Misspelled

by Julie E. Czerneda

  ‘‘A devotee of my dear nemesis.’’ His voice buzzed, the words arriving directly in my mind without me having to actually hear them. ‘‘What delightful irony.’’

  He gestured casually at the circle, as though to brush it aside.

  Darkness flared inside the circle, and the air filled with the smell of scorched meat.

  I dived through my gateway, scrambling to my feet in time to see the protective spells bulge outward as they strained to hold the power of an enraged elemental force.

  Every sound and color imaginable—and several that weren’t—blasted through my office when the circle shattered. Chaos no longer looked remotely human: He was an angry blur of things that should never have been allowed to exist. With a sweep of something that might have been a tentacle, he threw me aside and surged through the wall, tearing it into shreds of . . . Well, I hoped whatever he’d turned it into wasn’t alive. With Chaos, you never knew.

  Behind him, several armies of darkness took shape. Death, in robes so black they seemed to suck the light into them; War astride a massive horse that still strained to carry his muscular bulk; Famine a caricature of skin stretched over bone; and Pestilence . . . oozing. Behind them ranged demons of every rank from the highest demon lord to the lowest imp.

  I swallowed in a dry throat. I was beyond dead. There was only one being with any chance of sending Chaos and his forces back where they belonged. Perhaps I could escape with my soul intact if I killed myself after summoning him. Order might be counted among the ‘‘good’’ deities, but that didn’t mean he was nice.

  Not that I had a choice. Three years indentured to Bottie might have bruised my conscience, but I still had one. I couldn’t let Chaos loose on the world.

  A scream that started low and slid up into glass-shattering heights made me wince as I scrambled to my feet. I almost—almost—hoped it was Sehkin or Bottie.

  I stared at the splintered, twisted ruin of my protective circle and sighed. At least the wards on my robes were still more or less intact. I didn’t have anything else.

  A full summoning spell would have taken far too long. Instead, I used the short version: a few drops of my blood on the floor and an incantation that translated to ‘‘I’m in deep trouble here, please help me.’’

  The remnants of my circle spells shifted to form a delicate spiral, then opened out to reveal a small man in the pinstriped robes of an accounting mage.

  I bowed low enough that my head spun. ‘‘Lord Order. I apologize for the interruption.’’

  ‘‘A needful interruption, it would appear.’’ His voice sounded flat, as though he was trying not to show anger. ‘‘Look at me, child.’’

  I straightened and met his implacable gray eyes. For a moment, I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. As he held me with his eyes, he knew everything I was, every failing.

  When he released me, I stumbled back and dropped my gaze to the ruined floor, waiting for judgment.

  ‘‘Impressive,’’ he said in a dry voice. ‘‘I would suggest your allegiance go elsewhere—a mage of your talent will come into conflict with established law.’’

  I blinked. No deity ever suggested a worshipper go elsewhere.

  ‘‘I am not precisely a deity.’’

  I felt rather than saw Order’s gesture. ‘‘Come. We have business to attend to.’’

  Disobeying him never occurred to me, although seeing what Chaos’ rampage had done was not pleasant. Power built around me as I walked in his wake, and I caught glimpses of his armies manifesting.

  The walls shuddered with a cry of triumph that made my bones vibrate. I didn’t need to be told what it meant; the shout was the very essence of someone claiming his due.

  Order quickened his step. For a moment, everything seemed to blur around me, then we stood in the mages’ workroom. Or rather, the remains of the mages’ workroom. I shuddered and looked away from the blood-drenched meat that lay amid shredded robes. My stomach tightened, and I clenched my teeth to keep myself from throwing up. I didn’t want to know who that had been, although some small, unworthy part of my soul hoped . . .

  Chaos rose from where he squatted over a . . . I gulped. Sehkin was still recognizable. Barely. Nothing that looked like that should still be alive.

  Chaos glared at Order. The air between them crackled with power and mutual loathing, although Order’s expression never once lost its air of mild disinterest.

  Bottie himself chose that moment to charge into the ruined workroom. ‘‘Weed! What in the hells are you doing?’’ His bulk strained the seams of his business robes, and he seemed completely oblivious to the plight of his two indentured mages—one hopefully merely dead and the other almost dead. Typical troll. He’d probably complain about blood getting on his robes.

  Chaos snared him with an arm—or tentacle—that seemed to extend to reach him. The touch was enough to make Bottie’s skin sear and ooze greenish liquid. I quietly thanked all the gods I could think of that I’d been in my full robes when Chaos had thrown me against the wall.

  I winced when Bottie started to scream. He sounded like a little girl.

  ‘‘Stop it!’’ The sound of my own voice surprised me. ‘‘Whatever he’s done, he doesn’t deserve you.’’ What was I doing defending Bottie?

  ‘‘Nobody gets what they deserve, little mage.’’ Chaos’ voice buzzed and oozed. The words seemed to echo inside my head.

  I fought the urge to wipe my hands.

  ‘‘That,’’ Order said in his quiet, calm voice, ‘‘is because most of our brethren offer mercy.’’ Despite the softness of his voice, I could hear him clearly. ‘‘Is this . . . creature . . . one of yours?’’

  Bottie whimpered.

  ‘‘No.’’ Again, my voice was stronger than I would have believed. ‘‘He worships at the Temple of Acquisitus. ’’

  Order nodded slowly. ‘‘Then let his deity deal with him.’’ There was steel under the soft tones. I suspected Order was going to have a word with Bottie’s patron deity. That word wasn’t going to be nice.

  Although Chaos’ blurred form hurt to look at, I could see enough. His posture said clearly that he had no intention of leaving.

  I realized then that while Order and Chaos faced each other, a battle raged around them in a realm that didn’t quite match the one in which I stood. Ghostly screams echoed across the realms, and on occasion a demon or demideity would drop from nowhere to land on the floor, where the body faded back into the air from which it had come. In the case of the demons, this was definitely a good thing.

  My legs trembled under me. I should have taken better precautions, tried asking the blessings of a minor being like Domesticana.

  Order’s hand rested on my shoulder, squeezed gently. The gesture seemed to reassure as well as strengthen. Or perhaps it simply destroyed what remained of my sanity. I stepped forward, between Order and Chaos.

  ‘‘You do not belong here. This world is not yours.’’ The opening of the banishment ritual was simple enough. It was maintaining focus while I completed it that would be difficult.

  Power swirled around me, eddies of darkness twisting at the graceful spirals of Order’s power. I held Order’s power close, focusing it into a one-way portal to the Chaos Realms. His hands rested on my shoulders, steadying me and providing a flow of power for me to channel. Strangely enough, I wasn’t frightened.

  The portal opened with a twist that wrenched at my gut. Insubstantial wind tore at my robes, my hair.

  Weird shrieks in ranges I should not have been able to hear tore the air. I could see Chaos’ creatures being sucked through the portal while Order’s allies scrambled to escape its pull.

  Bits of splintered wood and shattered glass lifted from the floor to shoot through the portal. I whimpered as spears of wood and glass came from behind to skim around me before disappearing into the formless darkness.

  Chaos snarled as he wrapped tentacle-arms around Bottie and what remained of Sehkin.

  ‘‘I think not
.’’ Order’s calm voice cut through the substantial and insubstantial screams, the swirl of creatures drawn into the portal. His hands remained on my shoulders, reassuringly solid.

  With a cracking sound, the tentacle-arms snapped, dropping their burdens to the floor. At least Bottie stopped screaming.

  Sweat prickled under my robes, drizzled into my eyes to sting them, but I dared not release the portal. The spell had used all the power I had given it, and now it pulled directly from my soul.

  Chaos slid toward the portal, tentacle-arms lashing out at Bottie, at Sehkin. The portal snared one of the arms, and power flared through me. An ululating scream sent shudders through my body and flashed red against my eyes, and then Chaos and his minions were gone.

  Only Order and his allies remained.

  I trembled as I closed the portal. My legs refused to hold me, and I slumped to the wreckage-strewn floor. Quality control was not supposed to include facing down elemental forces. Creatures from dimensions that shouldn’t even exist weren’t supposed to come and tear my fellow indenturees to pieces.

  ‘‘Well done, young one.’’ There was actually warmth in Order’s voice. ‘‘You will be an asset to whomever you choose to serve. Might I suggest one of the Muses?’’

  I blinked. Surely I was hallucinating.

  Bottie groaned and hauled himself to his feet. With green fluid staining his ruined robes and his bloodshot eyes, he looked less appealing than usual. ‘‘Weed, you lousy piece of troll dung. I’ll take this out of your—’’

  A single gesture from Order brought welcome silence.

  Bottie’s eyes bulged as he stared. He opened his mouth several times, but no sound came out.

  I didn’t care. I was still alive. I still had my soul. At this point, I was happy to deal with anything else.

  A thin, harried-looking angel in pinstriped robes scuttled into the wreckage, picking its way to Order with fastidious care. ‘‘The audit, Lord.’’

  Pale wasn’t an option for Bottie’s grayish complexion. Instead, he went a kind of pasty color and tried even harder to force words past whatever spell Order had cast on him.

  ‘‘The Imperium has one copy, the Academy of Mages a second, and the Council of Priests a third, Lord.’’

  Order nodded. ‘‘We will wait for the Imperial Mages to arrive. ‘‘I fear we were too late for the other culprit, but this one will receive his due.’’

  I shivered. Unlikely as it might seem, Sehkin might have been fortunate.

  Imperial Mages were not known for their mercy.

  Bottie appeared to have reached the same conclusion: He tried to run, only to find himself caught and held motionless by Order’s spells.

  ‘‘We will wait.’’

  I stepped from bright sunlight into the shadowed hallways of the Imperium’s Institute of Justice. A shiver ran through me, and my stomach knotted. Until this moment, I’d been able to avoid thinking about my fate.

  I’d spent the last week rebuilding my strength and my personal wards. Sending Chaos and his forces back to the nether realms had stripped me bare of even the simplest spells.

  Fortunately, I had nothing else to do; faced with Order’s audit and depositions, the Imperial Mages had ordered me to present myself today for judgment on my indentures.

  The arched hallway seemed to go on forever as I walked, an endless stretch of white marble. My footsteps echoed faintly.

  Sehkin had been buried as best his family could afford. There wasn’t much else that could be done for him.

  It took the Imperial Investigators almost the whole week to determine that the other victim had been Bottie’s other indentured mage and not one of the female visitors Sehkin ‘‘entertained.’’ That burial was rather quieter, and the casket . . . They hadn’t found all of him. What they did find was barely enough to fill a bucket.

  Bottie had been sentenced to spend the rest of his life as a laborer in the Iceholt Mines. The Imperial Justiciars had decreed that his reckless endangerment of lives had built a debt no indenture period could repay.

  That left me. I’d avoided the hearings, not wanting to be accused of gloating. In truth, I doubted I’d gloat over anyone, ever. It just . . . didn’t seem right. Not after seeing what Chaos had done.

  The doors to the Well of Justice swung open as I approached. Magic tingled over my skin, telling me that Imperial Mages had ‘‘assisted’’ with the effect.

  I took a deep breath and entered.

  My heart nearly stopped as I took in the massive hall and the hundreds—thousands—of mages crammed in. They were standing against the walls because there weren’t enough seats.

  I clenched my teeth and lifted my head. I might be walking to my doom, but at least I’d go with a bit of pride. I had done my best, and Order himself had complimented me.

  My best robes—worn, patched, but imbued with all the protective spells I knew—glowed even to normal sight. Let the glow remind them why Chaos was not rampaging through the world.

  I stopped when I came to the stairs leading to the dais and bowed. ‘‘Lord Justiciars.’’ I saw no need to say more than that. They knew why I was here, and so did everyone else. My heart hammered in my chest as I straightened.

  The Lord Justiciars in their robes of deepest purple all seemed to have been cut from the same unsympathetic stamp: twelve dried up old men whose sole pleasure came from arguing obscure branches of law. I tried not to think about how many laws had been shattered by Chaos’ manifestation and rampage. ‘‘Gross endangerment of the public’’ was the least of the charges they could bring against me.

  The Lord Justiciar at the left of the group cleared his throat. ‘‘Mage Sharae Weeden. In recognition of the public service you have performed, your indentures are hereby annulled.’’

  My head swam. Annulled . . . that meant that I was due three years’ wages—not that there was enough left of Bottie’s shop to pay them. More important, it meant that the indentures would be struck from Imperial records, as though they had never occurred. I was free.

  ‘‘Furthermore, in deference to the . . . unique . . . situation in which you find yourself, the Emperor himself has decreed that the College of Mages and Imperial Justiciars jointly reimburse you for three years’ employment as a full Master Mage.’’ The twist of his mouth made it clear he disagreed with the decision.

  I blinked and looked stupid. The Emperor had intervened . . . for me?

  While I wondered what I was supposed to say in reply, the Justiciar added, ‘‘This case is closed,’’ in a sour tone, and the whole gaggle of them filed off the dais in a flock of purple robes and unhappy faces.

  Well. Now what?

  ‘‘Mage Sharae?’’

  I turned to the unfamiliar voice and saw a tired-looking man in robes whose protective spells were almost as strong as mine. ‘‘I am Archmage Justin of the Imperial Institute of Magical Quality. I was wondering if you would be willing to join us?’’

  I didn’t hesitate. ‘‘I’d be honored, Archmage.’’

  Some of the other mages looked disappointed, and the crowd began to flow from the hall. My shoulders unknotted, and I smiled. ‘‘Thank you.’’

  The Archmage studied me for a moment, and winked. ‘‘No, thank you. Being a Quality Assurance Mage sucks.’’

  Narrator: Mage Sharae Weeden returns to the daily grind, albeit in new surroundings. It’s reassuring to have someone vigilant and brave on the watch for misspells by her fellow mages. Let’s hope she need not work overtime.

  KATE PAULK takes interesting medication. This explains her compulsion to write science fiction and fantasy and also means you’ll be seeing a lot more of her in the future. Her friends would fear for her sanity, but she claims not to have any. Her short fiction has been published in Cross-roads , Fate Fantastic, and Something Magic This Way Comes and she is hard at work on a novel. She lives in semiurban Pennsylvania with her husband and two bossy lady cats. Whether this has any effect on her sanity is not known.

 
Demon in the Cupboard

  Nathan Azinger

  Narrator: Men. Women. Throughout recorded time, they’ve tried to outguess and outsmart one another, since talking to one another hasn’t worked quite yet. Behold the new battlefield. The kitchen.

  Men never really grow up—we’re all boys at heart. It’s one of those incontrovertible laws of nature.

  Another is that women, however much they may protest otherwise, never really understand this. Oh, they know it all right, but knowing and understanding are two different things.

  Even women who ought to know better are prone to underestimate the boy inside the man. For instance, my wife is a witch. No, really, she’s got a coven, a cauldron—everything. She even keeps weird ingredients in the spice rack. Eye of newt and toe of frog— that sort of thing.

  Now, if she really understood the boyish nature of men, do you think she would’ve left me all alone in the house mere hours before her sister and brother-in -law came over for dinner, with her pot of spaghetti and specific instructions to stir it occasionally and not to add anything? Yeah, me either.

  You see, the male mind subconsciously edits out negative commands. Words like ‘‘don’t’’ and ‘‘for the love of all that’s holy, under no circumstance ever’’ simply fail to register.

  If she’d wanted me to leave the food alone, she ought to have left detailed instructions about adding certain spices at certain times, and I would’ve promptly forgotten to do all of it. As it was, I heard the words ‘‘add anything’’ and started wondering what would taste good in spaghetti.

  Answer: chili powder. The Italians never made it spicy enough anyway. So I sauntered over to the spice rack, skipped past the wool of bat and tongue of dog; and grabbed the little plastic bottle with the hot, red powder.

  The spaghetti sauce was already bubbling along merrily in my wife’s largest pot when I reached the stove. I unscrewed the cap and dumped a liberal amount of the powder into the pot, then stirred it in with a long-handled wooden spoon.

  Afterward I lifted the spoon to my mouth and gave it a tentative lick. My nose immediately began to run, but it tasted awesome. Congratulations, I felt, were definitely in order for a job well done.