License Invoked

by Robert Asprin

  “It don't look like these two busybodies can do a thing,” Preston said, hulking over them all as usual. Liz turned a high-power glare towards him, then dismissed him. “I'll look this place over myself. Fionna's security is my business.” He stalked off to confront one of the firefighters.

  “What about those laser lights?” Boo-Boo asked. “Could that ignite the fabric?”

  “You couldn't even light a cigarette with them,” Robbie said, scornfully. “There's stronger lasers in a food store checkout. Besides, the laser never touched this stage. I was testing it on the far wall.”

  “All right,” Liz said. “I'd like to talk to everyone who was here when it happened. One at a time, please.” She turned to the publicist, who looked as if his ulcer was kicking up again. “Can we use one of the dressing rooms?”

  Everyone protested at once. “We've got work to do, lady!” Robbie Unterburger said. “Tomorrow's the show!”

  “That's enough,” Nigel Peters said, wearily. “There'll be no show if there's any danger to Fionna, so we have to let these people ask their questions, right? A little cooperation, please? God, I could murder a cup of tea.”

  “Could you make us all some tea?” Liz asked the costumer. “It'll give you a chance to calm down.”

  “I'm a highly paid professional, with respect throughout the entire music industry,” Fitzgibbon protested, head high, but Liz thought he looked grateful for something ordinary to do. He threw up his hands. “All right. Tea.”

  “I'd rather have a whisky,” Fionna said, crossly.

  “You had four drinks at lunch,” Liz said.

  “Well, I need one now! And how the hell did you know that? Have you got a bug on me now?” Fionna demanded.

  “She's already got one up her . . .” Robbie muttered to one of the other stagehands. Fionna couldn't hear her, but Liz could. Tactfully, she pretended she hadn't. She didn't want to revisit the matter anyhow. Fee would have had furious hysterics all over again if Liz had explained the psychic monitor she'd planted on her for security.

  “Come on, sweetheart,” Laura Manning, the makeup artist, said, putting an arm around Fionna's narrow shoulders and leading her away. “I've got a bottle in your dressing room. We can wait for the tea there.” She glanced back at the two investigators. “That's where you'll find me. I've got things to arrange for tomorrow.”

  “We all have,” Michael Scott complained, his blue eyes flashing with indignation. The other members of the band added their voices to his.

  “This won't take but a short time,” Boo-Boo promised him. “We just want to know where everybody was when the dress went up. We don't even have to go down to a dressing room. We can talk right here.”

  Eddie Vincent frowned. “I don't like this. You're accusing us? Us? We've been with Fionna for yonks, mate.” He planted a finger in Boo-Boo's chest and poked it a few times for emphasis. “Now, she may not be the world's easiest broad to live with, but we back her up in more ways than one. Got it?”

  “Everybody's gettin' so bothered,” Boo-Boo said mildly, but Liz saw the glints in his eyes. He walked back to the instrument setup. Almost involuntarily, half the crowd of roadies and musicians followed him. He stopped beside the open square of keyboards. “You was here when Fitz came out? Rehearsing?”

  “No, I was dancing on the ceiling with Fred Astaire,” Eddie said, sneering. “'Course I was. Len saw me.”

  “Yeah,” Len, one of the lighting crew, stepped forward. “I was fixing everyone's key lights.”

  “Good!” Boo-Boo beamed. “See how easy this is?”

  Liz admired the way his easygoing manner helped to soothe the ruffled feathers of Fionna's entourage. After a surprisingly short time, their voices softened. Several people began to add their accounts, interrupting each other, helping to reconstruct the moment of the attack now nearly two hours past. Boo caught Liz's eye over the shoulders of the others, and she nodded back, understanding him. While he was charming everyone, Liz sauntered casually over to the keyboard setup, and sent a tiny tendril of Earth power through the floor where Eddie Vincent must have been standing.

  Everyone's backs were turned when the glitter came to life on the dusty boards, showing pairs of footsteps overlaid on one another again and again, when Vincent was playing, turning from electric piano to organ to multi-synthesizer and back again. It looked like some bizarre Arthur Murray quickstep pattern. The air around them was empty of even a single spark of magic. Whatever had happened, the musician was innocent of the attack. Liz had just enough time to wipe the glamour away when Vincent broke out of the pack and came over to see what she was doing.

  “Quite some instruments,” she said, idly. She started to run a finger along the top of the synthesizer console. He reached over to slap her wrist. She snatched her hand away, staring at him in astonishment.

  “Never touch my stuff again,” he said, flatly. He aimed a finger at her nose. “Never handle anyone's instruments, do you hear? Anybody could tell you've never been within a mile of a band.”

  “Why would I need to?” Liz asked sweetly. “Anybody could hear you playing from a mile away. I'd never need a ticket.” She was surprised at herself. Being peevish was not what the office expected of its agents. She ought to be acting like an adult in this crisis. “I'm sorry,” she said. “We're all under a bit of a strain.”

  Vincent grunted wordlessly. Apology accepted. Liz turned and walked back to join Boo-Boo, who was standing with Voe Lockney. The drummer was explaining his drum set with enthusiasm, picking out rhythms with quick dabs of brush and stick.

  “Anything?” Boo-Boo asked her out of the side of his mouth.

  “Not a thing,” she said.

  “Do me now,” Michael Scott said, coming over to loom over them. He was the tallest of the band members, and his blue eyes burned into Liz's like Green Fire's lasers. “I've plenty to get on with.”

  For a moment Liz was reduced to a quivering blob of adoring teenage fan. Here was the Guitarchangel, close enough to touch, and twice as handsome as any photo she had ever seen. Those sharp cheekbones, and that long, black hair! But her Departmental training shoved the adolescent firmly into a mental cupboard and locked the door.

  “We are sorry for the inconvenience,” she said, briskly.

  “You sound like a sign on the London Underground,” Scott said, the corner of his mouth twitching. Could that be the hint of a smile? “Get on with it. I was playing at that edge of the stage.” He pointed. Liz and Boo turned to look. Liz noticed the blast pattern, much attenuated. It outlined a semicircle in ash where the guitarist had been standing when the dress went up. “I didn't see the fire start. I had my back to the center. I was starting my solo.”

  “Right,” said Jones, joining in. “The lights are down at first. Fee comes on in the darkness. Her dress starts flashing the symbols, then all lights come up at once. The musicians whirl around to see her. The spotlights start wigwagging across the stage. Lasers! Smoke! It's smashing. You'll love it at the concert.”

  A brass fire hose nozzle slid noisily behind his feet, and Jones jumped.

  “If we ever get to the damned concert,” Robbie Unterburger complained.

  * * *

  Green Fire's dressing rooms were under the stage beyond a security door that was held ajar with a rubber wedge. Nearby was a reception room that must be used for parties and interviews. At the moment it was full of equipment in and out of battered, black travel cases. Most of the gear was unfamiliar to Liz. She assumed a good deal of it was special-effects equipment, under the direction of Roberta Unterburger. An angry young woman, that. Every time Fee reached out for Lloyd Preston, Robbie flared up as if she could light the show without benefit of laser beams. Liz was sorry for her. Unrequited love might have been nice in poetry, but it was hell in practice. She wondered why the woman didn't quit her job, if she couldn't stand the realities of the situation. Then she thought about it—who wouldn't want to work for a world-famous rock band, no matter how hard it was on y
our heart? On Robbie's side, though, Kenneth Lewis kept staring at her the same way she did at Preston. He watched her when he thought she couldn't see, and turned his head away when she glanced his way. There was a neat little triangle going on, or quadrangle. All it needed was Fionna having unreturned feelings for Kenneth to really make a mess of the situation.

  Fionna's dressing room was the largest and best appointed. The concrete floor had been carpeted over with a rich green plush, a compliment to her band and her hair. Instead of the acid fluorescent lights, she had floor lamps with restful low-watt bulbs. The singer herself was enthroned in a big armchair with Laura Manning on one side and Nigel Peters on the other offering her drinks and cigarettes. Someone had unpacked Fionna's possessions and arranged them around the room. Costumes of garish silks or black lace and tulle hung along the walls. The lighted mirror in the wall over the dressing table was supplemented by a double-ended magnifying mirror and a folding mirror, plus enough amulets arrayed along the rear of the table to open a shop. A couple of them did have the sniff of magic about them. They glowed feebly, to Liz's experienced eye, like a child's nightlights.

  Enjoying an audience with Her Majesty was a plump man with a dapper summer-weight jacket slung over his shoulder by one finger.

  “And there you are at last!” Fionna carolled. Her voice was a relaxed trill. The promised whiskey had obviously met a few friends on its way down her throat. “Meet Mr. Winslow. He's a true darling.”

  “Building management, ma'am, er . . . sir,” the man in the white suit said, turning to offer a hand. “When I heard about this . . . regrettable accident I just had to come down and offer my support. Are you . . . with the show?” he asked, looking Boo-Boo's attire up and down.

  “No, sir,” Boo said. “I'm with the Department.” He patted down several of his tattered pockets and came up with a shiny leather billfold. He flipped it open. “My credentials, sir.”

  Winslow's eyes widened as he examined the card and badge. “I see. I'm glad to see Miss Fionna has some . . . strong protectors. The fire marshall is upstairs now. They had to break in through the front doors, which will be replaced this afternoon, Mr. Peters,” Winslow added, turning an eye to look over his shoulder.

  “I'm glad to hear it,” Peters said. “My people will offer every cooperation.”

  “Was there anyone strange in the building when the dress caught fire?” Boo-Boo asked the manager.

  “God only knows. This place is the size of a palace, but everything was locked up. The rear doors were locked from the outside only. We had a grip stationed there to let our people in, but no one else. I suppose someone could have slipped in, and planted a booby trap.”

  “Which your Mr. Fitzgibbon . . . didn't see,” Winslow pointed out. Peters looked disconcerted.

  “Er, yes.”

  “I don't think it's too likely that what caused the trouble was in the dress itself,” Boo-Boo said.

  “It came from a distance, then?” Peters asked, uncomfortable. “Something was shot at him?” Fionna sat bolt upright in her chair with her lips pressed together. Liz wondered what Boo was thinking, but he gestured to her not to speak. He looked amiably at the building manager.

  “Well, no. All that flash powder hovering in the air, and those laser lights, there could have been a little accident.”

  “Good!” Winslow exclaimed, then looked guilty. “That's good, isn't it?”

  “Well, apart from Mr. Fitzgibbon having to make another dress.”

  Laura Manning waved the idea away. “Oh, don't worry about Tommy. He's probably in there at this moment inventing a new confection in silk and lace. He lives to suffer. Ask him. Why, he's even accused me of ruining his dresses with my nasty foundations and rouges. Greasepaint isn't up in that lofty sphere with haute couture.”

  “Excuse me, Mr. Winslow?” A man in firefighter's rig with a clipboard appeared at the door. “Fire marshall. Everything seems to be under control. The building's all right. The crews are withdrawing. You've got a mess up there, Mr. Winslow. Sorry about that, sir.”

  Winslow was gracious. “You're doing your very worthy job, Marshall. My thanks. My maintenance people . . . will already be on the job, Miss Fionna.” He offered her a courtly little bow.

  In sharp contrast to the courtesy of the building manager, Lloyd Preston pushed his way in, a scowl on his face. He stood over Fionna, who reached out a thin and, Liz thought, dramatically trembling hand to him. “Everything's okay. We can get right back to work.”

  “But,” Liz began to protest. Everyone in the room turned to look at her.

  “But what?” Lloyd demanded. Fionna sat bolt upright in her armchair, ready to flee the scene at the sound of a threat.

  “But,” Boo said loudly, drowning her out, “we'll be keeping an eye on things.” He nodded knowingly to Fionna, who shot them a look of relief. “We'll get right on it.” He took Liz's arm and hustled her out of the dressing room.

  Chapter 9

  Liz pulled Boo to a halt just outside the door.

  “What was all that about?” she demanded, in a fierce whisper. “Don't you want to keep the place under lock and key until we can have a thorough look around? This place is the size of a city!”

  “There's no time,” Boo said. “We don't want them cancelling the concert, which they will if they think there's some kind of assassin out there.”

  “There may be an assassin out there!”

  “I know,” Boo said, apologetically, “but it's the concert itself that'll bring him out in the open. If y'all whisk Miss Fionna away to the next stop on the tour, or cancel it altogether, it'll just start over again, and we'll never get a handle on it.”

  “No,” Liz said, thinking hard. She hated to admit it, but he was right. “That's true. Very well, then. We'll need to question the grip if he let anyone in he shouldn't have. Someone carrying a device or the wherewithal to cause that kind of long-distance conflagration.” Boo shook his head.

  “We don't have to do that. He's clear. Of anyone toting magic, anyhow.”

  Liz gawked. “How do you know that? We didn't speak to him.”

  “Oh, well, there wasn't a sniff of magic in that whole corridor when we came in,” Boo explained.

  Enlightenment dawned as Liz recalled Boo's antics at the entrance to the Superdome. “Ah! So that was the meaning of that whole performance for the TV cameras. You were taking a reading.”

  “And settin' a detector,” Boo said, with satisfaction. “Are you familiar with the Acardian Gate theory?” Liz nodded, wondering if he meant the original theory, or the update that had come down from the research boffins in the last six months. “Well, now, let's take a look at the rest of the Superdome. I want to see where they stove in the front doors, before they clean it up.”

  * * *

  Now that Boo-Boo was out of sight of the others, Liz could tell he was impatient to get back to the arena. Liz made him wait before they went upstairs so she could set a protective cantrip over Fionna's dressing room. Not knowing where the attack might be coming from, if there was to be an attack, she drew power from the air around her and laid a spell on the door. As she gathered up the ball of energy, she could feel the tension permeating the Superdome. She disliked making personal magic in an unwarded space, but the cantrip itself was comforting, like a warm cat curled on one's lap. As old as time, the little spell couldn't stop anyone physically, but it would repel anyone of malign intent. It was layered with a fillip of her own invention that would alert her like a siren if something went wrong. She tied a knot in the energy and let it go, feeling it twang against the dressing room door. She hoped Fee wouldn't stir from there until she got back from their perimeter walk of the building.

  Boo took Liz's arm and hurried her up the long ramps and escalators to the stadium level.

  The fire department was withdrawing its equipment. The hoses which lay everywhere slithered underfoot as they were being rolled up. Liz saw Hugh Banks, the stage manager, trip over a coil that snaked
around his foot. He got up, swearing, and went back to dressing down some of the stagehands.

  Microphones were being brandished under the noses of the band members still on stage.

  “Looks like a few of the reporters sneaked in,” Boo said easily. “Can't blame 'em. Probably used police department credentials to get past the door.”

  “We need to get them out,” Liz said, feeling frustrated that she couldn't manifest a huge broom and sweep them all towards the exit. “They couldn't have been here when the fire occurred, but we do not want them in the way.”

  It was time for Boo to look startled. “Why are you so sure none of them could be responsible?”

  Liz tried not to look superior. “They'd have had to hide for hours. Can you imagine any of them waiting patiently in the wings before pouncing on their prey? Look at them!” The reporters were doing a fair impression of sharks shoving their way into a netful of bleeding tuna parts.

  “They do kinda have that Christmas mornin' wrapper-tearin' thing goin' on,” Boo said, with a grin.

  Just in case Liz had misjudged one of them, the two agents did a quick walk-by of as many of the reporters as they could. None of them paid either Liz or Boo more than a cursory glance to make sure they weren't famous. Liz did a light magical frisking on them. None was imbued with more than a good luck charm's worth of magic, though there were many such charms, amulets and mascots tucked away in purses, pockets, and backpacks. Liz had never seen so much superstitious paraphernalia outside of the Avebury Stone Circle gift shop. New Orleans was steeped in awareness of the supernatural. What a place for Fionna to have planted herself! If there was a malign magical presence it might well be camouflaged by the locals.

  Green Fire was living up to its name. The musicians were trying to be patient and gracious in the midst of the turmoil. They weren't succeeding. The reporters were relentless, trying to wrest any details they could about the attack. Eddie Vincent stood at the open side of his keyboards like a sentry, preventing entry to his sanctum sanctorum, and steering all questions toward the subject of the tour itself.