Authors: Colin Harvey
It lumbered toward the door in fury or panic, beating at the fire and worsening the blaze.
It clearly isn't very bright,
Jocasta thought.
It must be as stupid as its creator—only a fool would conjure a fire-breathing demon in a small wooden room.
The spellhound blocked the demon's way, but it charged with such ferocity, even the spellhound was backed into the corridor. The spellhound leapt, and ducking inside its grip, seized the demon around the throat. It held the demon's head back so it only scorched the ceiling.
Jocasta leaned over the groaning Kehmet. “Who sold you the spell?” she whispered, putting all the force of her personality into convincing Kehmet he should answer. This was her big chance. Kehmet whispered a name and went limp. When she rummaged in his pockets and pulled out another spell, he grabbed her throat. Jocasta shrieked, but instead of pulling away, shoved her head into his face, wincing with the pain as his teeth scraped the crown of her head. When his grip loosened she gouged his eyes and was rewarded with a shout of pain. She wriggled free of him.
The fire spread quickly down the corridor, setting drapes and fittings alight. People milled headlong, shuddering coughs from the smoke racking their bodies, eyes streaming, but still moving. Screams and shouts split the air as they trampled each other, ducking beneath the combatants, a few even leaping from windows, regardless of the consequences.
Meanwhile, the demon and the spellhound clung to each other, spinning around and crashing into doors and furniture, the demon still snorting fire, the spellhound shrieking when a flame caught it. In a last effort, the spellhound pushed the demon's head back and there was a crack as it went limp, its neck broken.
Waving her away, the spellhound dashed back into the room and pawed through the remains of the bed from which the demon had formed, and stood, holding something aloft in its paw. Then they dashed down the corridor in a frantic race against the flames, Jocasta wincing with pain when the searing tongues licked at her arms and shrieking when bits of burning ceiling fell, scorching her hair, her clothes, her body.
Horrified, Jocasta watched the stairs collapse in front of them, but the spellhound picked her up, and still carrying her, leapt across the gap to land on another section of stairs. They tore down them and crashed in a heap onto the floor of the bar with a bone-jarring impact amongst the yelling crowd, which swarmed around them in a state of absolute panic.
The barman saw them at the same moment they saw him. His face darkened, and he shouted, “There's the bastards who did this! Get them!"
The skimmer's pilot finished his preparations, and a steward was uncoupling the mooring ropes when two figures ran down the steps to the breakwater as if chased by the fiends of hell.
The first figure, a great black shape, jumped the bottom half of the steps, then caught the smaller one, which leapt into its waiting arms.
Behind them boiled an angry mob brandishing knives, clubs, and broken furniture. But the mob lost vital seconds in a bottleneck, giving the fleeing pair breathing space, which they needed, for their pace slowed by the second.
As they approached, the steward saw they were an unkempt middle-aged woman and a two metre tall black thing that limped badly. He watched the pursuers gain slowly on the couple. At the last moment he quickened as if to spite them, but crucially fumbled the rope, before jumping onto a float.
"We have open tickets!” The woman waved imploringly at the skimmer drifting gently away from the breakwater. The steward restrained a smirk, which turned into a look of outrage when the thing picked up the woman, threw her onto the float, and leapt on itself.
"You can't do that!” the steward spluttered, but fell silent at the woman's glare.
"Would you care to argue with my friend here?” Jocasta left the steward in no doubt she'd enjoy such an argument, but that he wouldn't. He decided against it. “Show him the tickets,” she instructed the spellhound, who produced them with the air of a conjuror pulling a rabbit from a hat. Behind them, the lynch mob growled, furious at being balked of their prey.
"It's very irregular,” the steward muttered sulkily as he fastened the rope in place before following them inside.
"Good morning!” Jocasta trilled at the cabin crew and equally stunned other passengers. They stared openly at the bedraggled apparition who threw herself into the nearest seat.
"Whew!” she said to the spellhound, loudly enough for the whole cabin to hear. “I thought we were going to miss our flight!” In a quieter voice she murmured, “When we're underway, I'll go to a privacy booth, clean up, and call Duff.” Gently she added, “And we'll see to that burn."
—There's no need.—
"Nonsense!” She added, “You know how vulnerable these crossings are to the weather. Can you imagine if we'd got to the breakwater, and they'd cancelled the flight?"
—Or if we hadn't had open returns?—
Very quietly at first, Jocasta began to laugh, louder and louder, until her cackle filled the cabin and she had to wipe tears from her eyes. When she had finished, she leaned across and said, “I haven't had that much fun in years."
—Fun?—was its only response. It was just as well that the spellhound's slate didn't show tones of voice.
Sinhalese was worried. “While father mumbles to his imaginary or invisible friends, that woman and her investigation are draining our finances,” she said to Task. She often talked to her zombie. He wasn't required to answer, only to stand there and listen. She sat at her dressing table while the zombie massaged her shoulders. He was getting quite good at it. “How dare he suggest I'm only worried about my inheritance!"
Her attempt at reconciliation throughout the day was forgotten; she had stayed in and made an extra effort to be nice, at one point even sitting on his lap and stroking his hair as she had when she was younger. Then just before dinner there had been the crackle of a sending.
It was the Pantile woman. Sinhalese thought she looked as if she'd spent the night in an alleyway—her hair and scorched clothes were so unkempt. “I'll be at your house in two hours,” she'd said and cut the connection.
In his haste to speak to the woman Duff dumped Sinhalese in a heap on the floor, but he was too late. The sending site was shielded from incoming transmits, which implied it was a pay-per-send.
When Jocasta visited she said proudly, “We have the Spell of Summoning and an inferior copy of the love potion.” She presented them to Duff. “Regrettably the thief didn't survive."
"No matter.” Duff smiled, caressing the spell case. “It's mine,” he whispered.
He hadn't looked so happy since the night of the robbery,
Sinhalese thought sadly and wished she could make him smile like that.
"The man's supplier is one Dezenine O'Malley,” Jocasta said crisply. Sinhalese noticed how she had changed and was now more confident, more decisive. “He's something of a confidence trickster and showman, lately gone into shopkeeping. There are questions over just how honest a shopkeeper he is, though I think it's more sharp practice than actual dishonesty."
"You think he has the other spells?” Duff asked.
"I think so...” Jocasta answered. “If not, he'll lead us to whoever does. Either way, we'll be on our way in the morning to San Clemente, a small town near the Quelforn Arcology."
"O'Malley. The name's vaguely familiar.” Duff shook his head. “No, I can't place him. Perhaps someone I met once. There are many such people."
"One thing strikes me.” Jocasta visibly hesitated, then said, “The further we go, the less it seems to me those with the spells will have been involved in the theft—more that they're innocents caught up by accident."
"Your point is?” Sinhalese could see the danger signs in Duff's pursed lips and heightening colour.
"Are you quite sure they should be punished as severely as those who actually took the spells and sold them?” Jocasta pressed on obliviously, to Sinhalese's secret delight.
"Yes. Yes! YES!” Duff pounded the table. “If they handle the spells they are as guilty as those who stole them!"
"But there are people who know nothing—"
"Then they should know!” Duff shouted. “There are no innocents, Demoiselle Pantile! These people are parasites who feed off us. That's acceptable as long as they know their place, but when they seek to profit from our misfortunes they should be shown no mercy!"
Jocasta wiped her face clean of his spittle. “Very well, Ser Duff,” she said, breathing deeply. “It seems a harsh world where ignorance leads to death."
"That's the way it has always been my dear,” Duff said, calmer now he'd won his point.
"I hope if you ever make a mistake, those you offend will be more forgiving.” Jocasta spun on her heel and marched out, head held high but frail body shaking.
Loath though she was to admit it, Sinhalese even felt a sneaking respect. Jocasta might have lost the argument, but at least she had stood up to her father.
"Let me worry about those I offend!” he shouted at her retreating back.
When she had gone Sinhalese gnawed at her finger while Duff chuckled to himself and toyed with the spells. At last, buoyed by Jocasta's example, she expressed her anxiety about the cost of the investigation—and her father's response sent her scurrying to her room and the massage from Task.
"Welcome to beyond the edge of the world,” Jocasta muttered sardonically, blinking in the morning sun. Overhead, delta wings struggled for lift in the early thermals. The nearest one was so low that Jocasta could see the pilot's legs move as he wrestled his craft aloft.
The mountain dominated the smaller hills around it. The whole area was hilly and uneven, the terrain a series of twisting switchbacks. Flat-topped, the mountain was mostly grassland with a few scattered shrubs.
The Quelforn Arcology covered the whole of the western side, an immense ziggurat so distended it almost lost its pyramidal shape. Within it and other arcologies scattered around the world were the last of the second wave of humanity, dreaming their lives away in cyberworlds from which they never needed to emerge. They had a whole universe to explore without ever leaving their support capsules.
Around the arcologies a cult had grown, extensions added like fungi on the sides of a tree. Jocasta loathed them. “They're the last refuge of the hidebound technophiles, living in terror of anything that isn't filtered and processed.” She sniffed. “They think this is the edge of the world. I suppose it is for them.” With the spellhound beside her, she left the tube station in one of the domes to stroll through a broad, sterile concourse while looking for an exit.
Eventually they found sliding doors operated by pressure on a panel, leading into a small airlock. The inside of the airlock was filthy, and Jocasta guessed no one had opened the doors in years. It was a stark contrast to the sterile efficiency of the concourse.
By the time they'd circled the other domes and reached the top, the deltas were gliding much more freely.
Jocasta was hot and thirsty and even grimier than the night before, when they had arrived on the skimmer at the harbour. She remembered ruefully that she hadn't tidied the apartment.
The air this high was appreciably thinner, and when she looked back over the way they'd come she realised they'd been so busy putting one foot in front of the other they hadn't given any thought to how far they had travelled nor how far they still had to go.
Behind them to the western side, the land was semi-desert, a harsh mixture of reds and browns and burnt orange, the looming arcology blighting the harsh beauty of the landscape.
To the east they looked out over grassy hills to savannah. Then they descended toward it at a pace that risked sprained or broken ankles. Nearby, tractors ploughed fields, and ahead lay a neat and compact little town.
The town was full of detached and semidetached houses, peppered with occasional domes. Each was surrounded by gardens where trees, shrubs, and flowers grew profusely, suggesting regular watering. The houses grew more tightly packed toward the middle of the town and at the far end were absolutely crammed together.
The town was cute. There was no other description for it, Jocasta decided. It seemed to her that much of the world now sought to ape an earlier age, looking for an echo of an earlier, more innocent time, in this case when community formed a defence against strangers. Jocasta was deeply sceptical of rustic charm and suspected she was romanticising, but the town radiated goodwill. It was also very old.
The first few people they asked for directions swiftly showed bucolic goodwill to be a myth. They pulled faces, shrugged, and all said, “No idea. Sorry,” but never sounded sorry.
So much for community spirit
, she thought. Jocasta and the spellhound wandered through the town, drifting toward its centre. The bright houses’ paint had blistered in the brilliant sunlight; up close what had seemed like bucolic charm turned out to be neglect.
Eventually, someone pointed them the right way, and after a brief diversion down a dead end, they found the shop they were looking for. It was now late afternoon, and the sunlight was gentler, though not yet starting to fade.
There were two doors, one on the corner of the building, which led into the shop, and a second beside it, which Jocasta suspected led through the house into the back of the premises.
Jocasta pushed open the corner door and entered. It was clear that it had been abandoned in spirit for some time though physically vacated only very recently. There was a patina of dust, but the footprints on the floor showed people had still been here even while it was neglected. There was a lamp in the window, which Jocasta snapped on. Its gentle radiance made the shop both cosier and more run-down than ever. She pulled out a dried bird's foot from beneath the counter and cast it into a receptacle.
The spellhound waited outside and looked the shop over, whilst watching both exits from the corner. The lamps in the window caused beams of amber, gold, turquoise, and aquamarine to reflect off the jewelled surfaces. They were very effective for baubles, it thought. There were packets of herbs and patent medicines that promised cures for every sickness of mind and body.