Harry Turtledove - The Case of the Toxic Spell Dump

But such fine scruples weren’t part of my upbringing, so I don’t feel sinful in behaving as I do. Judy’s attitude is close to mine. Otherwise, she would have called me on the carpet instead of getting on one with me.

When we were settled with cold drinks in the front room, she said, “So what’s the latest on the Devonshire dump?”

I took a sip of aqua vitae , let it char its way down to my belly. Then, my voice huskier than it had been before, I explained how all the consortia that dumped at Devonshire were so delighted to have their records examined.

“How do they know their records are being examined?” Judy, as I’ve noted, does not miss details. She spotted this one well before I needed to point it out to her.

“Good question,” I said approvingly. “I wish I had a good answer. The people who’ve been calling me, though, sound like they’ve been rehearsing for a chorus.” My voice, to put it charitably, is less than operatic. I burst into song anyhow: “It has come to my attention that—” I gave it about enough vibrato to fly a carpet through.

Judy winced, for which I didn’t blame her. She tossed back the rest of her drink, then got out those two little porcelain cups. I would have been more flattered if I hadn’t had the nagging suspicion she was trying to get me to shut up.

Whatever her reasons, though, I was happy to let her use up some of my beer. And, not too long afterwards, we were both pretty happy. Later, she got up to use the toilet and the spare toothbrush in the nostrums cabinet. Then she came back to bed. Neither of us had to go to work in the morning. Except for Saturday morning services, we’d have the day to ourselves.

I thought.

We were sound asleep, half tangled up with each other as if we’d been married for years, when the phone started screaming. We both thrashed in horror. She bumped my nose and kneed me in a more tender place than that, and I doubt I was any more gallant to her. I had to scramble over her to answer the phone; my flat’s laid out to suit me when I’m there by myself, which is most of the time.

I spoke my first coherent thought aloud: “I’m going to kill Charlie Kelly.” Who else, I figured, would call me at whatever o’clock in the dark this was?

But it wasn’t Charlie. When I mumbled “Hullo?” the response was a crisp question: “Is this Inspector David Fisher of the Environmental Perfection Agency?”

“Yeah, that’s me,” I said. “Who the—who are you?” I wasn’t quite ready to start swearing until I knew who my target was.

“Inspector Fisher, I am Legate Shiro Kawaguchi, of the Angels City Constabulary.” That made me sit up straighter. I was beginning to be fully conscious. Having Judy pressed all warm and silky against my left side didn’t hurt there, either. But what Kawaguchi said next made me forget even the sweet presence of the woman I loved: “Inspector Fisher, Brother Vahan of the Thomas Brothers monastery requested that I notify you immediately.”

“Notify me of what?” I said, while little ice lizards slithered up my back. Judy made a questioning noise. I flapped my free hand to show her I couldn’t fill her in yet. “Of what?” I repeated.

“I regret to inform you, Inspector Fisher, that Brother Vahan’s monastery is now in the final stages of burning down. Brother Vahan has forcefully expressed the opinion that this may be related to an investigation you are pursuing.”

“God, I hope not,” I told him. But I was already getting out of bed. “Does he—do you—want me to come up there now?”

“If that would not be too inconvenient,” Kawaguchi answered.

“I’m on my way,” I said, and put the handset back in its cradle.

“On your way where ?” Judy asked indignantly, mashing her pretty face into the pillow against the glare of the St. Elmo’s fire I called up so I could find my pants. “What time is it, anyhow?”

“Two fifty-three,” said the horological demon in my alarm clock.

“I’m going up to St. Ferdinand’s Valley.” I rummaged in my drawer for a sweater; Angels City nights can be chilly. As I pulled the sweater over my head, I went on, “The Thomas Brothers monastery up there, the one with all the damning data about the Devonshire dump, just burned down.”

Judy sat bolt upright, the best argument I’d seen for staying home. “It wasn’t an accident, or they wouldn’t have called you.” Her voice was flat. She started getting dressed, too.

By then I was buckling my sandals. “Brother Vahan doesn’t seem to think so, from what the cop I talked with told me. And the timing of the fire is—well, suggestive is the word that comes to mind.” No, I wasn’t looking at her. Besides, by that time she already had on skirt and blouse and headscarf. “You don’t really need to bother with all that,” I said. “Sleep here, if you like. I’ll be back eventually.”

“Back?” If she’d sounded indignant before, now she was furious. “Who care when you’ll be back? I’m coming with you.”

Procedurally, that was all wrong, and I knew it. But if you think I argued, think again. It wasn’t just that I was in love with Judy, though I’d be lying if I said that didn’t enter into it. But procedure aside, I was glad to have her eyes along. She was likely to notice something I’d miss. And as far as investigating arson went, I’d be pretty useless up there myself. That’s a job for the constabulary, not the EPA.

The freeway flight corridors were almost empty, so I pushed my carpet harder than I could have during the day. All the same, some people shot by me as if I was standing still. And one maniac almost flew right into me, then darted away like a bat out of hell. I hate drunks. The one advantage of being a regular commuter is that you don’t see a lot of drunks out flying during regular commuting hours. It’s not much of an advantage, but commuters have to take what they can get.

One of these days, the wizards keep promising, they’ll be able to train the sylphic spirits in new carpets not to fly for drunks. This is another one I wouldn’t stake my soul on. Sylphic spirits are naturally flighty themselves, and they hardly ever get hurt in accidents. So why should they care about the state of the people who ride their rugs?

I pulled off the freeway and darted north up almost deserted flight lanes toward the Thomas Brothers monastery. Toward what had been the Thomas Brothers monastery, I should say. It was still smoldering when I stopped at the edge of the zone the constabulary and firecrews had cordoned off.

Fighting fires in Angels City is anything but easy. Undines are weak and unreliable here: simply not enough underground water to support them. Firecrews use sand when they can, and the dust devils which keep it under control. For big fires, though, only water will do, and it has to come through the cooperation of the Other Side: the Angeles City firecrew mages have pacts with Elelogap, Focalor, and Vepar, the demons whose power is over water. Most of the time, that just means keeping the infernal spirits from harassing the mechanical system of dams and pipes and pumps that fetch our water from far away.

But sometimes, like tonight, the crews need more than sand can do, more than pipes can give. I was just showing my sigil to a worn-looking constable when one of the monastery towers flared anew. A wizard in firecrew crimson gestured with his wand to the spirit held inside a hastily drawn pentacle. I saw the mermaid-shape within writhe: he’d summoned Vepar, then.

That mage had a job I wouldn’t want. Incanting always in a desperate hurry, drawing a new pentacle in the first open space you find, never daring to take the time to do a thorough job of checking it for gaps the summoned spirit could use to destroy you… only military magic takes a tougher toll on the operator.