The Mammoth Book of Sorceror's Tales

by Mike Ashley

This was a world of death, she thought, and these were the daughters of the creature she had seen as Ettore Malipiero. Monster though he was, he was a father. He wished to save his daughters. He wished to bring his daughters into Margherita’s world.

  This must be the meaning of the powder, the yellow and red and black powder. She had been deceived by un fascino, a glamour. There was no Signore Malipiero, no human Signore Malipiero. There was only the horrid snake-lizard creature of this world of the dead, and the two snake-lizard daughters of the creature. Somehow, Margherita realized, the father had managed to cross from this dead world into her own, into Margherita’s beautiful living world. But he could not abandon his two daughters. He was not a human father but in his own horrid way he was some kind of man, some kind of father.

  With a start, Margherita realized that she felt a terrible pity for the snake-lizard Malipiero and an aching kinship for his two snake-lizard daughters. They were girls, unlike Francesca and herself and yet like them, too. What had become of their mother? Did she occupy another block of stone, did she lie beneath another grey cloth? There was no way that Margherita could know. And what would become of Margherita and her friend Francesca now?

  The snake-lizard Malipiero loomed over Margherita and Francesca, and over the blocks where lay his two snake-lizard daughters. He held something that might be the great black book and bowl that must contain the coloured powders that he had burned in the bookshop. If it was a bookshop! What if the whole shop had been a glamour? What if it was a deceptive extension of this world of death into her own world?

  With a whir of wings more faint that that of an insect approaching on a summer’s night, a tiny speck appeared. It moved through the distant blackness, through the dark night and the dusted snow beyond the farthest pillars. It moved toward Margherita and the others, growing as it approached, walking upright like a man or a snake-lizard thing, but it was neither.

  The thing that was Ettore Malipiero rose to its full height and stood facing the newcomer. The newcomer halted. He smoothed the cloth over one girl-figure, then the other. He placed his hand on Ettore Malipiero’s shoulder and drew him toward himself. Margherita thought that the newcomer was trying to comfort Malipiero, but Malipiero seized him in his great claw-tipped hands and hurled him against the nearest pillar.

  The newcomer collided with the pillar and crashed to the floor sending up a cloud of gray, choking dust. He leaped to his feet but Malipiero was upon him, slashing with his claws, biting with his rows of shining teeth. The two rolled on the floor, wrestling as Francesca’s father and his rival had wrestled so long ago for her mother’s favour, but this struggle was for something other than love.

  What would happen to Margherita and Francesca once the two struggling figures had settled their dispute? Margherita decided that Signore Malipiero had found a way to bring her and her friend to this world and was determined to leave them here to spend eternity lying on blocks of stone, covered with heavy cloths, while slow layers of cold dust drifted down upon them. He would return to the world of Villaggio Sogno with his own girls, giving them the places of Margherita and Francesca.

  The two fighters, Ettore Malipiero and the newcomer, rolled and thrashed in clouds of dust.

  Margherita grasped Francesca by the arm. She pursed her dry lips and tried to whistle the tune that old Allegra Chiavolini had taught the children of the town long ago. Her mouth was dry and tasted of dust and death. All that emerged was a meaningless whoosh of air. She wished desperately for her silver flute, the wonderful flute of her ancestor Alceo, but that was at home in her own room. In a flash she reached for the decorative piccolo she had pinned to Francesca’s bodice. With trembling fingers she retrieved her gift and placed it against her lips.

  Was it a real silver flute, however tiny? Could she draw a tune from it? The finger holes were dreadfully close together but they were placed properly. She blew through the mouthpiece one time, then gave her all to playing the tune that Allegra had taught the children, the tune that the aged woman claimed would dissolve any glamour and reveal the truth behind it.

  She managed to evoke Allegra’s tune, shrilly and softly, but each note emerged from the instrument accurately and danced away through the cold air.

  The dead world disappeared.

  The massive pillars, the stone blocks, the shrouded figures, the distant blackness and stars and snow-of-dust disappeared.

  Margherita was back in the shop, Francesca at her side. Or was she? She blinked. She was not seated in the five-sided room of Ettore Malipiero: Purveyor of the Rare and Precious. She was seated beside Francesca in a shop where dummies stood with half-finished gowns held in place by pins. Pictures of clothing of various sorts adorned the walls. Two, no, three seamstresses sat in a circle chattering busily as they tended to their work. An older woman, clearly the owner of the business, stood with a customer, showing her samples of cloth.

  Margherita could not help but take note of the work of the three seamstresses nor to over hear the conversation that took place among them. Each was working on a lovely gown, each gown of a different colour. One was yellow and gay; one, red and daring; one, a sombre black but brightened with a pattern of glittering diamonds and onyxes.

  The first seamstress was saying, “I trust that Signorina A. will be pleased with this golden gown, to wear on her honeymoon journey. I know she will be happy with her new husband.”

  The second seamstress said, “I hope that Madonna B. will approve of her crimson gown, to wear on her triumphal tour of the concert halls. I know it will draw the attention that a great diva craves.”

  The third seamstress, smiling, made her contribution. “I know that La Duchessa C. will be pleased with her so-dark gown. So young and energetic a woman, to be married to Il Duca, so aged and fragile a man. She ordered the gown herself, giving orders that Il Duca was not to see it or even know that La Duchessa was thus preparing for the inevitable.”

  Margherita clutched the hand of her friend and tried without success to stifle a giggle.

  The older woman looked around, startled. “Who are you two girls? What are you doing in my shop? I didn’t see you come in.”

  She spoke to the seamstresses, calling them by name. “Did any of you see these two girls come in? Do any of you know them?” The seamstresses all shook their heads. “No, Madonna. No, Madonna. No.”

  The woman spoke angrily to Margherita and Francesca. “Did my rival send you here? Have you come to spy on me, to see my new patterns, to steal them from me?”

  The girls started to protest, the woman did not wait. “Get out! Get out of my shop! Get out of here or I’ll call my son Peppino and have him beat you with a broomstick! Go back where you came from and tell her to get patterns of her own if she wishes to compete with me!”

  Chased by the angry woman, Margherita and Francesca stood outside the shop. The sign above the door was carven and painted. It read, Eleanora Pampanini: Purveyor of Lovely Gowns and Useful Garments.

  Margherita and Francesca clutched each other and set out to retrace their footsteps to the town square. As they turned one corner and another they came upon an establishment called Libri e Libretti. Inside they inquired, without much hope, for Mursino’s Lavori di Hipocrita or for one of Carla Zennatello’s riddle books. The merchant smiled a wry smile. “Not in all my years selling books, young ladies. Not in all my many years.” They purchased a new book instead, as a gift for Margherita’s father, and left the shop.

  As they did so, a very tall figure who had been concealed in a shadowed nook followed them. In the street outside, strangely, he managed to place himself ahead of them in their path.

  The two girls halted, gazing up into the face of the very man who had brushed past them as he left the shop of Ettore Malipeiro. He smiled down at them from beneath his pointed cap.

  “I could not but hear your request at Libre e Libretti.”

  “Please, Signore, we are on our way home.”

  “Of course, of course, Signorina, I would
not wish to inconvenience you. But if you seek the books of Signore Mursino or the great Carla Zennatello, I might be able to help you.” He bowed and introduced himself. “I am called Ragno Distruttore.”

  The tall man seemed to arch over the heads of the two girls, like a willow tree arching over a pond.

  Francesca said, “Do you have such books?”

  “Alas, Signorina, not just now. But books come to me from time to time, as do many other rarities and wonders. If you would care to visit my establishment, I would gladly guide you there right now.”

  Francesca made to follow the man, but Margherita placed her hand on the arm of her friend. “Look at the sky. It’s late. Signore Azzurro will leave without us.”

  “Yes, yes.” Francesca said, “I’m sorry, Signore Distruttore, we cannot.”

  “Well then, may I extend an invitation. You will find my place of business as well as my home in the Piazza Campo Sereno.”

  “I do not know that place.”

  “Ah, surely you can find it. Ask anyone at all. If they do not know the piazza, surely they know it by the monument to the great soprano Lucrezia Spina di Rosa, the famous singing statue of Villaggio Sogno. Once there, you will find my house, as tall among its neighbours as I am tall among other men. Come by day or night. I suffer, you see, from an inability to sleep. You will see the lantern flickering in my window to all hours. It is the burden I bear.”

  “Come, Francesca! We must go!” Margherita was tugging at her friend’s sleeve.

  “But, Margherita, Signore Distruttore—”

  “We must go!”

  “But—”

  “Signore Distruttore, addio!” Margherita dragged her friend away from the sticklike man. He reached a long, skinny arm and long, clawlike fingers after them, but Margherita dodged from his grasp, dragging Francesca along with her. Ragno Distruttore pursued them, his long legs covering ground in great strides, but he seemed to tire quickly and soon fell behind. The girls ran until they were out of breath, then stood, feeling more secure in the midst of a crowd of jolly women and men.

  By this time the sun was surely setting. The streets of Villaggio Sogno were as busy as ever, but now they were filled with workers making their way home and with celebrants arriving for an evening of revelry. The two girls stopped outside a music hall. From within they could hear musicians tuning their instruments and singers preparing their throats for the evening’s performance.

  “Why did you drag me away from Signore Distruttore?” Francesca demanded.

  “I do not trust that man. He frightened me.”

  “But he said he might help us find the books.”

  “We have a book already. Father will have to do without Mursino or Zennatello. I do not know what Signore Distruttore had in mind, but I’m sure we would have been sorry if we had gone with him. You are too trusting, Francesca. Far too trusting.”

  Francesca snorted. “After this day, I will not be afraid of anything. We escaped from monsters, Margherita. I would not be afraid of a mere skinny man.”

  Margherita felt the need to change the subject. “I feel sorry for Signore Malipiero.”

  Francesca agreed. “And for his daughters,” she added. “Especially for the daughters. I wonder if they had names. I wonder what became of them.” She shook her head. “Surely, they died. Their world was nothing but a world of death. Their father was trying to rescue them, trying to make an exchange.”

  “Us for them,” Margherita said.

  “Yes, us for them. But instead, it was them for us.”

  They stood for a few moments, crowds of men and women passing them on all sides, busily heading for whatever destination they had chosen for themselves.

  On their way back to Mercato Monumentale, Margherita and Francesca passed by Guglielmo Pipistrello, still peddling copies of Il Popolo di Sogno. He smiled at them this time. They raised their noses in the air and walked past him.

  Signore Azzurro was waiting for them in front of the great department store. “You are ready to go home?” They climbed into the carrozza. He whipped up his horse and whistled and the carriage creaked and rattled away from the curb, toward the high bridge, toward the River Fiume, toward home.

  “I wish I could have found the missing Mursino volume that Father longs for,” Margherita said, “or one of Carla Zennatello’s riddle books.” The present she had found for her father at Libri e Libretti lay in her lap, brightly wrapped and tied with a birthday ribbon.

  “Now do you think we should have gone with Signore Distruttore?” Francesca asked.

  Margherita shook her head. “Absolutely not!”

  “You say that now,” Francesca said. “You say that now. But we will return to Villaggio Sogno. I would like to see the statue of the great Lucrezia Spina di Rosa. Surely you agree with me.”

  “Perhaps.”

  As the carrozza left the high bridge over the River Fiume and turned toward home the girls glanced back at Villaggio Sogno. The sun had disappeared behind the walls and spires of the town, the sky had darkened and stars were shining from the heavens. Other lights twinkled in the piazzas and in the buildings of the town, where families were gathered at dinner, players performed comedies and tragedies upon the stage, couples exchanged gifts or courted over meats served with wine, ale, or mead. One of them might even be the lantern in Signore Distruttore’s window. Someday, Margherita thought, she would leave her family home and make her own way, perhaps in Villaggio Sogno, perhaps in the great world beyond. She might even see the land of Honshu with its soft-spoken people, its lovely costumes and its strange ways.

  Margherita felt herself growing sleepy. She knew that Signore Azzurro would deliver her and Francesca safely to their families, and dropped her head to her best friend’s shoulder and dozed.

  Doug Hornig

  Doug Hornig (b. 1943) is probably better known for his private eye novels than for his fantasy. Most feature Vietnam vet Loren Swift the first of which, Foul Shot (1984), was nominated for an Edgar Award. But he’s written much else besides, including poetry, a book about the 1975 World Series and even a song. None of which will prepare you for the following in which we encounter computer magic.

  “I DON’T WANT TO eat my salad,” Billy Sampson said. “I don’t like salad. Besides I’ve got a lot to do. May I be excused, please?”

  His parents were so out of it. They didn’t know a CPU from a BMW. It was useless talking to them. In the electronic age, they were dinosaurs.

  “Billy,” his mother said, “we don’t care what kind of fancy computer program you have to write tonight. If you don’t get enough vitamins, you won’t be able to write your own name. Now eat.”

  He pushed the salad around his plate. A bunch of soggy vegetables. There was no point in attempting to explain that when you were the first kid to get a new game, you had to try it out right away. That there were matters of status involved. Not to mention the excitement of the unknown. The only thing to do was humor them. Somehow he got down most of the salad, nearly gagging in the process.

  “Now may I be excused, please?”

  “Don’t you want any dessert, Billy?”

  “Maybe later.”

  “All right. Try to get to bed at a decent hour, will you?”

  Billy went quickly to his room and shut the door. That was one thing his parents were good about. They respected his privacy. If his door was closed, they wouldn’t disturb him unless he invited them in.

  His IBM Personal Computer sat on the desk, inert, mere potential. It wasn’t the best micro on the market; in fact, considering what you got for the money, it was one of the worst. Still, because of the I-B-M on the nameplate, it was clobbering the competition. More new stuff was being written for its operating system than for any other. That’s why he’d traded up and gotten one. Some of his friends in the local hacker network had done the same. Others had decided to hold on to their Apples and CP/M machines for a while. That way, the group as a whole covered the field.

  Carefully,
lovingly, he removed the new disk from its protective sleeve. It had come into his possession by pure chance, so he was sure none of the other guys had it yet. He’d been reading Computer World, as he did every week, and had idly glanced at the Employment section, something he rarely did. There he’d found a tiny box ad that someone had presumably placed in that section by mistake. It read: “THE GAME OF MAGICAL DEATH, for IBM PC and compatibles, NEW from Personal Computer Odysseys, Homer, AK 99603, $59.95.” Billy Simpson had never heard of Homer, Alaska, much less of Personal Computer Odysseys. That wasn’t surprising. The new companies came and went faster than you could keep track of them. Now here was one with a brand-new game. It was a bit pricey, but if he scooped the gang, it’d be worth it. Billy had sent off his check the same afternoon.

  The game arrived in five days. Peculiar. How long did it take the mail to get to Alaska and back, anyway? Certainly more than five days. And then there was the three-line printed note that was packed with the disk: “Personal Computer Odysseys, Prompt Personalized Service Our Specialty, Thank You For The Anticipated Order.” Whatever that meant.

  But Billy didn’t like to dwell on things over which he had no control. If it was a strange company, so what? There were a lot of strange people in the field. The thing that mattered was the quality of the product. He slotted the disk into one of the PC’s drives and booted up. Then he loaded his new game.

  GOOD DAY. MR. SAMPSON, the screen said. DO YOU WISH TO PLAY THE GAME OF MAGICAL DEATH? IF SO, HIT “RETURN.”

  It knows my name, eh? Now that’s personalized service.

  He pressed the “Return” key. The next screen appeared.

  SELECT LEVEL OF PLAY.

  LEVEL 1: RANDOM DEATH

  LEVEL 2: MULTIPLE DEATH

  LEVEL 3: INTERPERSONAL DEATH

  LEVEL 4: CREATOR DEATH

  LEVEL 5: PERSONAL DEATH

  ABORT

  Great. A decent game had to have levels of play. The working assumption was that the lower levels would be too easy for him. Billy excelled at games. He always started at a higher level than anyone else. He was the best. So he entered a “5.” Bypass the kid stuff.