Brian Thomsen - Realms of Magic

From his post, Shank quickly got over his first dose of surprise. When he'd scampered up the jamb, he'd imagined what lay on the other side. This was not it. The old woman was certainly not making preparations for any lover's rendezvous, any easy material for blackmail. He'd had it all figured-she was some wealthy crone meeting her gentleman. (By his logic, she had to be wealthy, since she wasn't going to gain suitors by her looks.) He'd hoped to spy, learn some names, and turn the whole day into a nice profit.

Unfortunately, she clearly wasn't making arrangements for a tryst. She was preparing to do magic. Although disappointed that his ambitions were scotched, Shank watched with fascination. Whatever she was doing, she didn't want people knowing, so that still meant the possibility of profit for little Will o' Horse-Shank. She might be casting a curse on someone-that could bring him money. If she were a vile priestess plotting evil or a treasonous wizard, there might be reward for turning her in. Folks said King Pinch could be a generous man when it suited him. Of course, she might be one of them wild mages about to try something risky. Shank didn't feel so comfortable about that prospect. As a brownie, though, one of the things Shank had to be thankful for was an innate understanding of the mystical world. As he watched, he slowly gathered the clues he needed to see what she was about: the summoning of a familiar.

Ah, yes. The brownie's cunning little mind hatched a perfectly suitable plot. Suddenly he saw for himself a life of ease-wine, breads, new clothes and cheese, things he so dearly loved. He watched her go through the twists and turns, light the candles, and utter the words. He waited and poised himself for the right moment. If she wanted a familiar, by the gods, he'd make sure she got one.

Maeve swallowed another gulp of wine and pressed on with the reading of the scroll. The damned spell was tortuously hard, more complicated and twisted than it looked at the start. She forced her way through a few more syllables and arcane passes before reaching again for the wine to strengthen herself. She was almost done and was pretty sure she'd gotten it right. It was so hard to tell with these things, especially with it being so early in the morning and all.

Finally, she spoke the last syllables, and just in time, too, for her candles were almost burnt to nubs and her wine was nearly gone. She was sweaty from the effort even though the room was not particularly hot. As the last echoes rang out, Maeve stood back and waited.

Nothing happened.

There was no puff of smoke, no creature appearing out of thin air. Instead, she stood alone in the center of a dingy room, at the heart of a badly drawn chalk outline- circles had never been her strength-listening to a burst of boisterous singing from downstairs and waiting for something, anything, to happen.

All at once, there was a scrabbling thump and clump behind her, and Maeve whirled to face the door. There, at the edge of the circle, stood a little man with pointed ears and a pointy chin, improbably dressed in tattered children's clothes. With a flamboyant wave and a grand bow, the brownie-for it was a brownie much to Maeve's great joy-grandly announced, "The Mighty Will o' Horse-Shank, familiar to your arcane majesty, stands at your service!"

Maeve beamed with joy. The spell had worked!

The old torn was quiet, resigned to its fate. Now was the time, Fiddlenose knew, to start the next step of his plan. Rousing from his seat, he pushed aside the brush that hid the stink-plant sac he'd carefully gathered. Now he'd teach that torn to ruin his nights.

As he gathered the gelatinous pod, the air around him began to strangely hum. It was quiet and soft, but the old torn heard it too and began to yowl once more, though this time its voice was filled with fear. Something was happening, something that made Fiddlenose's skin itch. Worse still, he was suddenly keen on a strange urge-an urge to be with someone, someone far away and calling to him.

The hot air closed around him, thickening like bad porridge. The hum grew louder until it drowned out even the tomcat's shrill howls. As the entire world started to fade on Fiddlenose, the brownie, furious and confused, could only helplessly wonder, why do I want to serve someone I don't even know?

And then everything faded to nothing.

"Cheese. I'd really like some cheese," her familiar loudly announced from his chair. His little feet dangled well above the floor, and he could barely reach the side table, but that didn't stop him from pouring himself another glass of palace wine. "Good cheese, not that mold old Car-I mean, not plain, ordinary human cheese. We familiars have delicate dispositions. I'm sure you wouldn't want to indispose your familiar, now would you, dear Maeve? I honestly believe that with a peck of cheese, I shall feel right again and be ready to do your bidding."

Maeve sighed. Somehow, this was just not working out as she'd thought it would. The way she understood it, a familiar was supposed to be at,your beck and call, but since Will had arrived he'd demanded wine, roast meat, the promise of new clothes, even gifts to the innkeeper in his name-and all before he could (and she could quote) 'Feel truly restored and ready to do her will.'

"I think you should be rested enough," she argued testily. "You're my familiar. I'd like you to demonstrate your powers."

Shank knew from her tone that he could not put off the question any longer. The only problem was he hadn't a clue what sort of powers he was supposed to have or grant to her-even if he could.

"Powers? Such as?" he stalled.

Maeve screwed up her face, not expecting the question. She didn't know; she'd never had a familiar before. She racked her drink-fuddled memory for what little she knew on the whole subject.

"You should be able to hear my thoughts-obey my commands. That's one."

"Oh, that," Shank drawled as he tried to think of an explanation. "Well, that takes time. Uh-huh, that's it. We just met, and I'm very, very tense, so my mind is resisting your thoughts. I'm sure it will get better, especially if you've got any more of this wine." He poked at the now-empty bottle on the table and looked around the room significantly. "I'm sure it would help immensely."

Maeve sighed again, but there was no arguing, so she thrust her head out the door and hailed for Corlis to bring more wine. Nobody'd warned her that familiars were so demanding. "Senses, too," she said, coming back in. "I should have keener senses, like hearing and all."

Shank stalled by looking to the ceiling. This scam was starting to get more complicated. It was about time to scupper off. "Don't you feel sharper?" he finally asked, playing on her vanity. "You look positively prime and alert. It's very impressive. I don't think anybody could get anything by you-"

Before he could say more, the temperature in the room abruptly rose to a sweltering degree. The air was filled with the prickly scent of something magical. There was a loud pop, and with it Maeve stumbled back in slack-jawed surprise while Shank fumbled the wineglass from his grip, spilling Ankhapur's finest red all over the floor.

In the center of the room, looking almost as surprised and certainly as unhappy, was another brownie, dressed in a little jerkin of leaves and grass. Sticks and fern fronds jutted from the wild mass of his hair. Clutched in his hands was a green, floppy pod that he fumbled and almost dropped. Recovering it, he tucked it under his arm and, with an irritated grimace, turned to Maeve and made an awkward, forced bow. "I am Fiddlenose and am-at your service, mighty mage." The last was said through firmly clenched teeth, as though the words were wrenched from the very core of his being.