The Enchantress of World's End

“Failure to disturb the peace during the nocturnal period, my lord Nurdix,” said the monitor, snapping to attention.

The man at the second desk, a pudgy, sallow-skinned little man with a bald, round head and squinting, gelid eyes, snapped his fingers loudly.

“Be precise, fellow, when you address the Triumvir Nurdix! The full list of particulars, if you please!”

“Sorry, my lord Glastro,” said the officer, whereupon he began to crisply rattle off a roster of crimes which the Illusionist and his Mends had not committed. Since they had been guilty of no crimes whatsoever, the list was extraordinarily lengthy. It began, in alphabetical order, with Abandonment of Spouse or Offspring, Failure to Commit Same; Abberation, Sexual, Lack of; Abjuration of Sworn Oaths, Refusal to Do So; Abortion, Non-, and so on. The recital took forever, or anyway it seemed like forever. At about the time the monitor had got to Defenestration, Anti-, or failure to throw anybody out of the window, a second squad entered the hall lugging the unconscious form of Ganelon Silvermane.

The third Triumvir, who had yet to be heard from, eyed the slumbering giant curiously. This third ruler, Petraphar by name, was a gray and mousy little wisp of a man with a soft, purring voice, veiled, elusive eyes and an annoying habit of constantly rubbing his hands together in a washing motion.

“Oh, my, and another one!” he lisped breathily. “That is correct—the bill of particulars does mention three of them. Goodness! Three nocturnal malefactors on the same day! A new record, I do believe. Tell me, captain, did the big man, ah, vigorously oppose his arrest?”

“You might say so, my lord,” replied the captain through a mouthful of broken teeth. “A whiff of the sleep-gas laid him out, however; and the boys will be just fine, the Surgeon informs me, in a week or two at most.”

“My, my! Well, just lay him down over there. Pray continue with the counts, lieutenant!”

The Illusionist cleared his throat. “If it please the court, I believe “we can dispense with the full list of crimes which we unfortunately failed to commit. If your honors please, we are willing to concede ourselves guilty of, ahem, not committing every crime in, ah, the book. Except possibly for Ogling in the First Degree, which we did quite a bit of last night, heh hen!”

The Triumvirs were not amused. “Ogling is not a crime, merely a misdemeanor!” snapped glum Nurdix fiercely. “That will do, lieutenant; leave the document of complaint with the registrar on your way out. Smartly, now!”

The officer saluted and turned on his heel. The Illusionist stepped forward and began speaking amiably.

“If it please the court, I should like to point out that in no other country or city known to me, is the failure to commit a crime a culpable offence—”

“The customs in foreign realms have no bearing on the present case, sir,” puffed fat Glastro imperturbably. Behind his veil of lilac vapor, the Illusionist blinked thoughtfully.

“Well, perhaps not, but your honors will realize that, as mere peaceful travelers, visitors to your fair city, just passing through, we had no fore-knowledge of the peculiarly Chxian criminal code—”

“Ignorance of the law is no excuse,” whispered pallid little Petraphar, rubbing his hands together.

“But—surely, your honors can’t hold us to blame for breaking a law so unheard-of as to be unexpected! How could we possibly have known—?”

Law-abiding travelers should make a point of inquiring into the local statutes upon the moment of entering a city,” said Nurdix shortly. “Are we agreed, then, brothers?”

“Aye! Guilty as charged,” said the others in a chorus.

“But—but—see here—you can’t—” spluttered the Illusionist helplessly, as the monitors led him out of the room and down to the dungeons below the Adininistratium.

“Can’t we, indeed?” smirked Glastro, in the ensuing silence. The other two Triumvirs laughed.

For a city as grim, colorless and dour as Chx—by daytime, at least—where even the inns provide few of the creature comforts, it would be folly to expect the jails to be comfortable. And, true to form, they were not. Furnished only with a wooden bench, a tin pot, and a pile of straw, they were harshly utilitarian.

“But at least it’s a clean cell,” said Xarda brightly, trying to put the best face on things. Grumbling and grexing, the old magician slumped in a corner and refused to be cheered up. Still unconscious from the sleep-inducing vapor, the bronze giant lay on the floor, snoring stertorously.

Seeing that she was not going to perk up the Illusionist with ease, the girl knight strolled about the stark little stone cubicle, eventually going over to the barred grille that served as a door. She tested the bars and found them firm; tried the lock and discovered it to be new, well-oiled and quite solid. Even Xarda could not help heaving a little dispirited sigh.