Robert Weinberg - A Calculated Magic

Close by the trickster, a massive middle-aged man dressed in a suit several sizes too small waited passively, arms folded across his barrel chest. He looked bored. Roger guessed that this was the Russian emissary, Boris Bronsky. He didn’t know much about the new player in the game, but it seemed very unlikely that Bronsky could do much to affect the outcome of the evening’s events. He was too late on the scene to have any major influence on the scenario Roger had carefully constructed. The sight of a gun would probably turn him into a quivering lump of Jell-O. Besides, big and fat, the man resembled a ponderous old bear. Roger, no fan of animals, discharged Bronsky as a minor annoyance.

Roger’s gaze drifted to the center of the chamber. Located next to Hasan al-Sabbah's gigantic obsidian throne was a small folding table. It was covered with a jet black tablecloth. Displayed there was a small glass vial and a stack of papers bound by several rubber bands. The infamous legacy of Sergei Karsnov. Behind the table stood al-Sabbah’s neon red Afreet. The ferocious guard watched the two treasures with unwavering eyes. The genie’s presence at the auction supposedly guaranteed the integrity of the affair. Patting the folded paper in his pocket, Roger thought otherwise.

Actually, the Afreet was the only supernatural entity present who worried him. The genie moved incredibly fast. Roger’s spell froze all magical beings in place after the first two lines were read aloud. He planned to distance himself far enough away from the Old Man of the Mountain and the Crouching One so that neither of them could reach him before he uttered the necessary words. But the genie could.

Working in Roger’s favor was the fact that the genie possessed the intellect of a stone. It never acted without orders. Unless al-Sabbah commanded him to stop Roger, the Afreet wouldn’t act. Roger counted on the notion not striking the Old Man of the Mountain until it was too late.

Loitering not far from the display were the two representatives from the Brotherhood of Holy Destruction. Preferring anonymity, they hid their identities behind the ludicrous aliases of Smith and Wesson. The Old Man of the Mountain had introduced them to Roger earlier in the evening. He had not been impressed. Typical fanatics, they acted as if the world revolved around their mission. Sneering, they had called him “a bloated, capitalist warmonger,” Roger didn’t mind. He had been called worse by business rivals. Once he controlled the plague virus, their tune would change quickly enough.

The final pair of guests at the auction he had never seen before. These were the representatives of The Man, the villainous loan shark who frightened even the Old Man of the Mountain. Roger studied the mismatched duo with growing comprehension. A tall, slender young man and a stunning black woman, their appearance confirmed his earlier suspicions. Hasan might think the two spoke for the crime boss, but Roger knew the truth. His postcard had done the trick. There was no doubt in his mind that he was looking at Jack Collins and Cassandra Cole. They were attending the auction as honored guests of their most dangerous foe.

Roger drew in a deep breath. As expected, Collins hadn’t disappointed him. But the Logical Magician’s presence at the event no longer mattered. Roger had complete control of the situation. He chuckled and tilted his head slightly in Collins’s direction.

“You find this occasion amusing?” asked the Crouching One, as al-Sabbah departed to inform his other guests that the auction was about to begin. “That is the first time I have heard you laugh in weeks.”

“I’m just relieved that the Old Man of the Mountain isn’t forcing everyone to sit on cushions,” said Roger. “My back still aches from our previous visit.”

“Hasan wants his guests comfortable,” said the Crouching One. “As if it matters.”

Roger grinned. For a change, he was in complete agreement with the Lord of the Lions. It didn’t matter what Hasan wanted. It didn’t matter at all.

Jack stared at the demigod talking to the Old Man of the Mountain. Nergal, Lord of the Lions, Master of Death and Destruction, resembled a short, elderly man, crippled by age. Barely five feet tall, die Lord of the Lions had a back arched so badly that its hands nearly touched the floor. Looking like a vulture hovering over its prey, the ancient entity truly was the Crouching One.

Completely hairless, lacking even eyebrows, the demigod had skin the color and texture of aged parchment. In deference to its surroundings, Nergal wore a dark blue pinstripe suit. The Lord of the Lions seemed nothing more than a wizened old business executive—except for its eyes. They glowed with an inner yellow fire, harsh and unblinking, cruel and utterly inhuman. Glimpsing those orbs, Jack knew for sure he finally faced his ultimate foe.

Behind the demigod, shifting about impatiently, was a tall, slender man with thinning hair and a scraggly beard. He was dressed in a pair of old jeans and a faded black sweatshirt. The stranger seemed unperturbed by the company he kept, leading Jack to suspect that here was the person responsible for Nergal’s reappearance in the modern world.

The man’s gaze methodically circled the room and came to rest on Jack. A brief smile lighted up the newcomer’s face and he nodded imperceptibly to Jack. The man laughed, drawing a comment from the Lord of the Lions.

“Our mysterious postcard person?” asked Cassandra quietly.

“Probably,” said Jack. “Who is he, Hugo?”

“Hasan al-Sabbah called him Roger Quinn,” the bird whispered in Jack’s ear. “Earlier this afternoon, while you and Cassandra were out buying pet supplies, Mongo and I visited a few old friends in the city. Returning, I stopped in the casino and eavesdropped on the Old Man of the Mountain as he escorted Smith and Wesson through the casino. It must have been shortly after your confrontation with the pair. The fanatics were still pretty steamed about Cassandra’s remarks. Hasan tried to distract them by introducing Quinn. According to the Old Man of the Mountain, Roger owns a major computer consulting firm in California. Smith and Wesson weren’t impressed. That pair learned diplomacy from Attila the Hun.”

“Dale Carnegie they’re not,” Jack murmured in agreement. “Anything more about Quinn?”

“Roger was the human present during the conversation between the Old Man of the Mountain and the Crouching One I told you about on your arrival in Las Vegas,” said Hugo. “He was the guy who said they shouldn’t underestimate you, and referred to Dietrich von Bern. I got the impression he worked for Nergal.”

“If that’s the case,” said Jack, “it plays havoc with my earlier theory that he sent the postcard as a warning. Unless Mr. Quinn is playing both ends against the middle. We better keep a close watch on him this evening.”

Jack shook his head in amazement. In most of the fantasy novels he had read in the past decade, the mortals involved with faeries and demons were always liberal arts majors. Numerous series’ books featured rock musicians, artists, and poets. Nobody wrote about scientists or engineers encountering the supernatural. Yet here in the real world, the two human agents working for the forces of light and darkness both specialized in mathematics.

In an odd fashion, it genuinely reflected an important truth. Just because artists and musicians dealt with emotions and feelings didn’t mean they would accept without question the existence of supernatural beings. In fact, most artistic people of Jack’s acquaintance, faced with the bitter realities of contemporary existence, were hard-headed cynics. Heartache and suffering had burned the dreams out of them. In their minds, they understood the world perfectly and refused to let themselves be contradicted by facts.