“But we already went to every slave dealer in town, master,” protested Shelyid.
“You are too pessimistic, Shelyid. The individual of whom I speak is not a slaver. He owns a circus, and has, I am led to understand, a sizable collection of freaks and sports of nature, to which he may wish to add another specimen.” And so saying, the wizard departed, locking the door behind him.
Following the wizard’s departure, Shelyid huddled on his pallet, misery writ plain upon his face. Now that his feeble mind was no longer distracted by the sights and sounds of the Caravanserai, it was plain as day that the wretched dwarf’s thoughts were focused with undivided attention upon his plight.
“A circus freak,” he muttered. “A slave was bad enough, but a circus freak!” Many long minutes of silence followed; then—”People’ll laugh at me. Point fingers. Throw food. Probably get better food thrown at you than they give you to eat regular, anyway.” Many more long minutes of silence. “And what about upward social mobility?” he called out suddenly, into the gathering twilight.
Many more long minutes passed. Then did a look of discomfort come to sit upon his face. Alas, the dwarf’s fears had produced the inevitable biological concomitant.
“Gotta shit,” said he. And so saying, rose and minced toward the door, which opened into the corridor where the water closet was located. But at the door he halted, muttering.
“Can’t leave the room, master said. Under any circumstances, he said. Besides, door’s locked.” He turned away, mounting agony writ plain upon his face.
“But I gotta shit.” He stared at the floor—a wild surmise—but then: “Cripes no, dummy. Issa Consortium floor—prob’bly gut ya f’that.” Suddenly his legs coiled about each other like vines.
“Gotta shit bad!” he wailed. Then did understanding and wisdom come and sit upon his brow. “O’course!” he cried. “The old scroll! S’no good anyway.”
And so saying, the dwarf hopped across the room, limbs still entwined. He flung himself upon the wizard’s sack, feverishly scrabbling through its contents. At length he emerged, clutching in his hand an old and much-worn scroll entitled On the Transmutation of Base Elements Into Gold.
“Master’ll never miss’t—s’tried it dozens a times, s’never worked.” And not a moment too soon did the apprentice spread the scroll upon the floor and attend to his urgent business.
There did Shelyid squat for a time, staring placidly at the opposite wall. Eventually finished with his work, the dwarf rose and buckled his breeches. Then, turning and stooping over, he prepared to pick up the scroll and its contents and hurl them through the window onto the street below, this method of waste disposal being de riguer throughout Grotum. But he was of a sudden transfixed. For imagine his astonishment when he perceived that, where should have lain certain objects the precise nature of which we will delicately leave to the gentle reader’s understanding, lay instead—mirabile dictu!—several large and oddly shaped ingots of gold.
And it was at this very moment that the wizard returned to the room. It required a full ten minutes for Zulkeh to decipher Shelyid’s ensuing babble, following which he smiled approvingly and patted the dwarf’s head.
“You have done well, Shelyid. I perceive now my past error concerning this scroll. My mistake lay in assuming that by ‘base elements’ were meant the common metals, whereas in fact were meant base elements, of which, as is well known, there is none baser than dwarf excrement. And there is a lesson to be learned from this, my stupid but loyal apprentice, in that subtlety of mind can be, on occasion, its own undoing.
“Indeed, this stroke of fortune comes at a most opportune moment, for the individual I went to see expressed a total lack of interest in buying you for his circus. All this, however, is now behind us. Armed with this newfound wealth, we are funded not only for our present needs but for some considerable portion of the future as well.”
Shelyid’s ugly little face crinkled with pleasure. Not so the wizard’s—for Zulkeh’s benign smile turned in a instant to a fearsome scowl.
“I note also, however,” spoke the mage in a stern voice, “that you have grossly defiled one of my scrolls, the which I had faithfully entrusted to your care.” And the sorcerer thrashed his apprentice soundly.