"A magikal way to extinguish a flame," she repeated slowly. "Is it really a vast improvement on simply blowing the candle out?"
"It's an exercise," I said, defensively. "Besides, if I get good enough at it . . . I don't know, maybe I could put out a whole burning building."
"Hmpf," she said, and I realized I was losing an argument when we weren't even arguing.
"Anyway, what was it you wanted?"
It's an old ploy. When in doubt or in trouble, change the subject. Sometimes it works.
"I just wanted to say that I think you should take a look at Buttercup."
"Buttercup? What's he done now?"
Buttercup was a war unicorn I sort of inherited early in my career. While he isn't as inclined to get into mischief or break things as Gleep, my dragon, that still leaves him a lot of room for minor disasters.
"Nothing I know of," Bunny said. "He just doesn't seem as perky as he usually is. I'm wondering if he's coming down with something."
"Maybe he's just getting old." I realized that I know even less about the longevity of unicorns than I did about their ailments. "I'll take a look at him."
* * *
We were currently based in what used to be an old inn. Actually, I had a bit of my history tied up in the inn even before my current relocation. When I first teamed with Aahz, this very inn was the headquarters for our adversary of the moment, one Isstvan. After successfully vanquishing him and sending him off to roam the dimensions, Aahz and I used it as our own base until our subsequent move to Possiltum, and eventually to the Bazaar at Deva. It seemed only natural to return to it when I retired and was looking for a quiet place to pursue my studies.
Buttercup shared the stable area of the inn with Gleep, though more often or not they only used it to sleep. The rest of the time they roamed the grounds playing with each other and getting into the aforementioned mischief. To say the least, this insured that our neighbors and folks from the nearby village gave the place wide berth as a general rule.
I wasn't wild about running him down if they were out terrorizing the countryside, as they were both fleeter of foot and in better condition than I was. Fortunately he was in residence when I reached the stables.
"Hey, Buttercup! How's it going?"
The unicorn raised his head and glanced at me, then let it sag once more.
Bunny was right. Buttercup did seem very droopy, not at all his normal manner. What was more, his coat seemed dull and dry.
"Are you okay, fella? What's wrong?"
That inquiry didn't even earn me a second glance.
Normally, I'd be at a loss for what to do. This time around, however, I had an idea. Glancing out the stable door to be sure Bunny wasn't within hearing, I turned to Gleep who was watching the proceedings with interest.
"Gleep? Do you know what's wrong with Buttercup?"
I had discovered that my dragon could actually talk, though only in halting sentences. At his request, I had withheld that particular bit of information from my colleagues.
Gleep craned his neck to look out the door himself, then brought his head close to mine.
"Buttercup . . . sad," he said.
My pet's breath was foul enough that it usually drove me back a step or two. My concern was such, however, that I held my ground.
"Sad?" I said. "About what?"
Gleep seemed to struggle to find the words.
"You . . . not . . . use . . . him."
"Not use him?" I echoed, trying to understand. "You mean he wants me to play with him more?"
The dragon moved his head slowly from side to side in ponderous negation.
"No. Not . . . play. You . . . not . . . use . . . him . . . to . . . fight."
Slowly it began to sink in what the problem was.
Buttercup had been working with a demon hunter when we first met. The hunter, Quigley, had moved on to a career in magik, leaving the unicorn with me. While there had been many and varied adventures since then, I had never called on Buttercup to assist in any of them, preferring to deal with the problems by magical means. Well, magik combined with a fair amount of underhanded double talk. Whatever the reason, though, what was once a proud fighting animal had been reduced to the status of a house pet . . . and he didn't like it.
That seemed to be the problem. The trouble was, I had no idea what to do about it.
For a change, this lack of knowledge or a specific plan did not distress me. If nothing else, in my varied career prior to my retirement, I had amassed an impressive array of specialists, most of whom were usually all to happy to advise me in areas where my own experience was lacking. In this case, I thought I had a pretty good idea of who to turn to.
Big Julie had been commanding the largest army this dimension had ever seen when we first met. I can refer to its impressive size with some authority as, at the time, I was on the other side.
Shortly thereafter, he had retired and was living in a villa near the Royal Palace of Possiltum. We had gotten to be pretty good friends, however, and he had helped me and my colleague out several times on an advisory basis. Not surprising, with his background his advice was unswervingly helpful and insightful. As such, his was the first name that sprang to my mind to consult with regarding my current dilemma with Buttercup.
As always, he was happy to see me when I dropped in, and we immediately fell to reminiscing about old times like old war comrades . . . which we sort of were. The wine and lies flowed in roughly equal quantities, making for a very pleasant, relaxed conversation.
[author's note: Yes, that was an abrupt shift of time and location. Short stories don't give you much space for lengthy travel sequences. Besides, if they can get away with it in STAR WARS, why can't I?]
As he was refilling our goblets with yet another sample from his extensive wine cellar, he cocked an eye at me and winked.
"So! Enough small talk. What's the problem?"
"Problem?" I said, taken a bit aback. I had figured to ease into the subject slowly.
Big Julie leaned over and clapped me on the knee with his hand.
"You're a good boy, Skeeve," he said. "I'm always glad when you take time to visit. Still, you're busy enough I figure you don't come all this way just to chit chat with an old soldier. To me, that means you've got some kind of a problem you think I might help you with."
A little irked a being found out so easily, I filled him in on my perception of the problem. For all his self depreciating comments about being an ‘old soldier,' as I mentioned before Big Julie had the finest mind regarding things military that this dimension had ever seen.
"A war unicorn, eh?" he said, raising his eyebrows. "Don't see many of those anymore. Still, you could be right. Do you know much about war unicorns?"
"Practically nothing," I admitted easily. "I sort of inherited this one."
"Well, you can forget about that poetic stuff with unicorns and virgins," the retired general said. "Unicorns are fighters, bred specifically for their ferocity and loyalty. They're particularly popular in certain circles because they're all but immune to magik."
"Really? I didn't know that."
"I don't think I've ever heard of one retiring, though," Julie continued. "Usually they die in combat. Once they're trained, it's pretty much all they know. I've had men in my command like that. Been soldiers all their lives and can't imagine being civilians."
I nodded my head thoughtfully. I had thought my problem with Buttercup to be fairly unique. I had never really stopped to think about what soldiers do once they leave the service.
"A lot of the boys go into police work or some other kind of security in the private sector. If you look at it close, though, that's just another form of wearing a uniform and being ready for a fight if the situation calls for it. That's why that plan you came up with to use some of the boys for tax collectors was such a good idea. It took care of our problem of what to do with our excess personnel once Queen Hemlock put her expansion policy on hold. It let us give them an option of a
new assignment instead of just cutting them loose after a lifetime of service."
It seemed I had done something intelligent for a change, though I'll admit that at the time I had not been aware of the full ramifications of my action.
"So how does that help me figure out what to do with Buttercup?" I said, frowning.
"Well, it seems to me you need to find Buttercup some action, even if it's just a dummied up training exercise," Big Julie said. "Between the two of us we should be able to come up with something."
"A training exercise?"
"Sure. We do it all the time in the service. Schedule a war game to keep the troops on their toes," he dropped his voice to a conspirator level. "We don't ever admit it, but sometimes we even deliberately position our forces a bit too close to an opposing force . . . like over their border accidentally on purpose. Of course, they respond, and by the time things are sorted out and apologies have been made, the boys have had a little action to clear away the cobwebs. We could rig something like that for your unicorn."
I got up and did the honors of refilling our goblets. I didn't really want more wine, but it gave me a few minutes to mull over what Big Julie had said. Something about it wasn't sitting right with me.
"Actually, I don't think so," I said finally, shaking my head. "I appreciate the advice, Big Julie, and it's given me something to think about, but I think I'll try a different kind of solution."
"What do you have in mind?"
"Well, instead of hunting down or making up some kind of conflict to make Buttercup feel useful," I said, carefully, "I'm thinking what I need to do is spend some time re-training him."
Big Julie cocked his head.
"Re-training him to do what?"
"I don't really know just yet." I sighed. "As you were talking, though, it occurred to me how sad it was that all Buttercup knows how to do is to fight. More specifically, that, in his opinion, his only value is as a fighter. Instead of trying to re-enforce that problem, I think I want to spend the effort to try to change his self-image."
The general stared at me for several moments.
"I've never asked you, Skeeve," he said at last. "Why did you retire?"
"Me?" I said, caught off guard by the subject change. "I wanted to spend more time studying magik. I'm supposed to be this hot shot magician, but I really can't do all that much. Why?"
Julie made a derisive noise.
"Like the world needs more magicians," he said. "As I understand it, there's barely enough work for the ones we already have."
That stung a little.
"Now I know you military types don't think much of magik or magicians, Big Julie," I said a bit stiffly, "but it's what I do."
"Uh-huh," he said. "Like fighting is what Buttercup does."
"How's that again?" I frowned.
"You should listen to yourself, Skeeve," the general said, shaking his head. "You're saying that your only value to anyone is as a magik user. You still think that even though you admit that you don't really know all that much. Do you really think that's why your old team gave you their respect and followed your lead? You think I ended up running the army because I'm a rough, tough, invincible fighter?"
That really gave me pause for thought. I had never really considered it, but looking at his frail body, even allowing for age, it was doubtful that Big Julie could go toe to toe with any of the heavyweights I knew like Guido or Hugh Badaxe.
He leaned toward me.
"No, Skeeve. What you did just now, thinking through what's best for other people . . . in this case, your unicorn . . . that's a rare talent. To me, that's more valuable than any new magik tricks you might pick up. The world needs more of that kind of thinking."
Someone, sometime, might have said something nicer than that to me, but if so, it didn't spring readily to mind.
"So what is it exactly that you're suggesting that I do? Come out of retirement?"
"Exactly?" he smiled and winked at me. "I haven't got a clue. You're the thinker. So think about it. Maybe while you're working on Buttercup's self-image you can do a little tinkering with your own."
From the Files of Tambu:
The Incident at Zarn
Robert Lynn Asprin
As the airlock door hissed shut behind him, the reporter took advantage of the moment of privacy to rub his palms on his trouser legs. He wished that he had a bit more faith in his Newsman's Immunity.
He had never really expected to be granted this interview. The request had been the prelude to a joke, a small bit of humor to casually drop into the conversation with other reporters at bars. He anticipated making lofty reference to having been refused an interview with the dread Tambu himself, then as the skeptics voiced their doubts, he could silence them by producing the letter of refusal. These plans had come to a jarring halt when word arrived that his request had been granted.
He had half expected, half hoped that when he completed Phase-Shift that he would be greeted by empty space. The ship had been there. Now, here he was aboard Tambu's own flagship about to meet face to face with the most feared individual in the settled Universe. He had only a moment to reflect upon these thoughts when a soft chime sounded and the inner door opened to receive him. Taking a deep breath, he entered.
The first thing that struck him about the quarters was the physical warmth of the room. Since man first invaded space, engineers had been struggling unsuccessfully to combat the chill inherent in dwelling in a metal-alloy ship cruising the cold voids. Even after the problem was supposedly solved with insulations and heated walls, the chill remained, though many claimed it was purely psychological, a subconscious human reaction to the nagging knowledge of the icy emptiness waiting just outside the thin metal walls. But, here it was warm, a heavy, enveloping warmth unlike any he had ever experienced in space.
He instinctively wanted to examine the room more closely and, just as instinctively, suppressed the desire. Instead, he contented himself with a brief visual scan of the room and it's contents. The walls were of a texture unfamiliar to him, which might contribute to the warmth. Or perhaps it was their dark gold color, which was a dramatic contrast to the customary white found in all other ships, and in this one as well, outside the airlocks he had just traversed.
Then, too, there were the trappings of the room making quiet contribution to the atmosphere. There were paintings on the wall and books lined the shelves, honest-to-God books, instead of the sterile tape-scanners usually found in libraries and studies. Facing the far wall was a large desk, clean but well stocked and obviously accustomed to use. The reporter made special note of the fact the desk was set against the wall and faced away from the door, in direct contrast to any other office he had ever been in. Apparently, Tambu was not accustomed to receiving visitors in these quarters.
The overall effect of the room was quite different from what the reporter had expected. It had the lived-in, personal air of a home, rather than the cold efficiency of a command post. Anywhere else it would have had the effect of being incredibly relaxing. Here, it gave the room the feeling of a lair. The reporter glanced about him again. Where was Tambu?
"Please be seated, Mr. Erickson."
The reporter started at the voice. Glancing around again, he saw a small speaker on the desk he had observed earlier. He crossed the room and seated himself at the desk, facing the speaker.
"I see you brought a Tri*D A/V Recorder with you."
The reporter stiffened in his chair. As he replied, he closely scrutinized the room, particularly the desk in front of him, but was unable to locate the camera which was obviously watching him.
"Yes, sir. I was promised a personal interview."
"Personal, in that you will be dealing with me directly, rather than with one of my subordinates. Unfortunately, a face-to-face meeting is out of the question. In fact, I am not even on the same ship with you. I maintain several flagships identical to the one you are now on. Part of the problem confronting any Defense Alliance ship seeking to ca
pture me is discovering which ship I'm on, and when. Frankly, I was a little dubious about this meeting with you. No offense, but reporters have been known to stray from their oaths of neutrality. If there had been a fleet waiting for us when we completed Phase-Shift, or if you had attempted to sabotage the ship in any way, the crew was under orders to blow the craft up. It is loaded with sufficient explosives to destroy or damage any ships in firing range at the time of detonation. It would have been a costly, but necessary, example to any who might entertain similar thoughts of entrapment."
No wonder the crew had been so glad to see him when he arrived. The calm voice which so casually informed him that the ship he was currently aboard was in actuality a huge bomb did little to ease his frame of mind.
"If you would care for a drink, Mr. Erickson, you will find a bottle of your preferred liquor in the top right-hand drawer. Please, feel free."
More out of curiosity than need, the reporter opened the drawer. In the drawer was a bottle of a particular brand he was extremely fond of, but whose limited production kept the price well beyond his reach, save on special occasions.
"There is a case of that particular brand being loaded onto your ship right now. Please accept it as a personal gift from me."
"You seem to know a great deal about me."
"Probably more than you do about yourself and definitely more than you'd like me to know. Family history, health records, psychological reports, as well as copies of everything you've ever written, including that rather dubious series of articles you wrote in school under an assumed name. That is to say, you were very closely checked before permission for this interview was granted. I don't talk with just any maniac who drops me a note. In my line of work, my whole future, and that of my forces, hinges on my ability to gather and analyze data. If I didn't think you were safe, you wouldn't be here."
"Yet you refuse to meet me face to face and rigged the ship to blow in event of betrayal?"
There was a moment of silence before the reply came.
MYTH-Interpretations: The Worlds of Robert Asprin Page 9