"We've all heard about how good army food isn't," said Melisande. "Q.E.D. But Laurel's right; it's the supply lines. That's how we've got to tackle this."
"Hold it," her husband said. "Suppose we do get to the right people. How do we get them to believe us?"
"Oh, you just realized that?" she said with a smile. "I have an idea."
* * * *
Wednesday Laurel reported to work as usual and, after an hour of general office work, went to her supervisor's office. She found him at his desk, which was neat as the proverbial pin, as tidy as he himself. My brother could learn so much from him... "Would there be a problem with my leaving early today?" she asked. "My brother and sister-in-law want me to go to the Tenebrae service with them."
He set his mug of tea onto a coaster and regarded her over small wire-rimmed spectacles. "Is your work finished for today?"
"Um...I estimate that I have about three hours' work remaining. If I haven't finished it all, I'll stay late tomorrow. Would that do?"
"Hmm. Normally I would prefer not to stretch things that way. Still," he sighed, "it is Holy Week. Do what you need to do."
She nodded and smiled. "Thank you."
* * * *
That afternoon, Stephen stood on a hill between the harbor and the Royal Guard headquarters, peering through a small telescope.
Not far from the headquarters entrance, Melisande watched her husband put down the telescope, pick up his cloak, and wave it over his head. "That's it," she said. "The ship just finished off-loading. We have about forty-five minutes before the delivery gets here."
She regarded the headquarters gate some fifty feet away. "I read the sentry as very, very cautious, even suspicious. This could be tricky."
"You're 'reading' him?" asked Edward. "How's that?"
"Did you forget that I'm a Sensitive? It's like body language and facial expression, only with something added." She chuckled. "I noticed it first with Stephen, but I thought it was just a husband-wife thing. Now I think Stephen believes that I always know what he's thinking. It makes him nervous."
Edward looked steadfastly forward. "No comment whatsoever."
"It's odd," she said, as they walked up the short rise toward the gate, "but I think Stephen actually likes not having his magic for a while. I didn't expect that."
"We talked about that," Edward said. "He sees it as an opportunity to look at things from the perspective of the magic-blind; he says it's educational. I also suspect he relishes the chance to let Laurel have all the magical responsibilities—but please don't tell her I said that. She barely speaks to me as it is. If we can't restore Stephen's Talent, I expect she'll never forgive me."
"Mm. I'd like to think she's better than that. But," Melisande spoke the time-honored words, "we shall see."
They continued walking. "I really would rather not do this," he said for the second time in as many days. "You know what it did to your husband. Do we want to risk anyone else?"
"If I knew any alternative, we'd try it," she replied. "Besides, if we don't act, Sunday will come and we'll have every Guardsman in the city unable to perform his duties. Which risk would you rather take? We can't avoid both."
They reached the gate, and the sentry moved to block their way. "Sorry. The compound is off-limits."
"We need to speak with the quartermaster," Melisande said earnestly.
"I'm sorry. Not without entry clearance."
There was an awkward silence. Edward was evidently still building up his courage. Melisande frowned inwardly. It was now or never....
"There you are," said a voice behind them. "I thought I told you to wait for me."
They turned, and saw Stephen approaching them in Guard uniform. "Good day, Yeoman...Kilroy," he said as he scanned the name stitched on the sentry's tunic. From a pocket he took a paper and handed it to the man. "I think you'll find this in order."
The soldier examined the paper and handed it back. "Yes sir. Uh, sir, we've been told that all visitors must be escorted while they're on the grounds. Will you be doing that?"
"Indeed I will," said Stephen. "Carry on."
"Yes sir." The sentry stood aside. "Enjoy your visit, Captain Rafton."
The three passed quickly through the gate and into the compound. Reaching a nearby administrative building, they turned and walked behind it, out of sight of the gate.
Edward stared at Stephen incredulously. "How did you conjure up a uniform and papers? You haven't shown the slightest hint of magical response for three months!"
"Who said it was magic? Don't you think I might have found a real captain and just taken them?"
"You could have..." said Edward, "...but you wouldn't. I've known people who would do that, but you're not that sort. Besides, you wouldn't want to risk showing them a familiar name with an unfamiliar face."
The face and uniform abruptly changed into an entirely different appearance. "I guess he wouldn't have, at that," said Laurel with a grin. "Glamours. I love them. I'm glad I knew the proper markings of rank, though."
"Amen to that. Um... 'Rafton'?"
"I don't know," Laurel said, shrugging. "It just sounded right."
"It would be better not to show that particular face for much longer," Melisande said. "Stephen might need to come here on legitimate business some day, and we don't want people asking the wrong kind of questions. Can you change the face a little?"
Edward broke in. "I have a better idea. A little something Stephen and I put together; he did the theory; I worked out the application." He pronounced several syllables, at the same time weaving a pattern of gestures. "There. It isn't exactly invisibility; we call it a 'move along, nothing to see here' spell. Hopefully, that's what they'll do. They won't notice us."
From there to the main kitchen, things mostly went well. No one did seem to notice them, not even Yeoman Kilroy, whom they were surprised to encounter not once but twice during their walk through the compound. "Must've just come off watch," Edward remarked.
There was one awkward moment, when they passed someone standing outside an office door, preparing to knock. Rather than knocking, however, the man suddenly charged forward, smacking full force into the door and falling backwards on his rump.
They watched him rub his nose, looking thoroughly puzzled. "Oops," said Edward. "I think the 'move along' part needs a bit more work."
* * * *
In the massive kitchen, they identified the voice of the chief cook with no problem. A minute later they could see him, berating another cook for sloppy handling of a meat grinder. "Gentlemen," said Melisande as they approached, "would you come with us, please?"
Silence fell. The two men looked at each other quizzically, as if asking, Who is this and how did she get in here? But they came.
By the time the group reached the corridor outside the chief quartermaster's office, the delivery cart was pulling into the outer drive. Melisande had everyone wait until the driver entered the anteroom, then motioned them outside and toward the cart.
It didn't take long to find what she was looking for. "Sir," she said to the chief cook, "If I understand correctly, this crosswort is for the troops' Easter dinner. But I have it on good authority that it comes from the Dreismark province in Grestig. Would you please examine it?"
With a bemused expression, he pulled one of the burlap packages open, reached in, and took a small handful of the root. He broke a piece apart and sniffed at the break. "Hmm," he said noncommittally. He scraped some of the root from the newly-exposed area with a thumbnail, ground it between his fingers, and put it to his tongue.
"You're right!" he said after half a minute's consideration. "This is—" Laurel's ears burned with the description he gave it. He turned and strode off, back to the quartermaster's office.
Melisande and the others followed him and the second cook as far as the anteroom, where the assistant quartermaster sat at his desk, head bent over his work. From the office within they heard the chief cook proclaiming, "I don't know who ordered th
is, but it's not going to the men!"
"And what," another voice came back with equal force, "do you propose to do about Easter dinner? You're the one who told me it has to have crosswort in it!"
A third voice said, "Sir, we might be able to find another source. I don't know. But I agree, this shipment is trouble."
Silence. Then a weaker voice: "Don' look a' me! I just drive th' cart. I don' know where th' stuff comes from."
The three mages listened, intrigued. The assistant quartermaster put the documents he had been working on in the desk drawer and casually stood, taking his cloak from a hook. Melisande frowned at his back, and nudged Laurel.
The chief cook's voice could be heard again. "We'll have to get it somewhere else, then. But that poison gets burned, now! Unless you really want to see the men standing around doing nothing at best—killing themselves at worst!"
The front door closed a bit too loudly as the assistant quartermaster made his exit. Edward, suddenly picking up on what Melisande had noticed, said, "Hey, wait a minute!" and took off after him.
They found the two of them outside, sprawled on the drive, Edward's arms around the assistant quartermaster's waist in a flying tackle. The man hollered, "Will someone get this moron off me?!"
"All right now," said the quartermaster. "What's going on here?"
The assistant quartermaster, looking up from the tangle, shouted, "This numbskull started chasing me!"
The quartermaster looked at Laurel. If he had any modicum of patience left, it was fast evaporating. "Well?"
Laurel looked at Edward, who was clearly hoping she would explain. "I have the Hawick & Scarborough's agent application," she said, holding the document that had masqueraded as their entry clearance. "His signature is on it."
"But it would be there normally, wouldn't it?" said the assistant cook. "He does the clerical work, after all."
But he did choose that exact moment to leave, Laurel thought. She saw the question in Edward's eyes, and nodded.
He inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement. Turning to the assistant quartermaster he said, "If you know anything about this, I suggest that you tell them." Although his voice sounded casual, Laurel knew that it was reverberating through his captive's mind.
The man told them.
* * * *
Stephen met the three some distance from the headquarters gate. "Well?"
"Mission accomplished," said his wife. "And I don't think anyone will give us much thought." To Laurel she said, "We'll see if any inquiries get back to Customs later, but it's possible that the matter may be ignored, since nothing came of it. You do get a lot of applications, after all."
Laurel sighed. "And if not—well, I'll have to deal with it, that's all." She looked at Edward, and in her head she heard words she had said at mass that morning, words she said every day when she said the Lord's prayer.
Stephen chose that moment to hand a small package to his sister. "I found this in town and thought it looked nice. I hope you like it."
What? A gift, and you're not giving it to your wife? You're slipping, brother dear. But then she opened the package and found a silver pendant that bore the very words she had been thinking about. Demitte nobis debita nostra sicut et nos dimitimus debitoribus nostrae.
Forgive us our debts, as we forgive those who owe us.
And you say you have no magic. Well, maybe I can't forgive him yet for what he did to you, but I'll try to forgive what he did to me.
She turned to Edward. "Thank you." If the words were a bit forced, at least she said them. "You did something really good today. I know you didn't have to do this."
He smiled at her. "Yes, I did." To Melisande he said, "But really, there wasn't that much to do. Laurel took care of the sentry at the gate; otherwise I'd have had to give him a hard nudge—but I didn't. The 'nothing to see' spell was non-invasive. The cook's decision about the crosswort was his own; I had nothing to do with it. The only one I had to use force on was the assistant quartermaster."
"I'm glad to know that," said Melisande. Then she looked him squarely in the eye. "You don't have to feel guilty about him, Edward. It was needed. You probably saved quite a few lives. And what you did brought out the truth."
He frowned. "I tell myself that... but I keep running into the end-justifying-the-means problem again. Is what I did today any different from what I did to Stephen?"
Stephen clapped him on the shoulder. "Be glad we have the opportunity to ask that question. For what it's worth, I don't know what else we could have done—for this we needed you. At least the end was right and good. It's like the difference between poisoning someone and giving them medicine to heal them. Literally. And I," he said, stretching, "am hungry. It must be teatime."
Laurel laughed. "Sounds good to me. Come on, I'm sure there's a teahouse around here. You saved my internship; I'm buying."
* * * *
As they left the teahouse, they heard a familiar voice. "Good evening, Captain Rafton! I hope you enjoyed your visit." They turned to see Yeoman Kilroy coming toward them, his eyes on Stephen.
Stephen raised an eyebrow. "I beg your pardon? I have no idea what you're talking about."
Kilroy surveyed the group, noticing for the first time that a new young woman was present. "Right, sir. Not a word." He put his finger to his lips, gave Stephen a broad wink, and turned to disappear into the crowd.
"I declare," said Melisande. "That man is everywhere."
Stephen just stood, staring at the yeoman's retreating back. "Will someone please tell me what in the world that was all about?"
Melisande took his arm and steered him toward the road back to the College. "I'll explain it later, dear. Let's go home."
Fairy Debt
by T. Borregaard
T. Borregaard has a Masters of Science in Archaeological Materials (which she says only sounds interesting), and is listlessly engaged in PhD studies that seem to revolve, in equal measure, around ancient pottery and torturing undergraduates. She is freckled in person, organized by nature, and obsessed with motorcycles, medieval kilns, corsets, blue hair, and tea—one of which (or probably all in combination) will eventually be the death of her. Her work appeared previously in SWORD & SORCERESS 17, and she has a story coming out in the anthology SAILS & SORCERY. She's written the obligatory unpublishable fantasy series (there are plans for a rejection-slip database), so is optimistically writing a paranormal stand-alone novel instead. While she is godmother to several cats, she would like it known that she does not actually keep one of her own. Take that, stereotypes! Certainly the creatures in this story are anything but stereotypical.
#
"I won't do it, I tell you!" I was mad, and I had a right to be.
Aunt Twill sighed dramatically and swished about where she sat in the lake shallows. Aunt Twill did most things dramatically. She was the naiad of the Woodle River, and it was a bit of a dramatic river, full of small but excited waterfalls.
"Unfortunately, it's your debt to pay."
I crossed my arms and glared at her.
She explained as though to a child, "Your mother was rescued from certain death by a human King. That's a great debt of honor for a fairy to endure."
"Yes, but these things are easily taken care of," I insisted. "All mamma had to do was show up at the christening of the King's firstborn and grant it something humans care about." I tried to come up with examples. "You know: bravery, beauty, boxing, beekeeping. That sort of thing."
My aunt fluttered her webbed fingers about her face in exasperation. "Yes, but your mother missed the christening and, most inconveniently, died."
I sighed. I was only a nestling when she died, so I didn't remember much. They say it had to do with a golden barbell and a frog, but it was all kept very hush-hush.
My aunt reached down and gathered a few water lilies about her. "So the princess has no fairy godmother, and you can't grow wings." She began braiding the lilies together into a chain with her magic. "An honor debt
warps wings, you know, especially in the young."
I fluttered my four stubby wings angrily. They weren't of any use to me, but I liked to flap them for effect.
"Debts carry forward to the next generation," my Aunt continued, draping the water lilies about her neck. "You owe the princess."
"But I've no working magic without working wings. Nothing to pay her back with."
"You have your Child Wishes."
I snorted. A fairy's Child Wishes had power over only one thing, usually to do with human domestic life. Evolutionarily speaking, this ensured that mankind would always find value in sheltering fairy offspring. My cousin, Effernshimerlon, could manufacture safety pins as needed. My Wishes improved baked goods. For a fairy potluck I once made banana puff cupcakes so delicious they caused a visiting earth dragon to cry. Earth dragons are fond of cupcakes. They have notorious (and very large pointy) sweet-tooths.
"What could I do with my Wishes?" I asked Aunt Twill. "Make sure the castle's bread rises perfectly for the next one hundred years? Is that sufficient payback?"
I was being facetious, but my aunt took me seriously. She bobbed about slightly in the lake water and the lily chain fell from her neck.
"No, I don't think that's enough. Not unless the castle's bread is cursed."
I raised my eyebrows at her. "What do you suggest, then? I can't be fairy godmother to the princess; she's my age, that'd just be ridiculous." I felt as though everywhere I looked there was a troll with a club pointed at me, and no troll pacifying-porridge in sight. Was there no way to pay off my mother's debt? "What do I do?"
Aunt Twill shut her damp old eyes. I could practically hear her thoughts sliding about in her head, like water over pebbles. Very slow water over very large pebbles. She opened her eyes after a long time.
"You'll have to pay it back the hard way."
"Oh yeah. What's that?"
"Old-fashioned servitude."
* * * *
I packed up and trekked west, away from the Woodle River, toward the Small Principality of Smickled-on-Twee. There lived a king who'd once rescued my mother from certain death. What else was I to do? I wanted wings. What good is a fairy without wings?
Marion Zimmer Bradley's Sword and Sorceress XXII Page 24