The Losers (39 page)

“Oh really?” Raphael was very alert now. He knew that he was on dangerous ground.

“And you really ought to try to control your hostilities,” the brunette added.

“Why? Nobody else does. Could it be that you think I should control my hostility because I’m a defective and defectives aren’t permitted to dislike people?”

“We’d really like to talk to you, Mr. Taylor,” the blonde said. “Could we make an appointment for you at our office—say next Tuesday?”

“No. Now, if you don’t mind, I have things to do.”

“We really think we could help you, Mr. Taylor,” the brunette said, her eyes hardening.

“I don’t need any help,” Raphael told her. “There’s not one single thing I need you for.”

“Everybody
needs help, Mr. Taylor,” the blonde said.

“I don’t. Now, you’ll have to excuse me.” He set the points of his crutches down firmly and began to walk down the hallway toward a waiting elevator.

“We’ll always be there,” the blonde called after him. “Don’t hesitate to call—anytime at all.”

She sounded almost like old Tobe. That made Raphael feel better somehow. He was almost safe now—close enough to safety at any rate to take the risk. “If you girls really want to help, you ought to learn how to type,” he threw back over his shoulder. Flood would have liked that.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” the blonde demanded.

“It’s a sort of an inside joke,” he replied. “It’d take much too long to explain.” He stepped into the elevator.

“You’ll call,” the brunette yelled after him in a shrill voice. “Someday you’ll call. Someday you’ll need our help. Your kind always does.”

He might have answered that, but the elevator door closed just then.

It was good to have it all over. In a very personal way he had put Flood finally to rest, and now it was over.

It was just before noon when he came out of the courthouse, and the autumn sun was bright and warm. He went down the several steps to the sidewalk and started up toward the intersection, moving along beside the low retaining wall.

At the comer the bald, skinny philosopher was delivering one of his speeches to the indifferent street. Although Flood had reported seeing him in various parts of town, Raphael had not really been certain in his own mind that the crazy orator who had greeted him on that first snowy night in Spokane was still roaming the streets, or if he had ever really existed at all.

“Whenever anything is done with one intention,” the orator boomed, “but something else, other than what was intended, results from certain causes, that is called chance. We may therefore define chance as an unexpected result from the coincidence of certain causes in matters where there was another purpose.”

Raphael stopped and leaned back, half sitting on the low retaining wall to listen. He leaned his crutches against the wall on either side of his single leg and crossed his arms.

“The order of the universe,” the bald man went on, “advancing with its inevitable sequences, brings about this coincidence of causes. This order itself emanates from its source, which is Providence, and disposes all things in their proper time and place.”

Raphael found himself smiling suddenly. Without knowing exactly why, he uncrossed his arms and began to applaud, the sound of his clapping hands quite loud in the momentarily quiet street.

Startled, the crazy man jerked his head around to regard his audience of one. And then he grinned. There was in that grin all the rueful acknowledgment of human failure, of lives futile and wasted, and at the same time a sly, almost puckish delight in all the joy that even the most useless life contained. It was a cosmic kind of grin, and Raphael found its sly, mischievous twinkle somehow contagious.

Still applauding, he grinned back.

And then, that impish smile still on his face, the crazy man extended one arm to the side with exaggerated formality, placed his other hand on his chest, and took a florid, theatrical bow. His face was a sly mask when he came erect again, and he looked directly at Raphael and gave him a knowing wink before he turned back to continue his oration to the swiftly moving traffic.

About the Author

David Eddings was born in Spokane, Washington, in 1931 and grew up near Seattle. He graduated from the University of Washington and went on to serve in the US Army. Subsequently he worked as a buyer for the Boeing Company and taught college-level English. His first novel,
High Hunt,
was a contemporary adventure, but he soon began a spectacular career as a fantasy writer with his bestselling series
The Belgariad.
He consolidated his success with two further popular series,
The Malloreon
and
The Elenium.
He has recently published
Domes of Fire,
the first book in a new series,
The Tamuli.

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By David Eddings

THE BELGARIAD

Book One:
Pawn of Prophecy
Book Two:
Queen of Sorcery
Book Three:
Magician’s Gambit
Book Four:
Castle of Wizardry
Book Five:
Enchanters’ End Game

THE MALLOREON

Book One:
Guardians of the West
Book Two:
King of the Murgos
Book Three:
Demon Lord of Karanda
Book Four:
Sorceress of Darshiva
Book Five:
The Seeress of Kell

THE ELENIUM

Book One:
The Diamond Throne
Book Two:
The Ruby Knight
Book Three:
The Sapphire Rose

THE TAMULI

Book One:
Domes of Fire

High Hunt
The Losers

Copyright

An Imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers,
77-85 Fulham Palace Road,
Hammersmith, London W6 8JB

Published by Grafton 1993
987654321

Published simultaneously in hardback
by HarperCollinsPublishers

First published in the USA by
Ballantine Books 1992

Copyright © David Eddings 1992

The Author asserts the moral right to
be identified as the author of this work

ISBN 0 586 21759 2

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EPub Edition © SEPTEMBR 2006 ISBN: 978-0-007-39561-3