A Logical Magician lm-1

by Robert Weinberg

  “But didn’t you tell me that the cross didn’t harm him?” replied Megan. “Why should one method work and not the other?”

  “I don’t know,” said Jack. “But there must be an answer.”

  “Maybe you’re approaching the problem from the wrong direction,” said Megan. “What about the other monsters you faced? You defeated them with unconventional methods of attack.”

  “That’s true only in a manner of speaking,” said Jack. “In those cases, I had no choice other than to experiment with new approaches to the old solution. The creatures had evolved with the times, and the old versions of eliminating them no longer applied to their new forms. I merely updated the answers to fit their modern states. The rules hadn’t changed, only the representations.”

  He paused, as the meaning of his own words vibrated through his mind. “Maybe that’s it. Walsh wasn’t harmed by the cross because it personally meant nothing to him. It no longer represented what it did a hundred years ago.”

  Jack grinned. “As the monsters evolve, so do the icons affecting them. That’s the law I’ve been searching for. The solution is a symbolic one. A century ago, the crucifix stood for the triumph of good over evil, light over darkness. It was a unique symbol, the embodiment of a specific principle deadly to creatures of the night like the vampire. More important, people believed in its power. And that belief made it work.

  “However, as civilization changed, religion fragmented into a thousand different beliefs, with none of them holding sway over mankind’s psyche. A symbol sacred to one group meant nothing to another. Walsh was unaffected by the cross because it was no longer the proper icon. In our modern world, the crucifix no longer represented the forces of light.

  “Fortunately, the general rules about vampires still held true. They were specific, not symbolic. Sunlight killed Walsh because sunlight vanquishes darkness by definition.”

  “Does that help you with von Bern?” asked Megan.

  “If we apply the same logic to the German, it does,” said Jack. “Since cold iron no longer affects von Bern, it logically implies that the metal was merely a specific example of a general category of objects that harmed the Wild Huntsman and his allies. Over the years, people confused the specific with the symbolic. As was the case with vampires and crosses.

  “Time passed, and for some reason I don’t yet understand, steel lost its effect against the creatures of the night. If anything, I suspect it became too commonplace, and people no longer believed that it possessed the unique property that originally made it an icon. However, the original symbolism never changed. That’s what’s really important. Obviously, something else replaced cold iron.”

  “What?” asked Megan.

  “I don’t know,” said Jack. “First, I need to figure out the general case. In other words, what did steel symbolize? If the crucifix represented the power of light over darkness, what meaning did cold iron possess that made it so deadly to von Bern and his cronies? Once I solve that enigma, it shouldn’t require much effort to rationalize that principle for the modern world. Which will enable me to find the proper icon. And the German’s weakness, I hope.”

  “I hope so too,” said Megan, reaching for him again. “You’re starting to fade. Night must be coming to an end. One last kiss before you leave…”

  Jack could still feel the warm touch of Megan’s lips against his when he awoke. With a smile and a sigh of relief, he realized that he had retained full memory of his dream. Then a frown of concern clouded his features. The sun pouring in through the trailer window signaled it was Monday morning. Each hour brought Beltane a step closer. And with it, the end of civilization. Not to mention the untimely death of the girl of his dreams. Hurriedly, he slipped on his new clothing. There wasn’t a minute to waste.

  27

  “Today,” said Cassandra, in a tone indicating no compromise, “we buy a car.”

  “Whatever you say,” said Jack, resigned to the inevitable. Not that there was anything else to do in the meantime.

  An hour’s worth of discussion had brought them no closer to a solution to the mystery of steel. No one in the entire trailer complex had any idea why cold iron had been once deadly dangerous and now was nothing more than inert metal. Even Simon, the wellspring of obscure knowledge, was baffled. The changeling controlled a vast library of facts, but he was worthless when it came to theory. Even Hazel, in Jack’s opinion the wisest person in the camp, was stumped. It was his problem, and he was obviously the only one who could solve it.

  “Take Sylvester with you,” said Hazel. “He can spot a bargain a mile away. Follow his instincts. You won’t be sorry.”

  “I thought witches and their familiars couldn’t be separated by any great distances,” said Jack.

  “A useful folktale,” said Hazel, “but not true. Sylvester and I are linked telepathically, but otherwise he’s a completely independent entity. He does what he wants and goes where he likes. He’s anxious to help. Will you let him?”

  “Why not?’ said Jack. “If I can have an Amazon for a bodyguard and a changeling for a reference librarian, a magical cat for an advisor makes perfect sense. Before we depart, though, let’s finish my beauty treatment.”

  After the fiasco the day before, they had settled on a much less complicated disguise. Cassandra dyed Jack’s hair and eyebrows white. With his eyes pink from the magic contact lenses, he looked like an albino.

  “The best disguise,” she declared, “focuses attention on one physical trait or abnormality. People seeing you will immediately notice your white hair and not see anything else. Your features won’t register with them. No one will ever connect you with the fugitive drug lord. It’s a simple but effective trick. I learned it from Ulysses.”

  “This stain won’t permanently alter my appearance?” said Jack, nervously running one hand through his silver locks. “I don’t mind staying silver for a few days. But looking like Elric is carrying my interest in fantasy fiction a step too far.”

  “Don’t you worry, dearie,” said Hazel. “A good washing with shampoo will restore your true color. The only magic involved comes from a bottle.”

  An hour later found Cassandra, Jack and Sylvester at “Honest Abe’s Used Car Lot” in the far western suburbs. “Honest Abe,” they soon discovered, referred not to Abraham Lincoln, but to Abe Ortigara, the owner of the automobile dealership. A big, hearty man in his mid-sixties with a booming voice and the bushiest eyebrows Jack had ever seen on a human being, Abe himself insisted on accompanying them on their survey of his stock of second-hand cars.

  “I always try to spend a little time each week on the lot myself,” said Abe, walking them down a row of used autos. “It helps me keep my feet on the ground instead of my head in the clouds. You let your salesmen do all the work, and soon, they’re running the whole company. That’s the quickest path to financial ruin in the car business. I’ve owned this place for thirty years and I plan to own it another thirty. No retirement in the picture for Abe Ortigara. Selling cars is my life.”

  The big man patted the hood of an ’88 Oldsmobile affectionately. “Any idea what you and the little lady are in the market for?’ he asked Jack.

  “We’re not married,” said Jack hurriedly, seeing the dangerous look on Cassandra’s face. “Miss Cole and I are merely very good friends.”

  “My apologies,” said Ortigara, wincing as his gaze touched Jack’s bleached hair. “It was just that the two of you made such a nice couple, I assumed…”

  “A natural mistake,” said Jack, cutting off the car salesman before Cassandra exploded. “Actually, I thought I would let my cat make the final decision.”

  “Your cat?” said Ortigara, the words choking in his throat. His face turned bright crimson. “Isn’t that sort of unusual?”

  “Is it?” asked Cassandra, her voice cold enough to freeze water to ice. “In our religion, we believe in allowing our pets to select our means of transportation. If they’re happy, then we’re happy. You’re not
implying that there’s something odd about our beliefs, are you?”

  “No, no,” said Ortigara anxiously. Sylvester, getting into the spirit of things, rubbed up against Abe’s leg, meowing loudly.

  Reflexively, the car dealer bent down to scratch the black cat’s neck. Instantly, Sylvester bounded away, leaving Abe in a half-crouch, staring at a frowning Cassandra.

  “I meant no disrespect,” he declared nervously as he straightened. “I would never insult anyone’s religion. Honest Abe believes totally in the sanctity of a man’s—or woman’s—personal beliefs. No matter how strange they appear to be to outsiders.”

  “How comforting,” said Jack, trying to hide a smile. “We’re Polymaths, by the way, in case you were wondering.”

  “Polymaths,” repeated the car dealer. “How fascinating.”

  Desperately, Honest Abe glanced in the direction of his office. “Oh, it looks like they’re trying to get my attention back at the main building. Must be someone extremely important on the phone. Dam business can’t function with me away from my desk very long. Why don’t you folks look around in the meantime? I’ll return shortly, or send one of my best sales associates to help you. Nice meeting you.”

  “Honest” Abe bustled off as fast as possible without running. More than once he peered anxiously over his shoulder, as if reassuring himself he was not being followed. He disappeared into his office, leaving Jack and company alone on the lot.

  “Polymaths?” said Cassandra, shaking her head in disbelief. “Where do they worship?”

  “At the Temple of Universal Knowledge,” said Jack, straight-faced. “At least, that’s what I would have told Abe if he had asked.”

  “Well, he’s gone,” said Sylvester, arching his back. “And I doubt he’ll return.”

  “Just as well,” said Jack. “Dealing with used car salesmen makes me nervous.”

  He stared at the cat. “We drove by three other lots before you made us stop at this one. Obviously, it wasn’t due to Honest Abe’s reputation. What’s special here?”

  “I sensed magic,” said Sylvester. “It’s located somewhere on this lot. Come on, follow me.”

  Twenty minutes and several bruised knees and shins later, they stood before Sylvester’s find. The cat conveniently ignored the fact that it could travel where Jack and Cassandra could not. During the course of its search, it led them on a convoluted search over the entire lot. More than once, it darted beneath a row of cars, leaving it to the humans to climb over or squeeze through. Covered with sweat and grime, Jack was not pleased when he saw their final destination.

  “Is this your idea of a joke?” he asked angrily. “A car from the year I was born?”

  The cat had come to rest in front of a 1966 Buick Electra. A huge, four-door sedan with light blue interior, it reminded Jack of the massive vehicles driven in old gangster flicks. Considering its age, the car was in remarkably good condition. Not a scratch marred its finish.

  Sylvester sat perched on the top of the hood, licking its paws. It appeared undisturbed by Jack’s complaint. “Don’t judge a book by its cover,” it replied.

  Cassandra walked around the car, knocking on its side with one fist. “Body is still in good shape. This car’s built like a tank.”

  “We’re not looking for a tank,” said Jack testily. “You wanted something fast, remember?”

  Cassandra popped open the auto’s hood, sending Sylvester leaping for the roof. “Mother Athena,” she declared, whistling in surprise. “That’s a big engine.”

  Even Jack was impressed. The motor was massive. Curiosity finally overcoming his annoyance, he read the spec sheet glued to the car’s rear window.

  “It’s 425 cubic inches,” he said, “complete with heavy-duty manifold, four-barrel carburetor, dual exhausts, the works. Even with the pollution safeguards added, this baby goes from zero to sixty in seven seconds. If we can believe Honest Abe.”

  Cassandra joined in. She ran a finger down the car’s features. “Power steering, power brakes, power windows—name it, this car’s equipped with it.” She shook her head. “No one dares build gas guzzlers like this dreadnought anymore. Look at that mileage report—eight to ten miles per gallon in the city, fifteen in the country. The damn thing can pass anything on the road… except a gas station. No wonder it requires a twenty-five-gallon tank.”

  “Those figures can’t be true,” said Jack. “Maybe they were once upon a time, but all those added pollution devices cut down on engine efficiency.”

  “Not for this car,” said Sylvester unexpectedly. “It’s been dwarf repaired. That’s why it looks so good. And runs so well.”

  “Really,” said Cassandra. “The Little Men? Now that makes a difference.”

  “Why?” asked Jack. “Care to fill me in on the secret?”

  “Dwarfs are the master craftsmen of the supernatural world,” said Cassandra. “When they fix an item, it runs better than new. If a dwarf repaired this car, then I’m willing to believe any of Honest Abe’s claims about it. Though I doubt he knows the real truth about the vehicle. Sylvester, you’re sure?”

  “Positive,” said the cat. “Dwarfs have a distinct odor you don’t forget. Especially if you possess a cat’s nose. Call me a dog and spit on me twice if I’m wrong.”

  “That’s good enough for me,” said Cassandra. “What about you, Jack?”

  “How can I argue with a cat reciting a line like that?” said Jack. “Who cares that this baby has 180,000 miles on it? If you two are convinced, I won’t utter another word. Especially since Cassandra does all the driving. From the looks of things, this beauty has been sitting here for a while. Why don’t we find Honest Abe and see if he’s willing to bargain?”

  He was. An hour later, paperwork completed and cash paid, they drove off in their new chariot. Cassandra’s wreck, destined for the scrap heap, they left with Ortigara. Jack prayed they weren’t on track for the same fate.

  28

  Roger frowned. He did not like what he was being told. “You want how many chickens?”

  “Fifty,” said the Lord of the Lions, staring at its fingers for an instant as if verifying the number. Mathematics was not one of its skills. “I want them delivered to my chamber in the basement tonight.”

  “That’s a hell of a lot of birds,” said Roger. “Buying them alive isn’t going to be easy. You’re sure you need that many?”

  “Great sorcery requires much blood,” said the demigod. “Since we are taking no chances, the fowls provide the essential life. If you prefer, five young women, virgins if possible, would serve equally well. Or a dozen head of cattle.”

  “I think we’ll stick with chickens,” said Roger. A vision of him escorting a cow through his house and into the basement flashed through his mind, giving him an instant headache. “Virgins are in short supply these days in California. And cattle are equally scarce.”

  “As you wish,” said the Crouching One. It rubbed its small hands together in anticipation. “I have not attempted this spell in thousands of years. It will be illuminating to learn if it still works.”

  “What if it doesn’t?” asked Roger, thinking of his own bad fortune. If only he hadn’t been so greedy. But moderation had never been one of his vices.

  “Most likely, you would experience a wonderful opportunity to discover if your religion’s faith in an afterlife is justified,” said the Lord of the Lions. Blue sparks flickered beneath its ears. “Beyond that, the resultant psychic backlash would level most of the city, giving you plenty of company on your journey.”

  “Are you positive this sacrifice is necessary?” Roger asked, feeling the noose tightening around his neck. “Wouldn’t a phone call to von Bern prove as effective?”

  “Afraid?” asked the Crouching One, a slight smile touching its thin lips. “How typical of you mortals. Frightened of the last and greatest adventure. Have no fear. Your life is in no danger. At least, not from this spell.”

  The demigod’s eyes glowed inhumanly bright.
“You yourself pointed out to me how terribly inadequate the Huntsman’s performance has been. He is an incompetent fool. Our mutual enemy, Mr. Collins, has outwitted von Bern with appalling regularity. I am forced to agree with you that unless I intervene on a more direct level, the great sacrifice will fail. That is the reason for this summoning tonight.”

  “A summoning?” asked Roger. “Similar to the one I used to raise you? I wasn’t aware such spells required blood.”

  “Great beasts roam the boundaries of the outer darkness,” said the Lord of the Lions mysteriously. “Lesser races feared them, often worshipped them as minor deities. They are extremely powerful but extremely stupid. Such monsters cannot be lured to this plane of existence without warm life. They feed on the living, animals as well as men. With such an ally, the Huntsman cannot lose. No ordinary human can defeat one of the Great Beasts of Eternal Chaos.”

  Roger quickly turned away from the demigod. Drawing in a deep breath, he repressed the reckless laughter that welled up within him. No matter what happened, the Lord of the Lions never learned from its mistakes. Despite its incredible powers, the entity was no smarter than the lowest demon from the pit. The demigod continued to underestimate its opposition. It refused to change its tactics. Roger doubted that it could.

  “I better make a few phone calls,” he declared, “if you expect that many chickens by nightfall. It shouldn’t be too difficult. Explaining the birds to the neighbors is the real trick.”

  “Perhaps it is time I taught you the spell of forgetfulness,” declared the Lion God. “It is a simple magic that even humans can master. Using it, you should have no further problems with the overly cautious.”

  Inwardly, Roger exulted. One spell would lead to another. And another. And on and on, until he knew enough to reverse this infernal bondage and put the insufferable demigod in its proper place. Whistling, he headed for the phone.

  Unfortunately, Roger also habitually underestimated his enemies. If he thought to glance around as he departed, he would have seen that the Lord of the Lions was smiling. It was not a nice smile. It was definitely not a reassuring one. But Roger didn’t turn. He never did.