The Wizard's Butler

by Nathan Lowell

  “Carry on, then.”

  “You’re a wizard?”

  “Yes. In the vernacular. Wizard is as good a term as any other. I pay a price for bending the universe to my will.”

  “You know other wizards?”

  “Yes.”

  “If I guess who they are, will you tell me if I’m right?”

  “No. By now you should be able to spot them. If you can’t, then you’re not paying attention and I won’t reveal their secrets to you.”

  “They live in the city?”

  “Some. I have rather a broad network, as my correspondence will have told you.”

  Roger nodded. “What’s the amulet?”

  Shackleford’s eyes widened slightly. “Fidelia,” he said. “Had to be.”

  Roger waited.

  The old man pulled his tie loose and unbuttoned the collar of his shirt. He reached in and pulled out a chain with a flat disk attached like a locket. The chain and disk looked like the same dark metal. “This is the amulet.

  “In my youth, I did my own share of adventuring, my boy. Wizard’s downfall, really. Needing to know more. Discover the next lost artifact. Pull back the veil on reality to see the infinite clockwork behind.” He shrugged. “I was no better than the rest. Always wanting more.” He snorted and looked up at Roger. “I grew up in the Southwest, out in the desert and mountains. The indigenous peoples had magic beyond measure. Many of them still do but have to hide it from—well—from people like me.” He paused. “You know the legend of Kokopelli?”

  “Only the image,” Roger said. “Trickster god. Coyote.”

  “Music and fertility,” Shackleford said. “There’s a reason they’re together in Kokopelli. His flute had the power to attract people and to seduce them, hence the trickster. We still have music like that today. Music that moves us to passion.” Shackleford sighed.

  “You went looking for his flute?”

  Shackleford chuckled. “Well, I was young and randy. Full of myself and needing to drain it off. What better magic than sex magic, eh?”

  “Not something I’ve considered, sir.”

  “Anyway. Down in the Four Corners region, Kokopelli is everywhere. Carved in petroglyphs, ancient paintings. The cultural appropriation started in the 1900s, Put him on real-estate signs and jewelry, T-shirts and lawn ornaments. When I was a lad, he was the local equivalent of Pan and Bacchus rolled into one. It’s impossible to find the truth about him anymore. It was even then.” Shackelford’s gaze turned inward. “That didn’t stop me from looking.”

  “You found that?” Roger asked.

  “One of the things I discovered was that the Navaho had a word that we translate as ‘canyon.’ It’s literal meaning is more like ‘inside the rock.’ There’s a national park in northeast Arizona called Canyon de Chelly which reads as ‘canyon inside the rock.’” He shrugged. “It set me looking for caves. I found this in one of them.” He paused. “Rather, it found me.”

  “That’s what’s causing your dementia?” Roger asked, trying to move the conversation along.

  Shackleford nodded. “When I found this, I found the spirit behind Kokopelli. Something ancient. Primordial in the truest sense. A being so old it predated language and communicated in pictures and signs. So powerful it shaped and reshaped rocks.”

  “Sounds like water,” Roger said.

  “Not a bad metaphor,” Shackleford said. “Anyway, I found this cave in the Chuska Mountains. Wasn’t the first to find it, either. Firepits around the mouth. Some animal signs inside. I’d seen a hundred like it before, but this one was the first to speak to me.”

  “Speak?”

  “Communicate. In my head. It promised—” He sighed. “It promised everything. Money. Power. Fame. Anything I wanted. All of it. No three-wishes limits.”

  “The price?” Roger asked, guessing where the story headed.

  “Not my soul, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Shackleford said, grinning at Roger. “Although that might have been a better deal.”

  “What then?”

  “My mind,” Shackleford said. “It wants my mind. One piece at a time.”

  “So, you get worldly rewards but go crazy?”

  “Baldly put, yes. It sent me out into the world and granted me amazing gifts. Wealth through foresight and intuition. Magical resources to call on, almost without limit. Women. Men. Whatever I wanted.” He paused and shook his head. “Until I turned seventy. On my birthday, it started taking my mind and has been for over a decade.”

  “Did you know?” Roger asked.

  Shackleford nodded. “Oh, yes. I was young and dumb and full of ... myself. I didn’t really think I’d live to 70, let alone 80.”

  “Can’t you just take it off?”

  “I can,” he said. “But I’ll die. That’s the deal. I’ve worn this thing for something like half a century.”

  “How do you know you can’t take it off if you’ve never done it?”

  Shackleford’s haunted gaze met Roger’s. “Because I found it beside the corpse of the last man to wear it. It was in his hand.”

  “So your choice is to let this thing take away your memories or commit suicide?”

  “In a nutshell, yes.”

  “What happens if somebody else puts it on?”

  “If they’re magical, the deal is struck anew. The spirit wasn’t in the cave. It’s in the necklace.” Shackleford tucked it back under his shirt and rebuttoned his collar. “It’s been handed down from wizard to mage for eons.”

  “So that’s what you meant. It’s dementia but not age,” Roger said.

  Shackleford nodded. He finished restoring his clothing and shrugged. “In another year, my grabby niece will probably succeed in her plot to have me declared incompetent and put in a home far away.”

  “Vail,” Roger said.

  “You knew?” Shackleford asked.

  “It was their rationale for the yearlong contract and the million-dollar payout.”

  “Cheeky of her. To actually tell you that.”

  “Is she magical?” Roger asked.

  Shackleford’s lips twisted to one side. “I said I wouldn’t tell you if you guessed. You already know.”

  “My guess is that the only thing she has going for her is sex appeal and a rich daddy.”

  “Close,” the old man said. “She’s got her own money. Trust fund on her mother’s side. She was a Shackleford, my sister. May she find the peace in death that she never saw in life.” He sighed. “What Naomi sees in Thomas, I’ll never know, but maybe he’s got assets that crazy Uncle Perry doesn’t know about.” He looked up. “Any more questions in that book?”

  “Just one. What is this place?”

  “What was it, you mean?” Shackleford asked. “Back in the 1700s, it was an orphanage. Charity being a godly virtue and all. Rich women with embarrassing babies could leave them here, with the appropriate donation, of course.”

  “Of course,” Roger said.

  “It was a good racket until the fire, apparently. Too many unanswered questions about who the children really were.” He looked around. “In the 1800s it became a boarding school. Much more fashionable, don’t you know. Very private. Very elite. You had to know somebody to get in. Later you had to know somebody who had attended to get in. The place got renovated a few times. The ballroom used to be the chapel. Godliness is next to godliness, I suppose. That went away in the 40s, if I remember.”

  “Now you live here alone,” Roger said.

  Shackleford shrugged. “Perkins and I took up residence about thirty years ago. My father, Oliver Franklin Shackleford, left it to me. Much as you see it here.”

  “Was he magical?”

  “You know the answer to that,” Shackleford said.

  “I can guess,” Roger said.

  “I inherited more than the house,” the old man said, and shrugged.

  “What happened to the boarding school?”

  Shackleford shook his head. “First World War, I think. M
oney shifted hands. Power shifted seats. The prestige survived. Still survives. It just went to other places and neither my father nor grandfather seemed inclined to pursue it.”

  “Who inherits it next?” Roger asked.

  “The Shackleford Foundation.” Shackleford grinned. “At the moment, it’s a shell company. Not-for-profit corporation that’s going to put the house and grounds into the National Register as a historic treasure.” He glanced around the library. “Not exactly Monticello, but it does predate it. It’s the oldest continuously occupied dwelling in the state—even if the dwelling itself has been rebuilt a couple of times.”

  “And Naomi can’t have it razed,” Roger said. “The land alone must be worth a fortune.”

  “A lot this size in this city? Millions. She wants the money more than the land.” Shackleford shrugged. “She’s been angling for it since she was a girl.”

  “Why do you care?” Roger asked.

  “Is that one of your questions?”

  Roger shook his head. “Just seemed like an important idea. You’ll be gone. Are there any more Shacklefords to pass it on to?”

  The old man paused. “None in the direct line.”

  “Any of the cousins who might appreciate the pixies and fairies?”

  The old man’s head started shaking back and forth, slowly at first but building up speed. “All of my nearest relations passed away and by the time I came to the point of needing to designate an heir, I was the only one left.”

  “That you knew of,” Roger said.

  He nodded. “That I knew of. I’ve employed an agency to carry on the search but no luck so far.”

  The front doorbell tinkled. Roger snapped his notebook shut. “Thank you, sir. Most illuminating.”

  “Thank you, Mulligan.” The old man seemed lost in thought as Roger closed the library door.

  Chapter 7

  Sam Bicker smiled as she handed Roger the envelope. “Everything’s there.”

  “Any surprises?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “Plug and play. Off-the-shelf components. The only pricey piece is the wireless rig to get through the wall.”

  “The old man wants to meet you, if you’ve got the time.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “You took the job even after hearing about the pixies and fairies.”

  She shrugged. “If he’s that far gone in dementia ...”

  “You up for it?”

  “Meeting him? Now?” she asked.

  Roger nodded.

  She glanced at her watch and nodded. “I’ve got a few minutes.”

  “Come on, then.” Roger led her up the stairs and tapped on the library door before entering. “Ms. Samantha Bicker, sir. She’s just dropped off the estimate for the installation of internet services.” He stepped aside so Sam could enter.

  Shackleford stood from the table and met her halfway with an outstretched hand. “Ms. Bicker. Thank you for meeting me.”

  “Call me Sam,” she said, taking the old man’s hand in a quick shake.

  “Come in. Have a seat,” he said, waving at the easy chairs in the corner. “I understand you heard about the pixies and fairies?”

  She perched on the front of the chair and stared at the old man. “Roger mentioned them. The work order specifically avoids drilling any holes in the house.”

  “That’s probably for the best. They can be a bit territorial, I fear.”

  “I wouldn’t know, sir,” she said.

  “Yet you took the job even after finding out that I’m a bit touched in the head,” Shackleford said. “Why?”

  Sam smiled. “If I refused work from everybody I thought might be crazy, I’d have no customers at all.”

  “Do you think I’m crazy, Sam?”

  “My grandmother had conversations with ghosts. My uncle lived according to the instructions he got from some spirit in a Ouija board.” She shrugged. “I don’t really know what’s crazy and what’s not. I just try to do my job the best I can and not worry about what my clients might think or say or do. Long as you pay your bill on time, I’ll give you the best service I can.”

  Shackleford nodded. “Pragmatic as well as smart. What do you think of Mulligan’s idea of installing internet here?”

  She glanced at Roger. “Well, he’s right. If his duties require him to be on premises almost full time, then the internet will give him access to the instructional materials he wants when he wants them.”

  “You know I’m a bit old-school?” Shackleford said, waving a hand at the substantial collection of books.

  “Nothin’ wrong with old-school, Mr. Shackleford,” she said.

  He grinned at her. “How would you add internet to this room?”

  “Here?” She looked around and blew out a slow breath. “Once the router’s connected, it would be pretty easy to put in a terminal. We might need a repeater, but as long as you’ve got the electrical outlet, it’s not difficult.” She paused.

  “What is it, Ms. Bicker?” Shackleford asked.

  “Won’t it feel—I don’t know—out of place? Modern technology in this room?”

  Shackleford shrugged. “At one point, books were considered modern technology.”

  “I’m thinking aesthetic,” Sam said. She bit her lower lip for a moment. “Pardon my asking, but can you type?”

  Shackleford looked down at his hands. “They’re a bit less flexible than they used to be, but I can still hunt and peck with them.”

  She shrugged. “I can add that to the work order. It’ll cost a bit more but the biggest expense is the first terminal. After that, it’s really how much you want to spend for each incremental access point.”

  “You may have suspected, money isn’t really a concern,” Shackleford said, a smile on his lips. “What would you recommend?”

  Sam gazed around the room. “You’ve not got a lot of wall space. Does that dictionary pedestal move?”

  Shackleford glanced at it. “Yes. It can go away as far as I’m concerned. The dictionary is probably a century out of date. I leave it because I never had a reason to remove it.”

  Sam pulled a tape measure from her bag and held it up. “May I?”

  Shackleford waved a hand. “Whatever you need.”

  Sam measured the gap between the shelves and peered down behind the pedestal. “It’ll need an outlet back here somewhere.”

  “I can manage that,” Shackleford said. “I can have a desk built into that place. Anything Roger needs to know about specifications?”

  She looked at Roger. “Height? Holes for cables?”

  Roger nodded. “We can manage that. You’re thinking a full workstation?”

  She looked at the place and squinted for a moment before looking around the room. “I am. I know of some custom workers that could make it fit here. May take them a while.”

  Shackleford shrugged. “I’m a patient man.”

  She shrugged. “Add another four thousand to the order. That’ll include the machine and extra network repeaters. You’ll handle the desk.”

  “Excellent,” Shackleford said. He looked at Roger. “Thank you, Mulligan. I’ll trust you to make the paperwork right?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  Shackleford extended a hand to Sam. “Thank you for your time, Ms. Bicker.”

  “Thank you for the order, sir.”

  “I’m looking forward to seeing this internet in action,” Shackleford said. “I haven’t needed it before but something tells me Shackleford House might just benefit from it.”

  Roger held the door for Sam as they left the library but didn’t speak until they returned to the kitchen. He pulled the contract from its envelope and used his pen to add the new terms in the margin on both copies. “You’re sure about this?”

  “The custom machine? Oh, yeah. I know a few makers who do the whole steampunk keyboard monitor thing. Wood and brass. It’ll feel right at home in the library up there.”

  “Why didn’t you suggest that for me?”

>   She grinned. “If you’d had a space for it, I would have. I get a better cut on custom work.”

  He grinned back and signed both copies of the amended contract, initialing the changes.

  “I have to say, he’s not what I expected,” she said.

  “Tell me about it.”

  “I thought you said he has dementia,” she said. “I’ve seen forty-somethings with less on the ball than him.”

  “He has good days and bad. This has been a pretty good day for him. I think he’s only called me Perkins twice.”

  “That why you’re signing the contract instead of him?”

  Roger shook his head. “The house is my responsibility. He directs me and I get it done. Not exactly power of attorney. If there’s a problem, he takes it out of my hide. If I don’t pay, you come after me.”

  She nodded. “That’s a lot of responsibility. Can you afford it?”

  He grinned. “Personally, no. Not right now.” He looked at the totals on the page. “I could in another couple of months. I won’t need to. I keep the books for the house and this is petty cash.”

  “He’s really that wealthy?”

  Roger laughed. “You know how much this place costs? Just the taxes on the property run into six figures.”

  “And he has it?”

  “So it would seem. The city isn’t here dunning him for it.”

  “How did you luck into such a sweet deal?” she asked. “I mean other than the whole monkey suit thing.”

  Roger spun the paperwork around and handed Sam his pen. “Luck of the draw and a willingness to take the chance on working for a madman.”

  She took the pen, initialing the amendments and signing at the bottom of each. She handed the pen back. “You’re loving it, aren’t you?”

  Roger shrugged. “It’s just a job.”

  “No,” Sam said, tilting her head to one side. “You’ve changed.”

  “Just because of the suit,” he said.

  “No,” she said again. “Pardon my saying so, but you were a mess when that EMT thing blew up.”

  Roger sighed and took his copy of the contract back. “My own fault. I shouldn’t have punched the guy.”

  “The way I understood it, he’d beaten that woman half to death,” she said.

  Roger nodded. “Still no reason for me to return the favor.”