by Rick Cook
The dragon drew his brows together in a mighty frown. He stuck his forked tongue between his ivory fangs and let it loll out one side of his mouth. He cocked his head nearly upside down to get a better view of the characters.
Whistling tunelessly, Wiz strolled over to the wall and picked up the pruning hook. He ran his thumb along the edge nonchalantly and hefted it experimentally.
"You’re forfeit, you know," Wiz said, turning back to the dragon.
"Time," Griswold said desperately. "Give me more time!"
Wiz had never seen a dragon sweat before. He decided it was an interesting effect.
"Can’t you solve it?"
"Of course I can solve it," Griswold said pettishly. "I just need a little more time." His voice rose to a whine inside Wiz’s head. "The rules didn’t say anything about a time limit."
"Very well." Wiz laid the pruning hook aside and gestured magnanimously. "I will give you until the Moon is full again to solve the riddle. Now go."
Griswold sagged with relief. "Thank you," he practically blubbered. Then he hesitated and looked back at the humans huddled behind him. "Uh, I don’t suppose… just one… for a snack, you know?"
"GO!" Wiz roared, reaching for the pruning hook. Muttering to himself, the dragon leapt into the sky.
"Whhhoooooo," Wiz breathed and collapsed against the wall, using the pruning hook for a cane. He was immediately engulfed by the hysterically grateful Baggots, all of whom were laughing, crying and hugging him simultaneously. Since the entire family apparently enjoyed garlic as much as they disdained bathing, and since their idea of a thankful hug could snap the spine of an ox, Wiz was less appreciative than he might have been. In fact, by the time he got out the farmyard gate he was limping and holding his ribs.
Seven: Settling In
Always live better than your clients.
The Consultants’ Handbook
News travels fast. The mayor and council hadn’t been at the Baggot Place, but they knew all about it by the time Wiz and Malkin made their way back to town. They were gathered inside the gate in a tight cluster when the pair strode back through.
While the town guard held back the common folk, the mayor and councilors pressed forward, eager to be associated with their new hero.
There seemed to be twice as many councilors as there had been in the jail. A couple seemed to be in open-mouthed awe of him. Most of the others looked gravely pleased. A minority eyed him speculatively, like a group of cats trying to decide what they could do with a new and rather strange baby bird which had just dropped into their midst. With a sinking feeling Wiz realized he wasn’t out of the woods yet.
"Well, Wizard, it seems we owe you a debt of gratitude," the mayor said, loudly enough to be sure the crowd heard him.
"All part of a consultant’s job," Wiz said airily and equally loudly. "We exist to solve our clients’ problems."
"Well, you’ve made a very good start," said one of the councilors, a handsome silver-haired man with an air of smooth sincerity.
"Almost too good," came a voice from the crowd. "Like it was planned."
"Of course it was planned," Wiz lied glibly. "You don’t think even a consultant would face a dragon without a plan, do you?"
"Some folks," Malkin put in, "don’t even plan where their next pot of ale is coming from." She turned to face the heckler. "Do they, Commer?"
The crowd laughed and that was the end of it.
"Now as I was saying," Mayor Hendrick went on, "let me be the first to welcome you to our city."
"On behalf of the council," a small, overdressed councilor with a fringe of dark curly hair added sharply.
The mayor looked annoyed. "On behalf of myself as mayor and the council," he amended.
"Thank you," Wiz said. "I’m sure this will be the beginning of a very productive relationship." Push it when you’re hot. "Oh, and I’ll need living quarters for my assistant and myself."
"We have just the place." Mayor Hendrick beamed. "A fine old house in the very center of town. In fact we will give it to you!" One or two of the councilors nodded enthusiastically and a couple of others looked smug.
"Very generous of you," Wiz said smoothly. Actually he was more puzzled than gratified. The mayor didn’t seem like the sort to be impressed by the morning’s activities, much less the kind who’d be moved to sudden acts of generosity. Still…
The mayor beckoned and a large, tough-looking man dressed mostly in black stepped forward.
"This is Sheriff Beorn Beornsdorf," Mayor Hendrick said. "He will show you to your new home."
Wiz smiled and acknowledged his recent captor with a nod. The sheriff’s neck bent a fraction of an inch in reply but he still looked like he was wishing Wiz and Malkin back into jail.
Wiz looked over at Malkin and jerked his head toward the mayor.
Malkin strolled over, still looking back at Wiz, and walked right into Mayor Hastlebone. She bounced off his ample stomach, apologized profusely, brushing off the front and shoulders of his tunic while she did so.
"Dust speck," Malkin said and stepped away to join Wiz. The mayor eyed her oddly then looked down and seemed to realize his chain of office was back around his neck. He frowned, opened his mouth, then shut it firmly.
The house turned out to be a substantial structure of the town’s usual stone-and-timber construction just off one of the town’s smaller squares. It was narrow but at least four stories high, with a front right on the street and a small, neglected garden in the back.
The garden wasn’t the only thing neglected. As they stood on the stoop Wiz could see that the windows were dirty and laced with cobwebs on the inside. There were streaks of rust running down from the door hinges and the brass lock plate was green with corrosion. Even with the door unlocked, Wiz had to put his shoulder to it to force it open. The unoiled hinges creaked and screamed like damned souls as the door swung to.
The hall inside was equally bad, musty smelling and deep in dust and cobwebs. There were doors opening off to either side and a large staircase leading up. Past the stairs was another door that probably led to the kitchen.
Wiz sniffed the stale air. It obviously hadn’t been opened in a while but he didn’t detect the odor of damp or rot. "This place doesn’t look like anyone’s been here in years."
"Not in two years," Malkin told him. "Not since Widder Hackett died."
"Still," Wiz said as he looked around, "it seems like a nice place. I can’t imagine why anyone would leave a house like this empty. In the middle of town and all."
Malkin shrugged. "She didn’t leave any kin. Besides, it’s supposed to be haunted."
"Haunted," Wiz said faintly.
"Probably just rats running around the place."
"Rats," Wiz echoed more faintly.
Malkin considered. "But you never can tell. Old Lady Hackett was a sour sort and that’s a fact. If she could come back and haunt the place, like as not she would." She paused. "Maybe she could, too, seeing as how she was a witch and all."
"A witch," Wiz echoed more faintly yet.
"But don’t you worry," Malkin finished brightly, "it’s probably just rats."
Wiz decided rats were definitely his first choice. "Well anyway, it’s home for now so we’ll have to get this place cleaned up."
Malkin looked around. "Take a heap of cleaning."
"Oh, I don’t know. Sweep it out, scrub down the worst of it and it will be fine. Heck, it’ll be a hundred percent better if you just scrub the grime off the windows."
"I don’t do windows," Malkin said haughtily.
"I had a 386 system like that once."
She looked at him oddly.
"Okay, I’ll do the windows. But we’ll need a broom and some rags and stuff."
"I can get those at the market."
"Just be sure you pay for them."
Malkin’s face fell. "Where’s the fun in that?"
Before Wiz could answer there was a sharp knock at the door. Tugging it open, he found himself face-to-fa
ce with an overdressed, balding little man who looked vaguely familiar.
"I need to talk to you, Wizard," the man snapped. He glared at Malkin. "Alone."
Malkin, who apparently knew him, glared back. "I’ll get the stuff," she said to Wiz over the top of the visitor’s head. "You and Shorty here have a nice chat." With that she swept out the still-open door, leaving the little man purpling in her wake.
"Jailbird bitch should have gone to The Rock long ago," the man said as Wiz thrust the door closed on its still-protesting hinges. "But who you choose to associate with is your business. We’ve got other matters to discuss."
"What can I do for you Mr…?"
"Councilor," the man corrected. "I’m Councilor Dieter Hanwassel and I’m someone to be reckoned with around here."
Wiz looked more closely and saw the man was indeed wearing the heavy gold chain of a city councilman over his elaborately brocaded black-and-silver robe. Where he wasn’t going bald Dieter had dark curly hair that fluffed out from his head. Since he was bald from his forehead to the back of his cranium, he looked like he had just had a nasty accident with a lawn mower. The whole effect was comic-until you saw the jut of the jaw, the lips pressed into a tight line and the glitter in his dark eyes. He reminded Wiz of an excited terrier in a too-fancy collar. A terrier who was aching to take a bite out of someone.
"Ah yes, Councilor, I believe we met this morning."
Dieter jerked a nod. "We did. And now that the rest of those ninnies aren’t around we can talk seriously."
Wiz put on his blandest expression and nodded. One thing consultants never had to search for was the political factions in an organization. Sooner or later they came searching for you. Usually sooner.
"I’m sorry I can’t offer you a seat," Wiz said, "but you see-"
Dieter cut him off. "What you can offer me is your support, since just now you seem to have the council’s favor." He eyed Wiz. "I’m a plain man, Wizard, and plain-spoken. We can do a lot together, you and I. And I can do a lot for you."
"You mean you can help me with dragons?"
"Dragons," the councilor snorted. "What do I care about dragons? I’m a practical man and we both know there’s nothing you can do about them, eh? No, what I’m interested in is revenues. Do you realize this city hasn’t had a revenue increase in near a generation? There’s all sort of projects, wonderful projects, just stalled because there’s no revenue. Why, there’s streets, and fountains, and bridges. All just crying out to be built. And they’ve gone crying for years because of lack of revenues."
"What do you expect me to do about that? I’m an expert on dragons."
Dieter waved that away. "Tell them you need more money to fight the dragons, that’s what. They already agreed to pay you a tenth of the city’s revenues. Tell them you need more, and now."
"They’ll only pay me if-when-I succeed."
"And you know what they’ll do to you if you don’t succeed, eh?" The Councilman leaned close and glared up at Wiz. "Well, let me tell you, you won’t succeed without my help. I have weight on the council and me and my followers, we want those revenues increased."
Wiz wondered how much of those revenues would wind up in the pockets of the councilor and his cronies. Considering what the guy was like he decided a better question would be how much of the money would make it past those pockets.
"Now, I’m not a greedy man, Wizard," Dieter continued in what was obviously supposed to be a placating tone. "When the money flows there’ll be help for those as helped us. Sort of finder’s fees, you might say."
"It certainly sounds like a worthwhile program. What seems to be the obstacle?"
"The mayor’s the obstacle, him and that Rolf who’s behind him. All they ever do is cry about ’tax burdens’ and ’fiscal responsibility.’ " The little man snorted. " ’Fiscal responsibility.’ What about our responsibility to them as support us I’d like to know?"
Wiz nodded. "It sounds as if you have a very strong case. I can assure you I’ll give the matter serious consideration."
"You’ll give the matter more than that if you want to stay off The Rock," Dieter said. "I’ll be watching you, Wizard. And I’m a man who remembers his enemies as well as his friends."
After his visitor left Wiz spent the next several minutes working the front door back and forth to free up the rusted hinges. The hinges squeaked and groaned in protest and that suited his mood perfectly.
"The runt leave?" Malkin asked when she breezed back in a bit later, her arms loaded with cleaning supplies.
"He’s gone. Did you pay for all this stuff?"
"Charged it to the council," she said, dropping everything in the middle of the hall. "Someone will be around later with bedding and stuff. What did the little rat want anyway?"
"My help in raising taxes."
"Figures. Of the whole money-gouging lot Dieter’s about the worst." She paused and considered. "Well, anyways the most obnoxious."
"That’s a problem for another day," Wiz said as he stooped to pick up a broom. As he stood back up he saw the flash of gold in Malkin’s hand. "What’s that?"
"Oh, something I picked up in the market," she said breezily, holding up an ornate gold ring with a big green stone. "Do you like it?"
"I thought I told you not to steal anything."
"You told me to pay for the cleaning stuff. And I did-leastways I charged it all legal-like. But this," she said, popping the ring down her bodice, "isn’t cleaning stuff."
Tomorrow, Wiz told himself. I’ll worry about this tomorrow. "Come on, let’s try to make this place habitable."
Malkin turned out to be a surprisingly hard worker. She obviously didn’t know much more about house cleaning than Wiz did, but she went at it with a will and before long dust was flying in all directions. In a little less than two hours they had the front hall and two of the upstairs bedrooms more or less clean.
"Woof! You don’t have any spell to clean this place, do you?" Malkin said as she plopped down on the stair beside Wiz to take a break.
"Not really. Well, I do know one, but it takes everything out of the room." And sends it off in all directions with roughly the velocity of machine gun bullets. He remembered the time in the ruined City of Night when he and the others had hacked the spell together to move rubble and how they’d ended up cowering in the dirt from the resulting barrage of missiles. That reminded him of Jerry, Danny and most of all Moira, and sent a pang through him.
"You all right?" Malkin asked, catching his mood.
"Yeah, I’m fine." He focused his attention on her. "Tell me about this widow who used to live here."
"Widder Hackett?" Malkin chuckled. "She was a salty one, even for a witch. She had a tongue, that one. If you so much as sat down on her stoop she’d come flying out waving a broom and chase you off. Always complaining about dirt and such, she was." The girl looked around the house and shook her head. "What she’d think if she could see this place now! We could clean and polish until the end of time and we’d never get it back to what it was."
"I’ll settle for getting it to where it’s habitable," Wiz said. "Let’s do some more on the upstairs and then knock off for dinner."
"Let’s knock off for dinner and then do some more upstairs," Malkin countered. "It’s near evening and I haven’t eaten today."
"Now that you mention it…"
Malkin looked at him. "Well?" she said finally.
"Well what?"
"Well aren’t you going to magic us up food?"
"I’m not very good at that-unless the kitchen’s got a microwave?"
Malkin snorted. "Fine wizard you are. I don’t suppose you can cook either."
"I do all right," Wiz said defensively.
Malkin snorted again. "I know what that means, coming from a man. Look here then, I’ll go back to the market and get a few things-charge a few things," she amended hastily before Wiz could say anything, "and I’ll cook tonight. I don’t want food poisoning on top of everything else today.
But tomorrow you do the cooking. Now help me get this miserable door open so I can get back to the miserable market before the last of the miserable stalls closes."
With Malkin’s help he tugged the door open again and he watched her as she disappeared down the street. Then he leaned against the door and pushed it to again as the hinges protested like souls in mortal agony.
The door, Wiz thought. I’ve got to do something about that damned door.
Wiz went down the worn stone steps into the kitchen. It had to be the kitchen, he decided, because private houses don’t usually come equipped with torture chambers.
It was a high, narrow room in what he would have thought of as the basement of the house. A couple of thin barred windows high up lit the place dimly. The walls and floors were dank stone and the ceiling was rough beams and planks. There was a huge fireplace with a wicked-looking collection of iron hooks and chains hanging under the mantel, plus a contraption of iron spikes and gears and yet more chains off to one side that he vaguely recognized as some kind of spit for roasting meat. There was a stone sink in the opposite wall and in the center of the room a heavy wooden table with a rack full of hooks above it.
Gee, he thought, clean this place up, light a fire in the fireplace, put some flowers here and there, I’ll bet you could brighten it up to, oh, say, dismal.
Among the pile of supplies Malkin had purchased was a small bottle of oil. Wiz took the oil back upstairs to the door and poured some on the hinges as best he could from the inside. Then he tugged the door open to get them from the outside.
He barely had the door open six inches when a furry gray streak shot through and dashed between his legs.
"Hey!" Wiz yelled, but the streak ignored him. It was halfway up the stairs before it stopped and resolved itself into a cat.
It was a rather bedraggled and quite large cat. A tiger-striped tabby cat, Wiz thought, dredging the terms out of his subconscious. A tiger-striped tabby tomcat, he amended as the cat turned its backside toward him.
The cat sat in the middle of the stairs and looked back over its right shoulder at Wiz.