Mayer Alan Brenner - Spell of Intrigue

“Never fit will,” said a croaking voice from beneath the table, “this.” Something black and leathery moved behind one of the table legs, virtually lost at the back of the cabin in the shadows cast by the single lamp hanging by a chain from the ceiling. A wooden crate grated raspingly along the deck boards under the table and then crunched up against the wall.

“It does seem, if I may be so bold, that we have been spending the majority of our effort on merely moving the household from one location to the next,” another voice remarked from just outside the door. A large heap of books precariously bound up with a net appeared in the doorway, followed by the speaker, who was attempting to balance the volumes in a pair of unnaturally long and slender arms that appeared to be wrapped so securely around the bundle that they were bending not only at the elbows but also, although that was certainly an illusion, midway down the exaggerated forearms as well. The skin of the exposed forearms was colored a more than incidentally greenish hue.

A muttering black cloak emerged from underneath the table and scuttled off to the side as the taller figure let the books subside with a heavy thump onto its upper surface. The top of the cloak’s hood was barely higher than the level of the tabletop, revealing that working under the table was no serious inconvenience to its wearer. “Job did take I not with sole purpose furniture to arrange,” said the mutterer.

A third being, this one human, had been sitting at the table in question trying desperately to remain engrossed in deciphering a letter. This being looked up from the heap of netted books which had just entombed said letter to a depth precluding immediate recovery. “What was that, Haddo?” he said, with an air of resigned disorientation.

“The matter on which Master Haddo was commenting,” said the green-skinned one, stretching out his kinked arms, “was that of the purely menial activities to which our employment with you has led us of late.”

“Plainly can speak for myself I,” Haddo croaked. “Intercessor for need nil is.” The hood swiveled to peer accusingly upward, revealing a continued expanse of fuliginous black broken only by two glowing orange sparks at around the right position for eyes. “Speaks yet Wroclaw truth.”

“Oh, come on now,” said the man at the table. “You know the situation. You know I’m not real fond of it myself.”

“Yet sit you table at,” said Haddo, “while heavy bundles drag we.”

“But I’m the boss,” the Great Karlini pointed out. “I’m supposed to sit at tables and think. You’re supposed to handle things like packing and lifting, that’s what I hired you for.”

Wroclaw gave a discreet cough. “Not quite true, if I may remind you, sir.”

“Said not you, ‘For all is one, and for one is all’?” Haddo grumbled indignantly.

“If you don’t like the job, Haddo, you’re not bound to it,” said Karlini. “I don’t own you; you’re more than welcome to take off and go back to wherever you came from. Where was that, by the way?”

“Hinterlands,” said Haddo. “Do not say I, to wish leave I. It the right of civilized beings is all complain to, admit you must.”

“Then what do you want, Haddo? You want another raise?”

“Satisfying current contract is. Rightful appreciation wish I, or treatment of equality.”

Karlini glanced sidelong at Wroclaw. “Wroclaw?”

“I believe Master Haddo would wish either to see you yourself sharing in the heavier work, or lacking that, to be properly entreated to continue bearing the burden himself.”

“Ahead never get will you,” Haddo snapped at Wroclaw, “when coat your words you sugar with. Question one have I: why beg you not I?”

“You want me to beg you to keep working?” said the Great Karlini. “Why should I do that?”

“Fringe benefit,” Haddo stated. “To contract refer. Also, for you is no skin off.”

“Oh, very well,” said Karlini. “Please, please, Haddo, won’t you stay and continue this demeaning but nevertheless essential work? I beg you. How’s that?”

“Bad,” said Haddo, “not is.”

“What about me?” inquired Wroclaw.

Karlini pushed himself, to his feet and glared at Wroclaw. Then he transferred his glare to his stool, growled “Do you want me to beg you , too?” in its direction, abruptly drew back one booted foot and swept it forward, connecting with one rod of the stool’s tripod base with a solid thunk, and turned and stalked out of the cabin, limping slightly. Haddo and Wroclaw looked at each other, then stared after Karlini as he made his way onto the deck. “Fancy that,” Wroclaw commented.

The deck of the river barge was covered by bales of fabric wrapped in watertight cloth, lengths of neatly cut hardwood, barrels of pickled fish, and whatever else could be sold for more at some other spot on the river away from Roosing Oolvaya than it had originally cost at Roosing Oolvaya itself. Over it all were the scrambling members of the crew, stowing the goods in the center of the craft away from the sweeps or beneath the benches for the rowers. For all Karlini knew they’d be covering the benches next; the barge would be traveling downstream, with the current, so you’d figure there wouldn’t be much need for rowing, but Karlini was the first to admit he was no sailor. He stepped aside as two wharfmen came up the gangplank from the pier, propelling a recalcitrant goat between them, and then made his way gingerly across the deck.

A woman was sitting on the port gunwale, her legs dangling over the side, wearing the same breech-and-tunic traveling outfit as Karlini. She had an inkpot balanced on the gunwale to her left, a quill pen perched behind one ear, and an open ledger book in her lap, and was gazing with an abstracted stare out across the harbor, occasionally eyeing the dark-haired young woman seated to her left. Karlini seated himself to her right, keeping a watchful eye on the inkpot, and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. She turned toward him with a small start.

“Ouch,” said Karlini. He rubbed at the long streak of black ink now tracking across his right cheek toward his ear.

Roni dropped the offending pen into her book and set both off to the side. “What do you expect if you sneak up on me like that when I’m working?” she said. “Don’t do that , you’re only smearing it.”

Karlini inspected his hand. It was indeed largely covered with ink, probably a fairly good indication of the likely state of his face at the moment, too. The young woman on Roni’s other side emitted a strangled yelping sound, her mouth screwed shut and her face contorted into an agonized expression of controlled repression. Her hand flew up to cover her mouth as yet another yelp escaped.

“Go ahead, why don’t you,” Karlini said, a note of what was hopefully only mock exasperation coloring his own voice. The girl’s face uncorked, a spasm of chuckles spewed out like the cloud of bubbles from a shaken bottle of carbonated wine, and then she doubled over, clutching her sides, overcome by the wave of giggling. “I must really look wonderful this time,” he announced with resignation.

“Hold still,” said Roni, producing a cloth from a side pocket and applying it to Karlini’s cheek. “Tildy, why don’t you go and try that new problem set, and I’ll review it with you later.” Tildamire, the oldest known child of the former Lion of the Oolvaan Plain, managed a nod, swung off the gunwale, and staggered off across the deck, holding her exercise book to her chest. “She’s a good kid,” Roni continued, “and I think she’s going to turn out to have a real flair for math, so don’t get exasperated at her. Promise?”