The End of Oz
Page 11
I yawned and stretched, and the sad little servant who’d accompanied the Nome King (did he even have a name?) scurried forward.
“Good morning, mistress,” it—she—whispered. Up close, she didn’t look any more impressive than she had when she’d accompanied the Nome King into my chamber. Her face was seamed with dozens of tiny wrinkles; dark eyes peered nervously out from under her heavy, pale brow. Her larva-white skull was dotted with sparse blond fuzz. Her black robe looked like a potato sack, although at least it was clean. If this was the best Ev could do in the service field, I was totally out.
I looked at her and decided something. The Nome King had a whole castle of servants, but none of them were likely loyal to him for any reason but fear. I had always had three allies at my side—Tin, Scare, and the Lion. I needed some new ones. The Munchkin didn’t know it yet, but she was going to be my new best friend.
“Who are you?” I asked imperiously.
“A gift to you, mistress, from His Highness,” she whispered.
“Well, obviously,” I said, rolling my eyes. “I mean, servant, what is your name?”
“Bupu, mistress.”
Even her name was ugly. I sighed, calling on all my reserves of patience and reminding myself that when in Rome, we do as the Romans do, at least until we can fiddle while the city burns. I would have to make the best of a bad situation.
“Are you truly a Munchkin? You don’t look like one.”
“Yes, mistress,” the little creature said, looking despondent.
“What happened to you?”
“The Nome King brought me here, mistress. And for a while I had to work in the tunnels. With the Diggers.” A shudder rolled through her.
“The Diggers? What are Diggers?”
“His Highness’s guards, mistress,” she whispered. That was definitely fear.
I sighed. If I was going to make Ev my temporary home, I needed to know what I was in for. This sad little creature was the only source I had. I patted the bed beside me. “Have some porridge,” I suggested. “And tell me everything I need to know about these . . . tunnels.”
Her eyes went huge and rabbity with terror. “I mustn’t touch mistress’s food.”
“I’m not going to punish you.” She was still frozen and staring at me. “I promise. When was the last time you ate?”
She made a weird convulsive movement with her shoulders, somewhere between a shrug and a nod. I filled an empty bowl from the tray and held it out. “I’m serious. Come on.”
Her hands were trembling as she reached out and slowly took the bowl. She was obviously expecting it to be some kind of trick. She actually flinched when she touched the bowl with her stubby little hands. I’m all for disciplining one’s staff—after all, the devil makes work for idle hands—but the poor creature seemed downright abused. I made a mental note and filed it away. She was obviously powerless, but she knew the palace better than I did—and she doubtless knew plenty more about the Nome King. If I got her to trust me, who knew what she might be able to do for me.
Bupu wolfed down the unappetizing stuff—at least someone was enjoying it—and didn’t put up a fuss when I refilled her bowl. When she’d cleaned up every last drop of porridge, she looked up at me, her eyes shining. “Mistress is very kind,” she said, and this time her voice was the tiniest bit stronger than her habitual whisper. I must admit I was touched. I am a kind mistress, but it so rarely gets acknowledged.
“Now it’s time for you to repay mistress,” I said briskly. Instantly, she shrank back in alarm, cowering at my feet. “Calm down, I’m not going to murder you. I just want to know a bit about the palace.” She’d gone mute with terror, staring at me with beseeching eyes. This was really going to take some patience. “Gossip?” I suggested. “How things work around here? Who’s in charge?”
“His Highness,” she babbled immediately. “His Highness, wisest of all kings, noblest of all rulers, bravest of all—”
“Noblest?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. “Of all?”
Her eyes got even bigger and she looked frantically around the room as though searching for a way out. “Noblest . . . of all . . . rulers who aren’t Dorothy,” she finished miserably. I smiled. That was better. But really, the poor thing couldn’t help herself. She’d clearly been terrorized. I wasn’t going to blame her for not acknowledging my obvious superiority. Perhaps the journey from Oz had addled her head somewhat. Something had happened to her in Ev, that was for sure. She was the most decrepit-looking Munchkin I’d ever seen.
“Look, I’m not going to tear you limb from limb for skipping the standard company intro,” I said impatiently. “I know the Nome King is the king. It’s in his name. I want to know the rest. The good stuff. How the behind the scenes works.” I hit on a flash of inspiration. “So I can best please His Majesty this afternoon when I meet with him,” I said. “Bupu, I’m just so nervous. The king is so powerful and strong. What will I do if you don’t help me?”
To my relief, that worked. I wasn’t sure how much more nonsense I could come up with. She nodded eagerly. “I understand now, mistress,” she said, her voice a little firmer again. I settled against the pillows. Maybe Bupu could scrounge up some nail polish once she was done filling me in on the palace intrigue.
I wasn’t going to hold my breath.
Once she got going—and reassured herself that I really wasn’t going to smack her around for talking—she seemed to enjoy herself as she explained the intricacies of the palace hierarchy.
According to Bupu, she wasn’t the only Munchkin the Nome King had kidnapped—he preferred them for his household staff. (Interesting.) They were overseen by a senior Munchkin named Esmerelda. Bupu’s tone suggested she didn’t think much of this Esmerelda character, but she didn’t comment. The cave trolls, who were bigger, stronger, and most likely dumber, although Bupu didn’t say so, did various labor-intensive tasks, like widening the tunnels, forging weapons, hauling stone and coal, and stoking the huge forges. And the Diggers . . . Bupu trailed off when she got to them, her lower lip trembling.
“The Diggers . . . dig?” I prompted. She nodded mutely. “As well as?” Her shoulders were crawling up her ears again as if she was trying to make herself as small and as invisible as possible.
“Hurt people,” she said miserably.
The Diggers must be the Nome King’s soldiers with the strange lights in their foreheads. How did he control them? Could they use magic? Were they Nomes, like him, or some other kind of creature? But when I pressed her, she only shook her head, her eyes wild, so I left it alone. I’d have plenty of time to do more research. Now it was time to get dressed.
“You must help me select my court dress,” I said imperiously. Another look of terror flitted across her face. “Let me guess,” I sighed. “Not a lot of noble ladies in Ev? You’re wildly underqualified for the position of lady’s handmaid?”
She stared at me with her big, uncomprehending frog eyes. Not a problem. I’d worked with rough clay before. Give me a couple of days with her, and I’d turn her into the Ming vase of ladies-in-waiting.
“Good morning, mistress,” it—she—whispered. Up close, she didn’t look any more impressive than she had when she’d accompanied the Nome King into my chamber. Her face was seamed with dozens of tiny wrinkles; dark eyes peered nervously out from under her heavy, pale brow. Her larva-white skull was dotted with sparse blond fuzz. Her black robe looked like a potato sack, although at least it was clean. If this was the best Ev could do in the service field, I was totally out.
I looked at her and decided something. The Nome King had a whole castle of servants, but none of them were likely loyal to him for any reason but fear. I had always had three allies at my side—Tin, Scare, and the Lion. I needed some new ones. The Munchkin didn’t know it yet, but she was going to be my new best friend.
“Who are you?” I asked imperiously.
“A gift to you, mistress, from His Highness,” she whispered.
“Well, obviously,” I said, rolling my eyes. “I mean, servant, what is your name?”
“Bupu, mistress.”
Even her name was ugly. I sighed, calling on all my reserves of patience and reminding myself that when in Rome, we do as the Romans do, at least until we can fiddle while the city burns. I would have to make the best of a bad situation.
“Are you truly a Munchkin? You don’t look like one.”
“Yes, mistress,” the little creature said, looking despondent.
“What happened to you?”
“The Nome King brought me here, mistress. And for a while I had to work in the tunnels. With the Diggers.” A shudder rolled through her.
“The Diggers? What are Diggers?”
“His Highness’s guards, mistress,” she whispered. That was definitely fear.
I sighed. If I was going to make Ev my temporary home, I needed to know what I was in for. This sad little creature was the only source I had. I patted the bed beside me. “Have some porridge,” I suggested. “And tell me everything I need to know about these . . . tunnels.”
Her eyes went huge and rabbity with terror. “I mustn’t touch mistress’s food.”
“I’m not going to punish you.” She was still frozen and staring at me. “I promise. When was the last time you ate?”
She made a weird convulsive movement with her shoulders, somewhere between a shrug and a nod. I filled an empty bowl from the tray and held it out. “I’m serious. Come on.”
Her hands were trembling as she reached out and slowly took the bowl. She was obviously expecting it to be some kind of trick. She actually flinched when she touched the bowl with her stubby little hands. I’m all for disciplining one’s staff—after all, the devil makes work for idle hands—but the poor creature seemed downright abused. I made a mental note and filed it away. She was obviously powerless, but she knew the palace better than I did—and she doubtless knew plenty more about the Nome King. If I got her to trust me, who knew what she might be able to do for me.
Bupu wolfed down the unappetizing stuff—at least someone was enjoying it—and didn’t put up a fuss when I refilled her bowl. When she’d cleaned up every last drop of porridge, she looked up at me, her eyes shining. “Mistress is very kind,” she said, and this time her voice was the tiniest bit stronger than her habitual whisper. I must admit I was touched. I am a kind mistress, but it so rarely gets acknowledged.
“Now it’s time for you to repay mistress,” I said briskly. Instantly, she shrank back in alarm, cowering at my feet. “Calm down, I’m not going to murder you. I just want to know a bit about the palace.” She’d gone mute with terror, staring at me with beseeching eyes. This was really going to take some patience. “Gossip?” I suggested. “How things work around here? Who’s in charge?”
“His Highness,” she babbled immediately. “His Highness, wisest of all kings, noblest of all rulers, bravest of all—”
“Noblest?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. “Of all?”
Her eyes got even bigger and she looked frantically around the room as though searching for a way out. “Noblest . . . of all . . . rulers who aren’t Dorothy,” she finished miserably. I smiled. That was better. But really, the poor thing couldn’t help herself. She’d clearly been terrorized. I wasn’t going to blame her for not acknowledging my obvious superiority. Perhaps the journey from Oz had addled her head somewhat. Something had happened to her in Ev, that was for sure. She was the most decrepit-looking Munchkin I’d ever seen.
“Look, I’m not going to tear you limb from limb for skipping the standard company intro,” I said impatiently. “I know the Nome King is the king. It’s in his name. I want to know the rest. The good stuff. How the behind the scenes works.” I hit on a flash of inspiration. “So I can best please His Majesty this afternoon when I meet with him,” I said. “Bupu, I’m just so nervous. The king is so powerful and strong. What will I do if you don’t help me?”
To my relief, that worked. I wasn’t sure how much more nonsense I could come up with. She nodded eagerly. “I understand now, mistress,” she said, her voice a little firmer again. I settled against the pillows. Maybe Bupu could scrounge up some nail polish once she was done filling me in on the palace intrigue.
I wasn’t going to hold my breath.
Once she got going—and reassured herself that I really wasn’t going to smack her around for talking—she seemed to enjoy herself as she explained the intricacies of the palace hierarchy.
According to Bupu, she wasn’t the only Munchkin the Nome King had kidnapped—he preferred them for his household staff. (Interesting.) They were overseen by a senior Munchkin named Esmerelda. Bupu’s tone suggested she didn’t think much of this Esmerelda character, but she didn’t comment. The cave trolls, who were bigger, stronger, and most likely dumber, although Bupu didn’t say so, did various labor-intensive tasks, like widening the tunnels, forging weapons, hauling stone and coal, and stoking the huge forges. And the Diggers . . . Bupu trailed off when she got to them, her lower lip trembling.
“The Diggers . . . dig?” I prompted. She nodded mutely. “As well as?” Her shoulders were crawling up her ears again as if she was trying to make herself as small and as invisible as possible.
“Hurt people,” she said miserably.
The Diggers must be the Nome King’s soldiers with the strange lights in their foreheads. How did he control them? Could they use magic? Were they Nomes, like him, or some other kind of creature? But when I pressed her, she only shook her head, her eyes wild, so I left it alone. I’d have plenty of time to do more research. Now it was time to get dressed.
“You must help me select my court dress,” I said imperiously. Another look of terror flitted across her face. “Let me guess,” I sighed. “Not a lot of noble ladies in Ev? You’re wildly underqualified for the position of lady’s handmaid?”
She stared at me with her big, uncomprehending frog eyes. Not a problem. I’d worked with rough clay before. Give me a couple of days with her, and I’d turn her into the Ming vase of ladies-in-waiting.
