Vicious Magick (15 page)

On their way back to the bar, they see a very
ragged and tattered Professor Sogbottom haggling with a salesman
over the price of a small caravan and a horse. After the salesman
is gone, Madra introduces Zanther and Novanostrum to the
Professor.

“What the hell happened to you, man?” Zanther
asks.

“It was that damned Yeti. I was lucky to
‘scape with my life.”

“Well, we’re all going to have drinks on the
Mayor,” Madra says, “I’m sure he won’t mind buying a few extras,
should you care to join us.”

“Sounds refreshing.”

He’s clothed entirely in black rags, hundreds
of them tied together, the fabric stretching and bulging over his
muscular red frame. Holding Slotterhaus up by his neck, the mayor
can just barely make out two burning yellow corneas in a slit
between the rags covering his face.

“
They’ll all
*choke*
be staying
here
tonight
.”

He drops Slotterhaus on the floor, and he’s
gone.

They walk into the pub to find a large table
cleared, and D’kassar is already waiting for them. A waitress takes
their orders, and Zanther and Novanostrum sit on both sides of
D’kassar, ready for business. Zanther slaps the map down on the
table.

“We’ve heard this map is written in
characters that can only be read by the ‘top-tier’ Nasonic monks.
We need to get into the temple so we can figure out what it says.
We tried pounding on the door, but nobody answered.”

“Doesn’t surprise me. They probably didn’t
hear you. Part of the training for becoming a Nasonic monk is to
have your eardrums punctured, you know, to ‘avoid distraction’. The
other part of the training is learning how to write those horrible
little characters. There’s all kinds of rules and it takes forever
to do it properly. That’s why I left, actually. The ear thing
would’ve been bad enough, but those little characters are
murder.”

“Yeah, well,” Zanther says, “can you get us
in?”

“Why? I can read it for you. Can’t
write
it worth a damn, but I can read it. All our sacred
prayers and sacred threats were written in it, as were our
toilet-scrubbing assignments.”

Zanther and Novanostrum exchange a
glance.

“So what does it say?” Novanostrum asks.

D’kassar looks it over. “Well, it looks like
it’s just an ordinary map of Upper Kleighton.”

“Yeah, we can
see
that. Turn it over,
there’s more writing.”

“Oh, right. Let’s see, ‘Six barrels of beer,
smokeweed, prophylaxis, leg of yafbeest’ is what it says.”

“Do you think it’s a recipe for a magickal
potion?” Zanther asks.

“I think the map’s previous owner was a drunk
who wrote a shopping list on it. What else does it say?”
Novanostrum asks.

“Ah, here it is, ‘In the second house, in the
house of the Gods, where the bull charges the sea.’ and that’s all
it says.”

“Where the bull charges the sea?” Madra asks,
“What the High Hell is that supposed to mean?”

Zanther smacks himself on the face. “I’m so
stupid. The drunk I won the map off of, he was this deaf Priester
who gambled away his church. ‘The house of the gods’ is probably
his church in Port San-torus.”

“San-torus,” Novanostrum says, “Taurus, the
bull. It makes sense.”

The Professor nods. “Actually, I’m on my way
there. The traders have all the ingredients I use in my Good-tyme
Tonick. Would you like a ride? I’m leaving in the morning.”

The Libros Majorum

The Libros Majorum refers both to the
pseudo-secret sect of Librarians throughout Upper Kleighton and to
the man himself, the so-called Head Librarian. Little is known
about him, but it’s rumored he’s a Maximagus of the First Circle
who fears neither man nor beast nor God. Whether out of fear or
respect, it’s rumors of this great power that keep the leaders of
the nations of Upper Kleighton from inhibiting the activities of
the aforementioned Librarians, carting their books to and fro
across the land.

Once, just once, a Darrinian king of ages
past dared to invoke the wrath of the Libros Majorum by ordering
the expaling of a group of Librarians traveling through his lands.
The day after the executions, the king was nowhere to be seen, but
sitting on his throne was a book, bound in flesh, containing what
was believed to be a running narrative of the complete inner
monologue of said king, running eight hundred pages and ending with
the following lines:

Thatt should teache him to infringe upon my
lands. Imagine! A
foreigner
trying to impose his will upon
the great Darrinian State. A-ho, what’s this? An inttruder? I must
summon the guards and have this beggar drawn and quartered. What’s
he holding? It’s…it’s a…

The narrative ends there.