by Mike Ashley
The girl hesitated, then nodded firmly.
“You want to run away with him and get married and have kids, maybe start a good, sound family business, possibly in catering?”
Bianca looked bewildered, then nodded again.
“Good,” the old man said. “So grab your coat and get outa here.” He reached back and grabbed the young boy’s collar. “The two of us.”
Gino blinked, and looked at the door.
A moment ago, he could have sworn it was open and he was standing inside it. Now he was outside, holding a stack of trays.
The door opened; but it wasn’t Potter who answered. It was an elderly black woman with a nice smile, who said thank you and gave him the right money. He shrugged and walked down the stairs to the anomaly.
Something about looking after his momma?
Which was crazy; Momma wasn’t here, she was back in the kitchen where she’d always been, answering the phone, ruling the place with a rod of iron—
—Because this is Bianca’s kitchen, possibly the most extraordinary place in spacetime. From this small prefabricated industrial unit – well, indeed, skip all that. We may have been here before.
There’s Rocco and Tony, who make the bases; Freddy and Mike, who do the toppings; Carlo, who minds the ovens; Rosa and Vito and Zelda, who chop the vegetables and deal with the side-orders; Frankie, Ennio and, of course, young Gino, who do the deliveries; and there’s Momma Bianca, who takes the orders, writes out the tickets and does everything. Occasionally her eldest daughter Zelda suggests it might help if she were to take a turn answering the phone occasionally, so as to give Momma a break at her age. And Bianca says yeah, that’d be good. As soon as the rush is over.
When people ask her how she copes, Momma Bianca grins. “It’s a family business,” she says. “We manage.”
And in the far corner sits Poppa Joe, grunting and mumbling in his sleep, remembering the way things were and how they might have been.
A MALADY OF MAGICKS
Craig Shaw Gardner
Craig Shaw Gardner (b. 1949) first appeared in the magazines in 1978, and one of his earliest stories was “A Malady of Magicks”. This introduced his well-meaning sorceror’s apprentice, Wuntvor, and his master Ebenezum, who suffers from an allergy to magic. Other stories followed, which were later reworked as Gardner’s first novel, A Malady of Magicks (1986), but the original story has not been reprinted in this form. Other books in the first Ebenezum sequence are A Multitude of Monsters (1986) and A Night in the Netherhells (1987), plus the continuing Wuntvor trilogy A Difficulty with Dwarves (1987), An Excess of Enchantments (1988) and A Disagreement with Death (1989). Gardner’s other humorous fantasies include the Cineverse sequence – Slaves of the Volcano God (1989), Bride of the Slime Monster (1990) and Revenge of the Fluffy Bunnies (1990) – set in a series of alternate worlds where the very worst of B-movie sets exist as a reality, and his Arabian Nights series – The Other Sinbad (1991), A Bad Day for Ali Baba and Scheherazade’s Night Out (1992).
I
“A good magician always watches his feet. It also does no harm to be constantly aware of the nearest exit.”
—from The Teachings of Ebenezum Vol. 3
May I state now, once and for all, that I did not see the bucket.
My master, the wizard Ebenezum, was expounding at great length to a potential client concerning his abilities to sniff out sorcery wherever it might occur. He was also carefully avoiding any mention of the affliction that allowed him to do this so well.
I was crossing the room with a full load of firewood. The last of it, I might add, which we could ill afford to burn, save that, in those days and that place, the best way to attract a client was to pretend that you didn’t need one. Thus the roaring fire on a day only moderately cool. And Ebenezum, who filled the room with grand gestures while speaking smoothly from beneath his great grey beard. Like any magician worth his runes, he could easily talk a customer into enchantment before any magicks were expended. Such an expert was he in fact, that I got caught up in the conversation and did not watch my feet.
Curse that bucket anyways! Down I went, spilling firewood across the table between the wizard and his client, neatly breaking his spell.
Ebenezum turned on me with eyes full of cosmic anger, another trick he was all too good at.
“See!” the client shrieked in a high voice. “I am cursed! It follows me wherever I go!” He hugged short arms around his pudgy body.
The wizard turned back to him, anger replaced by a smile so warm it would melt the ice on Midwinter Eve. “You don’t know my apprentice,” he said softly. “Cursed, no. Clumsy, yes.”
Pudgy’s hands came back to the table. “B-but . . .”
“The only curse here is when I signed a seven-year contract for his services.” The magician smiled broadly. “I assure you, no magic is involved.”
“If you say so.” The client managed to smile. I picked myself off the bench and smiled back. Just joy and happiness all around.
“I feel I can trust you,” the client continued. “Will you look at my barn?”
“Certainly.” The magician managed to cough gently without losing his smile.
The client, who had obviously dealt with artists long enough to know what such coughs meant, reached within the blue silk sash that circled his ample waist and pulled out a small purse. It thunked most satisfyingly when he dropped it on the table.
The client shrugged. “My crops have been good . . .” He frowned. “ ’Till late.”
“They shall be good again. When shall we—”
“As soon as possible. Perhaps tomorrow, at dawn?”
The wizard’s face did not betray the slightest agony at the mention of so early an hour, a fact which conclusively proved our dire straights.
“Dawn then, good Samus,” he said. They bowed, and the gentleman farmer took his leave.
“Put out that fire,” were the wizard’s first words to me. He scratched his neck below the beard. “Interesting. Your fall shortened our negotiations considerably – yet favorably. Mayhaps there is a way we can even get your clumsiness to work for you. We’ll make a wizard of you yet!” He clapped me on the shoulder. “I have to check my scrolls. Clean up in here. We start work all too early on the morrow.”
II
“Illusions can be created in multitudinous forms, and vary in effectiveness to the degree your customer wishes to be fooled.”
—from The Teachings of Ebenezum, Vol. 12
“If my calculations be right,” Ebenzum said with a tug at his beard, “the farm should be over the next rise.”
I silently thanked all the gods, few though they were, who looked kindly on sorceror’s assistants. Ebenezum had loaded such a variety of magical paraphernalia into the pack on my back that I was near to doubled over with the weight. Only my stout oak staff kept my head from reaching my feet, and even that sturdy wood seemed to bend considerably every time I leaned against it.
Ebenezum studied my discomfort for a moment, then raised his hand in the way he does when on the verge of a great pronouncement.
“Remember, Wunt,” he said. “The total sorceror must develop both mind and body.” He waved me to follow him with an ease of motion made possible by the fact that he carried nothing at all.
We reached the top of the hill. There was the farm, laid out before us in the full colors of dawn. The light hurt my eyes.
“Come, come, good Wunt!” Ebenezum called as he started down the hill. “Granted that the hour is ungodly. Still, this is a small job at best, finished before the end of morning.” He tugged his beard again. “What could it be? Some crops trampled, a few animals loose from their pens? A minor elemental, at worst!”
The beard-fingers came free to wave in the air. “There is, of course, the matter of the dead sow. In my opinion, however, that turn of events was as much the sow’s fault as the elemental’s. In all, an easy day’s work!”
Despite my back, I must admit that it cheered m
e to see Ebenezum once again embarking on a professional errand. A few mystic passes, a quick spell, and the sprite would be on its way. Even Ebenezum should be able to manage that before his malady overtook him. And that meant money in the coffers, not to mention an opportunity to reconfirm a reputation.
There were certain malicious types in the local mystical community who claimed that Ebenezum’s wizardry was done. Just jealous of his great power, they were. Certainly, the outcome of Ebenezum’s recent battle with that major demon of the third Netherhell had had its unfortunate side. The demon had, of course, been removed. Quite possibly destroyed. But the highly charged struggle had had its effect on the wizard as well. He had emerged from his trance to discover that he had developed an aversion to all things sorcerous. In fact, any great concentration of magicks would cause Ebenezum to go into an uncontrollable fit of sneezing.
A misfortune of this type might have totally defeated a lesser mage, but not Ebenezum. He had immediately set to discovering strategies in which he might use his malady to advantage.
All thoughts of magicians and misfortunes fled from my morning-dulled head, however, when I saw the girl.
I was to discover, when we were at last introduced, that she was farmer Samus’ daughter, Alea. But what need had I for names? The vision of her alone was enough to keep me for the rest of my waking moments. Her skin was the color of young peaches plucked fresh from the tree and highlighted by the colors of dawn. Her hair took the color of sunlight breaking through the clouds after a spring rain. The rest of her? How could I possibly describe the rest of her?
“Wunt!” Ebenezum called over his shoulder. “Are you coming, or have you decided to grow roots?”
I hoisted my pack more firmly on my shoulders and hurried after him, never taking my eyes from the girl. Perhaps I might talk to her. And then, of course, there were touching, and kissing, and other activities of a similar nature.
“Ho!” Ebenezum called. I dragged my eyes away from perfection to discover he wasn’t calling me at all. Rather, he was hailing a small knot of men involved in animated discourse slightly up the road.
The group turned to look at us. There were four of them. From their drab garb, I guessed three of them to be farmers. Probably hired hands or sharecroppers for the richer Samus. Two of these were virtually identical in appearance. Short and broad, their shoulder width close to their height, they both wore caps, earth colored like the rest of their garments, pulled close to their eyes. One of them picked at his teeth with a dirty fingernail. The other absently twirled a finger about in his ear. Beside this, they were mirror images.
The third hand was thinner, taller and younger than the other two; close to my age and height. Of course, he did not carry himself with one-tenth my stature, but what can you expect of farmers? Besides this, his eyes were much too small, brown bugs darting about in his face. Altogether not a fit companion for the young lady in the nearby field.
Now that I had suitably disposed of the first three, I turned my attention to the last member of the group. He was dressed differently, even flamboyantly, his coat a riot of red and blue, his pantaloons a yellow-green. And the conical black cap that rose at an angle above his head of curly red hair carried a seal. The seal of the magician’s guild. I turned to Ebenezum.
He waved an arm clad in the much more respectable royal blue, inlaid with threads of gold, in the other’s direction. “A merchant mage,” he said, his voice heavy with distaste. “Sometimes you just can’t avoid them.”
The gaudily clad pretender to the sorcerous arts bowed low as we approached. “Greetings, fellow practitioners!” he called behind a smile that cut across the lower third of his face. “I am Glauer, master magician.”
Although the merchant stood a good two inches taller than my master, Ebenezum still managed to stare down at him. “Ebenezum,” he said, his tone quiet and clear in its authority, “and Wuntvor, his apprentice.”
“Ebenezum,” Glauer whispered, and his eyes shifted away for a minute, stunned by the presence of so great a mage. But his gaze snapped back just as quickly, his eyes filled with a cunning that brought new meaning to his merchant smile. Glauer had heard the rumors.
“I have been talking to these good citizens,” the merchant continued, his voice, if possible, even bolder and more brash than before. “They tell me that their employer is having a bit of trouble with the spirits. ’Tis probably far too small a matter for one of your eminence, but I thought I might offer my humble assistance.”
“Magician Glauer,” Ebenezum intoned in a voice so powerful that it caused the farmhands to take a few steps back from the merchant. “These are my people. They are my trust. No task is too large, nor too small, where the people of this village are concerned!”
Glauer stepped closer, his voice and expression both subdued. “I meant no disrespect, sir. We in the profession must do everything we can to help one another. I have heard of your recent misfortunes, and would like to offer my not insubstantial services. Very discreetly, of course. And for the merest portion of the fee you will receive from the grateful farmer. Come now!” He touched my master’s deep blue sleeve. “Surely you could use my services?”
“Services?” Ebenezum shook away the other man’s hand, his voice full of wizardly rage. “I can think of nothing of yours we can use. We have no need at the moment for pots or pans!”
He turned towards the others. “Now, can someone tell us where we might find Master Samus?”
The thin hand pointed. “He’ll be in the main house, beyond the barn there.”
Ebenezum nodded and strode briskly towards the main house, leaving me hard pressed to keep up. Behind us I could hear the twin laughter of teeth and the ear, and I imagined the merchant still scowled in our direction. The other man seemed not to have reacted one way or the other to the incident. Rather, the last time I glimpsed him, he had stared thoughtfully off towards the horizon.
We rounded the barn enclosure and spied the great stone house, closer to a mansion than a cottage, with a bit of a fortress thrown in for good measure. The place looked as if it had been built to withstand any discretion of man or nature. It occurred to me that there was only one power that the formidable structure was not proof against: magic.
Shutters banged open on an upper story, and Samus’ balding head appeared between two elaborately carved gargoyles. “Good! Good!” he cried. “I’ll be down immediately!”
“You must be the magicians,” a voice said behind us. A voice, which at the very least combined the sweetest notes ever sung by nightbirds with the fluid music of a forest stream. I turned to see the young woman of the field. The pack I had been removing from my back slipped and threatened to fall. Whether it was my quick move or the moisture that had suddenly appeared on my palms where I gripped the straps, I do not know, but what was apparent was the imminent breakage of many arcane and irreplaceable pieces of sorcerous equipment on the stone steps on which we stood. I tried to juggle the load back to balance, but it was beyond me. The pack fell. If not for the quick moves of Ebenezum, who worked with the speed known only to magicians and others familiar with sleight-of-hand, the box would have met stone and sure destruction.
I turned and smiled at the girl. Her look of alarm over recent events turned to a smile in return. Behind me, Ebenezum said something that I did not quite catch, save that the tone was rather harsh in the presence of one as perfect as the loveliness approaching.
“Rather a close call,” she said softly. Her lips made each word a beautiful experience.
I waved aside her concerns. “ ’Tis nothing. Are we not magicians? A wave of our hands, and the box would fall up!” A good choice of words, that. Her eyes grew wide with wonder.
I became aware of other voices. One was that of Samus. “This is Alea, my only daughter.”
“Most pleased,” said my master, and I lost the blue of her eyes for a minute as she acknowledged the mage. Fortunately, they returned to me almost immediately, and my world was whole again
.
Someone was calling my name. Repeatedly.
“Wunt!” It was Ebenezum. I nodded vaguely in his direction. “Master Samus is taking me on an inspection of his lands, so that I might see the affected areas for myself. If you could manage it, I would like you to set up our equipment just inside the barn.”
“The barn?” I said, unable to take my eyes away from Alea. “Very good.”
“Yes, the barn! This very minute!”
That broke the spell for a second. I glanced at my master (avoiding the eyes) and grabbed my pack and staff.
“Would you like me to show you the way?” Alea said. Her hand brushed against mine, cool and light.
I smiled and nodded and we walked the twenty paces to the livestock enclosure.
A graceful finger pointed to one of the pens. “That’s where the hog was killed. We found him dead one dawn, wedged between two fence slats.” I nodded, savoring every word. Each of her inflections was like a minstrel song.
We walked in silence for a minute. “How do you find farm life?” I said, mostly to hear her voice again.
The corners of Alea’s mouth turned down, bringing a charming wistfulness to her face. “Mosttimes, dull,” she said. “Life is slow out here; full of chores and the same old faces. It is not one tenth so interesting, I am sure, as your exciting life in the village.”
I shrugged. “I suppose so. Still, you have the open air and the friendship of the others working on the farm, don’t you?”
“Ah, Wuntvor, there are some things that the air cannot give you. As to the others, all Father ever thinks of is money. Two of our hands. Frinak and Franik, they’re brothers, you know, they’re nice, but – frankly – they’re rather simple. And as to the other hand . . .” She sighed.