Mayer Alan Brenner - Spell of Catastrophe

The only sounds for a moment were those related to eating; the man now calling himself the Creeping Sword had just finished his story and everyone was digesting as much of it as they chose to. Karlini wiped his plate with a chunk of bread. “One thing I don’t understand,” he said, chewing thoughtfully on the crust. “I still don’t know how I got decoupled from the castle. Max had something in mind but he didn’t know exactly how he was going to work it. That was while he was awake – but when it came to it, he wasn’t even awake, he was unconscious.”

“Then why did you jump?” said the Creeping Sword. Karlini shrugged. “I felt something all of a sudden, like … like indigestion all over my body, maybe.” Karlini glanced at the empty bowl that had held the potatoes. Karlini was quite fond of potatoes, and had figured large in the bowl’s demise. “I figured that was it, Max pulling me loose, and it was, but anyway I didn’t have a choice. I didn’t want to ride the castle where it was going; it was already coming apart and I didn’t know if it would survive the jump. I doubt it did, by the way. I thought I might have destabilized things enough on my own for me to pull away without stopping my heart again, and if I jumped I was betting Haddo would catch me.”

“Again to rescue comes faithful servant,” Haddo said, a carrot disappearing into the dark void inside his hood.

“Yes, thank you again, Haddo,” Karlini said.

“Lots of us thank you,” said the Creeping Sword. “Like me. You pulled me out of that whirlpool.”

“Good are thanks,” Haddo said, “also for faithful bird. Welcome gives bird, welcome give I. But thanks, everything is not. When extreme is danger, demonstrated is value of faithful servant, so also perhaps would not mind faithful servant particular recognition.”

“What recognition?” Karlini said. “What are you talking about, Haddo? Everybody knows what you did, everybody’s thanked you.”

“Am talking bonus,” said Haddo. Wroclaw’s ears perked up.

“You want a what?” Karlini said.

“Simple is word. Also, is pertinent other topic, of contract to renegotiate, of status to elevate. Great may Karlini be, better not to also be cheap.”

Karlini looked at his plate, then at the dramatically shrunken carcass dominating the table’s center. “Roni, how did that old heartburn recipe go?”

“Calm down, dear. Haddo, we’ll discuss this later.”

“Wise is mistress,” Haddo said, bowing his hood demurely. “Always obedient, is faithful servant.”

Karlini made a rude sound. “Quiet,” Roni said, “ dear. Then maybe you’ll get an answer to your question. Max?”

“Well,” Max said, “magic isn’t always strictly deterministic, you know. The way the Sword describes it, something happens when he goes into this spell-mode. What it is exactly, I don’t know; some kind of resonance effect against his metabolic link, maybe. It sounds like he can say what he wants a spell to do, but he doesn’t have to go through the work of actually designing the spell and setting it up. He just says, ‘Do this,’ and the spell-field tries to figure out something that’s close to what he wants. That sound plausible to you, Sword?”

“I guess,” said the Creeping Sword. “But I don’t care. I’m getting rid of it as soon as I can. I don’t want to cast spells. I tried it three times and it only worked right once.”

“You got the results you wanted every time, didn’t you?” Max said. “In my book that record’s pretty strong. Anyway, in this case, the Sword’s spell-mode decided the best way to ‘Help Karlini’ was to get me to help Karlini, even if I wasn’t conscious, so it went in and dug something out of my mind. I wish I could remember what it was it found.”

“That’s not a very neat answer,” said Jurtan Mont. “What about -”

“In a mess like this you’re lucky if you get one neat answer out of the whole thing. Results are usually more important than answers, anyway.”

Shaa looked at Max; Roni and Karlini looked at Max too, then looked at each other. “Is that the same Max we know who Just said that?” Karlini whispered. “Who said answers aren’t important?”

“I think so -”

Results, Jurtan Mont thought. Well, okay; I found out some new stuff about myself, stuff that doesn’t look half bad, Tildy’s free, Dad’s square with Kaar, Kaar’s getting square with the city, and it looks like Dad may even be willing to take another look at me, too. I guess when you look at it that way, it’s really not bad, not bad at all.

Max, for his part, was looking over his own shoulder toward the door, where the voice of a man had opened up, bellowing, “You! Hey, you!”

“What’s your problem?” Max yelled at him. “We’ve paid for our space, we’re just trying to have a pleasant lunch here.” Shaa had said the Bilious Gnome was the only half-decent place around that was halfway intact: he’d assured Max there would be no repercussions from any of his previous escapades.

“Maximillian -” Shaa said across the table. The man in the door was familiar to him. He was the bartender who’d been on duty the last time Shaa had been at the Bilious Gnome, when he and Jurtan Mont had been chased by the Guard. The man’s face was proceeding through shades of color heading toward purple. “YOU!” he said, pointing an accusing finger at Shaa from the end of his outstretched arm. “Get out of my place!”

“Are you the owner?” Shaa said.

“Don’t start nothing with me! I said out, and out you -”

“I happen to be rather comfortable at the moment,” Shaa said, “and somewhat debilitated to boot, and as such am reluctant to leave this” he indicated the mud underfoot and the temporary ladder leading to the second floor with a wave of his own hand “inspiring and tasteful establishment. If you must press the issue, let us discuss matters with the owner.”

The man who had served the party emerged from the back room, rubbing his hands on a gray towel. “What’s the excitement here, folks?”

“Are you the owner?” Shaa said.

“I’ll do for it.”

“You will do,” Shaa said, “if you are the owner.”

The man squinted at him. “Are you crazy? Nobody’s seen the owner in years. I just manage the place, hold part of the receipts back in case the guy shows up. I ain’t never seen him myself, you understand, but he’s the kind of guy you don’t want to cross, if you get my drift, they made that pretty darn clear when his man bought the place.”

“How would you recognize him if he does appear?” Shaa said slowly. Max looked over at him, examining his face, recognizing in his voice a certain note of growing suspicion.

“When he bought the Gnome a couple years ago he sent over this little crystal cube.”

A nonplussed look appeared on Shaa’s face, a once-in-several-years occurrence. “Bring the cube,” Shaa said.

The manager looked at him, opened his mouth, then closed it without a word and went out into the back room. A moment later he returned. In his hand was a small faded purple cloth tied at the top with a drawstring, He handed the bag to Shaa. Shaa loosened the string and inverted the bag over his hand, and a clear crystal cube about a thumb’s-length along each edge dropped into his palm. Shaa scrutinized the cube with a contemplative expression. Then he touched the ball of his thumb to a depression in its polished face.

Deep in the heart of the cube, a strong purple glow burst out.

“I’ll get your money,” said the manager, and stumped off again toward the back. Shaa removed his thumb from the cube, and the glow died. Everyone at the table, all of whom had been staring at the cube, shifted their gazes upward to the face of Shaa. Shaa tilted his head back and began to examine the ceiling.