But all was in vain. The truth lay hidden, the secret of the King’s dream obscure. At length, after a week of frenzied study, Zulkeh ceased his travails. Then for four days did he remain ensconced in his chair in the study, pondering silently. Around him Shelyid tiptoed, careful not to disturb his master’s musings—although on one occasion the loyal apprentice made so bold as to brush off the dust which had accumulated upon the wizard’s immobile person.
The wizard remained undisturbed during this period, despite the incessant arrival of messengers from King Roy demanding to know what progress could be reported. For the loyal Shelyid rebuffed these assaults with unwonted determination. Indeed, he became rather adept at opening the communication port in the door and shouting out: “Go away! The master is busy, can’t be disturbed, go away!”
Alas, the day came when a whole squad of Royal Constabulary arrived.
“Open up in the name of King Roy of Goimr, open up in the name of the law!” bellowed the lieutenant in charge, all the while pounding on the great oaken door with his truncheon of office. Shelyid, to his credit, attempted to stand fast. But, when six burly troopers began to apply their shoulders to the door, the dwarf undid the bolts and lifted the bar, swinging the door wide just as the staunch six hurtled at it. They came crashing through into the entry hall where they piled up like so many falling duckpins, dislodging as they fell a neat pyramid of mummified heads. These unpleasant items, not much more than skulls, really—strands of beard still attached to their mandibles—had been stacked there by Shelyid pursuant to his master’s command to retrieve the heads of all bearded men from the crypts as part of the wizard’s investigation.
Shelyid shrank back into an alcove as the policemen made frantic efforts to arise from the carpet of heads, the sight of which objects did little for their morale, judging, at least, from their wails. At length the officer entered and commanded his troopers to silence and order. As they moodily regrouped, casting fearful glances down the various dark and dank passages which emanated from the foyer, the officer addressed himself to Shelyid.
“You—there in the alcove—present yourself! Where is the wizard Zulkeh?”
Shelyid stood mute, his teeth chattering.
“Speak, grotesque dwarf! Or I’ll set the squad on you!”
The constables brightened visibly and began to finger their various belts, clubs, coshes, sticks, straps, gloves, knucks and other instruments of lawful persuasion. One of the beefy policemen reached out a hand and dragged Shelyid forward by the scruff of the neck.
“You want I should give him the third degree, Lieutenant?” he demanded with a leer.
“Wait! Wait!” cried Shelyid. “I’ll take you to the master!”
“Do so, then!” barked the lieutenant. Released by the constable, Shelyid started toward a flight of steps at the opposite end of the hall. As he headed down the steps, followed by the Royal Constabulary, the dwarf said timidly: “Things’ll look a little weird, but you don’t have to be afraid. It’s just that the master’s trying the cantrips of Escher Laebmauntsforscynneweëld and I always hate it when he does because—”
The gnome’s words were cut off by great cries of fear and shock from the Constabulary. Of a sudden, the staircase they were descending was inverted and tipped to a ninety degree horizontal angle. The policemen dropped to their knees in startlement, despite the dwarf’s warning cries.
“No! No! Don’t do that! The staircase isn’t really—”
Alas, the warning came too late. In a trice, the policemen had inadvertently rolled themselves down the staircase, even though it appeared they were rolling up and sideways. Their progress down—up? along?—it was difficult to say—the staircase was precipitous in the extreme, and most painful to boot, judging by their cries of hurt and distress. Shelyid sprang aside as the squad made their way forward like so many fleshy tumbleweeds, the lieutenant rolling up the rear.
The dwarf hurriedly followed the law enforcement bowling balls, calling out:
“When you get to the bottom—I mean, the top—I mean, the end—don’t move! Don’t move!”
Alas, his words went unheeded. No sooner did the Constabulary pile up at the terminus of the staircase than they staggered to their feet, bellowing with outrage like bulls. A moment later they were flattened by the arrival of a giant tarot card onto their heads. The Knave of Batons, fittingly enough.