by Mike Ashley
The wizard laughed. “Such spirit! Anyone would think you had the means with which to back up your insolence. Unfortunately for you, we both know that is not the case, do we not? No, I fear you must continue to savor your richly deserved punishment yet a while longer. For your pluck, though, I shall grant you a boon.”
“Save it,” Clever Rolf said.
“No, no, I insist – and who are you to say me nay?” Mebodes chuckled, a sound that made Clever Rolf want to hide. “Here is my boon: I grant it to you to know your end. You shall recognize the envenomed fly that bears your doom by its eyes, which shall be golden as my own, to remind me of you in your final moments.”
The wizard stalked away, lifting his trousers to keep the muck in Argentan’s dirt streets from soiling them.
Clever Rolf did not bother following him. All he had to be thankful for was that it was early, and no one had seen him cringing. His head hung; he muttered hopeless curses under his breath as he tramped past the Blue Fox.
An apple tree stood outside the tavern, its fragrant blossoms opening as the sun began to climb in the sky. Bees happily buzzed round the flowers. Or they did until Clever Rolf came by – then the buzz turned furious. As though they were so many hawks, they dove on the scribe.
He shrieked when the first one stung him. Ice ran up his back as he heard the rising, angry drone. Without conscious thought, he jumped through the Blue Fox’s doorway.
The hour being so early – for everyone save Clever Rolf and, worse luck for him, the bees – the tavern was almost deserted. One old soak sat blearily at a table, nursing the mug of thin, sour beer to which Herul staked him every day until he cadged enough coins for a stronger fare. And Herul himself, an immensely fat man – fatter than Clever Rolf – with a black beard that reached what had once been his waist, but now might be called his equator, stood by the fire, stirring a pot of porridge. It was thick, strong stuff, and bubbled merrily as Herul dragged his long-handled spoon through it.
“Get out from there, Rolf, you whoreson!” he roared as Clever Rolf dove behind the bar. Save for a yip as a bee stung him on the forehead, the scribe did not answer. He grabbed a dipper, plunged it into the cask of mead that sat between red wine and porter, and sloshed a great sticky puddle of fermented honey over the polished top of the bar.
Herul roared again, louder this time. “Out, out, you dizzard, you loon, you crackbrained jobbernowl, and never come back! I’ll make my own reckonings of profit from now on – you, you’re a dead loss.”
“Oh, put a cork in it, suet-chops,” Clever Rolf said with dignity. His stings throbbed, but he was not getting any more of them. Next to the perfume of mead, Mebodes’ magic was magic no more. The bees droned down to the puddle one by one. A couple flew away, weaving slightly from the potent brew. The rest stayed to gorge themselves. Clever Rolf crushed them all with a big skillet, then set to work digging the stings out of his flesh.
Herul bore down on him, fist clenched on the long-handled spoon. He realized he was brandishing it like a club, slowly lowered it. His eyes went back and forth from Clever Rolf to the smashed bees.
“Here.” The scribe dropped a coin on the bar next to the puddle. “This should cover a dipper of mead. I always thought it was vile stuff, but it came in handy today.” Leaving Herul and his solitary customer staring after him, he strolled out of the Blue Fox.
Though one eye was puffed shut, he was whistling as he reached the baron’s keep. The half-victory his quick wits had won him gave him back his hope; maybe he could find some way to save his hide (however punctured) from Mebodes after all.
He did not, unfortunately, have any idea of what that way might be.
Bardulf was brusquely sympathetic to his lumps and bumps. “I got stung myself, a couple of years ago,” the baron remarked. “Bees are nasty things.”
“Yes, sir,” Clever Rolf said. He hurried up the spiral stair to the castle’s record room. Dust puffed under his feet as he made his way to the accounts – but for him, few people came here.
The parchment account-scrolls smelled of old dust. As a scribe, Clever Rolf found the odor as comfortable as the old shoes he wore. It was doubly welcome today: no risk that musty smell would draw any stinging bees, he thought. He bent above the scroll, frowning when he saw how much the baron had spent for horse leeching.
A silverfish scuttled over the parchment. One day, Clever Rolf thought, all of Bardulf’s records would be bug turds, and a good thing, too. But this insect moved with malignant purpose. It darted onto Clever Rolf’s hand, then scurried up his arm inside the sleeve of his tunic.
The scribe gave a stifled scream and swatted frantically. The silverfish might have been dipped in liquid fire. It drew a line of agony behind it everywhere it ran. Clever Rolf sprang up from the table, ripped the tunic off over his head. The silverfish was in the matted hair on his belly. Sobbing, he knocked it to the floor and stepped on it. Wherever it had touched him, his skin was an angry red. The pain remained fresh when he went home that evening.
He faced supper with a certain amount of dread, but Mebodes did not disturb his meal. But when he and Viviane went to bed, a horde of ants emerged from the mattress ticking and crawled all over them like an animated brown carpet. Naked but for ants, Clever Rolf and Viviane ran for the creek and plunged in, scrubbing at their hair and digging the insects out of their ears and noses.
When they looked up, Mebodes stood at the stream bank, a glow of pleasure in his terrible eyes. He bowed mockingly toward Viviane. “Only fair you should have your share of enjoyment, too, my dear.” Then to Clever Rolf again: “Not long now before the fly.” He gestured, as if to make a sorcerous pass. Both his victims ducked under the water. When they raised their heads again, he was gone.
Viviane shivered, half from the chill of the creek, half from fury. “Ohhh!” she said, a long syllable of rage. “He is such a wicked man! Even the other wizards hate him.”
“And I don’t blame them—” Clever Rolf stopped in amazement. He stared at her with something closer to real affection than he had shown her for a long time.
“Let go of me!” she exclaimed a moment later. “Stop that, you shameless lecher! Stop it, I say – or at least let’s get out on the grass. Let’s— mmglmph!”
Clever Rolf was not listening anymore.
When he got an idea, he seized the bit in his teeth and ran away with it. He set out that very night, leaving a rolled-up blanket in bed in the hope that Mebodes might think he was still at home. He even left his mule behind and went by shanks’ mare. By the time the sun came up, he was halfway to Estreby, which was a larger town than Argentan and boasted a wizard in residence.
Clever Rolf was footsore and yawning by the time he found the wizard’s establishment on a side street between a farrier and an apothecary. The sign simply said “Rigord”. Either one knew who he was, or not.
Rigord proved to be a tall, sleepy-looking fellow in his forties; his chamber was dustier than Bardulf’s record room. He was not, however, lightly befooled. When Clever Rolf tried to present a circumspect version of his difficulties, the wizard drawled, “Ah yes, heard about you: the fellow who diddled Mebodes. Wants his own back now, does he?”
“Well— yes,” Clever Rolf admitted.
Without haste, Rigord got up and dug out an astrological tome and an abacus. He cast a quick horoscope, flicking beads back and forth and muttering to himself as he calculated. At last, when Clever Rolf was quivering with anxiety, he said, “I can help, I reckon. Mebodes is strong, but so full of his affairs that he leaves himself vulnerable to magic. Now” – and Rigord’s sleepiness fell away – “what’s it worth to you?”
Clever Rolf had been waiting for that question, but not so soon. “Ah— three silver marks.”
“This is your life we’re speaking of,” Rigord reminded him scornfully.
“Very well, then – a whole gold piece. I am not a rich man.”
“No?” Rigord leaned forward. “What about the treasure you stol
e from Mebodes along with your leman?”
Clever Rolf quailed. “You know too much. I’ll pay you six marks.”
“I want the treasure – all of it.”
“Would you beggar me? I’ll give you two gold pieces, or even two and a mark.”
“The treasure.” Implacable, Rigord folded his arms and waited.
“I’ve spent some of it,” the scribe said miserably.
“How much? The truth – I will know if you lie.” The wizard made a quick pass.
“Maybe a quarter.”
“The balance will do nicely – if, of course, you truly want my aid.”
Clever Rolf yielded; as Rigord knew, he had to yield. “All right,” he said, very low, the picture of a beaten man.
They dickered over terms after that; the scribe did not want to pay before Mebodes was driven off. At last he agreed to let Rigord lay a geas on him, compelling him to fetch the treasure once the magician had met his half of the bargain. The spell was quickly and competently cast. Clever Rolf’s mercurial hopes began to revive; Rigord knew what he was about. He might well prove a match for Mebodes.
And deep inside, where it did not show, the scribe was chortling. Mebodes’ treasure was largely brass, worth a mark and a half at the outside. Rigord would have done better for himself had he been a less steely haggler. That, however, Clever Rolf thought, was Rigord’s problem.
When they went back to Argentan, Rigord rode a mule while Clever Rolf walked once more. The wizard’s beast had as lackadaisical a disposition as that which he affected, so the scribe, sore feet and all, had no trouble keeping up.
It was almost evening when Rigord’s nostrils started twitching; he and Clever Rolf were still a mile or so outside Argentan. The scribe sniffed, too. “Night-blooming jasmine,” he said. “We have some of the finest in the duchy.”
“Quiet, fool.” As it did at need, Rigord’s laziness disappeared. “It’s the reek of evil sorcery I smell.” He paused, considering. “Aye, likely Mebodes. The spells have an eastern flavor to them.”
“Spells?” Clever Rolf’s fears flooded back. “Are they done?” If they were, he was likely doomed no matter what Rigord did.
The wizard extracted a packet of whitish powder from his robe, poured a little into the palm of one hand. He mumbled an incantation, moving his other hand in small, jerky passes. Then he spat into the powder. It bubbled and turned a faint pink. “Close, but not quite,” he told the anxiously waiting scribe. “Were it red, you could visit the undertaker now and save yourself the wait.”
“Heh, heh,” Clever Rolf said in hollow tones. “By the gods, then, find him and deal with him before it’s too late.” He had an inspiration. “If you don’t, you’ll never see his treasure, you know.”
That seemed to stir Rigord. He sniffed again, worked a quick divination with a green twig. It hung suspended in the air. “That way,” he said, squinting along it. He repeated the divination several times as they got into town. Night had fallen by then; hardly anyone was in the street to ask questions.
At last the floating twig pointed squarely at a two-story building bigger and finer than most. “He’s in there,” Rigord said decisively. “On the second floor, by the angle of things, behind that window there – here now, you idiot, what’s so funny?”
“Angle of things, forsooth.” Clever Rolf had to fight back hysterical laughter. “It’s the town bawdy house.”
“Is it indeed? So much the better; if Mebodes is with one of the wenches, he’ll hardly be minding his wardspells. Like as not, this is what I saw back in my study.”
“ ‘Affairs’, eh? So that’s what you meant. Well, all right – now nail the bastard.”
“Hush,” Rigord said absently. He had lit a small lamp and was heating several strong-smelling potions and liquids over it. Then he poured them one after the other into a small, deep silver bowl. A puff of pungent steam rose from it. Clever Rolf sneezed.
“Hush,” Rigord said again. He was chanting now, in Iverian dialect so thick Clever Rolf could hardly follow it. The hair rose on the back of the scribe’s neck; he could feel the magical force Rigord was concentrating in that bowl.
The wizard’s voice went harsh and deep: “Fiery spirit of the void, I summon thee! Come forth, O salamander; come forth, come forth!” A sphere of coruscating flame rose from the silver bowl. It threw sparks – red, gold, white – into the night. Clever Rolf’s mouth fell open in awe.
At Rigord’s urging, the salamander slowly floated toward the sporting house. It drifted in through the open second-story window. After a moment of silence, twin screams rang out, one soprano and frightened, the other a baritone roar of outrage that changed in mid-cry to a howl of pain.
“You did it! You did it!” Clever Rolf cried. Exhaustion forgotten, he capered about, hugging himself with glee. “I hope your fireball roasts him like a capon!”
“Then you’ll likely be disappointed,” Rigord said. “Wizards aren’t that easy to kill. But you should be rid of him for a while.”
As if to prove him right, Mebodes came diving out of the window by which the salamander had entered. He was a sadly different sorcerer from the one who had terrorized Clever Rolf. Landing in the muddy street with a bone-jarring thump, he got to his feet and ran, the salamander in hot – in both the literal and figurative senses of the word – pursuit. Mebodes would have fled faster had he not had to reach down every couple of strides to haul up his unbuttoned breeches. Each time he did, the salamander scorched his bare backside.
Aila appeared at the window through which Mebodes had crashed. “Serves you right,” she shouted at him as he vanished into the night. Then she looked down toward Clever Rolf, who was still cheering in the street below. When she recognized him, she said, “Come on up. You can have this one free, for ridding me of that scoundrel.” As she was wearing her working clothes – which is to say, nothing much – the invitation’s appeal was immediate and urgent.
“Remember the geas,” Rigord called to Clever Rolf, but the scribe’s hearing could be very selective when he chose.
Afterward, in the comfort of a well-warmed bed, he gave Aila the whole story (though Viviane, had she heard, would have been furious at how small her role was). Aila giggled when he told how he had used Rigord’s covetousness against him. “These wizards, they’re not so much,” he said grandly.
The candle by the bed lured moths and other insects into the little chamber. For the first time in days, Clever Rolf listened to their flutterings and dronings without a sense of panic. Then one buzzed down to settle on his arm. Aila’s face twisted with fear. “Rolf,” she quavered, “look at its eyes! That’s— that’s Mebodes’ fly!”
The scribe reached out with a thumb and killed the insect, whose eyes were indeed golden like the wizard’s.
Aila stared. “How could you—?”
“Nothing simpler, my sweet.” He showed her the dead fly; it had no mouthparts. “For one thing, Rigord told me his spell wasn’t finished. But I didn’t need Rigord to know that. After all” – he leered at her, his sense of his own quick wit at last completely restored – “didn’t you just watch Mebodes running away down the street with his fly undone?”
THE RETURN OF MAD SANTA
Al Sarrantonio
Al Sarrantonio (b. 1952) has been selling fiction since 1978, and is best known for his horror fiction, including the novels Totentanz (1985), The Boy With Penny Eyes (1987) and October (1990), although his most recent work is a massive science-fiction trilogy, The Five Worlds. His short fiction has appeared in many anthologies, but his humorous stories are less well known. This story sold itself to me on the title alone when I first encountered it in 1981. See what you make of it.
The whole mess began on the afternoon of Christmas Eve. I was in the sleigh shed talking with Shmitzy, my chief mechanic, about some minor problems he’d been having with the front runners of the sleigh. Shmitzy’s a little guy – about two-and-a-half feet tall, a good foot shorter than me – a solid, rel
iable elf with a grease-stained beard. The sleigh sat polished and clean in the center of the room, and Shmitzy was leaning against it with his arms folded, throwing unintelligible technical terms at me. I’d just gotten him to tell me in English what the heck was wrong with the sleigh when the doors to the shed burst open and Santa Claus bounded into the room.
“Gustav! Shmitzy!” Santa boomed. “How are my favorite helpers?” He was fat and pink, his beard fluffed, his eyes twinkling. He leaned over, patted our backs playfully, and brought his rosy cheeks down close to our faces.
I gave him the thumbs-up sign and rapped my knuckles on the side of the sleigh. “A-okay, Santa. Everything’s right on schedule, and Shmitzy tells me he’ll have this boat ready to roll by tonight.”
“Good, boys! Good!” Santa threw back his head and gave us a hearty “Ho ho ho!” I was sick of that laugh – it usually started to get to me around this time of year, though I have to admit I’d have walked off a cliff for Santa, annoying laugh or no – but I gave him a big smile anyway. He patted us gently again.
“See you later, boys! I just came by to see how things were coming along. I’m supposed to be helping Momma with her baking for dinner tonight.” His eyes sparkled. “Special cakes for everybody! Ho ho ho!”
I winced, then quickly gave him a grin and the thumbs-up sign as he turned to leave.
And then a strange thing happened. He was halfway out the door when he suddenly froze in mid-step. He stood locked like that for a few seconds. Then, just as suddenly, he unfroze. He turned back to us with a strange, confused look on his face.
“Boys,” he said. But then he shrugged. “Oh, never mind. It was nothing.” He turned and took another step.
Again he froze. Shmitzy and I started toward him to see if he was all right. All of a sudden, he gave an ear-piercing roar and spun around, plucking Shmitzy up off the floor beside me and tossing him through the air. Shmitzy gave a yell and sailed like a shotput about thirty feet, hitting the floor in the corner of the shed with a groan.