Short QfG Story: "The Job"

[Rath Darkblade]

The Job

"...Name?"

"Erm..."

Mr Smallswood, the secretary, looked over his pince-nez at the man sitting opposite him. The man was youngish and very good-looking, with strawberry hair combed very definitely to the right. His teeth were obviously bleached. This wasn't odd; what was odd was the man's attire - a one-piece brown cloth-top with a sash fitted diagonally and tucked neatly into a brown belt, the belt holding up - Mr Smallswood squinted - yes, dark blue trousers, which were themselves tucked into dark brown plush boots.

Mr Smallswood frowned. He himself was of an old family much used to service, and as such he had learned never to judge people by their appearances. He himself had nothing much to boast there: small sunken tired eyes, an aquiline though slightly squashed nose, greying hair, a mouth tightly smiling, the ears rather on the medium-to-large scale. Yet he could not help frowning at the sight of the man opposite him. He had never seen such a man before in this office. This could never 'ave happened in Sir Robert's day, he mused privately. Now, Sir Robert Buxomly, the head of department when I had just become secretary to him - he'd know how to turn such raffia... erm... riffraff... out of here and pronto! But there wasn't much he could do about this stranger except persevere. Honour and duty demanded it, and more than that - his wife demanded it (well, she just demanded his weekly pay packet, which he always handed over. Otherwise there would be trouble).

So Mr Smallswood persevered. "What is your name, sir?" he said patiently. The figure seated before him squirmed in the plush upholstered seat. He was obviously not used to the modern offices, Mr Smallswood observed; a fit and athletic man like this looked like he would be more at home out there in the big wide world, solving problems at the sharp end of a...

"Some call me Devon Aidendale," the man volunteered, interrupting Smallswood's reverie. "But many people call me different things." His eyes misted over. "My names have included Rath Darkblade, Fingers-Twitching, Spell-Monkey, the Blade of Justice, Flame-darter, Saviour of the Pure, Sapwielder, the Sword of..."

"Yes, yes, point taken," Mr Smallswood twitched and straightened his pens automatically. "I'll just put down your initials if that's all the same." He wrote carefully in a flowing cursive script. "D.A., was it?"

"Oh, D.A. is just one of my names," the strange man continued. "Dark Angel, that was one of my earliest names. And I have been called Flink, and Hans Halfwitten, and Jamus, and..."

"All right, all right," Mr Smallswood interrupted again, upsetting his glasses and re-setting them on his nose, something he always did when he was ill at ease. "And your address, Mister ummm..." he was lost. "Mister umm... Mister?"

Devon, again, seemed nonplussed. "I have lived in many addresses," he replied mildly. "The Palace of Shapeir, the Hall of Kings, Gnome Ann's Land Inn, the Katta's Tail Inn..." He struck a heroic pose. "A Hero has to go where a Hero has to go," he recited grandiloquently.

"So I'll just put down 'No Fixed Abode', shall I?" replied Mr Smallswood, unimpressed.

"That's as good as any, yes. No Fixed Abode, Glorianna." The strange man looked about him again. "Nice office you have here," he said diplomatically. "I especially like the faux plants. How do you get them to stay green and upright without moisture, and yet smell like the inside of a blacksmith's armpit?"

"Well, one does one's best," Mr Smallswood replied, not really paying attention to Devon's prattle. He straightened up. "Previous occupation?"

"Hero of the Five Lands of Glorianna," Devon proclaimed. "Son of a Sultan, Hero of Spielburg, bona fide Retriever of Missing Trifles..."

"That must be messy," Smallswood replied sympathetically. "I mean, all that runny custard..."

"You misunderstand me," Devon said. "I retrieve trifles as in 'little things that people lose or heirlooms', that sort of thing - not trifles as in 'pastries'."

"Ah. Then you must be annoyed with my denseness."

"I am a trifle, yes."

Mr Smallswood looked puzzled for a moment, then his face cleared. "All those trifles must take a long time to find," he said.

"You would be surprised," Devon said with a detached air. "As a matter of fact, they take no time at all once you know where to look. It becomes a matter of routine."

"Much as I love discussing trifles, I fear we are veering from the point, Mister er... Mister Aiding-Fail..."

"Aiden-dale," the other man corrected him without a trace of annoyance.

"Of course. The point, of course, is that you are here to seek employment. Your previous occupation was, I think you said, 'Hero of Five Lands' etc. etc., yes? Do you mind elaborating on that?"

Devon looked nonplussed. "I was the Ultimate Defeater of Monsters," he said. "I was the Sneakiest Rogue and the Wiliest Mage! As Paladin I was the Purest at Heart and as Fighter the Strongest of Arm! None could best me!"

"Fine, point taken, but do you have any practical experience?"

For the first time, the man sitting opposite him looked panicky. "Ermm... I... I can wield swords and daggers like no one else?" He volunteered. "I can sneak anywhere unseen? My magical might cannot be matched? No lock poses an obstacle to me?"

Mr Smallswood ignored this. He licked his fingers and turned over a new page. "And why did you leave your last place of employment?" He asked, looking as blank as his new page.

"I..." Devon stared into space for a moment, trying to remember. "I had..." he gave up. "You know," he said, "I really can't remember. I guess I had become so successful at being a hero that there were no more challenges for me."

"Yes?" Mr Smallswood inquired sardonically. "No more at all? No more monsters to vanquish? No more bad food to digest?" The other man looked astonished at this, so Mr Smallswood went on, saying "I have heard of Gnome Ann's rather unique cooking, you know. Not many people can make an edible meal out of fried leaves and water, even if the taste leaves something to be desired."

"You're not kidding!" Devon burst out. "I ate prunes every day for weeks after I left her inn! She may call herself a gastronome, but I think she just talks hot gas!"

"Well, notwithstanding all that, I fear we are rather veering from the point," Smallswood said mildly. "And the point being, of course, that you are here seeking employment. Correct?"

"I suppose so," Devon replied. "Err... what's your name, by the way? I'm just curious."

The man opposite him seemed, for the first time, a little taken aback. "My first name? It's, erm, Eric," he said. "But you can call me Mr Smallswood if you like. We don't need to be too familiar here. Familiarity, as they say, breeds contempt."

"And children," Devon pointed out. "Anyway, Eric," he said with a smirk, observing the other's obvious (though slight) discomfort at this, "is there anything else I can help you with?"

"Just one last thing. Have you got any references?"

"Alas, no. Whenever I travel from one land to another, I lose all my stuff for some reason," Devon replied, a little annoyed. "Honestly, I've never seem customs people so grabby."

"So, no testimonials?"

Devon's face flushed crimson. "There's no need for you to see those, is it?" He said. "Why on Glorianna would you want me to remove my trousers and expose my t..."

"NO, Mr Aidendale," Eric Smallswood cut in quickly, fearing his head would explode at the mere thought. "I mean testimonials - as in, letters from your previous employers, saying what a good chap you are and so on."

"But my reputation proceeds me!"

"As does your smell," Smallswood pointed out. Honestly, the man literally STINKS of soap, he thought. "But I fear I would need something a little more concrete than that." He observed Devon's blank face and sighed. "So, let me sum up," he said. "No references. No testimonials. No experience of anything but being a so-called 'Hero'." He shuffled his papers. "What does that mean, anyway?" he asked.

Devon has had enough. "This," he said.

Smallswood had to shield his eyes, and - for a little time - doubt his sanity. Surely the man sitting opposite him was not suddenly levitating in the air? And was he really aglow, as if he was coated with gold? But then the vision faded, and Devon was again in his seat, as calm and oblivious as a cow chewing the cud is when confronted by a army battalion rampaging through the valley.

"That's... a pretty neat trick," Smallswood managed, after catching his breath. He composed himself and coughed theatrically. "Ahem. There's not much call for your line of business these days, I fear, Mr Eden-tail..."

"Aidendale."

"Of course, Mr Edelweiss..."

"Aidendale!" Devon snapped. "My surname is perfectly simple!"

"Of course it is, of course it is," Smallswood replied placatingly. "But the point I'm making is that we can't really offer you another job right now. There just isn't anything for a man of your - may I point out - unique expertise." He shuffled through some more files and one dropped out, which Devon pounced on.

"What's this?" he demanded. "There is a job here after all!"

"We-ell, yes," Smallswood admitted, as if ashamed that - as a job placement professional - there was a job he could offer someone. "But it does not pay very well, and it really is far below you, and--"

"I'll take it!" Devon shouted, turning the folder upside down and opening it to read the 'wanted' ad. "Hmm... skills required are being able to swing a hammer. Having one's own chisel is a plus..." Uh-oh, I have a baad feeling about this, he thought, but read on gallantly: "The successful applicant must be able to call a spade a spade..." he stopped and looked across at Mr Smallswood. "What else could you call a spade?" he said.

"I really couldn't say," Smallswood replied, nonplussed. "I do remember some lower-class individual referring to it as a so-called 'shovel' - but that may be just my imagination."

Has he ever worked with his hands in his entire life? Devon wondered. Anyway, I'm not going to achieve much just sitting here. "I'll take the job," he said.

"Wonderful!" Smallswood smiled nastily. "Welcome to death management! Here is your ticket on the overnight Magic Carpet Express(C) to Mordavia."

"Mordavia?" Devon repeated. Oh yes - I have a REALLY baad feeling about this.

*** 3 days later... ***

"...and that's how you carve a person's name on a tombstone!" The short, squat, and hunchbacked but nonetheless relentlessly cheery gravedigger, known unsurprisingly as Igor, proclaimed. "Now it's your turn! Igor happy to have an assistant," he beamed. As his head was crowned with an overall tuft of very red hair, the effect was like watching a very tiny torch shining on a pumpkin.

"But Igor," Devon quite reasonably pointed out, "ever since I freed this land from Katrina, Ad Avis, and the Dark One, no-one at all has died!"

For the first time, Igor looked puzzled. "But Igor not understand!" He said. "Just last week, Igor make coffin for man who couldn't stop coughin'!" He beamed again. "Ha ha! Little graveyard humour there!"

"Listen carefully, Igor," Devon replied. "That man was Boris Stovich, the innkeeper, and it's no wonder that he was coughing for a few moments - he smokes like a chimney - but he stopped. Business, Igor, is dead." He paused and then added woodenly: "Ha, ha. Little graveyard humour there."

"Now you get into spirit of things!" Igor recovered his momentarily-lost cheerfulness and grinned again. "Now you make tombstone!"

Devon sighed and picked up his hammer. Oh well, he thought. This is still better than being a hero.

Isn't it?

The End
(Or is it?)