Robert Weinberg - A Calculated Magic

“Not yet,” said Jack, “but give me time. The Old Man of the Mountain has a league of assassins and an Afreet on his side. That’s an awful lot of firepower to overcome. As I said before, the only way for us to defeat al-Sabbah is by outthinking him. Using logic is the answer.”

“Well,” said his mother, “if anyone can do it, you’re the one, Johnnie. Didn’t Merlin call you the Logical Magician?”

Jack nodded, the weight of the world once again slipping onto his shoulders. He only hoped that Merlin wasn’t wrong.

Defeating Dietrich von Bern had been a major struggle. He had an uneasy feeling that the Old Man of the Mountain was going to be a much more difficult opponent. And sooner or later he was going to have to face the demigod behind the scenes. A god that, by definition, couldn’t be killed.

An hour later, after much fruitless discussion leading nowhere, they finally broke for the night. Jack desperately needed rest. The supernaturals, created without mortal frailties, could function for days without sleep. But he was only human.

“Tomorrow,” he declared, yawning. “We’ll finalize plans tomorrow morning.”

He hugged his mother. “No reason for you to stay around for another day. Don’t worry. I’ve got everything under control. It’s my job, remember. I’m the Logical Magician. Give my best to Dad.”

“I’ve always let you make your own decisions, Johnnie,” said his mother, “and I’m not planning to change now. Do whatever’s necessary to rescue Megan.” Reaching out, she ruffled Hugo’s feathers. “Use the ravens. They possess incredible powers, even if they do talk too much. And if you find yourself in desperate straits with no possibility of escape, send them looking for help. They won’t fail you.”

Minutes after everyone had departed, promising to meet the next afternoon in Merlin’s office, Jack collapsed onto Megan’s bed. Alone. It was definitely not the scenario he had envisioned only a few short hours ago. Totally exhausted, he barely managed to kick off his shoes before drifting to sleep. The last thing he heard was Hugo asking Mongo. “What did she mean about us talking too much?”

He didn’t dream. A fact that unsettled him the next morning as he chewed on a piece of toast. One of the benefits of being born the child of a supernatural was the ability to communicate in dreams with other halflings. Especially Megan. Not hearing from his fiancée frightened Jack. An active imagination and a steady diet of splatterpunk horror novels read during the past year suggested too many unpleasant explanations. Gulping down a Coke, he expressed his fears to the two ravens.

“You’re probably worrying about nothing,” said Mongo. “Any powerful magical being can blanket dream transmissions fairly easily. The Old Man of the Mountain isn’t stupid. He wants to keep you in the dark about his whereabouts and his actions. His Afreet is probably keeping Megan’s sleep messages bottled up tight.”

“That sounds logical,” said Jack, feeling slightly relieved, “though completely misguided. Megan already passed along the important information last night. She did it during our phone conversation,” He paused. “Still, I’d feel a lot better if I knew for sure the extent of the genie’s powers.”

“No problem,” said Hugo. “I’ll fly over to the library and do some research. Meet you at Merlin’s office in an hour.”

With a loud caw and a flap of wings, the raven was gone. Jack blinked. Somehow, Hugo exited the apartment without opening a window. The Afreet wasn’t the only magical being possessing unusual talents.

“How did he do that?” Jack asked Mongo.

“Do what?” replied the raven, busily pecking at a bowl of Cap’n Crunch cereal. The birds exhibited a voracious and extremely non-discriminatory appetite. “This stuff tastes great. Why didn’t your mother ever buy it?”

“It’s loaded with sugar,” said Jack. “Bad for your teeth. Though, in your case, I guess it doesn’t matter. You didn’t answer my question.”

“Question?” said Mongo, delicately peeling a banana with one claw. Any minute. Jack expected the bird to start making French toast. “What question?”

“How did Hugo depart with all the windows closed?”

“Easy,” said Mongo, eyeing a box of graham crackers. Hopping over to the package, the raven peered at the list of ingredients. Obviously it was checking to see if the wafers contained sugar. Cawing happily, it ripped the top off the carton. Fortunately, Megan maintained a well-stocked kitchen cabinet. “We know the secret of flying through solid objects. Spying for Odin required us to master a lot of tricks.”

“But that violates the fundamental laws of the universe,” said Jack.

“Nonsense,” replied Mongo. At long last, the bird seemed finished with breakfast. “Atoms consist primarily of space. The total mass of electrons, neutrons, and protons is negligible. Hugo and I merely manipulate our physical structure so that the atoms of our bodies slip through the atoms of the opposing barrier. It’s simple.”

Jack frowned. “I was terrible at physics,” he said. “That’s why I went into logic,” His eyes narrowed. “Where did you learn about atomic structure?”

“Asimov wrote a column on the subject in one of your digest magazines,” said Mongo. The bird quickly changed the subject. “Don’t you think we should be heading downtown? Merlin’s probably wondering what’s keeping us.”

“Okay,” said Jack, rising from his chair. “But the next time I visit my parents’ home, I plan to check all of my magazines for beak marks. God help you birds if I find any.”

Fifteen minutes later, they departed for Chicago’s Loop. Mongo flew on ahead, scouting the route. Cassandra, armed with a half dozen throwing stars, assorted knives, and a wire garrote wound about her wrist, drove their car. The Amazon was feeling mean and hunting for trouble. Though there was nothing she could have done to prevent Megan’s abduction, Cassandra felt personally responsible for its taking place. The expression on her face was enough to keep any would-be assassins at bay. She was not a happy Amazon.

Merlin, Witch Hazel, and Fritz Grondark awaited them at the magician’s office. As did Hugo and his twin. And an unusual postcard.

“It came with the morning mail,” said Merlin, handing the photo card to Jack. “Though it was addressed to you, I couldn’t help noticing the message. Which prompted me to pull out my crystal ball and attempt a reading. Hazel helped, as did Sylvester.”

The witch’s familiar meowed loudly. “I hate predicting the future. It hurts my eyes peering into that stupid glass.”

“But you see things better than we do, dearie,” said Hazel. A bent, old crone with scraggly while hair, she looked every bit the witch she was. Appearances were deceptive, though. Hazel was a good witch, and a valuable ally in the battle against the forces of evil.

Jack studied the postcard. One side consisted of a color photo of one of the newest hotels in Las Vegas. On the reverse was scribbled a short note. “Hope to see you at the big auction next week,” The cryptic statement was signed, “An old friend.”

“Your crystal ball didn’t reveal who sent this message?” Jack asked, knowing the answer in advance. “Or why?”

“Of course not,” said Merlin. “However, focusing on the card, Sylvester stared into my magic sphere. That’s when he caught a glimpse of a room filled with people, both human and supernatural. Their attention was fixed on a small, hairless man dressed in white robes, holding a glass vial in one hand. Standing behind him was a huge neon red figure.”

“The Afreet,” said Jack, “and the Old Man of the Mountain. Any idea what he was offering for bid?”