Pure Dead Brilliant

by Debi Gliori

  Removing his helmet and stooping to enter the tavern, Nostrilamus noted that the room had fallen into respectful silence on his arrival. Even better, he was early, for the appointed table by the fire was empty. Peeling off his damp cloak and hurling it at the tavern-keeper, he raked the crowded room with a slitty-eyed glare. Judging by the insignias on their breastplates, the tavern's clientele were drawn from the ranks of Legion XII of Draco Inflatus, and judging by the vast quantities of liquor being drunk, they were just as homesick as he was.

  The tavern-keeper bowed low before Nostrilamus—not quite low enough to indicate complete subjugation, but pretty well spot on for a respectful, if reluctant grovel. “Ave, Caledon,” he muttered. “Welcome. Did you have a booking? As you can see, we're pretty full tonight, but I'm sure we can find a space for such an important person as yourself—”

  “That one,” said Nostrilamus, indicating the table beside the fire. “I'll take that, and a flask of Caoil Ilax for starters.”

  The tavern-keeper paled. Pointing with a quivering finger to a small scrap of vellum fixed to the table with a wax seal, he wrung his hands apologetically. “Reservatus, my esteemed Caledon. Reservatus, I'm afraid. But I'm sure we can squeeze you in at another—”

  “You are mistaken,” stated Nostrilamus, pushing past the trembling tavern-keeper and tearing the vellum off the table before hurling it in the fire. “This table is no longer ‘reservatus,' it's taken. Now quit dithering and bring me the Caoil Ilax.”

  Behind him, the vellum burst into flames, causing Nostrilamus to be briefly haloed in red fire. The tavern-keeper gave a frightened squeak of terror and fell to his knees. His voice wobbled and his eyes became round orbs of terror.

  “I beg you, Caledon, do not take that table. It is reserved for one, and one only.”

  At that moment the door to the tavern blew open, and the temperature plummeted, far below zero. Once more, silence fell in the crowded room. In the dim light of the lantern at the doorway, Nostrilamus could see a figure wrapped in a cloak, wreathed in coils of mist that rolled and twined around its feet. Cleaving a path through the legionaries, the figure arrived at the table by the fire and threw a strange black object onto it. Prostrate on the floor, the tavern-keeper gave a strangled sob.

  “What a time I've had getting here,” the cloaked figure complained. “Traffic was just awful. Been waiting long? Hang on a tick, I'll just turn this thing to mute. We don't want any interruptions, do we?” And seizing the black object, he pressed it with his index finger, causing it to emit a high-pitched note.

  Lowering his gaze to where the tavern-keeper lay on the floor, the cloaked figure sighed. “Don't just lie there, man,” he commanded. “Take my cloak, fetch my colleague here a drink, and bring me a goblet of the usual.”

  “B-b-brimstone and v-v-vitriol?” the tavern-keeper quavered, staggering to his feet.

  “On the rocks.” The figure shed its black cloak with a sinuous shimmy and slid into the seat opposite Nostrilamus. With an obsequious bow, the tavern-keeper backed away, and in the background the noise returned to a normal roar.

  “And so, to business.” The figure stretched its legs closer to the fire and turned its gaze on the silent Nostrilamus. “First—introductions. Tonight, you can call me Astoroth, Second Minister of the Hadean Executive, with special responsibility for pacts and soul harvests. You summoned, and here I am.”

  Despite his proximity to the fireplace, Nostrilamus shivered. This had all seemed like such a good idea back in Rome. Now he wasn't quite so sure. Meeting Astoroth's gaze across the table, Nostrilamus suppressed a scream. The minister from the Hadean Executive regarded him implacably through a pair of deep-red eyes. Eyes in which Nostrilamus saw himself twice reflected, naked of both clothes and skin, a skeleton burning in an unquenchable fire. . . .

  “Now don't get all hysterical on me, pal,” Astoroth advised, hooding those awful eyes and stirring the embers of the fire with an outstretched foot. Frozen with dread, Nostrilamus saw that the minister's foot was not only unshod, but ended in a cloven hoof.

  “Too late to press rewind,” Astoroth advised, the sound of his voice resembling the noise of fingernails being dragged across slate. “I'm not some sort of minor demon, a genie that you can just stuff back in the bottle. . . . Have you mortals no concept of the amount of paperwork involved in setting up this kind of deal?”

  Taking Nostrilamus's silence for understanding, Astoroth continued, “Right. Pay attention. Seeing as how this is your first time, I'll go through the contract with you before you sign it at the bottom. Here, take my knife and open a vein while I explain. . . .”

  Numb with fear, Nostrilamus obeyed, using the minister's outstretched knife to cut a deep nick in the skin of his left wrist. Blood welled up and began to drip from the wound. He tried to concentrate on the words.

  “. . . and in return for vast wealth, in a currency of our choosing, the Hadean Executive merely requires a small favor. To wit: you get gold, salt, gems, myrrh, et cetera, and on your death, we harvest your soul. Simple, huh?”

  The strange black object on the table beside Astoroth began to quiver and twitch, as if it had a life of its own. Ignoring this, Astoroth produced a scroll covered in dense rows of script in a foreign language, which he unrolled in front of Nostrilamus. His tapping forefinger indicated a space at the foot of this document.

  “Sign here. Excuse me for one moment while I take this call. Such a bore. I do apologize—” He plucked the vibrating object off the table, pressed it to his ear, and did something that caused it to light up and emit a tiny note like a mechanical birdcall. “Yes, what?” he barked, pointing with ill-disguised impatience at the scroll. Miming the action of writing, he turned his attention back to the black object. “I'm in a meeting. What d'you mean there's a couple of problems? You want an extra clause added in? Consider it done—the client's putty in my hands. Now, what else? I can hardly hear you, you're breaking up. . . . Who? What awful mistake? The Chronostone has gone AWOL? Of course I know what it looks like. D'you take me for a complete moron? When I chose the trinkets for this job, there's no way I would have mixed up the Chronostone with that bunch of tacky baubles.” Astoroth stared into the flames, trying to drown a growing sense of foreboding in a tide of bluster. “I'm not a cretin, you know. Don't get your asbestos knickers in a twist. The Boss probably dropped it in the Pit. It'll turn up.”

  Using an index finger as a clumsy tool with which to scrawl his signature in his own blood, Nostrilamus tried hard not to eavesdrop. Astoroth's black object had not only lit up and made noises like a bird, but now it appeared to have its own voice. A tiny voice that repeated the word “Chronostone” with dismaying clarity. Each time the voice spoke, Astoroth appeared to flinch, until finally he removed the black thing from his ear and regarded it with loathing.

  “Lost the signal. Infernal things. And bad news all round, I'm afraid . . . especially for you.” He crossed one leg over the other and frowned at Nostrilamus.

  Mystified, Nostrilamus smiled nervously. He hadn't a clue what the minister was on about, but he had a sinking feeling that none of it augured well.

  “Change of plan,” Astoroth said. “I've been told to add a codicil to your contract. Terribly sorry, but it can't be helped. Security reasons, close a few loopholes—that sort of thing. . . .” He bent over the signed document and breathed on it. Where there had been rows of dense script was now blank paper. Licking the end of his finger as if it were a stylus, Astoroth began to use his own spit to redraft the contract. The words smoked as they branded themselves onto the paper.

  The tavern-keeper reappeared at the table, bearing their drinks on a wooden board. Turning the contract back round for Nostrilamus's signature, Astoroth took his drink from the trembling landlord.

  “A toast,” he said, extending his goblet at arm's length.

  “Apologies, M-M-Minister,” the landlord stammered. “I'm fresh out of bread for the t-t-toa—”

  “Not that kind, you
stupid imbecile,” Astoroth hissed. “A toast to the future. To the future harvest of souls—”

  “Um, yes. I wish you'd given me some w-w-warning, Minister. The boats haven't been out for a while. I'm out of fre-fre-fre-fresh—soles.”

  “Give me strength,” Astoroth muttered, rolling his red eyes upward. “Drink up, Caledon,” he commanded, adding darkly, “You're going to need it.” He pushed the contract toward his companion and bid the landlord fetch his cloak.

  Seeing Nostrilamus peering in utter incomprehension at the newly written contract, Astoroth pointed to his amendments. “It's paragraph three, subsection thirteen, clause seven you might want to have a wee squint at. Specifically, the line beginning, ‘The soul of the undersigned and that of all male firstborn descendants thereof shall be forfeit from now until eternity—'”

  “WHAAAAT?” squealed Nostrilamus.

  Astoroth drained his goblet and smacked his lips with evident relish. Smoke began to leak from his nostrils, ears, and mouth. “Sign it, Caledon,” he commanded, each word propelling gouts of yellow sulfurous smoke from his mouth, like a bad case of spectral halitosis. “And get a move on. Time is money.” He stood up and turned to where the tavern-keeper stood holding his cloak. This movement afforded both mortals the ghastly sight of a long, snake-like protrusion whipping round the minister's calves, swiftly and mercifully obscured by the folds of his cloak—but not before it became apparent that the minister from the Hadean Executive was in possession of a forked tail.

  Nostrilamus signed. Drawing scant comfort from the fact that at least he wouldn't be around to see the damage wreaked on his unborn descendants by this pact with Hades, he consigned all their souls to perdition. Right now, he would have signed his grandmother into slavery, if it guaranteed getting rid of this cloven-footed, fork-tailed, brimstone-swilling obscenity.

  As if reading his thoughts, Astoroth tutted mildly, then purred, “Been a real pleasure, actually.” Tucking the contract into his cloak and holding out a small roll of vellum, he said, “You'll find the money hidden in the Forest of Caledon. Here's a wee map to pinpoint exactly which of the eighteen thousand and twenty-one oaks I've hidden it under. Oh, and before I forget, take some reinforcements with you, dear boy. . . . I've heard tell that the natives are none too friendly. Ave, Caledon. Abyssinia, toodle-pip—I'll . . . be . . . back.”

  With this last threat, he sauntered straight across the tavern and out through the door into the darkness.

  Friendly Fire

  Such is the voracious nature of the West of Scotland gnat that whole communities have been known to spend their entire summer indoors, thereby avoiding offering up their bodies for insect consumption. Thus it was with the Strega-Borgia family, every year without fail. Returning to StregaSchloss with the morning papers and milk, Latch the butler had vanished, bearing a bottle of calamine lotion and a wire brush in the hope of calming down his new crop of gnat bites. Ten minutes later, the sight of their butler, bleeding and calamine-encrusted, made the Strega-Borgias vow that they would rather set their hair on fire than brave the infested air of Argyll.

  Imprisoned in the kitchen, Damp sat at the table, watching as Mrs. McLachlan put finishing touches on a three-tier chocolate meringue cake. When the nanny's attention focused on something outside the kitchen window, Damp stretched out her hand to sample a fingerful of cake. The door swung open and Damp's mother, Signora Baci Strega-Borgia, swept in, a tide of black silk swirling round her from her shoulders to her feet. The overall impact of her costume was somewhat marred by the ragged holes that marched across the brim of her ceremonial witch's hat, the topmost pinnacle of which was dented beyond repair. Oblivious to the sight of her baby daughter's hand poised over the cake, Signora Strega-Borgia dragged her hat from her head and groaned.

  “Oh, just look at that! What a mess. And Flora—that's the first guest arriving now, isn't it?”

  Mrs. McLachlan turned round from the window and gazed at Signora Strega-Borgia. Damp immediately stuffed her hands into her pockets and swallowed the evidence.

  “Very nice, dear,” the nanny said, as if seeing one's employer in full-on witch's costume were an everyday occurrence not worthy of comment. “Perhaps not the hat, though. Not quite up to scratch. And yes, your first guest is dropping out of the sky, even as we speak. . . .”

  Puzzled by this, Damp slid off her chair and wobbled across to the window. Walking was a recently acquired skill, and the baby still preferred the safety of the crawl or even the bottom-shuffle if the terrain was perilous. Mrs. McLachlan plucked her off the floor and held her up to the window.

  “Look, pet—here comes one of Mummy's friends. What a most unusual way to travel . . .”

  From the wicker gondola suspended below the giant hot-air balloon, the aerial view of StregaSchloss and its surroundings was truly breathtaking. The land rolled in sinuous folds from the peaks of Bengormless down to a wooded plain, which curved round the Strega-Borgias' home before sloping gently into the clear waters of Lochnagargoyle.

  Sadly for the arriving guest, the dizzying rate of her descent afforded little time for admiring the view. Ariadne Ventete's first sight of StregaSchloss was through a hail of crisped insects that had expired in the flame of the gas burners keeping her hot-air balloon aloft. She aimed for the garden, sweeping over the fifty-six chimneys of StregaSchloss, heading for the meadow that lay between the house and the sea loch. To slow her rapid approach, she tugged on the chain that opened the vent of the burners and was immediately engulfed in another wave of carbonized gnats.

  Accompanied by a sound like a cappuccino-maker, the vast panels of pink balloon silk were for one glorious moment illuminated against the sky.

  One of the three beasts sprawled across the stone steps of StregaSchloss was seriously impressed by this short display of firepower.

  “Now, that's what I call fire.” Sab the griffin dug his elbow into the ribs of his companion, who responded with a snort.

  “I could do that sort of squitty piddly little flame with my eyes shut,” replied Ffup, regarding the descending balloon with disdain. “You non-dragons are always impressed by anything bigger than a candle. Check it out—no staying power—just one feeble wee puff and then nothing, nada, zilch, zippety-doo.”

  On the dragon's lap, Nestor gave a flatulent parrrp, followed almost immediately by an acrid stench.

  “Is that what I think it is?” hissed Sab, glaring at the small creature. “Has your offspring filled his diaper again? Honestly, if he's not downloading into his pants, he's spitting it up over your shoulder.” The griffin gave a fastidious shudder and stood up.

  Oblivious to the slander, the baby beast wriggled in Ffup's lap, popped a knobbly talon into his mouth, and closed his eyes with a happy snuffle.

  Ffup gazed down at her baby son, as ever amazed at how much life had changed since the infant had hatched on the stroke of midnight of the new year. Gone were the freedoms she had enjoyed for the previous six centuries. Now, with this little creature to look after, Ffup's sleep was interrupted several times every night with infant wails, and as for freedom . . . that was just a distant and fading memory. In consideration of this, Ffup spat rebelliously into a flower bed and gave a fiery snort from both nostrils.

  Overhead, the balloon sank lower, its gondola just grazing the treetops, its passenger leaning over the side with a mooring rope dangling from one hand. Down by the loch, Tock the crocodile emerged from the water and lolloped toward the meadow. Knot crawled out of the loch behind him, and made his way effortfully over the pebbles of the foreshore.

  “Well, that's an improvement,” observed Ffup, picking up her baby and ambling forward to assist in tethering the balloon.

  “Taking a bath once a year does seem rather inadequate, don't you think?” said Sab, making his way down the steps to the rose-quartz drive. “Give Knot two weeks and he'll stink again.”

  The yeti shook himself, thus ridding his fur of several gallons of loch-water. Each vigorous shimmy was accomp
anied by a loud slap as potato peelings, coffee grounds, apple cores, chicken bones, and bacon rinds flew from his fur in a swinging arc across the meadow.

  “Could someone grab this rope and tie it to a tree before I land on your dog?”

  The balloonist made shooing noises at Knot and hurled out a length of rope from the gondola. Insulted at being referred to as a mere dog, the yeti pointedly turned his back on the balloon and began to pick lice out of his wet fur and transfer them to his mouth. Ahead of him, Tock shot across the meadow to assist in the landing, his stumpy crocodile legs flattening the grasses, sending clouds of gnats boiling up into the sky in his wake.

  The beasts watched impassively as the gondola rocked and bounced, its passenger thrashing and flailing ineffectually with one hand, the other clutching the mooring rope.

  “Hurry it up, would you?” she yelled, an edge of panic creeping into her voice. “I'm being eaten alive here.”

  Watching this drama from the gnat-free zone of the kitchen, Signora Strega-Borgia felt compelled to help. After all, it had been her idea to offer StregaSchloss as the venue for a study week with her classmates from the Institute of Advanced Witchcraft. Therefore it was her responsibility to look after her guests as a good hostess should. Mrs. McLachlan was busy washing chocolate meringue cake off Damp's legs, hands, and face; Latch was winding himself into rolls of bandages after an over-enthusiastic exfoliating session with a wire brush; her husband, Luciano, had driven Titus and Pandora down to the village to spend their pocket money; and so it fell to her to extend a warm welcome to this first guest. Signora Strega-Borgia opened the kitchen door, nearly tripping over the hunched figure of Marie Bain, the StregaSchloss cook, who was laboring under the weight of a tray laden with what looked like inflated sea slugs.