Goblinopolis, The Tol Chronicles, Book 1 (42 page)

Report to Egmesta Market. Large crowd gathering; possible riot in progress.

Next to the note was a set of keys and a small tag that read “57.” They were giving him a departmental pram to use for the assignment, he figured. He hoped it ran better than some of the clunkers that belonged to the Precinct.

Egmesta was the principal market area in Sebacea. It had a public square surrounded by shops and farmers’ stalls. Tol had considered it a sizeable area until now. It would fit into one small corner of Royal Square. He’d never seen anyone riot there, though. Sebaceans tended to congregate in groups of no more than four or five in public spaces. It would take either some great perceived injustice or organized outside agitators to incite a riot there.

It took him a while to find the parking garage: it was entirely underground. That wasn’t a common practice in Goblinopolis because the bedrock on which the city rested was solid and at least a hundred meters thick. Given the exorbitant cost of the Justice Hall, it really wasn’t surprising they’d gone the extra kilometer and dug the parking garage under the building. Tol wondered what else was down there: he’d have to make that the subject of future exploration.

The pram in parking spot 57 wasn’t exactly what he’d been expecting. It was sleek, so new parts of the interior were still wrapped in protective sheathing, and looked like something out of a spy thriller. He tried the key, not expecting it to fit, but it did. He just sat in the pram with the engine off for some time, wondering what all those buttons and knobs were for. There was an owner’s guide, but it was even thicker than the Edict Enforcement Policies and Procedures Manual and Tol felt disinclined to tackle it at the present moment.

He managed to get the thing started without any trouble. The engine sounded like some great jungle carnivore growling throatily. It drove like nothing he’d ever previously experienced. After a few blocks, as he was beginning to get the hang of it, he suddenly noticed a brass plaque on the console just above the comm unit that almost made him veer off the road. It had “Sir Tol-u-ol” engraved in fancy letters on it. This was intended as his personally assigned pram! Only bigshots got those. It dawned on Tol for the first time that he was a bigshot now. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that yet.

He parked down the block from the market, in a position that would allow easy street egress if necessary. Cop training, and all that. He plopped the “Edict Enforcement Vehicle” placard on the dashboard as per policy; he really didn’t fancy having his new car towed off. The emergency lights were hidden inside the grill and in a fold-down frame on the roof not obvious to passers-by.

Egmesta had a fair number of people swarming it, all right, but they didn’t look as though they’d come for a riot. It looked more like some sort of celebration. Anything this size and location would require a permit, though, and Tol knew these shopkeepers well. They would not allow a gathering here that wasn’t permitted properly because violations ran the risk of costly city-imposed fines and/or sanctions. EE HQ should already have the permit on file and be aware of the logistics. Something was a little odd with this. He walked over to one of the shopkeepers he knew played a leadership role in the local Merchants’ Association.

“Afternoon, Zapu. What kinda shindig you got goin’ here?”

The old Goblin regarded him kindly. “It would probably be easier to show you than tell you, Tol,” he replied, and led him by the elbow to the head of one of the long series of tables set in the center of the square. His voice carried much better than one might guess.

“Denizens of Egmesta and wider Sebacea, our guest of honor has arrived. I give you Sir Tol-u-ol, Knight-Protector of the Crimson and the Hero of Sebacea!”

Tol blinked in surprise and scanned the crowd. The seats nearest him were occupied by, it appeared, every single person who worked in his old office. He wondered who was minding the Precinct. Beyond them he could spot dozens of the shopkeepers and ordinary citizens of the district he’d served all these years. He knew every one of them by name, and could recite their family histories on demand. The crowd milling around them were probably mostly shoppers from other districts who’d come for fresh produce or the finely-tooled leather goods for which Sebacea was widely known, but they joined in the celebration just the same.

They feted Tol for over two hours. There were at least a dozen testimonial speeches by people ranging from community leaders to ordinary citizens who’d been helped by Tol at some point. His embarrassment quota got overloaded during the first of these and he just sat there in stunned silence after that.

He never realized how much he’d meant to these people; how they depended on his day-to-day familiar, comforting presence on the streets to make them feel safe. His new position as Special Investigator began to pall for him.
This
is where he was needed and appreciated, not some gilded cage in the hoity-toity Royal district. He made up his mind there and then to do something about it.

They insisted on a speech, of course, but unlike with previous ceremonies, Tol actually wanted to speak at this one.

“Good people of Sebacea: I love each and every one of you. I have devoted my career to keeping your streets safe to walk and your businesses safe to patronize. I do not leave you by choice…” He stopped in mid-sentence to look them over for a moment. “In fact, I do not believe I will leave you at all.” At this the crowd broke into wild cheering and began to chant his name.

He left Egmesta feeling really good about the world in general, and determined to figure out some way to spend most of his time in Sebacea. He ran over a number of possible strategies when suddenly he stumbled over the one that could not fail. He smiled broadly, flipped on the flashing lights, and put the pedal down.

Chapter Twenty-Four:
Aftermath

H
is Royal Majesty Tragacanth stared at a map that covered most of one wall of his Palace Situation Room. It illustrated in lurid matter-of-fact detail the locations and extent of the structural damage done by the magically-induced quakes from Namni’s monstrous scheme. It also listed casualty figures and reconstruction efforts underway. This was a large-scale project, by any measure. Since the damage encompassed all four of the provincial districts, Aspet had appointed a senior member of the Royal Engineering Corps in each Ferroc to oversee the project personally. He also had to deal with the offers of assistance coming from Galanga, Lardonica, Ovinis, Asmagon, and as far away as Solemadrina.

The parallel, and in many ways much more logistically complex, effort was going to be reconstituting the magical portals to The Slice. That would require a very high-level mage to lead the effort, the logical choice for which would be Cromalin. The Loca Magineer, unfortunately, was already swamped with handling greater than one fifth of the magical traffic for the entire planet, as the Dubers housed the only fully functional portals remaining and Loca Duber was the most heavily used of those.

That left Aspet with something of a conundrum: where to find (and recruit) a mage of sufficient power to assist with this vital effort. The question was preying on his mind heavily when Boogla entered the room and walked up and touched him on the arm.

“Your Majesty?”

Aspet jerked involuntarily at the contact. He also felt a tiny, unexpected thrill. He looked at her with wide eyes. She seemed nonplussed as well and stammered a bit. “I…I have…read your brother’s report on the Pyfox case. I think there is someone in there who might prove helpful in our current crisis.”

Aspet took the bound manuscript from her. “Oh? Who?”

“His name is Ballop’ril. He’s a very high-level mage. My sources at CoME say he’s probably the most advanced mage on the planet at present, in fact, and could become transcendent at any time he chooses.”

“Meaning he could relocate himself to The Slice?”

“Essentially. Transcendent mages are able to manifest themselves bodily in The Slice. After a certain amount of time spent there, they lose the ability to return to the physical plane for any but relatively brief periods.”

“Any sign that Ballop’ril is planning this in the near future?”

“I don’t think so. He’s taken an apprentice by the name of Prond whose progression to full mage will require a number of years. I doubt Ballop’ril will want to transcend prior to that.”

“Where is he located?”

“He owns an entire mountain in the Espwe range, adjacent to Mount Astflanar. His abode is apparently magically carved out of that.”

“Wow. That’s a lot of magic.”

“It gets even more impressive. The mountain itself is mobile in at least a few dozen kilometer range. A Goblinopolis news team actually documented that.”

Aspet gaped at her. “Okay, we definitely need this mage on the Recovery and Reconstruction team. Have a Royal Writ of Appointment drafted and I’ll sign it.”

“As you command, Majesty.”

Something about the way she walked off stirred a primal instinct in Aspet. It was a thoroughly enjoyable experience and it precipitated a decision that had been latent for some time, waiting for the proper trigger.

“Boogla,” he called after her, softly. She turned. “I would very much like to have dinner with you tonight. Not official business, just you and I and someplace quiet. We have...things to discuss.”

“Is that a Royal Command, Your Majesty?”

“No, Boogla. It is a humble request.”

She stared for a moment. “I accept. Eight?”

“Eight it is. I will send an escort for you.”

“I’d prefer you came to get me in person.”

“Splendid. I’ll tell the RPC to take the night off. We’ll have to stay on the castle grounds, but there are plenty of places to have some privacy. The Royal Chef will of course deliver wherever I tell him to.”

She smiled slyly. “I have just the spot in mind.”

• * • * • * •

Ballop’ril proved not only willing, but quite eager to help. “It will provide my apprentice a wonderful opportunity to experience some aspects of magic he might not otherwise be exposed to for a long while.”

Re-establishing the destroyed magic markers was going to be a long and arduous road. The inviolability spell on each would take a minimum of a year to cast, and require a suite of extraordinarily rare ingredients as well. Ballop’ril, however, had an alternative solution. Rather than permanent, always-open portals, he proposed that the Dubers enchant wormhole talismans that created, in effect, on-demand access to The Slice. They took only a brief moment to connect, provided almost unlimited bandwidth, and could be disconnected with a single command. Since the Magineers had jealously guarded the marker-created portals anyway, the functional difference would be minimal.

In addition, portals that could be ‘toggled’ would be much less subject to the sort of attack that had brought the magical community to the current state of affairs. They would have to be activated regularly to bleed off excess manna from The Slice, but that shouldn’t present a problem given how often they were used in the course of daily business.

After due floor debate in plenary session, the CoME accepted this plan and forwarded it to the king as a recommendation, with the endorsement of all five Magineers. The king signed the proclamation into effect, and the work of creating and enchanting the talismans began.

• * • * • * •

After the sea-avian incident, CRAMP had voted to have their meetings in a location a little bit less subject to wildlife intervention, so they chose an old deserted abbey overlooking the Mernal River, northeast of Goblinopolis proper. They also opted to retain their normal sizes this time around.

The Abbey of Serene Waters was abandoned two hundred and thirty years ago after the ‘serene waters’ raged across their lands during a millennium flood, destroying all crops and livestock upon which the monks depended for subsistence. The abbey itself was relatively undamaged, but without a nearby food supply the monks eventually relocated and the buildings fell into ruin. The chapter house was still nominally inhabitable, for the most part, so it was there CRAMP decided to convene.

The black-clad leader of CRAMP was in reality a graying half-elf named Gipiont who had served at one time on the Goblinopolis Municipal Council as well as in the capacity of Warden for his home district of Eshvodsi. Not a mage himself, he nevertheless had made his fortune supplying the magical community with the vast inventory of paraphernalia and natural products used in the arcane arts.

Gipiont was in a far better state of mind at this meeting. “Fellow supporters of the magical arts in Tragacanth, I bid you warm welcome to our conclave. After much travail we have triumphed over our bitter nemesis Pyfox and magic is preserved. There was much ill done by the enemy; there are many scars that will heal only with considerable time and toil. But victory is nonetheless ours, and so the work of restoration shall be a labor of love.”

Tamlokk, the ogre mage, leaned back in his somewhat less than structurally sound chair and smirked at Gipiont. “’Peers tae me thet we heven’t triumphed over nothin’. ‘Twere thet Tol-u-ol fella what did most of th’ fightin.’ We jest sat on our bumps and jawed abut how bad things wuz.”