Contest winners: Dragonic and Linda Carrig
SEVENTH HEXISCHOLEIAD ENDS IN SUCCESS...AND TRAGEDY
Only Two School Champions Killed -- A Record Low
Bo Dwyer reports exclusively for Broom & Wand...
Until this year, few British sport fans have followed the Hexischoleia Tournament, held every sixth year since 1972. This is not extraordinary, seeing that none of the six schools competing in the Hexischoleiad are in the U.K. What is extraordinary is the level of enthusiasm this year's tournament generated among British witches and wizards. Six schools, six champions, six challenges, six countries - and at every stage, a contingent of loyal supporters from our fair isle.
Our own Algernon Nutwicke, Interim Minister for Magical Games and Sports, offered me his explanation during the tense buildup to the Fifth Task: "Since the downfall of You-Know-Who, our lot have felt a weight lifted off them. There is a greater sense of freedom to travel, and a growing openness to foreign folk. Plus, after that Diggory chap bought it in the last Triwizard Tournament, there hasn't been much joy in the international sport line, if you follow me."
When I asked Mr. Nutwicke to place that last remark in the context of this year's spectacular Quidditch World Cup Final, he simply added: "Well, it was between Suriname and Burkina Faso, wasn't it?" If this sentiment is shared by many of his constituents, it makes the large number of British camp followers at this year's Hexischoleiad all the more extraordinary.
It is ironic that the Triwizard Tournament has only been held once since the 1960s, and is unlikely to come again for at least a few years. Why Ironic? This Nutwicke explained later, during the memorial service for Santa Ardilla's champion Pilar Lopez, whose mishap over the Gorge of Interminable Loneliness ended the Hexischoleiad's record streak of six consecutive tasks with no fatalities (counting the last two tasks of the 2002 Hexischoleiad). In an address to the mourners, Nutwicke explained how it was the Triwizard Tournament that inspired the six largest European schools of wizardry after Hogwarts, Durmstrang, and Beauxbatons to combine in their own interscholastic competition.
"Until the middle of the last century," stated Minister Nutwicke, "the heads of the Santa Ardilla, Isola Indietro, and Iphinassa schools of magic frequently petitioned the Triwizard Schools to be included in Europe's oldest interscholastic magical games. They argued that their schools deserved to participate because of their size and high reputation. But unfortunately, the enchantment on the Triwizard Cup was unalterable, having been established at a period when Hogwarts, Durmstrang, and Beauxbatons were the only large, coeducational, and residential schools of magic in Europe. Simply put, it was considered impossible at that time for any other schools to compete for the Triwizard Cup. Furthermore, after all three school champions perished two tournaments in a row, there were doubts that the Triwizard tradition would be continued at all. And so, in 1972, the first Hexischoleiad was held.
"The aforenamed Spanish, Italian, and Greek schools," Nutwicke continued, "were joined by representatives from Tummetot Academy, the Finsteraarhorn Fliegenschule, and Horzeltuin Hall. Together, the sixth schools have put forward some of the most exciting champions in the history of magical sport, achieving a glory made up of equal parts cunning and courage, glorious victory and noble sacrifice. And now, how touching - even, perhaps, ironic - to find graduates of the three Triwizard Schools gathered among us to honor the latest fallen hero of the Hexischoleia Tournament."
Pilar Lopez was not the last hero to fall, however. Considering the perils involved in all six tasks, it is remarkable that only two champions were lost this year.
The first task, hosted by Tummetot, required the six champions to defeat a troll in single combat. Iphinassa's Aris Palamas took an early lead using a maneuver he learned from Xenophilius Lovegood's unauthorized biography of Harry Potter (levitate club, drop on troll's head).
In the second task, Finsteraarhorn challenged the youngsters to rescue hostages from a mountain pass haunted by snow demons. Palamas tied with Horzeltuin's Saskia Troost by working together, using an avalanche as a diversion and sneaking up the pass while the yetis were rebuilding their tunnels.
Isola Indietro's champion Bruno Fenoglio narrowly survived an obstacle course designed by Horzeltuin's charms master, who seems to have a fondness for booby traps and sharp-edged projectiles. The best score in that round went to to Lopez, with Palamas taking second and maintaining his overall lead.
There was another close call in the fourth task, this time for Finsteraarhorn's Constant Malheur, whose string of bad luck took on gruesome dimensions when Santa Ardilla challenged the champions to find their way out of a maze of mirrors armed with transfiguration traps. Lopez achieved the best time, but her score was docked because she came out of the maze with asses' ears; first place then went to Tummetot's Gunnar Almkvist, who amazingly navigated the maze blindfolded.
By this time, a new 36-year safety record had been set. Yet, surprisingly, supporters continued to pour in from all parts of Europe, including one party of elderly sport hoodlums who had been banned from the Triwizard Tournament since the 1950s; several of them were deported after Lopez's fall into the Gorge, though it is unlikely that either their burning of Iphinassa's administration building (which was, after all, only a replica of Taureian temple of Artemis) or the stampede that followed it could have caused the second-place champion to miss her footing. It was the champions with their daring, dash, and dazzle that brought more attention to each successive task; but now that blood was spilled, the attendance at the sixth and final task was beyond all expectations.
"At the last moment we had to double the number of tiers in our Quidditch pitch," commented Isola Indietro's headmaster, the diminutive Professor Presto. "There still weren't enough seats to go around."
"They had more spectators than the World Cup Final," Minister Nutwicke agreed.
Going into the final task, the scores stood thus: In first place Palamas of Iphinassa with 312 points; runner-up Lopez of Santa Ardilla with 298 but no longer with us; Almkvist of Tummetot at third with 244; Troost of Horzeltuin in fourth with 228; Fenoglio of Isola Indietro in fifth with 225 points and a home-field advantage; and in last place, but effectively out of the running, Finsteraarhorn's Malheur with 176 points. Anyone but Malheur or, of course, Lopez had a chance to win, given that a full 100 points would be given to the winner of the task.
The rules of the task were simple. The winner would retrieve a life-sized falcon figurine hidden somewhere in the city -- yes, outside the gates of the school -- and bring it back, undamaged, without doing any magic in front of muggles. The figurine (on loan from Malta) had undisclosed magical properties and could be hidden indoors, outdoors, or even underwater. It would be, as Professor Presto called it, "the ultimate scavenger hunt." Anyone breaking one of the rules would be instantly disqualified. And the champions had 24 hours to finish the task.
I spoke with Fenoglio six hours into the task, after he was disqualified for levitating himself out of a canal. While members of the Italian Ministry for Magic modified the memories of a passing gondolier and his passengers, a soaked and shivering Fenoglio explained how he had tried to use his knowledge of local magic to his advantage. "I knew about a wizard who owns an entire, unplottable island in the city. I had heard that he kept falcons, so I reasoned that the figurine might be with Il Comte's birds. I had always heard bad things happened to kids who tried to sneak onto Il Comte's estate, but I assumed that was part of the challenge."
Fenoglio continued, "I've been studying to become an animagus, so I reckoned that would be the safest way to get across the grounds. I haven't passed the license test yet, so no one else in the tournament knew about it. It was kind of a secret weapon. Now the time finally came to use it."
Here I asked Fenoglio what animal he turns into. "A boa constrictor," he said. "Just like my mother's cousin, who gave me the idea. He got so good at it that he forgot how to turn back into a human. Last I heard of him he had escaped from a zoo somewhere."
"He must have been very convincing as a snake," I put in.
"My mother always said he was," said Fenoglio. "Don't tell her about this, all right? I don't think she would like it."
I promised to take the secret to my grave. Then, dear reader, young Fenoglio went on with his stunning tale. "It had gotten dark by the time I reached Il Comte's weathering yard. That's where they exercise the birds, you know. I went scaly and crept out of the woods, tasting the air to make sure nobody was around. All I sensed was bird, so I slithered toward the shed where they keep the mews. Getting in under the wall took a bit of work, but I finally did it and turned back into me. I conjured up a bit of cold fire and started searching the mews for a bird figurine. That's when it got interesting.
"One of the falcons wasn't hooded. When I looked in on it, it seemed to be trying to tell me something. I thought this was pretty unusual, so maybe it was the figurine with those mysterious powers old Presto mentioned. I had to pick a lock to let it out. Then it got really scary.
"The bird flew right at me, like it was going to chew my face off. I fell on the floor and shielded myself, but the sound of flapping wings stopped. Suddenly this man was standing there. He must have been an animagus too. He grabbed me and made me run away with him -- dragged me, almost -- all the way to the canal, where we got into trouble. Il Comte must have detected us somehow, because his golems were waiting for us -- yes, that's what I said, men made out of clay. I never thought I could run like that. If we hadn't found that boat we would have had to swim for it."
The Hexischoleiad champion and the strange man were pursued, now by wizards who had no qualms against shooting curses at them in front of muggles. They got separated when one well-aimed curse blasted their boat to splinters. What became of the other wizard, or who he was, is still unknown. The local authorities claim to have spoken with Il Comte and his staff, but no information has been forthcoming. But, understandably, other concerns have taken higher priority.
For even while I was interviewing one champion who had narrowly escaped with his life, another champion was killed while holding the falcon figurine.
...TO BE CONTINUED...
+++ DOUBLE CHALLENGE FOR TMQ #147 +++
You can help decide what happens next in The Magic Quill! Simply leave a brief comment (up to 150 words) answering the following Survey and Contest. The survey answer with the most votes, and the contest answer that Robbie likes best, will turn up in the chapter after next. [EDIT: This discussion is now closed.]
SURVEY: Who killed the Hexischoleiad champion? A) Il Comte di Bestemmia or his minions. B) Another school's champion. C) A magical creature linked to the falcon figurine. D) Somebody connected to the mystery of Penelope's Yak.
CONTEST: Invent an original and colorful "wizard swear" or magical insult that can be published on a family-oriented website.
Saturday, December 27, 2008
144. Jude the Insecure
Contest winner: Quercitron
The Out of This World Outfitter was certainly out of the way. It lay three turns out of Diagon Alley, in a dingy cul-de-sac lined with boarded-up shops and littered with broken roof tiles. It was situated below street level, its entrance hidden behind a gruesome, never-melting ice sculpture depicting the beheading of the Gang of One, the hydra who had terrorized the neighborhood during the Lawlessness that had followed the Third Goblin Rebellion. Its entrance was marked by three signs, falsely identifying it as Ermengarde's Weevil Shop, claiming to be closed for structural repairs, and warning trespassers to beware of Acromantulas.
To get through the outer door, one had to knock three times using one's elbow, because anyone touching the dragon's head knocker risked getting a faceful of forgetfulness powder, and anyone whose knuckles touched the door would fall through a trapdoor into a ticklefish-infested pool guarded by a dwarf named Jeremy, who would only let them out if they guessed his name or paid him a sickle.
Through the first door was a small courtyard with a fountain and a second door on the other side. One had to throw one's wand and any other weapons, magical or otherwise, into the fountain before approaching the second door, which would then open automatically to a short corridor and a final door. It was here that one needed to speak the password of the day, which was only known to the proprietor and those he had personally invited.
How did one arrange to be invited to the Out of This World Outfitter? One wrote to its owner, requesting specific items and offering to purchase them on his terms. One sent the letter by owl to the Post Office in Diagon Alley, care of General Delivery. There a postal elf named Gandy would check it for curses, poisons, and anything else liable to cause loud noises or sudden movements. Gandy would also check the name of the letter's author against the Who's Who of Wizarding Britain, to make sure they were on the up-and-up. If time permitted, Gandy might even recopy the letter onto juju-proof parchment. Then he would deliver the letter through the only pneumatic tube currently operating in the wizarding world. Return letters inviting the would-be customer to visit the shop would be sent back the same way.
Only one customer could visit the shop at a time. This was to ensure that its proprietor could never be outnumbered, outmaneuvered, and overpowered.
A lone man in a dark cloak approached the first door today. His hood was raised, hiding his face in shadow. He knocked on the first door with his elbow: knock, knock - pause - knock. The door opened itself, and the dark man passed through. He took two wands, a long silver knife, a blowgun, and a slingshot from his pockets. Together with a waxed box full of darts (for the blow gun) and a string bag of return-to-me stones, he placed these weapons in a boat he had made from the front page of the Daily Prophet and set it afloat in the fountain. Magically, the boat steered clear of the jets of water and stayed dry, upright, and afloat.
The second door opened as soon as the boat floated out of the cloaked wizard's reach. He entered the small corridor, waited for the door behind him to close, and whispered one word to the door ahead: "Rincewind." He didn't know what it meant, but according to the letter he had received, that would be today's password into the Out of This World Outfitter. Sure enough, the third door opened.
Surprisingly, the shop within was brightly lit, spacious, and comfortably full of browsing customers. The cloaked wizard understood that these wizards and witches were under an enchantment, condemned to wander the Outfitter's shop eternally, as punishment for demanding an insultingly low price for something the proprietor had procured for them. Customers had friends and families. Friends and families had feelings about their magically imprisoned loved ones. And so, obviously, the wizard who now approached the dark man - the wizard with two wildly swiveling, electric-blue eyes and an ill-concealed stash of spare wands tucked up his sleeve - had enemies. It isn't paranoia, the new visitor thought, when everyone really is out to get you.
"Julian Cribble," said the proprietor, bowing politely but not offering to shake hands, as his magical eyes rolled in opposite directions to check the perimeter. "Some call me Jude the Insecure," he added. "Those who want to stay on my good side call me Mr. Cribble."
"What do your friends call you?"
"I'll let you know if we ever become friends," said Cribble,
"Dandelionel Ethelbaldricsson," said the cloaked wizard, lowering his hood. "Everyone calls me Spanky Spankison."
Cribble looked relieved to recognize his customer's face. He nodded discreetly to someone behind Spanky, who realized that the customer behind him hadn't simply been checking out a display of armor-piercing spitballs. She pulled her hand out of her pocket and moved away. Spanky mentally kicked himself for not noticing that the witch had a wand in her pocket.
"Would you like to see the item I found for you before settling?"
"That would be ideal," Spanky admitted.
"Tough luck," snapped Cribble. "By crossing that threshold, you agreed to the terms in my letter. Payment first. Then you can leave with your item. Or...you can look around the shop..."
"How can I be sure it's the right item?" Spanky snapped back.
"It's a risk we both take," said Cribble.
"Where's the risk for you?"
Cribble's right eye studied the ceiling while the left continued its slow 180-degree search pattern. "The price may be high," he said, "but so was the cost to me. Procuring this kind of item isn't easy and it isn't cheap. I can only make a living if I get plenty of repeat customers."
After a long, tense silence, Spanky said, "I'll accept that."
"Good," said Cribble. "It's getting crowded in here. Shall we step into my office for the weighing of the gold and whatnot?"
On the other side of a narrow, curtained doorway was a wedge-shaped sliver of a room with a pneumatic tube terminal on the wall. Light and heat came from a charcoal brazier on a raised stand. A wide standing desk, littered with parchment and broken quills, occupied most of the space. The only other furniture was a life-sized stone figure of a burly goblin with a broad, vicious grin. It stood with one hand extended, palm upward. As the curtain fell shut behind them, the sound of the customers' shuffling feet and occasional, tortured moans was cut off, and all that remained was the crackle of fire in the brazier and the purring of a plump cat curled up asleep in a painting above the desk. Spanky could suddenly hear his own breathing. Ashamed of the noise, he tried to breathe more slowly and calmly.
"Place your gold on the goblin's hand," Cribble said, his soft voice magnified by the strange acoustics of the room.
"I'm willing to offer you a bit more than your asking price," Spanky said, pulling two bulging bags of coins out of his pocket.
Cribble's eyes suddenly focused front and center - which had an oddly unsettling effect. "What for?" he asked suspiciously.
"Information about an item you sold to one Madam Solfeggia d'Arezzo."
"Which..." Cribble bit his tongue. "I mean, I do not discuss my dealings with other customers."
"So..."
"Nor can I confirm or deny that Madam Solfeggia has ever been my customer," the shopkeeper added hastily.
Spanky flashed a smile that, during his career in the Rogue Magic Bureau, had made several suspects suddenly decide to confess. "You've just confirmed it. Otherwise, how would you know that she prefers to be addressed by her first name?"
"If there is a law against what I do," Cribble said furiously, "show it to me. Otherwise pay up, take your item, and go. Exact coin only."
"You were about to ask which item I want to know about," said Spanky. "That tells me you have sold more than one item to Madam Solfeggia. I'll be interested in that, too, but for right now the one I'm curious about was a live creature."
"You don't want me to decide that this is bargaining," Cribble warned. "I prefer to do my bargaining at a safe distance."
"I'm offering you more money," said Spanky. "How is this bargaining? What I'm asking for will cost you nothing.
"This isn't what we agreed upon," said Cribble, his eyes rotating out of control. "People who go back on agreements make me feel unsafe. Bad things happen to people when I feel unsafe."
"You're quite safe with me," said Spanky, opening the front of his cloak to show the badge on the front of his shirt. "I work for the R.M.B. I am sworn to protect..."
"It was just a ruddy nightingale," Cribble shouted, hurting Spanky's ears. He quickly turned to face the painting of the cat, though Spanky felt sure his eyes were still aimed at him through the back of Cribble's head.
"You may have meant to send her a nightingale," Spanky said gently, "but something else was delivered."
"Mistakes do happen now and again," Cribble growled.
"This was a rather big one," said Spanky. "I'm interested to know how you managed to confuse a yak with a nightingale. Did you even look inside the box? Wouldn't you have wondered why it came in such a big..."
"Don't be foolish," Cribble snorted. "I saw the bird myself. Its gilded cage might have stood on this desk. No yak could..."
"Did anyone else handle the cage between here and the Post Office?"
"My sister Branwen handles all my owl-order business. She would have personally seen the cage to the owlery, like every other item she handles."
"Was she the one out there?"
Cribble nodded. "You won't want to interrogate her, though. Fellow named Rabastan Lestrange gave her a rough time when she was a girl. Since then, she refuses to speak to men. Hates the lot of us, she does. Only says 'Yes' and 'No' to me, and I'm her twin brother."
"I'm sorry to hear that. Is it possible the direction for the nightingale was accidentally switched with that of another package?"
"Not once the owls are in the air, it isn't," said Cribble defiantly. "I'm telling you, nobody but my sister touched the cage between this shop and the owlery."
"Do you know this by asking her a specific, yes-or-no question?"
"I know my sister, Mr. Spankison. She keeps clean books. Besides, we haven't sold a yak in years."
"You have sold one, then? To whom? Could he have intercepted an owl?"
"Slow down," Cribble said, wincing as Spanky's voice hurt his hears. "I'll look it up in the register." He swept some rolls of parchment off the desktop, then pulled the cat painting away from the wall. Behind it was a shelf crammed with heavy, leather bound books. The wizard tugged one of them out onto the desk and began paging through it. Once opened, it covered the whole surface of the desk.
"Here it is," said Cribble after some minutes' search. "One Tibetan yak, sold to the Himalayan Gardens and Preserve of Mangeford."
Spanky laughed. "Excuse me? Where was that again?"
"Mangeford," said Cribble. "To the attention of Sir Lionel..."
"Niblet!" Spanky suddenly had to bend over and put his head between his knees.
"Always the usual suspects, isn't it?" Cribble drawled, enjoying Spanky's reaction with a wobbly-eyed sneer.
Spanky shook his head, upside-down, and grunted, "On the contrary."
"Well, now you know, you can fly off and question him. But first, settle up."
"Wait," said Spanky, pulling himself upright. "What about the other items you have sent to Madam Solfeggia? Was there ever a custom-made knife?"
"Certainly," said Jude the Insecure. "Only we didn't send it to her. The lady came here and picked it up in person."
Spanky had thought he was past being astonished, but now his jaw dropped. "Alone?"
"How else?"
"Was there any music playing around her, somehow?"
"Not as I recall."
"And she was in human form?"
Cribble frowned thoughtfully. "Most of my customers are."
Spanky shook his head again. "That wasn't Madam Solfeggia."
"Maybe the lady sent a lady friend in her place?"
"I'll warrant that she never bought - would never have bought - such a knife."
"Well, my letter could only have been opened by her. And only by reading that letter could she have learned the password to come here. If she didn't want the knife, she must at least know someone was angling to get it, and with her name engraved on it too."
"One way or another, someone must have intercepted your letter. Can you describe the woman who presented herself to you as Madam Solfeggia?"
Cribble's magical eyes turned figures of eight while he thought. After a minute he gave a brief description that exactly matched Madam Solfeggia's piano-playing parlor maid, Fifi.
"All right, that's enough to go on with," said Spanky. He had received as much disturbing news as he could digest in one day. He dropped one sack of coins in the stone goblin's outstretched hand. The statue came to life and popped the sack into its mouth. A moment later, coins could be heard rolling and sliding down a sloping surface, a sound that went on for a long time and only gradually faded away.
"These are for your extra kindness," Spanky added, handing the goblin the other sack of coins. "Now, if it isn't any trouble, I'll take my luggage and my leave."
"It's waiting for you in the courtyard," said Jude the Insecure, patting the goblin's head while it spat out two empty purses. "If I know the world it came from, it will have collected all your personal items from the fountain, and you needn't worry about carrying it, because it will follow you on its own feet."
"Wonderful stuff, that sapient pearwood," Spanky said wistfully.
"If you still think so after you've had it for a while," said Cribble as he held the curtain open and the sound of the clientele's mournful shuffling returned, "perhaps we can do business again."
"It would be my pleasure, Mr. Cribble," said Spanky, but he did not look pleased. Nor, as he patted the top of the wooden trunk that stood by the fountain - stood, mind you, on a hundred tiny feet of its own - did he feel especially pleased. Once again, his faith in one of his oldest friends was shaken.
What story would Sir Lionel tell him this time? Would he believe it?
+++ DOUBLE CHALLENGE FOR TMQ #146 +++
You can help decide what happens next in The Magic Quill! First, go to the forums, or send Robbie feedback [EDIT: Rather, leave a Comment]. Then, in 250 words or less, answer the following Survey and Contest. The survey answer with the most votes, and the contest answer that Robbie likes best, will turn up in the chapter after next. [EDIT: This discussion is now closed.]
SURVEY: Which of the gifts Merlin received in TMQ #141 should he use next?
CONTEST: Describe the talisman Signor Maledicto stole from the goblins? (See TMQ #141 for more info.)
[Originally posted 10/27/08]
The Out of This World Outfitter was certainly out of the way. It lay three turns out of Diagon Alley, in a dingy cul-de-sac lined with boarded-up shops and littered with broken roof tiles. It was situated below street level, its entrance hidden behind a gruesome, never-melting ice sculpture depicting the beheading of the Gang of One, the hydra who had terrorized the neighborhood during the Lawlessness that had followed the Third Goblin Rebellion. Its entrance was marked by three signs, falsely identifying it as Ermengarde's Weevil Shop, claiming to be closed for structural repairs, and warning trespassers to beware of Acromantulas.
To get through the outer door, one had to knock three times using one's elbow, because anyone touching the dragon's head knocker risked getting a faceful of forgetfulness powder, and anyone whose knuckles touched the door would fall through a trapdoor into a ticklefish-infested pool guarded by a dwarf named Jeremy, who would only let them out if they guessed his name or paid him a sickle.
Through the first door was a small courtyard with a fountain and a second door on the other side. One had to throw one's wand and any other weapons, magical or otherwise, into the fountain before approaching the second door, which would then open automatically to a short corridor and a final door. It was here that one needed to speak the password of the day, which was only known to the proprietor and those he had personally invited.
How did one arrange to be invited to the Out of This World Outfitter? One wrote to its owner, requesting specific items and offering to purchase them on his terms. One sent the letter by owl to the Post Office in Diagon Alley, care of General Delivery. There a postal elf named Gandy would check it for curses, poisons, and anything else liable to cause loud noises or sudden movements. Gandy would also check the name of the letter's author against the Who's Who of Wizarding Britain, to make sure they were on the up-and-up. If time permitted, Gandy might even recopy the letter onto juju-proof parchment. Then he would deliver the letter through the only pneumatic tube currently operating in the wizarding world. Return letters inviting the would-be customer to visit the shop would be sent back the same way.
Only one customer could visit the shop at a time. This was to ensure that its proprietor could never be outnumbered, outmaneuvered, and overpowered.
A lone man in a dark cloak approached the first door today. His hood was raised, hiding his face in shadow. He knocked on the first door with his elbow: knock, knock - pause - knock. The door opened itself, and the dark man passed through. He took two wands, a long silver knife, a blowgun, and a slingshot from his pockets. Together with a waxed box full of darts (for the blow gun) and a string bag of return-to-me stones, he placed these weapons in a boat he had made from the front page of the Daily Prophet and set it afloat in the fountain. Magically, the boat steered clear of the jets of water and stayed dry, upright, and afloat.
The second door opened as soon as the boat floated out of the cloaked wizard's reach. He entered the small corridor, waited for the door behind him to close, and whispered one word to the door ahead: "Rincewind." He didn't know what it meant, but according to the letter he had received, that would be today's password into the Out of This World Outfitter. Sure enough, the third door opened.
Surprisingly, the shop within was brightly lit, spacious, and comfortably full of browsing customers. The cloaked wizard understood that these wizards and witches were under an enchantment, condemned to wander the Outfitter's shop eternally, as punishment for demanding an insultingly low price for something the proprietor had procured for them. Customers had friends and families. Friends and families had feelings about their magically imprisoned loved ones. And so, obviously, the wizard who now approached the dark man - the wizard with two wildly swiveling, electric-blue eyes and an ill-concealed stash of spare wands tucked up his sleeve - had enemies. It isn't paranoia, the new visitor thought, when everyone really is out to get you.
"Julian Cribble," said the proprietor, bowing politely but not offering to shake hands, as his magical eyes rolled in opposite directions to check the perimeter. "Some call me Jude the Insecure," he added. "Those who want to stay on my good side call me Mr. Cribble."
"What do your friends call you?"
"I'll let you know if we ever become friends," said Cribble,
"Dandelionel Ethelbaldricsson," said the cloaked wizard, lowering his hood. "Everyone calls me Spanky Spankison."
Cribble looked relieved to recognize his customer's face. He nodded discreetly to someone behind Spanky, who realized that the customer behind him hadn't simply been checking out a display of armor-piercing spitballs. She pulled her hand out of her pocket and moved away. Spanky mentally kicked himself for not noticing that the witch had a wand in her pocket.
"Would you like to see the item I found for you before settling?"
"That would be ideal," Spanky admitted.
"Tough luck," snapped Cribble. "By crossing that threshold, you agreed to the terms in my letter. Payment first. Then you can leave with your item. Or...you can look around the shop..."
"How can I be sure it's the right item?" Spanky snapped back.
"It's a risk we both take," said Cribble.
"Where's the risk for you?"
Cribble's right eye studied the ceiling while the left continued its slow 180-degree search pattern. "The price may be high," he said, "but so was the cost to me. Procuring this kind of item isn't easy and it isn't cheap. I can only make a living if I get plenty of repeat customers."
After a long, tense silence, Spanky said, "I'll accept that."
"Good," said Cribble. "It's getting crowded in here. Shall we step into my office for the weighing of the gold and whatnot?"
On the other side of a narrow, curtained doorway was a wedge-shaped sliver of a room with a pneumatic tube terminal on the wall. Light and heat came from a charcoal brazier on a raised stand. A wide standing desk, littered with parchment and broken quills, occupied most of the space. The only other furniture was a life-sized stone figure of a burly goblin with a broad, vicious grin. It stood with one hand extended, palm upward. As the curtain fell shut behind them, the sound of the customers' shuffling feet and occasional, tortured moans was cut off, and all that remained was the crackle of fire in the brazier and the purring of a plump cat curled up asleep in a painting above the desk. Spanky could suddenly hear his own breathing. Ashamed of the noise, he tried to breathe more slowly and calmly.
"Place your gold on the goblin's hand," Cribble said, his soft voice magnified by the strange acoustics of the room.
"I'm willing to offer you a bit more than your asking price," Spanky said, pulling two bulging bags of coins out of his pocket.
Cribble's eyes suddenly focused front and center - which had an oddly unsettling effect. "What for?" he asked suspiciously.
"Information about an item you sold to one Madam Solfeggia d'Arezzo."
"Which..." Cribble bit his tongue. "I mean, I do not discuss my dealings with other customers."
"So..."
"Nor can I confirm or deny that Madam Solfeggia has ever been my customer," the shopkeeper added hastily.
Spanky flashed a smile that, during his career in the Rogue Magic Bureau, had made several suspects suddenly decide to confess. "You've just confirmed it. Otherwise, how would you know that she prefers to be addressed by her first name?"
"If there is a law against what I do," Cribble said furiously, "show it to me. Otherwise pay up, take your item, and go. Exact coin only."
"You were about to ask which item I want to know about," said Spanky. "That tells me you have sold more than one item to Madam Solfeggia. I'll be interested in that, too, but for right now the one I'm curious about was a live creature."
"You don't want me to decide that this is bargaining," Cribble warned. "I prefer to do my bargaining at a safe distance."
"I'm offering you more money," said Spanky. "How is this bargaining? What I'm asking for will cost you nothing.
"This isn't what we agreed upon," said Cribble, his eyes rotating out of control. "People who go back on agreements make me feel unsafe. Bad things happen to people when I feel unsafe."
"You're quite safe with me," said Spanky, opening the front of his cloak to show the badge on the front of his shirt. "I work for the R.M.B. I am sworn to protect..."
"It was just a ruddy nightingale," Cribble shouted, hurting Spanky's ears. He quickly turned to face the painting of the cat, though Spanky felt sure his eyes were still aimed at him through the back of Cribble's head.
"You may have meant to send her a nightingale," Spanky said gently, "but something else was delivered."
"Mistakes do happen now and again," Cribble growled.
"This was a rather big one," said Spanky. "I'm interested to know how you managed to confuse a yak with a nightingale. Did you even look inside the box? Wouldn't you have wondered why it came in such a big..."
"Don't be foolish," Cribble snorted. "I saw the bird myself. Its gilded cage might have stood on this desk. No yak could..."
"Did anyone else handle the cage between here and the Post Office?"
"My sister Branwen handles all my owl-order business. She would have personally seen the cage to the owlery, like every other item she handles."
"Was she the one out there?"
Cribble nodded. "You won't want to interrogate her, though. Fellow named Rabastan Lestrange gave her a rough time when she was a girl. Since then, she refuses to speak to men. Hates the lot of us, she does. Only says 'Yes' and 'No' to me, and I'm her twin brother."
"I'm sorry to hear that. Is it possible the direction for the nightingale was accidentally switched with that of another package?"
"Not once the owls are in the air, it isn't," said Cribble defiantly. "I'm telling you, nobody but my sister touched the cage between this shop and the owlery."
"Do you know this by asking her a specific, yes-or-no question?"
"I know my sister, Mr. Spankison. She keeps clean books. Besides, we haven't sold a yak in years."
"You have sold one, then? To whom? Could he have intercepted an owl?"
"Slow down," Cribble said, wincing as Spanky's voice hurt his hears. "I'll look it up in the register." He swept some rolls of parchment off the desktop, then pulled the cat painting away from the wall. Behind it was a shelf crammed with heavy, leather bound books. The wizard tugged one of them out onto the desk and began paging through it. Once opened, it covered the whole surface of the desk.
"Here it is," said Cribble after some minutes' search. "One Tibetan yak, sold to the Himalayan Gardens and Preserve of Mangeford."
Spanky laughed. "Excuse me? Where was that again?"
"Mangeford," said Cribble. "To the attention of Sir Lionel..."
"Niblet!" Spanky suddenly had to bend over and put his head between his knees.
"Always the usual suspects, isn't it?" Cribble drawled, enjoying Spanky's reaction with a wobbly-eyed sneer.
Spanky shook his head, upside-down, and grunted, "On the contrary."
"Well, now you know, you can fly off and question him. But first, settle up."
"Wait," said Spanky, pulling himself upright. "What about the other items you have sent to Madam Solfeggia? Was there ever a custom-made knife?"
"Certainly," said Jude the Insecure. "Only we didn't send it to her. The lady came here and picked it up in person."
Spanky had thought he was past being astonished, but now his jaw dropped. "Alone?"
"How else?"
"Was there any music playing around her, somehow?"
"Not as I recall."
"And she was in human form?"
Cribble frowned thoughtfully. "Most of my customers are."
Spanky shook his head again. "That wasn't Madam Solfeggia."
"Maybe the lady sent a lady friend in her place?"
"I'll warrant that she never bought - would never have bought - such a knife."
"Well, my letter could only have been opened by her. And only by reading that letter could she have learned the password to come here. If she didn't want the knife, she must at least know someone was angling to get it, and with her name engraved on it too."
"One way or another, someone must have intercepted your letter. Can you describe the woman who presented herself to you as Madam Solfeggia?"
Cribble's magical eyes turned figures of eight while he thought. After a minute he gave a brief description that exactly matched Madam Solfeggia's piano-playing parlor maid, Fifi.
"All right, that's enough to go on with," said Spanky. He had received as much disturbing news as he could digest in one day. He dropped one sack of coins in the stone goblin's outstretched hand. The statue came to life and popped the sack into its mouth. A moment later, coins could be heard rolling and sliding down a sloping surface, a sound that went on for a long time and only gradually faded away.
"These are for your extra kindness," Spanky added, handing the goblin the other sack of coins. "Now, if it isn't any trouble, I'll take my luggage and my leave."
"It's waiting for you in the courtyard," said Jude the Insecure, patting the goblin's head while it spat out two empty purses. "If I know the world it came from, it will have collected all your personal items from the fountain, and you needn't worry about carrying it, because it will follow you on its own feet."
"Wonderful stuff, that sapient pearwood," Spanky said wistfully.
"If you still think so after you've had it for a while," said Cribble as he held the curtain open and the sound of the clientele's mournful shuffling returned, "perhaps we can do business again."
"It would be my pleasure, Mr. Cribble," said Spanky, but he did not look pleased. Nor, as he patted the top of the wooden trunk that stood by the fountain - stood, mind you, on a hundred tiny feet of its own - did he feel especially pleased. Once again, his faith in one of his oldest friends was shaken.
What story would Sir Lionel tell him this time? Would he believe it?
+++ DOUBLE CHALLENGE FOR TMQ #146 +++
You can help decide what happens next in The Magic Quill! First, go to the forums, or send Robbie feedback [EDIT: Rather, leave a Comment]. Then, in 250 words or less, answer the following Survey and Contest. The survey answer with the most votes, and the contest answer that Robbie likes best, will turn up in the chapter after next. [EDIT: This discussion is now closed.]
SURVEY: Which of the gifts Merlin received in TMQ #141 should he use next?
CONTEST: Describe the talisman Signor Maledicto stole from the goblins? (See TMQ #141 for more info.)
[Originally posted 10/27/08]
143. Enormity in Action
Contest winner: Linda Carrig
The cupboard door effectively hid her, while the holes carved into it in an elaborate design enabled her to see every move of the duel. This, she thought wryly, must be the reason Aunt or Uncle Leslie wanted to load up on calories.
It began with the sound of thunderous footsteps growing ever closer. Sadie had hidden before the door even opened. As the enormous witch or wizard passed through the broad archway at one end of the room, the space was suddenly filled with a blaze of light that made Sadie's eyes water. It came from mirrors hung all around the walls, and showed that the room was furnished only with a sturdy bench under the center of each long wall and an enormous dresser at the end opposite to the arch. Several other ornately carved doors stood around the room, similar to the cupboard door in front of Sadie.
Aunt or Uncle Leslie paced, his or her body quivering with each step. It was impossible to read the expression of his or her bloated face. Meanness and hunger always seemed to be there, and there was precious little nuance the tiny eyes and puckered mouth could add. But impatience must have been on the menu, for when Sadie heard a distinct pop near the far end of the room, His or Her Horridness snarled, "You're late."
Sadie shifted her position quietly to get a better look at whoever had Apparated. She didn't have to stifle a gasp - her habits of burglary were too deeply settled to allow such a gaffe - but her shock registered in the way her grip tightened around the fang whistle that hung round her neck.
"I was forced to make an unexpected detour," Il Comte di Bestemmia replied smoothly.
"Detour my toe," said the mountain of flesh that faced him, his or her voice as androgynous as her or his body. "You Apparated, didn't you?"
"But in stages, of course," said the well-groomed wizard, fingering a black carnation in his buttonhole. "Many carefully planned and prepared stages, some in countries I have only visited for the purpose of setting them. So when I spotted someone following me - inconceivable as that may seem - I was forced to double back and work my way around through another region. It would have been even more difficult, had I not traveled so extensively. You see, it does pay to be a wizard of the world."
"How could anyone follow you?" the giant or giantess honked peevishly. "You can't follow someone who is Apparating, unless you know where they were going and every stage of their route. How would someone know that?"
"I was wondering the same thing," said Il Comte with his usual smiling charm. "I'll admit one theory crossed my mind."
"I would hardly need to put a trace on you," Uncle or Auntie snapped, having caught his or her guest's meaning. "I know where I live. Which leaves few possibilities apart from one of us being indiscreet."
Il Comte's eyes sparked and gleamed. "Shall we settle the matter in the usual form?" he purred.
"If that pleases you," said Uncle or Aunt Leslie. "But I must say, it's a pity to kill you before we get down to business."
"That is hardly a difficulty," said Il Comte, drawing a gleaming white wand out of his spotless robes. "We can deal while we duel. Our heirs will carry out whatever agreement we reach. Have you an elephant bird quill?"
"Certainly," said Auntie or Uncle. "Two of them, in fact. They can write duplicate contracts with utter reliability, while one of us obtains satisfaction. May I ring for my nephew? He will bring the quills."
"By all means," said Il Comte.
Uncle or Aunt Leslie reached forward and pulled on thin air - or perhaps, an invisible bell-pull. Somewhere in the distance a gong sounded.
While they waited for the nephew to show up, Il Comte fingered his wand, sniffed his fingertips, and looked his opponent over.
"I believe you have lost weight," he said blandly.
"It's possible," said Auntie or Uncle Leslie. "My former physician suggested a low-carb diet. I started by eating him."
"Did you notice a difference?"
"He was a lot tougher and dryer than my previous doctor. I hate the ones who practice what they preach."
Il Comte rolled his eyes heavenward. "I meant," he said with deliberate patience, "a difference in how you feel."
"I find it harder to feel full," said Uncle or Auntie. "And at night I get chills."
"At least that's something," Signore Maledicto muttered.
A starved-looking young man - the one Sadie had been following - bowed his way into the room. "Yes, sir or ma'am?"
"Fetch the wooden box from my bedchamber," he or she snapped at him.
The youngster hesitated.
Uncle or Aunt Leslie snorted impatiently: "Well?"
"Do you mean the hope chest at the foot of your bed?" the youth asked. "The one with pink bunnies, flowers, and a pony painted on the lid? Or is it the box with the cricket things and hunting knives, that you keep under the stuffed swordfish on your wall?"
Uncle or Auntie chewed his or her tongue, turning several shades of pink and purple, before choking out the words: "The small one, like a pencil box, in the first drawer of my writing desk. Quick step, now."
Il Comte refrained from snickering, as that would be beneath his dignity; but he did so in such a manner that Aunt or Uncle Leslie knew about it, and resented it.
"It's not that I am so attached to childish things," he or she explained loftily. "I have earned far more valuable belongings since I turned to ... er, business. But some of the objects handed down to me in childhood are really quite valuable. Do you know I own the very pot in which Jules Melantier and Everard Owens brewed their infamous Tempest of 1588?"
"The one that got away?" Il Comte's slightly raised eyebrows showed slight interest, which coming from him meant he was very impressed indeed.
"The very one," said Uncle or Aunt Leslie. "Their mistake was trying to pour it into a cup without adding milk first. The china was not of the best quality. The cup shattered, the storm escaped, the Spanish Armada was destroyed... "
"It's an ill wind that bloweth no man to good," quipped Maledicto.
"My granduncle gave me the pot," said Auntie or Uncle. "I keep it in my hope chest. Before I punch out, I hope to use it again. Perhaps I will brew a storm that will wash a lot of useless people away. Pity that you won't be there to enjoy it."
"If you say so," said Il Comte.
The starved nephew was back. Looking very serious, he handed a small wooden box to Auntie or Uncle Leslie. Obeying a look from him or her, the youth backed out of the room and vanished around the corner.
"Let me set this on the dresser," said Uncle or Auntie Leslie. "Once the quills are ready to write, we can begin."
He or she heaved his or her bulk the length of the room, pulled two scrolls of parchment out of a dresser drawer, weighted the edges down with lead soldiers who, Sadie was sure, would walk down the scroll, keeping a length of it open for the quills to write on, while allowing the ends to roll themselves up. Two inkwells were uncorked and set alongside the parchment. Finally, the enormous witch or wizard lifted the lid of the wooden box and took something out of it. As he or she swung round to face Il Comte, Sadie saw briefly that it was a wand - white, like Il Comte's, but a white not of wood but of bone.
Sadie's eyes widened, but Il Comte was not all surprised. Before the wand came to bear on him, he had his trained on the center of Uncle or Auntie Leslie's body mass. He said something then, something terrible and loud that echoed from the rafters and cracked the glass in some of the wall mirrors. The vast figure opposite him stood suddenly motionless. The mean little eyes rolled with terror, but their owner seemed unable to speak or even breathe. Aunt or Uncle Leslie began to turn blue as Il Comte walked toward her or him.
"That was poor form," he murmured, taking the wand out of his or her hand. "Breathe."
Beyond belief, Sadie felt sorry for the monstrous creature that sucked in one huge, wheezing breath, then breathed out once and stopped again, looking as terrified and almost as blue as before.
"I find the Imperius Curse terribly passé, don't you? Besides, your Ministry here has set up so many new restrictions and taboos that I am loath to risk it. What do you think of this litte substitute? I whipped it up myself. Breathe."
Auntie or Uncle gasped in, blew out, and was frozen again. Sadie clutched at the sides of her face, feeling some of his or her torture herself, yet afraid to give in to her urge to gasp for air. She was sure Il Comte would hear her, even from her hiding place several meters away.
"Here's how it works," said Il Comte. "You still have your free will - but you can only act upon it with my permission. If I forget to tell you to breathe, for example, you will die. Breathe."
His helpless victim breathed, looking both terrified and furious at once.
"I will only give you permission to do what I want you to do," Il Comte said calmly, walking all the way around him or her. It took quite a few steps. "And if you don't do it, I will leave you like this. You won't last very long - just long enough to make it unpleasant. But really, at bottom, it's up to you. You can choose to do what I ask, and live; or you can do nothing. Breathe."
Another breath. Sadie breathed at the same time. Watching this was agony. She fiddled with the whistle on its dragon-bone chain, tempted to try it...
"Now," said Il Comte, "I believe you have in your possession a certain ring that has only come to light after being lost for centuries. What is it called again? The Ring of Count Stephen? Answer."
"Either that or of Count Matthias," Uncle or Auntie wheezed, stealing as many breaths as possible between his or her words. "It depends on which side of..."
"That's enough," said Il Comte, instantly arresting his adversary's tongue and lungs. "Is it true that whatever writing you seal with this ring must be obeyed by the first person who reads it?" Nod yes or no.
Swelling dangerously, Auntie or Uncle nodded yes.
"Have you tested this? Nod yes or no."
Another affirmative nod.
"All right, breathe. You now have a choice, esteemed colleague. Take me to the ring and I will free you from this curse. Refuse, and I will turn every room of this house upside-down till I find it. Either way, I will have the ring. I am offering you a chance to live, simply in exchange for shortening my stay in your lovely home, and saving me a bit of trouble. What is your answer? Nod yes or no."
Uncle or Auntie didn't move for quite a long time. She or he was quite black in the face before, at last, he or she nodded.
"Excellent," said Il Comte. "You may breathe at will."
Apart from relieved gasps, the huge witch or wizard did not move at all.
Sadie bit her lip, furious and confused. Her mind raced. How could she find the ring before Uncle or Auntie Leslie led Il Comte to it? How could she steal it before he did, without becoming the target of a curse like the one he had cast on Leslie? And how could Il Comte - who, by all accounts, was not such a powerful wizard in terms of pure magical power - how could he have cast such a powerful spell?
+++ DOUBLE CHALLENGE +++
You can help decide what happens next in The Magic Quill! First, go to the forums, or send Robbie feedback. Then, in 250 words or less, answer the following Survey and Contest. The survey answer with the most votes, and the contest answer that Robbie likes best, will turn up in the chapter after next. [EDIT: This discussion is now closed.]
SURVEY: Which storyline will we see in TMQ #145? A) Sadie and Joe's mission to recover the Ring of Count Matthias. B) Merlin's mission to recover a goblin talisman from Il Comte's villa. C) Spanky and Dalrymple's investigation of Persephone's yak. D) A new mission featuring another recurring TMQ character. Write-ins will be regarded as "concepts contributed" and the winner will be chosen by Robbie, if D gets the most votes in the survey.
CONTEST: What if the "book mistakes" in the Harry Potter series were actually deliberate ploys to cover up things muggles like us aren't supposed to know about? Pick an apparent "book mistake" and suggest the "untold story" that may lie behind it.
[Originally posted 9/28/08]
The cupboard door effectively hid her, while the holes carved into it in an elaborate design enabled her to see every move of the duel. This, she thought wryly, must be the reason Aunt or Uncle Leslie wanted to load up on calories.
It began with the sound of thunderous footsteps growing ever closer. Sadie had hidden before the door even opened. As the enormous witch or wizard passed through the broad archway at one end of the room, the space was suddenly filled with a blaze of light that made Sadie's eyes water. It came from mirrors hung all around the walls, and showed that the room was furnished only with a sturdy bench under the center of each long wall and an enormous dresser at the end opposite to the arch. Several other ornately carved doors stood around the room, similar to the cupboard door in front of Sadie.
Aunt or Uncle Leslie paced, his or her body quivering with each step. It was impossible to read the expression of his or her bloated face. Meanness and hunger always seemed to be there, and there was precious little nuance the tiny eyes and puckered mouth could add. But impatience must have been on the menu, for when Sadie heard a distinct pop near the far end of the room, His or Her Horridness snarled, "You're late."
Sadie shifted her position quietly to get a better look at whoever had Apparated. She didn't have to stifle a gasp - her habits of burglary were too deeply settled to allow such a gaffe - but her shock registered in the way her grip tightened around the fang whistle that hung round her neck.
"I was forced to make an unexpected detour," Il Comte di Bestemmia replied smoothly.
"Detour my toe," said the mountain of flesh that faced him, his or her voice as androgynous as her or his body. "You Apparated, didn't you?"
"But in stages, of course," said the well-groomed wizard, fingering a black carnation in his buttonhole. "Many carefully planned and prepared stages, some in countries I have only visited for the purpose of setting them. So when I spotted someone following me - inconceivable as that may seem - I was forced to double back and work my way around through another region. It would have been even more difficult, had I not traveled so extensively. You see, it does pay to be a wizard of the world."
"How could anyone follow you?" the giant or giantess honked peevishly. "You can't follow someone who is Apparating, unless you know where they were going and every stage of their route. How would someone know that?"
"I was wondering the same thing," said Il Comte with his usual smiling charm. "I'll admit one theory crossed my mind."
"I would hardly need to put a trace on you," Uncle or Auntie snapped, having caught his or her guest's meaning. "I know where I live. Which leaves few possibilities apart from one of us being indiscreet."
Il Comte's eyes sparked and gleamed. "Shall we settle the matter in the usual form?" he purred.
"If that pleases you," said Uncle or Aunt Leslie. "But I must say, it's a pity to kill you before we get down to business."
"That is hardly a difficulty," said Il Comte, drawing a gleaming white wand out of his spotless robes. "We can deal while we duel. Our heirs will carry out whatever agreement we reach. Have you an elephant bird quill?"
"Certainly," said Auntie or Uncle. "Two of them, in fact. They can write duplicate contracts with utter reliability, while one of us obtains satisfaction. May I ring for my nephew? He will bring the quills."
"By all means," said Il Comte.
Uncle or Aunt Leslie reached forward and pulled on thin air - or perhaps, an invisible bell-pull. Somewhere in the distance a gong sounded.
While they waited for the nephew to show up, Il Comte fingered his wand, sniffed his fingertips, and looked his opponent over.
"I believe you have lost weight," he said blandly.
"It's possible," said Auntie or Uncle Leslie. "My former physician suggested a low-carb diet. I started by eating him."
"Did you notice a difference?"
"He was a lot tougher and dryer than my previous doctor. I hate the ones who practice what they preach."
Il Comte rolled his eyes heavenward. "I meant," he said with deliberate patience, "a difference in how you feel."
"I find it harder to feel full," said Uncle or Auntie. "And at night I get chills."
"At least that's something," Signore Maledicto muttered.
A starved-looking young man - the one Sadie had been following - bowed his way into the room. "Yes, sir or ma'am?"
"Fetch the wooden box from my bedchamber," he or she snapped at him.
The youngster hesitated.
Uncle or Aunt Leslie snorted impatiently: "Well?"
"Do you mean the hope chest at the foot of your bed?" the youth asked. "The one with pink bunnies, flowers, and a pony painted on the lid? Or is it the box with the cricket things and hunting knives, that you keep under the stuffed swordfish on your wall?"
Uncle or Auntie chewed his or her tongue, turning several shades of pink and purple, before choking out the words: "The small one, like a pencil box, in the first drawer of my writing desk. Quick step, now."
Il Comte refrained from snickering, as that would be beneath his dignity; but he did so in such a manner that Aunt or Uncle Leslie knew about it, and resented it.
"It's not that I am so attached to childish things," he or she explained loftily. "I have earned far more valuable belongings since I turned to ... er, business. But some of the objects handed down to me in childhood are really quite valuable. Do you know I own the very pot in which Jules Melantier and Everard Owens brewed their infamous Tempest of 1588?"
"The one that got away?" Il Comte's slightly raised eyebrows showed slight interest, which coming from him meant he was very impressed indeed.
"The very one," said Uncle or Aunt Leslie. "Their mistake was trying to pour it into a cup without adding milk first. The china was not of the best quality. The cup shattered, the storm escaped, the Spanish Armada was destroyed... "
"It's an ill wind that bloweth no man to good," quipped Maledicto.
"My granduncle gave me the pot," said Auntie or Uncle. "I keep it in my hope chest. Before I punch out, I hope to use it again. Perhaps I will brew a storm that will wash a lot of useless people away. Pity that you won't be there to enjoy it."
"If you say so," said Il Comte.
The starved nephew was back. Looking very serious, he handed a small wooden box to Auntie or Uncle Leslie. Obeying a look from him or her, the youth backed out of the room and vanished around the corner.
"Let me set this on the dresser," said Uncle or Auntie Leslie. "Once the quills are ready to write, we can begin."
He or she heaved his or her bulk the length of the room, pulled two scrolls of parchment out of a dresser drawer, weighted the edges down with lead soldiers who, Sadie was sure, would walk down the scroll, keeping a length of it open for the quills to write on, while allowing the ends to roll themselves up. Two inkwells were uncorked and set alongside the parchment. Finally, the enormous witch or wizard lifted the lid of the wooden box and took something out of it. As he or she swung round to face Il Comte, Sadie saw briefly that it was a wand - white, like Il Comte's, but a white not of wood but of bone.
Sadie's eyes widened, but Il Comte was not all surprised. Before the wand came to bear on him, he had his trained on the center of Uncle or Auntie Leslie's body mass. He said something then, something terrible and loud that echoed from the rafters and cracked the glass in some of the wall mirrors. The vast figure opposite him stood suddenly motionless. The mean little eyes rolled with terror, but their owner seemed unable to speak or even breathe. Aunt or Uncle Leslie began to turn blue as Il Comte walked toward her or him.
"That was poor form," he murmured, taking the wand out of his or her hand. "Breathe."
Beyond belief, Sadie felt sorry for the monstrous creature that sucked in one huge, wheezing breath, then breathed out once and stopped again, looking as terrified and almost as blue as before.
"I find the Imperius Curse terribly passé, don't you? Besides, your Ministry here has set up so many new restrictions and taboos that I am loath to risk it. What do you think of this litte substitute? I whipped it up myself. Breathe."
Auntie or Uncle gasped in, blew out, and was frozen again. Sadie clutched at the sides of her face, feeling some of his or her torture herself, yet afraid to give in to her urge to gasp for air. She was sure Il Comte would hear her, even from her hiding place several meters away.
"Here's how it works," said Il Comte. "You still have your free will - but you can only act upon it with my permission. If I forget to tell you to breathe, for example, you will die. Breathe."
His helpless victim breathed, looking both terrified and furious at once.
"I will only give you permission to do what I want you to do," Il Comte said calmly, walking all the way around him or her. It took quite a few steps. "And if you don't do it, I will leave you like this. You won't last very long - just long enough to make it unpleasant. But really, at bottom, it's up to you. You can choose to do what I ask, and live; or you can do nothing. Breathe."
Another breath. Sadie breathed at the same time. Watching this was agony. She fiddled with the whistle on its dragon-bone chain, tempted to try it...
"Now," said Il Comte, "I believe you have in your possession a certain ring that has only come to light after being lost for centuries. What is it called again? The Ring of Count Stephen? Answer."
"Either that or of Count Matthias," Uncle or Auntie wheezed, stealing as many breaths as possible between his or her words. "It depends on which side of..."
"That's enough," said Il Comte, instantly arresting his adversary's tongue and lungs. "Is it true that whatever writing you seal with this ring must be obeyed by the first person who reads it?" Nod yes or no.
Swelling dangerously, Auntie or Uncle nodded yes.
"Have you tested this? Nod yes or no."
Another affirmative nod.
"All right, breathe. You now have a choice, esteemed colleague. Take me to the ring and I will free you from this curse. Refuse, and I will turn every room of this house upside-down till I find it. Either way, I will have the ring. I am offering you a chance to live, simply in exchange for shortening my stay in your lovely home, and saving me a bit of trouble. What is your answer? Nod yes or no."
Uncle or Auntie didn't move for quite a long time. She or he was quite black in the face before, at last, he or she nodded.
"Excellent," said Il Comte. "You may breathe at will."
Apart from relieved gasps, the huge witch or wizard did not move at all.
Sadie bit her lip, furious and confused. Her mind raced. How could she find the ring before Uncle or Auntie Leslie led Il Comte to it? How could she steal it before he did, without becoming the target of a curse like the one he had cast on Leslie? And how could Il Comte - who, by all accounts, was not such a powerful wizard in terms of pure magical power - how could he have cast such a powerful spell?
+++ DOUBLE CHALLENGE +++
You can help decide what happens next in The Magic Quill! First, go to the forums, or send Robbie feedback. Then, in 250 words or less, answer the following Survey and Contest. The survey answer with the most votes, and the contest answer that Robbie likes best, will turn up in the chapter after next. [EDIT: This discussion is now closed.]
SURVEY: Which storyline will we see in TMQ #145? A) Sadie and Joe's mission to recover the Ring of Count Matthias. B) Merlin's mission to recover a goblin talisman from Il Comte's villa. C) Spanky and Dalrymple's investigation of Persephone's yak. D) A new mission featuring another recurring TMQ character. Write-ins will be regarded as "concepts contributed" and the winner will be chosen by Robbie, if D gets the most votes in the survey.
CONTEST: What if the "book mistakes" in the Harry Potter series were actually deliberate ploys to cover up things muggles like us aren't supposed to know about? Pick an apparent "book mistake" and suggest the "untold story" that may lie behind it.
[Originally posted 9/28/08]
142. Madam Solfeggia
Contest winner: TWZRD
Concept contributed by: greyniffler
The Snookerfield Quartet were in the full fury of a Beethoven fugue when the knock came. At first, nobody heard it. When it was repeated, rather louder, the quartet played on without missing a beat; but the lady of the house noticed. "Fifi," she shouted over the music. "Fifi, there! Yoo-hoo!"
Fifi had her ear-plugs in, so she heard none of this. She only noticed that her mistress wanted her attention when a stream of sparks arced over her shoulder, spouting from the lady's wand and very nearly igniting the feather duster Fifi was running over the piano. She turned, pulled out one wax ball, and screeched: "Your pardon, ma'am?"
Ma'am waved both hands toward the front hall, where the knocking had been replaced by a magically magnified voice booming, "Queen's business! Is anyone at home?" while the quartet sawed away, oblivious. "The door, girl!" the lady yelled. "Answer the door!"
A moment later Fifi returned to the parlor door and shrieked: "Agent Dalrymple and Agent Spankison of the R.M.B., if you please!"
Two wizards strode in with their pointy hats in their hands. One was tall, thin, and dangerous-looking. The other, stout and puffy under the eyes, had a harrassed look, and he flinched slightly when he saw that all the noise came from a live string quartet. The players glanced suspiciously at the two agents, whenever they had a chance to look up from their scores.
"You couldn't turn it down at all?" bellowed Dalrymple, the shorter wizard.
The lady snapped her fingers twice. The players looked up at her, though the music continued. "Roger, Tim, Barry, run along to the kitchen and tell Cook you're to have tea until I send for you. Herbert will stay and improvise quietly. Chop, chop!"
Three of the players broke off and hurried out of the room, leaving their instruments behind. Only the viola player remained; with hardly a pause, he launched into a set of variations on a tooth powder advertising jingle. "I could have guessed Herbert would be the viola player," Dalrymple sniffed inwardly.
Meanwhile, Spanky made the introductions. "Madam Solfeggia, I presume?"
The lady nodded.
"I'm Spankison, and my colleague here is Dalrymple."
"How pleased I am to meet you," she replied, with apparent sincerity. "I have read so many of your exploits in the Daily Prophet. To what do I owe this honor?"
She was a small, delicately-shaped woman with a deathly pale complexion, like one wasted away by illness; yet her cheeks had a flush of vitality, and her hands had a strong, sinewy look. She closed the book in which she had been writing and set it aside, smoothing the lap of her snug, floor-length black skirt. Over this she wore a cream-colored blouse with loose sleeves down to her wrists and a floral-printed scarf knotted firmly around her neck. She did not rise as the vistors entered, but Dalrymple spotted an ivory walking-stick leaning against the wall within reach of her chair. Perhaps she needed its support to stand up, he thought while Spanky answered her question.
"We're investigating the murder of a Himalayan ruminant, and a certain piece of evidence has led us to you. Do you have time to answer a few questions?"
"By all means, gentlemen. Have a seat. Be careful of the instruments. I'm afraid I can't be very helpful. I don't know any Tibetan monks."
"I was referring to a yak, actually."
"Well, that's another matter. We have a yak around here somewhere."
"Have, or had?" asked Dalrymple.
"Have, I think. But I couldn't say for certain. I never see it."
"Why do you have it, then?"
"Oh, dear!" Madam Solfeggia laughed musically. "You won't believe this. It was sent by mistake when I ordered a nightingale."
Dalrymple licked the tip of a quill and scribbled a note on a scrap of parchment. "Do you collect exotic pets, then?"
"Not really," said the lady. "I was trying something new. I have two string quartets and a wind quintet serving me, turn and turn about, twenty-four hours a day. Except on weekends and holidays, when I use two pianists and a ballad-singer. I thought perhaps a little nature music would make a nice change, give the lads a breather now and then. I can't bear to be without music, even for a moment. So when I saw a nightingale advertised in an owl-order catalog, I sent for it.
"Imagine my surprise when I saw the crate it came in, flying over the treetops under probably every third owl in Britain. They literally darkened the sky. At first I thought: How silly of me not to realize a nightingale would be so big! Then my staff opened the crate, and there it was. I've written to the dealer to ask if I can return the yak for a refund, but they haven't responded."
"Do you recall the address of this yak dealer?" asked Spanky.
"No. You'll have to ask Roger. He's my secretary, when he isn't playing in the quartet. He handles all of that. Everyone on my staff wears two hats. Fifi, the girl who let you in, is one of the pianists who serenades me on weekends. Herbert here keeps my accounts."
"I thought he would," Dalrymple muttered to himself.
"You'll find Roger in the kitchen," said Madam Solfeggia. "Will that be all, then?"
"Beg pardon," said Spanky, "but no. It actually wasn't the yak that led us here. Though we would like to see your yak, er..."
"To eliminate it as a suspect?" The lady appeared to be stifling a laugh.
"To eliminate it as a victim," Dalrymple corrected her.
"Who is in charge of keeping the beast?" asked Spanky. "Is it Tim or Barry, perhaps?"
"No, it's a member of the other quartet, Sam Hill by name. He is not in at the moment. It's his morning off, and his next shift doesn't start till three o'clock."
The agents' eyes touched in a significant look.
"Perhaps we can come back then," Dalrymple suggested, speaking slowly, "and Mr. Hill can show us your yak."
Madam Solfeggia smiled. "As you wish. Once you see it, I am sure you will find that any connection between this house and your crime is but a red herring. Or yak, rather."
"That leaves only one other matter," said Spanky. "Do you own a knife like this?" He pulled out his Zichri Goode ounce-of-prevention and showed it to her, blade sideways.
The lady's reaction was the last thing the two agents expected. Simultaneously, she drew a sharp, hissing breath; pushed herself to her feet so that her chair tipped over behind her; and drew her wand. Since Spanky was holding his knife between both hands, he could not quickly reach either of his wands to defend himself. Dalrymple had scarcely reached for his wand when the lady muttered her first charm.
Fortunately, it was only a shield charm. Unfortunately, Madam Solfeggia miscalculated in her haste and panic, putting too much power into the spell. The invisible shield blew outward, swatting the knife out of Spanky's hand and sending it flying toward Herbert's viola. The musician flinched, risking his flesh to protect the instrument, and suffered a deep slash across his left arm. The viola dropped out of his nerveless hands as Herbert screamed in pain.
"No!" Madam Solfeggia screamed, covering her ears and staggering backwards. "Help! Somebody must sing at once!"
Herbert was too busy howling and wrapping a handkerchief around his bleeding arm. Spanky was occupied with leaping to retrieve his silver-bladed knife. Dalrymple faced Madam Solfeggia with his wand fully extended, unable to hear her cries over his own voice shouting, "Drop the wand!"
The lady fell backwards over her fallen chair. Suddenly everything went quiet, except for the sound of footsteps running away and a door slamming at the back of the house.
Then, from the corner behind the overturned chair, the three wizards heard a deep, hideous growl.
"Save us," Herbert whimpered. "You must play music for her. Or sing something. Otherwise she'll kill us all."
"I doubt that," said Spanky, brandishing a wand in one hand and his knife in the other.
"You don't understand," groaned the viola player. Then he began to sing - badly - making up the notes and the words to go with them: "She hasn't transformed for over sixteen years. The music holds it at bay. But the change can't be skipped, only delayed. All the hunger and fury of a hundred full moons, coming at you at once..." Herbert shuddered, nodding toward the knife. "You may kill her with that thing, but like as not she'll kill one or two of us first."
The musician subsided into panting. He was losing too much blood to keep singing. It might have been a relief to hear the end of his dreary tune, but as soon as it stopped, the growling began again.
Dalrymple whistled a couple bars of "The Girl from Ipanema." The growling stopped.
"Huh," he said. "What do you know?" The growling started again.
"Keep whistling," said Spanky.
"I don't know any songs," said Dalrymple.
"Then play Chopsticks on the piano," said Spanky.
"I can do that," said Dalrymple, and he did.
A strong, pale hand reached out from behind the toppled chair and grasped the ivory cane by the window. While Spanky kept his weapons trained in her direction, and while Dalrymple kept playing chopsticks over and over, Madam Solfeggia slowly dragged herself to her feet. She looked exhausted, ill, frightened, and savagely angry; her clothes hung on her awkwardly, as if she had taken them off and put them back on while lurking out of sight.
"So it's true, what they say about music and the savage beast." Spanky looked awkward but wary as he made the quip.
"It's breast, not beast," the lady snarled. "I will not have that thing pointed at me in my own house. And for pity's sake, go out and find somebody who can play better than this rubbish." She pointed her cane toward Dalrymple, but then lost her balance and only kept herself from falling again by catching hold of the windowsill and leaning on it. "I can heal Herbert. As long as I can hear something approximating music, no one will be in danger."
Herbert gave Spanky a look that said, "Please, don't leave me with her," but Spanky left anyway.
He came back surprisingly quickly, having found Fifi barricaded in the pantry. She slid onto the piano bench next to Dalrymple and began playing a Chopin Polonaise. Dalrymple smiled gratefully and wiped the sweat off his face, but he wasn't the only one grateful for the change.
Herbert's sleeve had been torn off. Except for a pink line across his arm and the bloodstains on his robe, there was no other sign he had been wounded at all. He was now looking over his viola, checking it for damage. Madam Solfeggia, meanwhile, was back in her chair, still shaken. She closed her eyes with relief as Fifi began playing.
"I am sorry to have caused so much trouble," she said, with a tone of humility that bordered on self-loathing. "As you can see, I am doing all that anybody can do to prevent my condition from..." She hesitated to choose her next word.
"Spreading?" Dalrymple prompted
"Causing harm?" Spanky suggested.
"Manifesting," she said. "I would a thousand times rather have been a vampire," she added. "It would be horrible, evil, and wrong, but at least it wouldn't be as..." Once again she seemed to be at a loss for words.
Dalrymple and Spanky looked at each other, but neither of them chose to help the lady this time.
"...sordid," she finally decided. "Wild, stinking, animal - I hate it. I have always hated it. I doubt that any curse could make me as miserable as this does. And now because of it I get accused of yak-slaughter and have my life threatened in my own parlor. I can't imagine falling lower than this."
Spanky hung his head. "It is I who should apologize," he said.
Dalrymple stared at him, amazed.
"How is that?" the lady asked warily.
"I did not expect my knife to have that kind of effect on you. I assumed the one we found stuck in the yak had your name on it because it belonged to you."
Madam Solfeggia's eyes snapped open. "It had what?"
"Your name," Spanky repeated slowly. He held up a photograph of a knife, nearly identical to his own, but with the words Solfeggia d'Arezzo engraved on the blade in an elaborate, curly script.
"I've never seen that," she said, gazing at the picture in something between shock and horror. "But why? How?"
"You know as much as we do," said Dalrymple. "The knife is what led us to you."
"Several years ago we found another body with a similar knife in it," said Spanky. "Neither the owner of the knife, nor the victim, was ever identified."
"Victim?" Madam Solfeggia murmured, clutching at the scarf around her neck. "Not a yak, I take it?"
"This man," said Dalrymple, and he produced a photo from one of his pockets. A photo whose subject did not move, unlike the subjects of most wizard photographs. He didn't move because he was dead.
"Mother of Gounod," the lady whispered, her hand now moving up to hover in front of her mouth. "That's him."
"You know him?" Dalrymple asked, his face turning as pale as hers.
"That's - that's the boy," she faltered. A puzzling series of emotions flowed across her face - perhaps rage; perhaps fear; perhaps even tenderness.
"Which boy?" Dalrymple demanded
"That's the young man who..." Again her voice gave out.
Dalrymple was at the end of his patience. He threw the photograph at her. It hit her chest edge-on as the agent shouted, "The man who what?"
As the photograph dropped into Madam Solfeggia's lap, it turned face-downward. Somehow this seemed to break the spell that held her. She looked up at Dalrymple and shouted back: "Who made me like this!" And then she covered her eyes with both hands and burst into tears.
+++ DOUBLE CHALLENGE +++
You can help decide what happens next in The Magic Quill! First, go to the forums, or send Robbie feedback. Then, in 250 words or less, answer the following Survey and Contest. The survey answer with the most votes, and the contest answer that Robbie likes best, will turn up in the chapter after next. [EDIT: This discussion is now closed.]
SURVEY: The yak found under Penelope Spankison's bed was: (A) Madam Solfeggia's pet yak, of course! (B) A similar yak supplied by the same mysterious dealer. (C) A Tibetan animagus whose similarity to Madam Solfeggia's yak was a coincidence. (D) A random victim pulled out of some kind of magical wormhole for no other purpose than to leave a grisly message under Spanky's nose. (E) A runaway zoo animal that followed Penelope home and gave its life to protect her from a knife-wielding assassin.
CONTEST: Describe a magical procedure, creature, or object from a book outside the Harry Potter series, something that might make a nice addition to the HP magical world. You may choose any book that Robbie has already reviewed on The Book Trolley. (This will save the time it takes him to read it.)
[Originally posted 9/14/08]
Concept contributed by: greyniffler
The Snookerfield Quartet were in the full fury of a Beethoven fugue when the knock came. At first, nobody heard it. When it was repeated, rather louder, the quartet played on without missing a beat; but the lady of the house noticed. "Fifi," she shouted over the music. "Fifi, there! Yoo-hoo!"
Fifi had her ear-plugs in, so she heard none of this. She only noticed that her mistress wanted her attention when a stream of sparks arced over her shoulder, spouting from the lady's wand and very nearly igniting the feather duster Fifi was running over the piano. She turned, pulled out one wax ball, and screeched: "Your pardon, ma'am?"
Ma'am waved both hands toward the front hall, where the knocking had been replaced by a magically magnified voice booming, "Queen's business! Is anyone at home?" while the quartet sawed away, oblivious. "The door, girl!" the lady yelled. "Answer the door!"
A moment later Fifi returned to the parlor door and shrieked: "Agent Dalrymple and Agent Spankison of the R.M.B., if you please!"
Two wizards strode in with their pointy hats in their hands. One was tall, thin, and dangerous-looking. The other, stout and puffy under the eyes, had a harrassed look, and he flinched slightly when he saw that all the noise came from a live string quartet. The players glanced suspiciously at the two agents, whenever they had a chance to look up from their scores.
"You couldn't turn it down at all?" bellowed Dalrymple, the shorter wizard.
The lady snapped her fingers twice. The players looked up at her, though the music continued. "Roger, Tim, Barry, run along to the kitchen and tell Cook you're to have tea until I send for you. Herbert will stay and improvise quietly. Chop, chop!"
Three of the players broke off and hurried out of the room, leaving their instruments behind. Only the viola player remained; with hardly a pause, he launched into a set of variations on a tooth powder advertising jingle. "I could have guessed Herbert would be the viola player," Dalrymple sniffed inwardly.
Meanwhile, Spanky made the introductions. "Madam Solfeggia, I presume?"
The lady nodded.
"I'm Spankison, and my colleague here is Dalrymple."
"How pleased I am to meet you," she replied, with apparent sincerity. "I have read so many of your exploits in the Daily Prophet. To what do I owe this honor?"
She was a small, delicately-shaped woman with a deathly pale complexion, like one wasted away by illness; yet her cheeks had a flush of vitality, and her hands had a strong, sinewy look. She closed the book in which she had been writing and set it aside, smoothing the lap of her snug, floor-length black skirt. Over this she wore a cream-colored blouse with loose sleeves down to her wrists and a floral-printed scarf knotted firmly around her neck. She did not rise as the vistors entered, but Dalrymple spotted an ivory walking-stick leaning against the wall within reach of her chair. Perhaps she needed its support to stand up, he thought while Spanky answered her question.
"We're investigating the murder of a Himalayan ruminant, and a certain piece of evidence has led us to you. Do you have time to answer a few questions?"
"By all means, gentlemen. Have a seat. Be careful of the instruments. I'm afraid I can't be very helpful. I don't know any Tibetan monks."
"I was referring to a yak, actually."
"Well, that's another matter. We have a yak around here somewhere."
"Have, or had?" asked Dalrymple.
"Have, I think. But I couldn't say for certain. I never see it."
"Why do you have it, then?"
"Oh, dear!" Madam Solfeggia laughed musically. "You won't believe this. It was sent by mistake when I ordered a nightingale."
Dalrymple licked the tip of a quill and scribbled a note on a scrap of parchment. "Do you collect exotic pets, then?"
"Not really," said the lady. "I was trying something new. I have two string quartets and a wind quintet serving me, turn and turn about, twenty-four hours a day. Except on weekends and holidays, when I use two pianists and a ballad-singer. I thought perhaps a little nature music would make a nice change, give the lads a breather now and then. I can't bear to be without music, even for a moment. So when I saw a nightingale advertised in an owl-order catalog, I sent for it.
"Imagine my surprise when I saw the crate it came in, flying over the treetops under probably every third owl in Britain. They literally darkened the sky. At first I thought: How silly of me not to realize a nightingale would be so big! Then my staff opened the crate, and there it was. I've written to the dealer to ask if I can return the yak for a refund, but they haven't responded."
"Do you recall the address of this yak dealer?" asked Spanky.
"No. You'll have to ask Roger. He's my secretary, when he isn't playing in the quartet. He handles all of that. Everyone on my staff wears two hats. Fifi, the girl who let you in, is one of the pianists who serenades me on weekends. Herbert here keeps my accounts."
"I thought he would," Dalrymple muttered to himself.
"You'll find Roger in the kitchen," said Madam Solfeggia. "Will that be all, then?"
"Beg pardon," said Spanky, "but no. It actually wasn't the yak that led us here. Though we would like to see your yak, er..."
"To eliminate it as a suspect?" The lady appeared to be stifling a laugh.
"To eliminate it as a victim," Dalrymple corrected her.
"Who is in charge of keeping the beast?" asked Spanky. "Is it Tim or Barry, perhaps?"
"No, it's a member of the other quartet, Sam Hill by name. He is not in at the moment. It's his morning off, and his next shift doesn't start till three o'clock."
The agents' eyes touched in a significant look.
"Perhaps we can come back then," Dalrymple suggested, speaking slowly, "and Mr. Hill can show us your yak."
Madam Solfeggia smiled. "As you wish. Once you see it, I am sure you will find that any connection between this house and your crime is but a red herring. Or yak, rather."
"That leaves only one other matter," said Spanky. "Do you own a knife like this?" He pulled out his Zichri Goode ounce-of-prevention and showed it to her, blade sideways.
The lady's reaction was the last thing the two agents expected. Simultaneously, she drew a sharp, hissing breath; pushed herself to her feet so that her chair tipped over behind her; and drew her wand. Since Spanky was holding his knife between both hands, he could not quickly reach either of his wands to defend himself. Dalrymple had scarcely reached for his wand when the lady muttered her first charm.
Fortunately, it was only a shield charm. Unfortunately, Madam Solfeggia miscalculated in her haste and panic, putting too much power into the spell. The invisible shield blew outward, swatting the knife out of Spanky's hand and sending it flying toward Herbert's viola. The musician flinched, risking his flesh to protect the instrument, and suffered a deep slash across his left arm. The viola dropped out of his nerveless hands as Herbert screamed in pain.
"No!" Madam Solfeggia screamed, covering her ears and staggering backwards. "Help! Somebody must sing at once!"
Herbert was too busy howling and wrapping a handkerchief around his bleeding arm. Spanky was occupied with leaping to retrieve his silver-bladed knife. Dalrymple faced Madam Solfeggia with his wand fully extended, unable to hear her cries over his own voice shouting, "Drop the wand!"
The lady fell backwards over her fallen chair. Suddenly everything went quiet, except for the sound of footsteps running away and a door slamming at the back of the house.
Then, from the corner behind the overturned chair, the three wizards heard a deep, hideous growl.
"Save us," Herbert whimpered. "You must play music for her. Or sing something. Otherwise she'll kill us all."
"I doubt that," said Spanky, brandishing a wand in one hand and his knife in the other.
"You don't understand," groaned the viola player. Then he began to sing - badly - making up the notes and the words to go with them: "She hasn't transformed for over sixteen years. The music holds it at bay. But the change can't be skipped, only delayed. All the hunger and fury of a hundred full moons, coming at you at once..." Herbert shuddered, nodding toward the knife. "You may kill her with that thing, but like as not she'll kill one or two of us first."
The musician subsided into panting. He was losing too much blood to keep singing. It might have been a relief to hear the end of his dreary tune, but as soon as it stopped, the growling began again.
Dalrymple whistled a couple bars of "The Girl from Ipanema." The growling stopped.
"Huh," he said. "What do you know?" The growling started again.
"Keep whistling," said Spanky.
"I don't know any songs," said Dalrymple.
"Then play Chopsticks on the piano," said Spanky.
"I can do that," said Dalrymple, and he did.
A strong, pale hand reached out from behind the toppled chair and grasped the ivory cane by the window. While Spanky kept his weapons trained in her direction, and while Dalrymple kept playing chopsticks over and over, Madam Solfeggia slowly dragged herself to her feet. She looked exhausted, ill, frightened, and savagely angry; her clothes hung on her awkwardly, as if she had taken them off and put them back on while lurking out of sight.
"So it's true, what they say about music and the savage beast." Spanky looked awkward but wary as he made the quip.
"It's breast, not beast," the lady snarled. "I will not have that thing pointed at me in my own house. And for pity's sake, go out and find somebody who can play better than this rubbish." She pointed her cane toward Dalrymple, but then lost her balance and only kept herself from falling again by catching hold of the windowsill and leaning on it. "I can heal Herbert. As long as I can hear something approximating music, no one will be in danger."
Herbert gave Spanky a look that said, "Please, don't leave me with her," but Spanky left anyway.
He came back surprisingly quickly, having found Fifi barricaded in the pantry. She slid onto the piano bench next to Dalrymple and began playing a Chopin Polonaise. Dalrymple smiled gratefully and wiped the sweat off his face, but he wasn't the only one grateful for the change.
Herbert's sleeve had been torn off. Except for a pink line across his arm and the bloodstains on his robe, there was no other sign he had been wounded at all. He was now looking over his viola, checking it for damage. Madam Solfeggia, meanwhile, was back in her chair, still shaken. She closed her eyes with relief as Fifi began playing.
"I am sorry to have caused so much trouble," she said, with a tone of humility that bordered on self-loathing. "As you can see, I am doing all that anybody can do to prevent my condition from..." She hesitated to choose her next word.
"Spreading?" Dalrymple prompted
"Causing harm?" Spanky suggested.
"Manifesting," she said. "I would a thousand times rather have been a vampire," she added. "It would be horrible, evil, and wrong, but at least it wouldn't be as..." Once again she seemed to be at a loss for words.
Dalrymple and Spanky looked at each other, but neither of them chose to help the lady this time.
"...sordid," she finally decided. "Wild, stinking, animal - I hate it. I have always hated it. I doubt that any curse could make me as miserable as this does. And now because of it I get accused of yak-slaughter and have my life threatened in my own parlor. I can't imagine falling lower than this."
Spanky hung his head. "It is I who should apologize," he said.
Dalrymple stared at him, amazed.
"How is that?" the lady asked warily.
"I did not expect my knife to have that kind of effect on you. I assumed the one we found stuck in the yak had your name on it because it belonged to you."
Madam Solfeggia's eyes snapped open. "It had what?"
"Your name," Spanky repeated slowly. He held up a photograph of a knife, nearly identical to his own, but with the words Solfeggia d'Arezzo engraved on the blade in an elaborate, curly script.
"I've never seen that," she said, gazing at the picture in something between shock and horror. "But why? How?"
"You know as much as we do," said Dalrymple. "The knife is what led us to you."
"Several years ago we found another body with a similar knife in it," said Spanky. "Neither the owner of the knife, nor the victim, was ever identified."
"Victim?" Madam Solfeggia murmured, clutching at the scarf around her neck. "Not a yak, I take it?"
"This man," said Dalrymple, and he produced a photo from one of his pockets. A photo whose subject did not move, unlike the subjects of most wizard photographs. He didn't move because he was dead.
"Mother of Gounod," the lady whispered, her hand now moving up to hover in front of her mouth. "That's him."
"You know him?" Dalrymple asked, his face turning as pale as hers.
"That's - that's the boy," she faltered. A puzzling series of emotions flowed across her face - perhaps rage; perhaps fear; perhaps even tenderness.
"Which boy?" Dalrymple demanded
"That's the young man who..." Again her voice gave out.
Dalrymple was at the end of his patience. He threw the photograph at her. It hit her chest edge-on as the agent shouted, "The man who what?"
As the photograph dropped into Madam Solfeggia's lap, it turned face-downward. Somehow this seemed to break the spell that held her. She looked up at Dalrymple and shouted back: "Who made me like this!" And then she covered her eyes with both hands and burst into tears.
+++ DOUBLE CHALLENGE +++
You can help decide what happens next in The Magic Quill! First, go to the forums, or send Robbie feedback. Then, in 250 words or less, answer the following Survey and Contest. The survey answer with the most votes, and the contest answer that Robbie likes best, will turn up in the chapter after next. [EDIT: This discussion is now closed.]
SURVEY: The yak found under Penelope Spankison's bed was: (A) Madam Solfeggia's pet yak, of course! (B) A similar yak supplied by the same mysterious dealer. (C) A Tibetan animagus whose similarity to Madam Solfeggia's yak was a coincidence. (D) A random victim pulled out of some kind of magical wormhole for no other purpose than to leave a grisly message under Spanky's nose. (E) A runaway zoo animal that followed Penelope home and gave its life to protect her from a knife-wielding assassin.
CONTEST: Describe a magical procedure, creature, or object from a book outside the Harry Potter series, something that might make a nice addition to the HP magical world. You may choose any book that Robbie has already reviewed on The Book Trolley. (This will save the time it takes him to read it.)
[Originally posted 9/14/08]
141. The Gift-Giving
Contest winner: greyniffler
Merlin rocked on his feet impatiently. As if the queue to turn in his room key hadn't been moving slowly enough, now it seemed an Elvis impersonator was having fisticuffs with somebody disguised as Einstein. The wizard-of-fortune rolled his eyes, fingering the last of the probability-magic-proof chits with which the Aladdin's Cave Consortium had paid him for his work.
It wasn't enough, he reflected, that he had lost all the money he had earned testing the casino's security system; but now that they had recouped everything they had paid him, the Consortium was threatening to cancel his exemption from the Do Not Pass binding unless he started paying for his room and board.
Merlin gritted his teeth, wondering for the eleventh time what it would have felt like simply to break out of the vault and take everything with him when he had the chance, rather than reporting to the Consortium how he had gotten through their spelltraps. It was just as well that he was on the list of people prevented, by a magical binding, from crossing the threshold of Aladdin's Cave. It would be too easy, he knew now, to get away with millions - and after the way the Consortium had treated him, he had more motives than money for doing it. He didn't need that kind of temptation. It was time to leave.
Someone nearby cleared his throat. Merlin looked over and saw three men watching him: a large, bald man in an expensive suit, leaning on a silver-capped cane, and flanked by two obvious flunkies - one tall, skeletally thin, with huge expressive eyes and a sensitive face; the other very short, scarcely taller than a goblin, but stoutly built and animated by a fidgety, restless energy. Something about the three men struck Merlin as familiar. Had they been watching him as he moved about the casino?
The fat wizard beckoned Merlin toward him with a slight twist of his head. Merlin hesitated, glancing toward the front of the line, where Elvis was now being arrested by the casino police. He turned back toward the three men and saw them walking away through the crowd. With a groan of frustration, Merlin abandoned his place in the queue and hurried after them.
Their trail led him past the Lizard Lounge, around the far end of the Roc Concert Hall, up several flights of steps, and down a hallway lit by glowing stars on the doors. The three men came to a door that had three stars stuck to it, opened it and walked through without another glance in Merlin's direction. He followed them through the door, and heard it close behind him.
The room beyond the three-star door contained three dressing tables, placed in a row beneath a single mirror. On another wall hung a large, silver horn, hung above a brightly painted carousel horse with a hinged door built into its side. The tables were covered with jars of paint, sponges, brushes, pencils, and wigs - Merlin only saw them for a moment before the thin wizard waved his hand, clearing all these things away and conjuring a plain, white cloth in their place. The short wizard vanished with a pop, then reappeared carrying a tray full of demitasses, a pitcher of steamed milk, a bowl of sugar, and the powerful aroma of espresso. The fat wizard sketched four chairs out of thin air with the tip of his cane: four papasan chairs, covered with tasseled rugs, one sized to fit each of the men in the room. No one said a word until all were seated and slurping strong coffee out of tiny cups that never fell below half-full.
Tall-and-thin mutely offered Merlin a mouthwatering, chocolate-shaving-covered canole. Shaking his head, Merlin broke the silence to ask if they might have a plain digestive instead. "No offense meant," he added. "I promised my wife. She swears she can smell my weight, and if I gain much more she'll have her own bedroom. Her nose is that sensitive."
The fat wizard tutted sympathetically, but his mouth was too full of pastry and cream to comment.
It was, finally, the short wizard who spoke in a thick accent Merlin had never heard before. For the first time, Merlin began to doubt the sense of familiarity he had felt since he had first spotted the three men. Perhaps he hadn't met them before, after all.
"We would like to engage your services," said short-and-stout. "It is a dangerous business. We understand you are one of the best for this kind of work."
"I have references, if you need to see them," said Merlin, dipping his biscuit in the coffee.
"No need," said the short wizard. "We already know your abilities. We are currently in funds, thanks to a fifty-show contract at this casino, so money is no object. We know you are between jobs. The only question that remains is whether you will accept this very difficult mission."
"Name it," said Merlin.
The fat, bald wizard spoke up with an Italian accent Merlin instantly recognized: "We wish you to teach Maledicto di Bestemmia what it is like to feel ashamed."
"Pagliai?" Merlin exclaimed, almost choking on his coffee. "Are these two - ?"
"Excuse us for appearing out of character," said the leader of the clown wizards, with a gracious smile. "We thought that, with our make-up, wigs, and squeaky shoes on, it would be harder to impress on you the serious nature of our mission."
Merlin almost laughed with relief. "I was afraid you were hiring me to rob the casino," he confessed. "Or maybe, to track down someone who had robbed it."
"But that is exactly what we are hiring you to do," cried the short wizard (who was, in fact, Signor Subito). The thin man, whom Merlin now easily recognized as Boccachiusa, nodded firmly.
"Which one?" asked Merlin. "The robbery, or - ?"
"Both," said Subito and Pagliai together.
"You must remove an item Maledicto keeps in the vault," said Subito.
"Something he keeps here because he fears what would happen if the goblins knew he possessed it," added Pagliai.
"And then you must make sure the goblins catch him in possession of it," Subito concluded.
Merlin chewed thoughtfully on a bland mouthful of digestive. He swallowed, sipped his coffee, thought a moment longer, then shook his head. "I don't see how it can be done," he said regretfully.
"But you have already proved more than a match for the Consortium's security!" Pagliai cried. "That's half of your task as good as done already!"
"Be that as it may," said Merlin, "though it may not, since I will not be able to return to the casino after I leave. If I don't clear out by sunset, the Consortium will put a lien on my Gringott's account until I settle my bill. And I won't be able to leave without setting off a Do Not Pass alert. They will search me and take away anything that doesn't belong to me."
"Yes, yes," said Pagliai. "But there is a simple solution. You don't leave; we will pay your full bill when you check out; and before you leave, you will give Il Comte's little toy to Signor Boccachiusa here. Then you can walk out of the casino" - here the clown wizard whistled - "clean as guess-what."
"That leaves the really impossible part," said Merlin. "Not only do I have to lure Il Comte out of his lair with all its defenses, but then I have to..."
"Name your fee," Subito insisted.
Merlin suppressed a laugh. "All this, just to bring that old loony to justice!"
"On the contrary," said Pagliai. "We do not expect Il Comte to come to justice. Men with his means and powers are beyond the reach of law, and unfortunately he knows it and uses this knowledge shamelessly. We only want him to taste a bit of the humiliation he inflicted on us for so many years. We want him to feel regret over his own actions, just once."
Now it was Merlin's turn to whistle. "Gentlemen, I don't know how to begin - "
"Name your fee," Subito repeated; then he added, "We will double it."
Merlin shook his head. "What I need for this is not a promise of great reward. I have been a victim of Il Comte's evil myself, remember? But how can I even approach the man? He is so slippery, so resilient. He has survived things no one should survive, escaped from every binding and imprisonment man has devised, recovered from Lilly Grate faster than anyone thought possible - even the laws of magic seem to bend out of his way. He can be momentarily thwarted. You can run from him, hide from him, and eventually recover from the curses he puts on you. But he just doesn't stop. He may be a fool, and his powers may not be great, but he seems to have - if I may risk sounding silly - a charmed life!"
"That is what you must change," said Pagliai. "Il Comte seems to be surrounded by some magic-dampening shield. While it doesn't stop curses, potions, or magical objects from taking effect, it lessens their effect, going in both directions. Take that shield away and he will be more vulnerable to - let us say, justice."
"But then, he will also be more dangerous," Subito murmured, by way of full disclosure.
"And the key to doing all that," Merlin said, "is in the vault."
"A talisman Il Comte obtained from the goblins by deceit," said Subito, "many, many years ago. Its influence over him will only end if he returns it to its rightful owners."
"This sounds like the kind of thing that can only be given, not taken," Merlin observed.
"Exactly," said Subito.
"How could Il Comte steal it, then?"
"He did not. They loaned it to him, but he broke his word. He was supposed to use the talisman to do something for the goblins, and return it afterward. We are not sure what he was supposed to do, or how he explained his failure to return the talisman. All we know is that, if the goblins can ever prove that he kept it, he will regret his bad faith. We heard him speak of this long ago. When he worries about anything, it is this."
Merlin stood up and paced. After several lengths of the dressing-room, he faced the clown-wizards again. "So what you're asking," he said, "is to do the very thing against which Il Comte is most on guard; to provoke the two parties in the world that have the best reasons to hate me; and to get them to turn on each other without suspecting that I set up the whole thing."
As he finished this summary, he found himself looking at Boccachiusa. The mute clown nodded.
"I'll never survive," he concluded.
Pagliai said, "Pish," a second time, then went over to the painted, carved horse and tapped one of its eyes with his left ring-finger. The door in the horse's side sprang open. Silk handkerchiefs, arm-length gloves, and mountains of garish clothing spilled out on the floor as Pagliai rummaged.
"What do you think of our clothes-horse?" Subito asked conversationally.
"Does it clean and press your costumes, as well as store them?"
"Only if we give it food, water, and exercise. These days we don't have the time, but the concert hall has a couple of house-elves who are happy to do the washing for us, when they're not busy clearing up spilled drinks and cigarette butts."
"All right, I've found it," said Pagliai. "We thought it might come to this, so we had our old friends put together a survival kit for you - "
" - should you choose to accept this mission," Subito added.
Subito vanished the coffee things, enabling Pagliai to set his find on the table. It was a leather satchel with a shoulder strap. There seemed to be no way to open it. Pagliai explained: "The bag itself is a gift from our friend Karl, the survival wizard. It will resist fire, water, sharp objects, corrosive substances, most spells, and the vacuum of outer space. Its interior is exactly as big as the contents require. You could hide inside it, if the need arose."
"How does it open?" Merlin asked, intrigued.
"Only you can open it," said Subito.
Pagliai added: "After it was closed, Karl tuned it to respond to your body, using a lock of hair that your wife provided."
Merlin stroked the bag. A simple, flap closure became visible. He pulled it back, revealing a collection of bottles and other objects within.
Pagliai pulled out a smooth, flat, round stone with a hole in its center. Uncut by human hand, it was threaded on a thick, coarse string. "This is Slavik's gift," he explained solemnly. "While you wear it, neither claw nor fang can penetrate your skin. I believe he found it during his childhood in Transylvania."
"I can see how that would be handy against dark creatures."
"And the undead," Subito agreed.
"This," announced Pagliai, pulling out a slender, tapering stick at least thirty inches long, "is a wand our friend Jaan designed specially for you. Its core is the nose hair of a cave troll."
"A what?" Merlin dropped the wand. Boccachiusa gracefully caught it.
"Its chief virtue," said Pagliai, "is that, if you are ever confined indoors or underground, a Four-Points spell will cause it to point toward the route of quickest escape."
"Wow," said Merlin, gingerly plucking the wand out of Boccachiusa's fingers. "I could have used this years ago."
"Evidently Jaan thought so, too," said Subito.
Pagliai proffered a small, tight roll of parchment. As Merlin took it, the fat clown explained: "This is the gift of Anatoly. Write on the scroll the names of the six curses you fear the most. Draw a line through the name of one of them. Then place the written-on side of the parchment against your bare skin. Anatoly has infused the paper with a special type of ink he invented. It print seven tattoos on your skin, magical defense tattoos. Each tattoo will protect you, once only, against one of the curses you wrote down."
Merlin had already decided what he was going to write - Crucio, Sectumsempra, Petrificus totalis, Legilimens, Obliviate, and with a line through it, Imperius. The six curses he feared most, in ascending order.
"Why seven tattoos, if I only wrote down six curses?"
"You will have a double protection from the curse you strike through. Unfortunately, the Killing Curse cannot be on your list. No spell can protect you from that."
Merlin squinted into the bag. There were still several glass vials in it. Who could they be from?
Pagliai held up a single earring. "This is half of a matching pair," he said. "Your protégé Rigel designed them, and he has sworn to wear the other one until you return."
"That's touching," said Merlin, rubbing his earlobe, which had never been pierced.
"If, while wearing this, you say 'Rigel help,' he will hear you through the pin in his ear. Five seconds later, it will become a portkey, transporting him to wherever your half of the set happens to be."
"Could be useful," Merlin said grudgingly. He was beginning to feel like nothing could stand in his way now. "What's with the potions?"
"We were going to save those for last," said Pagliai, looking a bit put out. "We haven't gotten to our own gifts yet."
"I'm dying to know what's in those bottles," Merlin insisted.
The fat clown shrugged. "All right. This is your wife's gift. Endora invented it herself. There are only seven doses of it in existence, and four of them are here."
Merlin was growing impatient. "What is it, then?"
"Endora calls it Liquid Skill," said Subito.
Merlin frowned.
"It is a working title," Pagliai added hastily. "Once it is approved by the magical patent office, it will no doubt receive a much more evocative trade-name. For now, all you need to know is that each vial contains one dose, each dose lasts twenty-four hours. Think of a skill as you drink it, and that skill will be yours while the effects last. But only once per skill. If you drink it wishing to be a master carpenter, you will have twenty-four hours to build your masterpiece; after that, the skill will be gone. Then you will have to choose a different skill with each dose of the liquor."
"So I could be a circus acrobat, or an opera singer, or - "
Boccachiusa brightened up and pointed at himself.
" - or a mime," Merlin added.
"Anything you want," said Subito. "But only once, and only for a night and a day. But look here, you get to experience four different things."
"You need only be clever enough to recognize what skills you will need to complete your mission," said Pagliai.
"Or to get out of trouble," Merlin agreed.
"This little pouch thing is from Harvey. Once you open it, you'll never get it back in again. It's a rapidly-inflating, portable wall that will camouflage itself like part of the background. Its usefulness might be somewhat limited - once somebody bumps into it, they'll be onto you - but it might just buy you a moment to make good your escape. If you're the first person to touch it when the pouch opens, it will erase you from the picture, basically making you invisible to anyone standing on the other side."
"The rest of these things are from us," said Subito. "The Turbo Gum is from me."
Pagliai nodded, holding up a small tin of chewing-gum lozenges. "While you chew one of these, you'll be able to run so fast that most people will only see a blur. You'll have five minutes of super speed, while only five seconds pass for the rest of the world. Be careful, though. The effects wear off quite suddenly, and bad things can happen - "
"Like being hit by a train you were trying to outrun," Subito said sadly. "It happened to my cousin Veloce."
"Family recipe," Pagliai whispered to Merlin, aside.
"The Peekaboo Kit is from Boccachiusa," Subito explained eagerly, passing Pagliai a handkerchief folded into a perfect, but lumpy, square. "If you put on the blindfold and hold very still, no one will be able to see you, even if they are searching right in front of you."
Pagliai caressed the kit fondly. "It comes with ear plugs. While they're in, you can sneeze, cough, or even burst into tears, and no one will hear you."
"Is that everything?" Merlin asked. Somehow, all these helpful gimmicks had convinced him that he had a job to do, a job he could do, and he had better start soon.
"Just one more gift," said Pagliai, drawing a final item out of the depths of the bag.
It was a round, red clown nose.
"Wear this," he said reverently, "and His Pestilency will be unable to look at you without going into fits of laughter. It's almost as good as a paralyzing spell. Without it, I wouldn't have survived my years of service to him. I used it sparingly, but even so, it will only fool him once. After that, he won't be able to aim accurately, not daring to look straight at you, so you may be able to dodge his spells. So it's not much; but as I said, once he loses the talisman he will become a very dangerous customer. Even a slight advantage may be a matter of life and death."
In Merlin's hands the clown nose felt like some kind of leather. He didn't know whether it was magical or, simply, something Il Comte found irresistably funny. With a fitting display of respect, he passed it back to Pagliai.
"Thank you," he said. "I accept the mission."
"Well done," said a voice with a lilting, Italian accent. It wasn't one of the clown wizards. Merlin looked up and saw, looming over him, the huge, handsome face of a middle-aged man. He trembled, thinking: What have I done?
"Well done," Il Comte said again. "I knew you would make a fine addition to my mews." He cut the heart out of the lark Merlin had brought him and held it toward Merlin's beak. The wizard-of-fortune darted forward and devoured the heart while the count laughed.
"What a fine merlin you are," the evil count gloated, stroking Merlin's feet, or rather claws, as they gripped the padded gauntlet on Il Comte's arm. "That rascally falconer was a fool even to try keeping you from me. Come, my feathered friend. Let's introduce you to your housemates, or rather rivals."
As Il Comte strode back toward his manor, Merlin gripped his outstretched arm, fighting hard to concentrate on who he was and how he had gotten there. Liquid Skill, he thought. I've become an animagus. For some reason he felt concerned about how long he had been in this form. He couldn't remember why it mattered, though...his mind was increasingly clouded by the exhiliration of flying, which he had just experienced, and the hunger for flesh which that morsel of lark had stirred up.
"Ah, here we are, Master Merlin," Maledicto purred, and suddenly he was engulfed by darkness, the smell of feathers, and the sound of strange birds shuffling nervously around. A door slammed, a lock clicked... Merlin was trapped.
+++ DOUBLE CHALLENGE +++
You can help decide what happens next in The Magic Quill! First, go to the forums, or send Robbie feedback. Then, in 250 words or less, answer the following Survey and Contest. The survey answer with the most votes, and the contest answer that Robbie likes best, will turn up in the chapter after next. [EDIT: This discussion is now closed.]
SURVEY: greyniffler suggested (in the discussion thread for TMQ #139) a grudge match between Il Comte and Uncle or Aunt Leslie. What do you think? A) Yes, that would be a great fight to witness! B) No, they're both evil, so they should work together. C) No, let's keep their storylines separate.
CONTEST: Describe a historical person or incident that would be even more interesting if we only knew the "untold story" (involving witches or wizards from Harry Potter's world).
[Originally posted 8/17/08]
Merlin rocked on his feet impatiently. As if the queue to turn in his room key hadn't been moving slowly enough, now it seemed an Elvis impersonator was having fisticuffs with somebody disguised as Einstein. The wizard-of-fortune rolled his eyes, fingering the last of the probability-magic-proof chits with which the Aladdin's Cave Consortium had paid him for his work.
It wasn't enough, he reflected, that he had lost all the money he had earned testing the casino's security system; but now that they had recouped everything they had paid him, the Consortium was threatening to cancel his exemption from the Do Not Pass binding unless he started paying for his room and board.
Merlin gritted his teeth, wondering for the eleventh time what it would have felt like simply to break out of the vault and take everything with him when he had the chance, rather than reporting to the Consortium how he had gotten through their spelltraps. It was just as well that he was on the list of people prevented, by a magical binding, from crossing the threshold of Aladdin's Cave. It would be too easy, he knew now, to get away with millions - and after the way the Consortium had treated him, he had more motives than money for doing it. He didn't need that kind of temptation. It was time to leave.
Someone nearby cleared his throat. Merlin looked over and saw three men watching him: a large, bald man in an expensive suit, leaning on a silver-capped cane, and flanked by two obvious flunkies - one tall, skeletally thin, with huge expressive eyes and a sensitive face; the other very short, scarcely taller than a goblin, but stoutly built and animated by a fidgety, restless energy. Something about the three men struck Merlin as familiar. Had they been watching him as he moved about the casino?
The fat wizard beckoned Merlin toward him with a slight twist of his head. Merlin hesitated, glancing toward the front of the line, where Elvis was now being arrested by the casino police. He turned back toward the three men and saw them walking away through the crowd. With a groan of frustration, Merlin abandoned his place in the queue and hurried after them.
Their trail led him past the Lizard Lounge, around the far end of the Roc Concert Hall, up several flights of steps, and down a hallway lit by glowing stars on the doors. The three men came to a door that had three stars stuck to it, opened it and walked through without another glance in Merlin's direction. He followed them through the door, and heard it close behind him.
The room beyond the three-star door contained three dressing tables, placed in a row beneath a single mirror. On another wall hung a large, silver horn, hung above a brightly painted carousel horse with a hinged door built into its side. The tables were covered with jars of paint, sponges, brushes, pencils, and wigs - Merlin only saw them for a moment before the thin wizard waved his hand, clearing all these things away and conjuring a plain, white cloth in their place. The short wizard vanished with a pop, then reappeared carrying a tray full of demitasses, a pitcher of steamed milk, a bowl of sugar, and the powerful aroma of espresso. The fat wizard sketched four chairs out of thin air with the tip of his cane: four papasan chairs, covered with tasseled rugs, one sized to fit each of the men in the room. No one said a word until all were seated and slurping strong coffee out of tiny cups that never fell below half-full.
Tall-and-thin mutely offered Merlin a mouthwatering, chocolate-shaving-covered canole. Shaking his head, Merlin broke the silence to ask if they might have a plain digestive instead. "No offense meant," he added. "I promised my wife. She swears she can smell my weight, and if I gain much more she'll have her own bedroom. Her nose is that sensitive."
The fat wizard tutted sympathetically, but his mouth was too full of pastry and cream to comment.
It was, finally, the short wizard who spoke in a thick accent Merlin had never heard before. For the first time, Merlin began to doubt the sense of familiarity he had felt since he had first spotted the three men. Perhaps he hadn't met them before, after all.
"We would like to engage your services," said short-and-stout. "It is a dangerous business. We understand you are one of the best for this kind of work."
"I have references, if you need to see them," said Merlin, dipping his biscuit in the coffee.
"No need," said the short wizard. "We already know your abilities. We are currently in funds, thanks to a fifty-show contract at this casino, so money is no object. We know you are between jobs. The only question that remains is whether you will accept this very difficult mission."
"Name it," said Merlin.
The fat, bald wizard spoke up with an Italian accent Merlin instantly recognized: "We wish you to teach Maledicto di Bestemmia what it is like to feel ashamed."
"Pagliai?" Merlin exclaimed, almost choking on his coffee. "Are these two - ?"
"Excuse us for appearing out of character," said the leader of the clown wizards, with a gracious smile. "We thought that, with our make-up, wigs, and squeaky shoes on, it would be harder to impress on you the serious nature of our mission."
Merlin almost laughed with relief. "I was afraid you were hiring me to rob the casino," he confessed. "Or maybe, to track down someone who had robbed it."
"But that is exactly what we are hiring you to do," cried the short wizard (who was, in fact, Signor Subito). The thin man, whom Merlin now easily recognized as Boccachiusa, nodded firmly.
"Which one?" asked Merlin. "The robbery, or - ?"
"Both," said Subito and Pagliai together.
"You must remove an item Maledicto keeps in the vault," said Subito.
"Something he keeps here because he fears what would happen if the goblins knew he possessed it," added Pagliai.
"And then you must make sure the goblins catch him in possession of it," Subito concluded.
Merlin chewed thoughtfully on a bland mouthful of digestive. He swallowed, sipped his coffee, thought a moment longer, then shook his head. "I don't see how it can be done," he said regretfully.
"But you have already proved more than a match for the Consortium's security!" Pagliai cried. "That's half of your task as good as done already!"
"Be that as it may," said Merlin, "though it may not, since I will not be able to return to the casino after I leave. If I don't clear out by sunset, the Consortium will put a lien on my Gringott's account until I settle my bill. And I won't be able to leave without setting off a Do Not Pass alert. They will search me and take away anything that doesn't belong to me."
"Yes, yes," said Pagliai. "But there is a simple solution. You don't leave; we will pay your full bill when you check out; and before you leave, you will give Il Comte's little toy to Signor Boccachiusa here. Then you can walk out of the casino" - here the clown wizard whistled - "clean as guess-what."
"That leaves the really impossible part," said Merlin. "Not only do I have to lure Il Comte out of his lair with all its defenses, but then I have to..."
"Name your fee," Subito insisted.
Merlin suppressed a laugh. "All this, just to bring that old loony to justice!"
"On the contrary," said Pagliai. "We do not expect Il Comte to come to justice. Men with his means and powers are beyond the reach of law, and unfortunately he knows it and uses this knowledge shamelessly. We only want him to taste a bit of the humiliation he inflicted on us for so many years. We want him to feel regret over his own actions, just once."
Now it was Merlin's turn to whistle. "Gentlemen, I don't know how to begin - "
"Name your fee," Subito repeated; then he added, "We will double it."
Merlin shook his head. "What I need for this is not a promise of great reward. I have been a victim of Il Comte's evil myself, remember? But how can I even approach the man? He is so slippery, so resilient. He has survived things no one should survive, escaped from every binding and imprisonment man has devised, recovered from Lilly Grate faster than anyone thought possible - even the laws of magic seem to bend out of his way. He can be momentarily thwarted. You can run from him, hide from him, and eventually recover from the curses he puts on you. But he just doesn't stop. He may be a fool, and his powers may not be great, but he seems to have - if I may risk sounding silly - a charmed life!"
"That is what you must change," said Pagliai. "Il Comte seems to be surrounded by some magic-dampening shield. While it doesn't stop curses, potions, or magical objects from taking effect, it lessens their effect, going in both directions. Take that shield away and he will be more vulnerable to - let us say, justice."
"But then, he will also be more dangerous," Subito murmured, by way of full disclosure.
"And the key to doing all that," Merlin said, "is in the vault."
"A talisman Il Comte obtained from the goblins by deceit," said Subito, "many, many years ago. Its influence over him will only end if he returns it to its rightful owners."
"This sounds like the kind of thing that can only be given, not taken," Merlin observed.
"Exactly," said Subito.
"How could Il Comte steal it, then?"
"He did not. They loaned it to him, but he broke his word. He was supposed to use the talisman to do something for the goblins, and return it afterward. We are not sure what he was supposed to do, or how he explained his failure to return the talisman. All we know is that, if the goblins can ever prove that he kept it, he will regret his bad faith. We heard him speak of this long ago. When he worries about anything, it is this."
Merlin stood up and paced. After several lengths of the dressing-room, he faced the clown-wizards again. "So what you're asking," he said, "is to do the very thing against which Il Comte is most on guard; to provoke the two parties in the world that have the best reasons to hate me; and to get them to turn on each other without suspecting that I set up the whole thing."
As he finished this summary, he found himself looking at Boccachiusa. The mute clown nodded.
"I'll never survive," he concluded.
Pagliai said, "Pish," a second time, then went over to the painted, carved horse and tapped one of its eyes with his left ring-finger. The door in the horse's side sprang open. Silk handkerchiefs, arm-length gloves, and mountains of garish clothing spilled out on the floor as Pagliai rummaged.
"What do you think of our clothes-horse?" Subito asked conversationally.
"Does it clean and press your costumes, as well as store them?"
"Only if we give it food, water, and exercise. These days we don't have the time, but the concert hall has a couple of house-elves who are happy to do the washing for us, when they're not busy clearing up spilled drinks and cigarette butts."
"All right, I've found it," said Pagliai. "We thought it might come to this, so we had our old friends put together a survival kit for you - "
" - should you choose to accept this mission," Subito added.
Subito vanished the coffee things, enabling Pagliai to set his find on the table. It was a leather satchel with a shoulder strap. There seemed to be no way to open it. Pagliai explained: "The bag itself is a gift from our friend Karl, the survival wizard. It will resist fire, water, sharp objects, corrosive substances, most spells, and the vacuum of outer space. Its interior is exactly as big as the contents require. You could hide inside it, if the need arose."
"How does it open?" Merlin asked, intrigued.
"Only you can open it," said Subito.
Pagliai added: "After it was closed, Karl tuned it to respond to your body, using a lock of hair that your wife provided."
Merlin stroked the bag. A simple, flap closure became visible. He pulled it back, revealing a collection of bottles and other objects within.
Pagliai pulled out a smooth, flat, round stone with a hole in its center. Uncut by human hand, it was threaded on a thick, coarse string. "This is Slavik's gift," he explained solemnly. "While you wear it, neither claw nor fang can penetrate your skin. I believe he found it during his childhood in Transylvania."
"I can see how that would be handy against dark creatures."
"And the undead," Subito agreed.
"This," announced Pagliai, pulling out a slender, tapering stick at least thirty inches long, "is a wand our friend Jaan designed specially for you. Its core is the nose hair of a cave troll."
"A what?" Merlin dropped the wand. Boccachiusa gracefully caught it.
"Its chief virtue," said Pagliai, "is that, if you are ever confined indoors or underground, a Four-Points spell will cause it to point toward the route of quickest escape."
"Wow," said Merlin, gingerly plucking the wand out of Boccachiusa's fingers. "I could have used this years ago."
"Evidently Jaan thought so, too," said Subito.
Pagliai proffered a small, tight roll of parchment. As Merlin took it, the fat clown explained: "This is the gift of Anatoly. Write on the scroll the names of the six curses you fear the most. Draw a line through the name of one of them. Then place the written-on side of the parchment against your bare skin. Anatoly has infused the paper with a special type of ink he invented. It print seven tattoos on your skin, magical defense tattoos. Each tattoo will protect you, once only, against one of the curses you wrote down."
Merlin had already decided what he was going to write - Crucio, Sectumsempra, Petrificus totalis, Legilimens, Obliviate, and with a line through it, Imperius. The six curses he feared most, in ascending order.
"Why seven tattoos, if I only wrote down six curses?"
"You will have a double protection from the curse you strike through. Unfortunately, the Killing Curse cannot be on your list. No spell can protect you from that."
Merlin squinted into the bag. There were still several glass vials in it. Who could they be from?
Pagliai held up a single earring. "This is half of a matching pair," he said. "Your protégé Rigel designed them, and he has sworn to wear the other one until you return."
"That's touching," said Merlin, rubbing his earlobe, which had never been pierced.
"If, while wearing this, you say 'Rigel help,' he will hear you through the pin in his ear. Five seconds later, it will become a portkey, transporting him to wherever your half of the set happens to be."
"Could be useful," Merlin said grudgingly. He was beginning to feel like nothing could stand in his way now. "What's with the potions?"
"We were going to save those for last," said Pagliai, looking a bit put out. "We haven't gotten to our own gifts yet."
"I'm dying to know what's in those bottles," Merlin insisted.
The fat clown shrugged. "All right. This is your wife's gift. Endora invented it herself. There are only seven doses of it in existence, and four of them are here."
Merlin was growing impatient. "What is it, then?"
"Endora calls it Liquid Skill," said Subito.
Merlin frowned.
"It is a working title," Pagliai added hastily. "Once it is approved by the magical patent office, it will no doubt receive a much more evocative trade-name. For now, all you need to know is that each vial contains one dose, each dose lasts twenty-four hours. Think of a skill as you drink it, and that skill will be yours while the effects last. But only once per skill. If you drink it wishing to be a master carpenter, you will have twenty-four hours to build your masterpiece; after that, the skill will be gone. Then you will have to choose a different skill with each dose of the liquor."
"So I could be a circus acrobat, or an opera singer, or - "
Boccachiusa brightened up and pointed at himself.
" - or a mime," Merlin added.
"Anything you want," said Subito. "But only once, and only for a night and a day. But look here, you get to experience four different things."
"You need only be clever enough to recognize what skills you will need to complete your mission," said Pagliai.
"Or to get out of trouble," Merlin agreed.
"This little pouch thing is from Harvey. Once you open it, you'll never get it back in again. It's a rapidly-inflating, portable wall that will camouflage itself like part of the background. Its usefulness might be somewhat limited - once somebody bumps into it, they'll be onto you - but it might just buy you a moment to make good your escape. If you're the first person to touch it when the pouch opens, it will erase you from the picture, basically making you invisible to anyone standing on the other side."
"The rest of these things are from us," said Subito. "The Turbo Gum is from me."
Pagliai nodded, holding up a small tin of chewing-gum lozenges. "While you chew one of these, you'll be able to run so fast that most people will only see a blur. You'll have five minutes of super speed, while only five seconds pass for the rest of the world. Be careful, though. The effects wear off quite suddenly, and bad things can happen - "
"Like being hit by a train you were trying to outrun," Subito said sadly. "It happened to my cousin Veloce."
"Family recipe," Pagliai whispered to Merlin, aside.
"The Peekaboo Kit is from Boccachiusa," Subito explained eagerly, passing Pagliai a handkerchief folded into a perfect, but lumpy, square. "If you put on the blindfold and hold very still, no one will be able to see you, even if they are searching right in front of you."
Pagliai caressed the kit fondly. "It comes with ear plugs. While they're in, you can sneeze, cough, or even burst into tears, and no one will hear you."
"Is that everything?" Merlin asked. Somehow, all these helpful gimmicks had convinced him that he had a job to do, a job he could do, and he had better start soon.
"Just one more gift," said Pagliai, drawing a final item out of the depths of the bag.
It was a round, red clown nose.
"Wear this," he said reverently, "and His Pestilency will be unable to look at you without going into fits of laughter. It's almost as good as a paralyzing spell. Without it, I wouldn't have survived my years of service to him. I used it sparingly, but even so, it will only fool him once. After that, he won't be able to aim accurately, not daring to look straight at you, so you may be able to dodge his spells. So it's not much; but as I said, once he loses the talisman he will become a very dangerous customer. Even a slight advantage may be a matter of life and death."
In Merlin's hands the clown nose felt like some kind of leather. He didn't know whether it was magical or, simply, something Il Comte found irresistably funny. With a fitting display of respect, he passed it back to Pagliai.
"Thank you," he said. "I accept the mission."
"Well done," said a voice with a lilting, Italian accent. It wasn't one of the clown wizards. Merlin looked up and saw, looming over him, the huge, handsome face of a middle-aged man. He trembled, thinking: What have I done?
"Well done," Il Comte said again. "I knew you would make a fine addition to my mews." He cut the heart out of the lark Merlin had brought him and held it toward Merlin's beak. The wizard-of-fortune darted forward and devoured the heart while the count laughed.
"What a fine merlin you are," the evil count gloated, stroking Merlin's feet, or rather claws, as they gripped the padded gauntlet on Il Comte's arm. "That rascally falconer was a fool even to try keeping you from me. Come, my feathered friend. Let's introduce you to your housemates, or rather rivals."
As Il Comte strode back toward his manor, Merlin gripped his outstretched arm, fighting hard to concentrate on who he was and how he had gotten there. Liquid Skill, he thought. I've become an animagus. For some reason he felt concerned about how long he had been in this form. He couldn't remember why it mattered, though...his mind was increasingly clouded by the exhiliration of flying, which he had just experienced, and the hunger for flesh which that morsel of lark had stirred up.
"Ah, here we are, Master Merlin," Maledicto purred, and suddenly he was engulfed by darkness, the smell of feathers, and the sound of strange birds shuffling nervously around. A door slammed, a lock clicked... Merlin was trapped.
+++ DOUBLE CHALLENGE +++
You can help decide what happens next in The Magic Quill! First, go to the forums, or send Robbie feedback. Then, in 250 words or less, answer the following Survey and Contest. The survey answer with the most votes, and the contest answer that Robbie likes best, will turn up in the chapter after next. [EDIT: This discussion is now closed.]
SURVEY: greyniffler suggested (in the discussion thread for TMQ #139) a grudge match between Il Comte and Uncle or Aunt Leslie. What do you think? A) Yes, that would be a great fight to witness! B) No, they're both evil, so they should work together. C) No, let's keep their storylines separate.
CONTEST: Describe a historical person or incident that would be even more interesting if we only knew the "untold story" (involving witches or wizards from Harry Potter's world).
[Originally posted 8/17/08]
140. Persephone's Yak
Contest winner: Quercitron
"Dad, there's a yak under my bed."
"Very good, dear. Go back to bed."
"I said there's a yak under my bed!"
"I heard you. Since it's not on top of your bed, you should still fit. See you tomorrow."
"I can't sleep with a yak under me!"
"Persephone, yaks live at high altitudes and extreme cold. I'm sure he is no happier about this situation than you. Do I see him coming in here to complain?"
"Mum! Dad says I have to sleep with a yak!"
"Spanky, I'm sorry that I must do this, but..."
ZAP!
"Yow! What happened? Who's on fire?"
"You were, dear. I've put you out."
"Is that Persephone there? What do you want, girl?"
"I've already told you, there's a yak under my bed."
"Well, let's have a look at it, then. Let me lean on your shoulder. My whole leg is pins and needles."
(Long pause.)
"Persephone, there's a yak under your bed."
"I know, Dad."
"It's awfully big. How did it get there?"
"I don't know. I didn't do it!"
"I'm not saying you did, but...did you have a fight with that Tibetan kid at school?"
"What Tibetan kid? Stop kidding around, Dad. There's a yak in my room and I don't know why and the smell is incredible and I'm scared!"
"There, there, girl. Not to worry. I think it's dead."
"Eurgh! Daaaad!"
"Er, why don't you sleep next to Mum tonight? Dad'll have this sorted by first light."
PUFF!
"Desk of Agent Dalrymple, RMB. Oi, Caspar!"
"Agent on du-... Oh, it's you, Spankison. What gives?"
"A dead yak under my daughter's bed, that's what."
"Good! It's been a boring night till now."
"Happy to serve. I need the body transferred to forensic augury right away. Also, I could use your help tracing the spells that brought it here."
"Spellprinting in a witch's bedroom?"
"She's underage, and a good girl. There shouldn't be too many latents in the room. Oh -- and here's something that should give us a push in the right direction."
"What is it, then?"
"It's the knife sticking out of the yak's throat. It's the same design as my knife."
"But it isn't yours, I collect?"
"No, I've got mine right here in the pocket of my pajamas. It's not a common design, though. I knew the man who made them - long dead - custom-designed for fighting werewolves - "
"Ah, yes. Zichri Goode's 'Ounce of Prevention.'"
"The very same."
"It so happens I have an open case involving one of his knives. Hard to forget. Unknown male, mid-twenties, found naked with an Ounce of Prevention stuck in him. Might have been a werewolf, since the only wound on him was the deathblow. Rather the pound of cure, what?"
(Silence.)
"Well, I thought it was a good..."
"The crime scene wasn't a train?"
"No less than the Hogwarts Express. How did you know?"
"Get your team out here immediately. I have another call to make."
+++ DOUBLE CHALLENGE +++
You can help decide what happens next in The Magic Quill! First, go to the forums, or send Robbie feedback. Then, in 250 words or less, answer the following Survey and Contest. The survey answer with the most votes, and the contest answer that Robbie likes best, will turn up in the chapter after next. [EDIT: This discussion is closed.]
SURVEY: Persephone's yak is a message of some kind - but from whom? A) The person who committed the Murder on the Hogwarts Express (see Chapter 109). B) Someone who blames Spanky for the murder. C) Somebody who blames the RMB for not solving the murder. D) A werewolf or werewolves. E) ________ (write-in candidate).
CONTEST: Describe a magical use for music.
[Originally posted 7/23/08]
"Dad, there's a yak under my bed."
"Very good, dear. Go back to bed."
"I said there's a yak under my bed!"
"I heard you. Since it's not on top of your bed, you should still fit. See you tomorrow."
"I can't sleep with a yak under me!"
"Persephone, yaks live at high altitudes and extreme cold. I'm sure he is no happier about this situation than you. Do I see him coming in here to complain?"
"Mum! Dad says I have to sleep with a yak!"
"Spanky, I'm sorry that I must do this, but..."
ZAP!
"Yow! What happened? Who's on fire?"
"You were, dear. I've put you out."
"Is that Persephone there? What do you want, girl?"
"I've already told you, there's a yak under my bed."
"Well, let's have a look at it, then. Let me lean on your shoulder. My whole leg is pins and needles."
(Long pause.)
"Persephone, there's a yak under your bed."
"I know, Dad."
"It's awfully big. How did it get there?"
"I don't know. I didn't do it!"
"I'm not saying you did, but...did you have a fight with that Tibetan kid at school?"
"What Tibetan kid? Stop kidding around, Dad. There's a yak in my room and I don't know why and the smell is incredible and I'm scared!"
"There, there, girl. Not to worry. I think it's dead."
"Eurgh! Daaaad!"
"Er, why don't you sleep next to Mum tonight? Dad'll have this sorted by first light."
PUFF!
"Desk of Agent Dalrymple, RMB. Oi, Caspar!"
"Agent on du-... Oh, it's you, Spankison. What gives?"
"A dead yak under my daughter's bed, that's what."
"Good! It's been a boring night till now."
"Happy to serve. I need the body transferred to forensic augury right away. Also, I could use your help tracing the spells that brought it here."
"Spellprinting in a witch's bedroom?"
"She's underage, and a good girl. There shouldn't be too many latents in the room. Oh -- and here's something that should give us a push in the right direction."
"What is it, then?"
"It's the knife sticking out of the yak's throat. It's the same design as my knife."
"But it isn't yours, I collect?"
"No, I've got mine right here in the pocket of my pajamas. It's not a common design, though. I knew the man who made them - long dead - custom-designed for fighting werewolves - "
"Ah, yes. Zichri Goode's 'Ounce of Prevention.'"
"The very same."
"It so happens I have an open case involving one of his knives. Hard to forget. Unknown male, mid-twenties, found naked with an Ounce of Prevention stuck in him. Might have been a werewolf, since the only wound on him was the deathblow. Rather the pound of cure, what?"
(Silence.)
"Well, I thought it was a good..."
"The crime scene wasn't a train?"
"No less than the Hogwarts Express. How did you know?"
"Get your team out here immediately. I have another call to make."
+++ DOUBLE CHALLENGE +++
You can help decide what happens next in The Magic Quill! First, go to the forums, or send Robbie feedback. Then, in 250 words or less, answer the following Survey and Contest. The survey answer with the most votes, and the contest answer that Robbie likes best, will turn up in the chapter after next. [EDIT: This discussion is closed.]
SURVEY: Persephone's yak is a message of some kind - but from whom? A) The person who committed the Murder on the Hogwarts Express (see Chapter 109). B) Someone who blames Spanky for the murder. C) Somebody who blames the RMB for not solving the murder. D) A werewolf or werewolves. E) ________ (write-in candidate).
CONTEST: Describe a magical use for music.
[Originally posted 7/23/08]
139. Don't Kid a Kidder
Contest winners: Dragonic and Linda Carrig
Joe Albuquerque showed his key to the goblin in charge. The goblin looked up the number of the key in a huge ledger. "This vault is retained by a Bette Noir," the goblin sneered. "Would that be you?"
"Albuquerque's the name," said Joe. "I inherited the vault and its contents from Ms. Noir."
"Making a withdrawal, are you?" the goblin pried, glaring at Joe suspiciously. "Only, you made a deposit yesterday."
"My mother-in-law was visiting," Joe said smoothly. "Never goes anywhere without that niffler of hers. We simply wanted to put a few things out of the niffler's reach until she had gone, which she has." He smiled blandly, which irritated the goblin even more.
"Sprocketlip will escort you," the goblin in charge replied, muttering something foul under his breath.
"Thank you," said Joe, as a goblin with astonishingly large ears stepped forward and beckoned to him with a brusque gesture.
Sprocketlip did not make much conversation until they reached Vault 1036, where he squealed: "Key!" Joe handed it over. Using the key together with a number of secret gestures known only to goblins, the creature released the locks and booby traps on the door. It slid open with a soft grinding noise.
Joe walked into the vault, nonchalantly ignoring racks of furs and shelves laden with rare artifacts. He went directly to a large sack of treasure in the corner, hefted it, shoved it into a pocket in his cloak (where, of course, it made no bulge whatsoever), and walked out of the vault.
As they rode their ore cart back up toward the bank lobby, Joe cried: "Wait! We have to go back!"
The goblin's ears curled at this news, but it said nothing. At the next turning the goblin steered the cart around on a track leading back down toward the lower vaults. The next word it shrieked was, predictably, "Key!" - though Joe had already taken the precaution of handing it to him.
Joe winced, walked back into the vault, and pulled a sack of treasure out of his coat. "My wife would have fed me my liver," he said cheerfully as he exchanged it for an identical sack of treasure. "She's been telling me all week how she wanted to switch to her grandmother's silver service. I ought to be able to take a hint by now."
The goblin made no audible response. Perhaps it didn't speak English.
This time their trip back to ground level was uneventful, and Joe walked out of the bank. He stopped for a pint at The Leaky Cauldron, then disapparated.
Spanky started when Joe appeared in his study. "How did it go?" he asked, recognizing his visitor with relief, and going back to the report he was writing.
"Everything went smoothly," said Joe. His voice broke a bit at the end of his phrase. "Excuse me," he added. "Frog in my throat."
"I quite understand," said Spanky, unlocking the large, lower drawer of his desk. Joe pulled the treasure sack out of his cloak and dropped it into the drawer, which Spanky locked again.
Joe gagged, made some horrible retching noises, and finally pulled a small frog out of his mouth. "That's better," he added, only now in the voice of Spanky's wife Ilona. He set the frog in an aquarium furnished with grass, pebbles, and a bowl of water, then began peeling his face off.
The fake hair and skin that had made Ilona look like Joe Albuquerque (wouldn't you like to know!) rolled up quickly into a small bundle, which Ilona handed to Spanky. "I think I'm getting used to this," she said, as her husband helped her out of a wizard's robes and into attire more becoming a witch - which look exactly the same to untrained eyes. "If Joe doesn't watch his back, I may come after his job."
"I hope he and Sadie will be all right," Spanky said as he stuffed Ilona's disguise into a cupboard. "I have a feeling they're about to meet some dangerous characters."
"We will hear from them if anything bad happens," Ilona said firmly. "Don't worry."
"Was anything out of order in the vault?"
"It was hard to tell," said Ilona, taking the pins out of her hair. "I couldn't be sure, from Joe's description. But the goblin-in-charge was suspicious. Evidently someone besides Joe was there yesterday with a deposit."
"Well, then," said Spanky, "we must be on the right trail. Whoever stole that ring from your uncle must be connected with Bette Noir after all."
At that moment, Joe and Sadie were receiving their own confirmation of this as Sadie pursued the thin young wizard through the treasure sack which opened directly into a false-bottomed chest in the house on chicken feet.
Sadie swore a not-very-ladylike oath and ran after the retreating house as the rain began to fall. She might not have caught up to it if a stone fence hadn't appeared in its path. As the feet turned under the house and prepared to run in a new direction, Sadie caught up and burst through what seemed to be a side door. She found herself at the intersection of two corridors; and when the door slammed behind her she turned and saw, instead of a door, another wing of the house lined with mysterious, closed doors.
Voices and footsteps approached. Sadie plunged through the first unlocked door she came to and pushed the door shut as quietly as possible. She listened, eyes shut, as the voices and footsteps approached, past, and faded away. On opening her eyes again, she saw one of the eeriest rooms she had ever been in.
It took Sadie some moments to learn the size and shape of the room. It was an oval-shaped space, about the size of the public room at the Hog's Head, eerily lit by dim oil lamps set in recesses on the wall. This glow was repeated in dozens of gilt-framed mirrors that lined the walls. Spaced throughout the room were about twenty life-size figures carved out of pieces of wood - smooth, featureless figures standing in a variety of poses. Each was dressed in costly finery, with circlets on their heads, necks adorned with ropes of pearls and jeweled chains, bracelets and rings on their hands...
Sadie gasped when she realized that the ring she was looking for might be in this very room. Before taking a step away from the door, however, she took a good look at everything around her. Knowing the security spells and magical traps used by other wizards of means, Sadie was reluctant to move a single toe until she knew what was safe and what wasn't. She had gotten to be quite good at this. For instance, any of these dummies might be jinxed to poke her in the eye, or snatch the wand out of her fingers. Sadie carefully pocketed her wand. Or perhaps that rug - the one in front of the one nearly naked dummy - might have a spell on it. She guessed that, if she stepped on it, she would instantly find herself trapped in a rolled-up carpet.
Keeping as much distance as possible between herself and the dummies, Sadie tiptoed across the room to the naked dummy. On the first finger of its upraised hand it wore a heavy, silver signet ring. Taking care to walk clear of the carpet, she circled behind the dummy and stretched her hand over its shoulder, reaching for the hand with the ring. At the last moment, she put her foot on a tile that looked like any other...and felt a sudden tug. "Oh, no."
When the portkey spit her out, Sadie expected to land heavily on the ground. Instead, she felt herself jammed into a space so small and confined that she had to curl herself up to the limit of her considerable limberness. Every part of her ached. She had her fast reflexes to thank for not being instantly crushed to death. With a groan, she twisted around and put her hand out, feeling for an opening...
...and gave a stifled scream as another hand grabbed hers and tugged. She fought to pull her hand free, but she had no where to flee to. Soon she gave in to her helpless position and allowed herself to be pulled free of what turned out to be a trunk with a false bottom, and into the Gringotts vault she had left minutes earlier.
Joe Albuquerque - the real one, as evidenced by his disguise as a major in the Swiss Guards - helped Sadie to her feet.
"Are you all right?" he cried.
"Give me a moment," she said, and began checking herself for injuries. "You've changed," she observed.
"I got nervous," Joe said apologetically.
"Well, I hope you brought a lot of disguises," said Sadie, "because I have news that will turn your hair white. First, I've seen the ring, and I almost got it back."
"Well done!" Joe cheered.
"But," Sadie added, "I don't know how I'm going to find it again, especially with His or Her Horridness alive, well, and at large in there." She pointed toward the collapsed treasure sack Joe had helped her out of.
Joe's jaw dropped. "You don't mean..."
"I do," said Sadie. "I would rather not go back there, but in a minute or two, I will. But you know, I would feel a lot better if I had your whistle with me."
Joe opened his mouth to argue, stopped, closed his eyes, and shook his head. Then, reaching under the collar of his Swiss Guards uniform, he pulled out a slender chain made of individually carved slivers of dragon bone. Threaded on the chain was a small whistle carved out of a small, highly polished fang.
"I guess you'll need this more than I," he said gallantly as he handed it over.
"Thanks," said Sadie, putting the chain around her own neck. "While you're waiting for me, look around this place. Maybe you'll find something just as useful for yourself." Then she took two deep breaths, like a diver, and swarmed back into the empty sack.
Joe Albuquerque sighed as her feet disappeared. "I need to raise my fees," he muttered.
+++ DOUBLE CHALLENGE +++
You can help decide what happens next in The Magic Quill! First, go to the forums, or send Robbie feedback. Then, in 250 words or less, answer the following Survey and Contest. The survey answer with the most votes, and the contest answer that Robbie likes best, will turn up in the chapter after next. [EDIT: This discussion is now closed.]
SURVEY: What is the scariest curse in the Harry Potter books?
CONTEST: Rumor has it that a potions expert can "bottle fame, brew glory, stopper death," etc. Describe something that would be really unusual to find in liquid form.
[Originally posted 7/4/08]
Joe Albuquerque showed his key to the goblin in charge. The goblin looked up the number of the key in a huge ledger. "This vault is retained by a Bette Noir," the goblin sneered. "Would that be you?"
"Albuquerque's the name," said Joe. "I inherited the vault and its contents from Ms. Noir."
"Making a withdrawal, are you?" the goblin pried, glaring at Joe suspiciously. "Only, you made a deposit yesterday."
"My mother-in-law was visiting," Joe said smoothly. "Never goes anywhere without that niffler of hers. We simply wanted to put a few things out of the niffler's reach until she had gone, which she has." He smiled blandly, which irritated the goblin even more.
"Sprocketlip will escort you," the goblin in charge replied, muttering something foul under his breath.
"Thank you," said Joe, as a goblin with astonishingly large ears stepped forward and beckoned to him with a brusque gesture.
Sprocketlip did not make much conversation until they reached Vault 1036, where he squealed: "Key!" Joe handed it over. Using the key together with a number of secret gestures known only to goblins, the creature released the locks and booby traps on the door. It slid open with a soft grinding noise.
Joe walked into the vault, nonchalantly ignoring racks of furs and shelves laden with rare artifacts. He went directly to a large sack of treasure in the corner, hefted it, shoved it into a pocket in his cloak (where, of course, it made no bulge whatsoever), and walked out of the vault.
As they rode their ore cart back up toward the bank lobby, Joe cried: "Wait! We have to go back!"
The goblin's ears curled at this news, but it said nothing. At the next turning the goblin steered the cart around on a track leading back down toward the lower vaults. The next word it shrieked was, predictably, "Key!" - though Joe had already taken the precaution of handing it to him.
Joe winced, walked back into the vault, and pulled a sack of treasure out of his coat. "My wife would have fed me my liver," he said cheerfully as he exchanged it for an identical sack of treasure. "She's been telling me all week how she wanted to switch to her grandmother's silver service. I ought to be able to take a hint by now."
The goblin made no audible response. Perhaps it didn't speak English.
This time their trip back to ground level was uneventful, and Joe walked out of the bank. He stopped for a pint at The Leaky Cauldron, then disapparated.
Spanky started when Joe appeared in his study. "How did it go?" he asked, recognizing his visitor with relief, and going back to the report he was writing.
"Everything went smoothly," said Joe. His voice broke a bit at the end of his phrase. "Excuse me," he added. "Frog in my throat."
"I quite understand," said Spanky, unlocking the large, lower drawer of his desk. Joe pulled the treasure sack out of his cloak and dropped it into the drawer, which Spanky locked again.
Joe gagged, made some horrible retching noises, and finally pulled a small frog out of his mouth. "That's better," he added, only now in the voice of Spanky's wife Ilona. He set the frog in an aquarium furnished with grass, pebbles, and a bowl of water, then began peeling his face off.
The fake hair and skin that had made Ilona look like Joe Albuquerque (wouldn't you like to know!) rolled up quickly into a small bundle, which Ilona handed to Spanky. "I think I'm getting used to this," she said, as her husband helped her out of a wizard's robes and into attire more becoming a witch - which look exactly the same to untrained eyes. "If Joe doesn't watch his back, I may come after his job."
"I hope he and Sadie will be all right," Spanky said as he stuffed Ilona's disguise into a cupboard. "I have a feeling they're about to meet some dangerous characters."
"We will hear from them if anything bad happens," Ilona said firmly. "Don't worry."
"Was anything out of order in the vault?"
"It was hard to tell," said Ilona, taking the pins out of her hair. "I couldn't be sure, from Joe's description. But the goblin-in-charge was suspicious. Evidently someone besides Joe was there yesterday with a deposit."
"Well, then," said Spanky, "we must be on the right trail. Whoever stole that ring from your uncle must be connected with Bette Noir after all."
At that moment, Joe and Sadie were receiving their own confirmation of this as Sadie pursued the thin young wizard through the treasure sack which opened directly into a false-bottomed chest in the house on chicken feet.
Sadie swore a not-very-ladylike oath and ran after the retreating house as the rain began to fall. She might not have caught up to it if a stone fence hadn't appeared in its path. As the feet turned under the house and prepared to run in a new direction, Sadie caught up and burst through what seemed to be a side door. She found herself at the intersection of two corridors; and when the door slammed behind her she turned and saw, instead of a door, another wing of the house lined with mysterious, closed doors.
Voices and footsteps approached. Sadie plunged through the first unlocked door she came to and pushed the door shut as quietly as possible. She listened, eyes shut, as the voices and footsteps approached, past, and faded away. On opening her eyes again, she saw one of the eeriest rooms she had ever been in.
It took Sadie some moments to learn the size and shape of the room. It was an oval-shaped space, about the size of the public room at the Hog's Head, eerily lit by dim oil lamps set in recesses on the wall. This glow was repeated in dozens of gilt-framed mirrors that lined the walls. Spaced throughout the room were about twenty life-size figures carved out of pieces of wood - smooth, featureless figures standing in a variety of poses. Each was dressed in costly finery, with circlets on their heads, necks adorned with ropes of pearls and jeweled chains, bracelets and rings on their hands...
Sadie gasped when she realized that the ring she was looking for might be in this very room. Before taking a step away from the door, however, she took a good look at everything around her. Knowing the security spells and magical traps used by other wizards of means, Sadie was reluctant to move a single toe until she knew what was safe and what wasn't. She had gotten to be quite good at this. For instance, any of these dummies might be jinxed to poke her in the eye, or snatch the wand out of her fingers. Sadie carefully pocketed her wand. Or perhaps that rug - the one in front of the one nearly naked dummy - might have a spell on it. She guessed that, if she stepped on it, she would instantly find herself trapped in a rolled-up carpet.
Keeping as much distance as possible between herself and the dummies, Sadie tiptoed across the room to the naked dummy. On the first finger of its upraised hand it wore a heavy, silver signet ring. Taking care to walk clear of the carpet, she circled behind the dummy and stretched her hand over its shoulder, reaching for the hand with the ring. At the last moment, she put her foot on a tile that looked like any other...and felt a sudden tug. "Oh, no."
When the portkey spit her out, Sadie expected to land heavily on the ground. Instead, she felt herself jammed into a space so small and confined that she had to curl herself up to the limit of her considerable limberness. Every part of her ached. She had her fast reflexes to thank for not being instantly crushed to death. With a groan, she twisted around and put her hand out, feeling for an opening...
...and gave a stifled scream as another hand grabbed hers and tugged. She fought to pull her hand free, but she had no where to flee to. Soon she gave in to her helpless position and allowed herself to be pulled free of what turned out to be a trunk with a false bottom, and into the Gringotts vault she had left minutes earlier.
Joe Albuquerque - the real one, as evidenced by his disguise as a major in the Swiss Guards - helped Sadie to her feet.
"Are you all right?" he cried.
"Give me a moment," she said, and began checking herself for injuries. "You've changed," she observed.
"I got nervous," Joe said apologetically.
"Well, I hope you brought a lot of disguises," said Sadie, "because I have news that will turn your hair white. First, I've seen the ring, and I almost got it back."
"Well done!" Joe cheered.
"But," Sadie added, "I don't know how I'm going to find it again, especially with His or Her Horridness alive, well, and at large in there." She pointed toward the collapsed treasure sack Joe had helped her out of.
Joe's jaw dropped. "You don't mean..."
"I do," said Sadie. "I would rather not go back there, but in a minute or two, I will. But you know, I would feel a lot better if I had your whistle with me."
Joe opened his mouth to argue, stopped, closed his eyes, and shook his head. Then, reaching under the collar of his Swiss Guards uniform, he pulled out a slender chain made of individually carved slivers of dragon bone. Threaded on the chain was a small whistle carved out of a small, highly polished fang.
"I guess you'll need this more than I," he said gallantly as he handed it over.
"Thanks," said Sadie, putting the chain around her own neck. "While you're waiting for me, look around this place. Maybe you'll find something just as useful for yourself." Then she took two deep breaths, like a diver, and swarmed back into the empty sack.
Joe Albuquerque sighed as her feet disappeared. "I need to raise my fees," he muttered.
+++ DOUBLE CHALLENGE +++
You can help decide what happens next in The Magic Quill! First, go to the forums, or send Robbie feedback. Then, in 250 words or less, answer the following Survey and Contest. The survey answer with the most votes, and the contest answer that Robbie likes best, will turn up in the chapter after next. [EDIT: This discussion is now closed.]
SURVEY: What is the scariest curse in the Harry Potter books?
CONTEST: Rumor has it that a potions expert can "bottle fame, brew glory, stopper death," etc. Describe something that would be really unusual to find in liquid form.
[Originally posted 7/4/08]
138. Elvis vs. Einstein
Contest winners: greyniffler and Linda Carrig
The date: Ten months before the theft of the Ring of Count Matthias.
The city: Las Vegas, Nevada, USA.
The beat: Aladdin's Cave, a casino catering exclusively to wizards, witches, and any other magical beings capable of betting.
An Elvis Presley impersonator has just wrapped up a six-song set in the Lizard Lounge. The audience, though small, is amazed. "That was much better than yesterday," says one of the regulars, a witch wearing tinted eyeglasses in oversized tortoiseshell frames and sipping a cocktail with a paper umbrella. "I wouldn't be surprised if Polyjuice was involved - though I couldn't say where they came up with a bit of the King..."
His Majesty, sequined and marcelled, pushes through the crowd on his way out of the lounge, heading out for his break. He winks, nods, and says "Thank you!" in a booming voice to everyone who accosts him; he signs an autograph or two, puts a few knuts in a cheap slot machine, and finally reaches his goal, the buffet. The cashier shakes her head knowingly as Elvis loads a tray with food, hands over three sickles, and spreads his haul over an entire corner table with every appearance of insatiable greed.
No one seems to notice that Elvis isn't eating anything. He tucks the food away, to be sure; but not into his mouth. Instead, he empties plate after plate into a pocket behind his wide-lapel waistcoat. The pocket never seems to fill up, and the bulk of the food never shows on the outside of his suit. A few heads turn at the chime of a tiny bell, which seems to come from inside his chest. Elvis grins at his curious neighbors, shoots them with his fingers in the shape of a gun, and waits till they have gone about their own business before drawing the thin slip of paper out of his pocket. He nods grimly. Here is the evidence he has been looking for.
He gets in line at the Guest Services counter, behind several other parties. The witch and wizard at the front of the line are loudly complaining about an infestation of doxies in their room. Preoccupied with checking for the wand concealed in the fringe of his bell-bottoms, and considering what might be the best cover in case the casino's management gets shirty - he is, after all, about to accuse them of replacing the grapefruit on the brunch buffet with gratefruit (causing a state of docility and mild euphoria, probably making patrons more susceptible to being cheated) - and, worse, lacing the omelettes with rashrooms, which influence those who eat them to take irresponsible risks. Elvis is so busy reckoning the odds against a running wandfight breaking out the moment he shows his RMB badge that he doesn't notice that the man in front of him is Albert Einstein until the great (but dead) physicist gets to the front of the line.
Elvis does a double take when Einstein grabs him by the collar, slams him face down against the Guest Services Counter, and says, "Zend for zecurity. Ve haff obserfed zis fershtinkiner using Felix Felicis before playing ze shlots. Zee, here iss ze villain's shtash."
Because his hands were pinned behind his back by a deft binding spell, Elvis can do nothing as Einstein deftly slips a half-empty vial into his pocket with one hand, and triumphantly pulls it out with the other. Shaking it in the hotel clerk's face, Einstein crows: "If you haff any doubt, you neet only analyse ze contents of zis bottle. Nicht wahr?"
"Nein!" Elvis booms. "I mean, no! This is a frame-up! Check my pockets and you will find..."
"Zat will do for now," chirps Einstein, before sealing Elvis's lips with another spell. "Ve vouldn't vant you to shpill all ze knudeln before having ze Carmen Miranda read to you, eh? I am informed zat in zis country, such narrishkeit can make ze difference between conviction and aqvittal."
Elvis struggles ineffectually while Einstein cleans out his pockets, taking his badge, his money, all his other paraphernalia, but leaving the concealed wand for the burly security wizards to find in their search. Seething - but silently so - Elvis is dragged off while the casino manager shakes Einstein's hand and offers him a stack of chips as a reward. His last thought before being thrown into a dark room is that, surely, even these daft wizards must wonder what Albert Einstein is doing, alive and well, in their casino!
Several floors above Elvis's holding cell, Einstein chuckles with satisfaction as he rolls back the frizzy white wig on his head. It disappears under his collar, along with the jowls, fat, and wrinkles on his face as the impostor runs his hands over it. A shrug, a twitch of the spine, and the stooped figure of Einstein resolves itself into the very slim shape of the young man who, months later, will appear vaguely familiar to Joe Albuquerque in the Gringotts Vault registered to Bette Noir.
The youth wisely chooses to exit by the window, where his broom waits hovering. The curtains are still flapping in the draft from his swift departure when the hallway door bursts open and several security guards enter, with Elvis on their heels.
"He got away, sir," says one of the shamefaced guards, nervously turning back from the window.
"That's obvious, isn't it?" sneers Elvis.
"We're sure sorry about this, Mr. Albuquerque," says the other guard. "If you'll make a list of whatever he took from you - "
"Never mind," says Elvis, or rather Joe. "We might as well go back down. I have other matters to discuss with the management."
A certain coldness comes over the room, perhaps a draft from the still-open window. Joe makes an "after you" gesture towards the likewise open door, repeating it (as one might say "I insist") when the guards hesitate. He lingers one moment more, after they have gone out of the room, gazing toward the window, considering. Then he follows the guards, keeping his back covered.
+++ DOUBLE CHALLENGE +++
You can help decide what happens next in The Magic Quill! First, go to the forums, or send Robbie feedback. Then, in 250 words or less, answer the following Survey and Contest. The survey answer with the most votes, and the contest answer that Robbie likes best, will turn up in the chapter after next. [EDIT: This discussion is now closed.]
SURVEY: Which "blast from the past" would you like to see featured? (A) The International Conspiracy of Cliches. (B) The Murder on the Hogwarts Express. (C) Signore Maledicto di Bestemmia. (D) Madam Hunsicker's activities during the Grindelwald war.
CONTEST: What magical creature do you think would be funny and/or scary to find hiding under your bedclothes in the middle of a dark, silent night?
[Originally posted 6/15/08]
The date: Ten months before the theft of the Ring of Count Matthias.
The city: Las Vegas, Nevada, USA.
The beat: Aladdin's Cave, a casino catering exclusively to wizards, witches, and any other magical beings capable of betting.
An Elvis Presley impersonator has just wrapped up a six-song set in the Lizard Lounge. The audience, though small, is amazed. "That was much better than yesterday," says one of the regulars, a witch wearing tinted eyeglasses in oversized tortoiseshell frames and sipping a cocktail with a paper umbrella. "I wouldn't be surprised if Polyjuice was involved - though I couldn't say where they came up with a bit of the King..."
His Majesty, sequined and marcelled, pushes through the crowd on his way out of the lounge, heading out for his break. He winks, nods, and says "Thank you!" in a booming voice to everyone who accosts him; he signs an autograph or two, puts a few knuts in a cheap slot machine, and finally reaches his goal, the buffet. The cashier shakes her head knowingly as Elvis loads a tray with food, hands over three sickles, and spreads his haul over an entire corner table with every appearance of insatiable greed.
No one seems to notice that Elvis isn't eating anything. He tucks the food away, to be sure; but not into his mouth. Instead, he empties plate after plate into a pocket behind his wide-lapel waistcoat. The pocket never seems to fill up, and the bulk of the food never shows on the outside of his suit. A few heads turn at the chime of a tiny bell, which seems to come from inside his chest. Elvis grins at his curious neighbors, shoots them with his fingers in the shape of a gun, and waits till they have gone about their own business before drawing the thin slip of paper out of his pocket. He nods grimly. Here is the evidence he has been looking for.
He gets in line at the Guest Services counter, behind several other parties. The witch and wizard at the front of the line are loudly complaining about an infestation of doxies in their room. Preoccupied with checking for the wand concealed in the fringe of his bell-bottoms, and considering what might be the best cover in case the casino's management gets shirty - he is, after all, about to accuse them of replacing the grapefruit on the brunch buffet with gratefruit (causing a state of docility and mild euphoria, probably making patrons more susceptible to being cheated) - and, worse, lacing the omelettes with rashrooms, which influence those who eat them to take irresponsible risks. Elvis is so busy reckoning the odds against a running wandfight breaking out the moment he shows his RMB badge that he doesn't notice that the man in front of him is Albert Einstein until the great (but dead) physicist gets to the front of the line.
Elvis does a double take when Einstein grabs him by the collar, slams him face down against the Guest Services Counter, and says, "Zend for zecurity. Ve haff obserfed zis fershtinkiner using Felix Felicis before playing ze shlots. Zee, here iss ze villain's shtash."
Because his hands were pinned behind his back by a deft binding spell, Elvis can do nothing as Einstein deftly slips a half-empty vial into his pocket with one hand, and triumphantly pulls it out with the other. Shaking it in the hotel clerk's face, Einstein crows: "If you haff any doubt, you neet only analyse ze contents of zis bottle. Nicht wahr?"
"Nein!" Elvis booms. "I mean, no! This is a frame-up! Check my pockets and you will find..."
"Zat will do for now," chirps Einstein, before sealing Elvis's lips with another spell. "Ve vouldn't vant you to shpill all ze knudeln before having ze Carmen Miranda read to you, eh? I am informed zat in zis country, such narrishkeit can make ze difference between conviction and aqvittal."
Elvis struggles ineffectually while Einstein cleans out his pockets, taking his badge, his money, all his other paraphernalia, but leaving the concealed wand for the burly security wizards to find in their search. Seething - but silently so - Elvis is dragged off while the casino manager shakes Einstein's hand and offers him a stack of chips as a reward. His last thought before being thrown into a dark room is that, surely, even these daft wizards must wonder what Albert Einstein is doing, alive and well, in their casino!
Several floors above Elvis's holding cell, Einstein chuckles with satisfaction as he rolls back the frizzy white wig on his head. It disappears under his collar, along with the jowls, fat, and wrinkles on his face as the impostor runs his hands over it. A shrug, a twitch of the spine, and the stooped figure of Einstein resolves itself into the very slim shape of the young man who, months later, will appear vaguely familiar to Joe Albuquerque in the Gringotts Vault registered to Bette Noir.
The youth wisely chooses to exit by the window, where his broom waits hovering. The curtains are still flapping in the draft from his swift departure when the hallway door bursts open and several security guards enter, with Elvis on their heels.
"He got away, sir," says one of the shamefaced guards, nervously turning back from the window.
"That's obvious, isn't it?" sneers Elvis.
"We're sure sorry about this, Mr. Albuquerque," says the other guard. "If you'll make a list of whatever he took from you - "
"Never mind," says Elvis, or rather Joe. "We might as well go back down. I have other matters to discuss with the management."
A certain coldness comes over the room, perhaps a draft from the still-open window. Joe makes an "after you" gesture towards the likewise open door, repeating it (as one might say "I insist") when the guards hesitate. He lingers one moment more, after they have gone out of the room, gazing toward the window, considering. Then he follows the guards, keeping his back covered.
+++ DOUBLE CHALLENGE +++
You can help decide what happens next in The Magic Quill! First, go to the forums, or send Robbie feedback. Then, in 250 words or less, answer the following Survey and Contest. The survey answer with the most votes, and the contest answer that Robbie likes best, will turn up in the chapter after next. [EDIT: This discussion is now closed.]
SURVEY: Which "blast from the past" would you like to see featured? (A) The International Conspiracy of Cliches. (B) The Murder on the Hogwarts Express. (C) Signore Maledicto di Bestemmia. (D) Madam Hunsicker's activities during the Grindelwald war.
CONTEST: What magical creature do you think would be funny and/or scary to find hiding under your bedclothes in the middle of a dark, silent night?
[Originally posted 6/15/08]
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