by Dave Freer
CHAPTER 12
TOM GOES CLUBBING
Standing inside its pentacle of finely powdered bone-dust, the alembic quivered and shook on its stand. "Concentrate, famulus, for Zoranthyrus sake!" cursed the Master. "Keep that flame steady or I’ll turn you into a privy in a camp full of puke-drunk Joringian mercenaries."
Tom concentrated. That was enough of a dire — and possibly real — threat to focus his mind remarkably, turning it away from thoughts inspired his experiments with ‘ye visions of a state of disrobement of a nubile sylph’, from ‘Elementary spell-craft for ye dunderheads’ and comparing those visions with his memories of the disrobement of a shepherdess, before she’d seen his tail.
Tom wasn’t a cat anymore but he knew what he had been, he had also seen a few people become newts, and had his suspicions that the cheese might once have been a famulus…
It was all very well for Master Hargarthius, thought Tom sullenly, after several more minutes of repeating the magical fire spell. The Magician was as wrinkled as a dragon’s hide after a long hibernation, and was old and disinterested in such things. It was spring out there, and here he was stuck in a dank old tower.
Tom sighed to himself. In spring the master’s thoughts turned to the price of glassware, and where best to source snow for his work, now that it was warming up outside the caves. Anyway, Hargarthius could summons a succubus or a winsome sprite if he ever felt like Tom did right now. It was just as well, thought Tom, flicking a tiny piece of fluff from his cloak. Nothing else would come near the old man, not with yesterday’s egg still in his beard, and a bodily bouquet of over-ripe goat, tinged with ozone.
Tom’s small contact with normal humans in the village had left him wondering if the magician had pursued this career because he had absolutely no hope of ever getting himself a girl, or even a life, by any means other than the arcane arts. Yes, there were other rewards to being a magician, gold, fame, power, being torn to shreds by demons if your memory started to go or you got careless. But he had to wonder, looking at the scrawny old fellow, if it hadn’t been the fact that a girl would run a mile and hide in a well before going to a country fair with the young Hargarthius, which had shaped the magician’s career choice. By the sound of what Tom had heard of old Estethius one would have to have had a really good reason to take the job. After all, that was why he’d been transformed from being a cat: human boys willing to take the job, and stay with it, were rare.
Cynically, Tom suspected he was right. It was a career choice for humans who really had no chance of becoming a brawny warrior, or even a brawny miller. Later, the arcane arts might become goals of their own, but at first…
"The flame, you idiot!" yelled Hargarthius. "You fool of a famulus! It has boiled dry!"
Tom didn’t wait. He ran while he still had the chance. Privies couldn’t run, and newts didn’t live long and probably had even less luck with girls. Estethius’s tower was an old and complicated building, and Tom had a selection of small hidey-holes to lurk in when Master Hargarthius was mad at him, or wanted him to do something particularly unpleasant.
Tom waited and shivered while Master Hargarthius yelled and broke things. Eventually, when everything was quiet again, Tom crept out of his little lair behind the blood vats, and started the tedious business of clearing up the debris of Master Hargarthius’s tantrum. Tom sighed. It wasn’t easy being a human, and less so as a famulus, he’d decided, especially if your master was an old grouch like Hargarthius. Tom’s thought of his experiences of the village, and the court… Huh. They hadn’t even got to see Borbungsburg town, where, if the village talk was to be believed, there were taverns that stayed open a whole three hours after sundown. Tom sighed, thinking of the excitement, glories and opportunities he’d been denied.
Well, with any luck the Master would have forgotten about it by the time he got back to the laboratory. Tom began sweeping up the glass. He didn’t dare use the hoom, let alone super-hoom or el Zebbo on this. A magical mess required that he actually do it. He sighed again. He’d been hopeful about learning magic, at least enough to get out here, but it seemed that all that what he’d learned so far was an awful lot of housekeeping. Yes, he had learned certain magical skills, in between sweeping, dusting, dish-washing and cooking and being yelled at by the skull of Mrs Drellson.
Unfortunately none of them were the skills that Tom thought could take him safely far away, especially without going near a magic carpet, or possibly a curse or being turned into something worse than a human boy. The Master really had no interest in teaching him anything useful — unless it was useful to Master Hargarthius. It was all very well learning things like conjuring flame under the alembic, or summoning small creatures. In more mundane households here in the Kingdom of Ambyria, rats and mice were a problem. In Master Hargarthius’s demesnes they were a necessity, and often in woefully short supply. Besides, Tom liked catching them. It was one of the traits that remained after his transformation, like his tail. The desire to eat them had not remained, much. These days Tom would swap a fat mouse for a piece of bacon. The cheese in the pantry possibly still ate mice. But it might also have been a cat, once. Tom wasn’t sure.
Tom’s patient sweeping brought him to the pentacle of powdered bone where the alembic still stood on its little brass trivet. All that remained of the master’s hyper-dimensional fluid was a dirty brown residue in the bottom of a crook-neck flask. Tom cursed himself for being a clumsy idiot, swearing just as much as Master Hargarthius had. Cleaning it out of there was going to be pure murder, and there was no doing it by magic either.
Looking at it, Tom knew that there was only one way to get that residue out… hard scrubbing, and it was a narrow-necked flask.
He sighed with irritation, thinking of the careful hours this job would take him. Master Hargarthius could (and did) break glassware every time that he had a temper tantrum — which was far too often for Tom’s comfort — but not even a demon prince would help Tom if he so much as chipped a beaker while he washed them.
The pentacle had been broken so it was reasonably safe to touch the dratted thing. Reluctantly, Tom picked up the flask. It was still warm. That was odd. It had been at least three hours since the disastrous experiment.
To his relief the powder seemed to be quite loose. Without too much careful thought Tom shook some out.
It scintillated, emitting aquamarine flashes as it seemed to drift towards the floor rather than fall, as if ‘down’ was a direction it was far from certain about.
Where the sparkling dust touched the laboratory floor, a hole appeared. Tom could see darkness and strange lights through the gap.
Tom laughed with relief. Master Hargarthius had got angry too soon. His hyper-dimensional fluid-making process had worked after all. Tom could see clear into elsewhere! Master Hargarthius had been trying to create such a window for weeks now… and so far the master had failed. The best Hargarthius had achieved was a clouding and blurring of the wall onto which the fluid had been painted - and now it had worked!
Tom danced a little jig of delight at the thought of amazing the grumpy old curmudgeon. That’d show him…
It proved Aunty Eden’s advice column in the the Weekly Illuminati Age and Magical Advertiser quite right. Injudicious dancing can be your downfall. Literally, it was. He tripped over the broom he’d been using, and fell in a cascade of bone dust…. down into the hole, into elsewhere.
It was further down than he’d expected. He landed with a thump and a shower of white bone dust on his face, with the crook-necked flask and the broom he’d grabbed as he fell. It was undignified to land so badly, but at least he and the flask were unhurt.
He stood up, shook himself and looked at the grave new world he’d entered. “Grave” seemed to be the right choice of word. It was half-dark, lit by colored wondering were-light among the misty smokes. Except… it was rather noisier than most graves. There was something compulsively beatey to the sounds. ‘Sounds’ was the best description he could give it.
It didn’t come under his previous experience of music, which implied a human and a musical instrument (or unmusical instrument, sometimes). This was different. It seemed to be issuing from several black chests that could possibly contain a number of cacophonous small homonuclii, but no other player. It sounded vaguely reminiscent of the sounds that the Demon Prince Hariselden made in his pot, but was less musical. The sounds were plainly magical, by the effect it was having on the zombies and the undead women gyrating under the lights. All in all, it appeared to be a good place to get out of, except… well the undead sylph looking at him was definitely female. And even if she was white faced and an unlikely shade of crimson haired, she was distinctly attractive.
The tight-laced black leather bustier also showed some of her more curvaceous assets. She was talking to him, although, naturally, he couldn’t understand a word. Hastily Tom muttered a translation cantrip. To think that he’d resented the master making him deal with those garlic-munching ‘merchants’ from Kos! At least he’d been repaid for suffering through their bouquet, not to mention nearly being killed and crushed, in that he at least knew a translation spell.
“I beg your pardon fair sylph,” he said bowing with an elegant curl of his tail. “I didn’t quite hear what you said.” Master Hargarthius dealt with the undead from time-to-time. Tom had always found them less terrifying than people made them out to be. Born-Humans were a little strange like that. The undead could hurt you or kill you, but then so could the living. And at least the royal court didn’t make you pay weregild if you killed any of them. They were, after all, dead already.
She smiled at him, a devastating curve of her full lips. “The tail’s cute, but the broom is over the top.”
“He’s cute, even if it is,” said her companion, raven dark (except for her face, which was also stark white) and decidedly too thin for comfort. And her long black nails curled in a distinctly predatory fashion.
Looking at her, Tom decided that he’d prefer to cuddle something better padded, which looked less likely to bite his head off in the finale of love-making. The low cut velvet of her sable-dark gown was rich and gorgeous, though, and the silver studded leather throat-piece spoke of wealth and power. Even with only his short visit to court, and reading of the Weekly Illuminati Age and Magical Advertiser, Tom knew women like that usually got what they wanted. The undead, probably twice… the second time when the objects of their desire weren’t warm anymore.
These two didn’t smell dead, at least. Actually, the scent they were wearing was distinctly aphrodisiacal. That had to be why he hadn’t run already. It was either that or rank stupidity… He threw back his cloak. It was merely to get it out of his way in case running became a necessity, and to cover his tail, but Tom noticed the red-haired one bit a finger and looked thoughtfully at him. “I like the cloak,” she said, tapping the sharp toes of her knee-high boots together. Tom couldn’t help noticing that the rest of her legs — except for the bit obscured under her split black skirt, were covered in black fishnet. He’d never seen anything quite like it, not even in ‘ye visions of a state of disrobement of a nubile sylph’. He said so, which was probably less than a clever thing to say to an undead sylph in a strange world, but, well, maybe he’d hit his head or something. Or maybe the social skills he’d learned as a kitten were not too well suited to dealing with born-humans. There were some advantages to being transformed when you were near-adult, but that wasn’t one of them.
“You’ve never seen fishnet stockings before?” said the sable-haired one. “You gorgeous vamp, next you’ll tell us that you’ve never been to a Goth club before.”
Vampire? Well, the sylphs probably would avoid drinking HIS blood if they thought him that. And sometimes truth was better than trying to maintain an air of worldly insouciance, especially when it was someone else’s world. “Well, I’ve never dropped into one before,” he admitted.
“Ooh,” said the sable-haired one, slipping her arm into his. “A real live Goth.-virgin. Maya and I will take care of you.”
She was remarkably warm for one of the undead. “You seem… rather hot,” he said.
She licked her deep violet upper lip. “I am.”
Tom swallowed. That was the trouble with translation spells. Meanings sometimes got lost or misinterpreted.
“I found him first,” said the crimson-haired one, taking his other arm. For a minute Tom thought that they might have a tug of war over him. “Um, ladies…” he said tentatively, thinking about getting free… but not thinking too hard about it.
“So what do we do to him first? Dance, drink or feed him strange chemicals?” asked the first.
“Not the strange chemicals, please!” said Tom hastily. After all, if he hadn’t encountered them in a rather tasty bowl of fish, he would still be stalking around with his tail in the air, sleeping a barn, and eating mice and whatever else he could scavenge. And then there’d been his misadventures with Doctor Mirabellus’s Ontogenetic Reflux Liquid…
He was much less sure that he’d like to go back to his old form if he could — the idea of washing himself with his own tongue, especially in certain areas — made his fastidious soul feel very unwell. However, next time might be something worse. “They have a bad effect on me.” He wouldn’t mind some milk, and he’d watched humans in the village dance the Brandsele…
The crimson-haired smiled nastily at her friend-rival. “He’s mine, I think, Laney.”
She was also quite warm for one of the undead. Perhaps they’d just newly joined the ranks. It was something he planned to avoid, at least for a while. It might be wise to leave now he thought… Then the crimson-haired sylph arched her neck and rubbed her head against his chin and that banished common sense. After all, he had magical means to deal with the undead. It was the living that he had a problem with.
They’d led him to a bizarre structure, a slit-like entry into a well-lit cavern, tended by a zombie. He had to be a zombie, and in a bad state of decay too. His face was held together with bits of chain hooked up to studs through his dead flesh. Smoke trickled from his nostrils. Behind him was an array of bottles which rivalled even Master Hargarthius’s stock. The Zombie blew out a waft of herby smoke. “Name your poison,” he said.
Tom started. “Poisons! Uh… Not for me. Can I get you ladies something toxic?”
“Ooh, what an invitation,” said the dark-haired Laney, slinkily. “I’ll have a sex on the beach.”
The Zombie grinned at her. “Two of those and you’re anybody’s.”
She put an arm around Tom’s shoulder. She was wearing black lace fingerless gloves, Tom noticed. “Uhuh,” she said trailing her fingers over him. “I get what I order around here. Sex on the beach.”
The zombie grinned. Tom worried in case parts of it fell off. “Sure you won’t change your mind and order something. It looks like you’re going to need it. Sex on the beach for you too?”
“That seems rather forward,” said Tom. “Besides, the beach is very sandy. I’d like a well-woven carpet on the mossy banks of the limpid river for my tryst, thank you.”
The scarlet-haired Maya gave a snort of laughter. “He’s definitely mine Laney. And we’ll have two tequila’s.”
“You always get the interesting ones,” Laney pouted. But her eye had been caught by some new prey walking towards them. She waved. A large undead with an odd mulberry vest and a problem with a loose eyebrow that had had to be studded and chained to his ear appeared to have attracted her attention. Tom could only be relieved. In the meantime the Zombie behind the wooden counter had decanted and mixed various potions. “That’ll be twenty-seven fifty,” he said.
He plainly wanted money! Since when did the undead do that? Tom had exactly three copper zoes in his pouch. He’d have to risk a little conjuration, and hope that the zombie was less than alert to such magics. He dug into his pouch, took out an Ambyrian zoe, and rubbed it, chanting hastily to himself. A gold salabar was what he handed the Zombie, who looked very startled. As it changed
hands, it became a crinkly green piece of paper. Tom tensed to run… but the Zombie took it cheerfully. “Neat trick,” he said admiringly. “You should be on the stage, man.”
Tom agreed. Privately. The stage-coach to somewhere else. But what he said, loftily, was: “Keep the change.”
“From a fifty?” The Zombie beamed. “Let me get you some fresh lime wedges for the tequila.”
The Laney-sylph was talking to the big fellow in the mulberry vest, sipping the potion that was supposed to give her what she desired on the beach. Tom couldn’t help but be curious as to how it would work.
Maya tapped him on the shoulder, and he swung around. Unfortunately he swung the broom too, and it cracked the undead in the mulberry vest hard across the shins.
“You did that on purpose!” said mulberry vest, as he looked incredulously at the broom, and then grabbed Tom by the front of his robe.
Tom resisted the urge to stick all four sets of claws that he no longer had, into the fellow’s arm. Instead, he muttered the cantrip he’d used for keeping the flame under the alembic burning.
“What did you say?” demanded mulberry vest.
“I said ‘fire’,” said Tom, pointing to the seat of the man’s trousers.
With a scream, mulberry vest let go of Tom and danced away frantically beating at his own buttocks. Tom watched appreciatively as someone emptied a tinkling ice-bucket onto the fellow’s trouser-seat. He was led off through another arch-way by a solicitous Laney, a solution that suited Tom well.
“Never a dull moment around here,” said Maya, her shoulders shaking slightly. “Now, I think that I had better teach you how to drink tequila, because I am ready to bet that you don’t know how to do that properly, either.”
She licked her finger and put it on his neck. Put the damp finger into the little bowl of white crystals on the counter. Put it on his neck. “What’s that?” he asked nervously.