174. Surfer Mice

Contest winner: Evensong
Runner-up: Linda Carrig

Merlin and Miss Pucey legged it. In their mouths the slightly medicinal, herbal tang of Turbo Gum (tiny lozenge-shaped chicle drops made to Signor Subito's family recipe). Over their shoulders a massive wall of water that advanced so slowly that it seemed almost suspended in time. To their left and right, smooth stone walls that arched overhead to form a vaulted ceiling only a meter or so above the level of the approaching water, but with no footholds to climb and no ledges to climb to. Ahead, a seemingly endless tunnel offering no refuge from the wave behind. Time was in their favor while their legs, and the flavor of the gum, held out.

They ran and chewed. They chewed and ran. The slow-motion roar of the following wave was so deep it could not be heard by the human ear, but they felt its thrum in their feet, legs, chest. Apart from that, only the sound of their panting breaths and running footsteps broke the silence of the watery, subterranean deathtrap in which they ran (and chewed) for their lives.

The wave was not gaining on them. In fact, they were pulling farther away from it every minute. This was not very encouraging, however. They knew that when the Turbo Gum lost its flavor, the wave would take only seconds to cover the distance they had gained. They might have time to pop another drop of Turbo Gum in their mouths... but how long could they keep running like this?

Miss Pucey snapped her fingers. Merlin looked round and followed her pointing hand. This was hard to do because they were both running, so both pointing and looking are chancy affairs and cannot be done with great accuracy. After a few more hand-snaps and emphatic gestures, Merlin finally saw what Miss Pucey was trying to point out.

At the cornices of some of the pillars holding up this endless vault, gargoyles looked out over their own dark, damp, lifeless domain.

Merlin looked at Miss Pucey and shrugged his shoulders and eyebrows at the same time. He was doing his best to say, "So what?" without swallowing his gum or breaking his stride.

Now Miss Pucey began gesturing toward the satchel slung over Merlin's shoulder. He gave her another "So what?" look. She pointed to herself, then the satchel. She pointed to Merlin, then the satchel. Then she pointed up toward the gargoyles.

"We'll never have time," Merlin said out loud.

On the t of the word time he made the mistake of spitting out his gum. "Bother," he said, hastily ducking out from under the satchel's shoulder strap.

Meanwhile, Miss Pucey flew away from him in one direction, and the roaring wall of water suddenly began flying toward him from the other. Merlin desperately patted his pockets in search of the tin of Turbo Gum.

A moment later Miss Pucey returned, still on Turbo time, moving so quickly that she appeared as a blur. She dived into the satchel headfirst. She somehow grabbed Merlin's wrist at the last moment and pulled him in after her. The jerk nearly dislocated his shoulder.

The wall of water was only a thousand feet away. The satchel sat on the stone floor in front of it, sagging open, motionless.

The wall of water was now seven hundred feet away. A wad of gum flew out of the satchel with a dainty pop. The gum ricocheted off two or three cobblestones before getting stuck in a crack.

The wall of water was within five hundred feet. A wand-tip poked itself out of the open satchel. The person at the other end of the wand said something that he or she could scarcely hear over the now deafening thunder of the approaching wave. The spell must have been something like Accio Gargoyle, because the wand-tip was pointing at a gargoyle. Since, however, the gargoyle could not move, the satchel moved instead.

It rose up into the air. It rose very rapidly, in fact. But was it rising fast enough? When the wave was only two hundred feet off, the satchel had risen less than halfway to the gargoyle's jutting chin.

Meanwhile, riding a crest of the approaching wave on a re-purposed door was a lean figure covered in tattoos, piercings, and very little else. Rigel whooped and sported as though a California beach filled with sunkissed girls lay spread before him, rather than an endless, empty, underground cathedral. For a moment he was distracted by what looked like a pair of tiny, fleeing figures far ahead of him, but he dismissed them with a shake of his head. Nobody could move that fast!

With a snap of his head he threw his wet, hip-length hair in front of his face. He had almost made up his mind what color to change it to, when he failed to see a satchel flying straight at him.

WHAP! Lights danced in front of Rigel's eyes. The world spun, tumbled, and roared. Something hit Rigel with all but crushing force, and suddenly everything went black.

Darkness. Silence. No... the sound of dripping water...

For a while Rigel lay still with his eyes closed, wondering. He wondered how he could have been so foolish as to fall asleep in the midst of non-stop, fast-paced danger. Maybe the high-speed action had gone on too long, he had gotten used to it, even bored with it. Maybe he was just too exhausted to help it. But apart from that, how could he have survived?

Another sound was added to the background silence and dripping sound. A scritching sound, like a mouse gnawing and scratching on something. Rigel lay still anyway. He wasn't sure, now, that he wasn't actually dead. He wanted to delay finding out as long as possible.

The scritching sound grew closer. In fact, it was very close. Surely he must be dead. Mice wouldn't get that close to a live body, would they? Now rats, he thought, were a different matter. They would eat anything, living or dead...

Rigel's eyes snapped open. He looked around, moving only his eyes. He was surprised by his surroundings. For one, he wasn't lying on a damp stone floor, surrounded by debris swept in by the wave. Rather, he was on a dry, soft bed, covered by a soft rug and surrounded by all the normal trappings of a bedroom. A woman's bedroom, Rigel realized with satisfaction, taking in the objects on the nearby table, the cut of the curtains over the windows, the soft cushions and pillows, the muted glow of gas lamps draped in patterned silk. The air was warm, delicately perfumed...

The scritching noise came even closer. It was the one thing that truly bothered him. But all in all, this wasn't a bad place to wake up after that horrible dream about the wereyaks, and the merhags, the canal and the tunnel and the wave. He wondered, though, why he couldn't remember whose bedroom this was or what had happened the night before.

Rigel thought about sitting up. He decided to turn his head first and look at the other side of the room. That's when he saw what the scritching was all about.

On the table next to the bed stood an old phonograph with a single bell-like speaker. A furry paw was turning the crank, winding the spring that drove the mechanism. Another furry paw let fall a hinged arm with a needle at the end. The needle landed with a deafeningly amplified SCRATCH on the flat, black disk rotating atop the turntable. Tinny music began to pour out of the speaker. Drums, guitars, keyboards... squeaky voices singing unfamiliar words to a familiar tune...

Rigel slowly turned his gaze up the length of the huge, furry paw that had now withdrawn itself from the phonograph. The paw was attached to an arm, which in turn was attached to a large furry body perched on the edge of the bed. A furry tail grew out of the rear of that body. It stood up and turned around, confronting Rigel with the whiskery, toothy face of a gigantic mouse. Swaying on its hind legs, it began to dance and sing along with the record: "I wish they all could be California miiiiiice...."

Rigel's eyes snapped open. He gave a little scream and tried to sit up, but hands pressed him back into the bed. Hands, he noted, not paws. He tried to see who they belonged to, but the room was too dark. He was definitely in a bed, though. A soft, cushion-strewn bed with perfumed draperies and a warm rug across his chest... Rigel struggled, but again the hands gently restrained him. Not paws. Not paws. He relaxed.

"Good," said a familiar, feminine voice. "That was close, wasn't it? Aren't you fortunate that I sent Carpet to follow you. I must say, the more I see of you, the more interesting I find you."

Rigel clutched the edge of the rug self-consciously. A tassel on the fringe of the rug snapped at him, and he loosened his grip. "Gently, there," cooed the woman's voice, though it wasn't clear whom she meant.

"You're Sheherazade Jenkins," Rigel ventured.

"We've had a strenuous night, haven't we? Sleep now. I'll leave Stanley here to watch you."

"Wait," he said. "Where am I? Where are my knickers? There are people... I mean, I have to find..."

"There, there," said the woman who had neither confirmed nor denied being Sheherazade Jenkins. "It's all taken care of. You're safe now." Lips brushed lightly against his forehead. "Why don't we have a little sleep, eh?"

The bed creaked and shifted. Weight lifted off the side where the woman had been sitting. Footsteps. A door closing. Rigel lay in darkness, wondering.

Rigel wondered who Stanley might be. He could hear someone breathing nearby. He couldn't see anybody except Carpet, whose only name (so far as he gathered) was Carpet, and who didn't seem to need to breathe. To be sure, however, Carpet felt unusually soft and warm just now. As Rigel stroked its fringe, Carpet even began purr. The effect was very soothing. In spite of his worries, Rigel fell asleep in seconds.

Rigel's eyes snapped open. The room he found himself in was quite different from the surfer mouse's bedroom. It felt and smelled like the room he had last fallen asleep in, which he hoped wasn't a dream. It wasn't, however, the boudoir of Sheherazade Jenkins that he had visited earlier, the one with the painting of the joined twins. It was, in fact, the lair of a troll.

The bed was actually a huge pile of fleeces, skins, several heavy rugs, and assorted sacks of rushes and feathers. The perfume came from a brazier near the bed which, even at this bright hour of the morning, blazed with a fire of aromatic wood. The walls were whitewashed. The furnishings were sparse, rough, and well-used. The only woman's touch was the curtain of shells strung on threads that covered the window. The door Rigel had heard closing was a hatch in the floor. All in all it was the nicest troll's lair Rigel had ever been in. Indeed, he might not have worked out that it was a troll's lair, had the troll not been lounging on the floor next to the bed, holding the trapdoor shut with his elbow.

The troll didn't look any more civilized than the average troll. Rigel could only guess that it owed its refined surroundings to some human influence, possibly the woman who owned Carpet.

Carpet began purring again.

"Don't start that again," said Rigel, sitting up slowly so as not to alarm the troll.

The troll watched him with a bored expression, and picked its nose.

Rigel decided it was time to make the introductions. "Stanley, is it?"

The troll's eyes moved slightly when he spoke the name. Otherwise, there was no response.

"Look, Stanley," said Rigel, "I think we should be on a first-name basis before I get out from under this Carpet. Which I've got to do rather urgently, don't you know. But, you see, I haven't got anything on. So, like, me Rigel. Rigel happy to meet you. Now I don't suppose there's a chamber-pot around here somewhere?"

Stanley gazed at him flatly, then began to eat the bogey that he found on the end of his finger.

"Cripes," Rigel groaned, flopping back on the bed. "I don't know if I can remember any Troll after all these years. What was that tutor's name again? And did we ever discuss how to ask if one might go to the loo? Ah, yes! How could I forget? Going to the loo was a whole chapter in the grammar. Er... hem, hem... Oorg graargh heh aarrgh aargh!"

The troll perked up at the sound of its own language. It looked at Rigel with a bit of curiosity.

Rigel felt only slightly encouraged. What was he saying wrong? "Er... Oog grunt heh ugh ugh!"

The troll grunted something back at him and pointed out the window.

"Oh, lovely," said Rigel. "How does one say, 'Would you mind looking the other way?' Er... Grunt raaorr wump-wump blaaaargh!"

At this the troll began to laugh, now and again heartily slapping its massive belly.

"That evidently doesn't mean what I thought," said Rigel, beginning to squirm with discomfort. "I say, Carpet, you couldn't help a lad out, could you?"

Carpet curled at the corners in what appeared to be a sort of textile shrug.

"I'm just going to skip over to that window for a moment. Could you provide a bit of privacy for me?"

Carpet twitched affirmatively, then flew off the bed and attacked Stanley the Troll. While the troll struggled to claw the rug away from his face, Rigel ran to the window and brushed the dangling shells aside. He was about to empty his bladder out the window when he realized that he was standing above an enormous egg-shaped cavern, open to the sky above, and surrounded by similarly curtained windows. A few meters below was a sunny courtyard where dozens of large, scantily-dressed trolls of indeterminate (but probably mixed) sex were hard at work skinning carcasses, pounding seeds into flour, repairing weapons, and building up a fire beneath a huge cauldron. At the sound of Rigel's involuntary yelp of surprise, they all looked up at him. There was nowhere to hide.

"Er," said Rigel, deciding to put on a brave face, "Oorg graalk hurr aarrgh ugh!"

About a hundred meaty paws pointed toward a trap door close to the opposite side of the courtyard. Even from here Rigel could see the crescent moon carved onto the door. A pile of catalogues from Vold-Mart lay nearby, their pages smeared with what Rigel did not care to think about.

"Lovely," said Rigel, and he began the difficult climb down to the floor of the courtyard. His descent was followed by the riveted eyes of every troll in the courtyard, and more joined them at every moment. He had never been a person to feel shame of any kind, but at just this moment Rigel wished he could crawl inside his own belly-button and disappear.

It was only after he reached the floor that Carpet caught up to him and carried him the rest of the way. This, at least, saved him having to dance out of reach of grabby troll hands. He reached the trapdoor, opened it, quickly closed it and spent a minute breathing through clenched teeth while pinching his nose shut, then opened it again and climbed down into the hole. Though it was the last thing in the world he wanted to do, Rigel made sure the trapdoor was shut before he climbed out of reach.

When he got down to the really nasty bit, Rigel wondered how anything with an underground river gushing through it could be this filthy, and what became of anything that happened to live downstream. After all his squirming and wriggling, he found he wasn't in such a hurry to use the trolls' loo now. He made himself use it anyway. He did his best not to touch anything. Then, while mincing back toward the ladder up to the courtyard, he was surprised to find a familiar leather satchel wedged between a pile of catalogues and one of the most sickening pieces of troll plumbing.

Rigel poked the satchel with his toe. "Hello?" he said, reasoning as only a wizard would. "Is anybody in there?"

When no one responded, Rigel's blood ran cold. "Cripes," he said for the second time that morning. "I don't reckon Merlin would let this go without a fight. I hope they're all right."

He picked up the satchel and tried to open it, but of course it would only open to Merlin's touch. "Drat!" Rigel said to himself. "Might as well take it back to Stanley's gaff, anyway." He didn't say it aloud, even to himself, but he didn't mind having something to hide behind until he found something to wear.

He was just emerging from the crescent-moon trapdoor when a melodious voice spoke behind him: "Making yourself at home, are you?" Her words flavored with barely-suppressed laughter.

Rigel spun around, clutching the satchel across his middle. "What are we doing here?" he snapped, more angrily than he meant to sound. Partly he was furious at himself for the blush he could feel spreading down his neck and below his collarbone. "And might I ask what you've done with my robes?"

"You arrived as I see you now," said the woman of Rigel's dreams, Sherherazade or not. "I see you've even recovered your toilet bag. I left it down there hoping that it would come in useful for you. Though it doesn't seem to have done you much good."

Her mischievous eyes did not conceal the fact that she had tried, and failed, to open the bag herself.

"The clasp is a bit stuck," Rigel said defensively. "I'm ordinarily much cleaner than this."

"I hope not," said the woman, cocking one eyebrow in a way that made Rigel's blush spread even further. After another uncomfortable moment, she relented. "Fresh clothes and breakfast await you, this way. Hop on Carpet. Make room, now. I won't bite."

Rigel wasn't worried about that, exactly. He held the satchel firmly across his lap as carpet swooped up toward the circle of sunlight overhead.

+++ DOUBLE CHALLENGE FOR TMQ #176 +++

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.

SURVEY: Which features of Harry Potter's magical world would you most like The Magic Quill to explore? Vote for up to 2. (A) Ghosts. (B) Moving photographs. (C) Talking paintings. (D) Vampires. (E) Professional Quidditch. (F) Magical gadgetry. (G) Magical Plants. (H) Magical Beasts.

CONTEST: Write the script for a 30-second advertisement on Wizarding Wireless, product of your choice.

171. The Litter Box

Contest winner: Evensong
With an assist from Sir Read-a-Lot

Merlin felt he had been walking for hours, but the scenery had not changed. They were some kind of vast tunnel, filled with an unchanging twilight coming from no visible source of illumination. The ceiling arched high above them, supported by damp stone walls standing several dozen meters apart. Their unvarying greyness and pattern of masonry did nothing to relieve Merlin's sensibility that he was going nowhere. Indeed, the only signs that they were making any forward progress at all were the round, grate-covered drains in the floor that they overtook at regular intervals, and the scorch-marks that Miss Pucey left beside each one with a jab of her wand. At least they could take comfort from the fact that they hadn't passed any of these marks again.

They were both getting tired. Miss Pucey's shoes made ever more frequent scraping noises on the flagged path. Merlin's shoulder ached under the weight of the survival satchel his friend Karl had gifted him in--oh, another lifetime. The weight of his companion's hand on his other arm had grown heavier as well. So when Miss Pucey paused to scorch another mark next to a floor drain, Merlin proposed a ten-minute halt. "I quite agree," was all the lady replied. They had long since exhausted all other topics of conversation that they held in common.

Merlin promptly sat down on the floor, groaning as the weight went off his feet. Miss Pucey, meanwhile, began rummaging in her handbag. This gave Merlin the idea of doing an inventory of Karl's satchel, which he hadn't opened since the affair of the hothouse many miles back. He still had one dose of Liquid Skill, whose sight gave him a pang as he thought of his wife, so far away. Then there were the clown nose Don Pagliai had given him, the tin of Turbo Gum lozenges from Signor Subito, the lumpy bundle of cloth that (after a moment's thought) he recognized as Signor Boccachiusa's Peekaboo Kit, and of course the satchel itself, which had many uses. Apart from these, the only special gadget that Merlin still possessed from the beginning of this mission was the Four Points Wand wrought by his friend Jaan. He wondered if there was any point using it. Was the way out as obvious as following this tunnel to its end? Perhaps there was a hidden door somewhere along the side walls... Or should they use some of Subito's gum to make this leg of their journey pass more quickly?

While he cogitated on how best to use the tools in his satchel to survive their ordeal, Merlin idly watched Miss Pucey see to her own comforts. After a brief search, she pulled out a small, satin-covered box with a snug-fitting lid, like a doll-sized hatbox. She removed the cover, then delicately extracted an even smaller box from inside the first. This she gently placed on the ground. Merlin turned his full attention to what Miss Pucey was doing when this second box began to grow.

Soon he saw that it was more than just a box. It was like a miniature carriage without wheels, supported by four stout legs like the posts of a bed. Or perhaps it was a bed - a canopied bed, only with ornately paneled walls all round, broken only by curtained windows and, on the long side facing Merlin, a door. In this, again, it was like a carriage - a bed-sized carriage - and also in the poles that stuck out at the ends, as if for the purpose of harnessing a horse. But what horse could draw a carriage without wheels? And why were the poles at each end? And surely, if a horse was intended to pull this thing, the poles should be wider spaced apart, and longer...

By now the bed-carriage thing had stopped growing. Miss Pucey pulled the door open and stepped within, not bothering to close the door behind her. She sank, sighing, into a pile of tasseled and brocaded cushions to one side of the door. Merlin stood up, staring at the luxury that, all this time, had lain concealed in Miss Pucey's handbag.

"There's room for another," Miss Pucey said, her eyes still blissfully closed. "Though I would ask that you take off your shoes before..."

Merlin flopped heedlessly onto the couch opposite her, boots and all. "This is why I love witches," he said, grinning. "I would never have thought to bring something like this along on a dangerous quest..."

"If you recall," said Miss Pucey, "I hadn't planned on a dangerous quest when I left home last evening - or last week - whenever it was. I was prepared only for a night on the town with my young wizard. I might have packed differently, had I known you were about to drag us both into this. But I must admit, being unprepared has its compensations..." From behind one of her cushions, she produced a cut-glass decanter of something golden and sparkly, and two matching long-stemmed glasses. "I had meant to use this for Rigel's tucking-in. Reading the story of the Wizard and the Hopping Pot just doesn't do the trick any more."

"They grow up so fast," Merlin drawled.

"Too right," said Miss Pucey. "Do you hear something?"

"Maybe," said Merlin, unconcerned. "A kind of purring sound? That might be me. Or perhaps you keep a cat in here?"

"Well," she admitted reluctantly, "if you consider that we're sitting in a litter, I suppose that makes the box it came in..."

"Do you have opera glasses in that handbag of yours?" In seconds Merlin had swung from idleness to anxiety. He tried to shade his eyes from some of the mysterious, ambient light as he squinted through the window in the litter's door. Miss Pucey handed him a pair of dainty, gold-leaf-trimmed opera glasses - actually an item in the Omnioculars catalogue, enchanted to provide captions (translated, if necessary) to help opera-goers understand the libretto while watching the stage action in close-up detail. Merlin flinched the moment he raised this device to his eyes. Then he looked again, and almost dropped it.

"What is it?"

"It's Rigel," said Merlin, lowering the glasses. "He's on his way here."

"He can't possibly be making all that noise," Miss Pucey protested.

"He isn't," said Merlin. "That's the sound of the eighteen-foot tidal wave he's riding."

"Riding? A tidal wave? How?"

"It looks like he's using a door as... That isn't what's important. What's important is that a wall of water is headed straight for us. At the rate it's moving, it will be here in"--he consulted the glasses again, twiddling a dial to change the captions indicating that Rigel's voice, though drowned out by the roar of rushing water, was screaming Coo-ee, into a read-out of the wave's ETA--"forty-three seconds. Any suggestions?"

Miss Pucey stared at him blankly. The growing roar of the water made it necessary for her to raise her voice when she replied: "Not one. You?"

Merlin looked out the window again. He spotted his satchel, left behind on the floor where he had sprawled earlier. "Er... I beg your pardon, Madam, but do you chew gum?"

+++ DOUBLE CHALLENGE FOR TMQ #173 +++

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.

SURVEY: Which character last seen in Chapter 166 will lead the first attempt to find and capture a djinn for Harvey?

CONTEST: Describe a dance that might be performed by wizards and witches, vampires, goblins, centaurs -- any magical being of your choice. Details may include, but are not limited to, rhythmic patterns, instruments used, dance steps, group formations, and the time and place of the dance.

170. The Boudoir of Doom

Contest Winner: Sir Read-a-Lot

Rigel stumbled along a dark passage for what seemed like ages. Soon his arms, legs, and head were aching with sprains and bruises from unexpected overhangs, sudden turnings, and a tumble down a flight of broad, shallow steps. His language became nearly incendiary enough to light the passage for him -- but not quite.

Presently he saw light ahead. After rounding a corner, he saw a room illuminated by a ring of high, narrow windows. The walls were papered in a pattern of bright stripes and flowers. A canopy bed, a dressing-table with a wide bench before it, a washstand, a wardrobe, and a large chest filled most of the space in the room, every item of the finest quality. The room carried the scent of the witch whose appearance had lately bewitched Rigel. He noticed an old school trunk poking out from under the bed. As he walked past, he kicked it so that it turned, revealing the name painted above the lock: "Sheherazade Jenkins."

Nice name, he thought, grinning at the memory of the way she had looked at him.

On the far wall were two doors, locked and bolted from Rigel's side, with a painting on the wall between them.

As Rigel drew closer, he saw that the painting was of two children with identical, freckly faces and long yellow hair. Their bony arms and torsos, arranged at uncomfortable-looking angles, grew together out of the same pair of hips. Their frilly dress robes gave them the look of an earlier century, yet without giving away whether they were boys or girls. Their painted eyes impassively watched Rigel as he approached.

"Who are you, then?" Rigel demanded after giving the painted twins a moment to look him over.

One of the twins gave Rigel a loud raspberry, spraying his face with flakes of paint. The other rolled its eyes and pointed downward. Rigel looked below the painting, only now spotting an engraved plate fastened to the bottom of its broad, dusty frame. Of course, it was written in Italian.

Rigel poked around in his pocket, for one moment reaching in up to his elbow, then brought out a lorgnette - like a pair of spectacles on a stick, designed to be held in front of the eyes rather than worn. This elaborate piece of jewelry had come encrusted with precious stones and flakes of gold when it had first come out of Rigel's godfather clock, along with a card hoping that he would enjoy his new "opera glasses." He had sold off all the decorative elements, one by one, for purposes various and nefarious. All that remained were two thick, blurry lenses mounted on a frame of tarnished brass. Rigel breathed on the lenses, polished them on the sleeve of his robe, then held them up before his eyes. The Italian words engraved on the silver plate blurred in the opera glasses, then became clear again... in English.

"Hmmm," said Rigel. Then he read aloud: "'Behold the Geminiani twins: Remo the good and Omer the evil. At the hour of their birth, an evil witch cursed them to live together in one body all their lives. Madness took them. One can only speak truth, the other always lies. Ask them what you will, they can only answer Yes or No. But beware what you ask them. For one of these two doors leads to deadly peril, the other to freedom and safety. And only the twins know which is which...'"

"I know this one," Rigel said to himself. "Let's see..." He addressed himself to the twin on the left. "You there. Can you understand me?"

"Yes," said the twin.

"How about you?" he asked the one to the right. When it waited for more, he added: "Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"No," said the other twin, with just as little expression as the other.

"You're the evil one, then?"

"Yes," said the twin on the right. Its eyes widened as it nodded, as if pleading with Rigel to understand.

He scratched his head. "You weren't supposed to say that," he said. "Assuming that you lied when you said you can't understand me, you must be the evil twin. Right?"

"Yes," the right-hand twin said urgently.

Rigel closed his eyes and massaged his temples. "Right," he said. "But then, if you always lie, then you shouldn't have said Yes just now. You were lying to me, weren't you?"

"No," said the right-hand twin.

"So you're really evil, are you?"

"Yes."

"And you understand what I'm saying?"

"No."

Rigel puffed out his cheeks, then let forced the air out with a pop. "All right, let's go back to you." He turned to the twin on the left. "Still understand me, do you?"

"Yes," said the twin, nodding emphatically.

"You're telling the truth, then?"

"Yes."

Rigel rubbed his hands together. "Now we're getting somewhere. So you're the good twin, right, and..."

"No."

"Hang on, I wasn't -- what? Are you telling me that you're the evil twin?"

"Yes."

"But if you were the one that always tells lies, you would have said no -- right?"

"Yes."

"I thought so. And if you were the good twin, and I asked you if you always tell the truth, you would have said Yes, right?"

"No."

Rigel covered his face with both hands. "Aargh! Aargh! Aaaaaaargh!" He turned in a circle, running in place. He shook himself like a wet dog. Then he opened his eyes and gave the twin on the left a hard, cold stare. "All right," he said. "Let's start over. Yes or No: Are you the evil twin?"

"Yes."

"No!" Rigel screamed, tearing at his hair. "There's no way you could possibly say that! Because if you're the evil twin, you have to lie. And if you're the good twin, you have to tell the truth. So no matter which one you are, when I ask if you're evil, you're supposed to say no. Right?"

"No," said the twin on the left.

Rigel gnashed his teeth. "What about you? How would you answer that same question?"

"No," said the other twin.

"AARGH! We're getting nowhere! Forget it -- let's talk about the doors. You on the right: does one of these doors lead to certain death?"

"No."

"Aha! That's a lie! It says so right here on the plaque that one of the doors leads to deadly peril. The plaque does tell the truth, doesn't it?"

"No."

"And so you're the liar, right?"

"No."

"Now we're getting somewhere. But didn't you deny being the liar a minute ago?"

"Yes."

Rigel scowled. "Now look here. You're supposed to stick with one or the other, lying or telling the truth. This isn't going to work if I can't trust you absolutely. Or distrust you, as the case may be. So let's lay it on the line. Are you, or aren't you, Omer the evil?"

"Yes."

"But if you were Omer the evil, wouldn't you have to lie about that?"

"Yes."

Rigel clenched his fists and just restrained himself from punching the painting. "No, no, no, no, no! Can't you see -- No, hang on, don't answer that."

He did some deep breathing for a minute or two. Then he approached it afresh. To the twin on the right he asked, "Do you always tell lies?"

"No."

"Were you lying just now?"

"No."

"Would it be safe for me to go through the door on the right?"

"Yes."

"Would your brother want me to go through the door on the right?"

"No."

"But he would be lying to me, right?"

"Yes."

"Because he's the evil brother?"

"No."

Rigel roared with frustration. "Just when I thought I was getting somewhere with you!" He turned toward the twin on the left. "If I asked your brother which door I should go through, would he tell me to go through the door on the right?"

"Yes."

Rigel pondered this answer for a moment, then shook his head. "That doesn't help. He did say Yes, but I don't know any more now than I did then. Oh! I've got it!" To the twin on the left he asked: "If your brother could tell the truth, would he tell me to go through the door on the right?"

"No."

"Do you think I should go through the door on the right?"

"Yes."

"Is that because it's the safest door?"

"No."

"Drat, fiddlesticks, and riddle-me-purple! You want me to go through the door on the right because it isn't safe?"

"Yes."

"Does your brother think I should go through the door on the right?"

"No."

"Does he want me to come to harm?"

"No."

"But he told me to go through it!" Rigel held his hands out toward both twins pleadingly. "You've got to give me some help here! Am I supposed to believe that the evil twin is the one who always tells the truth?"

"Yes," said the freckly face on the left.

"No," said his twin on the right.

"This one's for both of you. Are you lying to me?"

"No," they said in unison.

"But one of you is lying to me, right?"

"Yes," said the twin on the left; "No," said the one on the right.

"Are you the liar?"

"No," said the twin on the left; "No," said the one on the right.

"Do you want me to come to harm?"

"Yes," said the twin on the left; "Yes," said the one on the right.

"Does your brother want me to come to harm?"

The answers, from left to right, were "No" and "No."

"Do you want me to go through the door your brother says I should go through?"

They both answered "Yes."

Rigel shivered. "This doesn't make sense. You both want me to go through the same door?"

This time the answers, from left to right, were "No" and "Yes."

"So if you don't want me to go through the same door, but you would both tell me to go through the same door, then one of you wants me to go through it because it's dangerous, and the other can't help it because he's got to lie. And so the good brother always has to lie, and the bad brother always has to tell the truth. Isn't that so?"

Both brothers answered glumly, "Yes" on the left and "No" on the right.

"Blimey," Rigel said, shivering again. "That's one hell of a curse. I don't know how you could live with each other. You didn't... you know.... kill each other, did you?"

Oddly, both brothers said No. But there was something in the look the brother on the left gave the one on the right that made Rigel's flesh crawl.

"All right," said Rigel. "Freedom and safety through the door on the left. Right?"

"Yes," said the brother on the left, rather bitterly, Rigel thought. "No," said his brother, though his heart didn't seem to be in it anymore.

"Right-o," said Rigel. "I believe I've got it know. I'll just be going on with my adventure, then, and you chaps can have a nice day."

And forgetting that the faces in the painting defined "left" and "right" differently than Rigel did, he unbolted the door on his left and marched confidently through it. It closed by itself (naturally) -- even the bolt (magically) moved back into its place. A moment later, the door only partially muffled Rigel's voice as he screamed, "Oh, bollocks! AAAaaaaargh..." His bloodcurdling scream faded rapidly into the distance.

The boy on the left side of the painting smirked. His twin sighed, rolled his eyes, pulled out a deck of cards, and began to deal a game of patience.

+++ DOUBLE CHALLENGE FOR TMQ #172 +++

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.

SURVEY: Which "Magic Quill" character or group of characters are you most impatient to hear from again?

CONTEST: What city on modern-day Earth should make a brief appearance in Chapter 172? Indicate a few points of interest that should be included.

168. The Revolting Ones

Contest co-winners: Linda Carrig, Joe, and _houdini
Runner-up: greyniffler

Rigel had survived being chased by merhags, wereyaks, and enemies on the rooftops. After running through zigzagging alleys and across several bridges without hearing pursuit behind him, he began to think he could survive anything. Then he saw light ahead - an open square! No one would think of attacking him there...

He put on a surge of speed, in spite of his weariness. The lure of open space called to him. It was almost close enough to touch, if he stretched out his arm...

...and then the ground disappeared beneath his feet.

He landed in a shoulder-roll, his fall cushioned by what seemed to be sacks of dried beans piled in an underground storeroom. Looking up from where he came to rest, he saw the hole he had fallen through as a rectangle of starlight in an otherwise pitch-black sky. Was this some sort of Venetian sewer with the manhole cover left off? It didn't smell like one. In fact, it didn't even smell damp - which, for an underground passage in Venice, could only mean one thing. Magic.

Rigel sat up and tried to look around. No good; there wasn't enough light to see anything. He pulled out his wand and began to say, "Lumos!" But he had scarcely opened his mouth when the wand was wrenched out of his hand.

"I say," he protested to the darkness. "Give it back while I'm asking nicely."

"Why should we give it back?" barked a cold voice from so close to his left ear that Rigel flinched away from it. He collided with a pair of robed legs standing to his right.

"Be still," growled the owner of the legs.

"You'll give it back because it's mine," said Rigel, bracing himself against the sacks of beans.

"Yours?" replied the first voice - which, Rigel soon learned, always seemed to be barking, snarling, or snapping. "By what right?"

"By right of the fact that I spent good money on it," Rigel snapped back. "Give it here."

"Possession," the second speaker observed. His inflections ranged from a growl to a hiss, with hints that at any moment he might begin to roar. "Property. Ownership. We find these concepts to be meaningless."

"Today is the dawn of a new order," Barker added, moving behind Rigel in a manner that made him nervous. "We are shaking off the shackles that muggles have placed on our minds. Wizards will rise, and..."

"...bump their heads against the rafters," Rigel put in, "because they haven't got the sense to raise a wandlight in the darkness."

"All right, comrade," said Growler. "Let's look at you, then. Lumos!"

A wand-tip blazed with light, inches from Rigel's nose. He winced. He could see nothing except dazzling, searing brightness.

"Not bad," growled Growler. "Looks young, rough, rebellious. Ready to fight, ready to die, ready to kill for our cause."

"I disagree," barked Barker. "He looks like the idle rich to me. Too fattened by privilege to care for change, yet ungrateful to his betters -- probably no threat to our cause, but we should kill him just to be on the safe side."

"I know who you lot are," said Rigel. "You're the Black Elbow!"

"See?" huffed Barker. "He can identify us. Kill him now."

Rigel grinned. "This is the greatest moment of my life!"

The lighted wand shook in his face for an uncertain moment. Its holder seemed nonplussed by Rigel's reaction to his death sentence.

"The greatest moment?" Growler rumbled. "Which it is the latest moment. Don't make this any harder that it needs to be!"

"But, I mean, this is so amazing!" Rigel beamed with ecstatic fervor. "I've been searching for you blokes since I was knee-high to a garden gnome. I want to join your - er..."

"Revolting organization?" suggested Growler.

Rigel almost laughed with joy. "Exactly! And I can be of service in so many ways. I have connections. Rich wizards. Dark wizards. Undead wizards. Witches whose words can reach millions. Dark creatures who could wreak terror..."

"Stop a minute," Barker said harshly. He must have pulled down Growler's wand arm, for as the light moved away from Rigel's face, he could see more of their forms - especially the black ribbons tied around their wand arns, just above the elbow. Their faces were indistinct, but Rigel had an impression of sharp angles and beady eyes. Barker resumed: "This might be interesting... if you can be trusted, that is."

"Maybe we should bring him before Madam Defaaaargh," Growler rasped.

"Who? That witch who is always doing needlepoint? I don't see what she can do. By now she could have finished a sampler the size of Siena, but she never seems to get past the second row of stitches..."

"No, you fool! That's Signora Imbroglio, the club-footed contessa. I'm talking about the Madam Defaaaargh, the lady who does... you know, things... with knitting needles..."

"Ah! Yes! She will know how to poke the truth out of this one!"

"But surely," said Rigel, with an openness to his face that would have astonished anyone who knew him, "you yourselves can think of a way to test my sincerity! Would any fat, privileged, rich wizard know the names of the months on the calendar that all people will observe when the revolution succeeds?"

"Er," said Growler, who wasn't sure he knew the names of the months himself.

"Go on," Barker belled.

"Bezoar," began Rigel, quivering with enthusiasm as he rattled off the list, "Boomslang, Snargaluff, Juxtipiary, Gigantril, Cornicus, Satyricus, Phoenicus, Grifonis, Centauris, Chalcember, Argentober, and Chrysember. That's all thirteen, right?"

"That's right," said Barker.

"Hang on," said Growler. "Wasn't there something in there about a Dandelion?"

"No," said Barker and Rigel in unison.

"I'm sure there was."

"I'm sure there wasn't," Barker insisted.

"But surely you remember Wizard Fianchetto's speech about the glorious Fifth of Dandelionuary?"

"Surely you remember that Wizard Fianchetto was turned into a toad for crimes against the revolution," Barker returned.

"A miscarriage of justice!" Growler wheezed. "And even if it were not so, how would that change the calendar of the wizard revolution?"

"It didn't," said Barker. "Wizard Fianchetto's memory has been condemned. He never existed. His speech was never delivered. There is no such month as Dandelionuary. Do you dare contradict me?"

"I dare it!" said Growler.

"See?" Rigel whispered at Barker. "He's the impostor! He's the enemy of our revolution!"

"I'm beginning to see that," Barker confessed.

"Nonsense!" Growler retorted in a voice that Rigel felt through the sack of beans beneath him. "I was among the first to wear the sign of the Black Elbow. I forget nothing, least of all our first ideals! Down with transfiguration, charms, astronomy, and all those bourgeois forms of magic! Children in wizarding schools should be taught practical skills instead, such as how to turn a bowl of thistles and acorns into a five course meal for a family of six, how to fix scrapes and cuts, how to knit a warm winter shawl out of navel lint and eyebrow trimmings..."

"Banned heresies!" shouted Barker, drawing his wand. "Renounce them, or I'll turn you into a toad here and now!"

Growler trembled. "Renounce them?"

"Aye! And beg for reeducation by the Party Obliviators!"

"Shall I forget, then, the teachings of Madam Adriana degli Melanzani? Shall I forget the great goal of our revolt against the Statute of Secrecy - which is to bring the benefits of magic to bear on the needs of all mankind?"

"Aye, and a thousand times aye!" Barker thrust his wand into Growler's face. "Purge that cursed name from your memory! And spare no more pity for the muggles. Wizards are made to rule them. And we of the Black Elbow are made to rule all wizards!"

"That's going too far," Rigel whispered to Growler. "Don't you think so?"

"I ought to turn you into a toad," Growler growled at Barker.

"Try it," Barker barked at Growler. "You'll be lucky if I don't turn you into a caterpillar first."

"You would, you disgusting power-monger," Growler hissed.

"And I'd step on you too," Barker added.

"Do him before he does you," Rigel murmured to Growler.

"What's that you're saying?" Barker demanded.

Rigel leaned toward him and whispered, "I'm doing all I can to hold him back. If I were you, I would move quickly at the first sign..."

Growler shook his wand hand threateningly at Barker. "I've half a mind..."

"Oh, no you don't!" Barker howled, flourishing his wand. "Mangi zanzare!"

As he began this spell, however, Growler pointed his wand and blurted: "Coltivi verruche!"

Rigel caught his lit wand as it dropped out of Growler's fingers. Then he drew his feet up onto the sacks of beans, avoiding the angry hopping and ribbiting on the floor below. "Idealists," he muttered, shaking his head. "They're so easy..."

He looked at the rectangle of starlight above him. "Now," he asked himself aloud, "how do I get back up there?"

"Tsk," said a voice behind him.

Rigel threw himself down and rolled to the side. He came up with his wand pointed directly at...

...the most beautiful witch he had ever seen.

"An opportunity to explore a place like this only comes once in a lifetime," said this vision of perfection. Surrounded by furs and silks, cascading tresses and tasseled cushions, she reclined on a hovering carpet at eye level, just within the glow of his wand-tip. Everything about her seemed to laugh at everything about him - his predicament, his mischievous dealings with Barker and Growler, the expression on his face.

"Who are you?" Rigel breathed.

"When you can asnwer that question yourself," said the lady, "I will speak to you again. For now, why don't you see what lies beyond the door to your left?"

"I have to help my friends," Rigel said, though he glanced in that direction, unable to restrain his curiosity.

When the witch said nothing in reply, he turned toward her again -- but she was gone.

Rigel's heart sank. "Thanks a lot," he muttered. "You could have given me a lift out of here on that carpet of yours."

His reproach fell on no ears whatsoever. Grumbling to himself, he stepped gingerly over the two squabbling amphibians on the flagged floor of what seemed to be a storeroom, sidled through a narrow gap between two shelves full of tins and glass jars, and approached the door. Closer-to, in the light of his wand, he saw that it bore a sign: NO AUTHORIZED PERSONS BEYOND THIS POINT. TRESPASSERS WELCOME!

"Looks like I have no choice anyway," said Rigel. At his touch the door swung open, and he walked through. Before he could turn back, it closed itself.

+++ DOUBLE CHALLENGE FOR TMQ #170 +++

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.

SURVEY: Which type of gatekeeper should Merlin and Miss Pucey meet in their next adventure? A) A pair of talking paintings, of which one can only tell the truth and the other only lie. B) An animated suit of armor that attacks anyone who approaches on foot (as opposed to walking on their hands, etc.). C) A statue that tells riddles. D) A mirror that shows your worst fear. E) Write-in candidate ______________.

CONTEST: Come up with the name for the witch Rigel encountered in this chapter.

163. The Golden Cap

Contest winner: Sir Read-a-Lot

All the ghosts in Venice were rioting. Head Quidditch hooligans, every one of them. Il Comte di Bestemmia winced at the sound of massed wailing, moaning, and rattling of chains. The walls of his compound dripped ectoplasm as ghostly apparitions of severed body parts were hurled at them like pieces of rotting fruit. It was giving him a splitting headache.

"Ombra," the wizard called weakly, shuddering as an army of ghosts marched below his window playing musical saws. "Fetch my manual of exorcism, if you please."

A simpering house-elf ran out of the room. While il Comte waited for his return, something went crash in the garden. He hurried, muttering, to a window on another side of the room. The beastly ghosts were getting into his greenhouse now! Il Comte wrung his hands, thinking about some extremely rare plants that might not recover from the cold, clammy touch of these unquiet spirits. "What is taking that elf so long?" he wondered aloud.

All his attention was focused on the lagoon side of his private island, from which more ghosts were still rising from the sickly fog over the water. So il Comte did not notice a separate disturbance developing on the canal side. In a small square just opposite il Comte's jetty, Rigel was encircled by five burly figures cloaked in heavy furs. He turned round and round in a defensive posture while rummaging in his parallel-universe pocket locker. His assailants seemed content, for the moment, to wait and see what interesting weapon he would come up with.

Rigel's fingers closed around something. He pulled it out with a triumphant "Ha!" The defiant gleam in his eyes changed to dull grimness when he saw what he held. It was a rubber chicken.

Before he could recover from this disappointment, the first of his opponents charged. Rigel flourished the chicken in its face before stepping aside. The wind of the giant's passage caused the young wizard's robes and hair to flutter. A flapping hem of the attacker's fur cloak slapped against Rigel's calf.

For a moment the five cloaked men stamped and pawed. Then the one most directly behind Rigel charged. He felt rather than heard its approach, felt it in the ground vibrating underfoot. He turned and smacked it in the face with the broad side of the chicken. When a third opponent came at him, Rigel stuck out his foot and tripped him. The fellow went stumbling out of the circle.

"It's a lucky thing the bad guys always attack one by one," Rigel mused aloud. Then he added, "Whoops," as four massive figures closed on him at once. He crouched down and rolled through their legs, laughing at the sound of their bodies colliding and the brief bout of shoving and cuffing that followed it.

Now Rigel was outside the circle. He turned to face a line of five gigantic men. No, not men... yaks.

"Yikes," Rigel squeaked. He started backing away, digging once more in his pocket.

The next thing he pulled out was a golden cap. The Golden Cap, rather. Rigel allowed himself a half-second's distraction as he recalled purchasing it at Jude the Insecure's "From Out of This World" outfitter. He racked his brains, trying to remember whether he had used it twice or three times...

The yaks took a step toward him. Rigel was not keen on turning his back on them. Did yaks have an instinct to chase anything that ran from them, he wondered? He walked backwards, faster, risking a glance over his shoulder as he turned the cap round and round in his hands.

"Well, there's nothing for it," he told himself when his back bumped wall. He tugged the cap onto his head. The yaks were a dozen meters away now. Standing on his left foot, Rigel chanted: "Ep-pe, pep-pe, kak-ke!" Seven meters and closing. Shifting to his right foot, he intoned: "Hil-lo, hol-lo, hel-lo!" Three meters! On both feet now, Rigel screamed: "Ziz-zy, zuz-zy, zik!"

The nearest wereyak was so close by now that Rigel could smell its breath. It reeked of rancid butter, fermented tea, damp fur, and a sweet, gassy, grassy scent. Slobber dangled from the creature's lips. Its nose was damp with yak bogies.

"I'm only going to say this once," said Rigel warningly. The wereyaks stopped. Swallowing with an audible gulp, he added: "Surrender now, and it will go easier for you."

The yak in front of him snorted. Foul-smelling snot splattered the front of Rigel's robes.

"All right then," Rigel said in a shaky but grim voice. "Give these dirty beasts a bath, boys!"

The air was suddenly filled with the flapping of wings, screeches and howling laughter. The already shadowy corner of the square darkened even more as the space overhead filled with a squadron of diving, grasping creatures.

Winged monkeys.

The yaks turned and bellowed. Rigel edged toward a nearby alley, barely wide enough for his thin shoulders, and darted away from the ensuing melee.

Moments later, he found himself on the edge of the canal. Il Comte's private jetty stood but a stone's throw away. It might as well have been miles, with the waters in between infested with merpeople who served that cruel master. In the distance, he could see flashes of light as the ghosts, at his instigation, continued their riot. It seemed they were trying to burn down il Comte's gatehouse, using ghostly torches that burned only on their own, insubstantial plane. He sighed and shook his head, then began digging around in his pocket again. There had to be something to get him across the water...

+++ DOUBLE CHALLENGE FOR TMQ #165 +++

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.

SURVEY: Which Hogwarts subject includes a lesson that will soon save the lives of Merlin and Miss Pucey?

CONTEST: Rewrite a portion of a famous speech, from either history or literature, to make it apply to the magical world of Harry Potter. (Examples: Hamlet's soliloquy, Patrick Henry's "liberty or death" speech, the Gettysburg Address, Mary Schmich's "Wear Sunscreen" speech, etc.) Use your imagination! Entries will be judged on the basis of entertainment value.

157. Dungeon Brownies

Contest winner: Rehannah
Runner-up: TWZRD

The light at the tips of their wands revealed a grim sight to Merlin and Miss Pucey. Ahead of them, a flagstoned passage receded into darkness. Along each side ran an endless series of heavy doors with barred windows in them at eye level. When they looked through the windows, they saw heaps of bones, some more or less held together by remnants of sinew and tattered clothes. The bones of humans mingled with those of the rats who had starved with them - or, at least, shortly after them.

Miss Pucey shuddered. Merlin growled at the back of his throat, sounding fiercer than he felt.

The dungeon continued straight ahead, damp and cold and still and heavy with despair and death. It seemed they had been walking through it for hours, yet the cell doors marched onward in unbroken formation. Now and again Merlin checked to see if a cell had been occupied, and each time he came away from the window with the same bitter growl.

Then, for the first time since passing the Joke Knocker, they saw something different. It appeared so suddenly, in fact, that the duo only noticed it when Merlin tripped over it. They stopped to look around, Miss Pucey hiking her skirts up over her ankles.

"It's a shoe," said Merlin, pointing his wandlight at it.

"A shoe in remarkably good condition, compared to what's left of the inmates' footwear," said Miss Pucey, measuring it roughly against her own shoe. "Men's size ten, give or take."

Merlin didn't say it aloud, but the thought came to him unbidden: "That's my size." But it wasn't his shoe. His shoes weren't in top condition like this one. They had, for example, gotten soaked in the waters of the Venetian lagoon and dried out in the dank air of the merhags' larder. He could do with a new pair, and this one looked pretty good.

"How did it get here?" he wondered aloud. "There was nothing ahead of us. We would have seen it. And then I just tripped over it."

Miss Pucey sucked her breath through clenched teeth when Merlin picked up the shoe. He turned it over in his hand, suffering no ill effects. It didn't seem to be poisoned or cursed. Not yet, at least.

"I wouldn't wear that if I were you," said Miss Pucey. "Haven't you heard what happens to witches or wizards who put on shoes when they don't know where they came from? You could end up dancing yourself to death."

"I'm not putting it on, am I?" Merlin stuffed the shoe into a pocket in his robes. "We might need it to get out of here."

After following the dungeon walk another length of a football field, the pair found another shoe, the mate of the first. Merlin pocketed it as well. Shortly after that a sturdy, sensible calfskin shoe, seemingly tailored to Miss Pucey's right foot, appeared. Then another for the left.

"This is starting to feel ominous," Miss Pucey noted as Merlin pocketed the second woman's shoe. "I mean, what comes next? Kid gloves? Stockings with garters?"

What came next was a commotion in the darkness ahead. Merlin rummaged in his satchel and brought out the portable wall Harvey had given him. He tugged a cord at one end of it, and in moments it grew to fill the passage ahead of them. From their side of it, it looked like a layer of thin gauze stretched over a rickety frame. Through it they could see the length of corridor ahead of them, still lit by their wandlights, but Merlin knew that from the other side it would appear to be a section of dungeon wall advancing down the corridor.

"It's funny," whispered Miss Pucey, as they began walking toward the noise ahead, "but I don't feel very well-protected."

Merlin silenced her with the look on his face.

As they approached one of the cells, seemingly identical to all the others, they heard whispering voices from within. Someone seemed to be saying: "What's that light?" Another: "They're coming." Other words and voices were stifled by a general shushing sound.

Peering through the portable wall, Merlin saw the inside of the cell by wandlight. No one seemed to be there except the last occupant of the cell, now no more than a pile of desiccated bones. "Hello?" Merlin called gently. Other than a feeling of frozen fear and waiting, no one seemed to be home.

Merlin looked more closely at the bones on the dungeon floor. There seemed to be more than bones there. A tattered piece of cloth or skin lay spread on the floor with several items arranged on it. Tools. Merlin peered harder, wishing he had a free hand to scratch his head. Then it came to him. The spade-like lasts arranged according to size; the pointy awls, sharp leather-cutting tools, heavy needles, fine instruments for pinching and gripping and hammering... These were the tools of a cobbler. But what could a cobbler have done to provoke the wrath of one of the counts of Bestemmia?

Merlin jumped at a loud noise farther along the corridor. Something had landed against the flagstones with a metallic clang.

"Oh, this place!" Miss Pucey moaned, her hands fluttering about her.

"This way," said Merlin, pushing the inflatable wall ahead of them.

"Are you sure?" she murmured.

"There's no other way out but forward," he said.

"Are you sure?" she repeated.

He rolled his eyes. "Aren't you curious about what's going on here?"

"Curiosity killed the cat," said Miss Pucey. "You wouldn't have a cat in that bag of yours? You know, to scout ahead?"

"Sorry," Merlin grinned, "we'll just have to risk it."

They risked it, and soon enough they found out what had made the clanging noise. It was a horseshoe.

Miss Pucey darted a look behind them, holding her wand above her head.

"What?" cried Merlin.

She sighed. "Nothing. I just had to check to see whether a horse was following us. Or maybe a thestral. Could you see a thestral if one was there?"

"There's no thestral behind us," Merlin said confidently. "Whoever has been dropping footwear ahead of us has apparently noticed that we've run out of feet."

Another clang up ahead made both of them jump again.

"Maybe there will be horses to go with these shoes," Miss Pucey suggested, "when we get to wherever this corridor leads."

They collected a total of eight horseshoes before the corridor led anywhere but past more dungeon cells full of grisly remains. Once more they followed a sound of whispering to a cell door where, as soon as Merlin looked through the window, the whispering stopped. This time the victim's corpse was surrounded by other tools - anvil, forge, hammers, tongs - suggesting that a farrier had met a fate similar to that of the cobbler.

"This Maledicto person," Miss Pucey said, pronouncing the name as if it brought the taste of bile to her lips, "seems to have it in for honest tradesmen."

"I think," said Merlin, "he's just greedy. He wants the best of everything, and then he destroys the artist who made it so that no one else can enjoy the same quality. Or perhaps he kills them so that he needn't pay for their services."

"How very like a spoilt child," Miss Pucey sneered. "People ought to have their children brought up better."

Torn between making a pointed observation on how she had phrased her last assertion and asking how much credit she took for the way Rigel had turned out, Merlin bit his tongue.

They continued forward for only another quarter-mile or so. Then, quite suddenly, the dungeon ended. The flagstoned floor plunged into space as a deep chasm opened before them, so deep that their wandlight could not reach bottom. The opposite side was only a stone's throw away. Directly across from them stood another heavy wooden door. There was just enough flagstoned floor before the door for one or two people to stand upon, and a thick metal rod jutted out of the stone wall beside the door, angled upwards.

Merlin groaned. There seemed to be no way across this canyon. There was no path around the edge. There was no bridge over it. It was too far to jump. "All right," he said. "Let me try something."

Miss Pucey stood back a few paces while Merlin attempted to levitate the portable wall across the gap. As it hovered in midair about halfway across, an updraft caught it and smashed it against the vaulted stone ceiling. The wall crumpled and disintegrated before their eyes, raining fragments into the dark depths.

"This isn't good," Merlin noted.

"Look!" Miss Pucey gasped and pointed.

Merlin squinted in the direction she was pointing, but ultimately had to ask: "Look at what?"

"There's a kind of path running straight up the face of the cliff!"

It was true. Similar to the flagstoned floor they stood on, a smooth path ascended the opposite side of the ravine, as if designed for a human fly to walk upon. Looking over the edge before him, Merlin confirmed that a length of even flagstones descended the near side as well, terminating well above the edge of their circle of light.

Miss Pucey spoke through her fingers, which she had pressed to her lips as if to hold her excitement within: "Do you suppose the shoes we found will allow us to walk down the wall and up again?"

"Maybe," said Merlin. "The trouble is, we can only find out by trying. And if they don't work that way, we won't get a chance to try a different theory."

"All right," she suggested in a sensible tone, "how about that lever over there? Perhaps if we pull it down, the path will rise up off the sides of the cliff and form a bridge."

"That's also possible," Merlin admitted. "But how can we pull the lever from over here?"

Something went clang directly behind them. In their surprise, they nearly jumped off the cliff. When Merlin looked down, he spotted a ninth horseshoe lying on the stone floor just behind his heel. He also caught a glimpse of something moving close to the wall, but when he looked in that direction, nothing was there.

"I've seen some weird things," said Miss Pucey. "I mean, my young man is Life Commissioner of the League of Head Quidditch, Ghost Rugby Union, and Spectral Sports. I've been formally introduced to everything that goes bump in the night. But this is starting to give me the creeps."

"I fully understand," said Merlin. But he looked awfully calm about it.

"Do you?" said Miss Pucey. "I've had the screaming heebie-jeebies over for ice cream. I coached the winning team in a djinn sand volleyball tournament. I've played pachesi against three 15th-century Persian moguls on a board the size of Leicester Square, with the ghosts of sixteen fat eunuchs acting as gamepieces. I once spent an entire cruise on the Flying Dutchman listening to Marie Antoinette giving beauty tips to Lucrezia Borgia. I can deal with that. But right now, right here, I am this close to having a full-on panic attack. Can you understand that?"

Merlin shook his head. "I meant, I understand what's going on now. You remember that poor cobbler? And the farrier too?"

"Of course I remember them! I'll remember them until the day I die, which won't be long now unless we get across this hole in the ground..."

"Can you think of something cobblers and farriers always have around them?"

Miss Pucey shook her head. "Tools? But we saw their tools..."

"No," said Merlin. "Not tools. Creatures."

The lightbulb went on in Miss Pucey's face. "Ah! Not..."

"Yes," said Merlin. "Brownies. They've spent who knows how long preparing the best possible shoes, using whatever materials were on hand, just for us."

"And horseshoes," Miss Pucey pointed out, looking around but still seeing no horses nearby.

"And horse-..." Merlin's eyes went blank. He turned around and looked at the lever on the far wall of the chasm. "Oh," he added. "I see it now. We're to play horseshoes..."

The first two horseshoes missed the far wall entirely, falling silent into the void below. The third horseshoe struck sparks from the stone above and to the right of the lever. It wasn't until the sixth throw that Merlin made a ringer. The shoe hung its weight on the uptilted lever, but nothing changed.

He threw the seventh horseshoe. By now his aim was spot-on. By the eighth throw, he had three horseshoes hanging on the lever. Only one remained in his hand.

"Make this one count," he told himself.

Miss Pucey covered her face with both hands.

Merlin's heart almost stopped when the shoe struck the wall above the lever. But then, miraculously, it dropped straight down onto the lever. Before clattering off into nothingness, the last iron shoe lent its weight to the three that already hung there, and suddenly the lever tilted downward. All the shoes rattled off and sailed into the darkness. But already something was happening, and it evidently couldn't be stopped by anything as mundane as three horseshoes falling off an iron rod.

The lengths of path running down both sides of the chasm rose up and joined in the middle, forming a narrow bridge. Quickly, Merlin and Miss Pucey crossed it in single file, he reaching back to hold her hand. The bridge stayed where it was behind them while they stood considering the door on the opposite side.

"Locked," Merlin observed.

"Shall we knock?" Miss Pucey suggested.

"No," said Merlin, thinking back to the Joke Knocker with an inward shiver. "I have a better idea...."

+++ DOUBLE CHALLENGE FOR TMQ #159 +++

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: Whatever happened to Minimilian? (A) Madrigal the hag caught and ate him. (B) He escaped and reformed his ways. (C) He escaped and began planning his revenge against Spanky and Ilona. (D) He was rescued by another villain, who means to use him for his/her own evil plan.

CONTEST: Write a magical parody of the lyrics of a popular song. One stanza and a chorus will do.

156. In for a Sickle...

Contest winner: Linda Carrig
Runner-up: Dragonic

A canal in Venice. A moonlit night. The sound of a guitar playing behind some open window. A dog pauses while chasing a rat across a bridge, looks down and sees a head emerging from the water, then resumes pursuit.

Wisely, Rigel doesn't dismiss the Bubble-Head charm until he is well on dry land. He heaves himself wearily up a short flight of stone steps and collapses on the stone quay. Looking down, he sees a clutch of hideous women looking up at him from just below the water's surface. They favor him with rude gestures; he returns the favor. They linger, as if hoping he will come back down into the water, until he catches his breath enough to walk away.

Rigel's legs feel like pieces of cooked spaghetti as he trudges, dripping, through a narrow alley. He looks around carefully, trying to get his bearings and hoping he can get to his hotel without having to cross water. He absent-mindedly rubs the stoneskin ring that hangs around his neck on a leather thong. He owes his survival to its protection from the merhags' piercing fangs. On the other hand, the ring hasn't prevented the merhags from developing a taste for his skin. He shudders to remember the feeling of his arms, chest, and back being licked by dozens of slimy, black tongues.

A strange sound rouses him from his reverie. He peers ahead through the gloom. The sound comes again: a deep snuffling noise, like a very large creature stifling a sneeze. It seems to come from an angle in the passage ahead. The moonlight isn't much help in this narrow alley. Rigel edges forward cautiously, preparing to flee back to the canal. Then his breath catches in his throat as a dark shape moves out into the alley ahead. A huge, dark shape. How, he wonders, could he not have noticed that smell?

As he thinks this thought, Rigel turns on his heel... and stops. Another figure is coming up behind him. A human figure. "Go back," Rigel hisses in a stage-whisper. He says it again in Italian, but the figure keeps walking toward him at the same pace. He glances over his shoulder. The great beast behind him is just standing there, filling the alley. He looks ahead again, just in time to see the shadowy man transform into another hulking animal shape. Another hulking, stinky, menacing, animal shape.

"Cripes," Rigel squeaks. But the wonderful thing about Rigel is that he never freezes under pressure. Even while all this is happening - from the moment he has spotted the first wereyak, in fact - his fingers have been picking at the stitches tacking a slender strip of silk piping to the seams of his damp trousers.

The creatures have begun to close in, but slowly - cautiously. Rigel curses himself silently for leaving his wand tied to his arm by a shoelace. He must choose between escaping and defending himself; and since his first instinct was to pick his silken ladder free, escape is now his only option. If only he could use his wand for defense, he might be able to buy himself a bit more time to escape. As it is, the only spell he can count on (with his wand where it is) is Lumos.

He tries it. Light flares out of the tip of his wand, showing him every humped, shaggy, slobbery detail of the figure in front of him. The creature stops moving forward, wincing into the brightness. But the snuffling, shuffling noises from behind continue to draw nearer.

I don't know who these people are, Rigel tells himself, or why they all turn into yaks, but I have a feeling I should avoid them like Dragonpox...

"Nox," he says, putting out the wandlight. Then he throws the silken ladder upward with an expert snap of the arm. A moment later, a long thread hangs above his head, reaching vertically into the pale darkness above the cobbled alley. Rigel jumps for the end of the thread and shins up it. When he reaches the top, hanging in space, he looks down and sees two yaks directly below him, looking up.

A moment later, two dark human shapes have taken their place, one of them crouching to spring toward the bottom of the silken ladder. Quickly, Rigel swings the lower end of the thread around so that it hangs above him, and continues his climb. The next time he looks down, the alley is deserted.

When he finally reaches the roof of one of the nearby buildings, Rigel collapses against the stone tiles with a grunt of exhaustion. Bracing his legs against a lead gutter, he spools up the silken ladder and stuffs it into a trouser pocket. Then he rubs his cramped hands, wriggling for a more comfortable position as the roof tiles seem determined to dig into the sore muscles of his shoulders.

A passing breeze makes him shiver. Or maybe it wasn't the breeze. Rigel wrenches his neck painfully, looking around to see who or what might be on the roof with him. No one is there. He sighs, flops on his back, and almost chokes when a hand reaches up from the alley and grips the edge of the gutter, just between his feet.

This time Rigel has nowhere to escape to. His only choice is to fight. Clawing at the waterlogged shoelace tying his wand to his forearm, he racks his brains for a spell he can use in this situation. The first thing that comes to him is the disillusionment charm, which he casts on himself with a soundless movement of the lips, as soon as his wand comes free. He does it just in time, too. The owner of the hands pulls himself over the gutter a second later, seeing nothing but a loose shoelace dangling over the gutter.

Rigel balances dangerously on the gutter itself, scarcely out of the reach of the man's arms. He owes his silent tread to his shoes having been left behind in the merhag larder.

The other man picks up the shoelace, sniffs it, then raises his nose to the moonlit sky and sniffs again. He turns his head slowly, eyes closed, then stops and opens them. He is looking directly at Rigel.

Rigel looks down at himself: still disillusioned! Can he see me? he wonders. Who are these people?

The wereyak's intent gaze is suddenly distracted by a clatter of stone on stone. His head whips around to look at a small avalanche of pepples on the adjacent rooftop. It appears that someone invisible is attempting to run away in that direction. Glancing back in Rigel's direction with a snort of disappointment, the man follows in a stooped scramble, keeping his hands close to the sloping stone tiles beneath him.

Rigel waits until his pursuer is out of sight before padding as quietly as possible in the opposite direction. He clambers over the peak of one roof and up the slope of another, easily hurdling a narrow alley, little caring that he has lost his way in one of the world's most confusing cities. After covering some distance without seeing any sign of pursuit, he climbs down a drainpipe and staggers wearily toward the nearest canal.

He spots a vaparetto tied to a stanchion and instantly, though with a twinge of remorse, decides to steal it. It takes but one flick of the wand to part the rope securing it to the pavement, and a brief twirl to get the propeller turning without the noise, smell, and bother of starting the engine. Within moments, he has rounded a point and found his bearings in a familiar canal.

By now dawn is not far away, its light already paling the eastern horizon. Rigel has never wanted anything as badly as the hot bath and soft robes that would await him at the Gritti Palace... but he does not steer in that direction. Biting his lip, he sets a course for the island of Il Comte di Bestemmia. He can think of no one else with the motives or resources to send two wereyaks after him. Il Comte must know he is working with Merlin to despoil him -- or, at least, to expose his treachery. And if Il Comte knows that much, he will know where Rigel lodges. His hotel will not be safe. Nowhere in this city will be safe, indeed, until they bring Il Comte down.

Although Rigel hasn't intended to get involved, he sighs and mutters to himself: "In for a sickle, in for a galleon..."

+++ DOUBLE CHALLENGE FOR TMQ #158 +++

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: Whose storyline will be featured in Chapter 158? (A) Spanky. (B) Sadie. (C) Sir Lionel Niblet. (D) Harvey. (E) Endora.

CONTEST: Invent a whimsical name for a witch or wizard of historical importance. Also briefly describe what he/she did to become famous.

151. The Knock-Knock Joke of Doom

Contest winner: TWZRD
Runner-up: greyniffler

Merlin and Miss Pucey watched the water on the steps after Rigel swam away. When it had grown quite calm, Merlin smiled thinly and said, "Well, Miss Pucey, we'll want to make the best of our lad's diversion and move on before the merhags come back."

"That sounds very well," said the pretty young witch, "but I don't see a door."

"It will be well concealed," Merlin admitted. He laid his lit wand on the palm of his hand and said, "Point me." The wand spun of its own accord. It came to rest pointing back over Merlin's left shoulder. As he turned to face that direction, the wand continued to point toward the same featureless wall. "I reckon it's this way," he said, trying to sound confident about it.

"North?" said the witch. "What makes you think the door is on the north side of the vault?"

"I don't," said Merlin. "This is a special wand, made by a friend of mine. The troll nose-hair core makes it point the way out of any place underground."

"Hmmm," said Miss Pucey. "I suppose it's as my mother always says."

"What is?"

"You can pick your friends. Your friends can pick trolls' noses. But you may not want to share a basket of popcorn with them."

"Your mother must have prepared you for anything," Merlin murmured as the they approached the bit of wall indicated by the wand. As he moved to and fro along the wall, the wand shifted on his palm. He raised it, lowered it, watched what the wand-tip did, and soon made a "Hmmm" sound of his own.

"Did you think of something your mother said?" Miss Pucey asked demurely.

"No," said Merlin, "but our exit seems to be more of a window than a door." He set his bag down and pressed his free hand against the wall and slid it toward the area indicated by the wand. He almost fell forward when the solid wall gave way to blank space.

"What is it?" Miss Pucey whispered. "A magic wall? An illusion?"

"Something like that," said Merlin. He felt around the edges of the unseen window, then started to climb through.

Miss Pucey gripped his elbow, holding him back. "Are you sure about this?"

"It's that or a long swim through a merhag colony," said Merlin.

She released his elbow. Merlin shoved his bag through the window, then climbed in after it. The wall remained seemingly solid, so that he seemed to be disappearing through solid stone. At last only his wrist and empty hand remained on Miss Pucey's side of the window. It beckoned to her. She gripped it and plunged through the wall head-first.

Merlin pulled her into a narrow chamber and helped her regain her feet. Once again, they seemed to be surrounded by unbroken stone. The wand now pointed toward the far end of the chamber, only a dozen strides away. At the top of a short staircase was a door, only vaguely disguised as a stone wall. It had a definite door shape, and a kind of knocker at Merlin's waist level, but no knob. Clearly it had not been designed by or for humans.

Merlin reached toward the knocker, then hesitated before his fingers touched it. It had the appearance of an ugly face, scowling malevolently at them. The hinged part hung below its nose, curving downward at the ends like a pair of thick, frowning lips.

"Not very welcoming," said Miss Pucey, staring at the knocker over Merlin's shoulder. She pointed her wand under his arm and added, "Fovea Revelio."

Nothing happened.

"Nothing happened," Merlin observed.

"It isn't a trap, then," said Miss Pucey. "Give it a knock."

"I hope you're right," said Merlin. He grasped the scowling face's lips and tried to prise them loose, but they wouldn't budge.

"Bit rusty?" Miss Pucey asked.

"I'd say it's all one piece," said Merlin.

For a moment, Miss Pucey's frown mirrored that on the supposed knocker. Then she pointed her wand again and muttered, "Techna Revelio."

The next moment, the face on the knocker came to life. The lips parted, and in a voice like the shriek of a rusty hinge they said: "Turn a frown upside-down." Then it clammed up.

The wizard looked at the witch. The witch looked at the wizard.

"Maybe it's a doorknob after all," Miss Pucey suggested. "Shall we try turning it?"

Merlin tried turning the knocker with no success. "Any other suggestions?"

"Unless you feel like standing on your head," she said, "I'm out of ideas."

The knocker snorted.

Miss Pucey gave Merlin a wounded look. "This is no time for levity, sir."

"I know," said Merlin, privately wondering how Rigel had managed to turn out the way he had with such a battle-axe dangling over him. "It wasn't me. It was the gargoyle."

For a long while they stood on the steps, quietly considering what to do next. Then Merlin squeezed past Miss Pucey and knelt down to rummage through the satchel he had brought with him. He was sure there must be something in his sack of tricks, something that could get them through this - until a rusty snicker brought him up short.

He shot a glare over his shoulder. The knocker scowled as evilly as ever.

"It has a sense of humor," Miss Pucey observed.

Merlin's rummaging hands became still. "Turn a frown upside down," he mused.

"Eh?"

He marched up to the door again, satchel in one hand and wand in the other. "Knock, knock," he said in a false, singsong voice.

The iron lips parted just enough to retort, "Who's there?"

"Caldron."

"Caldron who?" grated the horrible knocker.

"Caldron this time yesterday," Merlin replied archly, "but you weren't in."

The knocker seemed to contemplate this remark for a split second. Then it stuck its tongue out and made a rude noise.

"It didn't seem to like that one," said Miss Pucey.

Merlin rolled his eyes. He scratched his scalp with the nub of his wand. Then he squared his shoulders and said, once more: "Knock, knock."

The knocker managed to pout even more as it scraped out the words, "Who's there?"

"Yer wand."

"Yer wand who?"

"Yer wand better manners, yer lout."

A corner of the knocker's grotesque lips twitched for half an instant. Then it resumed its studied frown.

"We'll starve to death in here at this rate," Miss Pucey fretted.

Merlin raised his eyebrows at her. "Can you do better?"

"Knock, knock," she said at once, looking him in the eyes.

"Who's there?" snapped the face on the door.

"House-elf."

"House-elf who?"

"House-elfish of you to keep us standing out here all this time!"

The knocker's frown suddenly became a grin. It even gave a raspy chuckle.

"Quickly!" Miss Pucey hissed.

Merlin hooked the bottom of the iron smile with two fingers and pulled. The center of the smile parted from the face. He gave two knocks with it that seemed to be swallowed up by solid stone. It seemed impossible that anyone could have heard it from even a few feet away.

The scowl returned to the knocker's face.

"Now what?" Miss Pucey asked.

"I'm open to suggestions," Merlin replied.

"Do that point-me thing again," Miss Pucey prompted.

Before he could position his wand on the palm of his hand, however, the stone wall at the top of the steps began to slide away from them with a terrible grinding noise that filled their small chamber. They covered their ears and looked at each other with watering eyes. It only lasted for a moment before the movement stopped, and the noise with it.

Merlin looked up. The front wall of the chamber had receded just enough to allow them to sidle around it. There seemed to be open space on both sides of it.

"After you," he said.

Holding their lit wands ahead of them, Miss Pucey ducked to the left of the wall, Merlin to the right. Scarcely had he tugged his satchel out of the way before the wall slammed back into place, leaving the chamber in total darkness.

+++ DOUBLE CHALLENGE FOR TMQ #153 +++

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: After being trapped in Lysippus Bean's departmental memo, Sadie finds herself held at the Ministry of Magic under arrest. What happens next? (A) She withstands interrogation while planning her own escape. (B) Joe Albuquerque swoops in (disguised, of course) and springs her from custody. (C) Chat Noir swoops in (pretending to be Joe) and captures her.

CONTEST: Propose a law or basic principle of magic, complete with a whimsical name, such as Tybalt's Second Law of Transfiguration, or the Principle of the Conservation of Ectoplasm, etc. Briefly explain what it says. Creative nonsense will be accepted!

146. The Merhags

Contest winner: TWZRD

Scarcely had Rigel handed both brooms to the parking valet and offered his arm to his date when a Wizarding Wireless presenter shoved a wand in his face. He squinted as a hovering lens focused the light of a blazing candelabra on his face. Evidently he was expected to speak into the wand-tip. "Er," he hemmed. "Say again?" he hawed.

"I said," the presenter said with quite as much grin but half the sincerity, "Isn't this your first public appearance since suddenly arriving at adulthood?"

"I suppose so," Rigel said sourly. "I mean, I've been an adult before, so..."

"And who is your lovely date?"

"Er," Rigel stammered, glancing at the woman beside him. "Th-this is Lucretia Pucey. She's actually my..."

"Miss Pucey, now that you're dating one of wizarding London's most eligible bachelors, how does it feel to know that he's already been through his second childhood?"

The woman on Rigel's arm blushed and covered her mouth. "I really can't say," she mumbled.

"We're not dating," Rigel said forcefully. "Miss Pucey is my governess."

The presenter tittered naughtily. "Well, be that as it may, you're all grown up now, aren't you? With a gown like that, you can tell she doesn't let a little thing like unemployment get her down."

Rigel gestured toward the shabby theatre, whose entrance the presenter was effectively blocking. "If you don't mind..."

"Actually, our listeners would love to hear your thoughts on tonight's show."

"I haven't seen it yet," Rigel said pointedly.

"But surely, you have some idea what you're about to see. It isn't everyday a society bad-boy turns up, after being presumed dead for a dozen years, sporting an attractive young witch on his arm..."

"Look," Rigel snapped. "I've been friends with the choreographer since I was a kid. The first time, that is. He played in some of the first games of Head Quidditch."

"Ah, so it's your personal connection to Bob Fossil that draws you to this opening-night."

"A good stick, old Bob is," Rigel agreed gruffly.

"Would you say he is growing creatively?"

"I suppose so. This is what, his third musical? No one thought dancing skeletons doing a jazz revue would amount to anything, but when they saw Deadhead..."

"That's exactly who saw it," the presenter said archly. "No one."

"Yes, but that's not taking ghosts into account. Deadhead did quite well in the unquiet-dead community. Which is really, you know, Bob's target audience."

"Don't I know it," the presenter said through clenched teeth, glancing up and down the quiet street in search of any other warm bodies to interview. "I've never seen such a quiet premiere. It's like a graveyard."

"Actually, it is a graveyard," Miss Pucey pointed out. "The Kidney Street Theatre hasn't had a live audience since it was hit by a German shell in 1940, during a sold-out performance of Sickle Serenade."

"It has the largest ectoplasmic acting company in Britain," Rigel added. "There isn't another troupe in the world that could mount a production of How to Succeed in the Afterlife Without Really Dying."

"You should know, shouldn't you?" purred the presenter, cupping her hand over her ear. "Isn't it true, Rigel, that you were the executive producer of that show?"

"I would really like to go inside," said Rigel.

"Are you also backing tonight's production of The Shroud Game?"

Rigel bristled. "I'll have you know that ghosts are perfectly capable of..." He winced, put his hand to the silver-backed diamond stud attached to his earlobe. Then he pulled his hand away as if burned. "Excuse me a moment."

"Sure," cooed the presenter. "May I ask Miss Pucey where she picked up that sensational...?"

"Oh, the blazing billywigs," Rigel cried out in a strangled voice, desperate to control his urge to swear on live wireless. "Not now!"

The young woman at his side looked concerned, saying, "Master O, is something wrong?" Then, just as she reached out to touch his arm, he disappeared with a sickening pop -- and dragged her after him.

They landed on a damp, gritty, stone floor. Rigel might have kept his footing if Miss Pucey hadn't barreled into him, sending them both rolling through a shallow puddle that ruined their evening clothes.

"I've seen better landings," said a gruff voice.

Rigel sat up and glared at Merlin. "And I've seen better places to land."

Merlin helped the governess to her feet. She seemed surprisingly unruffled, considering her confusing journey and her uncomfortable new surroundings. "This is unexpected," she said, gazing directly at Merlin with an uplifted chin.

"I beg your pardon for interrupting what seems to have been a big night," said Merlin, while Rigel looked around at the damp slabs of stone that surrounded them on all sides. They were in a chilly room, slightly larger than the public room at the Hog's Head, with a ceiling so high that the light from Merlin's wand-tip barely reached it. In the center of the floor was a staircase leading down to a pool of black, still water, eight or ten steps below floor level.

"Crikes, the smell," said Rigel, covering his mouth and nose with one hand, while favoring his singed earlobe with the other. "Like a fishy sewer. It has to be Venice."

"Venice is actually some distance above us," Merlin said casually.

"And that's the only way out of here?" Rigel tilted his head toward the steps, the pool.

"I'm afraid so."

"What about these walls? The ceiling? Surely Il Comte must have a secret way into his -- I don't know -- boat slip? Besides, that helm the goblins gave him isn't fond of water."

"This isn't part of Il Comte's estate," Merlin murmured, quietly filing away the information Rigel had unwittingly provided.

"Then why the devil did you come here? What did you think you would find? And why can't you just leave the way you came in?"

"Because," said Merlin, "the ones who brought me here are waiting outside."

Rigel looked down into the dark water. He wasn't sure, but he thought he saw something move below the surface. "Merfolk?" he guessed. Merlin nodded. "What is this place, then? A prison? What did you do? Did you violate their territory? Did you poach in their waters?"

"Oh, nothing like that," said Merlin. "And anyway, this isn't a prison."

Rigel stared at him. He and Miss Pucey stared at each other. They both looked at Merlin again with eyes full of dread and curiosity.

Merlin pointed his wand at the corner behind him, where several barrels were stacked in front of a shelf full of filthy cans and jars. Hanging from the ceiling were the gutted carcasses of two drowned dogs, a stiff fox, a partially eaten goat, and several large fish.

"It's a larder," Miss Pucey whispered.

"But merpeople wouldn't eat us," Rigel protested furiously. "We're people. They're practically people too. It would almost be cannibalism!"

"Most merpeople wouldn't eat us," Merlin agreed. "But I've discovered an interesting fact that I don't remember reading in Newt Scamander's bestiary. Wherever there are people, you see -- people of any kind -- there is also a small percentage of magical people."

Rigel's brow wrinkled as he tried to follow Merlin's line of thought. "You mean... there are merwitches?"

"Exactly. And wherever one finds witches, one also finds a number -- a much smaller number, to be sure -- of hags."

Rigel looked like he wanted to be sick. "So it's merhags, then."

"Once we've ripened a bit," Merlin went on ruthlessly, "we'll be the most popular main course on their menu."

"We've got to get out of here," Rigel said as if he meant, You've got to get me out.

"That's why I needed you," said Merlin. He bowed to Miss Pucey and added, "Your presence is a nice bonus."

"What do you need me for?" Rigel shouted. "Go on. Escape. Swim past the bloody merhags, then. I would only hold you back."

"It isn't the merhags that scare me," said Merlin. "I already have a defense against their teeth and claws. Only, I've found out something else about this place. Another way out, maybe. Or maybe better: a way in to someplace I never expected to find. It's just that, I won't have time to check it out if the merhags come back for me.

"So what I need is a diversion. I need you to try to escape. The merhags will chase you, thinking you're me. They've never been good at telling one air-breather from another. While you lead them away from here, I'll have time..."

"You must be mad," Rigel screamed.

"Barking," Merlin agreed, holding out a smooth stone that dangled on a leather thong.

Miss Pucey looked from one wizard to the other, hiding her thoughts behind her composed face, as if calmly waiting to see what happened next. At last, with an inarticulate snarl, Rigel snatched the ironskin stone out of Merlin's grasp.

Miss Pucey smirked with her back turned to him as her former escort peeled off his dress robes and prepared to enter the dark water. He paused on the third step to tie his wand to his forearm with one shoelace. His skin looked green, possibly due to light from Merlin's wand reflected off the water. "You'll be all right, the two of you?"

"I'll see to it," said Merlin.

Miss Pucey drew her own wand and said, with the primness proper to a highly effective governess to any hell-raising young wizard, "We both will see to it." And her tone of voice made certain no one would dream of contradicting her.

"I'll keep the merhags busy as long as I can," said Rigel. "After that, I'll be at the Gritti Palace, waiting for you or a sign from you. Don't keep me waiting long."

Merlin looked appraisingly at Miss Pucey, who had begun to throw items out of her handbag -- two brass candlesticks, a crowbar, and a coil of strong rope already lay at her feet, and just now she was plucking out a pair of greasy work-boots. He nodded. "We won't."

+++ A FEW ANNOUNCEMENTS +++

From the "Credit Where Due" Dept.: Let's give a big hand to my Dad, Cuda, for designing the new headline for this blog. Doesn't it look great?

Another round of applause goes to Andrew Sims for offering to continue publishing TMQ on MuggleNet. Andrew becomes the fourth editor to grapple with this heroic task.

I am so glad to continue this column's affiliation with MuggleNet. Nevertheless, Andrew and I have agreed that The Magic Quill blog will also continue. This means that, even though TMQ will continue to appear on MuggleNet, there will no longer be a Chamber of Secrets forum thread for each new chapter. Instead, the blog comments will be the place to answer your weekly Double Challenge. Hopefully the bugs in the comment system have been worked out.

We (the quill and I) still need your creative contributions! Please visit soon and often, and help decide what happens next in The Magic Quill. The more readers who participate in each week's Survey and Contest, the more exciting the results will be. You might also consider signing up to follow this blog!

+++ DOUBLE CHALLENGE FOR TMQ #148 +++

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: When we last left Sadie, she was witnessing a horrible duel between Il Comte and Uncle or Aunt Leslie. What happens when Chat Noir gets involved? (A) He tries to defend Leslie and wins. (B) He dries to defend Leslie and is defeated. (C) He switches sides and joins Il Comte. (D) He goes in for himself and runs off with the ring of Count Matthias. (E) We don't find out what he does, because in the commotion Sadie gets away with the ring.

CONTEST: Describe a famous painting or photograph which, with a few alterations, might reveal an "untold story" relating to the magical world.