Eric Flint & Richard Roach - Forward the Mage

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.

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.

Baen Books by Eric Flint

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.

And then—

My rigorous rehearsal for the ordeal proved greatly excessive. For—would you believe it?—

the incompetent fools began with a bastinado! My greatest problem was not to burst into

laughter. The soles of my feet were covered with iron-hard calluses a half-inch thick—this

the product of my uncle’s rigorous training, which included walking on coals and soaking in

brine. The blows of the cudgels were like a tickle.

But, of course, I never once lost my now-firm grasp on the fourth law of secret police:

Shrieks of agony soothe the savage beast.

Nor the fifth:

Stoic silence inflames the policeman’s heart.

Nor—most important—the sixth:

Admissions of guilt stand in direct proportion to innocence. This, you will of course

recognize, is but the obverse of the second law.

And so I interspersed my screams of agony with the most lurid confessions:

“Yes! Yes! I did it! I admit everything!” (Here I emitted a horrid shriek.) “I murdered the

Popes—all twelve of them at once! The blood flowed like a river! O hideous impiety! And

then!” (Here I dissolved into broken blubbering.) “I dismembered them! And ate them! O

foul ecclesiophagy!” (Here I threw in the cackle of the criminally insane.) “And then! And

then! After letting nature take its course, I defecated on holy ground! Like a wolf staking its

territorial claim! Oh! Oh! I am a monster of depravity!”

“Not that, you idiot!” roared the sergeant. “Not the Popes! What about the King? What did

you do to the King?”

“Which king?” Then, thinking I was bordering dangerously on proclaiming innocence, I

immediately howled with glee and pain. “There have been so many! Butchered kings by the

score, I have! The Kaysor of Kushrau I poisoned! And then—I fed the poisoned meat to his

hounds! They died in agony! And then I cut the canines from the canines”—(here followed

demonic shrieks of ecstasy at the pun)—“and with these newfound weapons I slew the Great

Mogul of Juahaca! Plunged the teeth into his throat while he slept! Gave him a dog’s collar of

his own!” (Lunatic laughter.) “And then! Oh! I murdered the Doges of the Philistine! All of

them at one swoop! Crept up on them while—”

“Not that, you idiot!” roared the sergeant. “The King of Goimr! Here—in Goimr! What did

you do to the King of Goimr!”

“Oh! Him!” Here I fell into a minute or two of insensate ululation, for at the mention of

the King of Goimr, the two policemen applying the bastinadoes had fallen into a truly

vigorous beating of my feet. Then: “I forgot him! There’ve been so many kings! But him! Yes!

Yes! I remember now! I disemboweled him with a scythe! Danced a fandango with his guts!”

“The King’s still alive, you idiot! And not a mark on him! But he’s insane! How did you

drive him mad?”

I gasped with shock. “Still alive! You mean I missed? With a scythe? Missed! I’m going

mad myself! But that’s it! That’s it! It must have been the horrible sight of my demented

leer—the ghastly scythe in my hands!—drove the King of Goimr mad! O wondrous! O

wondrous! I am such a criminal! Such an archdevil! A paragon of purest evil! Drove the King

mad! Yes! Yes! I remember now!”

“It’s looking bad, sir,” I heard one of the policemen say, his voice filled with

discouragement. The bastinado slacked off.

Eric Flint & Richard Roach - Forward the Mage

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