"Do you think it will work?" In whispered.
Panakeia replied, "I'm sure. Ouch! Lūgnūt!" The orc had just poked her with the tip of an umbrella.
"Sorry. It's crowded in here."
That was true enough. The group huddled inside a small
phone booth, uncomfortably sandwiched under Fuzziwick, friend of In Ego Toyota. They were making a
phone call to some Mordorian
bureaucracy, trying to find out where Anakron had been taken. Fuzziwick had already been transferred to fourteen different departments by the
automated answering system as they attempted to find someone with the information they needed. In was beginning to lose patience and had suggested storming Anakron's former offices at
White-All with his sword, as he claimed to be the world's greatest swordsman. Panakeia knew, however, that the concentration of orcish
bureaucrats there was so great that they would only be more confused there than they were from the relative safety of their
phone booth.
Fuzziwick was speaking again. Evidently, he finally reached another living person or orc to speak with instead of the
computerized system. Panakeia waited expectantly. No luck. Transferred again. She sighed.
"In. What about this friend of yours we're supposed to find? Tell me about him again."
"A great man, once under the employ of the Blue Istari. But they fired him long ago. It was said that his spells had begun to go astray and no longer served them as they wished. But he may be able to help us."
"I hope so." Panakeia's eyes filled again.
Fuzziwick's voice boomed. "Yes, thank you." He put down the
phone.
"We know where to go now. Let's go."
"Where?" asked In, Panakeia, and Lūgnūt together.
"A graveyard, not far from here."
Panakeia's head fell at the reminder of Anakron's demise. In nodded sagely and said, "Very well. We shall go. But first, to find the last of our party. Wait here. Fuzziwick and I shall return shortly."
Whispering to each other, In and Fuzziwick hurried down a side alley.
"But how can we convince him to come?"
"We will. We must."
~*~
Before long, they returned with a third man between them, covered under a heavy gray cloak and hood. Somehow, he looked vaguely familiar to Panakeia. There was no time for questions and the man was silent, so she and Lūgnūt followed Fuzziwick and In. Their next stop: a graveyard, and a new tomb.
It was pitch black, other than the pale glow of the moon on iron gates when they arrived at the graveyard. Anakron's resting place was not difficult to find. For once, Mordor had moved with efficiency and a new marble tomb already stood in a corner. They hurried toward it, Panakeia now in the lead, and saw an inscription on the door.
Anakron
Ex-Grand Anakronist
"Oh, Anakron," Panakeia sighed and began to weep again. The stranger jumped, but still said nothing.
Fuzziwick easily lifted the door from its hinges.
"Come!" In waved his sword and stepped into the tomb.
Anakron had been lain in the center of the tomb. The stranger stepped forward and looked him over.
"Yes. I think it is possible that he is not all dead, but only mostly dead. And as you know, all dead and mostly dead are not the same. Because if your mostly dead, you're slightly alive."
That voice! It was so familiar. Where had Panakeia heard it before?
He went on. "But of course, it all depends on what he has to live for." He threw back his hood, and Panakeia gasped.
"Phizzick!" she exclaimed.
"Yes. It is I. I, to whom you were once nearly wed, so long ago. I ask you, what does he have to live for?"
Outside, the howling of a wolf sounded across the tombstones.