Harry Turtledove - The Case of the Toxic Spell Dump

“How was it done? Everyone’s always claimed hermetic seals are proof against just about anything.” I heard the silence that meant he didn’t want to tell me. Quickly, I added,

“Remember, I have a professional interest in this. Any magic that can beat such a powerful seal has to have serious consequences for the environment.”

“All right,” he said grudgingly. “I guess I can see that. But don’t go spreading the word to all and sundry, you understand?”

“I’m not a reporter or a newsman for the ethemet,” I replied with dignity.

“Okay,” he said. “What happened was, the bastards used one of Hermes’ own attributes to break the seals he was supposed to oversee. It was a very clever application of the law of similarity, I’ll say; I wish whoever came up with it would have put as much energy into something legitimate.”

“Go on,” I said.

“The snakebite has something to do with it”

He paused again. I realized I was supposed to figure out why. Some other morning, I might have enjoyed playing intellectual games. That particular day, I just didn’t have it.

“I’m sorry; I must be dense,” I said—my troubles weren’t any of his business. “Can you explain it for me?”

A sniff conveyed across the ether by two phone imps carries an impressive weight of scorn. Matt Arnold said, “Think about the kerykeion Hermes carries.”

“The what?”

He made another impatient noise. As far as I was concerned, lucky for him he was at the far end of a phone connection. The EPA doesn’t have the money—or the secrets—to get hermetic seals, so I had no reason to be familiar with the minutiae of Hermes’ cult Maybe he realized that, or maybe he just wanted to get me off the phone so he could go back to whatever he’d been doing before I called. He said,

“The Latin term for the kerykeion—not really proper, you know, for talking about a Greek Power—is the caducous.”

That I did understand. “The staff with the…” My voice trailed away. “Snakes,” I said in an altogether different tone of voice. “No wonder you said the bite had something to do with it.”

“That’s right,” he said, as if there might be some hope for me after all. They used the affinity of all snakes to the ones of the caduceus to weaken the seal and let them get into our secure areas.”

“Sneaky.” I added, “I hope you told Legate Kawaguchi about that. If one set of bad guys figures out a stunt, everybody will be using it two weeks later.” Then something else occurred to me. “How did your vandals get to the hermetically sealed areas, anyhow? You had some tough-looking guards out front when I was there.”

They got lulled to sleep.” Arnold sounded as if he didn’t like to admit that “Some land of spell or other—Kawaguchi’s forensics people haven’t got back to me with the data.”

Excitement ran through me: it sounded a lot like the way Judy’s kidnappers had operated. I wrote that down so I wouldn’t forget it, and promised myself I’d call Plainclothesman Johnson as soon as I was off the phone with Arnold.

While I still had him on the ether, though, I asked, “What land of snake bit your man?”

“It was a fer-de-lance,” Arnold answered. “Nasty thing—the venom makes you bleed internally as if you had a vampire gnawing you from the inside out Lucky it’s a relative of our local rattlesnakes; the antivenin spells for the one were efficacious enough—we hope—against the other. Like I told you, Jerry’s still on the critical list, but they think he’ll pull through.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” I said. “But why a fer-de-lance in the first place? Why not use our rattlers?”

“For one thing, it’s more poisonous, if that’s what the bastards were after. And for another, if the sorcerers were Aztecians, they’d be more familiar with their native serpents than ours.”

“And if they weren’t, they could throw suspicion on Azteca by planting snakes native to that realm.” I was thinking about the quetzal feather. “HI now, I’d suspected the Persians more than anyone else. I wondered if I’d have to change my mind. I also remembered Persians’ deviousness; if they could hide their schemes by implicating someone else, they’d do it. And I remembered I still hadn’t visited Chocolate Weasel.

Matt Arnold said, “Forensics ought to let us know before too long.”

“I hope so,” I said. “Thanks for your time.”

“I’ve already wasted so much on this miserable business, a little more doesn’t matter now.” With that encouraging word, Arnold hung up on me.

I called Johnson. When he answered, my ear imp yelled into my ear, so I suppose he was yelling at his mouth imp:

“Did the kidnappers call you? Or your fiancee?”

“I’m sorry, no.” How sorry I was! I explained what I’d heard from Matt Arnold, then asked, “Has your forensics man been able to identify the sleep spell that was cast in Judy’s flat?”

“Hold on,” he said. “That’s in my notes—I saw it. Let me look.” The imps reproduced the noise of shuffling parchments. Then I heard Johnson say, “Yeah, here it is,” more as if to himself than to me. After a few more seconds, he must have put the handset up to his mouth again, because his voice came back loud and clear: I’ve got it, Mr. Fisher. Forensics says it’s an Aztecian spell, summoning the Power named the One Called Night, the one from the Nine Beyonds, to cast sleep on the victim. There’s a note here that it’s not generally used with good intent. I’m sorry to have to tell you that, sir.”

“Not half as sorry as I am to hear it,” I answered. But I wasn’t surprised, or not much. Either Aztecians really were behind this or somebody was putting on one hell of a bluff—and I mean that literally. The higher the evidence mounted, the more I doubted it was a bluff.

From its own point of view, after all, Aztecia has owed the Confederation a big one for a long time. Angels City used to be Aztecian territory, after all. So did St. Francis, up north.

So did the Arid Zone and New Aztecia further east, and Snowland, and Denver and all the rest of Ruddy. With them, Azteda would be a great nation. Without them, the Confederation wouldn’t be.

And that’s just in the sphere of mortal politics. I thought about what Henry Legion had said about the shift in the balance of Powers. It was already plain that Huitzilopochtli wanted his own back. And if that green feather meant what it seemed to, so did Quetzalcoati. The two Powers had been rivals before the Spainish came. If they’d composed their differences… if that was so, then Heaven help the Confederation. Heaven had better help, anyhow.

I called Legate Kawaguchi back. When I got him, I asked,

“What kind of sleep spell knocked out the guards at the Loki plant in Burbank?”

“That’s in my notes,” he answered, just as Johnson had.

He was quicker to find the answer than the Long Beach constable had been. “Here we are. The report indicates that it was an Aztecian spell, one invoking the Power variously called the Page and the Crackler, sending the spirits of the victims to the Nine Beyonds.”

“The Nine Beyonds!” I said. “Is this Power also known as the One Called Night?”

“I don’t see that name here. Let me check with forensics and call you back.” He did, too, inside of five minutes.

“Inspector Fisher? The answer to your question is yes. Forensics wants to know how you knew; this Power is not commonly invoked in Angels City.”

“I just got off the phone with Long Beach. The One Called Night is the Power that put Judy to sleep.”

Kawaguchi was nobody’s fool. “I shall consult immediately with Plainclothesman Johnson,” he declared. “This link must be explored to the fullest extent possible.”