Back | Next
Contents

THE TRANSFORMATION OF TARG

Paul Brandon and Jack Dann

It was a typically bitter New York morning.

The wind was like a splintery hand across the face, each slap feeling like it left tiny shards of ice embedded in the skin. It chased crumpled balls of old newspaper up the gutters, spinning them around the ankles of the hurrying people. Up between the buildings, rivers of flawless blue could be seen mirroring the avenues of grey, cloudless, cold.

Commuters bustled up the streets, heads bowed, turtled into scarves or high collars. Cars and taxis seethed.

Just off Fifth Avenue, down a bleak alleyway made almost impassable by large, overflowing dumpsters and trafficked by rats and scraggy cats, a door opened.

From inside the ally it was no different from any of the other doors; paint-peeled and somewhat bowed, it was utterly unremarkable except for the odd-looking thumb-latch. It appeared to be nothing more than an old back access door to the Starbucks that fronted Fifth.

As it swung silently open, light bloomed out suddenly, then died away. From across the alleyway, two dark figures could be seen standing within; but it wasn't the store room of a coffee shop that they were inside, not by any means.

They stood within a small circular chamber. Black brick walls wept water that bled down across a cobbled floor to gurgle down a grated drain. Bodies hung, a few still alive, in various states of interrupted agony from the walls. Small crackles of blue lightning still arced between the two that were still shrieking, the last remnants of the magic that opened the door.

The two figures that stood just inside were fearsome indeed. Closest to the door was a huge barrel of a man, or at least he would have looked like a man if he'd had a normal head. Great curling horns, polished to an ebony gleam, lifted away from features that more resembled a horse than anything human. His skin was mottled, green and brown like lichen, and he was dressed in formidable-looking armour of interlocking leather plates. In his right hand was an enormous war axe, even more polished than his horns.

But it was the second figure that commanded the eye.

Simply dressed, he wore a long black cape and creaseless black pants tucked into his polished black boots. A jerkin, made of blackest leather, was stitched across his chest, overlaying a shirt of midnight silk. He wasn't particularly tall, especially standing next to the other; but what he lacked in stature he more than made up for in presence.

His skin was white, the pale, chalky white of bones rather than of purity, and his face could simply be described as cruel. From the top of his left brow (where a shock of white hair flared against the black) a wicked scar traversed his face, gouging a line down across the empty socket of his eye to tug the top of his lip into a permanent sneer.

But it was the other eye that captivated; flat, glassy, like a shark, it seemed to make up for the loss of its twin with an intensity that was little short of terrifying.

The two figures waited patiently while the blue sparks flickered between the last of the hanging men then, with a last shrieking cry that reverberated quite nicely around the small chamber, the hanging men died.

Smiling, the man in black gestured politely to the other, "After you, my dear Sarpent," who frowned back at him then stepped through the doorway.

The air rippled, as if the space between the frame was water and a stone had been tossed in, and as he passed out into the alley, Sarpent changed. Gone was the armour, replaced by a pin-striped, Italian-cut suit. Instead of the wicked axe, his right hand held a black leather laptop case. All that remained of the equine features was a slightly jutting lower jaw on an otherwise handsome face. His skin was the color of an expensive full-cream latte, the horns replaced by beautiful blond curling locks.

The second man stepped through, and the change was equally startling. His suit was unadorned soft black wool. His hair was still the same; but a mirrored, silver-rimmed monocle covered the vacant eye, a spider thread of gleaming chain tickling down along the ridge of the somehow noble-looking scar. Black Gucci loafers supplanted the leather boots, though nothing could replace his aura of absolute power . . .deep, dark, sickening power. The only splash of color came from a blood-red handkerchief that poked out of his breast pocket.

"You have the address?" he asked in a voice that brought that same reaction as a broken fingernail down a blackboard.

Sarpent nodded, tapped his breast pocket and set off towards the bright bustle of Fifth Avenue. When he realized the other man wasn't following, he turned, frowning. "My Liege . . . ?"

The Dark Lord was bent down, stroking the ear of a tatty black cat that wove between his legs. Even from a half-dozen yards away Sarpent could hear it purring like a little motor. The lord was making little chirping and cooing noises.

Sarpent took a long, deep, steadying breath and muttered, "And you wonder why we're here?"

"What was that?"

"Nothing, oh fearsome and mighty lord."

 

The waiting room was paneled with mahogany and smelled faintly of expensive cigars.

A stunning glass installation the size of a coffee table hung from the wall directly opposite the entrance, its surface laser-etched with a welcome for the visitor to Dr. Hiram Hirsch's Exclusive Evil Consultancy.

Medical certifications in gilded frames were scattered across the other walls like art, interspersed with pictures of a heavy-set, middle-aged man (whom Sarpent assumed to be Dr. Hirsch) catching a huge marlin, standing with one foot up on a freshly shot tiger, shaking hands with Saddam Hussein, Oberon, King Drakkor the Black, even a slightly faded one of the good doctor with his arm around a smiling bin Laden.

There were no chairs, only four Chesterfield sofas, upholstered in Solferino-red leather and brass studs. A single door, at the other end of the room, stood closed, next to a desk that fronted a stiff-looking receptionist dressed in finest Ralph Lauren. She lifted her head as they entered, frowned, then subtly pressed a button on the edge of the desk.

As had happened when they had stepped through the portal, the air around Sarpent and his lord wavered, then like a roller blind snapping back upwards, the suited illusions were lifted away, revealing once again the man in black and his horse-faced guard.

Sarpent growled, a low, guttural sound, but the receptionist simply pointed to a small sign by the door that read in jaunty, self-help letters:

If you can't be yourself here, then where can you be?

The lord laid his hand on Sarpent's arm and said lightly, "I suppose that's very true."

They approached the desk. The receptionist pretended to be busy for a long moment, then looked up. "Name?"

Sarpent bristled. "This is his Mighty Revenant Overlord Targ, Destroyer of Mordane and Ruler of—"

"First name, please?"

Sarpent's large mouth clicked shut; he blinked with surprise and turned to face his lord, looking apologetic.

The Overlord cleared his throat and in a small voice said, "Brian."

"Well, Brian," said the receptionist as if she were talking to a small child, "Dr. Hirsch is ready to see you now." She gestured to the closed door. "You," she said to Sarpent with a flick of her wrist towards one of the Chesterfields, "may wait there."

Sarpent looked at his lord, who was just about to knock on the door, then nodded and sat down on the couch. There was a huge outrush of air from the leather cushions of the Chesterfield. Sarpent laid his battleaxe across his knees, picked up a copy of Vogue, and settled in to wait for his master.

 

"Okay okay, now where did you just go wrong, huh?" A fit-looking older man sat behind a beautiful glass-topped desk.

His head was covered with a thick thatch of perfectly pomaded white hair, although the huge moustache that antlered under his nose was a sooty black. The face itself had a yacht club tan, fierce blue eyes and a somewhat bulbous nose. Thin moist lips, barely visible beneath the overhang of hair, were set in a smile that seemed more rehearsed than genuine. His voice was somewhat nasal, and carried the slightly accusatory-sounding New York cadence well. "Come on, it all starts right here. Right now. What was your first mistake?"

Brian frowned, somewhat bewildered by the sudden questions. "I . . .err, didn't wipe my feet?"

"No no no!" Hirsch said smoothly. "You knocked! You're the Mighty Revenant Overlord Targ, Destroyer of Mordane and Ruler of—" he discretely checked his notes "—Heckinor."

"Hellinor."

"Whatever. Heckinor, Hellinor. Do you see my point? You never knock. You march in, you sit down, and if anyone doesn't like it, you order that person's head to be removed immediately. Or something else, you decide. You're the Boss." Hirsch stood up and offered his hand, "Hiram Hirsch, Consultant to Evil."

Brian shook the pudgy hand as hard as he could, which was difficult because it was like greeting a jewelry store. "Erm, Brian." They were about the same height, but the sculpted white hair made Hirsch look taller.

"Very pleased to meet you, Brian, have a seat," he gestured to the reclining leather chair. "You don't mind me calling you Brian do you? We shouldn't stand on ceremony in here, don't you agree?"

Brian understood the question was rhetorical, but he nodded anyway. Somewhat reluctantly, he lay back. The ceiling was paneled the same way as the walls, and the little squares of wood were somewhat hypnotic.

"Now," Hirsch began, "you were referred here by . . . let me see now . . . the ArchWitch Hagspittle. Ahhh, how is old Maggie doing?"

"Fine," replied Brian. "She has her Dark Court back under control and is even planning an offensive against the Shining Dawn next season. She speaks very highly of you."

"And well she should. When I first counseled Maggie, she had lost touch with evil to such an extent that she could barely string two spells together. The distances and dimensions my clientele comes to me from never ceases to amaze . . . But anyway, let's not get sidetracked. This is about you, now, isn't it?"

Almost against his will, Brian found himself nodding.

"Now, you wrote in your initial consult application that you"—Hirsch's voice took on the tone of someone reading—"just don't seem to have the heart for evil anymore, that it no longer gives you that shivery black thrill that it used to, and that you'd rather go and raise alpacas in Idaho. Is that true, Brian?" Hirsch sounded terribly disappointed.

"They're a lovely animal, very friendly."

"I meant about losing the will to be evil." Hirsch leaned forwards on his desk. "Have you lost your mojo, Brian?"

Brian swallowed. "Maybe . . ."

"Why don't you tell me about it."

So Brian did, from the first hesitant moments when he realized that for no reason he could discern, he had suddenly run out of creative ways to wage war and execute and torture his myriad enemies. Hadn't he botched up his invasion of neighboring Callidan Island by forgetting to requisition and build enough boats, so the invasion had to be called off before they'd even left the shores? The Callidani laughter still rang in his ears. He touched upon his fondness for cats, for jesters and motleys, skipped over his secret plans to implement a better and more fair justice system, and talked briefly (but somewhat fondly) about his aim to one day establish an autonomous government.

When he finished, he felt oddly better, more at peace, at one with the universe.

Then there was silence, broken only by the creaking leather of Hirsch's chair and the occasional clunk of a piece of jewelry against the glass-topped table. Brian resisted the urge to look over, but he could imagine the doctor staring at him, stroking his giant moustache.

"Do you have a mask?"

"Hmm?" (Brian had nearly dozed off.) "Yes, of course. I brought it per your request." He reached inside his jerkin and pulled out a small black square of velvet which he carefully unfolded.

"Put it on, please," Hirsch told him.

Brian slipped it over his head. It was a little like a cross between a balaclava and an executioner's mask. Instead of eyeholes, there was a wide slit that just reached his nose. The velvet looked almost wet in the dusty office light.

Hirsch leaned forwards, steepling his fingers, considering. "Hmmm," he said after a long moment's thought. "It's not exactly, well, intimidating, is it."

Brian shrugged. "I do have another one, made from an elf skull."

"Well, that's a little more like it!"

"But it's dreadfully heavy and it brings me out in a rash around my ears."

"I see."

More pondering.

"Well, Brian, we need to take this one step at a time. Here's what I want you to do. Before our next visit, I want you to find some people, any people, a village, a settlement, some group that's always annoyed you."

"The Do'raki Fenlanders," Brian said, snapping his fingers. "They have never shown proper respect and were late with their taxes this year. Come to think of it, they were a bit late last year, too."

"Whatever." He leaned forwards. "I want you to destroy them."

Brian's eyes blinked out from the slit in the mask. "Destroy them? I'll lose revenue."

"Yes!" said Hirsch feverishly. "Destroy them utterly. Forgo lost revenue. This is more important. Show them no mercy! You're the Mighty Revenant Overlord Targ, Destroyer of Mordane and Ruler of—" he discretely checked his notes again "—Heckinor."

"Hellinor."

"Yes, that's what I meant. Destroy all Do'hicky Finlanders!"

"Do'raki Fenlanders," Brian mumbled, correcting the doctor before raising a clenched fist, and repeating in a small, somewhat uncertain voice: "Destroy them."

 

Dr. Hirsch picked up the receiver of his antique Princess phone; the numerals of the rotary dial glowed yellow in the darkness.

"Hello?"

The line was crackly and sounded like it traveled across the bottom of the ocean. "Dr. Hirsch? This is Sarpent speaking, General of the Revenant Overlord's Fifty Legions, Commander of the Night Watchers, First Chief of—"

Hirsch waved his hand, "Just what is it with you people and your titles? Sarpent would have done you know. I'm old, not senile."

"Forgive me, honored doctor, but I . . .I find myself unable to . . .I don't know quite what to . . ."

"Take all the time you need. I bill by the minute."

"It's the Overlord, sir, he, well, may I ask just exactly what it was you instructed him to do?"

"Well, Sarp, I can't really tell you that, doctor-patient confidentiality being what it is. May I call you Sarp?"

"Yes, doctor, whatever you wish."

Okay, Sarp, then why don't you just tell me what he did, and I'll tell you if he's following my instructions."

"Well, sir, the lord gathered together the whole second battalion, and we all had high hopes, but he, ah . . ."

"What?"

"He relocated the Do'raki Fenlanders."

"Well, that's not exactly what I had in mind, but displacing is a start—"

"It wasn't exactly displacement," Sarpent said around another bark of static. "More like . . .sir, the Overlord helped them move."

"He what?"

"Well, they live in the fens, and they're always being flooded. The Do'raki are extremely poor, filthy, but, on the other hand, they're fierce little fighters and they usually pay their proper taxes to the Overlord."

"All the more reason for them to be wiped out!"

"For paying taxes?" Sarpent asked.

"Don't be literal. You know what I mean," Dr. Hirsch said.

Yes, sir. I agree on general principles that they should be wiped out. But the Overlord, well, ah, he took . . .pity—" he spat the word out like a bitter pip "—on them and had the battalion build them new hovels on higher ground. Sir, he had my men . . ."

"Sarpent, are you still there? You're breaking up. Are you on a mobile?

More static. "Just a moment, sir . . ."

Hirsch held the phone away from his ear a little, which was fortuitous, as Sarpent suddenly thundered, "Get the spell together! You useless NUMBSKULL OF A wizard! Now, focus, before I cut off that little beard and stick it where the spells don't shine!" There was one last yelp of noise that sounded uncannily like a fist striking flesh (or a fish being slapped onto pavement), and then the line cleared remarkably. "There, is that better, Doctor?" Sarpent asked in a calm voice.

"Much better. Telecommunication problems?"

"Oh, nothing that a good sharp jab with my sword won't fix." The end of the sentence sounded like it was aimed away from whatever Sarpent was using as a phone. "So you did not suggest that my lord help the Do'raki move to a more upmarket location."

"I am not presently a real estate consultant."

"Well, what should I do next? Bring my lord back in? I need help here, Doctor. He's really not himself. He's becoming a laughing stock for the other emperors and warlords."

"Let me think for a moment, Sarp . . . Do you have any judgments coming up soon, any judicial trials, anything like that?"

"Well, we don't have courts here, of course. The Overlord just decides their fate. But the criminals are due to be paraded around the hanging square in a fortnight."

"Excellent. I need you to help. The morning before the parade, you will have to talk to your lord, remind him of his notable evil deeds, his past victories, slaughters, all those kind of things. Get him in the mood, give him a few ales at lunch time, then sit at his right hand and prompt him to kill all the criminals as a supreme gesture of His Evil Will to his people. A brief sudden display of malevolence might be just what he needs to jar him back into his nasty ways. And it will be a tonic for the general populace, too."

"I understand. It shall be done, sir."

 

The Steps of Judgment were quite impressive.

They were located to the rear of the castle, where the black Cliff of Despair buttressed against the Obsidian Mountain. Started at ground level, they ascended up towards the Throne of His Glorious Will like a fan, forming an upside down amphitheatre. Originally, the architect had designed and built it the other way around, with the Throne at the bottom, so that even the people who couldn't afford a front row seat could see everything; but the Overlord didn't like people looking down on him, so he had the architect killed and the Steps reversed, stone by stone.

Sarpent's deep laugh boomed as he told the story, refilling the Overlord's gold tankard and stealing a quick glance at his lord's face. The Overlord had chuckled at the memory, which was a good sign. Sarpent lingered on the part where the Overlord had personally taken the architect apart, fingernails first, then knuckles, then hands and so on, as a demonstration of how annoyed he was at the prospect of dismantling the Steps. He thought the architect had gotten the message, but it was hard to tell between the pitiful screams and pleadings for mercy.

"Mercy," Sarpent said, mouthing the word as if he'd found an old piece of decayed food behind a tooth, "is for the weak, the spineless. Fear . . .now fear, intimidation, terror . . .they are the tools of the strong, do you not agree, my Lord?"

Brian nodded absently; he was still thinking back to a rather disconcerting yet pleasurable dream he'd had the night before where he'd freed all the prisoners and everyone had loved him for it. The people had called his name, thrown flowers, cheered . . .

"Would my Lord care for one last drink?" Sarpent asked, interrupting his thoughts with a wave of an ale bottle. It was a fine brew, strong, but Brian didn't want his head spinning anymore. It would be hard to be just if one were pissed. "A lord must be just, mustn't he?" Brian said out loud.

"Wha—?" Sarpent said.

"Of course justice resides in the definition, and it is I who decides all definitions, is it not so?"

"Yes, Great Lord, you decide all things."

"As was and shall ever be," Brian said by rote.

"As was and shall ever be," Sarpent dutifully repeated as he made the sign of fealty, which resembled the traditional bird: index finger erect.

But Brian wasn't paying attention; he stroked the ginger cat curled up on his lap. "Did you know it is Mrs. Tinkle's birthday today?"

Sarpent blinked. "Mrs. . . .Tinkle?"

"That's right, isn't it," Brian cooed at the cat, who was kneading his knee with a paw. "You're the little birthday puss."

Sarpent swallowed, fingering a horn nervously. "Another movie then?" he said hurriedly. We have the time, the serfs won't mind waiting and I'm sure the dead—I mean the accused—aren't going anywhere." Sarpent picked up another of the DVDs that Dr. Hirsch had lent him. "We've watched most of the Steven Seagal films, but there's still the early Schwarzenegger and some man called Tarantino that comes highly recommended . . ."

Brian shook his head. "No, I've seen enough. Disconnect that . . .thing."

Sarpent nodded and reached over for the plug to the borrowed TV and DVD player, which was inserted into the last socket the original inventors had ever considered as a power supply. The dumpy-looking wizard who had been chanting the spell to create ignescent electricity let out a huge sigh, followed by a yelp as Sarpent's boot helped him out of the room before he'd even had a chance to lower his robe.

"Now," Sarpent continued. "Which mask for today?" The Overlord paused, hand stroking the cat as he considered. Sarpent could see his Lordship's gaze lingering on the soft velvet, so he said, "If I may be so bold, my Liege, Dr. Hirsch would probably want you to wear the elf skull today . . .for therapeutic reasons."

"Yes, I suppose he would," Brian sighed. He put the cat gently on the ground, stood up, and reached for the pale monstrosity, which had once been the treasured possession of King Ulran of Arboria—so treasured in fact that it had taken a sword through the neck to part Ulran from it. Brian slipped it on, hoping that Sarpent wouldn't notice the distaste on his face. It was heavy, ill-fitting and smelled of elves, no matter how many times they boiled it. And Brian hated elves, almost as much as he hated cats.

But he didn't hate cats anymore.

Brian sniffed. Well, maybe it didn't smell so bad, after all.

"Perfect," Sarpent enthused, bowing. "My Lord looks truly fearsome and mighty. The walking dead—I mean accused—will surely soil themselves mightily upon your approach."

Let's hope not, Brian thought, remembering the last time. It had taken his valets days to get the splash marks off his best black boots.

 

The seneschal boomed his staff on the ground, and in a voice that Brian had now considered too hammy, pronounced, "RISE for His Highness, the Mighty Revenant Overlord Targ, Destroyer of Mordane, Ruler of Hellinor, Slayer of the Venomous WereSpider of . . ."

Brian yawned discreetly under his mask. That was one thing he did like about masks, you could yawn, smile, even doze off, and people never noticed.

He walked slowly past the blood-encrusted trapdoor to the Throne of His Glorious Will (or should that be My Glorious Will? he thought absently). Behind him hung Pain, the huge executioner's sword that Sarpent used to dispense the Law. After raising his arms to the cheering crowds (his royal guards were using their whips and bludgeons with great subtlety to encourage them), he turned and removed the sword from its ornamented bracket. He spoke the ceremonial words of opening and handed the sword to Sarpent, who, as always, was the official dispenser of justice. Then he sat down on the throne, careful not to let his robe bunch up under him. The unwashed masses descended away beneath him in a maelstrom of color, cacophony and chaos. People from all walks of life jostled for seats, shouted, argued, stood in line for pies from the vendors. Away to his right was the disheveled row of the accused, their shaven heads bowed, some weeping, others looking passively out over the crowd, grimly resigned to their fate. Children threw stones (fruit was generally saved for eating) and occasionally a prisoner would cry out and try to raise his manacled arms to ward off a missile.

Brian listened patiently while the first prisoner was brought forward and the charges read by the seneschal. He'd been caught cart-jacking; however, his arrest had gone wrong, and he'd managed to kill a pair of guards. With Hirsh's words echoing in his head, the very sound of conscience, Brian stretched out his arms and turned down his thumbs. Fair was fair. Guards were hard to come by these days and expensive to train, and this man had killed two and lamed a third.

The roar of the crowd surged over him, and Sarpent took but a moment to loosen his shoulders before striking the man's head clean from his body with an almost negligent swipe. The body stood headless for a moment, before the trapdoor sprung open and it plummeted from sight. With a skilful back heel-kick from one of the ceremonial guards, the head followed.

Now that wasn't so bad, Brian thought. Sarpent was nodding his approval, and the crowd was chanting, "Overlord . . . Overlord . . ."

The next prisoner was another murderer, though this time the occasion had been a bar brawl. The wiry man had a pockmarked and surly looking face. He contended that he'd not started it, that it had all been in self-defense. He then wailed and pleaded, but somehow all of it sounded rehearsed. Brian listened, nodding, as if in agreement. Then he stretched out his arms and turned down his thumbs.

Sarpent was elated. It looked like his Lord was back to his old evil ways. Grinning from ear to ear, he put a little too much effort into his sword swing, and the head went soaring out into the crowd, where the peasants amused themselves by tossing and kicking it around like a beach ball.

Once again the trapdoor clattered. The next man was brought forward.

This one was just a thief, and Sarpent was a little disappointed to be instructed just to remove a hand; but still, it was all blood and suffering, and the crowd always enjoyed a bit of variety.

Five more thieves followed, and Sarpent felt more like a surgeon than an executioner as he was ordered to remove several ears, a nose, and two fingers.

There was a brief flash of hope as the Lord ordered a rapist castrated, though secretly Sarpent wished he'd just ordered him beheaded. It was far less fiddly.

And then it happened.

A baker accused of short-changing his customers was given a custodial sentence.

"Surely, my Lord," Sarpent whispered, "a hand, at least . . .thumbs . . .tongue?"

But Brian was having none of it. He was now determined to imprison, or fine, or even pardon criminals who had committed minor crimes.

The blood on the blade of Pain dried as it hung by Sarpent's side, unused.

After such a promising start, it was all going so terribly wrong. Worse yet, the Overlord actually seemed to be enjoying himself. He questioned each accused and took the time to consider and weigh each crime before dispensing something that looked far more like justice than punishment.

The Overlord stood before the crowds and raised his arms. A hush fell over all. In a loud and impressive voice, the Overlord declared: "Good people of Hellinor, in honor of a dear friend's birthday, I have just decided that today shall be a day of amnesty. All but the most heinous crimes will be forgiven, and furthermore, I have also decided that it will be a public holiday, with a lifting of the usual dusk curfew." He paused as the crowd let out a huge enthusiastic roar. He ignored Sarpent's groan and continued, "Henceforth, today shall be known as . . .Tinklefest."

 

"Tinklefest? TINKLEfest? Oh Brian, what were you thinking?" Hirsch shook his head, causing the freshly waxed tips of his moustache to bob.

"It seemed like a nice thing to do."

Mrs. Tinkles had let out one hiss at the doctor then promptly hid under a cabinet at the far side of the room.

"A NICE thing . . . Oh, Brian, Brian, Brian . . . I've got to tell you that in all my years of practice I've never, ever . . ." Hirsch just shook his head again.

"You're disappointed in me," Brian said softly, transfixed by Hirsch's exaggeration of a moustache.

"DISAPPOINTED?" Hirsch took a deep breath and looked around, counting to ten under his breath to dispel the anger. Brian's study at the top of the Black Tower was small but surprisingly comfortable. He had a large desk (not unlike Hirsch's own, but without the glass protector, which, Hirsch thought absently, he could really do with, as the bloodstains were ingrained and the edges were rutted with what looked like axe marks). Four huge arched windows looked out over the land to all points of the compass, letting in a nice amount of natural light, and the views were stupendous. I should build myself one of these in Manhattan.

Seven . . .eight . . .nine . . .ten. He released a long breath and returned to the task at hand. "Brian," he said, "you do know why Sarpent called me out here."

Brian nodded.

"Well, then why don't we start with you telling me exactly what was going through your mind yesterday? Just take your time. Sarp has already signed a treasury wavier for my call-out fee. You're putting my three grandchildren through college—and I believe little Hiram Junior is going to Harvard. Think long and hard, great lord of Heckinor.

Brian started to say "Hellinor," but gave it up.

I want to know everything," Dr. Hirsch continued. "I want to know exactly when things started to go bad . . .or rather, good."

Brian smiled, thinking the doctor was making a rather funny joke, but the expression fell from his face when he saw Dr. Hirsch angrily and compulsively biting the edges of his moustache. Brian stroked his smooth chin, wondering if perhaps the secret to evil lay in facial hair. After all, Hiram Hirsch seemed to have no problems thinking up clever and horrid plans . . .there was the BoneDoctor of Riddel. He was supremely evil and he had a huge beard, then of course the ArchWitch Hagspittle had a bit of a moustache herself . . .and there was Saddam and Adolph, bin . . .

Hirsch slapped his hand down on the desk. "Brian!" he shouted, making even Sarpent jump. Another cat hiss came from somewhere behind the cabinet. "You're doing it again."

"What?"

"Procrastinating. Daydreaming. An idle mind leads to idle deeds, and evil is never idle."

"Sorry. I'll remember that. Evil is never idle. Would make a good motto, don't you think?"

Hirsch just shook his head again.

"There was a time, sir," Sarpent said, folding his hairy arms across his broad chest with a creak of leather armour, "that you'd have someone's head cut off for speaking to you like that."

Brian sighed and lowered his head into his hands despondently. He tried to focus on his green chakra.

"Okay, let's start simply," Dr. Hirsch said. "What's bothering you right now, at this very moment?"

Brian frowned, stopping himself from voicing the obvious answer. "Well . . .I'm a bit worried about reports that the Armies of Bil'tha are massing to the south again—" Sarpent grunted, but Hirsch silenced him with an upraised hand. "—the Do'raki ambassador is here, and Mrs. Tinkles is off her biscuits."

"That's perfect!"

"Not really, I have them shipped in especially at great cost."

"I meant the ambassador. Is he here now?"

"Waiting in an antechamber on His Overlord's pleasure," said Sarpent, absently using one of his horns to pick some dried blood from under a fingernail.

"What does he want?" Dr. Hirsch asked. "Isn't the land you relocated the Do'raki to upmarket enough?"

Sarpent flicked his fingers. "The ambassador claims they've not had sufficient time to replant crops, and therefore he and his people can't afford to pay their taxes this financial year."

Brian said, "Which sounds fair enough, given that—"

"WHAT?" Hirsch's moustache was practically curling back on itself. "Am I mistaken or did the word 'FAIR' just leave your lips?"

"Well, I . . ."

"There will be no buts and no excuses this time. Brian, go out there and strangle the ambassador with your own hands. Right this minute. And then I want you to take your army and kill, maim, torture, rape, and pillage your enemy."

"Right this minute?"

"You heard me."

"I . . .can't," Brian cried. "I like Ooblier."

At Hirsch's frown, Sarpent leaned over and whispered, "The Do'raki ambassador's name is Ooblier."

"Oh, charming." He turned back to Brian, who was tracing an intricate whorl in his desk, desperately trying anything to avoid eye contact. "Brian, what on earth is wrong with you? Have I missed something? Is the air not foul enough in your kingdom? Is the water unpolluted? You used to be an Overlord of repute. Now you're behaving like a . . .a putz. Surely your parents taught you that Satan only helps those who help themselves?"

There was a pause.

Despite the wicked scar, the missing eye, the flash of white hair against the black, Brian looked very much like a little boy, and the sneer resembled a crooked smile. "My mother always used to complain that I had a sunny disposition. My mother and father would thrash me and send me to my room to think about things, but it never seemed to help. So they'd burn me with pokers then thrash me again. I started pretending to be evil to please them. It worked for quite a while, but I guess I'm finally coming out of the closet."

"Well, you'd better think long and hard about going back into the closet," Hirsch said.

"Why don't you do it?" Brian suggested after a moment.

Hirsch was baffled. "Come out of the closet?"

"Sure," said Brian, sitting up a little. "You always seem to have the best ideas about how to be evil. And we're about the same height, build. You can be me. After all, nobody would recognize you. You'd be wearing a mask."

"The Overlord is supposed to always wear a mask," Sarpent quickly pointed out to Hirsch.

"Well, I don't know. I'm a doctor, not a dark lord." But Hirsch stroked his moustache, obviously considering Brian's suggestion.

"What if I watched you, from one of the secret spyholes? Perhaps if I could see evil working again, maybe I'd be . . .inspired?"

The doctor was still curling hairs around his fingers, and Brian could see by the excited gleam in his eyes that he had him. Brian's eyes narrowed slyly.

"This is all highly irregular . . ."

"Think of it as a new kind of therapy," Brian said. I could get the hang of this therapy thing, he thought as he rose from his desk, crossed over to the mask stand, and picked up one of the soft velvet masks.

"Do you . . .do you think I could have that one?" Hirsch said almost shyly, pointing at the big elf skull.

 

The new career was going well.

He had the office redecorated in eggshell white with classic cream carpets and friendly vases of fresh flowers everywhere. He kept the Chesterfield sofas, but had them reupholstered in the finest beige calfskins. The bragging photos were gone, replaced by small paintings by Cézanne and Dürer etchings; the cool, lush sounds of the Modern Jazz Quartet drifted out of a pair of matching white Bose speakers above the receptionist's desk.

Even the self-help sign had been changed. It now read:

Be the person your cat thinks you are.

Behind the desk, above the receptionist's beautifully coiffured head, was the glass installation that welcomed the visitor to The Tinkle Studio: An Ethical Executive Consultancy.

Brian opened his office door and stepped out into the waiting room. Dressed in a soft Armani linen suit and Gucci loafers, he looked more like a yachtsman than a therapist; but that was the idea. His eye patch was exactly the same color as his pocket square, something which, for some reason, had set the New York fashion scene alight.

Even after a year, Brian still marveled at how everything had turned out. Hirsch had so enjoyed being Overlord that he offered to buy him out right there and then. Sarpent hadn't minded—he just wanted to serve evil, and if not Brian, then Hirsch would do just as well. The negotiations had been relatively simple, and though Hirsch had come off much better (though the price of a Kingdom compared to Upper West Side real estate wasn't really that different), Brian didn't mind. He had the New York practice, a reasonably immense fortune stashed away in a place called the Cayman Islands, and a brand new alpaca farm in Idaho.

Brian discovered that he had a natural talent for steering people back towards the light. Kings, seers, sages, presidents, ministers, and all manner of monsters and piebald creatures from across the breadth and width of the ninety-nine dimensions sought his sage advice when they found themselves succumbing to their darker desires.

"Your three-thirty is here, Doctor," the receptionist said politely, handing Brian a manila folder. A single, sad-looking elf sat enveloped in one of the Chesterfields, hands held stiffly in his lap. Brian smiled, remembering how he'd felt when he'd sat there waiting for Hirsch. He opened the folder, glancing quickly at the front page. Having decimated the world Kah in error, the LightLord of Quaa'lar, First Seeker of the Justice of Marlorr, Luminescent Silverhand of . . . Brian skipped down.

His first name was Simon.

Well, it seemed Simon continued to stray somewhat from the light after his administrative mistake and had taken a blue orc for a mistress and murdered her prankster in a jealous fit. Nothing that couldn't be put right. Well, the prankster might be a problem, but he could probably be resurrected, or at the least, reincarnated.

Brian motioned the elf through with a smile and a soft welcoming word.

This should be a walk in the park.

And he would certainly be finished in time to hop a plane to Idaho for the weekend.

 

 

 

Back | Next
Framed