JIM BUTCHER - SMALL FAVOR

“I thought he just liked the King’s music.”

“No, no,” I said. “Shiro himself. He was a direct descendent of the last king of Okinawa. Several generations back, but his family was royalty.”

Sanya shrugged his broad shoulders. “There have been many kings over the centuries, my friend, and many years for their bloodlines to spread through the populace. My own family can trace its roots back to Salahuddin.”

I felt my eyebrows rise. “Salahuddin. You mean Saladin? King of Syria and Egypt during the Crusades?”

Sanya nodded. “The same.” He paused in midstrop and looked up at me, his eyes widening.

“I know you’re agnostic,” I said. “But do you believe in coincidence?”

“Not nearly so much as I once did,” Sanya replied.

“That can’t be a coincidence. Both of you descended from royalty.” I chewed on my lip. “Could that have something to do with who can take up one of the swords?”

“I am a soldier and an amateur philosopher,” Sanya said. “You are the wizard. Could such a thing be significant?”

I waggled a hand in midair. “Yes and no. I mean, there are a lot of factors that tie magic to matters of inheritance-genetic or otherwise. A lot of the old rites were intimately bound up with political rulers.”

“The king and his land are one,” Sanya intoned solemnly.

“Well, yeah.”

Sanya nodded. “Michael showed me that movie.”

“Merlin was the only good thing about that movie. That and Captain Picard kicking ass in plate mail with a big ax.” I waved my hand. “The point is that in many cultures, the king or sultan or whatever held a position of duty and authority that was as much spiritual as physical. Certain energies could have been connected to that, giving the old kings a form of metaphysical significance.”

“Perhaps something similar to the power of the Swords?” Sanya asked.

I shrugged. “Maybe. By the time I was born the planet was running a little low on monarchs. It isn’t something I’ve looked at before.”

Sanya smiled. “Well. Now you need only find a prince or princess willing to lay down his or her life over matters of principle. Do you know any?”

“Not so much,” I said. “But I’ve got a feeling that we’re onto something.” I glanced at the clock on the wall. “It’s getting late. I’ll be back here in about two hours, or I’ll call.”

“ Da ,” Sanya said. “We will watch over your criminals for you.”

“Thanks,” I said, and went back out to the workshop. Hendricks had slumped to the floor and was sleeping. Gard was actually snoring. Thomas had been pacing restlessly when I entered.

“Well?” he asked.

“Gotta get to Mac’s and meet Murphy,” I said. “Let’s roll.”

Thomas nodded and headed for the door.

I reached into the trash can by the door, took out an empty motor oil can, and tossed it into the least cluttered corner of the workshop. It bounced off something in midair, and Molly let out a soft yelp, appearing there a moment later, rubbing a hand to her hip.

“Where’d she come from?” Thomas demanded crossly.

“What did I miss?” Molly demanded, her tone faintly offended. “I had all the senses covered. Even Thomas didn’t know I was there.”

“You didn’t miss anything,” I said. “I just know how you think, grasshopper. If I can’t make you stay where it’s safe, I might as well keep you where I can see you. Maybe you’ll even be useful. You’re with us.”

Molly’s eyes gleamed. “ Excellent ,” she said, and hurried over to join me.

I was more than an hour late, and Murphy was not amused.

“Your nose looks worse than it did yesterday,” she said when I sat down at the table. “I think the black eyes have grown, too.”

“Gosh, you’re cute when you’re angry,” I responded.

Her eyes narrowed dangerously.

“It makes your little button nose all pink and your eyes get bloodshot and even bluer.”

“Did you have any last words, Dresden, or should I just choke you now?”

“Mac!” I called, raising a hand. “Two pale!”

She fixed me with a steady look and said, “Don’t think you can buy your way out of this with good beer.”

“I don’t,” I said, rising. “I’m buying my way out of it with really, really good beer.”

I walked over to the bar as Mac set two bottles of his microbrewed liquid nirvana down and took off the caps with a deft twist of his hand, disdaining a bottle opener. I winked at him and picked up both bottles, then sauntered back over to Murphy.

I gave her my bottle, took mine, and we drank. She paused after the first taste and blinked at the bottle before drinking again more deeply. “This beer,” she pronounced after that, “just saved your life.”

“Mac’s a master beeromancer,” I replied. I’d never tell him, but at the time I wished he’d serve his brew cold. I’d have loved to hold a frosty bottle against my aching head for a moment. You’d think the pain from the damned broken nose would fade eventually. But it just kept on stubbornly burning.

We had settled down at a table along one wall of the pub. There are thirteen tables in the room, and thirteen wooden pillars, each extensively carved with scenes mostly out of Old World fairy tales. The bar is crooked and has thirteen stools, and thirteen ceiling fans whir lazily overhead. The setup of the entire place is designed to diffuse and refract random magical energies, the kind that often gather around practitioners of magic when they’re grumpy or out of sorts. It offers a measure of protection from accumulated negative energies, enough to make sure that annoying or depressing “vibes,” for lack of a more precise term, don’t adversely affect the moods and attitudes of the pub’s clientele.

It doesn’t keep out any of the supernatural riffraff-that’s what the sign by the door is for. Mac had the place legally recognized as neutral ground among the members of the Unseelie Accords, and members of any of the Accorded nations had a responsibility to avoid conflict in such a place, or at least to take it outside.

Still, neutral ground is safe only until someone thinks they can get away with violating the Accords. It’s best to be cautious there.

“On the other hand,” Murphy said, more quietly, “maybe you’re too pathetic to beat to death right now.”

“My nose, you mean. Compared to the way my hand felt, it’s nothing,” I said.

“Still can’t be much fun.”

“Well. No.”

She watched me through her next sip and then said, “You’re about to play the wizard card and tell me to butt out.”

“Not exactly,” I said.

She gave me her cop eyes, all professionally detached neutrality, and nodded once. “So talk.”

“Remember the guys from the airport a few years back?”

“Yeah. Killed the old Okinawan guy in the chapel. He died real bad.”

I smiled faintly. “I think he’d probably argue the point, if he could.”

She shrugged and said, tone quietly flat, “It was a mess.”

“The guys behind it are back. They’ve abducted Marcone.”

Murphy frowned, her eyes distant for a moment, calculating. “They’re grabbing his business?”

“Or forcing him onto their team,” I said. “I’m not sure yet. We’re working on it.”

“We?”

“You remember Michael?” I asked.

“Charity’s husband?”

“Yeah.”

“I remember that at the airport we found a couple of men with no tongues and fake identification. They’d been killed with long blades. Swords, if you can believe that in this day and age. It was messy, Harry.” She put her hands flat on the table and leaned toward me. “I don’t like messy.”