The mage shook his staff and advanced to the center of the room, glowering down at his apprentice. “Gnome, you have displeased me beyond measure! Aroused my temper! Wrothed my wrath! Incited my—”
“SHUDDUP!” came the united cry from every throat in the room save Shelyid’s. And as, among the throats numbered in the room, were those of the witch Magrit and Les Six—I leave aside the now-revealed-to-be-stentorian voice of the normally-soft-spoken-though-possessed-of-windpipes-like-unto-the-moose-of-the-north Greyboar—the wizard was stunned into silence.
“You are an asshole,” stated Magrit.
“A gaping asshole,” clarified the salamander.
At this point, Les Six would no doubt have contributed a round or two, but Ignace—of all people!—rose to the mage’s defense.
“Still and all, he’s a good wizard,” said the agent. “I wouldn’t have thought so before this little escapade—but there’s quite the hexman underneath all that verbiage!”
Magrit looked at Ignace, then back to Zulkeh.
“Yeah, I know,” she said sourly. “That’s why I knew it would work.” She adjusted the shawl around Shelyid’s shoulders, saying: “He’s a windbag, he’s got an ego would paralyze Narcissus, he’s self-righteous like the Old Geister in his cloud-shrouded citadel wishes He could have wet dreams about, he could dry up a middle-sized lake with hot air, he could bore an oak tree into falling over in the hope of escape, he—” She paused, took a deep breath. “He has the screwiest ideas about the real world—gravity’s caused by graveness, can you believe it?” Another deep breath. “But when it comes to real magic, he’s a hell of a wizard. I hate to admit it, but he’s probably the best actual sorcerer in the world.”
She rose suddenly and advanced upon Zulkeh, who was standing as rigid as a post. Seizing the mage’s shoulders with her thick hands, she shoved him into a chair. Then, returning to her seat, she spoke again:
“While we’ve been waiting for you, Shelyid’s been telling us all about his life.”
“Cheerful little fellow,” commented the first.
“Nary a complaint uttered,” added the second.
“Not a peep!” emphasized the third.
“Naught but a recital of events,” summarized the fourth.
The round now took an ugly turn.
“Difficult to fathom such innocence,” mused the fifth.
“In light of selfsame events,” agreed the sixth.
“‘Tis not the beatings, of course,” protested the first.
“Certainly not!” concurred the second.
“Good for sprouts to be switched now and then!” snorted the third.
“Though perhaps not with oaken staffs,” qualified the fourth.
“Nor with the frequency of pellets in a hailstorm,” added the fifth.
“Should at least let the wounds heal,” developed the sixth.
“The blood dry.” The first again.
“The scars fade.” This from the second.
“Nay, ’tis the other little matter,” stated the third.
“The selling into slavery,” specified the fourth.
“The attempted selling into slavery,” quibbled the fifth.
“The distinction is of little moment,” countered the sixth.
“From the moral standpoint,” explained the first.
The round now took a very ugly turn.
“As has oft been expressed by the toilers in their various congresses and assemblies,” began the second.
“Speaking with one voice, and in no uncertain terms,” added the third.
“The downtrodden masses,” continued the fourth, “have declared the traffic in human flesh an abomination.”
“An historical anachronism,” chipped in the fifth.
“A monstrous crime ‘gainst humanity,” concluded the sixth.
“To be dealt with by any representatives of the suffering classes—” The first.
“Elected in formal congress—” The second.
“Or self-appointed—” The third.
“Due to the press of circumstances.” The fourth.
The round now took an extremely ugly turn. Such, at least, seemed the best interpretation of the fact that Les Six had put down their teacups, risen to their feet, circled the mage, clenched their meaty fists.
“You wouldn’t happen to have the odd bucket of tar lying about, Magrit dear?” asked the fifth.
“Forgotten in a corner, perhaps?” queried the sixth.
“Hot tar,” clarified the first.
“The unused pillow here and there?” inquired the second.
“We’ll be needing feathers,” explained the third.
Fortunately for the dignity of the mage, a new party interjected himself into the scene.
“Just hold on a moment there, lads,” rumbled the strangler. Les Six turned as one man and glared at the strangler. Greyboar raised a huge hand, in a calming gesture.