MEBODES' FLY
Harry Turtledove
Harry Turtledove (b. 1949) is probably best known for his science fiction, particularly his long alternate-history sequence, the Videssos Cycle, starting with The Misplaced Legion (1987), which exploits his deep knowledge of Byzantine history by creating an alternate Byzantine world where magic works. He began by publishing fantasy, starting with Wereblood and Werenight (both 1979) under the alias Eric G. Iverson, and he occasionally returns to the fantastic in his short fiction. He used the Iverson name on the first of his stories featuring Clever Rolf, "Blue Fox and Werewolf" (1983). This is the second story in the series.
Viviane thought Clever Rolf the scribe was reckoning up accounts for the baron of Argentan. The baron thought he was doing the same for Herul, who owned the Blue Fox, the best tavern in town. Herul didn't know where he was, or care.
In fact, Clever Rolf was pleasantly horizontal in a little upstairs room at the local sporting house, for which he also kept accounts. He took his pay there, not in the baron's silver or Herul's ale, but in the place's stock-in-trade. Viviane talked too much, and it wasn't as if she owned him.
His pay sat up, jiggling prettily, and reached for the wine jug on the rickety nightstand by the side of the bed. She did not talk too bloody much, he thought, and certainly did not bring up the size of his belly, which dear Viviane was all too apt to do these days.
The girl offered him a cup of wine. "Thanks, Aila," he said, and reached over the edge of the bed for a coin from his trousers. The wine was not free. He found another small bit of silver. "This is for you, and don't tell that old harridan down below you got it."
She wrinkled her nose. "As if I would." They drank together, well pleased with each other. Aila's sandy hair flipped up and down as she suddenly nodded, remembering something. She put a warm hand on his arm. "Somebody was up here the other day, asking for you."
Clever Rolf scratched his head. "Easier ways to find me than that. Who was he? What did he want?" He wondered which one of his little schemes had gone wrong. Had the baron found out he was involved with the sporting house? Surely not--if old Bardulf wanted to make something of that, he knew well enough where the scribe lived.
Alia said, "I didn't see him myself, and I'm glad of it; from what Mintrud told us afterward, he was cruel. He looked it, too, she said: tall, skinny, somber, with a great hawk's beak of a nose. He spoke with an Easterling accent."
"A rogue born," declared Clever Rolf, who was no taller than Aila, pudgy (too much good beer at the Blue Fox, he always thought), and snub-nosed. "Not a rogue I know, though. What name did he use?"
"Wait. She said it. Let me think. Mi--Ma--Mebodes; that was it... Rolf, what's wrong?"
She sprang up quickly, but not as fast as Clever Rolf, who was already scrambling into his breeches. He put on his tunic back-to-front, and never noticed. A scheme had gone wrong, all right, but no little one--Mebodes was the wizard from whom he'd stolen Viviane. Having lived with her awhile, he was perfectly willing to give her back, but he feared that wouldn't be good enough. Nobody knew much about Mebodes, but his reputation was black. And wizards, black, white, gray--pink, for that matter--enjoyed revenge.
"What will I do?" he mumbled in despair. "What will I do?"
He took the stairs two at a time and dashed through the reception hall, angering the madam and frightening a couple of customers (which angered her more). He was past caring. In blind panic, he flung the door open, crashed it shut after him.
"How kind," a cold voice said. "The mouse runs into the cat's jaws."
Cruel, Aila had told him. He discovered how little weight a word has, next to reality. Mebodes loomed over him. The wizard's eyes were huge, yellow, and unwinking as a falcon's. Clever Rolf saw himself reflected in them. His reflection did not look clever; it looked small, disheveled, and scared. The reflection, he thought, did not lie.
"I m-meant no harm," he quavered. "I c-can explain--"
"What care I for your lies?" Mebodes' hands twitched in anticipation of the torment Clever Rolf would know. His fingers were long, pale, and many-jointed, like a cave spider's legs. He filed each nail to a point.
"But--" Clever Rolf squeaked.
The wizard spat in front of him; his spittle steamed, as if boiling hot. "Had you owned to your crimes, I might have given you a quick, clean ending. But as you snivel like an insect, I think it only just that insects bring you your fate. Sometime soon, they shall. Until then, your life will be--interesting." With a mocking bow, Mebodes stepped round the corner into an alley.
More terrified of standing frozen than of moving, Clever Rolf darted after him, to beg forgiveness one last time. The alley was empty.
He started for home, his knees still knocking. Halfway there a wasp buzzed out of its nest of mud, stung him on the back of the hand, and flew away. He yelped and cursed and plunged his arm into the cool water of a horse trough, none of which did much good. His head went up like a hunted animal's--was that the ghost of chilling laughter on the breeze?
He snarled at Viviane when he got back, and she screeched at him. It might have turned into a nightlong brawl, but the good smell of mutton stew was rising from the pot that bubbled over the fire. Viviane made a couple of pointed remarks about his caring more for his stomach than for her, but served him a big bowlful. Whatever her other faults, she could cook. Maybe that's why I don't heave her out on her rump, he thought, digging in with his spoon. He raised a big chunk of meat to his mouth.
Pleasure turned to horror as he began to chew. Instead of the savor of fat mutton, an acrid taste filled his mouth. He choked, gagged, spat, then gaped at the tabletop, his eyes bulging and stomach heaving. In place of the meat he had put into his mouth, there was a gob of little brown ants, most of them dead, but some still feebly moving. More tiny legs kicked against his tongue and the inside of his cheeks.
He rinsed his mouth again and again with ale, wondering each time if it would turn to scorpions as it passed his lips. Viviane was, for once, speechless. "Remind me not to go rescuing damsels in distress," Clever Rolf wheezed when he could speak again. "Your precious Mebodes has a sense of humor I don't care for." He told her what had happened.
She paled. "You wouldn't hand me back to him, would you?" She had come to know him well enough to make it a serious question.
"He didn't show any signs of wanting you back, my sweet," said Clever Rolf. Viviane glowered at him; no woman cares to hear she is unwanted. Clever Rolf was too caught up in his own fear to worry about her feelings. He went on: "And if he did try to take you, I don't know what I could do to stop him. No, he's after vengeance now, and all from me, all from me."
The scribe sat with his head in his hands, staring at the bowl of stew in front of him. "Do I dare?" he muttered. At last, with trembling hand, he raised another spoonful to his mouth. He gulped it down, as if hoping to swallow before he could find out whether it had turned dreadful.
Nothing happened. He ate more, with growing confidence--maybe Mebodes was still loosing warning bolts from his catapult. Then, with no warning at all, Clever Rolf bit down on a mouthful of beetles. They crunched between his teeth.
He kept shuddering long after the noxious taste was gone--he wouldn't be able to trust another bite of food for as long as he had left. This was no fun at all. Never had one of his finaglings come home to roost so disastrously.
He got through breakfast next morning without catastrophe, but only wondered what Mebodes had waiting for him. Jamming a disreputable hat onto his head, he hurried out the door. For one, he really did have to see to the baron's books.
Mebodes was waiting for him. "Why hello, my friend," he said, though his voice made the word a lie. "I trust you enjoyed your evening meal."