Rick Cook - The Wizardry Quested

Especially the smells. In fact Moira smelled like she’d had spaghetti with a particularly aggressive marinara sauce. She reeked of garlic.

Something tickled his nose and he opened his eyes to sneeze. The first thing he realized was that Moira wasn’t there. The second thing he realized was that the lobster was. In fact, the lobster was basting him with garlic butter. Wiz let out a yell and rolled away from the lobster.

The noise woke Glandurg, who threw off his cloak and grabbed Blind Fury in a single motion. Unfortunately the cloak landed on Wiz so he was temporarily immobilized.

The dwarf sprang to his feet, brandished his weapon and charged.

"Die, vile crustacean!" he yelled, just as he stepped in the puddle of garlic butter and went flying. He landed flat on his back and the lobster vanished into the darkness.

"Run, you damned bug!" the dwarf yelled after the fleeing shadow. "You’ll taste my steel yet!"

"My, don’t we smell delicious?" Malkin said as she came hurrying up. Wiz glared.

"There’s a pool back that way," she continued. "You better wash that stuff off before something comes wandering by and decides you’re good enough to eat."

"Hmpfl" said Wiz, and worked his way carefully to his feet.

The aerie was an enormous gloomy cavern that stank of dragon and reminded Mick irresistibly of the hangar deck of a medieval aircraft carrier. Men and women in the plain tunics of keepers and the leathers of riders bustled about caring for their charges. Occasionally the silence would be punctuated by the scrape of a manure shovel on rock, or the bass rumble of a dragon, but for the most part the place was quiet. Even the soft leather boots of the riders made no sound on the rocky floor.

"Why do you keep it so dark?" Mick asked, thinking of the brightly lit hangars of his own experience.

The dragons prefer it, " Karin told him. " And keep your voice down. They don’t like loud noises either."

They skirted three harnessed dragons on the great central floor of the aerie, keeping well clear of the powerful tails. Their riders stood by the dragons’ heads petting and talking to the beasts. Mick noted the ready patrol was spotted so the dragons were well separated. Probably to keep the dragons from fighting, he decided.

Karin took something that looked like an iron rake from a rack and hefted a leather sack from the row of similar sacks beneath it.

"Currying iron," she explained. "Stigi likes to have his back scratched."

"Do you do this every day?"

"Unless I am ill or we are in the field. Contact helps build the bond between dragon and rider. Now, walk to the outside, away from the stalls. Dragons prefer those who are familiar to them."

"How long will this take?"

"Oh, not long, love. A day-tenth or so. Then I shall be free for the rest of the day." She gave him a sultry look past lowered eyelashes. "I’ve made arrangements with my squadron leader."

She led him along the far edge of the chamber, past the shallow caves that served as stalls for the dragons.

"We’re almost here," Karin told him. "I’m sure Stigi has forgotten all about you. You’ll see."

They stopped in front of a stall no different from any other. Dragon tack hung next to the entrance, clean, oiled and ready for instant use. From within came the sound of gentle snoring-loud gentle snoring. Through the gloom Mick could see the dragon curled up like an enormous house cat.

"Oh, Stigi," Karin called gently.

At the sound of his rider’s voice, the dragon stirred lazily and opened one eye. Then he saw Mick. His head jerked erect so fast it slammed into the roof of the stall and he let out a roar that made the cavern ring. Alarmed, other dragons took up the challenge until the place echoed and re-echoed with the steam whistle bellows of upset dragons.

"He remembers you," Karin shouted over the chaos.

"So anyway:" Charlie leaned back against the bar and gestured expansively. There I was at fifteen thousand feet. Nothing between me and the ground but an air mattress."

The walls might be hung with squadron banners, old riding leathers, weapons and bits of dragon harness. The floor might be stone, the ceiling hewn beams and the leather-clad men and women dragon riders, but it was still a pilot’s meeting place and Charlie fit right in, international orange flight suit and all. Two or three of the dragon riders were gathered around him at the bar, listening intently. Several more were scattered around at the tables paying half attention. Off in the corner Mick and Karin were enjoying each other’s company.

"Did he really do all these things?" Karin whispered.

They’re flying stories, " Mick whispered in her ear, pausing to nibble a bit on the lobe. " You know the difference between a fairy tale and a flying story? A fairy tale starts ’Once upon a time:’ and a flying story starts ’No shit, this really happened.

Karin turned to grin at him. The move deprived Mick of an earlobe but the tradeoff wasn’t that bad. "We have a similar saying. He does it well, though." The room exploded in laughter as Charlie reached the punch line.

"Oh, he’s entertaining," Mick said quietly.

"But you don’t like him?"

"Let’s say our styles are different. We have another saying. There are old pilots and there are bold pilots but there are no old, bold pilots. Charlie’s one of the, ah, boldest pilots I’ve ever met."

"He is not young either," Karin pointed out.

"He’s lucky then. But luck runs out, especially if you push it"

The programmers’ workroom was as warm and cheery as the tavern, but there were only two inhabitants. Moira had long since excused herself and now only Taj and Jerry remained. Jerry was hoarse from talking and beginning to fade around the edges, but Taj was as eager and alert as a beagle on the trail of a rabbit. There were no less than eight "screens" hanging above Jerry’s desk, most tiled with several windows, as Jerry led Tajikawa through the basics of the magic compiler and how to write software for magic. Taj already had a pile of scrolls beside him to read later and he was pushing Jerry hard on subtle points of the system.

"Well, then there’s this for example." Taj pointed to a section of the compiler code written in glowing letters in thin air. "It’s in here but you don’t seem to use ft."

"Oh, that’s an indeterminate instruction," Jerry told him. "You’ve heard of the DWIM instruction, Do What I Mean? That’s kinda an ’IDAIDWP.’"

Taj cocked an eyebrow. "Ida id wip?"

"I’ll Do As I Damn Well Please. You can’t be sure what it will do from one time to the next"

"Cute, but why’d you write it that way?"

"We didn’t. Remember, the bottom layer of the compiler, the elements we built the rest of it from, are tiny spells that exist here naturally. But we only use a subset of what’s available. Some we don’t use because they’re redundant, as far as we can tell. But some of them, like this one, don’t produce reliable results. We think it’s something analogous to a quantum uncertainty effect operating on a gross level"

He pointed to the fiery letters again. "This one was particularly tricky. Most of the time it works consistently, which is why it made it into a beta of the compiler. But about one time in a hundred it does something else. Which is why we didn’t use it."