Nightlord: Orb (19 page)

Monday, October 18
th

Susan dropped by today while I was working on the fireplace.  She brought cookies, which was unfair.  I had to let her in.  She made chitchat while I ate a cookie and put the rest away.  Oatmeal raisin wasn’t my favorite even when I was human.

“Is that a real sword?” she asked, sitting down on one of the new chairs.  I had Firebrand up over the mantlepiece while I drilled holes.  My plan was to nest some metal crescents and have them telescope down to block off the fireplace.  Then, if Firebrand had to exit via the chimney, it might not immolate the living room.

“Yes,” I admitted.  “It’s an antique.”

“It’s very pretty.  I haven’t seen metal like that before.”

“The wavy patterns and colors are called Damascus striations,” I told her.  “The city of Damascus once produced the finest swords in the world.  The city was famous for its steel, among other things.”

“I should have paid more attention in history class,” she lamented.  “I guess it was a long time ago.”

“Yes, it was.”

“I hear you had some visitors,” she said, changing the subject.

“Oh?” I replied, trying not to tense up.

“Yes.  Myrna says Patty, Eddie, Luke, and Gary keep sneaking into your barn.”

“Oh.  Yes, I’ve noticed.”  I did not add I was relieved.  The last thing I want is to explain to the neighbors about the magi families and the magical setup in the basement.  Well, maybe not the
last
thing.  Some of the things, anyway.  “I don’t mind, as long as they don’t hurt anything.”

“I also hear they helped fix your screen door.”

I hear Myrna is a busybody motormouth,
I thought, but didn’t say.  My only wonder was how it got back to her.  Not that gossip really needs a traceroute, but it would be interesting to know.  I suspect the speed of gossip can be used as evidence of human telepathy.

“That’s true.”

“I’m sure Patty’s parents don’t mind her being over here with you, as long as the boys are with her,” Susan stated, pointedly.

“She’s their kid.  They’ll tell her if she’s not allowed over.”

“Ah, but will she listen?”

“She seems like a good kid.  I’d think so.”

“I agree.”

“Good.  I’m glad that’s settled.”  I got up and headed for the front door.  Susan took the hint and followed.

“Larry says I should have you over for dinner, sometime,” she added, at the door.  “What would be a good evening?”

“When do you usually have dinner?”

“About six.”

That was too early for me at the time of year.  I’d still be at the table when the sun went down.  Any later would change the whole course of dinner.

“I have some timing issues,” I admitted.  “Stuff I have to do in the evenings, mostly.  But I could make an early dinner, maybe on a weekend.  Or maybe lunch?”

“I’m sure Larry would love to grill something,” she agreed, smiling brightly.  “I’ll let him know.  Lunch on Saturday?”

No, I have people to kill and classes to go to.
  Again, only in my head.

“Saturday will be fine.  I’m looking forward to it.”

“Wonderful!  I’ll see you then.”

She headed up the street.  Standing on the porch, I could see over the hedge.  A cab dropped of Patricia, Edgar, Luke, and Gary.  They were about the same age and doubtless went to the same school, although in different grades.  Google Buses, in addition to Google Cabs?  They were the usual Google Cabs, but maybe they were being used as public-school buses.  Patty and Edgar live closest; they both waved at me and I waved back.

I was inside again, crimping along one edge of my homemade blast shield, when the front gate chime went off.  I wiped my hands and got up, prepared for yet more visitors.  The two gentlemen at the door wanted to know if I had accepted Jesus Christ as my personal savior.

They seemed a little offended at my laughter.  I did apologize.  I assured them my soul was in good hands, thank you for stopping by, and the gate will close itself on your way out.  Goodbye.

The blast shield was coming along when the chimes went off again.  I grumbled as I got up.

The Fabulous Four were on the front porch.

“Yes?”

“Can we play in your barn?” Luke asked.

“You’re asking?”

“Yes.”

“Why are you asking?”

“Because Dad says it’s your damn barn and we should…. something… ask.”

Points for trying
, I thought.  The ability to avoid profane language is an important one.  He had a long way to go, but at least he was practicing around me.

Holy crap.  I’m being a good influence!  Can I feel mildly virtuous for that?

“Okay,” I agreed.  “Be careful.”

“Your tornado shelter door is stuck,” Edgar added, helpfully.

“I know.  The structure under the hill is rotten and unstable.  It might collapse, so leave it alone.”

“Okay.”

They ran off the porch and around the back.

“I may have to put a cloaking spell on the Black Ball,” I told Firebrand.  “It might be trying to attract someone to dig it up and handle it.”

Probably wise.  I haven’t heard anything out of it, but it could be whispering to anyone who gets close.

“That’ll be next, then.”

I barely started fitting the fire-shield sections together when the gate chimes sounded yet again.

“I’m never going to get this finished,” I grumped, wiping my hands again.

Nobody else would have these interruptions, Boss.

“Why is that?”

They don’t bend metal with their bare hands and pliers.

“So?”

Anyone else would be out in the barn, with the hammer and vise and stuff.  They wouldn’t bother to answer the door.

“I suppose not.”

Uh-oh.

“What?”

I don’t hear anyone coming up the walk.

The doorbell rang.

“Ah.  Got it.  Thanks for the warning.”

No problem, Boss.

I answered the door.  It was an older gentleman, white hair, crinkly skin around the eyes, tall, but starting to stoop.  He wore an expensive suit, a couple of rings, a heavy wristwatch, gold-rimmed spectacles, a jeweled stickpin in his tie, and carried a black, polished walking stick with what looked like a gold coin stamped into the flat top.  I could see part of the roof of a car parked on the street; the gate had already closed.

“Good afternoon,” he offered.  “I trust I am early enough to have not disturbed your dinner?”

“Good timing on that,” I replied.  “How can I help you?”

“I am Sir Sebastian Wilmont, of the Wilmont family.”  He presented me with an actual calling card.  I already had my second sight cranked up and running; while most of his accessories glowed with stored spells, the card seemed to be just a card.  I took it, read it, pocketed it.

“I’m Vladimir Smith.  A pleasure to meet you, Sir Sebastian.  But you still haven’t told me why you’re here.”

“Please, call me ‘Sebastian’,” he suggested.  “As for my business, I wish to make an offer to purchase either the land which you now occupy, or the artifacts upon said land which are responsible for certain changes in the local environment.  Having defined my intent, is this an inconvenient time?  I am, of course, willing to meet you at your convenience.”

“Now isn’t entirely convenient, but I can spare you a few minutes,” I agreed, stepping back and holding the door.  He came in and took a moment to survey the room.  I gestured him to the couch, then scooted some of my project out of the way so I could sit in a chair.

“Please excuse the mess,” I told him.  “I’m doing a little home repair work of the relatively mundane sort; I wasn’t expecting company.”

“I am entirely to blame for not calling ahead, sir.  Thank you for seeing me.”

“Think nothing of it.  Can I get you anything?”

“No, but thank you for your offer.”

“I imagine you have questions?”

“Indeed, and I should think you do, as well.”

“Who goes first?”

“Since I am the one with the offer,” he suggested, “perhaps I should?”

Either he’s naturally polite, Boss, or he’s heard how things went with the Stuarts.

Or the Etierres,
I replied.

Either one would do it.

He seems to be minding his manners, so that’s to the good.  He’s not trying to warp my perceptions or influence my opinions, right?

Haven’t detected a thing, Boss.

And he’s not barging or breaking in.  He’s ahead on points so far.

“Certainly.  Please do,” I said aloud.

“To come right to the point, what is it about this place that can cause a shift in the lay of the lines?  I ask, you understand, not out of any desire to pry into your affairs, but only to determine if such a thing is a quality of the location or of something currently at this location.  My intention is to evaluate it in the sense of determining a value, and, if possible, to purchase it.”

“Ah.  I see.”  I leaned back in the chair and steepled my fingers, thinking.  He waited patiently, smiling slightly, all quiet attention.

“Is it normal,” I asked, “for individuals to part with esoteric secrets for something as mundane as cash?”

“It is not unheard of,” he admitted.  “Through the centuries, a number of singular artifacts have been purchased from those who found them.  I say ‘purchased’ deliberately, sir—the exchange of mundane valuables, not an euphemism.  Having an Egyptian tablet describing a ritual for enhancing the flood of the Nile—or whatever river it may be used upon—is hardly the basis for founding a modern family of magi.  Such a thing might be sold quite readily and, especially in these modern times, with virtually no risk. 

“In other cases, a purchase may be made in other ways.  A simple trade of one commodity for another, such as a service performed, a magical artifact exchanged, or a copy of a ritual made.  The possibilities are as varied as magic itself.

“For my part,” he continued, “I have a preference for simply paying in cash.  I am willing to listen to reasonable alternatives, however, as long as the exchange is equitable and definitive. 
Pretium simplici absolutus
is the motto of my house.”

“I see,” I lied.  I had no idea what the motto meant.  “Thank you.  Well, the effect you noticed is one I generated with a… set of rituals I have cast.  While I am unwilling to part with the rituals themselves, I could be persuaded to hire out my services.”

“Really!  How remarkably refreshing.”

“In what way?”

“I expected a considerable amount of resistance to the idea.”

“We haven’t settled on a price,” I pointed out.  He waved that aside.

“A mere detail.  More to the point, if I am to purchase your services, I will require at least to examine your workmanship.  I do need to understand what it is so I may appraise it properly.”

“Not unreasonable.  I’d like to see some examples of an artist’s work before I commission a painting.  But, as I mentioned,” I added, gesturing around us at the living room, “now is not exactly the best time.”

“Of course.  Perhaps tomorrow?”

“Wednesday would be better.  I’d like to clean house for a formal visit.  It’s embarrassing to have to clean up workshop clutter in front of guests.”

“Wednesday will be excellent.  What time?”

“Noon?”

“Is that a significant time for the subject at hand?” he asked.

“No, it’s when I expect to have finished lunch and the washing-up,” I answered.  Sebastian laughed aloud at that, all good humor and amusement.

“Then might I suggest two o’clock?  I have crossed to another time zone, but supper has its own time.”

“Two o’clock would be perfectly acceptable.”

“Very well,” he agreed, rising with the aid of his stick, “I look forward to our meeting on Wednesday.  Good evening to you, sir.”

I showed him to the door.

“And good evening to you, Sir.”

With the door shut behind him, I returned to the chair and examined the calling card in more detail. 
Sir
Sebastian Wilmont.  Not only a knight of the Order of the Thistle, but a baronet of someplace difficult to spell, much less pronounce—Welsh or Scottish, I’m not sure.

“Well, well.  Nobility comes knocking at my door.”

You’re a king, Boss.

“Not here, I’m not.”

You’re a king.  You’re a visiting monarch and you’re slumming it.

“Stop reminding me I’m behind schedule on getting a message back home.”

You mean this isn’t home?

“No.”  I regarded the work-mess on the living room floor without seeing it.  “You’d think T’yl would have called me by now, if only to see how things are going.”

Maybe he doesn’t want to give out clues to where you went.  He did blow up the gate to keep people from following us.