Robert Weinberg - A Calculated Magic

“World meaning the immediate surroundings,” interrupted Mongo, sounding slightly sarcastic. “Amazing how the scale of things changes once you escape the limits of the nearby surroundings.”

“Whatever,” said Hugo, flapping his wings in annoyance. “Give me a chance to explain without interruption, please.”

“I’m sure Jack has already deduced the rest,” said Mongo. “He’s a bright boy. You heard Merlin’s narrative how Johnnie saved the world from the forces of darkness.”

“Yeah,” said Hugo. “But think what he could have done with our help.”

The big raven shrugged, not an easy task considering it had no shoulders. “I guess Mongo’s right. It ain’t hard to figure out the full report. Since we had to spy and then report to the All-Father, we were created with the ability to read and speak.”

“But why indulge in fantasy fiction?” asked Jack. “Why not history? Or perhaps westerns?”

“Use your brain, Johnnie,” said Hugo. “How many times did you come home from school and find one of your books on the floor with the pages open? Or have a volume disappear for a week or two, then turn up again as if it had never been gone?”

Jack’s face turned bright red. “The two of you? Borrowing my books? My valuable, first-edition books!”

“Calm down,” said Mongo. “We tried to be careful with them.”

“Sure we were,” said Hugo. “Though turning the pages on those old pulp magazines put a hell of a crimp in my neck. The paper kept crumbling into shreds.”

“My pulps?” said Jack, growing more and more agitated. “You turned the pages of my pulps with your beaks? Some of those magazines are sixty years old. They’re irreplaceable!”

“Tasted like it, too,” said Hugo. Then, seeing the expression on Jack’s face, the raven quickly added, “The shreds, that is. The tiny bits of paper that fell off the edges.”

Freda Collins chose that moment, as her son started reaching out with both hands to wring the life out of the bird in front of him, to open the door to Merlin’s office. “Good to see you’re getting acquainted,” she declared cheerfully.

“Mother,” said Jack, dropping his hands to his sides, “your ravens have been secretly reading my fantasy books for years,” His voice trembled with the anger of a true collector. “They put beak marks in my pulps.”

“Blame me, Johnnie,” said his mother, calmly. “I gave them permission. The birds were bored. There wasn’t a lot for them to do the past few decades, now that warfare’s changed so much. Reading was their only escape from monotony. Besides, they liked your taste in literature.”

“Yeah,” said Hugo. “You never heard us complain. Including when you got hooked for a year on those dreadful H. P. Lovecraft Cthulhu Mythos pastiches.”

“Besides,” said Mongo, “flying around one day we found a used bookstore in the Bronx where there’s a complete set of Weird Tales in fine condition for sale—cheap. The owner doesn’t know a thing about pulp magazines. He’d probably let them go for a song. We couldn’t tell you about them before. But now Hugo and me can work as your book scouts. We’ll find plenty of bargains. Discovering hidden items is a talent we possess.”

“Well,” said Jack, taking a deep breath. “I guess I forgive you. But, in the future, inform me what you want to read. That way, at least, I can take the magazines out of the plastic bags for you.”

“Deal,” said Hugo.

Things quieted down after that. Freda updated Jack on family matters, including the latest scandals, marriages, and deaths. The two ravens provided the embarrassing details. Jack soon realized the birds hadn’t exaggerated their skill as spies. They knew the dirt on everyone.

Afterward, Jack was forced to recap in detail his adventures fighting Dietrich von Bern, the Wild Huntsman. His mother and the ravens had heard some of the story from Merlin. But the magician and Megan had been in enchanted sleep for most of the exploit. Jack, with Cassandra’s promptings, filled in the rest.

About halfway through the story, Merlin supplied lunch via a teleportation spell to the nearest restaurant. A BLT and a Coke did wonders soothing Jack’s temper. As did the admiring comments from both his parent and her blackbirds.

“My son, the world-saver,” said Freda Collins, when Jack finished his tale. “Not that I’m surprised. The blood of heroes flows in your veins. Too bad you never learned the identity of the demigod pulling the Huntsman’s strings. Hidden enemies are the most dangerous kind.”

“So far, even Merlin’s magic has proven useless,” said Jack. “The demigod stays far enough in the background to be untraceable. It’s a mystery that has to be solved sooner or later. But that’s the least of my problems. The events of this morning present a much more immediate dilemma. One that has to be dealt with right away.”

“This morning?” said Megan, her voice concerned. “What are you talking about?”

“Didn’t Hugo mention the assassins?” asked Jack.

“Assassins,” said Megan, her eyes flashing dangerously. She turned to the raven. “What assassins?”

“Oops, sorry,” said the bird quickly. Obviously, Megan frightened him a good deal more than Jack. “Since the attempt failed, I decided not to say anything till Johnnie arrived and could provide the details himself.”

“An assassination attempt,” said Merlin, frowning. “That’s strange. I recently tried using my crystal ball to predict our enemy’s next move. While the results were inconclusive, I saw nothing to indicate it planned any direct violent action against you. At least, not in the immediate future.”

“Not one attempt, but two,” said Jack. Briefly, he described both attacks and how Cassandra foiled each of them. “In both cases, the killers were mortals, not supernaturals. But I believe behind them stands a particularly fiendish supernatural mastermind.”

Jack drew in a deep breath. “No direct action, you said. Unfortunately, that doesn’t rule out working through a proxy. The demigod is staying safely out of sight and letting another monstrous figure fight its battles. Unlike Dietrich von Bern and his Border Redcaps, this villain uses human henchmen.”

“Which changes the rules of the game drastically,” said Cassandra. “Mortals aren’t bound by the same rules as supernatural entities. And there are so many of them.”

The Amazon did not look pleased. Nor did anyone else. “You hinted earlier you knew the identity of this new mastermind. Jack,” said Cassandra. “Who is it?”

“I’m not positive about the answer,” said Jack, “but everything I’ve seen and heard so far points to one infamous figure. The actions of the assassins and the few remarks made by our one prisoner before he committed suicide support my theory. Why he is serving our mysterious enemy I don’t know. But for some unexplained reason, I’ve been marked for death by the Old Man of the Mountain.”

Nobody said anything for a moment. Jack gazed around at his friends and relatives, feeling a mixture of annoyance and astonishment. He refused to believe that they didn’t comprehend his predicament.

“Wasn’t he the big, white-bearded giant in that Belly Boop cartoon?” asked Megan, a puzzled expression on her face. “The one we watched on TNT with the Cab Calloway sound track?”

“You’re being threatened by an animated monster?” squawked Hugo. “That stretches credibility a bit far, doesn’t it?”

Jack sighed in amazement. “Aren’t any of you familiar with the stories of the Old Man of the Mountain and the Order of Assassins?”

Seeing the blank looks that greeted his question, he knew the answer, Eyebrows knotted in concentration, he stared directly at the two ravens. “I thought you birds knew everything. The old legends said you spied on mankind’s doings each day and whispered it that night in Odin’s ear.”