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.
Gorge III was feeling grumpy. He glared around in the dimness of the central cavern, seeing only a few of his subjects here and there, all of them ignoring him. Everybody, it seemed, had decided to take the day off. No body was arguing, nobody was scurrying about bumping into one another, and worst of all, nobody was paying him any attention. He was surly and miffed, but he didn't know quite what to do about it.
'This insubor… insub… in… this no fun,' he grumbled, and nobody seemed to care.
Even old Hunch was no help. The grand notioner simply had shrugged and said, 'This Off Day, Highbulp. Nobody got to do anything on Off Day. Not even put up with Highbulp. Me, too.' And with that he had turned his back and wandered off.
For a time, the Highbulp fumed and stamped around. When that gained him no attention, he got his elk hide, pulled it around him with the great antlers jutting upward atop his head, and sat down to sulk.
As usual, when Gorge III set out to sulk, he went to sleep. His eyelids drooped, he yawned, the great antlers teetered and swayed above him, then tipped forward, held upright only by the elk hide on which he was sitting. His mind drifted off into muddy visions of hot stew, cold lizard, stolen ale, and comfortable confusion.
It seemed that Gorge III was alone in the cavern of This Place. It seemed that the cavern had grown darker, and that there was no one anywhere except himself. Or maybe there was someone else, but he couldn't see who it was.
'So THIS is the answer,' said a soft voice. Gorge couldn't remember the question.
'Poor Highbulp,' the voice whispered. 'Gets no respect.'
'Right,' Gorge tried to say, but it didn't seem worth the effort.
The voice soothed him, weaving its slow way through drifting dreams. 'Need to do something special to get respect,' it said. 'Something grand and glorious. Something great.'
'Sure,' he thought about saying. 'That nothin' new. Highbulp glorious all the time.'
'But SPECIAL,' the voice purred. 'Need to do something special.'
'Like what?' the Highbulp considered asking.
