Not QUITE the Classics (4 page)

INSPIRED BY GEORGE ORWELL'S

NINETEEN EIGHTY-FOUR

It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen.
Tyro Tinnywinkle looked up from his roasted wanbuck sandwich and sighed. Ever since King Fairdwych had declared a twenty-six-hour day to increase productivity, thirteen o'clock had been a symbol of gloom. In fact, the general consensus around Tarnez (the once-proud capital city of the Great Continent of Geologa) was that pretty much
any
o'clock was a symbol of doom now that Fairdwych was king. Tyro usually paid no heed to the affairs conducted within Castle Hardstock, mostly because the affairs conducted within Castle Hardstock never paid heed to him, but this latest decree was hard to ignore. King Fairdwych showed little interest in the health and happiness of his subjects, and everyone in the kingdom knew it.

But there had been a time, not so long ago, when the lives of the royal family and the Tinnywinkle family had been intricately entwined. Sardoz the Curious, Fairdwych's father, spent hours browsing the dusty shelves and bins of what many considered to be the most complete and well-stocked magic shop in the world, Tinnywinkle's House of Magic and Mystical Oddities. And he always bought something: the Canine Bisecting Trick Apparatus, the Mesmerizing Orb of Thallos, or even just a box of itching powder. (The former king wasn't one of those canker-bottoms who browsed in a store, asked for a clerk's recommendations, talked to him for an hour, and then said he had to talk it over with his wife.)

The connection between the royal family and the Tinnywinkle family went even further back. In fact, for as long as the Tinnywinkle family had lived on the Great Continent of Geologa, they had literally dwelled in the shadow of Castle Hardstock. After it had been damaged in the War of the Clinking Sparrows, Tyro's grandfather had been one of the builders who restored it to its soaring splendor, fortifying its ramparts and getting plastered under its flying buttresses. (Tyro's grandfather became the black sheep of the family when he eschewed a career in magic for the construction business.)

That had been then. These days, the royal family completely ignored the Tinnywinkles. Though, Tyro had to admit, it was hard
not
to be involved with the machinations of ambition, greed, and murder that passed as governance these days. For instance, Fairdwych had recently imposed a tax on everyone taller than himself. At six-foot-four, and still growing (as any respectable twenty-eight-year-old Tarnezian would do), Tyro towered a full eleven inches over the King. That meant the royal coffers were padded an extra eleven hundred guildenfeathers a year from Tyro's own threadbare pocket. The King was a preening, officious, egomaniacal idiot, thought Tyro as he munched his wanbuck deluxe, and Tyro's opinion of the reigning monarch was one of the nicer ones in the kingdom.

King Fairdwych had the distinction of being the first universally hated monarch in Geologa's history. Visit any county, province, or state of the Great Continent and ask, “Who rules this land?” The answer would be “Fairdwych the Hated,” or “Fairdwych the Thoroughly Despised,” or “That Tiny Bastard King.” In neighboring kingdoms it was rumored that Fairdwych's subjects took an instant dislike to him just to save time.

Fairdwych had usurped the throne from his brother, the much-loved Malki the Cross-Eyed, who had been captured by their third cousin Flabym the Witherer during the Cumin Wars. Fairdwych's stepbrother Gandwar, the One With No Nickname, who had also been in line for the throne, had been sent to the Barren Fields of Slowdeath to fight their uncle, Peptor of the Rangollians, to gain an alliance with Buppquar the Belligerent, who had strong trade relations with the Aero peoples and the Binnywhacketorians, both of whom were needed to cement the relationship with the Upper Boodlebears. After that, it got fairly complicated.

'Twas a tangled web of family allegiances and rivalries that trapped the poor inhabitants of Geologa under the tyrannical rule of Fairdwych, That Tiny Bastard King. It was Tyro's belief that there was only one of the whole bunch who could competently rule, and that was Madwyn, sister to Fairdwych and Malki. She too was said to covet the throne, but had disappeared after the Actor Uprising, when all who were involved in the arts protested the lack of funding and respect they received. (Due to a short rehearsal period, the uprising was quelled in an hour and twenty-three minutes.) It was rumored that Madwyn was now touring with an interpretive dance group. And in fact, Tyro thought he had glimpsed Madwyn at a performance in the town square not too long ago. If it had been her, Tyro reckoned, remembering her lovely eyes and direct manner, she was beautiful
and
brave, for Fairdwych would never allow the return of a sister who could challenge his right to the throne.

Tyro's reverie was interrupted by a kerfuffle outside. He ran to the window of the shop. Adam Two-Blow, the most accomplished kerfuffle player in the land, was playing “The Rise of the Rebels.” Tyro cringed because (a) public kerfuffle music had been recently banned by Fairdwych, (b) “The Rise of the Rebels” was always used to incite violence against tyranny, and (c) Tyro hated violence
and
tyranny. Violence and tyranny resulted in danger, and Tyro was not a friend to danger. He wasn't even a casual acquaintance. He tried to avoid danger at all times. He was no coward—he truly wasn't—he just didn't like being bothered.

Tyro stepped back from the window, hoping no one had noticed his interest in the kerfuffle, when the door of Tinnywinkle's House of Magic and Mystical Oddities slammed open and a pair of Siamese twins, each brandishing a broadsword, blustered in.

By the eyes of Lumptor, Tyro thought sourly, I believe I'm about to be bothered.

“Big Brother, did we lose the jackals?” the slightly smaller of the twins gasped, twisting awkwardly to look at his mate.

“I believe so, Little Brother, I believe so. Their blades shall not taste our flesh today!”

Tyro couldn't help but stare. The brothers were strapping specimens, broad shouldered and muscular, with large, fine heads devoid of hair. Except for the fact that they were attached, the left buttock of one to the right buttock of the other, and could never truly stand side by side, they looked as any other pair of twin brothers might.

Little Brother motioned to Tyro. “Big Brother, cast your eyes on yon merchant.”

Big Brother turned to look at Tyro, forcing Little Brother to face the door and almost injure himself on the doorknob. “You! Are you Tyro Tinnywinkle?”

“Yes, yes I am. And how can I help you gentlemen today? Some itching powder, perhaps, or our most popular item? Mystical Trick of the Fish?”

“Do not waste your silver tongue on us, Merchant Tinnywinkle. We wish not to purchase your wares. You must depart with us now! There is no time to waste with explanations! The future of Geologa depends on you and you alone!”

Tyro stared. Except for his tendency to constantly exclaim, Big Brother seemed a reasonable fellow. But the future of Geologa depending on Tyro Tinnywinkle, seller of toys and tricks? It strained credulity. No, it was insane. Tyro cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, I think there may have been some mistake. You see—”

With an upward jab of his broadsword, Little Brother spun himself to face Tyro. (Big Brother was wrenched around to face the window, getting slightly tangled in the curtain for a moment.) “There is no mistake. The Oracle has spoken. You are the One.”

Tyro cleared his throat to address the small one. “Please don't think I'm not flattered. I am. But—”

For the second time that day, the door of Tinnywinkle's House of Magic and Mystical Oddities slammed open. This time, four of the King's Guards in bright purple livery burst through the door. The largest of the group, bedecked in ribbons and medals that proclaimed his status as leader, sneered. “Kill them all!”

“Excuse me,” Tyro said with a nervous chuckle. “There seem to be a lot of mistakes being made today. I am but a simple—”

Tyro's words were drowned out by the battle cry of the brothers. “By the Power of Aphrodesia!”

The brothers rushed at the King's Guards. They moved remarkably quickly and gracefully considering their disadvantage. They were as fast on their feet moving forward or backward, and they seemed to have an almost telepathic knowledge of how the other would move. They spun like a child's top, striking out with their swords, whirling like dervishes, cutting a bloody swath. Three of the King's Guards tried to surround the brothers as the fourth moved menacingly towards Tyro.

“Wait! Wait! I am sure we can talk this over and come to a peaceful resolution.”

“Aye, boy, it
will
be peaceful once I cut out your treasonous tongue, remove your head from your body, and crush your still-beating heart!”

Around the “I cut out your treasonous tongue” part, Tyro decided words were not going to help his case. He glanced around for a weapon. Not surprisingly, weapons were in short supply in a magic shop. He picked up what was left of his sandwich and held it in front of him.

The guardsman howled with laughter. “By the Gods of Barmalon! How will I fight this demon, armed with his lunch? I can only pray he does not have a flagon of ale!”

Tyro separated the two pieces of bread and watched as the wanbuck meat fell to his feet. (The guard also watched, puzzled.) While he was distracted, Tyro leapt at him, pressing the two pieces of bread to the huge guardsman's eyes. The guardsman screamed.

Tyro could not have his wanbuck deluxe without adding Tafaleno Lava Sauce. It was a condiment that few could consume without experiencing cramps and painful bowel movements. But it didn't affect Tyro at all. He liked it. Having it rubbed in your eyes, however, was bound to be painful. As the guardsman wept and thrashed around blindly, Tyro picked up a large piece of wood and clocked him on the noggin. The guard crumpled in a heap at Tyro's feet.

“Well done, Tyro!”

Tyro turned to see Little Brother grinning at him (and Big Brother raising his fist in solidarity over Little Brother's shoulder). At their feet lay the remains of the King's Guards.

“Come!” said Big Brother, motioning towards the door. “There will be others who wish to stop us from our quest! To our transport!”

The brothers left Tinnywinkle's House of Magic and Mystical Oddities. Tyro grabbed his coat and man-sack and quickly followed. He knew that the death of four of the King's Guards in his shop would label him a traitor and a murderer, so he went with the brothers. He had a feeling this was to be the start of a great adventure.

Adventures were the only thing Tyro hated more than being bothered.

They had been riding for almost an hour through mountains and valleys. The brothers were up front leading the way, and Tyro brought up the rear. Big Brother rode facing forward, and Little Brother faced backward. Occasionally, he waved back at Tyro, who was clearly enjoying wanbuck riding. Mostly, though, Little Brother kept his eyes peeled for pursuers in the gloomy landscape.

Tyro had been but a small child the last time he had sat astride one of the great beasts. The wanbuck on which the brothers were riding was larger than his, since its load was bigger. Tyro's wanbuck was slightly smaller, but it was a rich scarlet color that was quite striking. Tyro patted its huge head affectionately.

Wanbucks were exceptional creatures. Larger than plough horses, with feline heads and long, silky ears, they were invaluable in every way imaginable. They had eight legs, but they used only four at a time. They tucked the others in at their sides. When they started to tire, they switched legs. Wanbucks could run non-stop for up to three days. The back four legs were stronger than the front four and allowed the wanbuck to leap to a height of almost sixty feet. Their skin was thick enough to withstand any direct hit by an arrow, but soft enough to line a pillow. But the most remarkable thing of all was that all wanbucks knew,
instinctually
, when they were going to die. They would then travel to the nearest butcher, lie down, and expire. Their body they offered up as a final gift, and every part was delicious.

The group had been riding for almost four hours when Tyro grew weary. As the keeper of a magic shop, he was not accustomed to long rides or saddle sores.

“Um,” Tyro called, “where are we going?”

“To the Forest of Deepening Despair, my friend,” replied

Little Brother. “There we will meet the rest of our allies.”

“
The Forest of Deepening Despair?
I look forward to it. Is the Valley of Approaching Death all booked up?”

The brothers laughed as one.

“You amuse us, shopkeeper!” shouted Big Brother. “My brother and I enjoy laughing. Many's a time we trade quips as our cold steel dispatches our enemies.”

“Um, yes, always nice to laugh,” Tyro mumbled. “So, we get to the forest, then what?”

“Then you will tell us how to defeat the King,” said Little Brother matter-of-factly.

Tyro stared at Little Brother. “Hmm. Interesting. I am fairly certain I have no idea how to defeat the King. I am certain, because even now as I speak, thoughts are racing through my head and not one of them is labeled
How to Defeat the King
.”

“The Oracle is never wrong,” called Big Brother over his shoulder. “She has been blessed with a power that none of us will ever understand.”

“What exactly did she say?” asked Tyro.

Little Brother closed his eyes and intoned with great seriousness: “The One upon whom success does rely shall declare with words of little import that which is most important. For a quest to succeed, the One shall go beyond his station and do what none have done before him.” Little Brother opened his eyes and crossed his arms. He looked at Tyro meaningfully.