The Mongolian Wizard Stories by unknow

Author:unknow
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Alternate History, Fantasy, Fiction, Mystery, Science Fiction, Short Story, Steampunk, Collection, Speculative Fiction

Tomas looked surprised by Freki’s presence but graciously welcomed Ritter into his room nonetheless. Ritter was not surprised to see two matching armchairs and assorted furniture far superior to what was in the aide-de-camp’s room. The valet was clearly the enterprising sort of servant who took care to feather his own nest wherever he might find himself.

“You were reading,” Ritter observed, glancing at a book that had been placed, face down and open on an end table. “May I ask what?”

“Ovid. Oh, not his serious poems. The Metamorphoses. It’s trash, really. But trash by a great poet, and thus, the master would allow it within his orbit.”

“Martel was a demanding man, then?” Ritter asked.

“Repugnant is the mot juste, I believe. I see I shock you. But, as you must know, no man is a hero to his valet. Nor, if the man in question is the master, by anyone who knew him. Your dog seems very curious about my possessions.”

“He is a wolf. Tell me about your feelings toward the maréchal.”

“I adored him, of course. I had no choice. But I could see his flaws. Consider: My master’s talent expressed itself almost from birth. The world doted on him. When he was a toddler, other infants shared their toys with him. He did not get in schoolyard fights, because his fellow students deferred to him. As soon as he became interested, girls were eager to assuage his lust. Inevitably, the poor child became a monster of ego. He hardly had a choice.”

“Yet he grew up to become a great general.”

“A great leader—there is a difference. His knowledge of tactics and strategy is rudimentary at best. But that weakness is made up for by his staff. Who, because of their intense loyalty toward him, vie with each other to offer up the best strategies and most cunning tactics for him to present as his own.”

“Tell me,” Ritter said, “about his aide-de-camp, Kasimov.”

“He is a Russian; that says it all. Always moping around about how he lost Russia, he lost his career, he lost his faith, he lost his family, and God knows what else. If he had a balalaika, he’d be playing it right now. Something mournful, no doubt.”

“And the marshal’s mistress?”

“His strumpet, you mean. I’ve shocked you again. But you didn’t have to clean up after them. Trust me, she performed acts no decent woman would.”

His work done, Freki padded softly back to Ritter and lay down at his feet. Ritter, in turn, withdrew his mind from the wolf.

“Speaking of deviant practices,” Ritter said, “I note that you are a sodomite. Please don’t try to deny it. Freki can smell the lubricant that so many of you keep handy and the lilac water that you wear on those occasions when you go looking for companionship in certain dark places frequented by men who are afraid to say aloud what they desire and require such signs to recognize each other.”

“Please, don’t . . .”

“I am not shocked, Monsieur Tomas. There are far more of your kind than most people think—I believe even you would be surprised how many more.

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