NOTHING FOR SALE
Denworth’s eye dwelt on the hieroglyphics, which didn’t seem to mean anything in particular. Behind the sign was a twisted gadget of gold, either a large ring or a small bracelet, which was sufficiently unusual to make the man pause thoughtfully. Myra Valentine would like such a gift, Den worth knew. On impulse he pushed open the door and entered the shop.
It was small, clean, and well lighted—a basement which had been renovated. Den worth stood on a tiny metal-railed landing, from which steps led down to the shop itself. Briefly he had an impression of sudden, furtive movement, as if someone had hastily whisked out of sight behind a counter; but, when he looked again, the place was empty save for a pallid, ordinary-looking man who glanced up at Denworth in a startled fashion. He resembled no one in particular—a more colorless type Denworth had never seen. There was a flat, white face, a snub nose sprinkled with freckles, thinning mouse-brown hair, and a rather weak chin.
“Oh,” said the man disappointedly. “I thought you were a customer.”
Denworth nodded. Then the import of the words struck him, and he scowled with surprised annoyance. His voice was sharp.
“Do I look like a panhandler?”
The man put down the long-handled broom he had been using and smiled. “Why, no, sir. I didn’t imply that, I hope. It’s just that I . . . um . . . I know all my customers by sound. I mean sight,” he added, rather hastily.
Denworth came down into the store, glancing around. A spider web floated against his cheek, and he brushed it away irritably.
“That sign in your window,” he said after a moment’s inexplicable hesitancy. “What d’you mean-—nothing for sale?”
“Well, it’s an odd situation,” the pale man murmured. “My name’s Smith—Wayland Smith—and I more or less inherited this business. Somebody has to make these . . . um . . . gadgets.”
“Costume jewelry?”
“That’s it,” said Wayland Smith, too quickly. “Custom-made.”
“Well, there’s one I want to buy,” Denworth grunted. “That gold ring in the window. Or is it a bracelet?”
“The Dowser Ring?” Smith inquired. “I’m awfully sorry, but that’s reserved.” He fingered his broom nervously.
Denworth scowled. “Dowser Ring? I’ve heard of Dowsers—they find water, or gold, or something like that. But I don’t see—”
“Have to call it something, don’t I?” asked Smith, betraying a slight irritation. He cast a furtive glance over his shoulder. Denworth had an odd impression that he whispered something so softly that it was inaudible.
The man was trying to get rid of him. That seemed plain enough. Denworth didn’t like it, especially today. His vanity was already suffering contusions. For a mere shopkeeper to snub him—Denworth clamped his thin lips together.
“Then I’ll buy something else,” he said. “Every item in the store can’t be reserved.”
In the back, a thin voice was whispering. Denworth had the remarkable impression that he heard it with his skin. It was a thin, crawly, nasty little voice, and Denworth liked it not at all. He looked sharply at the curtains at the rear. They swayed slightly.
“In a minute,” Smith said to the air, and turned back to Denworth. “I’m sorry, sir, but I’m awfully busy just now. I’ve got to finish a custom job for a customer who’s in a hurry. This.” He gestured toward a brassy-looking charm bracelet that lay alone on a small red-topped table.
Denworth ignored the hint. He came forward and looked down at the bracelet. “Looks finished to me,” he commented.
“It needs . . . um . . . another charm,” Smith said.
Denworth moved along the aisle, staring at the various pieces of costume jewelry. A number of them—lockets, clips, brooches—bore inscriptions, none in English. One flat bronze pin said cryptically, “Yatch,” and had a crux ansata under the word.
“Unusual,” Denworth said patronizingly.
Smith blinked. “My clients are pixilated,” he proffered. “Naturally . . . of course.”
“Well, I want to buy something. And don’t tell me your prices are high. I can guess that.”
“I’m very sorry indeed,” the other said firmly, “but I simply can’t sell you anything. All my stock is reserved.”
Denworth breathed deeply through his nose. “Then I’ll order a custom job. You’ll make a bracelet—or a ring? A duplicate of that one in the window?”
“I’m sorry . . . no.”
“Ever heard of the Federal trade commission? What you’re doing is illegal—giving special preference to certain customers—”
There was a renewed outbreak of whispering from the back. Smith jumped, said, “Excuse me,” and hurried toward the curtains. He thrust his head through and muttered brief syllables.
The brassy-looking charm bracelet was at Denworth’s elbow. It is a regrettable fact that the temptation, coupled with his irritation at being balked, led the man to indulge in what was technically shoplifting. In a word, he swiped the bracelet.
It was the work of a moment. As the gadget dropped tinkling into his pocket, Denworth, turned and headed for the stairway. Smith apparently hadn’t noticed the theft. His back was still toward the store.
Denworth hesitated, smiled sourly, and let himself out. The rain had stopped. Drops, clear and glistening in pale sunlight, hung in a row from the shingle that said, “By Royal Appointment—H.R.H Oberon.” A sparrow was investigating a puddle nearby.
It would be pleasant to record that Denworth was already regretting his hasty act. Unfortunately he was not. He felt only a triumphant exhilaration at having outwitted the stubborn shopkeeper. He headed for the Blue Boar Bar, anxious to order a buttered rum.
The sparrow cocked its head and eyed Denworth with beady inquisitiveness. Abruptly it launched itself into the air, with a fluttering of feathers, and zoomed toward the man’s face. Instinctively Denworth ducked. The sparrow came to rest on his shoulder and began to rub its head affectionately against its unwilling host’s cheek.
Denworth reacted in the normal manner. Small, agile things are usually more perturbing than large ones; one can, perhaps, view a charging great Dane with equanimity, but having a sparrow nestling against your neck makes you feel clumsy and helpless. A peck in the eye is singularly difficult to evade. Denworth made a hoarse, inarticulate noise and clawed at his shoulder.
The sparrow flung itself madly away, but returned, chirping interestedly. To add to Den worth’s confusion, a small white dog appeared from nowhere and began to leap up at him, wagging a friendly tail. Since people were watching, Denworth didn’t kick the dog. Instead, he ducked into the Blue Boar, which luckily was close. The door shut out both sparrow and animal.
It did not shut out—something!—that percolated invisibly through the glass, whispering irritably to itself. Denworth didn’t hear it. He was hovering over the bar, demanding rum. It was a cold day, and he sipped the hot liquor gratefully.
Several men were arguing noisily at the bar, and Denworth, glancing at them, picked up his glass and headed for a booth. There, he took out the charm bracelet and examined it. It seemed to be made of brass, with twisted figures attached to it at intervals. There was a knot of wire, a severed human head, an arrow, and other more ambiguous ornaments.
Denworth slipped it over his wrist.” Simultaneously a low, sibilant voice said, “Damn! By the primal Nid, this is a singularly lousy trick to play on one.”
“Eh?” Denworth asked automatically. The voice repeated, “Damn! I can’t use the True Seven spell. Oberon’s Rune ought to do it, though.”
Denworth narrowed his eyes and looked around. Then he thoughtfully peered under the table. Finally he beckoned to the waiter.
“Sir?”
“Er . . . another rum.” One didn’t ask a waiter where disembodied voices were coming from. In any case it was probably a radio.
“Thricket thracket throcket omnibandum,” said the rather horrid little whisper. “In nomine . . . damn again.
It won’t work. Listen, mister, that’s my bracelet you’re wearing.”
Denworth didn’t say anything. His lips narrowed; otherwise he made no sign. There was a faint thump, as of a tiny fist pounding the table top.
“Did you hear me?”
“Voice of my conscience—ridiculous!” Denworth muttered, and drank rum. There was a microcosmic short.
“Always this trouble, always! Humans are more skeptical than kobolds. No wonder Oberon gave Bottom ass’ ears. All humans—” There was a faint growl, like the pur of a cat. “Listen,” the whisper resumed. “Wayland Smith was making that bracelet for me. I’d already paid him. Had to filch three wallets to get the money, too. You’re a thief, sir.”
The paradox of this statement was too much for Den worth. He said something about stolen money, caught himself, arid looked around sharply. No one had noticed.
“But it’s our right to steal,” the voice said. “We’re amoral. Our ancestors never ate the fruit of knowledge, like yours did. All pixies steal.”
“Pixies,” Denworth said under his breath.
“Turzee, the Brawler’s my name. Damn good specimen of Rjxy, too. Now will you give me back my bracelet?”
“I’m hearing things.”
“You’ll hear a lot more, if you’re not careful,” the wee whisper threatened. “Father Nodens, if I could just get you Under the Hill for a night. You’d go mad. I’ve seen it happen.”
Denworth chewed his lip. The voice was too horribly logical for a delusion. Also—
The waiter returned, bearing a full dozen glasses of hot buttered rum. He placed these before the startled Denworth, who asked natural questions.
“It’s all right, sir,” the man said, beaming. “It’s, on me. I’d like to stand you to these drinks, if you don’t mind. I like you.”
He retreated before Denworth could frame a retort. The whisper broke out again, shrill with fury.
“See? The bracelet works, all right. No wonder I couldn’t put a spell on you, loathsome human. Not even Oberon’s Rune. I can’t bear to hurt you.”
Denworth decided he had better get out of here. The nasty, whispering voice was extraordinarily disturbing. Something in its pitch, perhaps. It didn’t quite remind Denworth of a snake’s hiss, nor the crackle of flames, but the short hairs on his nape were tingling.
But, as he rose, the curtains of the booth were drawn together by unseen hands. Denworth instinctively shrank back. The whisper said, “There. Now we can talk privately. No, don’t try to get out. There’s lots of liquor . . . if you like this milk-and-water stuff. It isn’t like the old days. I remember the-great festival we had the night Eve was evicted. There were great times Under the Hill then.”
Denworth said, very softly, “Are you—alive?” He was shivering.
“Yes,” the voice responded. “More alive than you. We don’t have to depend on procreation to maintain our life sparks. With us, it’s imperishable—as a rule. You see, human, I’m a pixy.”
“You’re a pixy,” Denworth repeated. “I’m . . . I’m drunk. Must be. Or I wouldn’t be sitting here talking to myself.”
“You’re talking to me, Turzee the Brawler,” the voice said, reasonably enough. “Naturally you’re skeptical. But I can convince you of my reality easily enough. Just take that bracelet off for a minute . . . huh?”
Some indefinable instinct warned Denworth not to obey. As he fumbled at his wrist, a surcharged tensity seemed to grow in the air around him. He could sense a couching hostility, avid and waiting. The latent nastiness of the bodiless whisper abruptly increased.
“Take it off,” it said.
But Denworth, instead, gulped a rum and leaned back, picking up another in case of emergency. “I’ve heard of things like this,” he muttered. “Sure. In stories. Funny little shops—”
“Stories get around. Legends have their beginnings. Now take the bracelet off, like a good fellow.”
“Why?”
“Because I can’t hurt you while you’re wearing it,” the voice said surprisingly. “Oh, damn! There I go again. Of all the charms in Smith’s place, why did you have to take the Love sigil?”
“Love sigil?” Hot rum is more potent than cold. The fumes were mounting to Denworth’s brain. Already he was beginning to feel less skepticism. And, after all, the disembodied voice was talking sensibly enough, except for certain ambiguities.
“Let’s get this straight,” Denworth said, after a pause. “I’ve got a feeling I’m in danger. Suppose you tell me what this bracelet is. What’s a Love sigil?”
There was a tiny sigh. “Oh, well. It compels love. While you wear it, everybody loves you. They can’t help it. If you didn’t have it on, I could let loose a few spells that would—”
Denworth felt rather glad that the sentence was not finished. Struck by a sudden thought, he rose to peer over the back of the booth. Perhaps Wayland Smith had followed him, and was indulging in ventriloquism. That seemed possible. A great deal more possible than the tangible, though invisible, existence of Turzee the Brawler.
But the adjacent booth was empty.
“Look,” said Turzee persuasively. “What good is the sigil to you? I need it. I’m so much disliked! And I’m to be the chief figure at a certain ritual . . . um . . . ceremony, where the sigil’s needed. So be a good fellow, won’t you? I’ll tell you where a pot of gold’s buried.”
“Gold? How much?”
“Well, not very much,” the Brawler amplified. “More than an ounce, though. But it’s pure gold,” he added enticingly.
Denworth drank more rum, remembering something Turzee had just said. “I could use this sigil of yours. It might come in handy. You say it makes people love you?”
“Why do you think the waiter gave you all those drinks? The sigil’s sure-fire. It’s got an Eros arrow, a love knot, a St. Valentine’s head, a yogham—”
“And you can’t hurt me while I’m wearing it.”
The whisper grew shrill with indignation. “Damn squared! How can I? That blasted sigil makes me love you.”
“Then I’d better not take it off,” Denworth said wisely. “I don’t know much about pixies, but I don’t like the sound of your voice.”
“I love yours,” Turzee; hissed, apparently between clenched teeth. “Wish I didn’t. I’d make you sweat!”
The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the waiter, bearing bottles of champagne—vintage—and goldwasser. “On the house,” he explained.
“You see?” Turzee whispered.
As the waiter retreated, the large, bland face of a barfly appeared between the curtains. Denworth recognized the chap as one who had been at the bar, arguing passionately. Now the plump countenance was aglow with affectionate happiness.
“You’re my pal,” the man said, placing a heavy hand on Denworth’s shoulder. “Don’t let anybody tell you different. You’re a gennelman. I can tell a gennel . . . gen—You’re my pal, see?”
“Name of Nodens!” the Brawler cried furiously. “Get out of here, foul human! Ixandar vestrum goblanheim!”
The fat man’s eyes widened. He made a hoarse choking noise and clutched at his collar. With a shock of horrified surprise, Denworth saw smoke rising from a crimson welt on the smooth forehead. There was an odor of burning skin.
“Get out!” Turzee shrieked shrilly. The barfly obeyed, stumbling back and out of sight. The expression on his face made Denworth feel vaguely sick. He pushed aside the champagne bucket, trying to keep his lips from trembling.
Against his will, he was convinced.
“What did you do?” he asked, very softly. “Threw a spell at him,” Turzee said. “I’d do the same to you, only—”
“Only you can’t! Not while the sigil compels your love. I see!” Denworth’s blue eyes were shallow and thoughtful.
Turzee said, “Oberon can render the sigil useless. Want me to call on him?”
“I don’t think you will. Smith said the bracelet wasn’t finished. It needed one more
charm. Am I right in thinking that it—”
“You’re crazy.”
Denworth ignored the interruption. “Wait a bit. Let me work this out. A man—or a pixy—holding this sigil would be pretty omnipotent. It doesn’t seem logical that an ordinary pixy would be given that power. Unless there was some loophole . . . yeah. I get it. Smith was going to put a charm on the sigil I that would make it vulnerable to Oberon’s spells, eh? Is that the answer?”
Significant silence was the response. Denworth nodded, satisfied. He was beginning to feel a warm, pleasant glow.
“So I’m safe, even from Oberon. I wonder, now, just how powerful the sigil is?”
“It compels the love of all living things,” Turzee said. “But how long do you think you can keep it? We won’t stand for such a thing. No human has ever taken a charm from Wayland Smith’s shop. And he has charms far more wondrous than this. Like his Protean Locket—”
Denworth got up, his face, with its high Indian cheekbones, impassive. But a light was glowing behind the blue pallor of his eyes. With a purposeful movement he thrust aside the curtain and went out of the booth.
Myra Valentine. Myra Valentine!
The name throbbed within his brain.
Myra Valentine.
Capricious, lovely, disinterested Myra. Basking in her glamour, smiling coolly—patronizingly!—at Denworth.
If Turzee followed him out of the bar, Denworth did not know it. Everything else was swallowed up in the glowing realization of what this new, unbelievable power would mean to Myra Valentine.
“Don’t be foolish, Edgar,” she had said once. “What makes you think I could love you?”
Denworth hadn’t liked that. His ego had winced at the stab. He wanted Myra, to wear her like a carnation in his lapel. And Myra, perhaps, sensed that. Denworth had an uneasy feeling that she considered him a second-rater.
Well—now he had the Love sigil.
Now he would have Myra Valentine.
Myra Valentine! The syllables pounded in time with his footsteps. Street lights were coming on, playing tricks with his shadow. A full moon was rising against a garish, starry backdrop of purple. Denworth did not feel the cold; the rum had warmed him. It was the rum, perhaps, that made it so easy now for him to accept the sigil as something real and powerful.
Collected Fiction Page 347