“Uh, he does realize that we mere directors have nothing to do with the award process, doesn’t he?” Cammek asked. “It’s up to esteemed judges like Master Creek here. Otherwise, I may never get out of these leg irons.”

Louizza frowned. “You should be out of them right now! Silly daddy, always leaving others to tidy up after him. I’ll send word for the dungeon officials to unlock you.”

Tip-lea-pon reached into her boot and withdrew a small leather pouch. “No need. I came prepared.”

“Lock-picks!” Clim-bor-pon exclaimed. “Another talent you developed while touring in the west?”

Tip-lea-pon nodded while she manipulated the thin lengths of iron in the locks. “I can escape handcuffs, leg irons, and a locked trunk while submerged in a glass tank in less than two minutes. There, Cammek, you’re free.”

Cammek looked at her equipment. “I can’t imagine a pouch like that is standard gear for Royal Bodyguards.”

“No,” she said. “I must confess I brought it in case the show flopped. I wasn’t going to leave you in chains to await your death.”

“What?” Louizza cried. “You’d desert me for him?”

Tip-lea-pon looked from the princess, still resplendent in her sequined costume, to Cammek, rumpled and blood-stained, with his nose feeling (and no doubt looking) three times its normal size. “Yes,” she said in tones that permitted no arguing, not even from royalty.

Louizza clapped her hands together. “Wonderful! How fabulously inspiring! You ought to make that the subject of your next musical!”

“Too controversial,” Cammek said. “Only members of a royal family can get away with writing about real royalty, the way my colleague Hal did.”

Prince Harrold grinned. “Dad wasn’t too pleased about my portrayal of him in The King and Me, but as I’m next-in-succession, he couldn’t do much without bringing the family line to an abrupt halt.”

“Still,” Cammek said, “this evening was certainly full of dramatic tension. I keep thinking about that falling ostrich. Naturally, an ostrich is too absurd. But if you had something more elegant, more romantic . . .”

Tip-lea-pon caught on. “Yes, something hanging up there that you wouldn’t expect to put the characters in dire peril. And then—boom!—it crashes and scares the audience out of its wits.”

“A jeweled clock?” suggested Louizza.

“A famous painting?” said Jeclyn.

“An anvil?” said Clim-bor-pon.

“A crystal chandelier?” said Tip-lea-pon.

Cammek spun around (so easy without leg irons) and caught his new lady love by her strong, capable hands. “A falling chandelier? Hmm . . .”

As one, they turned to look at the stage, all their fertile, creative imaginations working feverishly. Then Cammek shook his head. “Nah, it would never work. Might be a good effect, but what possible reason could we have for one character to drop a chandelier on another?”

Tip-lea-pon nodded. “No motivation.”

“On the other hand, I’m motivated to see the other scores you’ve written,” Cammek said. “Thanks to you, I can do that.” He shook his unchained leg for emphasis.

Tip-lea-pon put her arm around him. “Yes, indeed. I’m looking forward to . . . collaborating with you. Come on, let’s go home.”

Since she’s the author of Xena: All I Need to Know I Learned from the Warrior Princess, by Gabrielle, as Translated by Josepha Sherman, I was rather relieved surprised by the one-word title on this tale of rescue, romance, and horsing around. She is also known for Merlin’s Kin, Son of Darkness, Vulcan’s Heart (with Susan Shwartz) and forgiving puns.

Shiftless

Josepha Sherman

The sign on our door reads discreetly, “Tartin and Tartin, Solutions and Investigations,” and underneath that, “Licensed Shifters,” together with the government seal. But here and now, the sign might as well have been invisible, for all the business we were getting.

“Hey-yi, Jazi, look at this.”

I glanced up from my record-keeping in time to see Kerrik shift into the shape of an improbably large, rainbow-feathered, and very silly-looking bird.

People are always wondering what it’s like being married to a shifter, forgetting when they ask me that I’m one myself. And of course what they mean is, what’s it like, nudge, nudge, wink, wink. I’ll say only (when I’m not telling them to mind their own business) that yes, we have fun, and that’s due more to the fact that we love each other than to any . . . shall we say . . . magical maneuvers.

“Don’t moult on the carpet,” I muttered. Then, relenting as he drooped his wings sadly, “Very pretty.”

Kerrik turned back into himself with a shrug. “Come on, love, smile. Business is going to pick up, I feel it. Any day now, we’re going to have more jobs than we can—”

A knock on the door interrupted him. With a “told you so” wink, Kerrik flung open the door. “Ah, Ser Warkan. What may we do for you today?”

Warkan comes direct from Royal Security, and is one of those somber, solid, honest types of no certain age, the ones whose job it is to see that everything runs smoothly and legally. We’d worked for him before, quiet, no-publicity but nicely paying jobs. “There’s a mage,” he said with no preamble. “Flashy sort, wealthy. Name’s Garrith Kundin, or at least that’s the name on the records. He bought the old Renten place outside the city, and he’s been busy restoring the estate and rebuilding the horse breeding facilities.”

Kerrik and I glanced at each other. “Let me guess,” I said. “He’s gained too much wealth too quickly.”

Kerrik finished, “And you think that he’s into something dark or you wouldn’t be coming to us.”

Warkan frowned. “We know he is: Just haven’t been able to prove anything, that’s all.”

Of course all magicians in the kingdom must be licensed, the same as with us shifters, and no honest Practitioner complains about it. Ever since the Power Wars pretty much wiped out the Lartai Fields back in ’81, there have been strong legal bans on the dark side of magic.

“I see where this is leading,” Kerrik said, as casually as if we weren’t hurting for a job. “You want us to get in there and find you that proof.”

“Exactly.”

Sitting around our desk, khaffik mugs in hand, we got down to details, terms, risks. And with every word, I began to get more and more uneasy. Contrary to public belief, shifters can’t just shift out of injuries; if you’ve been stabbed as hound and shift back into human, the wound’s still there. And yes, we certainly can be killed, just like anyone else. This Kundin sounded like a nasty type, the sort who would think nothing of using magic to enslave or torment others. According to what Warkan was telling us, Kundin had an alarmingly high rate of employee turnovers—or downright employee vanishings. And rumor had it that he was getting money from certain sources in exchange for not harming said sources.

Ah yes, and rumor also said that shifters, as well as Kundin’s employees, had been disappearing, though that didn’t mean anything too serious, let alone that he was involved. We do tend to be a peripatetic lot, mostly because shifters tend to learn some awkward secrets, not always by chance. Still . . . there’s always this danger: Stay shifted too long in another form, and you may forget your rightful shape. The thought of a human ending up as a hawk or bear, with no remembrance of any former life . . .

Rumor, after all, is sometimes based in truth.

But before I could voice my objections, Kerrik said, “Can do.” Utterly ignoring my frantic signals, my dear husband leaned back in his chair, smiling. “Ser Warkan, you’ve got yourself your shifters.”

That’s Kerrik for you: In a word, reckless. Oh, his heart’s in the right place, even when he’s literally someone else, and I do love the man. But a little forethought added into his makeup really would be nice.

As soon ask for the wind to be a rock.

When we were alone, I exploded, “Are you out of your—we have a partnership—how could you—”

“Money, love. Remember it? That pretty, shiny stuff we’re almost out of?”

“Don’t get cute, Kerrik.” As his face instantly became a child’s wide-eyed face, I snapped, “I mean it!”

He dropped all silliness. “And I mean it. Jazi, I’m going there—and I’m going alone.”

“You can’t! Dammit, the danger—”

“Horses,” was all he said in reply, tapping me on the nose with a forefinger.

Right. Kundin was breeding horses. And I . . . I have an allergy that won’t let me go anywhere near the beasts without starting to sneeze madly.

“See, Jazi? Has to be me alone.”

I wasn’t buying that. Turning away, I pretended to be very busy shuffling papers. Kerrik’s arms closed about me from behind, but I went boneless and slipped out of his embrace.

“Hey, love,” he cajoled, “I’m not an amateur! I’ll be careful.”

And I was a garden snake.

I mean that literally. I was getting so angry at his cockiness that I needed to cool off a bit outside, sliding out the window into the garden below.

Wrong move. While I was out there, slithering through the grass and fuming, something large flapped away overhead.

Kerrik.

Come back to me, love, I thought, along with some less printable things. And then I added, Alive, and in your rightful shape, dammit.

I waited.

The day passed, and I waited some more.

Another day passed, and finally I sighed to hide my uneasiness, and went down to the market square to see if there was any news.

Oh, there was news, all right: Kundin had just bought himself a brand-new horse, a shining black stallion like none anyone had ever seen.

I bet.

He’d bought the beast from Ashaqat the Horse Trader, a stocky more-or-less honest little man. Ashaqat, when cornered by me, admitted that yes, he’d known it was no true horse he was selling, but that Kerrik had sworn him to secrecy. “Kundin didn’t argue,” he said. “Just paid my price right off. Didn’t like my rope halter, though: Threw his own onto the, uh, horse.”

Oh. No. “His own halter didn’t have iron in it, did it?”

Ashaqat blinked in confusion. “Yes. Think so.”

Damnation! Iron’s the one metal that plays havoc with shifters, blocking their powers. Kerrik was chained up in horse shape as long as that halter stayed on him—and Kundin, by that deliberate use of iron, showed that he knew perfectly well he’d just caught himself a shifter. And if he kept Kerrik trapped in that form—

Not for long, I told the sorcerer silently. Not my husband, curse you.

But how was I going to get Kerrik out of that mess? I couldn’t just shift my way onto the estate; Kundin had made it clear that he was sensitive to a shifter’s magic.

But nonmagical folk managed travel without shifting. So after a bit of thought, I put on the guise of a warrior woman, no great champion, just someone in battered leather armor. Not an unusual disguise in these days of peace for a warrior to be wandering about looking for work. I could more or less use the worn sword at my side, though I really, really didn’t want things to come to that. I wasn’t too happy about having iron at my side at all, but hey, couldn’t play the role without a sword.

And so, acting on the theory that the simplest alibi was often the best, with no other disguise than this, I set out for Kundin’s estate.

Now, just because I’m allergic to horses doesn’t mean that I can’t enjoy looking at the lovely creatures, and I stood at the sight of the first fine green pasture of them, sniffing and wheezing just a touch, watching the mares and geldings grazing their way along, and all the while hunting for one special black stallion.

Nary a one. Not necessarily alarming, since stallions aren’t generally pastured with mares. And none of the horses wore iron-studded halters, so none of them were anything but horses.

I hoped.

Kerrik, I thought.

Standing here wasn’t getting him back. I marched on as though I were nothing more than a disgruntled warrior determined to find a job, right up to the main house, a rambling thing of white walls and a red-tiled roof, and rapped on the door.

Of course I got the should-have-been-expected, “Trade and servants around back.”

Right. Good move, I told myself. Blow your cover right from the start.

But matters were about to get even more interesting. As I turned to stalk with proper warrior indignation to the servants’ entrance, I all but collided with a tall, distinguished figure, dark hair touched so charmingly with gray at the temples—Garrith Kundin himself.

Distinguished, yes. But just then, I wouldn’t have cared if he had looked like the King of the Serpent Isles, because I was too busy trying not to show my sudden burst of sheer panic. Surely he knew right off? Surely he sensed I was a shifter?

No, you idiot!

Not even the mightiest of mages could sense magic that wasn’t being used.

“My lord.” I dipped my head to him in what I hoped was convincing warrior respect. “Forgive me.”

A hand under my chin (and me trying not to flinch or, for that matter, bite) forced me up again. “For what, lady? Surely you are a lady, judging by your tone. Lost, perhaps, and hiding in warrior guise? Or are you a warrior, perchance, a noble one whose horse has thrown her?”

“My lord jests.” Oh, hell, that’s what had started this. Roughening my voice, I continued, “‘M a good worker, lord, a hard worker. And, well, you know what things are like out there for warrior-types these days.” I shrugged. “Could use a job.”

He drew his hand back as though wishing for soap and water. “I have no need.”

“Please, m’lord. I’ll do anything to get a new stake.”

Kundin was already bored with me. “Go find the head groom. He can always use someone to help out. I trust you have no objection to hard work?”

“No, m’lord.” I’ll be too busy sneezing my fool head off to mind the work. But at least I’d be nearer Kerrik. “Thank you, m’lord.”

Kundin didn’t even bother to acknowledge that with a wave.

Too easy, I thought, far too easy.

But there are times when you just don’t want to argue about it. I went to the Head Groom, a bleak-eyed fellow like the spear carrier for Depression, and told him I was the new girl (all hands in stables are “boys” or “girls,” no matter the age), then set to work raking out manure and carrying heavy pails of water and, yes, sneezing like mad. Rubbing my watering eyes, I pretended to merely be admiring the stock.

Not a stallion in the barn. Great.

So I, feigning utter ignorance and a brain the size of a pea, asked one of the under grooms, a scrawny, lank-haired young man with weaselly eyes, “Where are all the stallions?”

He, predictably, snickered. “Right here, sweetheart, right here.”

Cute. I let my hand fall to the hilt of my sword as though by chance, and said, “Must be a mistake. I see only mares and,” the slightest of pauses, “geldings. Where are the stallions?”

“Where the hell do you think?” That remark about “geldings” had gotten to him. “In the stallion barn, the other side of the farm. You keep away from there, if you understand what’s good for you.” Clichés, too. The boy was a walking wonder. “Woman goes near a stud—hell, you know.”

Uh-huh, sure.

That night, of course, I left my musty little cubicle and set out for the stallion barn. Not quite as easily as all that. Nights are dark when you don’t dare shift, and I couldn’t take advantage of those nice patches of mage light coming from the globes set on poles; I had to stay safely in shadow—stubbing my toes, tripping over rocks and thinking, Kerrik, you owe me for this, I mean, you really owe me.

Shathal the Silversmith, maybe . . . maybe even Eri the Goldsmith . . .

The dimly lit stallion barn loomed up before me. There would be guards, but I could deal with those. With the sword, if need be. It was the magical shielding that was worrying me.

But hey, I was passing as an ordinary, non-magical warrior woman: The shielding shouldn’t react to me. Shouldn’t.

Kerrik, I reminded myself, and slipped into the barn, instantly surrounded by the warm, hay-and-horse aroma, my hand firmly over my mouth to stifle sneezes. The guards, two of them, were huddled at the far end of the barn, lost in what looked like a fevered game of Roll the Sticks, as fiercely as though they were at war with each other, and I tiptoed forward.

Oh, hell. Hell and all the demons.

There were no less than six stallions in the barn. Each and every one of them was black without a single distinguishing white mark. And each and every one of them wore an iron-studded halter.

I risked the softest of whispers, trusting to keen equine hearing, “Kerrik?”

Right. Keen equine hearing, all right: All six pairs of ears twitched in my direction. Stifling a sigh and another sneeze, I set about doing this the hard way. Each stallion was, as I saw, almost absolutely the same as the next, so I gritted my teeth and, as the first horse gave me a wary sniff, I gave him one, too.

Hastily smothered sneeze: True horse.

Second horse, same reaction.

Third horse tried to bite me. Kerrik? No. Horse.

Fourth horse—

I sniffed, sniffed again. No sneeze. I damned near rubbed my nose against his: Nothing! Not even the slightest of eye-waterings. This was Kerrik!

“Kerrik!” I whispered. “Do you know me?”

Was that a nod, or merely a horsey head-toss?

“Wait, wait, let me get the halter off—”

No. The sudden blaze of broken magic would surely bring Kundin rushing in here. Warily, warily, I slid open the latch on the stall door, praying that it wouldn’t squeak, then warily, warily pulled the door open, praying that it wouldn’t groan. Kerrik worked his careful way out, placing each hoof delicately so that it wouldn’t clop, following me as closely as a dog. The guards were still engrossed in their game . . . we were going to make it . . .

No, we weren’t. As we left the barn, every mage light in the vicinity blazed into life. And there, dramatic as an actor, stood Garrith Kundin, dark cloak like a shadow about him and eyes amused.

What could I say? “You knew.”

“Oh, from the beginning. Don’t!” he added sharply to Kerrik, who was edging forward, teeth bared. “Move, and she’s dead. In fact,” the sorcerer added with a thin smile, “she’s dead anyhow.”

And with that, he was a great brown bear, and lunging. I had no time to drag off Kerrik’s halter; he was still stuck in horse form. So I drew my sword and slashed at him. Ha, yes, got him—

No. No, not with that thick ursine pelt. I’d just cut off some fur, which would probably translate only to a scrape on human hide. And he, with an equally quick slash of claws, tore the sword from my hand.

So much for that. I abandoned all pretense of being a warrior woman and shifted away from him, leaving my clothes and leather armor in a heap on the ground and racing off as a slim-legged doe. Sure enough, the bear followed, swiping at me with claws like knives.

Damnation! There were sorceries like this, allowing the non-shifters to change shape—keep their clothes in the process, too, curse it—but the spells took power, a lot of power. Where Kundin was getting so much strength . . .

Those missing employees. Yes, and the dull anger of everyone here—he was slowly draining their lives!

Ridiculous time for a revelation. The bear’s teeth clashed shut, almost on my haunch, and I put on a new burst of speed. We raced over the ground—ha, yes!

A little closer, I told him. And I—

Shifted to cat, going flat to the ground. Sure enough, the bear rushed right over me, then stopped so suddenly he went head over heels. I leaped up, shifted to wolf, lunged for his exposed throat—

And found myself face to face with a great serpent, the type that crushes its prey. He did his best to crush me, a loop of his muscular body coiling about me and squeezing, but I—

Shifted to bird, flapping frantically free. He followed as a hawk, talons snatching for me, and I—

Shifted to human, dropping with a thud, right at Kerrik’s hooves. As the hawk desperately backwatered his wings, I snatched up that discarded leather armor and swung it with all my force. I connected with the hawk so hard I heard him give a human “oof,” and knocked him sideways out of the air. As the sorcerer fell, Kerrik reared, and his jaws snapped shut on the hawk’s tail feathers. The hawk gave a very human yell and—

Suddenly was Garrith Kundin again, hanging ignominiously by the seat of his finely cut pants. A stallion’s jaws are strong, and his neck muscles are like rock: without much effort, Kerrik held the sorcerer dangling helplessly.

“Give up, Kundin?” I asked, scrambling back into my warrior’s garb. “All Kerrik has to do is shift his grip just a little bit to the front, and close his teeth with just a little bit more force, and—”

“Don’t!” he gasped. “I surrender!”

“Wise,” I said, and went hunting for rope. Iron does a fair job of binding magicians’ powers, too, so I used two of those iron-studded halters to bind Kundin. “All right, Kerrik, drop him.”

Kerrik did, snorting and trying his best to spit. Kundin lay in a furious heap.

“I won’t forget this,” he snarled.

Beyond us, his workers were gathering and, for a moment, my heart lurched. But the expression on all their faces was hardly that of love for their employer, so I merely smiled. “That’s good, Kundin. You can think about this night all the time that you’re in prison. Bend your head a little, Kerrik . . . ah, there.”

I pulled off the cursed halter. The stallion blurred, vanished, and my husband stood, stark naked, in its place, looking dazed, relieved, and damned chilly. I snatched Kundin’s cloak from him and wrapped it about Kerrik. His arms closed about me, and for a long, long while we could do nothing but cling to each other as though we’d never let go.

But Kundin was raging. “This is criminal! Criminal! You have no grounds—”

“Oh, I don’t know about that.” Letting go of Kerrik for the moment, I ticked off the sorcerer’s crimes on my fingers. “Wrongful imprisonment. Imposing of unnatural shape on a shifter. Draining of life force from employees. Yes, and I suspect that if we nosed about a bit, we’d find a few bodies, too. . . .  “

We didn’t. Warkan’s forces did. They didn’t find any more shifters being held against their wills; I don’t want to think about how many of the horses on that farm might not have been born as such.

Well now, you can’t shift the past. It’s comforting to know that Kundin’s former employees testified, as did the families of the deceased. He’s not going anywhere again. Not in human form, anyhow: The punishment for what he did is permanent shifting into . . .

He makes a very pretty frog.

Now, back to Kerrik and me. Back to our happy little home, and me raging at him. “And what if I hadn’t gotten there in time? You would have been a horse forever!”

“Oh, I would have found a way—”

“No, you would not!”

“I would.”

“Would not!”

I’ll spare you the rest of that. In fact, even I couldn’t stand it, and flounced off to bed.

But Kerrik . . . well now, my infuriating, incorrigible and utterly dear-to-me husband shifted into a coverlet.

And what happened after that, dear reader, I leave to your imagination.

What is an editor to do with a writer who reports having studied “too much Sanskrit, not enough Hindi, and just the right amount of Telegu”? I don’t know if there’s much call for any of the above where he now lives (New York, with his wife and no kids, pets, or plants), but my word, does this man know how to shop! All is forgiven.

May/December at the Mall

Brian Dana Akers

Katya crouched under a palm tree in the food court of the Mall of Alternate Americas. She had picked a two seater with an excellent field of view. Her triple cheeseburger was history; just a few fries left. It was lunchtime and the court was filling up. Someone would be asking for the other seat soon. She merely had to pick the right wildebeest.

A teenage boy with a hopeful smile wearing a leather jerkin approached. Katya glared at him and dropped her hand to her hilt. He wisely pivoted ninety degrees. A fat abbess got the same treatment. Then Katya saw a tall, thin, older man—not an old man, just suitably older than Katya—holding his little orange tray and looking for a seat. She gave him a big smile and motioned him over.

“Have a seat,” said Katya.

“Thanks.” The man sat down. He had a veggie burger, salad, and some kind of fruit drink.

“Wow,” said Katya. “Veggie burger and salad. You really live on the edge.” She crinkled her nose.

He gave a little shrug. “There are old travelers, and there are bold travelers, but there are no old, bold travelers.”

“A traveler? You’re sure you’re not an accountant?” asked Katya.

“I’m a survivor. Only the prudent survive.”

“Oh, let’s all be prudent. That sounds like lots of fun!”

He frowned and bit into his burger. Travelers from every era were filling the court: knights in self-shining armor, damsels distressed by impossibly thick sandwiches, samurai discussing hara-kiri techniques, and Aztecs preparing to sacrifice combination platters to their own personal stomach gods.

Katya slowly bit another fry. She tried not to be too obvious. “I’m sorry. Here I am teasing you and we haven’t even introduced ourselves. My name is Katya.”

“Reimann.”

“Where are you from, Reimann?” She batted her eyelashes.

“Just got back from seventeenth-century China. Picked up some incredible silks. A few paintings. Statuary. Vases.”

“Are you a merchant?” Katya could practically see the words “sugar daddy” tattooed on his forehead.

“I’m a . . . conservator,” said Reimann. His shoulders sagged. “Some time streams get the hell pillaged out of them. They’re not healthy. I’m trying to save some of it.” He stared at his burger. “I’m just one person.”

She paused to process that. “You’re very dedicated.”

“Mm,” said Reimann. He glanced at her and forked his salad.

“No, really. A lot of people wouldn’t shoulder that burden. They would just go with the flow. People like me.” She winked and laughed.

“It’s hopeless. I just feel way out of it. Too much looping through time. I’m out of phase and time-lagged.” Reimann frowned and stabbed his salad again. His eyes got that thousand-year stare.

Katya looked down and concentrated on her fries. This was a bad turn. She had dealt with guys in futures shock before. They became so distant and detached that they weren’t good for anything. She would have to snap him out of it, quick.

“You know a great time to kick ass? The late Roman Empire. Tops. They’re all a little slow from the lead poisoning.” She pulled her short Roman sword out of its scabbard and clanged it down so hard on the table that Reimann jumped in his seat. The food court went dead silent for a moment as everyone assessed the risk of a fight. Katya’s face flushed. She fixed Reimann in the eye.

“You old guys keep thinking it’s going back to the way it was. It’s not. Loosen up. Have some fun.”

Reimann focused on her and gave a dry laugh. “Girls just want to have fun.”

“Now those are words to live by!” said Katya. “Want to hear a few more? Let’s go shopping!”

Reimann laughed louder. “Okay, kiddo, whaddiya say we go and buy you some new chain mail?”

Katya’s eyes sparkled. “Kiddo? Kiddo? You’re calling me kiddo? You’re not that much older than me. At least, I think you’re not.”

Katya popped the last fry in her mouth. Both stood up, dumped their trays and stacked them on top of the trashcan. She grabbed his hand and squeezed it playfully.

“Just follow me. You’re not married, are you?”

“No, I’m young and virile and on the prowl.” Reimann laughed again. Katya laughed too. It was such a cute thing for prey to say. “And you’re a blonde with brains, boobs, baby fat, and ebullience. Just my type.”

Katya laughed. This was more like it.

“Which store?” asked Reimann.

“Definitely Cleopatra’s Closet. Definitely.” Katya waited for him to object. Either he didn’t know the store, or he had money.

They strolled through the mall, getting to know each other. The kiosks that used to sell flight insurance now sold temporal insurance. Reimann growled that it was a scam—time-line arbitrage that was helping screw everything up. When they passed a T-shirt store, Katya had to stop and read each shirt.

“Hey, this one’s for you: ‘ old age and treachery will triumph over youth and inexperience.’ ”

“I’m not treacherous. I’m sweet.” He grinned.

She smiled and held his hand. “This is great. ‘When the going gets tough, the tough go shopping.’ That’s my philosophy.”

Reimann laughed. “You and everyone else. That’s why this place is a neutral zone.”

“Neutral zone?” asked Katya.

“For R and R. For shore leave,” said Reimann. “Agora . . . bazaar . . . market . . . mall. There’s always some place like this in every time stream. Always someplace to shop.”

Katya had never heard it put quite that way before. The Muzak just made the mall seem so ordinary. “Do you understand how it all happened?” she asked. “Every explanation I’ve heard sounded like a lot of arm waving to me.”

Reimann looked thoughtful. “Not really. What’s the first cause of anything? Somehow temporal streamers weakened the tensegrity of our old unitary space-time and frayed it into all these strands.” Katya let him talk. Maybe talking would help him get it out of his system.

“Sometimes I can almost feel immense loops of time coming into the mall, like the ribbons of Earth’s magnetic field. For these few decades, Minnesota is important. For other times, other places.

“Oh, you know, speaking of other places, someone from the twenty-fourth was telling me Da Lat is a cool little town.”

“Never heard of it. Where is it?” asked Katya.

“Vietnam. Central Highlands. During the American phase of the war, all parties had a tacit agreement to spare the town. In fact, officials from both sides, from time to time and without knowing it, rented villas side by side. I want to check it out sometime. Come with me?”

“Da Lat. Right. I’m sure.” She rolled her eyes.

“Hey, here we are. Cleopatra’s Closet. Isn’t it cool?” said Katya. They admired the window displays.

“Very authentic looking,” said Reimann. “Hell, it probably is authentic.”

“The real thing? Great! Let’s go!”

 The store wasn’t exactly Egyptian—more like the boudoir of a Moorish princess. Clothes were tucked away in a fantastic collection of armoires and chests. Browsing there was like rummaging through her private affairs. The atmospherics simulated a late afternoon in Spain. It was elegantly done.

A saleswoman sized up the situation instantly. “Welcome to our store. My name is Serafina. What would the young lady be looking for today?” She lowered her voice. “When not in Rome, don’t do as the Romans do. You need new chain mail.”

“Don’t I know it!” said Katya. “Which way to the heavy-duty battle stuff? I want a complete suit.” Serafina was thrilled to oblige.

Katya squealed when she opened the giant armoire. “They have everything here! Everything!”

“I can put together some very attractively priced ensembles for you, too,” said Serafina. “We have all the major patterns—birdcage, oriental six-on-one, Persian three-on-one—and most of the minor ones as well. It’s all done in the latest synthetics. Strong and very light.” Reimann sighed and sank into an overstuffed leather armchair.

Katya darted into the dressing nook with a chain-mail brassiere. The cups were a little small, making her look quite ample. She tucked and jiggled and bounced and wiggled. She threw her hair back. Time to give Reimann a quiz.

She stepped out and asked (in all apparent innocence), “Do I look fat in this?”

Reimann fixed her in the eye and said, “Absolutely not. That one looks great on you. If anything, you’re too thin. You’re ravishing. You’re stunning.”

“Oh, you’re so sweet, Reimann.”

She kept turning around in front of the mirror, undecided.

“I think, though,” added Reimann, “that if you’re going back to, oh, the eleventh or twelfth, you’ll want something with more protection.”

Katya left the brassiere on and started hefting the swords.

“That rapier,” said Serafina, “has a matching dagger with a hidden cavity for poisons. It’s an exquisite set. I’m sure I can do something on the price. Trade-in for your Roman stuff, something.”

“I think the rapier clashes with the brassiere,” said Reimann. “They’re from completely different eras and countries.”

Serafina leaned over and whispered in Katya’s ear. “Purists. Can’t stand them. We’ll send him away in a few moments. Make sure he leaves his credit card.” She straightened up and told Reimann, “Excellent observation. I recommend we begin with the body armor and accessorize afterwards.”

Katya went nuts trying on different pieces of armor. Reimann cautioned her about helmets that were too bulky or poorly ventilated, warned her how finicky the joints could be in French armor, and generally tried to speed the decision-making process. Katya beamed when she had, at last, selected an ensemble.

“Some people say money can’t buy happiness. I say they just don’t know where to shop.”

“Jesus, you’re deep,” said Reimann.

Serafina looked thrilled. “I have some wonderful lingerie that would set off that armor quite nicely. You know, for after the battle. One mustn’t forget that you’re a woman, as well as a warrior.”

“Oh God,” moaned Reimann. He looked at his watch and sagged deeper into his chair. He looked like a broken man.

“Oh, you poor thing,” said Katya. “You don’t have to sit though this, too. Just leave me your card, and I’ll come find you afterwards.”

Reimann reached into his wallet and handed her one of his credit cards. “Really? Can I go? Really? You won’t mind?”

Katya plucked the card away. “Of course not. Why should you have to suffer?”

Reimann’s sudden reprieve seemed to give him a burst of energy. He gathered his limbs and made a beeline out of the store. Katya flourished his card and grinned.

“Let the games begin!” she cried.

After Katya was accoutered, accessorized, auxiliarized, generally armed to the teeth (and such good friends with Serafina), she left the store to look for Reimann. She strolled past Missile Gap, Missile Gap Kids, and Baby Missile Gap. She peeked into Krazy Katapults, searched Dragons for a Dollar, and scoped out Onagers R Us.

She was starting to worry when she heard girls’ voices coming from a men’s room. That ain’t right, she thought. Katya looked up and down the hall, but didn’t see anyone who looked like mall security. She checked that her armor was secure, gripped her shield and drew her rapier.

Then she kicked the door in.

There was Reimann, chained spreadeagled to a bathroom stall. His mouth was gagged and his feet dangled above the floor. Five teenage girls, smoking cigarettes and wearing heavy makeup, looked toward the door.

“Be gone, you little mall rats!” cried Katya.

She weighed into the gang of girls, splitting them into two groups—two to her right, three to her left. She spun to her right and grazed the first girl with the tip of her rapier. The girl backed to the wall and started sidestepping to the door.

“Where are you going?” screamed the second girl. She turned her head toward the first and Katya butted her with her shield. Girl number two crawled for the door.

Katya instantly wheeled to face the remaining three. She crabstepped toward Reimann, so they couldn’t harm him or hold him hostage. The ringleader tried to look tough by swinging her chain. Katya looked down.

“I think you’ll find oversized jeans a liability in combat—besides looking incredibly stupid.”

When the ringleader glanced down at her baggy jeans, Katya caught her chain with the tip of her rapier and flung it aside. The ringleader lunged for it. Katya smacked her in the ass with the flat of her blade and sent her flying. The remaining two girls broke and ran after their friends.

“And smoking is prohibited in all restrooms!” Katya yelled after them.

Katya turned to Reimann. Her face was flushed with the excitement of battle. Sweat trickled down her forehead. Her breasts heaved. She grinned with relief and ungagged him.

“Reimann, what happened?”

“Mall chicks in chains.”

 He gasped for breath. “I was lost in thought when I walked in here. Then I heard the door latch behind me and looked up and there they were. I knew I was in trouble. I said, ‘You can’t do this. This is neutral territory.’ And they said, ‘We ain’t time travelers, jerk. We’re locals.’ Then they gagged me and chained me up and debated the pros and cons of various indignities. I couldn’t believe I had stumbled into this mess. I didn’t know what I was going to do. Then you burst in the door like an avenging angel. God, you were magnificent!”

Katya loosened the chains and lowered Reimann to the floor. She wet a paper towel and wiped his face.

“I have you to thank for the armor, you know.”

“Money well spent.” He smiled.

“You know what you were saying about the time streams not being as healthy as they should be? I shouldn’t have laughed at you. You were right. This shouldn’t have happened.”

Katya looked into his eyes. They lost their thousand-year stare and gazed back into her eyes. The eons, the centuries, the hours evaporated away until only this moment existed, and Reimann was in it and no other.

“I . . . I feel young again.”

Katya couldn’t fight back a small sob. She gave him a close hug and then snapped her head back.

“You do!”

Jan’s another of our Repeat Offenders in the Chicks series, and we’re happy to have her back. She lives with husband Steve Stirling in Santa Fe, New Mexico, where the prairie dogs roam wild and free, mugging passers-by. So far all of her publications are fantasy, but she’s declared her intentions to write a romance.

Yo, Baby!

Jan Stirling

Wheezing like a broken bellows Alzira shuffled along, sandals scooping pebbles at every step. Pure white hair clung to the sweat on her face getting into her dry mouth; she coughed. Her heart pounded so fiercely it was a wonder she wasn’t bouncing down the street with every beat.

Velops, too small to keep up with her, was all but swinging from the end of her arm; but Alzira had grown too weak to carry him. He fell, scraping both pudgy knees badly.

Dark eyes filled with tears, he bit his lower lip and made no sound. Alzira’s heart swelled with pride, Velops understood so little of what was happening. Yet her Lopy held on, fought to behave like the warrior he was.

Gasping for breath, Alzira knelt and lifted him; then felt as though rising was beyond her strength. Desperately she looked down the alleyway, expecting to see their jailer, a snarl on his thick face.

But there was no one.

“Ready?” she asked Velops. He nodded.

Panting still, her rising accompanied by a symphony of creaking and popping, Alzira took Lopy’s hand and led him onward. She clenched her free hand, aching from the impact of the slop bucket against the head of their erstwhile keeper. He wasn’t dead—the blows she’d struck had been too weak—it had taken three strikes just to knock him out. And the knots binding him were nowhere near as tight as they’d have been when she was young.

A little over a week ago.

At the end of the alley Alzira stopped, staring in puzzlement at the slap-dash, gypsy look of the place before them. Wagon backs, or rickety tables with awnings of old canvas had been turned into shops. Accents strange to the ear, scents foreign and exotic abounded.

She should know this place; memory teased her, danced out of reach. Then her aging brain sparked—they were at the Itinerant’s Market, where peddlers, tinkers and entertainers of all sorts plied their trade. She knew this place, they could hide here.

Feric sat behind the small table in his tiny blue tent attempting to look mysterious. Symbols hung about outside informed the passing public that here was a soothsayer, a diviner, or more forthrightly, a fortune teller; prices adjusted accordingly. Feric’s highest price was cheap, too.

Just not cheap enough to tempt the hard headed citizens of Sarna.

The young mage stifled a sigh as yet another potential customer passed without making eye contact.

An old woman stumbled into sight, a child of perhaps two years clutching her hand. Turning to Feric the expression on her face became one of relief. She looked all around, then dragged the child into the tent.

Feric’s graceful gesture made the tent flaps swing closed, giving them privacy of a sort.

“Welcome, madame,” Feric murmured unctuously, deepening his voice for effect. “How may I serve you? Have you come to discover what lies in store for this fine . . . young . . . person?”

The child was so young Feric couldn’t tell the gender without a peek into its diapers, best not to risk annoying the client by guessing wrong. Not to mention ruining the illusion of omniscience he was trying to build.

“No!” the hag snarled in a growling purr that must have been alluring in her younger days. She flashed a look at the closed tent flaps. “You can do magic.” Her eyes narrowed. Then, “Me. I want to know what’s in store for me.”

She snapped him a look that all but grabbed his neck and smacked his head against the tent pole, demanding So you’re not gonna give me any trouble, are you boy?

He knew she’d call him boy. If she was twelve she’d call him boy. All Terion’s friends did when they got that look in their eyes.

The woman sat on one of the cushions with an audible crackling of her knees, gently guiding the child to the one beside her.

She looked around the tent the same way Terion, Feric’s soldier sweetheart, would when entering a new place; the swift, efficient sizing up of a professional warrior. Her wrists were thick, the hands muscular and calloused, like Teri’s.

“As you wish,” Feric said, his voice like expensive oil. Why doesn’t she want to know her grandchild’s future? She can’t have all that much future left to worry about. “Cards, crystal, or shall I read your palm, warrior lady?”

“What?” She straightened, big hands groping at her hip for a sword. “What makes you think I’m a warrior?” she demanded. Then thrust her hand at him. “Palm,” she snarled.

As he took her hand, the child made a sound, almost a whimper and the woman turned her head. She seemed to be listening to the sounds of the street outside.

“My . . . friends are warriors,” Feric said, “their hands all have calluses like these.” He touched the rim of thickened skin that extended from her thumb to near the end of her index finger.

The woman gave him a measuring look.

“You’re honest,” she said musingly.

He smiled his best professional smile.

“Of course. A soothsayer who lies isn’t . . . ” Honest? Very soothful? Where are you going with this, Feric? “Very wise,” he finished lamely but with relief.

He cleared his throat, straightened her hand and began.

“You’re in danger,” he said, touching her palm. He frowned. “You may escape this danger by your own actions, aided by friends.”

The hag turned her hand and clasped his with an astonishingly firm grip, dragging him forward until their noses almost touched. Her eyes bored into his as she said, “I have need of an honest man.”

Feric blinked. Oh, please, he thought, don’t let it be the kind of need I think she means.

She put the toddler’s hand in his and, smiling, said, “Thanks for your advice.” Then, rising to the sound of snapping bones, she scuttled from the tent.

Magician and child gazed at one another with mutual expressions of wide eyed horror.

“Madam!” Feric bellowed, leaping over his low table, cushions and the child. He swept the blue curtains aside to find her gone. “Ple-eea-se!” he shouted. “Come back! You’ve . . . forgotten something.”

The mage looked at the child, baby really, who was managing to look noble and mysterious. Exactly the look that Feric practiced in front of his mirror, but with more conviction.

“Granny will be back,” he assured the toddler cheerfully. Praying that granny would indeed be back. And soon.

The child sighed and laid its head on one of the cushions, apparently meaning to take a nap.

Feric bit his lip as he watched the baby settle.

Teri’s going to kill me, he thought.

“You accepted a baby in payment for telling a fortune?” Terion’s brow was deeply furrowed as she gazed at the sleeping child. “I can’t believe you did that.”

“I didn’t accept the baby, she left it,” Feric said. “She moved so fast, scuttled out like a lizard—I couldn’t believe . . .” At his partner’s arch look he stammered, “But . . . it . . . I . . . she . . . I was in shock!”

“I think you still are,” Teri said, kissing him lightly. “Well.” She stood back, arms folded across her chest. “Did she say anything that made you think she’d be back?”

“She said she needed an honest man,” Feric said miserably.

Terion cocked her head, looking at his drooping figure with sympathy. She gave him a gentle pat, he staggered slightly.

“So . . . what’re you gonna do with it?” Teri asked, gesturing towards the sleeping baby. She kept her eyes and posture noncommittal because she sure as blazes didn’t know what to do.

He glanced from Terion to the sweetly sleeping child. “I . . . guess I’ll keep it until she comes back,” he said.

Teri covered her mouth, hiding her smile. She loved his soft heart. But adopting a child wasn’t the same as picking up a stray cat or dog.

“You’ll have to take care of it,” she warned him. Well, I’d be saying that if it was a cat. “And it’ll cost you.”

“Oh, surely not,” Feric said cheerfully. “If two can live as cheaply as one, then surely three can live as cheaply as two. Especially when the third’s as small as this little person.”

With a grin, Teri threw a brawny arm around his narrow shoulders and hugged him to her.

“Your economic theory stinks, but your heart’s in the right place.” She pursed her lips, sighed and said, “All right. I’ll check through the market and surrounding neighborhoods to see if someone’s missing a baby. Y’know, if she was senile this might not be hers. She might’ve just picked it up and carried it along until she was tired of it.”

“She didn’t seem senile,” Feric said doubtfully.

Teri gave him a squeeze and shook him gently.

“She gave an infant to a total stranger. That doesn’t argue for stability, my dear.”

Feric looked thoughtful. “I didn’t get to read much,” he said, “but she was in danger.”

With a sigh and a roll of her eyes Terion let him go.

“She was!” he insisted. “Real danger, too, not like she was going to stub a toe or something. Bet she left the baby with me to keep it safe. She was preoccupied—not listening to me at all, really. Like someone was after them and she feared to be found.”

“Oh, Feric, you’re making up a whole history for her. You know fortune telling’s not your best thing.”

“I’m getting better,” he muttered.

“She’s probably some dotty old granny who is right now wondering if she’s forgotten something.” Terion leaned down and lifted the child, cradling it in her arms. “Let’s go have supper,” she said, putting a stop to his sputtering. “Then I’ll start looking around. I’ll get some of the squad to ask questions too. We’ll soon have this little one back where she, or he belongs.”

Terion walked along, thinking hard. She’d been to city guard headquarters; no missing child to match their found one had been reported.

The baby’s healthy, despite the dirt and rags, so someone’s been looking after it, she mused. Granny? Then why dump the child on the first stranger she met? Maybe she’d found it beyond her strength or means to care for it. If so Feric’s the perfect mark. Teri’s mouth quirked at that. No way would her sweetie throw the baby out with the bathwater.

None she’d questioned in the Itinerant’s Market knew of a wandering granny or missing baby.

 But that’s the nature of the place, Teri thought glumly. People leave. Who’ll notice you’re missing when you’re expected to disappear.

Shrieking! Howling—an angry, unending cry. The source; the room occupied by Feric and herself. Alarmed, Teri ran for home, leaping upstairs two at time. She flung open their door, then slammed it shut behind her.

“Feric! What happened? I could hear that baby screaming all the way down the street!”

“I don’t know!” He wrung his hands. “He just started and nothing I can do will shut him up.”

“It’s a he?” she asked.

“I don’t know!” Feric snapped.

Terion sniffed. “Well, you’re about to find out,” she said. “It needs changing.” She went to the wash basin intending to toss him a linen towel.

“You do it!” Feric said in a panic. “You’re the woman.”

There was a silence. Like that following a deafening peal of thunder. Even the baby was silent, its mouth open, staring at the young mage. Feric cringed and put his hand to his mouth, as if, too late, he’d stuff the words back in.

Slowly, Terion turned.

“The crying,” Feric said in a rush, pointing at the baby with both hands. “I wasn’t thinking, I was panicked.”

She raised one brow, glanced at the child. The baby looked positively indignant.

“If you want a pet, my boy, you have take care of it and clean up after. I have nothing to do with it.” She flung him the towel. “I will, however, get you some hot water.” She picked up the pitcher and left the room.

Feric and the baby looked at one another.

“That was close,” the magician said.

He could have sworn the baby nodded.

A few moments ago, when the market shut down, Feric had closed his curtains, resolved to find out something about their little boy. Taking the cards the baby had played with, dry now, he dealt them, then blinked at the pattern the cards formed.

“This can’t be,” Feric whispered.

Reaching out he touched a card indicating royal blood.

Suddenly Terion swept aside the tent flap, a peculiarly pleased expression on her handsome face.

“You won’t believe this!” she whispered. She turned and held the curtain aside.

Feric shot to his feet when he saw the gold coronet glittering in the man’s dark hair. His visitor’s robes were embroidered with the royal crest of Sarna. Standing, the man’s head touched the blue ceiling; so broad were his shoulders he literally filled the tent. A smile beamed out of his black beard like a crescent moon.

“I hear you’ve found my nephew,” he said.

Feric bowed. “I found a baby, Your Grace. Hopefully it will be your missing child.”

“Well, where is he?” The Duke looked around the small tent, a frown quickly replacing his smile.

“Our neighbor happened by, Your Grace, the baby was restless, so she volunteered to take care of him for a few hours. He’s at our apartment.” Feric was nervous about the Duke’s reaction to this news. Teri, he knew, would be appalled. He avoided her eyes.

Terion had all she could do to keep from shouting, “Are you crazy? You gave the Duke’s nephew into the care of a woman who gives spankings for a living!” Teri knew this was unfair, Feric couldn’t have known they were coming. And she liked Lustra, who’d been a good neighbor and friend to both of them. Besides she’s too professional to spank somebody without being paid for it. Especially someone who wouldn’t enjoy it.

They could only hope the Duke, in his joy at finding his nephew, wouldn’t notice the babysitter’s true profession.

“I’m sorry, Your Grace,” she said aloud. “We never dreamed we’d find the child’s family so quickly.”

“Of course,” he said coldly. “In any case this is no place for children. Shall we go?” he asked Terion, Feric having disappeared upon being unable to supply what was wanted.

“Yes, Your Grace.” Teri bowed, gesturing Feric to remain behind. If he does notice Lustra’s a . . . well, I don’t want my sweetie within arm’s reach.

Feric sat down with a “Woof!” The Duke’s nephew! That explains the cards.

An arm snaked around his neck dragging him backwards, a knife dug into his neck. Feric prayed that whoever it was would strangle him because the knife was as dull as air.

“Where’s my Lopy?” a voice growled in his ear.

What in the cold hells is a lopy? Feric asked himself. A shoe, a doll, a breakfast food? Sounded like food. A big bowl of lopy, he thought frantically.

“I don’t have any,” he gasped, pushing at the arm around his narrowing windpipe.

There was a pause, then a hard hand smacked his head.

“The boy, you idiot! Where’s the baby I gave you to care for?”

“Oh. Ah. The Duke . . .”

Another slap.

“I saw the Duke. Where’s the baby?”

Alzira let Feric go. He sat up, rubbing throat and head as he turned to stare at her.

“Are you mad—running away with the Duke’s nephew?” he asked.

“The king’s his only relative and Velops has no children!” she snapped.

“Well isn’t it possible the Duke knows something you don’t. I mean, perhaps the king . . .” instinct warned him not to say it. “You know.”

“Velops—has—no—children,” she said through the teeth she had left. Alzira stood staring haughtily down at him. “If the Duke gets the child first he’ll be dead in days.”

“How can you say that?” Feric asked.

“Because the babe is King Velops, and I am Queen Alzira.”

Feric stared, she couldn’t be who she said she was. The Queen was a blooming young warrior of twenty-two. And yet, he felt she was telling the truth, sensed the tickle of magic now he was this close to her.

Alzira grabbed Feric by the front of his robe and pulled him up, very slowly, arms trembling with the effort.

“You will help me,” she told him. “Where—is—Velops?” Alzira watched his eyes, sensed him wavering. “Take a chance!” she demanded.

“Follow me,” he said.

Lustra waited as long as she could, then changed into her working clothes, telling the landlady she was taking the baby with her to the cook shop where she ate so that Teri or Feric would know where to find them.

 Now, while she sipped her after dinner wine, the baby rested his rose petal cheek against one ripe, white breast, his chubby hand slowly stroking the other.

“Vel-Lops!” an old woman squawked.

The baby sat bolt upright, exactly the same expression on his face that Feric might have worn had Teri caught him in the same situation.

“Ah!” the infant shouted ecstatically and slid off Lustra’s black satin lap. “Ah!” he repeated, toddling rapidly towards the hag.

“Pffft!” Alzira gave a dismissive wave and turned her back on him.

“Ah?” he said sadly. Then began to cry, mouth opened wide, with no sound coming out. Red-faced the child danced silently, caught his breath and an ear-shattering shriek burst forth.

“Please, Lopy! Don’t be such a baby!” Alzira snapped. “And don’t try to tell me you didn’t know what you were doing.”

Feric and Lustra exchanged glances. She frowning, he shrugging sheepishly.

“Ah!” Velops said passionately and threw chubby arms around her leg.

“We’ve no time for this,” Alzira said, snatching him up. Cold shot through her as she realized he was now light enough for her to carry.

“You didn’t see me,” Feric whispered to Lustra, then led Alzira and Velops through the grease-stained curtain that mercifully hid the kitchen from the customers.

Lustra shook her head and took another sip of wine. Teri and Feric were certainly an odd couple.

Terion entered the cook shop, stopping short at the sight of a childless Lustra.

“Mmmwhere’s the baby?” she managed to ask casually. She felt the Duke looming over her like a tidal wave looking for a village to drown.

“Ohhh,” Lustra drawled, “his little old lady showed up and he fairly flew into her arms.” Never glancing at the Duke she made a little moue in response to Terion’s horrified expression. “You should be pleased,” Lustra scolded. “He’s back where he started and happy to boot. If you didn’t want me to give him up, you should have said so.”

Irritated, Terion gestured to the Duke.

“Turns out our waif belongs to the royal family. He’s Duke Allu’s nephew.”

Lustra glanced up at him through her eyelashes.

“You naughty man,” she purred. “You should be punished for losing your nephew.” She gave him an assessing look.

To Teri’s surprise the Duke bowed low, hand to his heart.

“Beautiful lady,” Allu murmured, “the blame is all mine.”

“Yesss,” Lustra hissed, eyes glittering.

The Duke moved to take the other seat at her table. A long, pale leg snaked out to claim it. The cross gaitering on Lustra’s sandals went all the way to the top of her leg and so did the Duke’s eyes, to where the delicate skin of her inner thigh plumped out against the black leather.

I can almost see his eyes leaping out of his head and running up and down her leg yelling “Yippee!”, Terion thought. She’d never seen her neighbor slip into working mode and was impressed, also astonished to see the Duke responding like this.

“You should go find your nephew,” Lustra said, flicking her fingers at him in dismissal.

Terion felt her eyebrows rise.

“Of course, Lady.” Allu bowed again, gestured for his people and Terion to leave with him.

“Not her,” Lustra said, touching Terion’s wrist. “I want her to stay.”

The Duke’s eyes flared, then lowered. He touched his heart.

“Lady,” he said. “Until we meet again.”

This time Lustra’s eyes flared.

Teri rolled hers, but was relieved to see the Duke and his people leave.

“My dear,” Lustra enthused, “I must take you and Feric to dinner as a reward for introducing me to the Duke! I’ve dreamed of something like this, but never imagined it could really happen. Oooooh!” She clasped her hands to her ample bosom. “I’m going to be sooo rich!”

Terion gestured toward the door.

“Um . . . he left.”

“Oh,” Lustra stretched luxuriously and smiled, “he’ll be back. I can smell it.” Her eyes went round. “Oh, you’d better go home. I can’t imagine where else Feric would take them.”

“Feric? Feric was with them?”

Lustra cocked her head and shrugged. “He said he wasn’t.”

Terion chuckled. “Maybe we should take you to dinner.”

Lustra decided to accompany Terion home.

“I want to find out what this is all about,” she explained. “I was too busy flirting with his grace to ask him any questions.”

“What makes you think he’d tell you anything?” Teri asked, eyeing her neighbor dubiously.

“Oh, if you handle them right the clients will tell you anything you want to know,” Lustra said smugly. She flicked her hand. “It’s all in the wrist.”

Teri rolled her eyes and said, “Pfff.”

She unlocked her door to find Feric leaning over an incredibly old woman on the bed, a tiny infant cradled in her arms. Lustra, coming in behind her, gasped at the sight and threw herself backwards until she hit the wall.

“It just happened,” Feric said, straightening. “Her Majesty must be about ninety now.”

“Her Majesty?” Terion repeated.

“This is King Velops,” he said, indicating the baby.

“That isn’t the baby we’ve been taking care of,” Terion protested. “He’s, what, nine months old?”

“It is!” Lustra hissed, eyes wide. “I put that ribbon on his ankle, and that woman . . . in the cook shop was much younger!” She put her hand to her mouth, bit her knuckle.

“Magic,” Feric explained. “They’re under an aging spell. Queen Alzira says it’s Allu’s doing. He presented them with a “very special vintage” and when they woke they were locked in a cellar, she was years older, he was just a child. They were prisoners for about a week, then they escaped, but Alzira couldn’t manage the King and seek help. As for help,” he shrugged, “she tried, but no one believed her.”

“Naturally,” Terion murmured. If Feric hadn’t vouched for the old woman’s story she wouldn’t have believed it herself. Now that she looked at the baby more closely Teri thought there was a resemblance to their own waif. She shook her head. “What do we do?”

“Oh!” Lustra suddenly said, ducking into the hallway. “Are you looking for me?” she asked of a page, who’d knocked on her door.

The boy took her in, satin—cleavage—long legs and swallowed hard.

“Are you M-m-mistress Lustra, madam?” he asked.

“I am.” Lustra held out her hand with a sultry smile.

He fairly floated to her, presenting a roll of fine vellum, sealed with the Duke’s ring.

“Thank you, madam,” the boy said as she accepted it.

“Aren’t you sweet,” Lustra gushed and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

The boy vanished. Only the sound of a moose falling downstairs told them he hadn’t used magic.

“They’re so adorable when they’re that age,” Lustra said as she returned to Teri and Feric’s room. “What a pity they grow up.”

Feric felt as though he should apologize.

“From the Duke,” Lustra said with a lilt of her well-shaped brows. She broke the seal. “Ah ha!” she said. “I’m invited to dine with His Grace, and to wait upon his pleasure this very night. Immediately.” She pressed the letter to her bosom. “You’ve no idea what this means to me! I’ll be introduced to the aristocracy. I shall achieve respectability! Of a sort,” she continued in a less rapturous tone. “I must prepare.” She spun towards the door.

“Wait!” the old woman said.

Lustra turned back at the tone of command in the cracked voice.

“You can get us in to the Duke.” Alzira looked at Terion. “We might be able to force him to give us an antidote.”

“Unlikely,” Lustra said with a pout. “Even if the spell could be reversed you’d need the mage who cast it. And I promise you, he won’t be there tonight.”

“It’s their only hope,” Feric said.

“Look at them,” Teri agreed. “They’re almost out of time. You have to help.”

“Oooh!” Lustra said, shaking her fists and stamping her feet. “This was my one big chance! Don’t you know that?”

“Woman,” Alzira croaked, “I assure you, if you help us, you’ll only gain by it.”

“Of course I’ll help. The Duke’s very attractive, but he’d make a terrible king.”

“My child is ill,” Lustra said to Duke Allu’s chamberlain. “This is his nanny, this is his wet nurse and this is my physician.” She must have said this to forty different people on their way here. “Find them an anteroom nearby where they can be comfortable.”

“Yes, Mistress,” the chamberlain said with blatant disapproval.

Can’t really blame him, Terion thought. It is a little eccentric to bring the family to an assignation.

“Stay here,” the man snapped at them, then bowed to Lustra. “If madam will follow me.”

Lustra smiled haughtily, walking behind him as though she owned both palace and chamberlain.

The adults smiled at one another. The baby began to smell. Again.

* * *

They’d heard the Duke dismiss the last of his servants half an hour before. Now they crept out of the room where they’d been waiting and tiptoed to Allu’s bedroom door. Terion pressed her ear against the panel.

Lustra was speaking, then there was silence. The Duke made . . . a very interesting noise. Teri stood straight, gave the door a disapproving glance then tried the knob. The door opened soundlessly and Terion blinked at what she saw.

The Duke was bound to a padded drying rack, bent double in a way that put his muscular bottom uppermost. Lustra stroked his back with a whip made from ribbons and strips of fur.

“Oh! Yes!” the Duke cried.

Lustra noticed them and put a finger to her lips, then placed a rather complicated gag in the Duke’s mouth.

Teri and the others came openly into the room. The Duke began to struggle in his bonds.

“Oh, no no no,” Lustra cooed. “This is for your own good, my sweet.” She kissed her fingertip and tapped his nose. Then she went over and made sure the door was locked.

“You’re going to tell us how to restore the King and Queen to their natural state,” Terion said.

Allu murfled something through his gag. Tightening her lips Teri unbuckled the thing and dropped it.

“I’ll tell you nothing,” the Duke snarled. “You’ll never get away with this!”

Teri picked up Lustra’s little whip.

“You forget,” the Duke sneered, “This sort of thing . . . entertains . . . me.”

Raising one eyebrow Teri dropped the toy and, reaching beneath her cloak, brought out what her sergeant called the unit’s “attitude adjustment device.” Ten thick, four-foot-long knotted rawhide strips attached to a wire-wound wooden handle. Teri shook it out, listening to the dry sound of the knots gainst the stone floor.

“You forget,” she said with a grim smile, “I’m . . . not an entertainer.” She raised her arm for the first stroke.

The door burst open to reveal a helmeted and chain-mailed figure, standing in a cloud of mist.

“I warned you,” said a sepulchral voice.

Alzira, cradling Velops in her arms fell to her knees and bowed her head.

Feric stood between the Queen and the figure in the doorway as Lustra crawled out from under the collapsed door.

“Who’re you?” Terion demanded.

“She’s Baza, shaman of my warrior order,” Alzira croaked. “She warned me of my brother-in-law’s scheme to overthrow us. “You were right, Lady,” she said to the shaman. “Please help us.”

The shaman took off her helmet and the Duke’s laugh cracked out.

“She’s the one who sold me the spell that’s killing you,” he told Alzira. “Don’t look there for help! Or to me either.” And he laughed again, until he began to cough.

“You’re in no position to laugh, Your Grace,” Baza said, entering the room. She took a vial from her pouch and gave it to the Queen.

Alzira poured half of it into the reluctant baby’s mouth. Velops began to weep and fuss. Then she drank the rest of it. She clutched her throat and looked askance at the shaman.

“Yes, it tastes terrible,” Baza said, “and will feel worse, but that can’t be helped.” Reaching down she removed the king’s diaper, then placed her own cloak over him.

“Why?” Alzira asked.

“Because His Grace was going to try to kill you,” Baza answered. “This way I could control the circumstances and so convince you of his sincere desire to murder you.”

As they watched Alzira transformed into a young woman and Velops was now a man. They both looked at the bent Duke.

“He’s my only brother,” Velops said sadly. “Though he’s a traitor, it would break my heart to kill him.” He shook his head. “Somewhere in his life, who knows where, he might have been turned from this path.”

“You can’t trust him!” Baza and Alzira said as one.

“Yet, I’d give him another chance if I could,” Velops said.

“Um.” All eyes turned to Terion. “He could start again,” she said, making a drinking gesture. “From the beginning.”

Baza smiled, then began to laugh. She took a vial from the pouch at her waist and rose, walking towards Allu.

“A truly splendid idea,” she said.

Ever since Chicks in Chainmail many folks have mentioned the Obvious Pun as a story tie-in. Of course I would never resort to puns (and I have a lovely bridge in Brooklyn to sell you), but I’m glad Jody did. For a woman who lists her main career activity as “spoiling cats” she’s also managed to write twenty books, the latest being Waking in Dreamland with the sequel, The School of Light, coming in July.

Don’t Break the Chain!

Jody Lynn Nye

“Messages for you, my lady,” the pink-cheeked page said, falling to one knee beside her.

Lady Doretia reached eagerly for the scrolls. Eighteen years old, with a curious mind underneath her black silk tresses, and a burning intelligence looking out of her bright blue eyes, she was a voracious reader and an avid correspondent. Luckily for her, most of her friends were of the same bent, and the muddy roads that led between their several fathers’ fiefdoms were daily filled with pages carrying pages from one of them to another. She popped the wax seal on the first. Lady Zoraida was holding a masked ball at the end of the month. Oh, good. That would give Doretia a chance to wear that strange gown that Great-Grandmama had left her in the will that was open at the sides and showed a daring hint of undergown. Lady Promese had dyed her hair with henna, but the color had come out more purple than red and, “of your courtesy, sister in arms, if you have knowledge of anything that will reduce the color to a mere glow, I would be grateful unto death.” Doretia put the letter aside with a mental note to bring it up to the family sorceror, an ancient man who lived in the tallest tower on the castle walls, and who could be depended upon to keep Promese’s mishap a secret. Lady Goana’s father was holding a tournament in the first week of spring, and would she like to take part? Doretia certainly would. She scribbled a note of thanks, and sealed it hastily.

The sixth missive she unrolled made Doretia frown. More chain mail. How annoying. She had begged her friends not to involve her in any more! She felt so guilty when she realized she would have to pass the scroll on to another unsuspecting friend, or worse, copy it and send it to several friends. She always thought about throwing chain letters into the fire, even when the instructions promised dire magical consequences. Of an enquiring turn of mind, Doretia wondered what would really happen if she did destroy the letter, and decided her father and six brothers would be irked if she managed to get killed by a mere piece of paper, when they were doing their best to train her to be a proper shield-maiden, so she could get killed in the field of battle beside her future husband. Whoever he would be. Doretia had no prospects as yet, though she dreamed of being wooed by the handsomest warrior, who would shower her with jewels. She picked up the note to put to one side when words on the page caught her eye.

“Please, fair lady, will you not bend all of your efforts unto the freedom of an Unfortunate gentleman? It behooves you to pass along this missive to assist him in gaining his liberty. Do not let the Missive fall to Earth without sending Relief. I pray you, do not Break the chain, upon your Honor. Send it Onward to the next brave lady of your Acquaintance, but add Thy name to the list, so I may know whom to Thank when I have my deliverance. All of these things are vital Unto my Release. Of your Grace fair Lady do not fail!”

Such an entreaty made this an interesting nuisance, though, Doretia thought, reading the words through again. Instead of the usual plea for her to offer a prayer in the name of the first woman on the list (they were always women) or to send a groat to a particular charity, this read rather as if it had been written by a man, a gentleman, in fact, and in extremis. She could almost hear the voice of the writer. It would be deep, resonant, and very cultured. But was the peril true? Doretia had heard of Urbano legends. Those were stories passed along from person to person that were not true but so exciting and so near to the edge of plausibility that one wanted to believe in them. They were named for the Duke of Urbano, of the southern duchy of Bongiovi, whose tall tales had been charted traveling almost all over the world. Like all of her friends Doretia had shivered with delight hearing the compelling stories, like the one about the old woman who came to the door of a cottager woman who was in desperate need of help with her child. The old woman coddled the babe all day while the mother finished her work. The mysterious visitor stayed for dinner, then left. In the morning the mother discovered the babe had been switched for a changeling.

Everyone swore he or she knew someone who had known the person on whose land the cottager actually lived, but Doretia wasn’t satisfied about the veracity of the story. Oh, it made good telling, but it was too circular, too perfect. Out of curiosity she had personally sent out an interesting legend de Urbano she had made up herself, about demons that hid within the privy, and had the satisfaction of it coming back to her no less than eight months later, during the Christmas celebration in the Hall. Everyone also knew an Urbano legend about somebody who had been cursed because he or she had failed to pass on a chain letter. But what if this “piteous gentleman” wasn’t real? Most likely he was the brother of one of her correspondents’ correspondents, prevailed upon to write out a letter at his sister’s dictation to give verisimilitude to a heartbreaking story that would get them all talking.

Still, it was a chain letter, which carried with it the possibility of a curse. But to whom could she send it? The list at the bottom of the fraying parchment contained the list of nearly every friend Doretia had. Almost with relief she saw that Lady Fomentia du Ryott, her best friend, hadn’t seen it yet. Doretia picked up her shaved quill and prepared to address a wrapper to Fomentia. She stopped and chewed at the top end of the pen. Should she? It was a temptation, to get it fairly out of the castle and into the hands of someone who would appreciate it, but she hated to promote these wretched things. The words at the top caught her eye again.

“ . . . Of your Grace fair Lady. . . .”

This wasn’t at all like the other chain letters she had received over the years.

Doretia stuffed it into the tapestry bag hanging among her bed curtains with her other correspondence, but that didn’t put it out of her mind. She couldn’t stop thinking about it. The plaintive tone of the missive stayed with her through the day’s sword practice, through siege-breaking exercise, and through her cooking lesson, causing her to burn a pastry case and collect a scolding from the castle cook. The oddest thing was that the gentleman pleaded for help, but didn’t give her any directions for finding him.

Her six brothers laughed at her for lending any credence to a nonsense letter. Doretia laughed along with them, but as soon as she was finished with her education for the day she set out to find the sender. After dinner she dispatched pages with urgent queries to all the ladies on the list who were her acquaintances. All of them came back with puzzled replies. They could be of no help. Well, best to go back to the earliest person to pass it along. The first name on the list was Princess Radamanta of Hermetica, the next kingdom west of her home realm of Oligarch. Doretia had never been there, although her elder brothers had. It was a wealthy nation, but rumored to be cruel. Perhaps there really was a gentleman in distress. There was no harm in asking the princess if she knew anything more about the letter she had sent on its way.

Doretia’s father had smiled gently upon his dreamer of a daughter, but more importantly had given his permission for her to go on quest for the gentleman in peril. She strapped on her new chainmail, with the lioness worked into the breast, and the sunburst on the back of the coif in bronze links, got her squire and a few of her friends together, and rode westward toward Hermetica.

The journey felt more of a riding party than a serious enterprise. The fall weather was very fine. At the manor house in the fiefdom that marched beside Doretia’s they picked up Lady Delia Catisson, who guided them on a color tour while they rode through the western forests. It was so nice Doretia was neaerly distracted from the object of her quest. The friends caught up on gossip, laughing over their various romances, travel, and hobbies. About two years before Zoraida had bought a Junior Enchantress’s kit. She was very keen on making progress as a wizardess, and read their futures in the runes whether they wanted to hear them or not.

“Here’s yours, Dory,” Zoraida said, holding up a handful of ivory plaques in her small palm. “You will marry a mystery man.”

“They’re all mysterious,” laughed Lady Goana FitzAnsarts, who was wed to a burly redhaired northerner.

Doretia shook her head. “I’m not ready to fall in love,” she said.

“No one’s ever ready,” Zoraida said. “It just hits you like a ton of bricks.”

“That’s not a very mystical observation,” Promese protested. Her very purple hair was carefully covered by a hood.

“I’m only at the fourth portal,” Zoraida said, mildly. “I guarantee I will become much more obscure in my line of patter sometime in the next twenty-six lessons.”

In spite of her will telling her firmly that the fortune was only a guide to what could happen in her future, Doretia’s imagination insisted on creating a mysterious gentleman whom she would save, and would be so grateful that he would share his throne with her, and shower her with gifts and praise. She snorted. Ahead lay her real future, riding into Hermetica after a fantasy.

“Border crossing,” she alerted the others.

At the border between Oligarch and Hermetica, two sets of guards faced one another over the dashed line painted on the road. Recognizing the distaff arms of several Oligarchical houses, the green-and-gold-clad guards on Doretia’s side of the line stood aside and saluted them with honor. The black and red livery of Hermetica marched forth to block their path.

“Names?” the taller guard boomed, his voice coming from all the way inside a barrel chest. Doretia was almost knocked off her horse by the force of it.

“Lady Fomentia du Ryott, Lady Promese Bro Cann, Lady Zoraida Stouffe, and I, Lady Doretia Tortia, request permission to enter the fair land of Hermetica,” Doretia replied.

“And you wish to pass into these lands in search of what?” the human hurricane asked.

“Well, I received this letter,” Doretia said, reluctantly. It sounded silly now that she said it out loud. She had to show it, then wait while the two guards sounded it out between them. Soon, they returned it to her.

“You’re welcome to look for your missing gentleman,” the guard boomed, as if he couldn’t believe it. His companion snickered into his collar. “Although I think you’re looking in the wrong place. You’d be better off down south in Bongiovi. You know,” he said, nudging his comrade hard in the ribs, “Duke Urbano’s place?”

He thought he was witty. Doretia stiffened her back and kept her chin up as she rode forth at the head of her party friends.

“I want to know how it comes that I didn’t get this letter,” Fomentia appealed to the other women behind her. “If Dory doesn’t like them, send them to me! But I don’t understand: if she doesn’t believe in them, what are we doing here?”

The castle of Hermetica loomed up out of the forest before them, great towers of dark gray stone blocks with dark red pennants fluttering from the walls and turrets.

“Nice color scheme,” Promese exclaimed. “Now, my father has paid no attention to me when I tell him that gold is no color to wave above yellow aggregate. Go for orange or green, I begged him. But, no-oo-oo,” she said, glumly. “Monochrome.”

“I am so glad that my mother understands color theory,” Caramelle said, sympathetically. “Red granite and white—so classic.”

“But it always looks as though you’re waving a flag of truce,” Goana giggled.

“This place looks as though it’s always in a state of war,” Doretia said, frowning. But she chided herself not to make something out of nothing. The castle didn’t really feel sinister, more forbidding and remote, like church at Christmas.

“I wonder if her parents are really strict,” Fomentia whispered as they rode into the well-kept cobbled courtyard.

The hilarious discussion rang off the walls. The guards in smart maroon jupons saluted the women, and sprang forth to help them dismount.

“Her Highness, Princess Radamanta, will be pleased to receive you,” the steward informed them, and escorted them with dignity up the stairs between the heavy-based towers and through the black, iron-banded doors.

“A gentleman in distress, here?” Radamanta asked, throwing back her head and letting out a tinkling laugh. Doretia noticed the merriment never got anywhere near her eyes. She disliked her on sight, but forced herself to listen politely to the princess of Hermetica. After all, their countries were not at war, and had not been for decades.

No one would ever have thrown the insult “monochrome” at Radamanta, for all that it suited her appearance. A tall, elegant girl in her early twenties dressed in ochre damask to suit her light golden-brown hair and a golden skin, she looked like she knew how to handle herself in a dining hall or a battlefield. “I doubt that there is a gentleman in distress anywhere within my father’s kingdom. We are a happy people.”

“But,” Doretia said, producing her scroll, “isn’t this your signature here on this letter? Don’t you remember sending this on?”

Radamanta reached for the letter and read it. Her eyes flashed dangerously, but she tossed it back to Doretia with a dismissive smirk. “I’ve never seen that. That is not my signature. I have so much correspondence I have a scribe who handles all unimportant documents for me,” she said, flicking a careless hand toward a meek, little, balding man who sat near the window at a writing desk. He favored the visitors with a wan smile. “Doubtless he signed it and passed it along. It’s nothing. I had the prayer to St. Expedita last month.”

“So did we,” Lady Zoraida said, with a longsuffering grin. Radamanta nodded.

“As you see, it’s but a tall tale someone thought up and decided to pin my name to, to give it an air of truth.”

Doretia felt her cheeks burn red. “I am so sorry to have troubled you, Your Highness.”

“Not at all!” Radamanta said, smiling kindly upon her with a haughty air that made Doretia’s hand itch for the pommel of her sword. “I’m happy to meet shield-sisters from our neighboring kingdom. Perhaps since you have come all this way you will stay with us this evening for dinner and entertainment. Our cooks are very good, and we are expecting a peddler who sells magic crockery! It should be most amusing.”

Fomentia’s eyes gleamed. “Oh, do let us stay, Dory. I should like to see such wares.”

“Come and meet my friends,” Radamanta said, stepping down from her throne. She led them to another grand chamber lined with tapestries, where several young women sat, doing embroidery, polishing armor, and talking. Their shrill voices rose to the beamed ceiling. “Daddy and Mummy have been up at the north border fighting the barbarian hordes for three months now, so we have the castle all to ourselves.”

“Isn’t that nice?” Zoraida said, rolling her eyes at Doretia.

Under the vaulted ceiling of the great hall Radamanta introduced them to her friends one by one. Doretia found herself thinking as she shook hands, ‘I can take her. And her. And her. Not her, though.’ She wished she had brought her brothers along to back her up, then was ashamed. A Tortia afraid of a brawl?

“This room would be wonderful for a brawl, I mean, ball,” Doretia stammered.

“It’s been used for both,” Radamanta said, placidly.

“I had heard some three months ago you were engaged to be married, Your Highness,” Doretia said, sitting down on a bench near the fire. She hoped it sounded as if she was pumping for an invitation. Radamanta took the bait and smiled in that superior way of hers.

“Indeed, yes. Well, there’s some things to be settled yet that are not to my satisfaction,” the princess said, her hazel eyes flashing. “The engagement ball will be held when my betrothed and I come to certain terms over the marriage. I’ll be sure to send you all a scroll.”

“Thank you,” Doretia gushed.

“We’d be pleased to come,” Fomentia said.

For all Doretia’s misgivings, Radamanta was a good hostess. The food was superb and was well served. Over the dinner the ladies gossiped as if they had known one another for years, talking about betrothals, parties, battles and travel.

“I was engaged last year,” said Lady Trapezia, a muscular maiden with long blonde braids, “but he had these old-fashioned ideas about my not fighting any more. It took a while, but we came to an arrangement.”

“How droll,” Radamanta said. “I always believe in maintaining my advantage, and I insist upon agreement.”

“Who is your affianced, Your Highness?” Goana asked, from her end of the long table. The Oligarchans were, Doretia noticed, not near the fireplace. Radamanta’s hospitality extended only so far.

“Prince Felxin of Catania,” Radamanta said, proudly. “Catania is just south of here, you know.”

“What’s he like?” Fomentia asked. “Is he handsome?”

“How about you, Lady Doretia?” the princess asked, skirting the question. “Are you wed?”

“No, not yet,” Doretia said, with a smile that hid her discomfort. “Half my friends here are married, and half are engaged. I am the lone holdout. Lady Zoraida was recently married. Her wedding was quite marvelous. All the décor was green, just fancy!”

Radamanta looked pitying, which made Doretia like her even less. As a welcome relief to the intrusive line of questioning, the peddler arrived. Touper showed off his goods, handling each urn and jar to its best advantage in the torchlight. The well-scrubbed peddler was most persuasive.

“See here, ladies, how well these containers close,” Touper said. “Each of these crocks will keep a mort of meal or grain fresh throughout the winter. An there be no weevils in the grain to begin with, there will be none able to gain access through the seal at any time.” Doretia and the others giggled at the rude noise the flexible wax-and-leather seal made when it clamped onto the top of the sample jar.

“The journey need not be a total loss,” Doretia told Fomentia as she paid over three coins for several crocks. “This will be a good present to help our cook forget what an awful pupil I am.”

“Isn’t this nice?” Radamanta asked, bearing down on them. With her long bronze hair falling over the shoulders of a gown the same color, their hostess gave the impression she was wearing armor even though she wasn’t. “You will find these of good value. My father’s cook swears by them.”

“It is kind of you to let us stay,” Doretia said. She toyed with a container small enough for unguents or cosmetics. “How cunning the design, intended to keep in what one wanted to keep in, and keep out what one wants to exclude. Almost like a . . . prison for freshness.”

“Indeed,” said the princess, with a haughty smile. “It is our intention to promote modern designs. We also hosted a smallclothes party here last month. It’s a shame. I don’t think the peddler will be back. He didn’t seem satisfied with our order.”

“You should invite the tapers and candlestick trader,” Fomentia said. “He was good fun.”

“He is to come next month,” Radamanta said. “I believe in encouraging modern conveniences and luxuries.”

The exhausted potter left with an emptied cart and a well-filled money pouch. As it was well past midnight, Doretia and her friends were invited to stay in the guest chambers. The Oligarchans sat together for a while in the grim stone chamber assigned to Doretia, combing one another’s hair. The only window was an arrow slit high on the wall, and no exit but the door, which had locks on both inside and out. The second door she thought led to the next room was the privy. The chamber would make a good prison, Doretia thought, and probably had.

“Keep alert,” she warned her friends, when they bid her good night.

“Oh, for what?” Fomentia asked, cheerfully. She was so young, Doretia thought. But Zoraida and the others knew what she meant. The ladies of Hermetica seemed friendly, and yet Doretia didn’t like the place at all. Perhaps it was bad magic affecting her mood. In the dark she thought she heard the cry of a soul in torment.

“And now you are sure there is no gentleman in distress lurking here, you can be on your way,” Radamanta said, bidding them farewell the next morning from the front stairs. “How nice all the same that chance brought us together.”

Doretia was now feeling stupid that she had dragged everyone along with her for a fool’s errand. “Well, I had to find out for myself,” she said, hiding her face in her horse’s mane. “Sometimes there’s magic in these things, and I didn’t want to let it drop . . . you know, maybe a curse . . . ?”

Radamanta laughed at her more than with her, she thought. “Oh, you just fell for a Legend de Urbano, didn’t you? Pity. Well, how nice of you to come. Goodbye.”

Doretia couldn’t look at her friends. They said nothing as they readied themselves to go. She busied herself strapping her purchases into her saddlebags. Their departure from Hermetica would be quiet and subdued, not at all like their noisy arrival.

In fact, it was so quiet that when Radamanta, her friends and servants had gone up the stairs and shut the great black doors, a small voice at their feet could be heard.

“Ladies? Of your courtesy, ladies, I beg a moment of your attention . . .”

Doretia froze. It was the voice from the scroll, without a doubt, just as resonant and cultured as she had imagined it. But where?

“Over there,” Fomentia said, pointing to a low grille no more than six inches high at the base of the castle wall.

Doretia stared at it in amazement. She hadn’t seen it when they’d first ridden in, but they—or Doretia had—been impressed by the height of the towers, not their foundations and, if truth be told, the lot of them had been making enough noise to drown out an invasion.

With a glance at the stairs to make certain the princess really was gone, Doretia sidled over to the wall. She could just see a shadow in the low room. A slim shadow, with a heroic profile and a strong jawline that momentarily clove the darkness. Doretia gasped as she felt her heart turn over. She heard the clank of chains as the figure raised his hands to the window. They were long, beautiful, strong hands.

“If you could see your way to assisting me, ladies?” the warm voice asked.

“It’s the gentleman from the scroll!” Fomentia shrieked with delight. “Why, he was here after all!”

“Sh!!” Doretia hissed. “Yes! And we’re going to get him free.” She pulled her chainmail coif up over the back of her head and drew her sword. “First I’m going to have a word with Radamanta for lying to my face and making me feel like a fool. Onward and upward, ladies!”

Zoraida grabbed her sword and spell book. The others followed with weapons drawn, their faces grim. Doretia just thought they might take Radamanta by surprise. But the princess had a few words prepared for them as well.

The door flew open, and Radamanta stood at the top of the stairs in full bronze mail. She pointed her sword at Doretia and her friends.

“Take them all! I don’t want any of them getting word out to Catania!”

“Hermetica!” her warrior friends shrilled.

Oh, well, after that, what was there to reply but, “Oligarch!” Doretia rushed upward into the fray.

And was immediately beaten halfway down the stairs. The clash that followed was virtually out of a textbook. Radamanta was every bit as terrifying a fighter as she was a hostess. She was several inches taller, had the longer reach, and her skills as a swordswoman were unmistakable. It looked as though Doretia’s quest would end not only in failure, but defeat in battle at the hands of a woman who not five minutes before had been her hostess.

Then, Doretia realized with a shock that Radamanta had been trained by the numbers. Every move came straight out of books, with no variation. Doretia’s attempt at a Valvlol undercut was answered by the Bellatrix thrust and riposte. Any Fermor hack attack was followed by the Rancour spin and parry. Radamanta did it all perfectly, as did her muscular friends. But that was their downfall. Doretia felt for the first time as if her six brothers were there behind her. Assuring her battles never went the way the teachers told her they would, they constantly threw every alternate situation they could at her during sword practice, until she stopped reading the manual, and started reading her opponent. Radamanta was an only child. Doretia felt sorry for her.

Backing in a circle around the cobbled yard, Doretia began to throw in variations in her attack. After a Drakeney thrust she stepped left instead of right, or double-thrust before leaping back. Her ploy flustered Radamanta. The princess’s perfect golden complexion flushed with an unpleasant red hue, rendering her orange. She began to make mistakes.

To Doretia’s left and right, her friends were catching on to the same tactic. Goana screamed the war cry that had made her house feared throughout the known kingdoms.

“Scar their faces!” she screamed, leaping with sword held high at the large blonde maiden, who recoiled, throwing a mailed arm up before her face. Fomentia’s sword licked out like a snake. The Oligarchans formed a solid line of flashing metal that drove the Hermeticans backward, up the stairs, into the castle, and on up toward the guest room. Zoraida hurried up and stood behind the door. As soon as Radamanta and her warrior women were safely inside, she threw the lock and spelled the door shut. At once the Hermetican women started pounding to be let out, and Doretia heard a voice behind the door begin a weird keening. Zoraida cocked an ear. The hasp started to slide.

“They’ve got a Junior Enchantress in there, too,” she exclaimed. “Hurry.” She started chanting. The lock slid back, just in time.

Doretia didn’t waste a moment. “Find that scribe,” she shouted.

The little man came out of his hiding place in the audience chamber without hesitation. Doretia thrust the letter at him.

“Did you send this?”

“Yes, madam,” the wretched man said, jumping at the sound of the banging from above. “The prince was so kind.”

“Prince?” Fomentia asked, opening large eyes at the scribe. “Prince Felxin of Catania. They’d be betrothed by now if it wasn’t for her greediness. It was all very unfair.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “She’s very unreasonable. I knew she wouldn’t ever let him go. So he wrote the note and I sent it. Was that wrong?”

“Not at all,” Doretia assured him. “Take us to him.”

The gaoler did not need a sword at his throat to open the cell door in the noisome prison beneath the castle tower. The sound of chains clanking began when the gaoler preceded them in with his lantern. The captive prince had risen to greet his rescuers.

Felxin was a head or more taller than Doretia, with smooth black hair, green eyes like a cat’s, broad shoulders tapering down to a slim waist, and a smile as bright as a cathedral full of candles. In his prison he had still kept himself in shape, neat and clean, no easy task when burdened with a hundredweight of iron chain fastened to his neck, wrists and ankles. He was more handsome than Doretia could ever have dreamed. She staggered backwards, feeling like she’d been hit in the stomach by the arm of the family quintain.

“A ton of bricks?” Promese asked, shaking her purple locks knowingly.

“Two tons,” Doretia breathed. The handsome prince knelt at her feet.

“My lady, thank you for your courage. Not everyone has the fortitude to face down Radamanta.”

“Oh, he’s dreamy,” Fometia squealed. Indeed he was, Doretia thought, and wrenched her mind away to the matter before her.

“Why is Radamanta holding you prisoner?” she asked.

Felxin shrugged his broad shoulders, causing the hanks of gray chain to clatter a protest. “She wanted to rule my country as well as her own, and yet would not allow the same courtesy to me. I can admire independence in a woman, but she must have all or nothing. I am prepared to stand side by side with my queen, not a step below her.” Doretia regarded him curiously. He sounded almost too good to be real. A man with whom she didn’t have to fight for equality. He made a sour face. “She not only wouldn’t break off the engagement, but locked me up until I should give in.”

“But couldn’t you fight free of her?”

Felxin looked abashed. “She’s by far the better sword, and you don’t have to know her long to find out how underhanded she can be. She tricked me. Now she holds me by stealth, by chain, and by magic.” He shook his bonds. The crowd of ladies keened in sympathy.

“We’ll free you right away,” Doretia said. She seized the chain hanging from the collar around his neck and started searching along its lengths for the locks. It had none. The bad magic she had suspected was here. She drew her sword. Cold iron would dispel an evil charm. She took aim, preparing to strike. The prince’s cry arrested her. He clasped his hands.

“No, fair lady, don’t! If you break the links the magic backlash will kill me. It’s a chain of logic, and cannot be opened by force.”

Doretia frowned but dropped the links. “We can’t break them. We can’t unlock them. What will free you? It said nothing in your letter.”

“The letter!” Felxin exclaimed. “Do you have it?”

It was still in her belt pouch. Doretia took it out.

“Complete the conditions of the letter, I beg you.” Felxin looked around at their faces. “Has anyone got a pen?”

“A pen!” said Delia. “You need a locksmith.”

“In this case, a pen is mightier, and less fatal,” Doretia said, suddenly understanding.

“Take mine,” the little scribe said, holding out a quill dripping black at the tip. Doretia hadn’t even seen him take out a bottle of ink. She made a mental note to take him with her—someone who was a quick draw like that would be of value in her menage. With a flourish she wrote her name beneath the last one on the list, Promese’s, and waited. Nothing happened.

“Nothing happened,” she said, disappointed. “What did I do wrong?”

“It’s a chain letter!” Felxin said urgently. “You must pass it along.”

“But there’s no one else . . .” Doretia began, then smiled. But there was. She thrust the document at Fomentia, who seized it happily.

“At last!”

There was a flash and a boom in the small cell, as all the chains binding Felxin burst apart and fell to the floor in a rain of individual links. Felxin flexed his wrists and stretched his shoulders.

“At last!” he exclaimed. “Thank you, thank you, good lady.”

A yelp came from above, accompanied by the sound of metal falling on stone. Zoraida came running down the stairs.

“You will enjoy this,” she said, a catlike smile on her face. “Radamanta and all her gang are now clapped in chains. It just happened.”

“The curse recoiling,” said the prince. “How perfectly apt.” He took Doretia’s hand and kissed it. “My lovely rescuer, I owe you my life. How can I thank you?”

“Um,” said Doretia, looking up into his shining green eyes. Her brain seemed to have frozen. “I, uh, liked your letter. You write so nicely. Perhaps you could write to me again someday?”

“She’s not affianced,” Fomentia called over her shoulder, teasingly. Felxin’s beautiful eyes widened with interest.

“No?” he asked. “Then, first I might write to your father, to ask if I might call upon you.”

“Any time,” Doretia told him, wondering why she felt so breathless, as if her perfect-fitting mail was suddenly too tight. Felxin swept her into his arms and kissed her warmly on the lips. She fell back, gasping in surprise, but not at all displeased.

“I am so sorry, fair lady,” the prince said, with a twinkle in his eyes. “It was a chain reaction.”

This one is for all of those women out there who have ever had to juggle career and family, to say nothing of what happens to the juggling act when the nest empties out and there’s a hole in your resume big enough to drive a dragon through.

Cross CHILDREN Walk

Esther M. Friesner

 “And how was your work day, dear?” Garth asked his wife. He meant well.

“You know how it was!” Zoli flung her spoon down into the dish of Seven Berry Surprise pudding. Sugary globs splattered everywhere. “Nothing’s the same since the water-dragon disappeared. No excitement, no adventure. I spend my days hoping someone will fall in, just so I could rescue them, but the Iron River’s so sluggish it’d be as thrilling as fishing kittens out of a washbasin. I hate my job!”

“For Gnut’s sake, Zoli, it’s not like anyone’s forcing you to be a crossing guard.”

As soon as the words escaped his lips, Garth regretted them. He clamped his hands over his mouth, but too late. He’d done the unthinkable: He’d spoken his mind to his wife. He was doomed.

Zoli rested one still-muscular arm on the dinner table and leaned towards him with that look in her eye. He knew that look. It was the same one he’d seen when they’d first met, right before she decapitated the Great Ogre of Limpwater, thereby saving Garth’s bacon.

“Well,” she said in a deceptively soft voice. “And have we, perhaps, forgotten why I became a crossing guard in the first place?”

“No, dear,” Garth mumbled. “It was the only job for you in this town.” He did not add Besides keep house. He knew better. He’d been married to Zoli for twenty years, but he still recalled how she’d dealt with the Great Ogre, and he was still very much attached to his bacon.

“Oh, so you do pay attention. And why is it that I, Zoli of the Brazen Shield, have no other job opportunities?”

“Because—because you scare people hereabouts.”

“So I do. Which means no one in this dratted little backwater will employ me for labor befitting a grown woman. I’ve seen the blacksmith and the carter and the rest all eyeing the strength of my arms and back, but I know what they’re thinking: ‘I’d love to have her toil for me, but if it doesn’t work out, where will I ever find the balls to fire her?’ That is what they say of me, isn’t it?”

“Nearly.” Garth had indeed overheard his fellow townsmen discuss Zoli’s unexploited strength in those very words, with one exception: They didn’t worry about where to find the balls to fire her so much as where they’d find their balls after they fired her. So far the most popular theoretical answer that had come up during open debate at the Crusty Boar was “Up a tree.” “Down your throat” ran a close second.

Zoli tilted her chair back and swung her feet up to rest among the dinner dishes. Old habits died hard, and most of hers had been formed in the barrack room, the war camp, and the forbidden temples of half a dozen assorted snake gods. “So I am a crossing guard, for want of any better employment, because I fell in love with you and you insisted on retiring here.”

“It’s my home town,” Garth defended himself. “Anyway, you made me retire and settle down when you got pregnant!”

“Are you saying it’s my fault I’m unhappy?” Zoli had that look in her eye again. Garth shut up fast. “It was different when the kids were small,” she continued. “But now they’re grown and gone it’s either mind the ford or go mad with boredom.” She sat up straight and began chunking her dagger into the tabletop slowly, methodically, and with a dull viciousness born of deep frustration. “Why did the dragon have to vanish? While he was here, the townsfolk respected me because I protected their brats. But now? Kids learn from their parents. Some of them lob spitballs at me, others make snide remarks about how tight my armor fits. Which it does, but they don’t have to say so.”

Garth came around the table to stand behind his wife, his hands automatically falling to the task of massaging tension from her shoulders. “You know, sweetheart, maybe the problem isn’t that you’re a crossing guard, but that you’re a school crossing guard.”

“Tell me about it,” she grumbled.

“I could have a word with Mayor Eyebright, get you a transfer to the toll bridge.”

“Like that would be so much more exciting.” She shrugged off his kneading hands impatiently and stuck a heaping spoonful of pudding in her mouth.

Garth frowned. “I’m trying to help. On the bridge, you wouldn’t have to deal with those snotty kids.”

Again Zoli slammed her spoon into the pudding, this time splattering herself and her husband, except she was too worked up to notice. “When have you ever known me to run from any battle?” she demanded. “Even one for these yokels’ respect? I may have let my membership in the Swordsisters’ Union lapse, but I’ve still got my professional standards. I will not surrender!” This said, she flopped back down into her chair and ate what little Seven Berry Surprise pudding was left in her dish.

And I will never again ask how your day was, Garth thought as he too resumed his seat and tucked into his dessert. They finished their meal in silence.

Meanwhile, at the far end of town, Mayor Eyebright was enjoying his own dinner while at the same time doing what he did best, namely ignoring his wife and seven children. His evening monologue droned on and on, not only between mouthfuls of food but straight through them.

“Oh, what a day I’ve had!” he sighed, stuffing half a slice of bread into his cheek and keeping it there while he talked. “There was a terrible dust-up at the Overford Academy, a faculty meeting that ended in a scuffle and eviction. They actually summoned the town patrol! Why a bunch of wizards can’t police themselves . . . I mean, we’re paying them more than enough to teach our children, so why can’t they hire their own security force instead of coming running to me every time there’s a body wants booting into the cold-and-cruel? Do they think the patrol works for free? Those bloodsuckers charge the council extra for hazardous duty, which includes ejecting wizards. They claim that it takes five men working as a team to subdue one wizard. Five! A likely story. And what was it all about, I ask you? Tenure. Bah! Why should a frowzy bookworm be guaranteed a job for life? I say that the more of ’em get yanked off the academic titty, the better men they’ll be.”

“Master Porfirio’s not frowzy!” little Ethelberthina objected.

A gasp of astonishment gusted from the other members of Household Eyebright. An octet of horrified stares fixed themselves on the youngest daughter of the house, a pert, plump lass of twelve summers. Ethelberthina met her family’s collective gawk with the same cool self-possession that had caused all of her teachers to write “A young woman who exhibits many potential leadership qualities. If you don’t beat them out of her, I will,” on her progress reports.

“Ethelberthina, how dare you interrupt your father!” Goodwife Eyebright exclaimed.

“Oh, poo,” said the unnatural child, crossing her arms and looking for all the world like a tax assessor. “Dad should know the real story about the fuss at school. Those old buzzards said they fired Master Porfirio for inapt morals, but the truth is he talked back to the dean.”

“If he talked back to someone in authority, he got what he deserved,” Mayor Eyebright opined, giving the girl a meaningful look. What it meant was: Don’t push your luck.

“Poo,” said Ethelberthina a second time. “Our philosophy master taught us that authority without virtue merits no obedience. Anyway, it all depends on what he talked back to the dean about, doesn’t it?”

Mayor Eyebright had long known that Ethelberthina was nothing like her two elder sisters. Mauve and Demystria were normal females, properly deferential. The closest Ethelberthina ever came to deference was knowing how to spell it correctly. Still, a father’s duty was to make all his girls into proper women. He had to try.

“You know, Ethelberthina,” he said slowly, “you are a very exceptional girl.”

Ethelberthina knew what that meant. She stood up from the table with the weariness of Here we go again upon her. “Another trip to the woodshed?”

Mayor Eyebright shook his head. “Not this time. No sense beating a dead horse. Thus, instead, I will be removing you from Overford Academy soonest.”

“What?!” For the first time in her young life, Ethelberthina was actually attentive to her father’s words.

“No need to thank me. I’m merely correcting an honest mistake for which I blame no one but your mother. And her meddling old Granny Ethelberthina. It was that woman who insisted we put you to school.” Here he gave his wife a reproving look.

Goodwife Eyebright, pregnant with Number Eight, murmured almost inaudibly into her vanished lap, “You didn’t have to do what Granny said, dear.”

Her husband scowled. “Of course I did; she was rich! I refused to risk offending her until she was safely dead and our inheritance secured.” His scowl shifted to his youngest daughter. “Sneaky old cow.”

“Daddy, I did say I’d share Great-granny’s money with you as soon as I’m old enough to get it out of the trust fund,” Ethelberthina said sweetly. “And so I will . . . if I remember. Master Porfirio once taught that a broken heart affects the memory, and I would be so heartbroken if you took me out of school!”

“There,” Mayor Eyebright said bitterly. “That’s what comes of educating females: Flagrant displays of logic at the dinner table! Well, my girl, you may be your great-granny’s sole heir, with the money held in trust until you’re sixteen, but the king’s law says that if you marry before then it becomes your husband’s property when you do. Perhaps you follow my reasoning?”

Ethelberthina’s face tensed, but she maintained a brave front. “You’d force me to wed some local lout, except first you’ll make sure he signs you a promissory note for most of my trust fund.”

Her father smiled. “You are a smart child.”

“Smart enough. The king’s law still requires a consenting bride, and I won’t.”

Mayor Eyebright looked casually up at the ceiling. “Dear,” he said, “how much more is sixteen than twelve?”

“Four,” she answered, suspicious of this arithmetical turn in the conversation.

“Four years, four years . . .” he mused, tapping his fingertips together. “Four long, exhausting, years. Four empty years just waiting to be filled with all sorts of things that can make a young woman—even a young woman of your feminine shortcomings—more than a little eager to become a bride. Anyone’s bride, as long as marriage means escape.” He leaned forward with a wolfish smile.

Ethelberthina’s lip trembled, but in a wobbly voice she still defied him: “I’ll run away!”

“I doubt it. You’re wise enough to scrape away the rind of romantic folderol from the harsh facts of existence. I needn’t tell you what sort of life you’d lead in the wide world at your tender age with neither money nor skills.”

Ethelberthina lowered her eyes and bowed her head over her plate. Her father allowed the full impact of this sudden quiet to settle in securely over his family. When he was satisfied with the depth and immobility of the subservient hush, he announced, “You will finish out the semester—only a week left, no sense in wasting tuition—but when that’s done you will return to a young woman’s proper occupations. That’s all.” With that, he resumed his dinnertime discursion as if the exchange with his daughter had never occurred. The girl herself ate her dinner a little more slowly and quietly than usual. This added weight of silence on Ethelberthina’s part was duly noted and pleased her father no end.

 As many an equally thick soul before him, Mayor Eyebright had decided that silence meant surrender. He did not know his daughter well at all.

To anyone else it was a nasty, huge, stinking, half-eaten corpse of draco aquaticus, or the common water-dragon. To Master Porfirio it was a welcome diversion from his own dark thoughts. He had discovered the body quite by accident, as he wandered aimlessly downstream along the riverbank, kicking at clumps of reeds and muttering many curses against the faculty of Overford Academy. No one was more surprised than he when he came eye-to-empty-socket with the deceased monster, despite the fact that the fumes of its dissolution were strong enough to peel the paint from passing rivercraft. Like most wizards, Master Porfirio had destroyed his sense of smell over the course of hundreds of alchemical experiments gone awry.

There was nothing wrong with his sense of sight, however. “So that’s what became of you!” he exclaimed, scrutinizing the sad remains.

There was nothing apparently extraordinary about the body. Like others of its kind, the late water-dragon of the Iron River consisted of a disproportionately large, horse-like head attached to a long, sinuous, finned body. It was not an attractive creature, barring the scales which were the shimmery green of summer leaves. Master Porfirio tugged one loose with surprising ease and scrutinized it closely.

“Not even a hint of silvering,” he told the corpse. “You were a very young monster. Whatever you died of, it wasn’t age.”

He tucked the telltale scale into his pocket and ambled along that portion of the body which did not trail off into the river. “Incredible,” he said, noting the way in which the soil had been churned up around the creature’s corpse. “You beached yourself before you died, and it looks like you were in a lot of pain. But pain from what? There’s the question.”

He paced up and down one side of the body, then leaped over the beast’s back to check the other. It no longer seemed to matter to him that he was unemployed and as badly beached as the dead dragon, with only a few coins in his purse and no letter of recommendation for a new position. A dedicated scholar, Master Porfirio was easily distracted from his own troubles when confronted with an intriguing mental puzzle such as this.

“Not a mark on you. Nothing except for these old scars the crossing guard gave you, and that was over two years ago. I guess she scared you, too. Gnut knows, she scares everybody. Loud sort of female, I think her daughter Lily studied Advanced Alchemy with old Master Caromar before he died and Dean Thrumble gave his own idiot son the post. Over me. As if that incapable clod could complete even one experiment without botching it horribly! At least I know better than to dump my mistakes in the river. I don’t care if it did get me fired, I’m glad I took a stand against him at the faculty meeting! Someone had to.”

The burden of bitterness on his soul elbowed out Master Porfirio’s scholastic interest in deducing the water-dragon’s doom. Taken up by his own words, he leaned against the creature’s flank and relieved his spirit to an audience of one, and that one dead. “I suppose that when that moron graduates to blowing up parts of the school, someone else might object to his inept antics, but I doubt it. Not with my fate such a fresh example of the price one pays for truth-telling. Bah!”

In his wrath, Master Porifirio brought his fist down hard on the water-dragon’s back. To his shock, the scales crumbled on impact and his hand sank up to the wrist in deliquescing flesh. Uttering an exclamation of disgust, he shook off most of the goo and hastened to wash the rest away in the river.

“How very odd,” he murmured as he knelt by the water, scubbing his hand. “Dragon scales are the hardest substance known, resistant to all save the keenest blades, and then only when wielded by expert hands. Perhaps they turn brittle when the beast dies? Hmm, no, if that were so, there wouldn’t be a waiting list seven leagues long of king’s guardsmen ready to pay top price for dragon-scale armor, to say nothing of the ban on selling it to—ouch!”

The disemployed mage yanked his hand out of the river and stared at it. The skin, once the pasty hue favored by pedagogues everywhere, now looked as dark as if its owner had soaked it in walnut juice. It had also developed a number of ugly boils of a size not seen this side of a troll’s rump. His other hand, however, retained its original aspect. His glance darted from one to the other with a growing expression of bafflement and dismay.

Master Porfirio was no slowcoach. On the great chalkboard of his brain an alarmingly simple equation was rapidly being posted and solved. He looked from his hands to the dead water-dragon to the water, then upriver, to where the thatched roofs of Overford Academy and its attendant town bided in unsuspecting peace.

“Oh dear,” he said. “I suppose I should go back and inform the authorities. I’m sure they’ll do the right thing.”

Ethelberthina Eyebright was on her way to school when she happened across the battered body of her former alchemy teacher in the alley behind the Crusty Boar. “Goodness,” she told the corpse. “When Dean Thrumble terminates someone, he doesn’t fool around.”

She was about to continue on her way when the corpse groaned and rolled over, sending a pair of honeymooning rats scurrying off. “Master Porfirio?” Ethelberthina knelt and gently touched his shoulder.

 “It’s me; I wish it weren’t.” The banged-up wizard pulled himself to a sitting position against the alley wall. “Is that you, Ethelberthina? Hard to see after one has been punched in both eyes more than necessary.”

“Yes, sir,” the girl replied dutifully. “What happened? I thought you’d left town.”

“I almost left existence.” Slowly and painfully he got to his feet, groaned, stretched his battered bones, then asked, “Child, do you love your father?”

Ethelberthina was taken aback by this unexpected question. “I—I suppose I do. I don’t like him very much at the moment, though. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, just the passing hope that I might prevail upon you to slip a little powdered toadstool into the old pus-bag’s supper some fine day, as a favor to me.”

“My father did this to you?” Being bright, she quickly amended her question to: “I mean, he was the one who ordered it done?”

The wizard’s face looked like a ravaged berrypatch, purple and blue and crimson with a medley of bruises, cuts, and abrasions, yet he still managed to force his pummeled features into a sarcastic expression. “Just his little way of letting me know that so long as the town of Overford continues to collect taxes from and sell supplies to Overford Academy—to say nothing of how many locals the place employs—his official policy towards all school-related complaints will be one of proactive disinvolvement.”

Ethelberthina gave him a hard look, “D’you means Hands Off?” she asked.

“Hands Off the school and all who sail in her, Hands On anyone with a grievance against them.”

“It seems like an awfully extreme reaction, even for Dad, having you toughed up just for complaining about your dismissal.”

“That was not the substance of my complaint,” Master Porfirio said primly. (A bit too primly; pursing his lips made him wince with pain and resume a less haughty expression.) “Ah well, never mind. Your father would not heed me. His punishment will be upon his own head.”

“You’re not going to hurl a vast and awesome spell of destruction against Dad, are you?” Her question was more by way of detached scientific inquiry than filial protestation. Although she did love her father—perhaps sincerely, perhaps out of inertia—she was still deeply hurt by his decision to remove her from Overford Academy.

“Who, me? Mercy, no; I’m just a member of the junior faculty—was a member of the junior faculty. We can do you some really impressive illusions, but initiating vast and awesome spells of destruction requires tenure.” He shook his head. “Your father’s punishment shall be no more than the natural result of his do-nothing attitude. A pity that so many innocent souls will likewise suffer. Were you not a mere slip of a girl-child, I would encourage you to leave town while yet you may. However, since you are still too young and female to take any effective steps towards self-preservation, I can only advise you to be a comfort to your poor mother and say your prayers diligently until inevitable eradication finds you. Good day.”

With that, Master Porfirio attempted to depart the alley. He almost made it. What stopped him was an unexpected yank at the back of his robe which half throttled him, pulled him off balance, and made him sit down hard on the garbage-slicked cobbles. No sooner did he hit the pavement than Ethelberthina stood before him wearing an innocent smile that was anything but.

“I beg your pardon, dear Master Porfirio, but would you mind one last question from an unworthy girl-child?” she asked sweetly.

The wizard glared at her. “You yanked my robe! How dare you lay hands upon me?”

“Me, sir? When I’m only fit for making prayers and pastry?” Her childish simper hardened into a disturbingly adult sneer as she added, “And predictions. And I predict that you’ll get no peace until you tell me what’s going on. I refuse to wait docilely in ignorance for some unknown doom to land on my head. I’ll see you and Dad both sewn up in a sack and pitched into the Iron River first!”

Master Porfirio stood up a second time, keeping a newly respectful eye on Ethelberthina. “Well,” he said, “if you’ve any sort of grudge against your father, tossing him into the river will afford you the sort of all-in vengeance that is at once convenient, efficient, and grisly.”

“I doubt that.” Ethelberthina crossed her arms. “Dad knows how to swim.”

“I admire your practical nature. Yet ere long, surviving immersion in the Iron River will require more than keeping one’s head above water.” He held out his transformed hand for her inspection and told her how the repulsive changes in it had come to pass. “The water itself’s bad enough—killed a whole dragon, after all—but now there’s more and more of the beast’s poisoned innards leaking into the river every instant, to say nothing of the fresh muck Junior Thrumble’s adding to it daily.”

“You mean young Master Thrumble?” Ethelberthina asked. “Is he really that evil?”

“Not at all,” said Master Porfirio. “But then, he needn’t be. The efforts of one dedicated bungler can outdo the evils of a hundred archvillains without breaking a sweat. So far he’s only killed a dragon.”

The girl shivered. “Something must be done.”

“I tried. You saw where it got me. Too bad; I rather liked this town, but what with Dean Thrumble’s purblind attitude towards his son’s blunders and your own father’s refusal to wake up and smell the dead water-dragon, it will take a better man than I to save the place.”

“Oh?” Ethelberthina grew thoughtful. “In that case, I know just the person.” And she told the wizard a name.

Master Porfirio frowned. “Is that your idea of a better man than I?” he asked. She nodded happily. “Ethelberthina, has anyone ever told you that you’re a very exceptional girl?”

“Often. Usually I can’t sit down afterwards.”

“Can’t sit . . . ?”

“Oh, never mind. Now, shall we save Overford?”