As they made their way through the bustling lobby of The Forge, Slash realised—not for the first time since their quest had begun—he really should get out more. What with magic shops popping up in the suburbs, political protests in the street, authoritarian fairies running around policing laws that hadn't even been laid down yet and...and...daily disposable current affairs publications apparently making enough money to afford grandiose dockside three-storey buildings as their headquarters, the city—and no doubt the whole kingdom—was changing faster and more dramatically than he could have imagined, sequestered away as he was in his tidy and ordered militaristic world. Without the firm hand of a Manticore on the tiller, Irmway was drifting into uncharted waters. Dangerous waters, no doubt. It seemed the sooner they put Vazor's wayward arse firmly back on the throne, the better.
At their approach, the immaculate elf behind the ornate wooden reception desk looked up from his paperwork. "Story or complaint?"
The three questers stared at him. "Huh?" said Hobe.
"Story or complaint?" repeated the elf, raising his voice, presumably on the assumption volume trumped whichever applied out of stupidity, deafness and/or lack of Irmish. "To-which-does-your-enquiry-apply?"
"Neither," replied Hobe. "We're here to see Gella."
"You're referring to Ms Gwain?" The elf's expression suggested a strong inclination towards the stupidity option. "That's quite impossible. I'm afraid the chief-editor is only available by appointment."
Biceps bulging, Hobe placed two hammer-like fists down on the desk and leaned forward to give the receptionist the full benefit of his friendly grin.
"So, make us an appointment, then. We're free, say...oh, right about now."
The elf sniffed. "Ms Gwain's schedule is full. If you insist on seeing somebody, please take a seat in the further waiting area—the one way, way over there, behind the shrubbery—and I'll see if I can arrange for a junior-cadet reporter to get to you sometime before today's deadline. Otherwise, I'm afraid you'll have to come back another day. Or even next wee-aaaahhhheerrggghooohh! Sweet mother of—!"
"Hobie, Hobie, Hobie. What are we going to do with you?" Searching for the source of the amused voice, the party looked up to see a smartly dressed dwarf woman leaning on the railing of a second story landing, directly above the reception desk. " It seems you can take the dwarf out of Grulch Valley, but you can't take Grulch Valley out of the dwarf. Now, why don't you put down my receptionist—after turning him back the right way around, please—and then come up here so we can say hello properly?
"Boodoop, boodoop."
"Er, yes. Hello. This is Lubkin. To whom am I speaking?"
Lord Hirschnopple rolled his eyes and, with a significant effort, resisted the urge to rap himself on the forehead with the speaking tube's brass endpiece. Prior experience (and current bruising) had revealed the folly of this move, regardless of the provocation.
"We've been over this, Lubkin. One tube, two ends, wemember?"
There was a pause, presumably as the gears of cognition rumbled into life. "Oh, yes. Of course. Forgive me, my lord. How may I help you?"
"Has there been any news from Ms Waithclaw? Any weports as to the wesults of her enterpwises?"
"Let me see." There was the sound of rustling papers. "I'm afraid not, my lord."
"Sewiously? Bugger. Well, I suppose it weally hasn't been all that long. Anything else to weport?"
More rustling. There is a memo just in from Grand High Chief Head Commissioner Barderim of the Law Squad, my lord."
"From who?"
"Grand High Chief Head Commissioner Barderim of the Law Squad, my lord."
"Yes, yes, I got all that tosh the first time. But who is he?"
"The gentleman in question is the fairy the High Council appointed several months ago to address the city's crime problem, my lord. He was formerly an officer in the Dragon Legion."
"Oh, yes. Him. I must say, I'd wather forgotten all about the little wetch. After all, it's not as though this Law Squad of his appears to have achieved vewy much. Lord Napallucci is fowever moaning on and on about the weduced wate of weturn from his Awena activities. I don't know, Lubkin, what's the world coming to when a weputable gentleman can't even wun a wespectable wacket without wunning the wisk of wetched wobbers wuining things? It's an outwage.
"Indeed, my lord. Most egregious. Although I trust, in light of that unhappy state of affairs, you will be pleased with the contents of the aforementioned memo."
"Weally?"
"Yes, my lord. You see, the Grand High Chief Head Commissioner wished to inform the High Council he has succeeded in making—and I quote—'a major bust'. He goes on at some length about the intense danger entailed in making said bust, and the selfless nature of his heroism and so on, but the gist appears to be that he has managed to arrest a criminal of some significance. He reports having her securely detained in the station's sturdiest cast-iron front-loader."
"Well, it's about bloody time. Although, given the fellow has added no fewer than four superlatives to his self-gwanted title, one has to wonder just what counts as major in his tiny mind." Already tiring of this non-Hirschnopple-focussed conversation, the young lord set about grooming his nasal hairs with the mirror and special tweezers he kept in a desk drawer for just such a purpose. "What did she do? Jaywalking? Loitewing with intent? Weckless littewing?"
"Uh, no, my lord. Apparently the crime in question was attempted public assassination."
Hirschnopple paused mid-pluck. "What did you say?"
"Attempted public assassination, my lord. Three counts, in fact. It appears the perpetrator is a League acolyte. I say, that's quite a remarkable coincidence isn't it? In light of Ms Wraithclaw's recent visit?"
"C-c-c-c-"—face reddening, hands forming into fists, Hirschnopple ripped out a whole tuft of hairs without even noticing—"c-c-c-coincidence!"
"Yes, my lord. Grand High Chief Head Commissioner Barderim concludes the memo by assuring the High Council that although his civic duties keep him very busy, he will of course do his best to make time in his schedule for whatever awards or ceremonies of recognition they choose to grant him. How would you like me to reply, my lord? My lord? Hmm, I think there may be a problem with the line, my lord. All I'm getting is a kind of choking, sputtering noise. Can you hear me, my lord? My lord...?"
"Prince Vazor is dead."
The three questers, seated in plush chairs arranged before Gella Gwain's imposing mahogany desk, stared at her.
"Dead?" echoed Carri faintly.
"Oh, yes," replied the dwarf, leaning back in her own chair, an elaborate executive basilisk-skin affair, ostentatious enough to put even Lord Hirschnopple's monstrosity to shame. "It's practically certain."
"Practically?" demanded Slash, heart pounding. "So, you don't know? Not for sure?"
"Well, I haven't seen his body, if that's what you mean. But he hasn't been seen or heard of anywhere by anybody, for years. So, you know, that could mean this or it could mean that, but what it most likely means is..." Gella drew a terminal finger across her neck.
"Yeah, well," said Hobe, "I haven't seen or heard from my cousin Kolbi for years and years—mainly 'cause I can't stand the tosser—but that doesn't necessarily mean he's dead. Although," he added, under his breath, "there's always hope."
"True," conceded Gella, "but then, your cousin isn't a Manticore, is he? They're not the most low-profile of figures. Not the sort to blend into a crowd. Particularly not Vazor. Not with that jawline, those curls and that striking dark skin. No, if he was still around, it'd be a big story, and if there was a big story, trust me, I'd know about it. My sources are very extensive."
There was a buzz from the array of speaking tubes along one side of her desk and, holding up a finger to forestall their conversation, Gella picked up the one labelled 'Religion and Ethics'. "Hit me," she barked into the tube.
"Grimes here, boss. I've got the latest on the controversy around the temple to the Great Ecklestomper being constructed over in Erinside. Lady Bloomshumptington categorically denies her reason for relaxing the traditional prohibition on foreign religions is because praying will distract the Froomish workers in her sock factories from their low payrates. She instead claims she is a great advocate for religious diversity and freedom of speech and threatened to have me tossed in the Erinoquo wearing lead underpants if I report otherwise."
Gella scribbled some notes. "Right, get some comments from the nearest Lugeilish priest you can find—you know, the established church's take on the recent influx of new religions to the city, how the local parishioners feel about the worship of a giant green hippopotamus god in their neighbourhood, all that kind of stuff—then get a bit of background colour from some disgruntled locals, send it in and we'll run it in tomorrow's edition."
"You got it, boss."
Placing the tube back in its holder, the dwarf returned her attention to her guests. "Right, where were we? "Ah, yes—extensive sources, Vazor probably dead, all very regrettable, etc. Now—"
Interrupted this time by a ringing from the speaking tubes, she snatched up the one labelled 'Politics'. "What've you got for me, Jinny?"
"Bit of a kerfuffle at the palace, boss. A delegation from Outer Irmington turned up this morning with a petition demanding better value from their assorted taxes, hush money, bribes and protection fees. Seems the final straw was yesterday's beer delivery cart getting stuck in a pothole."
"A pothole?" queried Gella. "I mean, I know the poor saps in the outskirts tend to get neglected, but that seems like a bit of an overreaction. Couldn't they just pull the cart out again?"
"Well, it turns out the pothole in question is about fourteen feet deep. And has a small village of pixies living in it. I tried to get their take on the issue, but none of 'em were sober enough to comment. Anyway, the gist is that Outer Irmington want the right to elect their own representative to the High Council. Things have gotten quite rowdy."
"Right, right. Okay, get some comments from...hmm, let's see, who on the High Council has the worst temper and the most contempt for human rights?"
"Gotta be Hirschnopple, boss. No contest."
"Okay, hit him up. And see if you can get him really furious. The punters love a good rant."
"On to it, boss."
"What about the Outlands?" demanded Carri, the moment Gella had replaced the speaking tube. "I'll bet your sources aren't so extensive out there."
"No. You're right, they're not. Of the very few reporters I've sent out that way, even fewer have come back." The dwarf gave each of her three guests a considered look. "But, from what those few have told me, if that's your best hope, you truly must be desperate. There are very good reasons why the Outlands remain as unknown—and as unpopulated—as they are. My advice to you all is save yourselves a world of grief and just go home. Vazor is gone."
The trio sat and absorbed this. Yes, Gella didn't know for a fact Vazor was dead and yes, there was the undeniable possibility he could still be out there, somewhere. But in the cold, hard light of day—or even worse, the brightly illuminated insides of this place, in what was effectively a temple to the truth—there was no denying the logic of her reasoning. They were on a fool's errand.
Reaching into her jacket, Carri retrieved the tracking orb, still shining brightly in its little jar, and placed it on the desk.
"You know," she said, "I once saved his puppy. He was just a little kid, couldn't have been more than five or six, out playing in the palace grounds. One of the ponds was half-drained for maintenance or some such, I don't really remember the details, but the point is, his new puppy fell in and the water-level was too low for the little thing to get back out again. The were two other guards from the Irmshield helping me watch over him, but of course they weren't about to get their precious uniforms dirty. So, I did. I jumped in and I rescued that silly little mutt. We were both thoroughly drenched and muddy by the time we got out, but Vazor didn't care." The elf smiled, but not with one of her usual enigmatic or taunting or smug examples. It was a smile of genuine warmth. And, just maybe, a little sadness. "No, he picked that puppy right up and then grabbed me and hugged us both until he was every bit as wet and dirty as we were. And then, he gave me a gift. Something precious. A toy soldier, from the set his late father had given to him."
Smile fading, she nodded towards the jar. "And now it seems I've turned that gift into nothing but a two-bit parlour trick."
"I reckon so," said Hobe. "I mean, look at what the stupid thing is doing now."
The bright little light was pressing not against the side of the jar—but directly upwards, against its lid.
"Well, that's just great," said Slash, running a hand through his hair. "Definitely a two-bit parlour trick. Unless, of course,"—he gave a rueful chuckle—"Prince Vazor, the current Manticore and the long-lost lawful ruler of Irmway, happens to be just upstairs."
At Gella's sharp intake of breath, they all turned to look at her. Pale-faced and the wide-eyed, the dwarf stared back at them.
"What? Don't be...that's... you can't...but...there's...I mean..." A speaking tube began honking, but she didn't appear to hear it. For a few seconds longer she held their gaze. And then, with a resigned sigh, flopped back in her chair.
"Bugger," she muttered.