The Fallable Fiend by L. Sprague deCamp Read Free Book Online Page A

howl, shake the bars as if you would leap down amongst the marks. Strive your utmost to escape from the cage!”
    Ungah said: “Boss, I think—”
    “Never mind your thoughts, Master Ape. I would make sure this demon knows his script.”
    ###
    Orynx, up the Kyamos from Ir, is larger than Evrodium, albeit smaller than Chemnis. We planned to spend two full days there and to give three performances: two of evenings and one on the second afternoon. We opened the first show on the even of the first day.
    The first mark to enter the tent of monsters was an old man with a wobbling gait. From the odor of wine he emitted, I inferred that his unsteadiness was due not merely to age. He staggered up to my wagon and peered. I returned his gaze, not wishing to go into my ferocity act until I had garnered a larger audience.
    The aged man took a bottle out of his coat and drank. He muttered: “Dip me in dung, and now a see them everywhere. Go away, spook! Evanish! Get tha gone! O gods, ask me ne to give up me drink, me old man’s milk, me one remaining solace!”
    He reeled away, weeping, and other rubes streamed in. When Bagardo had given his turgid introductions, I growled, roared, screamed, and beat on the bars. Remembering my orders, I seized two bars and pulled them until they bent.
    The nearest marks recoiled, while those further back pressed forward. Bagardo flashed me a grin of approval. Thus encouraged, I gave forth a bellow like that of a turtle-dragon of the Marshes of Kshak and put forth my full strength.
    The bars bowed outward. With a loud snapping sound, one pulled out of its lower socket. I tore it out of its upper socket as well and cast it clattering from me. Then, as instructed, I squeezed through the gap and leapt to the ground, roaring and snatching at the nearest marks.
    I had no intention of harming the customers; I merely essayed to put on a good show. But the marks in front hurled themselves back with piercing screams. In a trice, the floor of the tent was a shambles of struggling bodies. Prime Planers fought and scrambled and fell over one another in their haste to get out, shrieking: “The fiend’s loose!”
    As they poured out into the night, their panic spread to others, who were streaming in the gate and towards the main tent. I have never witnessed such irrational behavior on the Twelfth Plane. We may be slow of wit, but an unwelcome surprise does not drive us insane.
    Some people tried to climb over or burrow under the canvas fence around the lot. Those who had been knocked down and trampled limped or crawled towards the exit. Fights broke out. Some of the gamesters’ booths were upset, and townsfolk began looting them. A tent blazed up. Somebody shouted: “Hey, rube!” Thereupon the roustabouts fell upon the marks with tent stakes or any other weapon they could improvise.
    The deafening noise died down as all the marks who could still do so fled. Many lay hurt or unconscious about the lot. I glimpsed Bagardo, muddy and battered, staggering about and trying to bring his company to order. Seeing me, he yelled: “You’ve ruined me, you lousy spook! I’ll kill you for this!”
    Others ran between us, and I lost sight of him. I followed Ungah in fighting the fire of the burning tent. By the time we had it out, a man wearing a helmet, a mail shirt, and a sword appeared on horseback at the entrance. A score of locals with crossbows, spears, and staves followed him afoot. The mounted man blew a trumpet.
    “Who in the forty-nine hells are you?” said Bagardo, confronting the horse with fists on hips.
    “Valtho, constable of Orynx. These be my deputies. Now hear this! Ye do all be under arrest for injuries done the citizens of Orynx. Ye face criminal charges and civil suits. Since our gaol would ne hold so many, ye shall remain here under guard this night—ho, whither go ye, sirrah? Stop that man!”
    Bagardo ran back among the tents. Before any could catch him, he had thrown himself upon the piebald