It was the clink of coin on the landlord's table that caught his full attention. His little ears wiggled their sharp points with the slap of each piece the woman handed over. One, two, three-it was all far too much for anything in this slopshop. There was a lot more than room and board being bought here, and whatever it was, Shank wanted to know. As he gulped down one last hit of wine, he carefully sidled into the cool shadows of the cracked mantelpiece.
With a grumpy start, Fiddlenose woke to the screech of a cat yowl. He sprang to his feet, rustling the fronds of the shading fern. The beast was afoot, and he'd fallen asleep in the morning heat! Cursing furiously to himself with all his considerable store of colorful invective, he dived for the rapidly unspooling vines that had been coiled at his feet. The trap was sprung, and judging from the yowls, he'd snared the hellcat beast!
He grabbed the vine and tried to dig in his heels as the mighty tomcat heaved against the noose. Scrambling, he barely kept balance against the pull, losing ground with every jerk. His feet grew nearer the edge of the shade, and within moments he'd be hauled into the open, where farmer Uesto would discover him-and all because of that cursed torn!
Fiddlenose twisted about, slipped the vine over his shoulder, and valiantly heaved forward, dragging-footstep by tiny footstep-the noosed tomcat closer to the sapling at the edge of the grove. Sweating and straining, he finally reached close enough to loop his little slack around the springy trunk. Quick went the knots, and then it was done. Fiddlenose had triumphed! The hellcat was his!
Exhausted and satisfied, he collapsed against the trunk and waited for Uesto's calico torn to give up before he started the next step of his oh-so-cunning plan.
Three nobles, Maeve mused to herself. It was all far too much, but she was feeling generous. Why not? It wasn't her money. Thanks to Pinch, all her needs came from the royal treasury, which in turn came from the people. She didn't feel like haggling with old Corlis, who would have gotten the best of her anyway, and so her three nobles and a promise of two more assured her of the privacy she wanted. Thus, overconfidently oblivious to the effect her entrance had made, Maeve paraded up the rickety stairs to the room she'd bought.
As she reached the top of the stairs, a small figure behind her detached himself from the gloom of the mantel and slid along the edge of the commons. Quick and silent, Shank darted in front of the counter, just beneath the gaze of watchful Corlis. For his coins, the old landlord was doing his best to be watchful, to make sure no one disturbed his generous benefactor, but the old man's eyes were no match for Shank's cunning stealth. Quick as a dart, he was in the dusty gloom of the stairway, nimbly skipping over the squeaky treads. In the hall above, it was no hard matter to guess where his mark had gone. The brownie simply chose the biggest of all possible rooms.
Thus, he found the door that had to be Maeve's (or so he guessed by the clanking and puttering from the other side). There was a transom open at the top, in a vain attempt to let some air flow through the building. Nimble, even with as much drink as he'd had, he had little trouble squirreling himself up the flimsy jamb. His tiny hands and feet found holds no human could ever have hoped to use, and in a mere moment, the brownie was carefully wedged in the gap between the door and the splintery boards of the ceiling.
Oblivious to the dark, bright eyes watching her, Maeve was already about her work. The old scroll she had was faded and grease-stained-she vaguely recollected wrapping a roasted hen in it one night-and she could only hope the instructions and the words were still legible. It wasn't like the scrolls she was used to, where all that was needed was to utter the twisted words on the page. This one required procedures and processes to bring it to fruition. Deciphering the parchment as best she could, the wizard set out the powders, the candles, and all the paraphernalia needed to cast the summoning.
To the process, Maeve added a bottle of wine, setting it prominently on a table in the center of the pattern. She wanted a special familiar, by damn, not just any frog or rat, and figured, in her own way, that a little extra enticement to the spell couldn't possibly hurt. She added another bottle, too, just for herself, a strengthening tonic for what she was certain would be an arduous process. The cork already pulled, she sampled heavily as the work went on and mumbled under her breath a running monologue of grievances and revenge.
From his post, Shank quickly got over his first dose of surprise. When he'd scampered up the jamb, he'd imagined what lay on the other side. This was not it. The old woman was certainly not making preparations for any lover's rendezvous, any easy material for blackmail. He'd had it all figured-she was some wealthy crone meeting her gentleman. (By his logic, she had to be wealthy, since she wasn't going to gain suitors by her looks.) He'd hoped to spy, learn some names, and turn the whole day into a nice profit.
Unfortunately, she clearly wasn't making arrangements for a tryst. She was preparing to do magic. Although disappointed that his ambitions were scotched, Shank watched with fascination. Whatever she was doing, she didn't want people knowing, so that still meant the possibility of profit for little Will o' Horse-Shank. She might be casting a curse on someone-that could bring him money. If she were a vile priestess plotting evil or a treasonous wizard, there might be reward for turning her in. Folks said King Pinch could be a generous man when it suited him. Of course, she might be one of them wild mages about to try something risky. Shank didn't feel so comfortable about that prospect. As a brownie, though, one of the things Shank had to be thankful for was an innate understanding of the mystical world. As he watched, he slowly gathered the clues he needed to see what she was about: the summoning of a familiar.
Ah, yes. The brownie's cunning little mind hatched a perfectly suitable plot. Suddenly he saw for himself a life of ease-wine, breads, new clothes and cheese, things he so dearly loved. He watched her go through the twists and turns, light the candles, and utter the words. He waited and poised himself for the right moment. If she wanted a familiar, by the gods, he'd make sure she got one.
Maeve swallowed another gulp of wine and pressed on with the reading of the scroll. The damned spell was tortuously hard, more complicated and twisted than it looked at the start. She forced her way through a few more syllables and arcane passes before reaching again for the wine to strengthen herself. She was almost done and was pretty sure she'd gotten it right. It was so hard to tell with these things, especially with it being so early in the morning and all.
Finally, she spoke the last syllables, and just in time, too, for her candles were almost burnt to nubs and her wine was nearly gone. She was sweaty from the effort even though the room was not particularly hot. As the last echoes rang out, Maeve stood back and waited.
Nothing happened.
There was no puff of smoke, no creature appearing out of thin air. Instead, she stood alone in the center of a dingy room, at the heart of a badly drawn chalk outline- circles had never been her strength-listening to a burst of boisterous singing from downstairs and waiting for something, anything, to happen.
All at once, there was a scrabbling thump and clump behind her, and Maeve whirled to face the door. There, at the edge of the circle, stood a little man with pointed ears and a pointy chin, improbably dressed in tattered children's clothes. With a flamboyant wave and a grand bow, the brownie-for it was a brownie much to Maeve's great joy-grandly announced, "The Mighty Will o' Horse-Shank, familiar to your arcane majesty, stands at your service!"