Simply by virtue of his name, they were never quite sure who — or what — he was. That alone eliminated any possibility of competition for his job.
Deciding to be Gorge III had been an inspiration. Now, many years later, the Highbulp sensed another inspiration coming on. He didn't know what it was, but its symptoms were not quite the same as indigestion and it had something to do with the way he felt when he put on his new elk hide with its enormous antlers. Somehow, the improbable attire made him feel like a Highbulp of Destiny.
So, when his beloved consort — what's-her-name — suggested a celebration in honor of his birthday, Gorge readily agreed and promptly forgot the entire matter. He was far more interested in strutting around in his elk hide and feeling important than in planning formalities.
Drule, on the other hand, had no such preoccupation.
"Hunch!" She summoned the grand notioner. "We celebrate Highbulp's birthday!"
"Fine," the ancient said, starting to doze off.
"Hunch!" she demanded. "Pay attention!"
He woke up, looking cranky. "To what?"
"Highbulp's birthday! Celebrate!"
"Why?"
That stumped Lady Drule for a moment, then she countered, "Highbulp say so."
Hunch sighed. "All right. When Highbulp's birthday?"
"Tomorrow," she decided. Other than today and yesterday, it was the only day that came to mind. And the
Highbulp certainly had not been born yesterday. "Make plan."
"What plan?"
"Who knows? Ask Highbulp."
The conversation was interrupted by a clatter and a flood of oaths. The great Highbulp, trying to wear elk antlers atop his head, had fallen on his back.
The grand notioner approached and stood over his liege, poking at him with the mop-handle staff. "Highbulp. What you want to do tomorrow?"
"Nothing," Gorge grunted, getting to his feet. "Go 'way."
With his answer, the grand notioner returned to Lady
Drule. "Highbulp say for celebrate, all go 'way, do nothing."
It was not exactly what Drule had in mind, but she was busy with other matters by then. Some of the court ladies were bickering over the new stew tureen, and it was obvious to Lady Drule that they should have more than one tureen. An entire table setting might be nice.
Hunch frowned and repeated the Highbulp's order. "For celebrate, all go 'way, do nothing," he said.
Drule glanced around. "No work? Nothing?"
"Nothing."
"Off day, then." She nodded. "Tell everybody, tomorrow is Off Day."
Skitt, the miner, was one of the first to hear the news, and helped to spread word of it. "Tomorrow Off Day," he told everyone he could find. "Highbulp's orders."
"What is Off Day?" someone asked him. "What we supposed to do on Off Day?"
"What we do on Off Day?" someone else asked.
Skitt had no answer. He hadn't heard the details. For his own part, though, he intended to go to work.
Among the spoils of the ladies' foray, he had found a reaver's maul and a chisel. Skitt might have been only a gully dwarf, but he WAS a dwarf. The use of tools was strong in his simple soul. He couldn't wait to see what he might do with a reaver's maul and chisel in a wine mine.
Thus it was that on one fateful day, two birthdays were celebrated — one above, in the Temple of the Kingpriest in the city of Istar, seat of clerical power and center by proclamation of all the world, and one below.
The high cleric of Taol had been under the weather, owing to a pardonable excess of elven spirits used to counter the grueling effects of a long and arduous journey to Istar. But when it was announced that the pious festivity of the new day would be preceded by a petitioned meeting of the grand council, his health improved markedly. One did not send regrets when the Kingpriest summoned the grand council.
Thus all nine of the Most Revered Sons — the high clerics of the nine realms — were in attendance in the Hall of Audience when the panels of glowing stone were rolled back to flood the chamber with glorious light, light that seemed to emanate from the throne revealed there, and from the person who sat upon it.
None of them would remember afterward exactly what the Kingpriest looked like. No one ever did. There was always only the lingering impression of immense good, flowing upon waves of light.
In the entire great chamber, there was only one small comer where shadows lurked, a niche among the great floral carvings that rose from the radiant floor. To one who might notice such things — and few did, in the presence of His Radiance — it seemed only a slight anomaly in the magnificent architecture, an inadvertent cleft where the light was blotted out. But to Sopin, who lived daily in the sanctums of the temple, the corner was a source of dread. He glanced that way and thought he saw movement there, among the shadows. He could not be sure, but it seemed that the Dark One was present.
Sopin shivered and turned his eyes away, letting his troubled thoughts evaporate in the brilliance of the light from the throne of the Kingpriest.
There were the prayers and the rituals, the lavishing of appropriate unction toward each of the good gods of the universe, and then it began. "Revered Sons." The voice that came from the source of light was as warm and comforting as the light itself, as resonant as the rays of the sun. "Our beloved brother, the master of scrolls, has petitioned for audience, as is his right. He proposes an edict, one which has been considered before, and one which would require your sanction."
Sopin settled himself into his cubicle, ready for a long and learned debate. He had heard it all before, and now he would hear it again, and he wondered if the outcome would be any different.
Never had he seen the master of scrolls so determined, though, and he wondered if it were possible that evil itself might provoke its own final demise.
Time would tell.
Skitt had about given up on replenishing the source of the wine, which had run dry after an hour's flow. A large part of the cavern of This Place was now waist-deep in wine, but no more had come lately from the pay dirt vein. When he finally managed to widen the vein enough to squeeze through — it struck him as slightly odd that the tunnel had started in stone and ended in wood — he found beyond a sticky, reeking mass of pulp. His maul and chisel had little effect on the mess and, in fact, he very nearly lost them.
He had almost decided that the gusher was no more than a pocket with a dry hole beyond, when splashing sounds behind him caught his attention and he backed from the tunnel to see what was going on. Across a small lake of spilled wine, Lady Drule and a sizable entourage of other Aghar females had launched a makeshift raft and were poling themselves toward the dark seeps that led to the Halls of the Talls. Many of them carried empty sacks and bits of net.
Skitt waved at them from the mine entrance.
Some of them waved back, and Lady Drule called, "Why you here on Off Day, Skatt?"
"Skitt," he corrected.
"Skitt, then," she said. "Why?"
"Dunno," he admitted. "Somebody give me that name, I guess. Where ladies go?"
"Need more stew bowls," she called back. "Lady Grund remember where they are. Place where Tall guards stack metal clothes."
"Have nice day." Skitt waved again.
"Off Day."
"What?"
"Skatt supposed to say, 'Have nice Off Day.' This Off Day, remember?"
"Oh." Skitt waved again. The raft was past him now and approaching the ledge where the seeps began. Having nothing better to do, Skitt went back into his tunnel, took a deep breath, and plunged into the wall of sticky stuff. It had occurred to him that somewhere beyond there might be more wood or rock — something that he could cut with his chisel.