by Holly Lisle
“What are you going to make for me? I’m hungry, too.”
Jamie might have been hungry, but he’d also yelled at Barney for creating the door so it opened where the Unweaver could get them. And Jamie had called him stupid.
Jamie stunk like a skunk.
“I want lasagna,” Jamie said. “And a banana split with three kinds of ice cream and hot fudge sauce and whipped cream. And nuts.”
Barney nibbled his perfect sandwich, and sipped his perfect chocolate milk, and thought of appropriate foods for a stinky person. He considered that boiled cabbage stuff his mom made. It was pretty disgusting — kind of gray and slimy. It looked like the sort of thing that would glop out of the bowl when you weren’t looking and come after you.
Or maybe liver. Liver would be good for a fink — it was fink food.
Then he thought of the perfect food. He’d never actually tasted them, but he’d seen them on a pizza his dad had eaten. They smelled terrible and they were gray and slimy like boiled cabbage, but they still had heads. Stinky fish. Yes. A big plateful of little stinky fish would be perfect.
He materialized them on the squishy floor of their cage, right in front of Jamie, then took another bite of his sandwich, and washed it down with his lovely milk.
“Hey!” Jamie yelled. “This isn’t lasagna. This is — eeuwww! This is anchovies.”
“Yes. Stinky fish.”
“I don’t want anchovies—”
“You have been mean to me. Mean and rotten and stinky — so that’s what you get.” He took the next to last bite of the perfect peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and considered what would make a lovely desert. Vanilla ice cream, he thought. Yes. That would be lovely. Perhaps with potato chips on top.
Jamie’s face got red, and he started to yell. Then he stopped. He looked at Barney with a serious expression. He studied the pile of dead fish in front of him, and watched Barney eat his last bite of sandwich.
Barney smiled with his mouth open, displaying chewed food.
“Oh, gross,” Carol said, and turned away.
Jamie didn’t say anything. He just sat there, looking from Barney to the anchovies.
He took a deep breath. He let it out.
Barney waited.
Jamie squinched up his eyes like his stomach hurt. “I’m sorry I was mean to you, and I’m sorry I yelled at you.”
Barney kept waiting. He’d learned from his big brother never to accept the first apology, or the first “uncle.”
Jamie sat there for a long moment, eyeing the anchovies. He sighed again. “And I won’t yell at you anymore.”
Barney nodded and crossed his arms over his chest.
Jamie’s mouth opened to protest. He closed it again and looked at the anchovies. “Okay. What else?”
“You won’t call me names—”
“I won’t call you names—”
“And you’ll make my bed—”
“Make your bed!” He rolled his eyes. “Fine. I’ll make your bed.”
Barney smiled, serene and content. “And you’ll let me play with your soldiers.”
“No!” Jamie yelled. “No! I won’t.”
“Stinky fish,” Barney said. He saw Jamie swallow. His big brother closed his eyes and chewed his lower lip.
“Okay. You can play with my soldiers. As long as you don’t break ‘em.”
Barney made the anchovies go away. “What do you want?”
“Lasagna.”
He made the lasagna, and his own ice cream treat, and leaned against the upcurving cage wall to eat it. He felt deeply and wonderfully happy.
“We need to get out of here,” Carol said
Jamie wasn’t talking. He ate his food in gloomy silence. Served him right, Barney thought.
“The Unweebil’s monsters are right outside of here,” Barney said. “If I make a door, they’ll come in and eat us.”
“You’re sure they’re out there?” Carol asked.
“Yes.” He nibbled on the ice cream. The potato chips were very nice, too — and his mother couldn’t yell at him for putting them on top. “I can, um, hear them. They’re hungry.”
“Bet you could give them the anchovies,” Jamie muttered.
Barney considered that. Anchovies were probably the sort of thing monsters liked. Well, monsters and fathers. He concentrated, and made a big pile of them where he sensed the monsters waiting. He made the dead fish as smelly and slimy as he could. Then he closed his eyes and listened.
He sensed the monsters’ tremendous delight. Yep. It figured. “They do like stinky fish,” he said.
“Then you can make them so much anchovies, they won’t eat us when we go out,” Carol said.
Barney thought that idea was unsound. He figured monsters would rather eat nice juicy little kids than stinky fish any day.
“Mommy and Murp are coming to get us,” Barney said. “She told us she would.”
“What if the Unweaver eats us first? Or kills us, and cuts our heads off and chops us into little tiny pieces?” Carol asked.
“Boy, you’re cheerful,” Jamie said. “But you’re right. We should get out of here. You know what would be cool?” he continued. “I read this story where there was a house with doors that opened to all these different places. Like, one door opened in the mountains, and one opened at the beach, and one opened on a whole ‘nother planet. It would be cool if you could make a door that took us home.”
Barney thought about that, and concentrated on it. No matter how hard he squeezed his eyes closed, and how hard he thought about home, he could not make the magic in his head reach out to touch home. He tried nearer — tried to reach his mother. She was too far, too, though he could feel her coming. “No,” he said at last. “I can’t take us home. It’s too far.”
Jamie looked disappointed. “Too bad. I want to go home.”
Carol nodded. “Me, too. But I want out of here, too. I’m afraid of the Unweaver.”
“I can vision the door, though. I can take us toward Mommy.”
“How far?”
“Pretty far.”
“What about the Unweaver?” Jamie asked. “What’s he doing?”
Barney reached out with his thoughts and felt around for the Unweebil’s nasty, icky mind. He found it, and cautiously touched it.
The Unweebil’s mind was lonely, and full of ugliness and hate. It was also concentrating on something besides children — something far away.
Barney pulled back. “He’s busy right now. He’s paying tension to something else.”
“Attention,” Carol corrected.
“That’s what I said.”
Jamie frowned at Carol. “If he’s not watching us, we should go now.”
“Okay.” Barney thought for a moment. “I will vision a door, and the other side of the door will be far away.”
“How far?” Jamie wanted to know.
“I don’t know.” Barney shrugged. “Far. Then I will vision locking all the doors here, so the Unweebil can’t get out. And then I will vision a monster to eat the Unweebil.”
Jamie said, “That’s pretty good. But I think you should make armies to flank the Unweaver on both sides, and cut off his supply lines, and have a siege.”
Barney glared at his brother. Easy for him to say — Jamie couldn’t do any magic. “You can vision that. I’ll vision the monster.”
Jamie shut up.
Barney thought of one other thing he needed. He closed his eyes and saw a bright red shiny wagon — a special wagon. It had a blanket and a fluffy pillow inside, and guns that stuck out from the side like the guns on his Turtle car. These guns, though, shot sleep darts. So if I shoot them, the bad guys will sleep for twelve or four hours or years.
The wagon appeared in front of him, built out of nothing by the tiny firefly lights.
“What’s that for?” Carol asked
“Because magic makes me sleepy. After I make the door, you guys can pull me.”
Barney closed his eyes again for j
ust an instant, to fix the special door in his mind. Then he looked at the squishy, curved wall of his cage and started the little magic fireflies to work on the door to someplace else.
CHAPTER 8
Murp was perfectly willing to be smuggled into Minerva’s room inside her baggy peasant blouse — but then, Murp had always been amenable to weird and un-catlike games. Thank God, she thought. If the cat were any less mellow, the task would have been impossible.
Minerva didn’t know why she felt it so important to sneak the animal past the cheymat. Probably paranoia, she thought. No doubt he would be delighted to discover she’d learned to use her magic.
Nevertheless, she didn’t want to deal with his reactions at the moment, positive or otherwise.
She heard the cheymat banging around in the kitchen as soon as she entered the house. The smell of something wonderful filled the air. She trotted straight to her room, dumped Murp and the art supplies, and went out, carefully closing the door behind her. Then she went looking for her host.
Talleos’ face, when he turned from the stove to greet her, displayed wariness for the briefest of instants — wariness covered over almost immediately by charm and a sort of amused superiority.
“You took your sweet time getting back. Those woods aren’t safe at night, you know.” He arched an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t want anything happening to my prize pupil. So — how did the note-taking go?” he asked.
“Awful,” she said with blunt honesty. “I couldn’t remember a thing you said.” She smiled at him. “I’m sorry I lost my temper with you. I did feel better, though, once I got out of the house for a while.” There. Not a single lie in the whole spiel.
She caught just a glimpse of smugness in his smile before he turned away. “Magic can be a frustrating study — so complicated and full of rules and formulas.” He speared the meat on the grill and flipped it deftly, then sprinkled bright red powder over it. “Anything interesting happen while you were out there?”
He asked offhandedly — but Minerva’s nerves jangled.
“No,” she lied, and smiled with the same easy cheerfulness Talleos displayed. “I didn’t even see any tourists.” She didn’t understand why she was lying. If she told him she’d found her magic, maybe he could help her understand its use, or direct her in plotting against the Unweaver — after her dream, she felt sure it was the Unweaver who had her kids.
But something would not let her say.
“It isn’t the tourists you see that you usually have to worry about. Oh, well.” He shrugged, and smiled over his shoulder at her. “No matter. I didn’t think the note-taking idea was very good anyway. You’re just going to have to work with me, the way you did today. The master/apprentice relationship is the only one that really works with magic.”
Minerva nodded, and kept her big news to herself. “How long do you think it will take before I’ll be able to rescue my kids?”
The cheymat sighed, and tossed a few vegetable slices onto the grill, where they sizzled noisily. “Minerva, I understand your worry for your children — but in order to help them, you are going to have to focus on something else. If you’re constantly worrying about them, how will you be able to achieve the level of concentration magic requires?”
Minerva shook her head slowly and let herself look distressed. Play along with him. Find out what his goals are, she told herself. “I don’t know.” She held out her hands, palms up. “I suppose you’re right — so what do you suggest?”
He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he filled a plate and handed it to her. “We can talk better sitting down,” he suggested. But once they were seated, he seemed more interested in eating than in talking.
Minerva let the subject drop until they’d both finished, then brought it up again.
“I hate to distress you, Minerva,” the cheymat said. His expression became grave. “But from what I saw today, you have very little potential for magic at all. The Weirds might have been right in wanting to replace you with someone more talented. I won’t let them now — I’m committed to helping you — besides, I like you. But I’m afraid this whole business is going to take a long time. It could be months — perhaps even years — before you’re at a point where you will be able to take on the Unweaver.”
Minerva made what she hoped was a chastened face, while inside she boiled. She hid her anger, and asked, “How can you tell? What do you look for?”
Talleos leaned back on his chair and laced his fingers behind his head. “Magic is an art,” he said. “The ability to remember long, complex formulas and the sequence of body movements that go with them generally indicates one’s predisposition to the craft. You couldn’t even remember the first name of God — and that’s the shortest and simplest of them.”
“But you said none of that was necessary for sex magic. So why is it necessary at all? If magic is an art, why can’t it be art? I’m an artist.”
He frowned — then his face brightened again. “Ah. I see. I was unintentionally misleading. The only reason you wouldn’t need to memorize the formulas and other details necessary would be because your partner, in this case me, would already know them.” His smile became condescending. “And as for magic being art — how silly. That’s just like saying music could be science, or mathematics could be botany.”
“Of course,” she said. “That makes sense.”
He smiled. “That’s just the way these things work.” He shrugged gracefully. “We can really make some progress if you want to take that route. Of course,” he arched an eyebrow, “I can understand your reasons for choosing not to.”
Minerva pressed her hands in her lap and tried to look humble and penitent. “Let me think about all of this,” she said. “I can’t wait months or years to see my kids again.” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “I’m going to go rest in my room. I’ll see you tomorrow morning, okay?”
He nodded. “I don’t see any problem with that.”
Minerva went over to the stove and scooped a second helping from the pan onto her plate. She filled her glass with tap water. “Good night, then.”
He watched her, eyes narrowed. “If you’re still hungry, you can stay out here and keep me company.”
“I’d rather not,” she answered. “At least not until I’ve had a chance to think about things. I’ll just take this into my room and eat it there. And then I’m going to sleep. I’m exhausted. It’s been a long, awful day — and it sounds like there are going to be a lot more long, awful days.”
Talleos stood, and walked toward her. “What is the matter, Minerva?”
Her eyes went round and she stared at him, this time with genuine disbelief. “You’ve got to be kidding.” When he had the temerity to look puzzled, she said, “You figure it out.” Then she hurried away before he could think of a reason to stop her.
In her room, she fed Murp the leftovers, then opened her window and lifted the oilskin so that he could go out when he needed to. The window was big enough for her to get through if need be, she noticed. A bit high, but—
She watched Murp inhaling his food and wondered how long it had been since he’d last eaten. She wondered if her kids had been with him, and if they were also hungry and uncared-for.
And she wondered why Talleos had lied to her. How did it benefit him that she not learn magic? Why pretend that he wanted her to learn? Was he really working for the Unweaver? That seemed likely — in which case everything he’d told her had been a lie. Her children were alive, though. She believed that — she’d seen them. And she would figure out how to get to them.
She retrieved the vellum and drawing implements, and tried to decide what she needed and how to go about getting it. She still wasn’t entirely sure how the magic worked — but drawing what she wanted seemed integral to the process. She couldn’t just draw her children and get them back, though. The Unweaver had blocked that.
She wondered if she could draw Darryl from memory — then wondered if she wanted to. She missed him. Sh
e wished he had been with her when the nightmare started. But he hadn’t been, and she wasn’t sure she could forgive him for that.
Besides, the idea of making a mistake worried her. She sat in the chair by the fireplace, her feet propped up on the hearth, trying to think of something to draw.
The sound of a slamming door woke her, and she realized she was still sitting by the fireplace, and that the fire had almost gone out.
“Talleos,” a voice rumbled. “We need to talk.”
Minerva heard the clatter of hooves on the hardwood floor, moving at high speed. Then she heard the cheymat whisper, “What do you think you’re doing here?”
“I’ve got a problem.”
“We’ve all got problems, pal. But if you don’t get out of here, you might wake her up, and she’d hear you. And right now, everything is going just right.”
“The hell you say,” the stranger’s voice growled. “The police found the kids’ bodies today, her funeral is tomorrow — and he is about this far from offing himself. And wouldn’t that be a hell of a mess?”
“Good gods, Birkwelch, how could you let things get so out of hand?” The cheymat’s whisper sounded desperate. “Come on in here if you have to talk. And keep your voice down.”
Minerva held her breath, listening for more — but the only sounds were the cheymat and — Birkwelch... the dragon? — walking through the house, and another door opening and shutting.
They went into the magic room, she thought. With the doors between her and the two of them closed, she could hear nothing.
So Talleos was hiding something. And the dragon was in on it — and it sounded like things were not going too well for Darryl, either. But what funeral was the dragon talking about?
She crept out the door and down the hall, noiseless. Her heart raced and her palms grew damp, but her mouth was desert-dry. She peeked around the end of the hall into the living room. Everything was dark. She slipped through the room, hugging the walls and staying in the deep shadows, and then went on through the foyer and into the library. The library fireplace threw darting shadows onto the books and made the room look uncomfortably alive. They’d closed the magic room door. She got right up to it, terrified she might be found out, and pressed her ear against smooth, cool wood. Still she could hear only the deep rumbling notes of the dragon’s voice and nothing at all of Talleos.