The Lawrence Watt-Evans Fantasy

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  They were obviously the work of pranksters; after all, why would space aliens write WE’RE ALL IN THIS TOGETHER, BUBBA on a hillside, in plain English?

  * * * *

  As Moe Betterman read the report his eyes widened, and then a slow smile spread across his face.

  Bigfoot sightings were common enough; he had been collecting them for thirty years. People reported lone creatures most of the time, but sometimes pairs, trios, whole families, entire herds; it didn’t mean much.

  But when half a dozen sightings in succession, all in eastern Oregon, all reported two sasquatches, one smaller and more delicate than the other…

  “Congratulations, Bubba,” he said quietly. “And my best to the little lady.”

  KEEPING UP APPEARANCES

  Maribelle stared at the little black-iron cage in dismay. She had known when she returned from visiting her family and found the room deserted, with a note from Armus dated the day before yesterday directing her to look for him here if he wasn’t home yet, that there was trouble.

  But she hadn’t expected this.

  The hamster in the iron cage stared back at her. It was small and round and golden and looked totally harmless.

  And rather stupid, but that didn’t surprise Maribelle at all. “That’s really Armus?” she asked.

  “So the wizard’s messenger said,” Derdiamus Luc replied.

  * * * *

  The hamster squeaked and nodded.

  “Oh, dear,” Maribelle sighed. “What will I tell his mother?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know,” Luc said with an uneasy smile.

  “Speaking of things you do or don’t know,” Maribelle said, “would you know how to turn him back? I mean, is this permanent? Is there some way to break the curse?”

  * * * *

  “I’m afraid I have no idea,” Luc said. “The messenger didn’t tell me much of anything.”

  “Did the messenger tell you why the wizard Esotissimus turned Armus into this little furball?”

  “Well…” Luc coughed.

  Maribelle tore her gaze away from the hamster and looked at Luc. It wasn’t hard to see that the merchant was hiding something.

  And it wasn’t hard to guess what it was, either. When she got Armus home she intended to have a few words with him, whether he was hamster or human at the time.

  For now, though, she stared at Luc in wide-eyed innocence, pretending she hadn’t a clue as to why the wizard would have been irked with Armus.

  “I’m afraid it’s partly my fault,” Luc admitted. “Esotissimus has been telling my customers the most terrible lies about some of the goods I sell, and I hired the young man to deliver a strong complaint about this practice.” He glanced at the hamster. “It appears the wizard didn’t appreciate it. I am sorry.”

  Maribelle sighed again.

  Actually, she supposed the wizard had been merciful, since the “strong complaint” Armus was supposed to deliver had almost certainly been a dagger between the ribs. And the “terrible lies” were probably accurate assessments of the value of some of the charms and potions Luc sold; Maribelle was fairly certain that Luc’s so-called “irresistible love spells” were just civet and musk, and the “miraculous medicines” nothing but willow bark in distilled wine, with no magical content at all.

  But what had Armus thought he was doing, going after a wizard alone?

  “Well, I’m sure you meant well,” she said, picking up the cage. She turned to go, then paused and turned back to Luc. “Um…while I can see that the response wasn’t what you might have hoped, Armus apparently did deliver your message. Shall I send a bill, or would you like to pay now?”

  Luc’s jaw dropped, then snapped shut.

  “Pay?” he said, sounding a bit strangled.

  “Well, yes,” Maribelle said. “I’m afraid that the Assassins’ Guild would insist. Armus is a member, after all, so even though you merely hired him as a messenger, Guild rules would apply. Wouldn’t they, Armus?”

  The hamster made a noise that was clearly meant as agreement.

  “Assassins’ Guild? You mean there really is…” Luc stopped in mid-sentence. He looked at Maribelle’s wide-eyed innocent gaze, and at the hamster’s beady little eyes, both fixed on him.

  “Of course,” he said through clenched teeth. “I believe we had agreed upon a price of fifty royals…”

  Armus cheebled angrily.

  “How foolish of me,” Luc said, forcing a laugh. “I mean one hundred and fifty. I’ll just write you a chit…”

  “Sire Luc, I’m afraid I may be traveling soon, on short notice,” Maribelle said, her voice oozing regret. “I’ll need to have cash.”

  “Well, I don’t see how I…” Luc began.

  Maribelle interrupted him, her tone still regretful but a little harder than before. “I wouldn’t want to tell my friends in the Guild you were uncooperative, after you got the man I love turned into a hamster…”

  Luc winced. “Of course,” he said quickly.

  Maribelle waited patiently as Luc counted out the coins. So far as she knew there was no Assassins’ Guild, here in Verengard or anywhere else, but Luc wouldn’t know that. Merchants heard all the rumors, and never knew which to believe. And Luc certainly knew what Armus did for a living. What’s more, the amount of money involved confirmed that Luc hadn’t hired Armus the Assassin just to deliver a message. He could have hired any urchin off the street for two royals—or maybe it would have taken as much as five, since a wizard was involved.

  A hundred and fifty meant something more than a message, something a bit more pointed.

  Twenty minutes later, back in the rented room two streets over, Maribelle opened the cage and pointed to the sheet of parchment and the little pan of ink she had set out.

  “Now,” she said, “would you mind telling me what you thought you were doing, contracting for an assassination without me? And agreeing to kill a wizard, without properly researching the job? I was only gone for eleven days! You couldn’t wait that long?”

  The hamster cheebled angrily at her.

  “I can’t understand anything you say,” Maribelle told it. “Just dip a claw in the ink; I know you can’t hold a pen.”

  The hamster glared at her for a moment, then scurried to the ink.

  The result was smeared and messy, but legible.

  I WAS BORED. LOOKED EASY. PAID WELL.

  “A hundred and fifty royals?” Maribelle protested.

  The hamster let out an offended squawk, and scrawled 600. 150 ADVANCE, 150 MORE EVEN IF WIZARD LIVED.

  “And the rest if you actually pulled it off.”

  Armus nodded.

  “And did you really think you could kill a wizard single-handed?”

  The hamster shook his head, and reached for the ink.

  SCOUTING, he wrote. THEN WAIT FOR YOU, FINISH THE JOB TOGETHER.

  “But you got caught.”

  The hamster looked sheepish—which was an impressive accomplishment for a hamster, but Armus had always been a talented, charming individual.

  Not all that bright, but talented and charming.

  “All right,” Maribelle said. “Tell me all about it, step by step. Then we’ll see about getting you turned back.”

  She didn’t say it aloud, but mentally added, if you can be turned back. She knew perfectly well that transformations were tricky stuff. Some could only be reversed by the wizard who initiated them. Others could only be ended by the wizard’s death—she didn’t think she would very much mind arranging that in this case.

  And some transformations couldn’t be undone at all.

  She shivered at the thought as she watched the hamster scratching ink onto the parchment, leaving smudgy little footprints everywhere. She and Armus had been working together for a little over four years now, and she had hoped t
hey would stay together for the rest of their lives. She’d put aside almost half the money they had earned as assassins, with the intention of someday retiring on it and settling down somewhere—after all, they couldn’t keep killing people forever. She wouldn’t always be sufficiently young and pretty and innocent-looking to use their preferred methods, where Armus would threaten the intended target, drawing all the attention while poor helpless-looking little Maribelle put a knife in the victim’s back.

  Settling down with a hamster, rather than a man, hadn’t been at all what she had in mind.

  * * * *

  The wizard Esotissimus was clearly a traditionalist. His establishment was built of wrought iron, smoke-blackened oak, and equally smoke-blackened granite, lavishly trimmed with spikes and gargoyles. Maribelle paused on the street and looked up at it before entering.

  Maribelle usually liked traditionalists; they tended to be easy targets, never ready for the unexpected. They either ignored her completely or tried to seduce her, and both options provided plentiful opportunities for poison or a quick stroke of the blade.

  She wasn’t here to kill this particular wizard, though, but to coax a favor out of him, and traditionalism might work against her there. Wizards had a traditional dislike for reversing their

  spells.

  And Esotissimus was not merely a traditionalist, but a very powerful wizard. That was why Maribelle had chosen the direct approach. Armus swore he hadn’t even seen the wizard’s hands move when the transformation spell was cast. He hadn’t even realized the wizard was really angry with him until he started shrinking and growing fur.

  Armus had attempted a ruse; he had pretended to be a prospective customer, hoping to study the layout of the wizard’s home and learn a bit of his capabilities. He still, he said, didn’t know what had gone wrong, or how the wizard had known he was lying.

  Maribelle lifted the immense iron knocker and let it fall; a muffled boom echoed, and with a creak of bending metal the two black iron gargoyle faces on either side of the door turned to look at her.

  She looked back, quickly putting on her dumb-and-demure working expression and smiling at first one, then the other. Just because the iron faces could move that didn’t mean they could see her, but there was no reason to take unnecessary chances.

  And it was very obvious that this was real magic here, not the cheap imitations offered by Derdiamus Luc and his ilk.

  The oaken door opened a crack, and a heart-shaped female face framed in lustrous black curls peered out at her.

  “Hello there,” Maribelle said. There was no point in turning the charm on full for a woman, but she smiled brightly. “I’d like to see Esotissimus, please.”

  “You don’t have an appointment,” the black-haired woman said accusingly.

  “I didn’t know how to make one,” Maribelle explained. “Please, it’s very important.” She adjusted the strap of the bag slung over her shoulder.

  “What’s it about?” the woman demanded.

  Maribelle looked at her, trying to judge whether to admit the truth or insist on seeing the wizard. The woman was short, shorter than Maribelle—she would scarcely have reached Armus’ shoulder if Armus were still himself. She wore a low-cut, tight-fitting gown of black velvet that combined with her lush mop of hair to frame and accentuate her pale skin and fine features. She had made herself up expertly, but Maribelle could see that she was past the first bloom of youth—perhaps thirty, or even thirty-five. If she were a slave-girl kept entirely for her decorative appearance she could expect to be cast aside any day now, whenever her master might trouble himself to really look at her and see past the cosmetics.

  If she had other talents, Maribelle couldn’t see them.

  She was likely to be balky, then—she would be insecure in her position, and reluctant to risk any disturbance should she admit the wrong person. Better, then, to tell her the truth.

  “It’s about my husband,” Maribelle said.

  The woman’s eyes darkened. “Oh?”

  “Yes,” Maribelle said. “The wizard turned him into a hamster. I’d like him turned back.”

  Enlightenment struck; the woman’s eyes widened with sudden understanding.

  “Oh, the hamster!” she said. “I hadn’t…well, come in; I’ll tell the great Esotissimus you’re here.” She swung the door wide, and ushered Maribelle inside, down a corridor to a small, windowless, sparsely-furnished room lit by a dozen fat candles.

  “Wait here,” the attendant said.

  Maribelle settled onto an oaken chair and waited. She opened the bag so that Armus could have a little light and air—though the air was sufficiently thick with candle-smoke that it probably wasn’t much of an improvement over the inside of the pouch.

  “Was that woman here before?” Maribelle asked.

  Armus nodded and gave an affirmative cheeble—the two of them had worked out a few simple codes to aid communication.

  “She let you in?”

  Again, Armus nodded.

  “Did you see any other servants?”

  That drew a negative hiss. Of course, that didn’t mean there were no other servants. The place might be full of spying apprentices, for all she or Armus knew, peering through invisible

  eyeholes in every wall, or watching them with scrying spells.

  Armus was looking up at her expectantly, as if he had more to say, but she couldn’t think what it would be. They hadn’t brought paper and ink; it hadn’t seemed practical.

  “Did Esotissimus keep you waiting…”

  She didn’t have a chance to finish the question, as the door opened just then. The dark-haired woman stood in the corridor, beckoning. Apparently Esotissimus did not keep visitors waiting long.

  Maribelle gave Armus a second or two to settle securely back into the pouch, then rose and followed the woman down the passageway and through an imposing set of double doors.

  The room beyond was large, dim, and mostly empty. At the far end a dais held a throne, and seated on the throne was a robed figure; all the light in the room came from some hidden source behind the throne, so that the figure’s face was completely hidden in shadows.

  Maribelle knew she was supposed to be impressed—in fact, she was impressed—so she dropped her jaw and said, “Ooooh!” in her best little-girl voice.

  Behind her, the dark-haired woman slammed the great doors shut. Maribelle blinked foolishly, then turned to look—she always wanted to know whether anyone was in a position to stab her in the back.

  The serving woman, or whoever she was, was leaning casually on the closed doors. Maribelle suppressed a frown. It was probably silly to worry about such things when she was facing a powerful wizard, but she really hated having anyone behind her during a negotiation.

  At least she could put some distance between them. She put on a scared-but-attempting-bravery expression and marched forward, toward the throne.

  “Greetings, mighty wizard!” she said, letting her voice squeak a bit.

  The figure on the throne raised one hand and said, “Come no closer!” The wizard’s voice was deep and rich and echoed from the stone walls.

  Maribelle stopped and looked puzzled. “All right,” she said. “I didn’t want to shout, that’s all.”

  “I will hear you well enough where you are,” the seated shape announced. “What would you have of me?”

  “Well,” Maribelle said, holding up the pouch, “you turned my husband into a hamster. I’m sure you had your reasons—I know he can be very annoying at times—but could you please turn him back now? I promise he’s learned his lesson, and we won’t bother you again.”

  “You say that the assassin who intruded upon me was your husband?” the wizard boomed.

  She hesitated before replying as she debated whether she should object to hearing Armus called an assassin. If she were truly the naive innoce
nt she was pretending to be, she should at least express some surprise.

  Generally speaking, though, arguing with wizards wasn’t a good idea.

  “Well, we never got around to a formal marriage ceremony, but we’ve been together for a few years,” she said.

  Then, abruptly, she turned—she wasn’t consciously aware what had alerted her, whether she had heard breathing or felt the air moving, but she knew someone was coming up behind her, and she whirled to find the black-haired woman had come forward from the door and was now just a few feet away.

  Maribelle let out a yip.

  “You startled me!” she said, backing away—but carefully not even beginning to reach for any of her hidden weaponry.

  “Pay no attention to my servant!” the wizard thundered.

  “Oh, excuse me, sir!” Maribelle said, turning back toward the throne. She bowed, and then stepped aside, farther off the line between the woman and the throne, so that neither the woman nor the wizard would be directly behind her when she spoke to the other.

  The woman frowned at her, and drummed her fingers on the black velvet covering her thigh. Maribelle noticed that the servant did not glance at the wizard for direction before retreating to one of the side walls. There she leaned back against the stone and stared at Maribelle.

  “Does she have to be in here?” Maribelle asked the wizard, jerking a thumb at the woman. “She makes me nervous.”

  For a moment the wizard sat silently—Maribelle couldn’t see his face, couldn’t guess at his thoughts. Finally he spoke.

  “She makes you nervous?”

  “Well, I mean, of course you make me nervous, too, but you’re supposed to. You’re a wizard, after all.”

  “She makes you nervous.”

  “Yes, she does. Could you send her away?”

  “No.”

  That didn’t leave much room for argument. Maribelle shrugged. At least the woman was at the side now, rather than behind her, and Maribelle had had plenty of practice watching people out of the corner of her eye.

  “Whatever you say,” she said. “But could you please change Armus back to a man?” She held up the pouch, displaying the hamster.