Demons of the Dancing Gods (24 page)

to bite you, but that's beside the point. Joe, you always said

you wanted a little taste of magic, and now you have one. A

rather unusual one, I admit, effective on only three nights a

month on the average, but somewhat controllable. You see,

Joe, you are now a were, but you're not a were anything. Just

a were."

"Huh?"

"To put it bluntly, for every night of the full moon you will

turn into whatever you're closest to at moonrise. It might be

a good idea to carry an almanac from now on."

Joe sat bolt upright, a funny feeling growing in the pit of

his stomach. "Let me get this straight. Whatever I'm closest

to?"

Ruddygore nodded. "It's very unusual, but there's only the

were curse, no codex attached; so when the curse is activated,

it derives its form from whatever is closest."

"So this one who bit me—she was nearest a Pekingese at

moonrise last night? And if she'd been nearest a cow, she'd

have turned into a cow?"

Ruddygore nodded again. "An exact duplicate, with everything

in place. The curse works on a modified fairy pattern,

so you won't turn into a tree or grass or anything like that; but

if it's animal or fairy and that's closest, you're going to duplicate

it from moonrise to sunrise—unless the moon's already

out in the daytime, in which case it will be sunset to sunrise.

If you remember your lunar calendar, you can usually control

what it is, anyway. It's not a good idea to be riding a horse

when it happens, for example. The change is pretty well instantaneous."

Joe whistled, not quite believing what he was hearing. "This

woman who did it—how'd she get it?"

"Oh, the fellow was a spider and she walked into the web.

He felt so guilty about it afterward he courted and married her.

That pretty well solved their problem, since most of the time

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they just turn into each other. They seem to think it's fun. At

least it's appealingly kinky. Unfortunately, her husband fell ill

yesterday and she had to go get some medication in town. She

lost track of the time, there was this fellow with a dog nearby,

and, well, you know the rest."

"Oh, great. This is all I needed. Hey—wait! Poquah says

there are herbs and stuff to keep it off, right?"

"For most types, yes. But pure weres are so rare, thanks to

their conscious control, that nobody has ever done any research

on them. I'll put a couple of good people on it right away,

though, so we might get lucky. Unfortunately, I can't wait for

the results of the research."

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"Oh, no! Wait just a minute, here! You're not sending me

out on some mission with this. I mean, it'll happen in—what?"

"Twenty-seven days, for three nights. So? It might actually

come in handy, if you can leam to control and use it. Look on

the bright side, Joe. You've just increased your survival factors

by a tremendous amount. There's no external sign on a pure

were. Even a top sorcerer would have to know exactly what

he was looking for to see it at all. But for all practical purposes,

you're invulnerable."

Joe brightened a bit. "Oh, yeah. Silver bullets, right? And

they don't have bullets here. Hmmm... Maybe this thing has

possibilities, after all. And this invulnerability works all the

time, even when I'm not, ah, you know?"

"All the time. But don't feel totally cocky about it. A truly

powerful sorcerer will spot it after a while, or deduce it the

first time your invulnerability shows. You're still subject to

certain spells from the fairy folk and other sources, too. Silver

is the key, not just bullets. Silver of any kind can wound you;

if it hits a vital spot, it can kill you. A silver sword or dagger—

or the silver hilt of a weapon or walking stick used as a club—

will be more dangerous than any blade you've known."

Joe thought about it a moment. "Well, the club might be a

problem, but I don't remember seeing any silver swords around

here. Silver would make an expensive and pretty lousy blade,

except for show stuff."

"True. But total security lies in an enemy's not knowing

until it is too late." With that the sorcerer stretched out his

hand; there was an electricallike flash, and he held in his hand

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130

a broadsword of what appeared to be solid silver. "Otherwise,

a transmutator can do this." He lowered the sword, twirled it,

and it became a wooden cane.

Joe heard someone coming down the hall. "Uh—listen.

Okay, I'll go along with you, at least for now, but promise me

you won't tell anyone else, huh? I want to break it to the others

myself."

Ruddygore nodded. "That's all right with me, but—be cautious!

Telling the wrong person might prove fatal; but if you

tell no one, then you're going to have a tough time explaining

it when it happens."

"I'll cross that bridge when I come to it. I—"

There was a knock on the door. Poquah sprang to open it,

and Tiana walked in. "Hello," she greeted Joe. "How is it?"

"All well," he told her.

She frowned. "All well so soon? And the curse?"

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"Some other time," he responded nervously. "Let's relax

for now. It's nothing 1 can't handle."

"As you say." She sounded uncertain and worried, though,

and it didn't escape Joe that her mother had died from a curse,

one that she feared she carried but did not know for certain.

Marge joined them within another few minutes; last to arrive

was Macore. Durin set an excellent table, and all ate, enjoying

the truly magical touch of the elfin chef, except, of course,

Marge. After Ruddygore's promptings, however, she found

she could still enjoy good wines and the taste of fancy desserts,

even though she didn't need them and couldn't fully metabolize

them. Still, it made her feel a little more human and a part of

the social group that a fine dinner formed. She was also inwardly

very grateful to Poquah for calling her in for consultation

on the wound. It was, she knew, because they were both of

faerie and he had known instantly that she could see the fine

magical pattern that most could not because of that fact, but

that was a very important thing to her.

Although fairy races usually didn't get along very well and

were rife with jokes and rivalries, when it came down to practicality,

it was we faerie in Poquah's mind. It meant a lot to

her, although she was sure the Imir hadn't even realized he

was doing her such a service. She was Kauri, yes, but she was

more. She was a member of an entire family of living, thinking

creatures. She was faerie.

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There was conversation at dinner, of course, but it was of

a social nature and generally concerned with the convention.

Joe told the sorcerer that he'd seen two of his matches against

adepts. "Nothing like that battle over the Valley of Decision,

though."

"Oh, no, this was a lot of sound and fury and clever parries

and thrusts, but little more," Ruddygore responded. "None of

the challengers were very taxing, and all of them have a long

way to go to get any real command, if they ever do. In a sense,

it's like giving two people a math problem to solve, only one

of them has studied and practiced calculus for years, while the

other is just learning algebra. That's all magic really is—topological

mathematics combined with concentration and willpower.

First you must have the talent to be able to understand

and construct the complex patterns which we call spells, then

the concentration to hold them at all cost against all distractions,

and finally the force of will to impose those patterns on a person

or object precisely as you wish. An adept can impose such

things, usually from the Rules and other references, by memorizing

a lot of standard stuff, but that's about it. A true magician

can form what he or she needs without references, and

tailor it to the specific requirements of the situation. The best

can hold and create multiple original patterns. The more you

can do at the same time, the stronger you are. One like Kaladon,

for example, might be able to create and maintain as many as

ten separate temporary and permanent spells at once."

"Kaladon! He is a pig and a usurper!" Tiana spat.

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"Sorry to spoil the food with a bad name, but when you

consider that he's the weakest on the Council, you see what a

poor adept is up against. Kaladon is good at it, but he's not

one of the best."

"My father could maintain fifteen or more," the large woman

bragged.

"He could indeed, but not on one particular night."

"The food was drugged!"

Ruddygore sighed and signaled for the table to be cleared,

which it rapidly was. "I see it's time to get down to business."

He lighted a cigar as Durin served coffee for those who wished

it. "First of all, Tiana, your father was not drugged that night."

"What! That is a lie!"

"You said it yourself. He was capable of fifteen or more

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133

spells. No pro in this business goes into action before doing a

static purification spell on himself, not to mention a series of

mental tests, even against the weakest of opponents, to ensure

he is in his best physical and mental shape. No, Tiana, I'm

afraid your father was, in fact, in his usual fine form."

"But it must have been the food! Otherwise that pig would

have been ground to dust!"

Ruddygore drew on his cigar, sat back, and relaxed a bit.

"Well, that was the story the Council more or less allowed to

spread around Zhimbombe. It was a face-saving gesture, really;

although it was rather insulting to Kaladon, even he went along

with it. You see, after the death of any Council member, there

is, shall we say, a psychic post-mortem by the remaining members

which includes an examination of the winner and his testimony,

those of the referees, and others. It is a matter of

concern to all of us when one of us goes, as you might imagine,

and we are most interested in seeing that it doesn't happen to

us." He paused again, then added, "The official judgment was

that your father threw the match."

Tiana stood up and glared angrily at him. "I will not remain

and listen to this, not even from you! My father would never

commit suicide!"

"Oh, sit down, Tiana. That's why you'll never be more than

a weak adept. No self-control, no discipline. Even if you know

all the magic I know and can handle fifty spells at a time,

you'll challenge Kaladon, he'll make some off-the-wall remark

about your father, you'll get so mad your concentration will

crumble, and he'll have you."

She hesitated a moment, then sat back down, but she con-

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tinued to glare at him.

"Kaladon was, I'm afraid, your father's weak spot. He considered

him his son and heir to his Council seat. You knew

that. You remember what it was like—before."

She nodded, but did not seem to mellow.

"He had no reason to suspect treachery. Kaladon was quite

clever—he fought the match in such a way that it looked very

natural and very accidental that it escalated to that point. He

must have spent years planning those exact moves. What happened

was that he pushed things just over the edge, so that

there was so much psychic energy in that hall that it could not

be easily canceled out. Likewise, Kaladon had spent some

effort making you look very untalented in the arts in your

father's eyes. So there he was, faced with the choice of killing

Kaladon, letting Kaladon kill him, or hoping the referees would

realize the problem and step in. All the evidence suggested that

the referees did move to cancel; but for some reason, the attempt

was not effective. Either the spells were too personalized, or

not all the referees were in agreement; but the hesitant ones

weren't willing to admit their error later. Regardless, your

father weighed all the factors and decided to will his seat to

Kaladon."

She shook her head unbelievingly. "I know how he regarded

Kaladon, but I can not believe he could do this. He would not

do this to me."

"If it's any help, Kaladon did cheat. I know how he did it,

but I could never prove it."

"What?"

"It would have taken all three referees in tandem to stop the

match. All three claimed to have tried and failed. One of them,

however, was Esmerada, who is now a close ally of Kaladon

and the Baron. The fix was in, and that sort of energy couldn't

have been held for long. Your father was backed into a comer

and forced into a split-second decision. In a sense, Kaladon's