building was gigantic, stretching a full two hundred yards along the center of Goimr’s waterfront. Above it, facing the waterfront, rested a huge sign announcing to the world:

GREAT GROTUM NORTHERN, EASTERN,
SOUTHERN, WESTERN,
CENTRAL AND ENVIRONS EXPRESS
AND TRAVEL COMPANY
(a subsidiary of the consortium)

“At least there’s a trace of Ozarine energy in this miserable place,” I muttered to myself, descending the gangway. And indeed, the Consortium building—though it shared the general aura of squalor—was bustling with activity. Numerous barges, skiffs, scows and hoys plied the waters adjacent, bringing cargoes to and from the several ships moored nearby. A constant bustle of men and wagons carrying goods, supplies or passengers swarmed about the quayside in front of the building.

The moment I stepped ashore, I was delivered into this seething frenzy of commercial and maritime activity. Wending my slow way past oxen teams drawing huge loads, dodging gangs of steve­dores, I left the docks and entered the relative calm of the building. After some inquiries, I eventually made my way out of the labyrinthine edifice and into the passenger area on the far side, from which transportation into the city proper was available. There I rented a large locker, into which I placed my traveling sack and my easel. It wouldn’t do, of course, to visit the King of Goimr with luggage under my arm.

As I was heading out the main archway to the plaza beyond, I stepped aside to let a man hurry by. Strange-looking fellow! Strange, not so much in his features—for he was normal enough in that regard, aside from the excessively severe look on his bearded face. But his clothing! A long, shabby, flowing robe, covered with ­obscure and cabalistic symbols. A wide-brimmed, floppy pointed hat. In his hand he bore a long staff, carved with runes. I realized that I was actually face to face with one of that legendary breed of sorcerers which are peculiar to Grotum.

As I stepped aside, I heard the mage say: “Make haste, wretched gnome, make haste! For even as I speak, time wanes!”

I looked to see the person to whom he was speaking. My jaw dropped with astonishment. Wizard indeed! For behind him—as if transported by levitation—loomed an immense sack, bulging at every seam, from which protruded the snouts and extremities of weird instruments too bizarre to describe.

From beneath the sack I heard a whining voice: “But master, it’s heavy, and I can’t see.” I now saw a pair of spindly legs ­under the sack, twinkling in their efforts to keep pace with the wizard’s long stride.

“Watch out!” I cried. “There’s—”

But my effort to warn the servant of the portmanteau just ahead of him did not come in time. In an instant, the little legs tripped and the gigantic sack went flying.

At the sound, the sorcerer spun about. A look of great fury came upon his face.

“Unspeakable wretch!” he cried. “Did I not entrust to your care the safekeeping of my possessions?” And so saying, the wizard began smiting the prostrate servant with his staff.

“Hold there, sirrah!” I exclaimed. “It was but an accident! Your man could not possibly have seen the obstacle before him—did he not tell you himself that he couldn’t see? If there is any fault here, it is yours alone. You should have warned him.”

The wizard’s look of wrath was transferred onto me.

“You are impudent, youth!” he bellowed.

Ignoring him, I stepped over and took the arm of the servant, who was now on his knees, shaking his head. I lifted the tiny fellow to his feet.

“Th-thank you, s-sir,” he stammered. His voice was very clear and sweet.

I did not reply, so great was my astonishment. I had thought the wizard a strange looking fellow! His servant, I now perceived, was a dwarf. And while I myself did not share the general prejudice against dwarves, I was struck speechless by his appearance. For, truly, this was the hairiest and ugliest dwarf I had ever ­encountered. It was only the freshness of his voice which enabled me to determine that the servant was a young man—not much more than a boy, really. From his appearance alone, I would have thought him an ancient and horrid sub-human, a miniature demi-troll, escaped from some cavern of the earth.

But the boy seemed harmless enough. He immediately dove under the sack, positioning himself to lift it. I reached down and seized a fold of the sack, attempting to aid him.

The thing was unbelievably heavy! I am a large man, well muscled and strong, but I do not think I could have possibly lifted it by myself. Yet here was this dwarf—smaller than a stripling—even now hoisting the monstrous sack onto his back. In but two seconds, he was back on his feet.

“Thank you very much for your help, sir,” came his little voice from beneath the sack.

“Not at all,” I replied.

“Cease and desist this unconscionable chitchat, wretched dwarf!” exclaimed the wizard. “By your clumsiness, you have already ­delayed me!”

I had had quite enough of this fellow, thank you. I stepped up to him and said: “You, sirrah, are the only wretch about!”

The wizard’s face began to redden with anger. But after a moment he turned away.

“Bah!” he exclaimed. “I have no time to bandy words with a layabout. The coach to Prygg departs momentarily, and I cannot afford to miss it. Good day to you, sirrah, and may we never meet again!”

“My sentiments exactly,” I growled to his retreating back.

Little did I know then . . . Not only was I destined to meet again with the wizard and his servant, but in the years to come my life and fate was to become inextricably intertwined with theirs.

Indeed, the first coil of that intertwining was even now upon me. For no sooner did I emerge from the archway onto the plaza, looking about for a means of transport to the Royal Palace, than a black coach came careening up. A half-dozen black-garbed men were precariously perched on top. goimr secret police was painted on its side in bold red letters. In slightly smaller letters beneath:

Classified information!
Tell no one on pain of death!

As soon as the coach stopped, the men on top leapt to the ground. The doors to the coach opened and another half-dozen men spilled out from the interior. I was so struck by the improbable sight that I stood motionless. My artist’s sense of perception was attempting to determine by what magic means so many men—beefy types, to boot—had managed to fit inside the not very commodious coach. I would have done better to have noticed the fact that every other person in the crowded plaza had disappeared.

One of the policemen pointed to me and cried: “Seize him!” A moment later I was brought down by the horde, chained and manacled, protesting my innocence all the while.

“He must be guilty as sin, Sergeant,” I heard a policeman chortle. “The only one who didn’t run! And listen to him pleading his innocence!”

“A foreigner, too!” cackled another. “Listen to that outlandish accent!”

“I’m from Ozar,” I protested. A momentary pause in the bustle of binding, manacling and chaining. Then:

“The blackguard! Impersonating an Ozarine!”

“Gag him,” came a tone of command. “No need for honest secret policemen to listen to the honeyed words of treason.”

Before I knew it—now gagged, to boot—I was hustled into the coach. As I was forced into its dark interior, I heard the sergeant say: “You two stay here and search the area for the other one.” A moment later, the coach careened into motion.

By now I was in a dark and gloomy mood, full of self-reproach. In my mind’s eye, I could already hear my uncle Ludovigo’s sneering voice.

“Forgot everything I taught you, you fool—and at the very first opportunity!” Here he would glower in his inimitable style. “Idiot. Cretin. Moron.” This would go on for no little time, accompanied by much clapping of despairing hands to aggrieved forehead. Then the lecturing voice of my uncle:

“What is the first law of secret police?”

The innocent flee where no man pursueth.

“The second law?”

Protestations of innocence stand in direct proportion to guilt.

“The third law?”

Who wants to hear it, anyway?

I was not looking forward to my next meeting with my uncle, let me tell you. No point lying to him, either—he’d see right through it. After the heaping of foul names upon my head, the ritual clapping of despairing hands onto his own head, there would come the great sigh—a genius casting pearls before a swine—and then, horror, the inevitable lecture.

“I will try again, my witless nephew. As I have told you before, time and again”—here would follow the history of the universe, beginning with the coalescence of the galaxies—“and so—will you try to remember?—if you wish to be a great artist you must expect many encounters with the secret police, many an interrogation by the forces of Church and State, many a long stay in the donjons and bastilles, many a beating and torture. Especially in Grotum! For these ineluctable modalities of the risible, you must be as well trained and prepared as your uncles Giotto, Algardi, Donatello and Salviati have made you for the actual exercise of your art itself.”

Here would follow the ceremonial chewing of mustachios. Then:

“And why do you want to be an artist, anyway? It’s a foolish ambition, no matter what those other uncles tell you! Much better for you to become a condottiere like myself or your uncles Rodrigo and Filoberto and the others. You have a talent for arms, and it’s a much safer occupation than being an artist!”

The rest of his future lecture I was able to rehearse in advance, as the coach banged and clattered its way along the cobblestoned streets. And there was this benefit from the gloomy experience, that by the time the secret police of Goimr reached their destination, I was well-prepared for the immediate prospect of torture, having reviewed in my mind all of my uncle’s instructions.

I was hustled into a great, gray, windowless building, which shared the general shabbiness which I was coming to realize was inseparable from Goimr. secret police headquarters read the sign above the door. (With, needless to say, the same bloodcurdling threat concerning classified information below.) Down a long corridor, a turn to the left, and there it was—the interrogation room, replete with all the requisite engines and tools of torture.

...