“Perhaps,” Death said, “though I’m not worried about bribery—I’m immune to it. But come, you’ve finished your plaything. The time’s come.”
“Not quite,” Amer said, twisting the other end of the wire around the table leg. He took the vial of powder from his dressing-gown pocket arid sprinkled it over the model.
“Milyochim sloh Yachim,” he said.
“What?”
“Milyochim sloh Yachim,” Amer said again (repeated obligingly).
“What does that mean?” Death said.
“Well, for all practical purposes,” Amer said, “it means you can’t move from that spot.”
“I don’t know how you expect to convince me that you’re not a sorcerer,” Death said, “if you keep on materializing liqueurs that way.”
“Oh, I’m not really materializing them.” The alchemist snapped his fingers, and a flask of absinthe appeared on the table. “I’m transporting them. There’s a spirits merchant in Boston, you see, who keeps finding bottles missing from his stock.”
“Thief!” Death accused.
“Not at all; he finds gold wherever there’s a bottle missing. You’ve noticed that I always place a nugget on the table before I transport the bottle?”
“And it disappears.” Death gave him a severe stare. “I was wondering about that.”
“The mass of the bottle must be replaced with an equivalent mass,” Amer explained. “I suppose I could use stone, but it’s much more honest to use gold. I believe he makes quite a profit on the transaction.”
“I should think so. But where do you find the gold?”
“I dig it up—after I’ve dowsed for it, of course.”
“Where did you learn dowsing?” Death demanded.
“It came naturally,” Amer explained. “I was very young when I began to notice that hazel twigs twitched when I held them—perhaps three years old.”
“And you will still have me believe your powers have nothing of the supernatural about them?”
“For that matter,” Amer countered, “how do you expect me to believe that you’re supernatural when you continue to consume such vast quantities?”
“Bah,” Death said. “We’ve only had a couple of drinks.”
“Uh-uh!” the will-o’-the-wisp slurred. “I been keepin’ track!”
“And partaking, too.” Death turned to Amer. “So that was why you poured the brandy into that beaker.”
“Even a will-o’ -the-wisp needs fuel. . . .”
“Your fifth glass of cointreau was emptied three hours ago,” Willow said brightly if blearily. “Since then you’ve downed six glasses of chartreuse, four of cognac, and four of absinthe—right now, you’re starting your fifth.”
“Willow,” said Death, “you have missed your calling. You would have made an excellent conscience.”
“And to top it all,” the alchemist said, “you’re not the slightest bit tipsy.”
“Naturally not,” Death said.
“Don’t you mean ‘supernaturally not’?”
“I meant what I said.” Death set down his glass. “Would it be natural for Death to become intoxicated?”
“Is it natural for Death to be a connoisseur of fine liqueurs ?”
“Certainly, as long as I’m not affected by them. In fact, I’ve quite an affinity for spirits. But come, Master Amer,” Death said, “pour me another absinthe, for we stand in great danger of becoming philosophical just now.”
“My heavens! We must prevent that at all costs!” Amer filled Death’s glass again. The Pale Horseman sipped the liqueur and settled back in his chair with a satisfied sigh.
“You know, Master Amer,” he said, “I’m beginning to like you quite well.”
“That’s not surprising,” Amer said.
Death looked at him sharply. “Sorcerer,” he said, in a tone of great severity, “have you been casting more spells in my direction?”
“Oh, no! Nothing of the sort,” Amer said. “It’s merely that absinthe makes the heart grow fonder.”
“I’ll overlook that remark,” Death said, “if you’ll fill my glass again. But wormwood this time.”
“Try it with some juniper-flavored gin.” Amer poured three measures into a glass.
“I notice that you are showing no more effects of your drinking than I do,” Death noted.
“Mashter’zh on’y had two shnifterzh o’ brandy,” Willow slurred.
“I haven’t much tolerance,” Amer confessed. He followed the gin with a dash of wormwood, and handed it to his guest.
Death tasted a drop. “Not bad.” He tasted another. “In fact, it’s quite good. Is this your own invention, Master Amer?”
“It is,” Amer said, very pleased. “What do you call it?”
“Well, I named it for the saint on whose day I first tried the mixture.”
“And that was . . . ?”
“Saint Martin’s Day.”
“It appears to be excellent,” said a fat, rasping voice.
“May I have some?”
“Why, certainly,” said Amer. He had poured the wormwood into the glass before it occurred to him to wonder where the voice had come from.
He turned and saw an enormously fat man dressed in a huge black cape and conical, flat-topped, broad-brimmed hat with a tarnished brass buckle. His whole face seemed to sag, giving him the mournful appearance of a bloodhound. But the sadness of his face was belied by his mouth, which curved in a wide grin of insane glee.
“Amer,” said another voice, a feminine one. “May I introduce you to Master Moggard, Warlock-General of New England and Vice-Chairman of the Universal Brotherhood of Sorcerers.”
Amer turned and saw Samona standing nearby, the glow of victory in her eyes.
“Who is it?” said Death, for he sat facing the fireplace in a high-backed wing chair, and Samona and the sorcerer were behind him.
“Samona and a—um—friend,” Amer said, looking at Death. “They seem to have . . .” But he stopped there, for he saw pits of fire at the back of the skull’s hollow eyes.
“Master Moggard,” Samona said, “this is Amer, the man of whom I told you.”
Moggard waddled forward, holding out a stubby, hairy paw. “Charmed,” he croaked.
“I’m glad you are,” Amer murmured, rising to grasp the acid-stained appendage.
“No, no,” Moggard said. “Not I. It’s you who are charmed—or will be shortly.”
“Indeed?” Amer said, freeing himself of the warlock’s clammy grasp. He turned and poured the juniper gin into the glass with the wormwood. Turning again, he placed it in Moggard’s hand.
“Would you care for something, Samona?”
“I believe I would,” she said. “Amontillado?”
“Of course.”
Moggard waddled about the cabin, inspecting apparatus, thumbing through notebooks, examining powders. He turned back to them as Amer was handing Samona her glass.
“Excellent, excellent,” he said, rolling up to them. “You have a superb laboratory, Master Amer.”
“Thank you,” Amer said, bowing in acknowledgment of the compliment. He remained wary.
Moggard turned to the bookshelf and leafed through another notebook. “Yes, indeed! You have amassed an amazing deal of knowledge, Master Amer.” Then, thoughtfully, “Perhaps a bit too much.”
“Oh?” said Amer. “May I ask exactly how I am to interpret that statement?
Moggard sighed—or rather, wheezed—as he replaced the volume.
“You are not, if I am correct, a member of the Brotherhood, Master Amer?”
“The Brotherhood?”
“That is to say, you have gathered your knowledge with no other—ah—‘being’s’ help?”