Magician Interrupted (2 page)

Gareth had nice clothes because O’rah would
bat her eyelids at their customers.
What a cow.
He snuck
back down the passage, breathing heavily. A noise to the left made
him jump but it was just a rat scurrying across the floor. “Come
on, Paris. If you’re going to live in another world you have to get
street smart and grow some balls.” He crept across to Gareth’s
passage and slipped down forgetting he could have just cast a
warning spell. For that matter he could cast a spell to grow balls
but having actual balls and being brave weren’t always mutually
inclusive. The saying came from days when sexism was rampant, women
once had odd notions about men and their so called machoism or lack
thereof. The feminine male was out, the macho man was in. He
reached the room. It was neat as usual, filled with more stuff than
what he had. He seemed to remember witnessing a rare argument
between O’rah and Gareth about moving crap into her room. He had
tried not to be too gleeful at Gareth’s hangdog look.

After plucking out two older black pants,
that O’rah hadn’t liked, he also helped himself to two other tops
and a decent pair of shoes. He remembered the warning spell but
decided growing balls would be better and that if either O’rah or
Gareth caught him he’d just tell them to get lost. Pausing, he
opted to dress then and there forgetting his previous fear. Feeling
rich he shoved his old clothes into the chest and headed out. Paris
went to the bathroom and stared at himself. His black eyes and
thin, black eyebrows narrowed in amusement at the next stage in his
plan. His face was long and angular. His nose strong, his lips
thin. Take each feature separately and they were nice, arrange them
on his face and they looked average. He sighed. “Next step. Harro,
the only apprentice to be hanging around still.”

It was Harro who had called him nerdy. It was
entertaining to think of Harro living in the stupid Trinity pit
with three of everything, leaving a mess and the two tidy saviors
having to nag the young, thoughtless Spell Caster. Maybe he would
test Harro tonight, and get out of the hellhole straight after
that. He put in a telepathic call for Harro, who took his sweet
time in answering.

“Yeah?”

“Harro, get down here. I'm going to test you
tonight.”

There was a moment of silence.

“Harro?” Paris suspected Harro was playing a
game. He had to point out the obvious.
“
The
final
test for you to take your place as
Spell Caster.”

“Right, be there in a moment.”

Paris mentally signed off and began the
preparations. Harro’s cavalier attitude usually annoyed him,
tonight it fit his needs. It took little time to test him and as he
headed out Harro said, “Get some electronic and dicronic
stuff.”

“Why?”

Harro shoved some chips in his mouth.
“Because you can’t use magic outside. Find stuff that is similar to
what you can do.”

“Thanks. Ah, any suggestions as to where to
go to pick up chicks? As in career choice.” Paris expected him to
scoff but Harro nodded.

“Space marines.”

Smart, and Martin had said the same thing.
“Thanks, mate. I owe you one.”

“Na. This is payment enough.” Harro waved him
away and winked at him. “Have some fun, Paris. And thanks.”

Paris actually felt warm inside. With that
fuzzy feeling he grabbed his bag, ran up the steps and into his new
life.

When O'rah and Gareth came home they found
Harro's stuff everywhere and the youth lounging in front of the
vision set playing Buzzard. He pointed towards a three sided table,
with three legs, without taking his eyes off the vision. There was
a note.

Paris was on his way to a little village on the
coast of Ipsa where a little brunette would be happy to see him
again. Even if only to fix her leaky, wood cabin. Some called her a
witch but she was just a cranky woman who disliked people. The
black cat didn’t help that image.

Paris had forgotten a few important things,
the first being he hadn’t seen the brunette in over twenty years,
the second was the birthday of the daughter of an Assembly member
who wanted a special spell created for her that Harro was currently
laughing over, and the third that he'd forgotten his cat who was
determined to find the scat.

Whistling a merry tune, thinking of joining
the marines, he started to think of his life. Handsome in uniform,
girls running to him as he entered bars, saving people … from what?
What did the space marines do? Fight space aliens? He’d better do
some research but there was a recruiting office in Ipsa so he
hurried along the main path that eventually turned into the main
road. Several similar dirt roads branched off to the left or right.
He wiped the sweat from his brow and sipped some water from his
leather canteen he’d stolen from Gareth’s shelf on the way out of
the Trinity pit. Sweat trickled down his back even with the forest
around him offering some shade from the heat of the day.

Around lunchtime hunger gave him pause. He
hadn’t taken anything of real value but he was a magician. And yet,
he wanted to change his career. He couldn’t just whip up a spell
while he was with the marines. More likely they’d boot him out or
make him their magician “female dog”. His feet were hurting now too
because Gareth had tiny feet which probably meant he had a small
willy, not a big one. Smirking helped him walk for a few more
minutes.

Paris heard a commotion, along with some
swearing, to his right. It was along a rugged road stretching
deeper in to the forest. He squinted a little finally spotting a
strange creature kicking his wagon. Paris looked towards the
village, heard his tummy rumble, and headed for the wagon. There
might be food there. It was just his luck a farmer had lost a wheel
on his wagon.

Paris arrived and saw the man trying to pick
up a large wheel. The flesh on his arms wobbled even though there
was little fat. The skin was just mottled and saggy.

“Well don’t just stand tha ya dronga. Gimme a
hand!”

Dronga? What was that?

Paris nodded though not knowing if he should
be insulted or happy to be called a dronga and helped lift the
wooden wheel. His stomach rumbled so loudly the farmer burst out
laughing. “Help me and I’ll give ya some food.”

“Thanks!”

The farmer kept throwing him odd looks as
they worked. He had a long, grey beard, that looked unkempt. Paris
was sure there were bits of things in the beard but chose not to
stare too hard. Whenever the farmer’s head was down Paris noted the
bald patch and red skin where the sun had burned it. Also, whenever
the farmer bent over his dungarees gaped at the front and Paris was
treated to the fact he wore the pair of old, blue overalls with
nothing else.

They moved off the side of the road where the
farmer dug around in his bags and brought out some wrapped parcels
of what Paris hoped was food. His stomach rumbled. He felt useless
as the farmer hobbled around in his gnarly, bare feet clearing a
small area with a branch of leaves.

“Gatha some wood, lad?”

He nodded and headed into the brush. Wood.
Hmmm. The best idea would be to gather a variety of sizes so he
picked everything from sticks to some rather large logs. As he
staggered back and burst out from some bushes he startled the old
farmer.

“Is this too much?” He dropped the pile to
the ground.

The farmer chuckled and lifted a small body
that dangled lifelessly. “We’ll have us a grand feast!” The farmer
threw the rabbit over and it slapped him in the chest before
falling at Paris’s feet. “Pick it up for crap’s sake, lad. Brush
off the dirt.”

He bent down thinking he was supposed to have
caught it. What next? Did the farmer want him to throw it back? Was
this some kind of technique to prepare the rabbit? As the farmer
was bending down again, Paris averted his eyes. The farmer lifted a
stick from the selection and stepped away, studying it. The rabbit
still felt warm and the skin moved around as he brushed the dirt
off the grey fur. When the rabbit twitched he yelled, chucked it
back at the farmer who yelped and raised his arm. The rabbit was
pierced but almost knocked the old fella off his feet.

“Hahahaha hahahaha hahahaha, rabbit on a
stick! Hahahaha hahahaah. But we hafta skin it and gets its guts
out first. Not much blood in it but what’s wrong with a bit of
color!”

Paris tried to process that information,
after thinking the situation wasn’t
that
funny, but his eyes
were glued to a strange new sight. How he wished it was the
evening. Thankfully the farmer lowered his arms hiding armpits that
were sporting hideous bushels of hair. As Paris watched the farmer
skin and gut the holey rabbit he was almost put off food
altogether. But as it sizzled on the fire he decided he might be
able to eat some after all. They sat quietly very close to the fire
and Paris noted that the farmer had placed stones in a circle. Some
kind of ritual maybe? Homage to some fire god?

As if reading his thoughts, the farmer tapped
on a rock with a stick he’d been holding. “Contains tha fire.”

“Ah.” Paris touched his burning face
realizing that the farmer hadn’t needed to read his thoughts but
was adept at reading silly townies.

The farmer cocked his head. “Does I know
ya?”

“No, don’t think so. I’m from the coastal
villages.”

“Ah,” said the farmer and scratched his
beard. Something fell out, landed on the ground and crawled away.
“Off on an adventa then? I eard the coastal towns are a bit
provincial.”

Paris couldn’t help staring at the rather
provincial farmer but felt too polite to point this out. He nodded
wondering if he’d blown his cover. He hadn’t actually been to the
coastal towns because he hadn’t been allowed to leave the village.
Considered a prize possession he was only allowed to travel with
Gareth and O’rah when on a job, usually surrounded by guards. Not
to protect them, but to make sure they returned.

Enforced loyalty is what Paris called it.

The farmer was digging around in his old
tattered bag.

Paris realized he’d been speaking too posh
to. “Yeah, me ma and da had six kids and I was kicked out.” Paris
thought that sounded like a good story and the farmer didn’t seem
to notice the change in speech.

The farmer’s face suddenly turned
sympathetic. “Ya poor kid. I heard dem stories ya know. But who
woulds believe em? And ere ya are.” The farmer broke off some bread
and leaned over the camp fire. “Ya looks a bit scrawny.”

Paris tried to appear grateful rather than
annoyed.

They were made to stay in the village but
never starved. He had an efficient metabolism, that’s all. He
accepted the bread thinking the farmer actually looked like he
needed it more than him.

“Ize surprised that ya da kicked ya out. Ya
did a grand job on the wheel.”

They both looked at the wagon with the wheel
reattached. Paris had cast a little spell never being very good
with his hands. He wasn’t even sure how to put a wheel back on so
made a sticking and turning spell on it hoping it would hold until
he was gone.

“Ya should see me younger brothers.”

The farmer started laughing and Paris noted
the blackened and missing teeth. Poor old codger. “Ara ya headin
home?” he asked.

“Been to Ispa and me misses is awaiting. Nag,
nag, nag.”

Paris understood that language.

“I waz glad dem wheel fells off.”

Paris looked behind. “I coulds make it fall
off agin?”

The farmer slapped his leg and laughed. “Ya a
funny lad.” With a poke towards the fire the farmer nodded and
smiled. “Times to eat.”

By this time Paris’s stomach rumbled rather
loudly and the farmer glanced down at his stomach.

“Never been hungry afor?”

“Why da ya sa dat?” Paris was struggling to
understand his own words and thought he was overdoing the farmer’s
version of speech.

The farmer frowned at him. “What?”

“Why do ya say that?”

“Ah, cause while ya scrawny ya wouldn’t be
making such a racket.”

Again, his face flamed.

But the farmer didn’t bother to wait for an
answer and tore the rabbit roughly. A bit of rabbit and juice
splattered Paris on the face. He lifted his hand to wipe himself
and found a lump of cooked flesh slapped on it instead. The farmer
was so busy ripping into the muscle with his teeth, what teeth he
had left, he didn’t notice Paris dumping the hot meat onto a rock
and trying to circumspectly wipe his eye and nose. As the farmer
ate, opened mouthed, and with rabbit juice dripping down his beard
Paris decided it was time to leave.

But as Paris shuffled the farmer stopped
eating. When he turned back there was a piece of flesh on his beard
and an un-chewed mass in his open mouth. “No good?”

Paris quickly turned away, picked up his meat
and bit into his rabbit hoping the gurgling from his stomach would
turn back to rumbling. The rabbit was rather tasty after he spat
out a little rock. “Sorry, just a bit unsettled.”

The farmer started gnawing again and Paris
tried to ignore the wet gnashing noises and lip smacking. They
finished off with weak wine and bread. By the time they packed up
the day was still warm and bright. Time to move on.

After waving the farmer off and watching him
trundle down the road Paris wiped his hands on his pants and walked
in the opposite direction hoping the farmer didn’t call him back.
To make sure he was safe he didn’t cast a spell instead he turned
and ran as fast as he could with chest heaving only ten seconds
later. He knelt down trying to catch his breath, clasping his chest
and laughing. With wobbly legs he continued to Ispa.