The toad's form began to blur and waver, a cloud of vapor gathered around it, hiding it completely. The cloud grew and grew, like a gathering storm; then it began to sink in on itself, condensing, shrinking, and Astaulf stood rigid before the sorcerer. Then he sagged and staggered over to lean against the wall, eyes closed, face ashen and glistening with sweat, breathing in long, shuddering gasps.
Malingo stood back and nodded in approval. "Yes, you've learned. Do not forget this, Astaulf. Next time I'll change you to the swine you are and dine upon your hams."
The king's eyes flickered open, then squeezed shut again.
The sorcerer's lips twitched into a sneer. "Ah, what a man he is! What commanding and kingly presence! But now, begone -- I wish to have some words of my own with this new sorcerer. Begone, I say!" He stepped around behind the king, setting his palm between Astaulf's shoulder blades, and shoved. The king lurched toward the door, fumbling for the latch. He managed to get it open and stumbled out.
Malingo stood looking after him, shaking his head slowly, lip curling. Then he stilled and slowly turned toward Matt.
Matt fought the impulse to shrink back against the wall. He lifted his chin, but decided not to try to get to his feet.
The sorcerer nodded approvingly. "You showed wisdom, trickster. Or did you know you could not match me?"
"Uh-yeah."
Malingo raised an eyebrow. "I sense some hesitation. Could you believe you do have power to match my own?"
"Uh ... well..."
The sorcerer snapped a forefinger out at him, chanting a quick, rhymed phrase.
Matt felt a sudden overpowering compulsion to lick the sorcerer's boots. His body started to bend forward of its own accord, even while every cell in his brain screamed outrage. His stomach knotted with sudden, hot anger, and he rapped out:
It was blank verse, not rhymed, which may have been why it didn't work completely; but the compulsion dwindled. Matt shoved it to the back of his mind and straightened, even managing to give the sorcerer a defiant glare.
Malingo's eyebrows twitched upward. "Well, so! Ah, let's try sterner measures." He pulled a curving dagger from his sleeve and tossed it to the floor near Matt's knee, murmuring a rhyme. Total despair suddenly dragged at Matt, worse than any depression he'd ever felt - ten times worse. The room seemed to darken about him with a miasma of hopelessness. It was all a farce, this game of rhymes and gestures - this whole game of life, for that matter. Totally absurd, totally meaningless. Why bother even trying to fight back?
His eye fell on the dagger. His hand crept out toward it. To take it up, plunge it into his chest, be done with it all! Ah, the sweetness of nothingness!
Foul! shrieked the skeptic's voice at the back of his mind. He's hexed you, fool!
Matt paused, startled at the thought. Then his hand crept out toward the knife again of its own accord. He was hexed - and stubborn pride dug its heels in and balked, meaningless or not. Matt grabbed for Hamlet's lines:
The depression remained - after all, Hamlet wasn't exactly exuberant till the end of the play, when he knew he was dying, but Matt's hand stopped, then began to move back to his side. It would be pretty senseless to kill himself, when the only thing he was sure of was that he existed.
Malingo's frown deepened. He made a circular motion, palm out, as if he were wiping a slate. Depression snapped away from Matt, almost rocking him with the reaction. He was just pulling his wits together when Malingo's finger stabbed out again, and his arcane drone buzzed.
Matt suddenly felt something was missing. Inside! That sinking feeling in his stomach could only be explained by his stomach sinking. Could his intestines have gone on vacation? No, surely not! This sorcerer couldn't have gone for the cheap joke, the literal interpretation of the standard adjective for cowards.
He had.
Matt had a vision of his stomach acids and by-products raining down unfiltered onto his kidneys. Whatever he was going to do, he'd better do it fast; peritonitis might not be possible without an appendix to burst, but he was certainly going to have a close equivalent.
Malingo watched him, grinning.
Dull anger burned - or was it stomach acid? Either way, Matt set his jaw and dug back through twenty years of education for an appropriate phrase. He could think of a few verses for pulling intestines out, but it never seemed to have occurred to any poet to celebrate the reverse. In desperation, he tried his own:
It was lousy doggerel, but it worked. Matt had a sudden sense of fulfillment. He sighed with relief.
Malingo's face wiped clean of all expression.
Matt was suddenly alert. He had to move first, before the sorcerer made another try. Well, he'd just been thinking of augury. He declaimed,
Malingo suddenly looked decidedly disconcerted. He clapped a hand to his chest, swallowed heavily, muttered a quick incantation, and traced a symbol over his breastbone, then relaxed with a heavy sigh. Matt felt a surprising surge of relief, too - he'd never really fancied himself a murderer.
Malingo's lips puckered in a frown. He stroked his beard, eyeing Matt as if he were speculating on how many slices of fish bait he could cut from his liver.
Matt lifted his chin and stared back stoutly. After all, there wasn't much else he could do.
"You have some power," Malingo admitted. "Enough to be useful to me. But, alas, that also means you've enough to be troublesome. I ought to obliterate you here and now and would do so without a thought - if it weren't for the possibility of your being more help than bother."
Matt pricked up his ears. What was this? A chance to join the local power structure?
Malingo turned away, strolling across the chamber with elaborate nonchalance. "You refused Astaulf's offer, and that could indicate any one of a number of desirable traits."
Sure, such as cowardice; greed, apathy, or a certain reluctance to attack while anyone was watching. Matt eyed the sorcerer's back speculatively - but of course, that was just what Malingo was expecting.
"We must, of course, test you further to discover which one it is."
Matt frowned. "Why bother? It's simple - I'm the cautious sort. I'm not about to choose a side before I know how the ground lies."
"How?" the sorcerer frowned, perplexed.
"I mean ... Look. When the king jumped you, how was I supposed to know which one would win?"
"I see." Malingo nodded. "Well, at least you show some sense, though no great faith in sorcery. Still, there are worse values, and I can understand your uncertainty. Astaulf and I have been careful to appear on the best of terms when anyone was there to, see. How could you know which was stronger, when you had no inkling of a quarrel?"