by IGMS
"You don't have to have it with you, it just needs to be yours. I'll find it."
Marco knew his most valuable possessions: his three first edition comic books. But if he gave the demon the books to find out what happened to Uncle Joe, what about getting home? Well, he did have three of them. And if Aunt Violet would give her heart, he could give one of his comics.
"OK. Issue one number one of The Elvis Avenger. It's yours."
"Nice taste. Deal. Joseph is stuck in the inter-temporal vortex."
"He's still alive!?"
"Yep. He was put there by a demonic derivatives trader who didn't like getting the short end of a credit swap."
"Can I get him out?"
"What do you have to offer?"
Marco carefully phrased the next question. "I'll give you issue one number one of Cynopolis if you tell me how can I get him out."
"You need to bring him a watch. He's lost track of time. Once he's reconnected to the space-time continuum he'll know how to get home."
"That's not a complete answer. How do I get there?" Marco only had one comic book left, and couldn't waste it.
"Just look at page thirteen of Classic Charms."
Marco still needed to get home. "Issue one, number one of Squirrel Girl to tell me how to break the Hooverology spell."
"Oh, that's easy. Rescue Joseph and let him do it. You might want to take Squeaky along for the ride."
With a puff of smoke, the demon disappeared.
A sob broke the silence. Aunt Violet stood in the doorway holding a tray of lemonade and water. Tears were running down her cheeks.
Marco pored over the spell ("Getting away from it all") in the charm book, while Aunt Violet sat in a chair and drank her lemonade. She'd seen it all.
"I think I've got everything I need except two watches and a timer. Sorry, but the timer might not survive." Marco wanted an extra watch for himself, just to be safe.
Aunt Violet set down her drink and left the room. She returned a minute later with an egg-timer and a heavy gold watch.
"Here's Joe's watch. He left it on his nightstand, although he usually wore it wherever he went." She took a thin, silver watch off her wrist. "Here's mine. Are you sure I can't come with you?"
"The spell only works for one person."
Marco looked at the watch on the desk. It read 12:30.
"Mrs. Quack! I forgot. Can you let her know I'm at your house?" Marco asked. He put the gold watch in his pocket and strapped the silver one to his wrist.
"Sure." Aunt Violet left the room and a moment later Marco heard her on the phone in the hall.
Marco took off one boot and picked up Squeaky's ball. Then he bashed the timer with the boot, whispering, "time out, time out, time out."
A now-familiar white light flashed.
He was in a white room. A tousle-haired man dressed in a blue button-down shirt, light grey slacks, and black socks but no shoes stood in the center. The man stared at a featureless white wall rising from a featureless white floor to a featureless white ceiling.
"Uncle Joe?" He looked pretty young to be Marco's uncle.
The man turned and looked at him.
"Who are you?"
"Um. Marco. Your nephew."
"Franco and Bessie's kid?"
"Yes."
"Really? Wow. That's the problem with this place. It's just so easy to lose track of time. They say you can count the seconds, but I never knew when to start." Joe stared off again.
Marco withdrew Joe's watch from his pocket. "I think this is yours." He walked up to Joe and fastened it on his wrist. Joe continued to stare at the wall.
Marco stepped back. "Uncle Joe! We have to leave!"
Joe glanced at the watch. His entire body tensed.
"We have to go. Quickly, before . . ."
"Before what?" A Tinkerbell-sized pixie popped into the air between Marco and Joe, its voice high and chirpy. It wore a blue double-breasted suit and waved a cane.
Joe grimaced. "Hello, Alpha. It seems like we just spoke, but it sounds like it's been a while. It's not nice to inter-temporally exile someone while they're napping."
"It wasn't nice for you to stick me with the entire Mexican Peso devaluation either. Nice isn't part of business."
"Dirty tricks aren't business either. I've had enough." Uncle Joe started to mumble under his breath and his feet began to dance.
"I think you still haven't learned your lesson." Alpha pointed his cane at Joe's watch and lightning sprung towards the device.
Uncle Joe's face grew lax.
Marco wished his sister was here. She'd know how to beat up this pixie.
The pixie turned to face Marco. "Goodbye." He pointed his cane at the watch on Marco's wrist.
Lightning flashed. Marco started counting -- One one-thousand. The pixie disappeared. The watch froze at 12:36.17. Two one-thousand. He knew when he started, so as long as he counted the seconds, he'd know the time. Three one-thousand.
"Uncle Joe! It's twelve thirty six and twenty seconds!" Uncle Joe stared at the wall. "Twelve thirty-six and twenty one seconds." Marco shook Uncle Joe's shoulder. No response.
Sooner or later he'd lose track of time and end up staring at the wall like his uncle. Twelve thirty-six and twenty two seconds. How long could he count? He had to find a way out, and quickly.
Marco examined the room for an exit, carefully counting a second a beat. Nothing. It was hard to judge the size of the featureless space, but it felt just a bit larger than his bedroom. The light seeped into the room from the walls; no light fixture hung from the ceiling. The walls stretched unbroken, corner-to-corner. He knocked on the walls; solid, all the way around.
At an hour, Marco announced the milestone to a listless Joe and a quivering Squeaky. "We've made three thousand six-hundred seconds!" It was getting hard to keep counting.
Squeaky squeaked. Marco opened the hamster ball and scratched behind his ear. Poor guy was probably hungry. Marco's stomach growled in sympathy. He'd missed lunch too. Marco wondered if they'd starve to death or lose count first.
"One." He continued into the second hour. "This is impossible, Squeaks. Two. There is no way out. Three."
The impossible. Marco tried to remember the spell about doing the impossible. He needed crow gizzard. Four. Where could he get crow gizzard?
He searched Uncle Joe's pockets while his uncle stared at the wall. Five, six, seven, eight. Nothing but pocket lint.
Pocket lint, crow gizzard, what's the difference? Marco looked at the exitless room. He had nothing to lose. Nine. He spit on the pocket lint and cried "Succurre mihi" while dancing his best jig.
A bright white light flashed across the room.
"Sauna Spell Activated!" cried a woman's voice, followed by a tinkling laughter.
Warm steam filled the room.
"Next time, if there is one," Marco asked Squeaky, "please remind me pocket lint is not crow gizzard."
He sat at Uncle Joe's feet. By one fifteen p.m., per a careful count, he sat in a puddle of sweat and steam. Squeaky panted in his hamster ball. Marco was hot, hungry, and thirsty. He should have drunk his lemonade.
"Squeaky, we're in a big mess," Marco said, tapping the hamster ball.
Marco realized what he'd just said.
"That's it!" he exclaimed. "We're in a mess!" He only knew three other spells: He didn't have a spoon, and didn't need an ogre; but he did have a big mess on his hands.
He started to sing about the power of clean, counting time to the beat. He took Squeaky from the hamster ball, set him on the floor, and scrubbed the floor behind him with the spacesuit sleeve. He cleaned white: white walls, white floor, repeating the song and the time. He even cleaned the white ceiling, sitting on Uncle Joe's shoulders to polish the smooth surface with his sock.
He cleaned white for a very long while.
After three hours, twenty-five minutes, and thirteen seconds, according to his count, the cleaning spell voice boomed across the room, "This space is now desi
gnated clean. You are required to wear personal protective equipment when in a clean area. Please don appropriate protective head, foot, and body cover to minimize particulate contamination. Improperly protected visitors will be removed."
Marco picked up Squeaky and grabbed on to his uncle.
"Improperly protected visitors have 10 seconds to exit the area. Ten. Nine. Eight."
Uncle Joe stared at the wall.
"Seven. Six. Five." Marco hoped this worked.
"Four. Three. Two." If it didn't work . . .
"One." The white light flashed. They were back at Uncle Joe's desk. Aunt Violet sat in the chair. She gave a cry and jumped up to embrace Uncle Joe.
"Contaminant source removed."
"Stay out of my room!" Lindsey banged on Marco's door. She'd returned from camp just as Marco got home with Uncle Joe and Aunt Violet. They'd both been sent upstairs while the grownups talked in the living room. Lindsey had not been happy to see Squeaky out of his cage.
"I'm sorry, Lindsey. I needed Squeaky for something." Marco sat on the floor near his bookshelf.
"Oh, you'll be sorry -- when I give you a personal introduction to pain." The door shook.
Marco picked up An Introduction to Wizardry and looked in the index under "Sisters, annoying."
No luck. He'd have to use what he already knew.
"You better be nice to me, Lindsey," he called, smiling. "Or else I'll clean your bedroom. And believe me, you don't want that."
The Lair of the Twelve Princesses
by Amanda C. Davis
Artwork by Julie Dillon
* * *
I. The First Night
Bay followed the dance of the ivory dice across the table. Her bitten-dull nails dug into her palms. A bounce -- another -- and the pair fell still. A one and a three. There went the last of her coins. Oh well, she thought, grinding the heel of her hand into her eyes as the narrow-faced man across the table from her raked in his winnings. Wasn't enough to buy a room anyway.
The winner called out false condolences; Bay gave him a halfhearted sneer in return. She gathered her army kit from under her chair. Waving away the sniggering offers from her fellow-gamblers to share their beds, she collected her sword at the tavern door and limped out into the warm city evening.
When she was well into the shadows of the streets, a cloud of ash swirled from the lead bottle tied at her waist. It settled atop her shoulder and solidified into a deep-red, oddly handsome imp, who made himself comfortable between the collar and epaulet of her faded army uniform. "Poor fortune again, I see."
Bay limped along, steadfast and slow as always. "You could have been more help in there, Khloromain."
"I would have," sniffed the imp, "had you simply wished me to. But you chose to trust your dice to fate."
"Between you and fate, I trust fate further," said Bay. "I thought I saw an empty alley behind the butcher's a few streets over. Stunk to hell but I bet nobody'd bother us until morning."
Khloromain made a noise of interest and rose from her shoulder without warning. "Wait." He zipped away. In a moment he returned carrying a poster bearing the seal of the king. He waggled the poster in Bay's face. "Why don't we lodge in the king's manor instead?"
Bay brushed the poster aside. "What's it say?"
The imp's eyebrows rose craftily. "You wish me to read it?"
"No, I want you to read it, Khloromain," said Bay, with the patience of a weary parent. "No wishes. You'll know when I use my wishes."
Khloromain gave an elaborate sigh. "Fine, fine. If it will save me from sleeping in a butcher's scrap pile. It's a royal notice. The king's daughters require a bodyguard. Permit me to suggest, my battle-hardened mistress, that you might make an ideal candidate to guard a passel of princesses."
Bay stroked her sword-hilt with her thumb, thinking. The leather there had long since worn smooth. "You're leaving something out," she said. "What's the catch?"
"Ah, well," said Khloromain, shrugging, "there's some sort of mild curse. But a great reward for breaking it!" he added. "Listen -- 'Marriage to the princess of his choosing, and succession to the throne'!"
"Khloromain . . ."
"I'd take her off your hands, of course. Or you could negotiate for something more personally appealing."
Bay gazed at the cobblestones, thinking of all the things she could have for the price of a throne. Soft beds. Warm meals. A place in the country. Ale in her glass, cool ivory dice in her fingers and always enough coins for the next roll. She'd given the king years of service already and earned none of that. But this was different. She wouldn't come out of this job just another damaged soldier with a fast-vanishing pension. She could come out of it enormously rich. A hero.
"All right," she said. She tugged the notice from Khloromain's claws and folded it carefully. "Why not? There's no harm in trying."
"No harm at all," said Khloromain, grinning wide.
"Get back in your bottle," she said, tucking the notice into her jacket. "I want you as a trick up my sleeve, for now." The imp made a sardonic little bow and fell into smoke. He trickled from her shoulder into his lead bottle. Bay set off at a steady limp down the street. "An audience with the king. Almost makes me wish I hadn't sold the medals."
"I'm sure you'll make a fine presentation," said the bottle.
"That's funny," said Bay, tilting her head. "I thought I heard a vote of confidence just now."
"Must have been the wind," said the bottle.
"That must be it."
Once more she turned her feet toward the service of the king.
The king's manor squatted amid acres of lush gardens that glowed under pinprick lantern-lights. It was gated in every direction. The guards at the front gate tossed Bay back with casual threats until she pulled out the folded notice. In minutes, she was led to the throne room and there she knelt, Bay, before the king. She had seen him before, but only from afar. She remembered his rich clothing, his fine horse. Then she'd been flanked by comrades. Now she stood alone.
He bid her rise. He was uncrowned and casually-garbed, with only a handful of court ladies whispering in a ruffled cluster across the room. Perhaps she'd been wrong to seek an audience so late. He looked her up and down. "Assuming you haven't stolen that uniform, I suppose you're one of those mad women from the south. I hope the war was everything you hoped."
Her at-attention stance came naturally, though it had been months. "Everything and more, your majesty," said Bay.
"They say you want a try at guarding my daughters," said the king. "I'll tell you now, you can't marry any of them."
One of the courtiers gave a loud, nervous giggle. Bay raised her chin. "Keep your daughter, sir," she said. "Only give me her dowry if I succeed."
The king stroked his chin. "A fair enough substitute. Very well. I'll let my daughters explain it. Griselda?"
A tall woman stepped out from among the courtiers, and Bay realized with a sinking shock that they were the princesses -- all the princesses. The infamous dozen. She felt terrifically outnumbered. The tall woman made a brusque curtsey. "Every night my sisters and I retire to our bedchamber, and father locks us in himself, with his own key. And when we wake, we find our shoes worn through at the sole."
"Passing strange, isn't it, Griselda?" said the king, without a smile.
"Yes, father," said Griselda. Her chilly tone echoed her father's. "Passing strange."
"It's costing me a fortune in shoes," said the king, "so I took to posting guards outside their chambers. And yet night after night: worn-out shoes. It's an epidemic. The kingdom cannot go on like this."
"No, sir," said Bay, frankly bewildered. This was worth a royal notice and a vast reward?
"Then you'll take the challenge?" said the king. "I warn you, you're not the first to try."
"Perhaps I will be lucky, sir," said Bay.
"You may well be. I hope in three days' time I will be rewarding your bravery rather than executing you for your failure."
Bay felt
her expression slip ever so slightly. "Execution, sir?"
"You understand that if you can't solve the riddle in three days you'll be put to death. It's on the notice in plain writing."
In plain writing! Much good that did her. Bay recovered herself. "Of course, sir."
"Then let your investigation begin immediately. You have the run of the castle. Here is the only key to the princesses' room. Griselda, make our guest comfortable."
Bay made a bow and a crisp salute to the king. When he nodded, she turned and followed the princess Griselda from the throne room into the narrow hall.
Bay kept at Griselda's heels, at a quicker pace than she liked. Her thigh gave a warning twinge. She gritted her teeth. No good would come of starting her new undertaking by showing weakness.
"So you're a soldier," said Griselda. Her low, sharp voice carried along the corridor. "How novel. I always thought war a fool's errand, myself."
Bay took that as an invitation to reply. "I agree, your highness," she said. "But if you ever find your home invaded and your family burned, you may find foolishness to your liking."
"I doubt it," said Griselda.
"Can you tell me anything about what happens at night?" asked Bay, at Griselda's back. "Have you and your sisters noticed anything?"
"Nothing," said Griselda impatiently.
"Any evidence other than the shoes?"
"None."
"Might I --"
"You might not," snapped Griselda, stopping and turning so fast that Bay nearly ran into her. "Our father may believe our dignity is worthless but we will hold fast to it."
"I mean no harm," said Bay. "Only to end your curse."
Griselda raised her chin. "Princes have failed this challenge, you know," she said, eyes flashing. "Princes have died."
Bay held her gaze. "Then it's lucky I am no prince."
Griselda's eyes went narrow. She raised an arm and for a moment Bay tensed, wondered what exactly she was going to try; but then the princess put her fingers on a door and pushed it open. "You will sleep here tonight. Our chamber is nearby." Her mouth tightened. "You'll know it by the guards outside the door. Excuse me." The princess Griselda turned on her heel and swept away.