Misspelled

by Julie E. Czerneda

‘‘Do we know which covens met under the new moon?’’

  ‘‘I’ve that very information . . .’’ Frank sorted through his notes strewn about his desk. ‘‘Aha!’’ he cried triumphantly, producing a piece of paper covered in his neat, precise script. He ran his eyes down the page and stopped with a quizzically raised eyebrow. Wordlessly, he passed me the sheet.

  I inspected the list, coming to a similar stop, noticing without a doubt the object of Frank’s curiosity.

  ‘‘James Ravenstar?’’ I asked.

  ‘‘Son of the Chancellor of the Council of Mages. How interesting.’’

  ‘‘The viceroy.’’

  ‘‘I beg your pardon?’’

  ‘‘The Viceroy of the Council of Mages. He visited the captain the morning after that first report from Constable Smithton. Politics, remember?’’

  ‘‘A coincidence?’’

  ‘‘Not bloody likely. We’ll need to talk to him.’’

  ‘‘Never get it past the captain, old boy.’’

  ‘‘We’ll see about that.’’

  Polly wasn’t nearly as high and mighty this time around, not with inquiries and complaints from all directions coming to her desk at all hours. The captain was in but unavailable to callers. I didn’t let that stop us, and an hour later I emerged with the necessary warrant. The captain’s warrant got us inside the viceroy’s Manor and an audience with the viceroy himself.

  ‘‘How might I assist the constabulary?’’ Viceroy Dupuis asked, ushering us into a private drawing room.

  ‘‘As I’m sure you’re aware, Viceroy, my partner Inspector Nightingale and I are investigating a rather unusual number of spell failures.’’

  We’d agreed that Frank would do the talking since my back tended to get up when dealing with the upper classes.

  ‘‘Are you indeed?’’

  ‘‘Indeed we are, Viceroy. Ever since the new moon, we’ve been receiving reports of spells that simply failed to work as they ought. We are currently working on the assumption that some sort of magical disease is spreading through the community of Practitioners and their associates.’’

  ‘‘How so?’’

  ‘‘We thought you might have some information on the matter,’’ I said, just as the maid arrived with the tea. We busied ourselves with the pleasantries—Milk? Sugar? Lemon?—and then, once we’d had the first sip etiquette demanded, I repeated my inquiry.

  ‘‘I can’t imagine why you’d think I had anything to do with this matter.’’

  ‘‘Do forgive my partner, Viceroy,’’ Frank said smoothly. ‘‘He didn’t mean to imply that at all, did you, Nightingale?’’

  ‘‘Indeed not, sir. Merely asking for your opinions, sir, an educated man such as yourself.’’

  ‘‘I see. Very well.’’

  ‘‘Have you any opinions or theories, Viceroy?’’ Frank asked.

  ‘‘Why is it you assume this is some sort of disease?’’

  ‘‘The way the spell failures are spreading, Viceroy. It reminded us of the plague, spreading from afflicted to associate and so on. We attempted to ascertain the originator, but the names are too many.’’

  ‘‘Perhaps, then, you ought to consider there may be more than one originator.’’

  ‘‘How so, Viceroy?’’

  ‘‘How much do you know about covens, Inspector?’’

  ‘‘The constabulary’s courses are quite thorough, Viceroy.’’

  ‘‘Quite so. Covens are convened by like-minded Practitioners seeking to amplify their own powers by working toward a common goal, correct?’’

  ‘‘So we are taught, Viceroy.’’

  ‘‘And you say the trail to the originator leads to too many names for a clear pattern to emerge?’’

  ‘‘Exactly so, sir.’’

  ‘‘Then perhaps the originator is not a single person but rather a coven. These failures have been occurring since the new moon, you said?’’

  ‘‘That’s correct, Viceroy.’’

  ‘‘Then perhaps you ought to examine the covens that met under the new moon.’’

  ‘‘As it happens, I’ve a list of those,’’ I said, pulling out my notebook and flipping through the pages. ‘‘Compiled when we were working under the assumption that there might be something sinister afoot. I don’t suppose you’d care to have a look at the list, sir?’’

  ‘‘If you feel it might be of assistance, Inspector.’’

  I handed him my notebook, open to the page I intended. His eyes glanced down the page for a brief moment, then back up at me.

  ‘‘These are some rather prominent covens,’’ he said, ‘‘with members of high standing.’’

  ‘‘Yes, sir, they are. Small chance of keeping the investigation discreet should we have to interrogate all these Practitioners of high standing, sir.’’

  ‘‘Interrogate, Inspector?’’

  ‘‘Sorry, sir. I meant interview, of course.’’

  ‘‘We understand that some of those covens include council members, Viceroy,’’ Frank said.

  ‘‘Do they indeed?’’

  ‘‘Indeed they do, sir,’’ I answered. He knew, I realized. I knew he knew. And he knew I knew.

  ‘‘There’s one there, sir, the Society of the Incarnate? That one includes the son of the councillor himself, one James Ravenstar.’’

  ‘‘So it does.’’

  ‘‘Now, naturally, we’d prefer to avoid any undue embarrassment,’’ Frank said.

  ‘‘Naturally.’’

  ‘‘Tell me, Viceroy, do any of these covens strike you as being likely?’’

  ‘‘Likely what, Inspector?’’

  ‘‘Just likely, Viceroy.’’

  ‘‘I can hardly attribute guilt or innocence based on a list of names, Inspector.’’

  ‘‘Who said anything about guilt, Viceroy? We weren’t aware of any crimes being committed.’’

  ‘‘Indeed not,’’ added Frank. ‘‘Most if not all the Practitioners suffering these spell failures have reimbursed or otherwise compensated their clients.’’

  ‘‘So there are complaints but no charges filed. Yet. Unless there’s something you’d like to address, Viceroy. ’’

  The viceroy busied himself with a long sip of his tea.

  ‘‘An illness, you said?’’ he finally replied. So that’s how he wanted to play it.

  ‘‘That’s only a theory, sir, but yes.’’

  ‘‘And these spell failures, they just . . . happen? No other sign of magical interference?’’

  ‘‘None whatsoever, sir.’’

  ‘‘Let us . . . postulate, Inspectors.’’

  ‘‘Please do, sir.’’

  ‘‘Say, for argument’s sake, that this . . . illness you describe originated with one of the covens on your list.’’

  ‘‘As you yourself suggested, sir.’’

  ‘‘So I did. What would be the penalty for such an act?’’

  ‘‘Well, assuming it was performed with malicious intent, there are a number of misdemeanors with which the culprits could be charged.’’

  ‘‘Reckless endangerment, at the very least,’’ Frankford supplied helpfully. ‘‘Malicious mischief, of course.’’

  ‘‘And the penalties for such?’’

  ‘‘Fines, possibly a few days’ incarceration.’’

  ‘‘I see. And should it be proven that the originators acted foolishly but not maliciously, Inspectors?’’

  ‘‘No crime in being stupid, Viceroy. More’s the pity,’’ I said.

  ‘‘Quite so, quite so.’’ He paused for a long moment. ‘‘Let us presume that the originators of this disease were acting foolishly. What you have described may be attributed to . . . a miscalculation on the part of the originators.’’

  ‘‘A miscalculation, sir?’’

  ‘‘How so, Viceroy?’’

  He sipped from his teacup, collecting his thoughts.

  ‘‘It’s possible that one of those covens cast a spell to increase
their own power, to draw upon the will of the Guides, what have you. But a slight miscalculation in their spell caused the magic to invert itself and turn on the casters. These Practitioners, unknowingly infected with this inverted antispell, thought the original spell simply hadn’t worked, and they went their separate ways. As they came into contact with other Practitioners, the antispell, the true originator of the disease, infected them as well. If we assume the antispell attacks not the Practitioners themselves but rather the raw magic with which they are gifted, then as they meet with associates, this infected raw magic affects their associates’ own magic, as like is drawn to like. That first antispell, let us call it Spell Zero, would have been the actual root of this illness.’’

  ‘‘Fascinating, sir,’’ I said.

  ‘‘We’re indebted to you, Viceroy,’’ Frank added.

  ‘‘How do we stop it, sir?’’

  ‘‘I beg your pardon?’’

  ‘‘We need to stop it, sir. Epidemic like this, people will panic. No way of knowing whether or not a spell will work? Too much of the city’s economy revolves around spellwork. Can’t have that, sir.’’

  ‘‘Indeed not.’’

  ‘‘If word got out that a coven was responsible, Viceroy, I don’t like to think what kind of reaction the people would have. Antium may be the City of Mages, but not one in eight inhabitants has the gift. The other seven . . . might be none too happy, if you follow me.’’

  ‘‘Yes, Inspector, you’ve made your point.’’

  ‘‘Now, we’ve been charged with conducting this investigation with the utmost discretion, Viceroy, so if the Council of Mages would care to investigate this matter internally as it were, we could allow you that liberty."

  "Could you?"

  ‘‘We could, and, moreover, we will.’’

  ‘‘Indeed? And in what manner might the Council of Mages repay this service?’’

  ‘‘Think nothing of it, Viceroy,’’ I said.

  ‘‘We live to serve the public good, sir,’’ Frank added.

  ‘‘Would you then require disclosure of the guilty parties’ names?’’

  ‘‘No crime’s been committed, sir.’’

  ‘‘We simply seek to avert public outcry, Viceroy.’’

  ‘‘Very well. We are in agreement.’’

  ‘‘Your hand on that, sir,’’ I said, offering him my own. He paused, knowing full well that a contract sealed by handshake was binding not only in law but in spell-craft as well. He took my hand and shook it briefly.

  We left shortly after, as rapidly as etiquette would allow.

  ‘‘I say, Night, I thought you hated politics.’’

  ‘‘I do, Frank,’’ I replied as we walked out into the evening air. ‘‘Doesn’t mean I’m not good at it.’’

  Later that week, we received a unsigned letter from the office of the Council of Mages informing us that Spell Zero had been ‘‘seen to’’—the rapidity of which prompted us to speculate that the matter had been under investigation by the council for some time prior to our visit to the Viceroy. Spell failure declined, and things gradually went back to normal.

  As normal as they ever get at the Thaumaturgic Investigations Unit, at any rate.

  Narrator: As inspectors Nightingale and Frankford discovered, it’s not so much what you know, but who knows you know, when a misspell is to blame.

  ROB ST. MARTIN’s first story was written at age seven, and he’s been writing ever since. His output has included short stories, long stories, comic book stories, and planning role-playing games. While studying for his BA in history at Concordia University, he wrote the superheroic adventures of S.A.V.W.A.A. A native of Montreal, Quebec, and a freelance graphic designer by trade, Rob’s webserials Squirrelman and Truthseekers have proven to be an excellent training ground for what he hopes will be a long and productive career. Last year saw the publication of his first comic book, Bastard, which chronicles the eve of the Norman invasion of England by William the Conqueror. His short story ‘‘Potential in Spandex’’ appeared in the e-zine Vision: A Resource for Writers, and ‘‘All Roads’’ is his ongoing serial in the magazine Wyntergreene.

  Crosscut

  S. W. Mayse

  Narrator: Meet Rainy Petrov. A peaceful, talented writer, living with her cat in a cottage on the beautiful Pacific coast, wanting nothing more than to sell her stories. She appreciates that success will take patience and persistence. Little does she realize what else she’ll need.

  "Sorry. Sorry. ’Scuse me." Rainy edged through the post office to the gnome-sized counter. Two people made a crowd on Sparr Island on a dim, damp spring afternoon.

  Nan the postmistress was deep in gossip with Rosamunda Queen of the World, otherwise known as Rainy’s landlady, Ros Bailey.

  ‘‘Payday!’’ Nan thrust an envelope out of her small wicket. ‘‘Worlds of Fantasy Magazine. Another dragon story? Lucky girl.’’

  Ros grabbed the envelope before Rainy could, leaving her open-mouthed and reaching for thin air. A long burgundy fingernail was already prying up the flap when Ros pursed her claret lips at the mailing address and tossed it at Rainy.

  ‘‘Yours.’’ Ros flung back her long merlot silk cape to reveal sherry suede stiletto-heel boots. Her get-up was eye-catching on a small island where people thought high fashion meant gumboots without red soles. ‘‘You must have bewitched that editor. I don’t know who reads that faerie fluff anyway.’’

  Rainy shoved her frayed sweatshirt cuff farther up her raincoat sleeve and forced a smile. ‘‘Next time I’ll do an ax murder story. Just for you.’’

  ‘‘Me too. I love your stories,’’ Nan cackled happily.

  Rainy stooped for her check, now fluttering to the scarred planks. A blast of cold air replaced Ros as she stalked through the box lobby toward her bordeaux convertible. Writing must have lost its charm once Ros realized it involved work and rejection slips. Rainy had gritted her teeth when Ros enthused about the stories she never quite got around to writing, but she always listened politely. Too politely, Nan said. Gotta stick up for yourself, hon. Quit turning the other cheek.

  Nan slid down from her gnome throne to wedge flyers into Sparr Island’s forty mailboxes. Canada Post was taking its own sweet time about sending another forty for all the new city people like Ros. She blinked bifocally as Rainy slid the letter in her pocket. ‘‘Nice check? Maybe you can buy back your cottage.’’

  ‘‘Mm.’’ With any luck the check would cover next month’s rent.

  Nan attacked the mailboxes again with flyers. ‘‘Doesn’t seem right. I know your sweetie John had a will cuz I witnessed it. How could it be missing from the lawyer’s office?’’

  Rainy shrugged and zipped her coat up to her chin. If she’d had a copy of her lifelong companion’s will, she wouldn’t have to squeeze into her own guest cottage, and Ros Bailey wouldn’t be her landlady. Oh, well. Life goes on.

  ‘‘I’m fine. I love the cottage.’’ She and John had built it together, plank by plank.

  ‘‘How long will that last? Ros will squeeze you out and rent it to tourists.’’

  ‘‘Ros is my friend! You just don’t like anyone new.’’

  ‘‘Ros is not your friend. Wake up, Rainy.’’ Nan lowered her voice in the empty post office. ‘‘Fight back. You said your gran was a witchy woman in the old country.’’

  ‘‘And I’m the lay priest at St. Pelag’s. What would Father Ainslie think?’’ Rainy wrote about dragons and warlocks because she loved a good story, not because she believed in magic.

  ‘‘Father Ainslie danced with the island coven at Midsummer Eve. Says it’s another way to honor the divine spirit.’’ Nan climbed back onto her stool and scowled through her wicket like a small ferocious oracle. ‘‘Rainy, Rainy. What do you really want?’’

  ‘‘I want to bake a cake for the thrift shop bazaar tomorrow, have a hot bath, and sell my two new stories. ’’ Mind your own business, in other words, but that was asking too much of any well-m
eaning islander.

  The rain had blown east toward Vancouver, and a lemon sunset faded in the west as Rainy passed the old arbutus tree on Launch Point. Its papery red bark was peeling over acid-green new growth earlier than usual this year. Stars shimmered into view among the twisted branches overhead, and at her back Sparr Island rose darkly wooded. A small breeze sang through two twisted fir trees that marked a source of good spring water; Coast Salish families had summered here for thousands of years, judging by the depth of clamshells in their beach middens. A few aboriginal families still came over for fishing and summer ceremonies.

  Wraiths of island wood smoke sweetened the low-tide reek as Rainy passed the best clam beach. Her resident otter humped across the path almost underfoot and dived for his den among the fir roots in the clay bank, leaving behind only his fishy smell.

  Rainy knew every step of this deeply grooved path from her own summers spent here as a kid. After John died suddenly three years ago and she’d sold five stories in a row, Sparr beckoned like paradise. Fool’s paradise. Still it was wonderfully peaceful when Rosamunda Queen of the World went off-island for reasons not even the island gossip squad could crack. Probably she was getting her teeth cleaned. Rainy admired Ros’ gift for transforming the mundane into melodrama.

  Rainy ducked under her climbing white rose at the cottage gate, and her old cat, Tar, came to slither around her ankles. The small garden inside its high cedar-plank deer fence was her own quiet sunny corner, with one wicker armchair and one wicker table just big enough for a teacup and a notebook. Time to prune her roses, deadhead her daffodils . . . too bad her modest checks for fantasy stories barely paid the bills. If she didn’t sell more stories, soon she’d have to trudge back to office work in the city.

  ‘‘Caviar or smoked eel, darling? Or shall I bewitch a few mice for you?’’

  Tar yowled that anything would do, just hurry.

  Rainy dropped her envelope on the kitchen table to pour the Purina. Right now she’d like to bewitch the cranky old woodstove that she and John had ferried to the island in rusty pieces and restored. Remembering those days still made her smile.

  Her banked coals had died to embers in the hour it took her to walk three kilometers to and from the post office. When she opened the fire door and laid in a handful of kindling, the flames batted and danced wildly. Even for a winter evening it seemed unusually cold and drafty . . . Then the front door banged back against the wall and slammed shut.