‘I am old. I know this. I am old, and near death. Long have I struggled against the infirmities of age, but the struggle availeth naught. In my early days, a wise man sold me the secret of immortal youth. He was a wise man indeed, for he prospered exceedingly.’
The Wormlord paused. Alfric suspected this was to give the assembly the chance to laugh. But nobody did so.
‘Wise indeed,’ repeated the Wormlord. ‘For he grew rich while others died.’
Then he paused again. Now most of his auditors understood that a joke was being made, but they did not laugh. Instead, an embarrassed silence prevailed. It was not the done thing to laugh at a joke at the king’s expense. Not even when the joke was made by the king himself.
‘He grew rich,’ said the Wormlord wearily, ‘and I grew old. Now I am near death. It is no use pretending. I know myself to be mortal, and know that others know as much.
‘Though I am old, death still holds its fears for me. This surprises me. In my youth, I thought fear of oblivion to be the exclusive property of the young, of those with so much to lose. Now I am old. My bones hurt, my teeth are gone, and of my bowels the less said the better. Still, I have something to lose — my life. Life is still life, even though one be the age one is.’
What age was that? Alfric did not know. Alfric was 33. His father, Grendel Danbrog, was 58. Which meant his grandfather was unlikely to be much younger than 72, and was more likely to be aged over 80.
The Wormlord continued:
‘While fear of death still appals me, nevertheless I cannot hold to life much longer. Once I have found a suitable successor to the throne, I will march forth against Herself.’
Tromso Stavenger glanced sideways at a frozen-faced Ursula Major then said:
‘My daughter is not a suitable successor. I have discussed this with her.’
Alfric could imagine the nature of that discussion. ‘Ursula will naturally inherit the throne if I die before a suitable champion has proved himself better suited for that seat,’ said the Wormlord. ‘However, you all know I have the right to appoint such a champion to succeed me. Written law and the dictates of custom give me such a right. There are ample precedents.’
Hie Wormlord allowed himself some silence. Was this to give his words time to sink in? Or was he wearying from the effort of speaking? Alfric was inclined to think it was weariness which had compelled Stavenger to pause. Certainly the old man’s voice was much stronger when he continued:
‘The champion must be from one of the Families. That is my rule. The champion must perform three feats of courage. That is my rule. To be precise, the champion must recover the three saga swords and bring them here to me in Saxo Pall. Once this has been done, I will yield my throne to the champion, then march forth to do battle with Herself.
‘You all know what the saga swords are. Likewise, you all know where these weapons are to be found, and what dread dangers will confront the questing hero who dares to seek their possession^ I trust that I have no need to remind you of the special conditions attached to any quest against the dragon Qa.
‘Well then. Do I have a volunteer?’
Did he?
No.
A great silence prevailed in the throneroom.
As Tromso Stavenger had rightly stated, all present were familiar with the difficulties of questing for the three saga swords. Alfric, who had attended memorial services for some of the would-be heroes who had dared such quests, was far too sane even to think of volunteering his flesh for such lunacy.
But others must have been thinking on his behalf, for Grendel Danbrog spoke into the silence, saying:
‘My son chooses to dare himself upon this quest.’
The strongspoken words echoed about the throneroom.
‘Bravo,’ murmured Nappy.
Alfric was about to protest, but Ciranoush Zaxilian Norn spoke first, saying:
‘No minion of the moon can sit upon the Wormlord’s throne.’
‘I will vacate the throne in favour of the victor,’ said Tromso Stavenger. ‘Regardless of who the victor might be.’
By now, Alfric understood all. Tromso Stavenger had repented of the rage with which he had driven his son from his house. Now the Wormlord was going to make amends by allowing his grandson to claim the throne. Alfric looked from Grendel to Stavenger. Both were smiling upon him.
But The three quests were suicidal, and Alfric knew it. He knew too that the life of a Yudonic Knight was not for him. He had no taste for drinking, brawling and debauchery; and was reluctant to admit to any desire to rule over people addicted to such activities. So he spoke up strongly, saying:
‘My father has nominated me as a questing hero, but I do not accept this nomination. I will have nothing to do with any such quest.’
Then Alfric turned on his heel and departed from the throneroom. Some of the Yudonic Knights spat on him as he passed, but he escaped from Saxo Pall with his life and liberty unimpaired.
At least for the moment.
CHAPTER SIX
When at last Alfric left the fastness of Saxo Pall and began the descent of Mobius Kolb, he expected to make his way back to Vamvelten Street, there to join his wife in a meal and, later, in sexual congress.
But this was not to be.
For Alfric was still descending the slopes of Mobius Kolb when he was intercepted by a messenger who directed him to report to the Bank. This he did, though it meant a weary trek up to the heights.
The light of the Oracle of Ob shone strange and strong from the utmost peak of Mobius Kolb. Once again, Alfric felt the lure of that light. He was glad to escape inside, into the vestibule of the Bank, where once again he made the change from boots and leathers to robes and slippers.
To his surprise, Alfric was then directed to the office of Comptroller Xzu, a Banker Second Class who was responsible for Alfric’s supervision. Many feared Xzu, but Alfric did not. For he had something on Xzu; he knew Xzu had accepted bribes in the past, and, what’s more, he could prove it. If the need arose.
On arrival at Xzu’s office, Alfric received another surprise; for the office sent him on to the Survey Room, a hallowed chamber high in the Rock of Rocks, the gaunt donjon which served the Flesh Traders’ Financial Association as its ultimate stronghold. Only the mightiest managers of the Bank worked out of the Survey Room; and Alfric had never visited it before except to deliver messages.
To the Keeper of Secrets went Alfric Danbrog, ascending many weary stairs to reach the Survey Room. The habit of housing the high and the mighty in upper-storey rooms was neither practical nor desirable, but it was nearly unshakeable: even though it properly belonged to an earlier era when (this much the legends acknowledged, and more) dignitaries could be whisked to the heights by magical means or their mechanical equivalents.
At last Alfric reached the door guarding the final few stairs leading up to the Survey Room, negotiated his safe-passage with the guards who stood sentry there, then ascended to the utmost heights of the Keeper of Secrets and entered the Survey Room. This capacious office was lit by a full two dozen lanterns. It had four windows, each guarded by a single sheet of glass; but precious little could be seen of the world outside.
Comptroller Xzu offered his guest a little wine. Alfric sipped cautiously, tasting, testing. He calculated interest rates in his head, thus assuring himself that his mental faculties were not being subtlely impaired. Thus he had been taught by the Bank; for the Bank had dealings with people from many cultures, some of them renowned for the use of subtle and swift-acting poisons.
‘While you’re here,’ said Xzu genially, ‘you might care to admire the view.’
Alfric knew not whether his superior was drunk; or deluded; or was making a joke; or mistakenly thought the view to be of interest. Rather than try to puzzle out this conundrum, Alfric dutifully peered through the nearest window, which showed him mostly his own reflection. He looked closer, using his hands to screen out lantern light. He caught a glimpse of a malevolent red light flaring in the depths of his own eyes: and jerked away abruptly.