Zero Sum

by B. Justin Shier

  “Bravo, young lady,” Madam Fremont said to Jules. Leaning forward, Madam Fremont frowned at the gown. “Wasn’t thirty years enough? Wake up, Jasmine.”

  Jules gave a start as the many satin folds of her gown spread wide like a proud peacock.

  A few gasps escaped the guests at the table.

  “An apotropaic,” Dante whispered.

  Jasmine the Animated Gown seemed to take that as a compliment. She shook herself from top to bottom like a cat.

  “She wants to be twirled, dear,” Madam Fremont said with a chuckle.

  The gown followed Jules’ motions like the tail of tropical fish. Flecks of purple and blue shimmered at the ends.

  The men started clapping—but the scene drew some of the women into low murmurs.

  “So gaudy,” one of them whispered. (I didn’t need my Sight to sense the envy rolling off that tongue.)

  “Good to see that old feather duster getting some use,” Madam Fremont said. “You’re my height, it seems.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Jules said.

  “A bit bigger in the bust though!” Madam Fremont said with a cackling laugh.

  I had enough sense to pull out Jules’ chair. The gown parted ways as she sat, and as Jules removed her dinner gloves, the satin folds of her dress settled around her like a contented cat. I chose the chair between Jules and Madam Fremont, and Dante sat across from us. Denied Ayaan’s company, he sat to the left of a woman with a hawkish nose. She introduced herself as Dolores Fink. I recognized her as the one who had laughed at us just a few moments ago.

  Now Fink was all smiles. Apparently, being an Elliot student had upgraded Dante from table scraps to a full course meal.

  The bandaged DEA man sat next to Fink. He looked more interested in his scabs.

  A soup course was served as soon as we took up our napkins, and a small band struck up some easy jazz. Looking down at the soup, I gestured to the spoon above the plate. Jules shook her head no and pointed to the one next to the three knives on the right. Armed properly, I went to take a sip of the soup and drew back. It smelled of vinegar and…

  “I’m sorry, but isn’t this blood?”

  “It is called melas zomos, the black soup of Sparta,” Madam Fremont explained. This version features pork blood, pork meat, and vinegar base to halt the clotting.”

  Jules was turning as green as her evergreen dress.

  None of the old folks had lifted a spoon. They were all just sitting there staring at their bowls.

  “They actually ate this stuff?” I asked.

  “Well, the original Spartan soup had only one ingredient.”

  “Only one…you mean…”

  “Yes, dear. They fell at daybreak on the third day, remember? Father said it was quite moving. They kept fighting as they burned.”

  “Oh.” I needed to get a better history book, STAT.

  “This version is an old embassy tradition. A reminder of what lies beyond these doors. You aren’t expected to eat it, just ponder it.”

  I didn’t need to ponder anything.

  “We shouldn’t be wasting food.”

  “I’d hardly call it food, dear.”

  Fremont’s eyes widened as I dipped my spoon in the thick red muck.

  “Bit salty,” Dante offered. He was already halfway through his.

  “Here, here,” the bandaged guy said when I finished. “Name’s Stetson. What section are you attached to?”

  “Umm…” I started. Good question…

  “We were dispatched by Section Chief Collins, sir,” Dante answered.

  “Good man, Collins. Never afraid to hand out a challenging task…I’m on leave from Salt Lake, myself. Off to visit the dog and wife.”

  Agent Tools leaned in from next to Jules. He wasn’t a pretty man. His hair was a jagged chop of black, and his face looked like it had been carpet bombed by acne. He sat only an inch taller than Jules, and didn’t look to have much muscle on him. “I assume you’ve been assigned to the Lake. We’ll caravan together.”

  Before Dante could offer an answer, those disgusting soups were replaced by much more palatable looking salads. I mimed Jules and picked up the outer fork. Dante took the hint and did the same.

  “You’ll want to stay south, Jasper,” Agent Stetson said between bites. “Take I-70. I-80 is too risky.”

  Agent Tools put down his fork. “But that’ll add hours.” He was right…but that route would keep us headed towards Vegas until we got well into the Rockies.

  “It’ll save a few heads.” Agent Stetson replied. He was balancing a cucumber on his fork as he spoke. “Pay Command no mind. I-80 is owned by the packs. Weres are snagging sparks along the entire stretch.”

  “Awen’s ghost,” Jules said, “the whole highway is like that?”

  Madam Fremont nodded. “You’d do well to stay south, Jasper. Ayaan and I were harried near the Green River.”

  “You. Harried?” Agent Tools looked ready to laugh.

  “Well, they did manage to scratch the paint,” Madam Fremont said with a not-so-demure shrug.

  “It’s obvious, isn’t it?” Agent Tools thrust a fork through his salad. “If the infestation is as bad as you say, we should bust every last den on our way.”

  “With a bunch of wet noses in tow?” Agent Stetson asked. “You can’t be serious, Jasper.”

  Francesca, Agent Tools’ partner, had not said a single word during the entire conversation, but now Jasper turned to look at her and frowned. The orange-haired mage shook her head.

  Agent Tools let out a grunt. “Seems I’m out numbered. Very well. We’ll take the southern route. But the weather is shifting. I don’t want to get caught in another storm. We’ll depart early in the morning. Be sure to have your things ready by dawn.”

  Madam Fremont sighed. “I understand your haste, Jasper. We are thin on both men and time. If this conflict cannot be drawn to a quick close, others may seek to push their advantage. We could risk losing more than just the West Coast…”

  “You cannot possibly be serious,” Ms. Fink interjected. The hawk-nosed woman shook her head in disgust.

  “But it is a reasonable assessment,” Stetson answered. “The Treaty promises them secure borders…and the Nostophoros are quite particular about their bargains.”

  “Nonsense. The Nosferatu are like well-beaten hounds. They wouldn’t dare bare their fangs at us.”

  At the other end of the table, Ambassador Balcon rapped his fork against his plate.

  “Dolores, dear, this is a diplomatic mission. I’d ask that you to refrain from using that term.”

  “Why we tolerate them at all is beyond me.” Ms. Fink dabbed her lip with a napkin. “These river-going savages let this marvelous leyline go to waste.” As if to underline her point, Ms. Fink made a lazy gesture that drew a plume of mana up from the ground below. She spun the mana around her like a scarf. Rosy tendrils curled this way and that. I tried my Sight on her. Ms. Fink’s aura was clear as day. She was serious. The thought of wiping the Nostophoros from the map was sending waves of pleasure up and down her spine. It took a moment to notice that Jules was patting me on the hand. I looked down to discover that all my knuckles had gone white.

  “Dieter, just let it go,” Jules whispered.

  “Do you think it would be that easy?” I asked.

  My voice had exceeded ‘dinner table’ volume, but Ms. Fink looked quite pleased with the question.

  “You tell me, boy.”

  A coil of liquid flame grew from the center of her palm. I watched in awe as the length of flame sprouted eyes and a snout. More animal than spell, the snake-like creature wrapped around Ms. Fink three times like a shawl. Then, with the mere snap of a finger, she sent the creature crawling across the table towards me. The linens blackened at its touch, and the bouquet of flowers between us burst into flames. Hovering above my salad, the flaming snake let out a searing hiss.

  I sat there stunned as my tasty greens wilted. I guess I should have been engaged in some
cowering, but that’s not what was on my mind. The control such a spell must have taken…I couldn’t even fathom it. I wanted to take the whole spell apart and figure out how it worked. There were one or two strategies I thought might be best to create one. Both relied on keeping the heat—

  “Awen’s Ghost, Dieter. Stop yer gapin’. Yer fockin’ tie be on fire.”

  I screamed like a little girl, while Jules leaned forward and poked the molten snake monster in the eye. A shudder ran down the length of its body, and the creature’s flaming scales transformed into row after row of brilliant red rose petals. With a puff of breath, Jules scattered them across the room. As the vibrant petals settled on the floor, Jules plucked up a glass of water and gave my smoldering tie a dunk.

  “Fockin’ chancer,” she grumbled.

  Polite applause broke out at the display. Ms. Fink’s face drew into the Mona Lisa of rage.

  “Bella riposte, Ms. Nelson,” Agent Stetson said with a smile.

  “But that’s exactly my point,” Ms. Fink argued. “With powers like these, what have we to fear from silly beasts?”

  “Aye, Ms. Fink,” Jules said with a frown. “Why be lookin’ elsewhere? There’s plenty ta fear at this table.”

  Ms. Fink looked ready dive across said table, blue satin gown and all.

  Madam Fremont saved the night with a well-placed clearing of the throat.

  “Mr. Dante. Do tell us about your classes. Is Petrus Morris still teaching augury?”

  Dante responded with something about PETA, a rash of lawsuits, and curriculum reforms during the 1970’s. Anyone not lost to a coma by the end of it started talking football. Me, I focused on the food.

  First, the hotel served these many-legged critters fried in batter. Jules said they were calamari—as in those tiny creatures that lived in the depths of the sea. I didn’t expect to like them, but the little monsters tasted great. It was like a cross between chicken and clams. As soon as I was finished, the plate was swept away. Then it was time for a main course of beer-basted roast chicken with sides of bacon relish, broiled green beans and a heaping mound of broiled potatoes. The chef had stuck a twig in the taters and dribbled truffle oil on top. The combination reminded me of butter mixed with mushrooms, but when I told Jules I wanted to buy a gallon of the stuff, she said I’d be better off hiring a hog.

  Dante was more interested in the wine. He’d downed five glasses before I’d even started on my chicken. Then again, the poor guy needed Dionysus’ aid. Dolores Fink was going in for the kill.

  “And have you played guitar long?” she asked, as Dante tried desperately to build a fortress of potatoes.

  “Since I was five, ma’am. My dad hoped I’d take to the banjo, but I kept reaching for the six-string.”

  He took another sip of wine.

  She batted her lashes.

  He swallowed. “Just called out to me, I guess.”

  “And one should heed such calls…” Dolores ran one of her long fingernails up his arm. “I’d love a private session.”

  Now, Ms. Fink wasn’t an ugly woman. Not by a long shot. She had the look of the classic trophy wife: salon baked hair, lips as full as plums, upgraded front bumpers…but she was also the human equivalent of a Brillo pad, with a nasally voice that could shred granite. But I decided what bugged me the most were her enormous black lashes. They were fluttering about like horseflies in heat.

  “I feel like I’m watching Ta Catch a Predator,” Jules whispered.

  A sip of water shot out of my nose.

  Dolores glared at us from across the table. “Is something funny?”

  “Nope,” Jules said through a way-too-guilty smile. “Choked on a bean is all.” She took a dainty sip of her white wine, flashing her lashes as she did. “Ah, it soothes the pain, doesn’t it, Dante?”

  Dante swallowed.

  I nearly lost it. I’d never seen Jules act like a brat before…it was totally endearing.

  Dolores deposited her silverware on her plate. “Ms. Nelson, I’ve been meaning to ask, what drew one of the venerable Dru to our humble continent…did Europe run out of trees?”

  Jules looked none too pleased with that one. She deposited her cutlery as well. I decided it was best to defuse this dust up with a bit of light humor…

  “Severe cabbage allergy,” I offered.

  Jules’ heel found my toe.

  “Why, Ms. Fink, I’ve always admired the United States. The natural beauty of this land is unparalleled, as is the industry of her people. As a young girl, I was enchanted by your movies; as a young woman, your many scholars. When Dean Albright contacted me about attending Elliot, I became most excited. A chance to live in America and study at such a fine institution—one would be foolish to let pass such an opportunity, would they not?”

  I looked at Dante in surprise. Where’d Jules learn to talk all high-society? She’d dropped her accent like a bad habit.

  “But why not study in Vienna?” Ms. Fink inquired. “The Rudolphina is the prima donna of the art.” I frowned. I had a feeling that not knowing about the Rudolphina was probably like not knowing the difference between a loo and the Louvre.

  “Because the Old World is too tangled up in itself. Two thousand years of grudges. You can never seem to get free of them. It’s not like that in America. Here there’s this magnetism, this unique urge to renew. You can feel it on the streets. You can sense it in every classroom.” The royal greens of Jules gown glittered as she spoke. “The economy might be dragging them down, but the people here haven’t even thought of giving up. They try to build new businesses. They go back and get new degrees. A tireless churn of new ideas arrive with every single newspaper. New theories. New debates. New hopes. New dreams.” Jules leaned back and let out a sigh. “If I had stayed in Europe, I would have become what was expected of me…but here…here I get to choose my own path.”

  Madam Fremont applauded.

  “Tish-tosh.” Dolores said with a wave. “That’s all nonsensical fluff. You and I both know that the Continental Model is far superior. And the libraries. They are marvels to behold. Grimoires of every shape and size. Scrolls dating back to the dark ages. And the Lode of Alexandria! Why would anyone abandon such resources?” She looked at Jules with some concern. “Surely your marks were adequate?”

  Dante dropped his glass.

  The world ceased its orbit.

  Stars above. Had Dolores Fink just questioned Jules Nelson’s GPA?

  Better to burn down Guinness’ headquarters.

  Better to take away all potatoes.

  “Ms. Fink, my marks were sufficient to earn me Elliot’s lone Dean’s Scholarship.” A tiny artery was pulsating on Jules’ temple. The throb-of-doom…I’d witnessed it only once before, when an errant fireball incinerated one of her three-ring binders. Few men had survived the night. You either plugged that sort of monster with chocolate or faced unholy hell.

  “I still cannot fathom your interest,” Fink said with a flick of the hair. “Everything in the New World is so…new.”

  “Oh, I don’t know, Ms. Fink, I see some old wrinkly things here and there.”

  Ms. Fink’s lips went thin and white.

  “Goodness,” Madam Fremont said with a flutter of her fan, “I do hope they hurry the dessert.”

  “Any chance it’s chocolate cake?” I asked. I gave the waiter next to me a desperate look. “We could all really use some chocolate cake right now.”

  “Nelson…” Ms. Fink continued. “I do believe I’ve heard that name before. Doesn’t the Nelson Circle of Old Ennis produce the Witches Almanac?”

  The other guests’ conversations had quieted long ago, but now the tenor of their attention shifted.

  At the far end of the table, Ambassador Balcon cleared his throat.

  “Young lady, you wouldn’t happen to be related to Molly Nelson?”

  “Um…” Jules began. Her fingers were fumbling with the edge of the tablecloth. She’d gone all shy, but I wasn’t about to pass up a way out o
f this freaking death spiral…

  “Hey, Jules, isn’t Molly the name on all your care packages? She’s your grandmother, right?”

  To my surprise, instead of blushing, Jules gave me a look of utter despair.

  “What’s wrong?” I whispered.

  “Goodness!” A woman shouted from across the table. “You can scry!” Tossing decorum to the wind, she kicked back her chair. “Oh, please do mine. We’ve been trying to conceive, you see.” She turned to the nearest waiter. “A bowl. Fetch us a bowl!”

  A twisted smile crept across Ms. Fink’s face. “Elise, what a marvelous idea. We should all have our fortunes read.”

  The words sent the whole party out of their seats.

  “Everyone, please,” Ambassador Balcon said above the growing ruckus. “There should be some order to this. Perhaps we could set up in the card room?”

  The portly bourbon fiend applauded. “Good show, Balcon. Perhaps we should draw straws?”

  My heart sank. Ms. Fink had merely intended to ruin Jules’ evening with a flood of unwanted clientele, but she couldn’t have aimed better. I went to take Jules’ hand, but a knock from the side sent me out of my chair.

  “Dieter?” Jules looked left and right. She looked like she was going to freak. “I can’t…”

  Five men and women jostled for her attention, as an overzealous waiter rushed a water basin to her chair. It had to be a living nightmare for her, like arriving at school naked with the American flag burning in the background (okay, my living nightmare, never mind).

  I did the only thing I could think of. I picked myself up off the floor, dug into my pocket, and rushed over to the band. The singer was enjoying a smoke break during the chaos. He looked up at me as I ran over.

  “Sup, Mr. Elliot?” he asked.

  “I assume you guys can do stuff other than elevator music, right?”

  He smirked. “Perchance, sonny. Perchance.”

  “And you’re mages too?”

  “We’re playin’ here, ain’t we?”